Wednesday's Good reading: "Mirari vos" by Pope Gregory XVI (translated into English)

 

Encyclical Letter of our most holy Father Pope Gregory, by Divine Providence the sixteenth of the name, addressed to all Patriarchs, Primates, Archbishops and Bishops.

 

Venerable Brethren,

 

Health and Apostolical Benediction.

 

We doubt not but you are surprised at not yet having received from us, since the government of the Universal Church was committed to Our Humility, a Letter, in accordance with primitive usage, and with Our affection towards you. It was indeed Our most earnest desire, without delay, to lay open Our hearts to you, and in communicating Our own sentiments, to address you in language suitable to the command which We have received in the person of Saint Peter, to confirm Our brethren. [1] —But you were not ignorant of the gathering calamities and anxieties which burst upon Us in the very first moments of Our pontificate, when had not the right hand of God supported Us, you must ere now have lamented Our having fallen a victim to the dark conspiracy of impious men. But Our mind shrinks from the memory of troubles, whose sad recital would be only re-opening the sources of sorrow; and We rather bless the God of all consolation, who in subduing the rebels hath shielded Us from impending danger; and who, in stilling the tempest, hath granted a pause to our apprehensions. Hereupon We resolved to delay no longer to communicate Our advice to you for curing the bruises of Israel: but again the fulfilment of Our desires was impeded, by the weight of care imposed on Us in the reinstatement of public order.

Meanwhile, another cause for Our silence arose, from the insolence of faction, which laboured again to raise the standard of rebellion. Finding that long endurance and mildness, instead of softening, appeared rather to foment the spirit of licentiousness, We were at last, With extreme sorrow of heart, compelled to raise the scourge entrusted to Us by the Almighty, for subduing the obstinacy of men; [2] Hence you will easily conclude that Our anxieties have been every day multiplied.

But having at length taken possession of Our See in the Lateran Basilic, according to the custom and institution of our predecessors, We turn to you without delay. Venerable brethren, and in testimony of Our feelings towards you, We select for the date of our letter this most joyful day on which We celebrate the solemn festival of the Most Blessed Virgin's triumphant Assumption into Heaven, that She who has been through every great calamity Our Patroness and Protectress, may watch over Us, writing to you, and lead Our mind by Her heavenly influence to those counsels which may prove most salutary to Christ's flock.

In sorrow, and with a mind broken with grief, We address you—you, whom We know from your devotedness to religion, to have suffered proportional anxiety of mind in witnessing the depravity of the times with which religion has now to struggle. For We may truly say, this is the hour and power of darkness to sift as wheat the sons of election. [3] Truly "hath the earth mourned and faded away … infected by the inhabitants thereof; because they have transgressed the laws, they have changed the ordinance, they have broken the everlasting covenant." [4]

We speak, Venerable Brethren, of what your own eyes have witnessed, and over which our tears flow in common. Wickedness is restless, science grown insolent, licentiousness unrestrained. The holiness of things sacred is despised; and the majesty of the divine worship, at once so efficacious and so necessary, is called in question, is vilified, is mocked at by evil men. Hence the perversion of sound doctrine, and hence the effrontery with which errors of every kind are disseminated. The law of the sanctuary, its rights, its customs, whatever is most holy in discipline, is attacked by the tongues of them that speak iniquity. Our Roman See of St. Peter, on which Christ laid the foundation of His Church, is assailed on all sides; and the bonds of unity are every day weakened, and breaking asunder. The divine authority of the Church is opposed; robbed of her rights, She is laid prostrate to satisfy human expediency, and iniquity exposes her a degraded slave to the hatred of the nations. The obedience due to Bishops is infringed, and their rights are trodden under foot. The schools and the universities echo monstrous novelties, which no longer content themselves with undermining the foundation of the Catholic faith, but quitting their lurking holes, rush openly to horrid and impious war with it.—The youth corrupted by the doctrines and examples of their teachers, have inflicted a deep wound upon Religion, and have introduced a most gloomy perversion of manners. Hence it is that men flinging away the restraints of our Holy religion, which can alone keep together the elements of kingdoms, and impart strength and stability to government, have brought us to witness the destruction of public order, the downfall of States, and the overthrow of all legitimate power. These accumulated miseries owe their origin principally however to the activity of certain societies, in which is collected, as in one common receptacle, whatever heresy, or the most impious sects, offer of crime, of sacrilege, and of blasphemy.

These things, Venerable Brethren, and many others, some perhaps more distressing, which it were long to enumerate, must still, as you well know, embitter and prolong Our grief, seated as We are in the Chair of the Prince of the Apostles, where the zeal for the whole of Our Father's House must consume Us more than others. But aware at the same time that We have been placed here not only to deplore, but also to crush the evils to the utmost of Our power, We turn to your fidelity for aid, and We appeal to your solicicitude for the salvation of the Catholic flock, Venerable Brethren, because your tried virtue and religion, exemplary prudence, and unremitting zeal, give Us courage, and shed a sweet consolation over Our minds, afflicted as they are in this season of trial. For it belongs to Us to give the alarm, and to leave no means untried which may prevent the boar of the forest from trampling down the vineyard, or the wolf from taking the lives of the flocks. Ours is the task to drive the sheep into healthful pastures which preclude all suspicion of danger. But God forbid, Dearest Brethren, God forbid that while so many evils press, while so many dangers threaten, pastors should be wanting to their duty, and that fear-stricken, they should fly from their flocks, or slumber in idle and inactive forgetfulness of them. In union of spirit then, let us be true to our common cause, or rather to the cause of God; and let us unite our vigilance and exertions against the common enemy, for the salvation of the whole people.

Now you will best correspond with these sentiments, if in compliance with the nature of your situation, you "attend unto yourselves and to doctrine;" ever bearing in mind, "that the Universal Church suffers from every novelty," [5] as well as the admonition of the Pope St. Agatho, "that from what has been regularly defined, nothing can be taken away, no innovation introduced there, no addition made; but that it must be preserved untouched both as to words and meaning." [6] This will preserve unshaken, that unity which belongs to the Chair of St. Peter as its foundation, so that there, where the rights of all the Churches by an admirable union have this origin, "may be a wall of protection, a port in which no wave ever breaks, and a treasury of inxehaustible resources." [7] To humble, therefore, the audacity of those who would encroach upon the rights of Our Holy See, or who would destroy its junction with the Churches, to which those Churches owe their support aud their vigour, inculcate in her regard the most zealous fidelity, and most sincere veneration, proclaiming with St. Cyprian, "that he falsely imagines himself to be in the Church, who deserts the Chair of Peter, upon which the Church is founded." [8]

To this point, therefore, your labours must tend, and your vigilance must be unceasingly directed to preserve the deposit of faith, amidst the wide-spreading conspiracy formed for the impious purpose of tearing it from you to destroy it. Let all remember that the principles of sound doctrine, with which the people are to be imbued, must emanate from, and that the rule and the administration of the universal Church belongs to, the Roman Pontiff, to whom was delivered "the full power of feeding, ruling, and governing the Universal Church, by Christ our Lord," as the Fathers of the Council of Florence have unequivocally declared. [9] It is the duty of all Bishops then to adhere most faithfully to the Chair of St. Peter, to preserve their deposit holily and religiously, and to feed God's flock entrusted to them. Priests too, it behoveth to be subject to their Bishops, whom St. Jerome admonishes them, "to regard as the parents of their souls;" [10] and let them never forget, that the earliest canons forbid them to exercise any function of their ministry, or to enter on the task of teaching or of preaching, "without the sanction of the Bishop to whose care the people are entrusted, and from whom the account of their souls will be required." [11] Be it therefore held as a certain truth, that all those who attempt anything in opposition to the order thus marked out, become thereby, as far as their power permits them, refractory members of the Church.

It would moreover be a crime, and entirely at variance with that deep veneration with which the laws of the Church should be received, to censure in the wild spirit of criticism, discipline sanctioned by her, whether as regards the administration of things sacred, the rules of morality, the rights of the Church, or of her ministers, or to cavil at its clashing with the principles of natural law, or to pronounce it lame and imperfect, and subject to the civil tribunal.

Again, as it is evident that the Church, to use the words of the Council of Trent, "was instructed by Christ Jesus, and by his Apostles, and that the Holy Ghost suggests to her every truth to be taught," [12] it is no less absurd than injurious to her, that anything by way of "Restoration," or "Regeneration," should be forced upon her as necessary for her soundness or increase, as if she could be thought obnoxious to decay, or to obscurities, or to any other such inconveniencies. By such contrivances the innovators hope "to mould the foundations of a modern "human institution," and thus would be at length realized, what St. Cyprian so strongly declaimed against, the conversion of an essentially divine "into a mere human Church." [13] Let the projectors of such a scheme then remember, on the testimony of St. Leo, "that the dispensing with the canons hath been committed to the Roman Pontiff only, and not in any private individual, but in him only resides the power of making decrees touching the ordinances of the Fathers:" and also as St. Gelasius writes, "to balance the decrees of the Canons, and to determine the precepts of their predecessors, so as to direct, after careful consideration, what relaxations the circumstances of the times require for the good of particular churches." [14]

And here We wish to see your constancy ever watchful to defend religion against that most foul conspiracy against the celibacy of the Clergy, which as you know is daily extending its influence, and in which the ranks of the impious philosophers of the day are swelled by the accession of some even of the ecclesiastical order, who, forgetful of their character and of their duty, and yielding to the allurements of passion, have been carried by their licentiousne so far as in some places publicly to solicit the intervention of their princes, and even to repeat their solicitations with them in order to abrogate this most holy branch of discipline. But why detain you with the recital of attempts so revolting? Having confidence in your piety, to you We commit the defence of a law of so much moment, against which the darts of the lascivious are directed from every quarter. Preserve the building entire; and in its protection and defence, neglect none of those resources, which the sacred Canons have in reserve for you.

Then on the subject of honorable marriage, which St. Paul hath pronounced "a great Sacrament in Christ and in the Church," [15] our common cares are required to correct errors repugnant to its sanctity and to its indissoluble tie, and to put down all attempts at innovation. Your attention had been directed to this subject in the letter addressed to you by Our predecessor of happy memory, Pius VIII.; but the noxious evil is still increasing. The people must therefore be carefully instructed, that matrimony once lawfully engaged in, can never be dissolved: that God hath decreed that the society formed by those, who have once been united in wedlock, should continue during the whole of their lives: and that the tie of union can only be dissolved by death. Mindful at the same time that it holds a place among things sacred, and is consequently subject to the Church, let the people have always before their eyes the laws framed by the Church respecting and let them comply with them religiously and exactly; for it is on that depends the validity, the stability, and the just union of marriage. Let them beware of offending in any way against the sacred Canons, and the decrees of Councils, properly impressed with the conviction, that no happy issue can result from marriages contracted in defiance of Church discipline; or when neglecting to invoke the previous blessing of Heaven, and without one thought given to the obligation incurred, or to the mystery signified, the contracting parties place their only end in the unbridled indulgence of appetite.

But let us turn to another most prolific cause of those evils, which We deplore as at present afflicting the Church. We allude to the principle of "Indifference"—that depraved principle, which, by the contrivances of wicked men has become very prevalent: maintaining eternal salvation to be equally attainable in whatever profession of faith, provided the natural dictates of morality be therein observed. But in a matter so clear and evident you will easily extirpate this most pernicious error from among the people committed to your charge. Let them tremble at the admonition of the Apostle:—"One God, one faith, one baptism" [16] —who pretend that every religion conducts, to the haven of beatitude, and let them reflect from the language of the Redeemer, that "not being with Christ, they are against Christ; that not gathering with him, they are unhappily scattering;" [17] and that consequently they will "without doubt perish eternally, unless they hold fast the Catholic faith, and preserve it whole and inviolate." [18] Let them hearken to the voice of St. Jerome, who, when the Church was torn into three parts by schism, relates that he, firm to his purpose, said to those who attempted to draw him over to their party: "I hold fellowship with them that cling to the Chair of Peter." [19] For vainly would such a one flatter his conscience with his regeneration in water. To him St. Augustine addresses himself: "The twig lopped from the vine, retains its shape, but what will its shape avail it, when separated from the life-giving root?" [20]

From this polluted fountain of "Indifference," flows that absurd and erroneous doctrine, or rather raving, in favour and defence of "liberty of conscience;" for which most pestilential error, the course is opened by that entire and wild liberty of opinion, which is everywhere attempting the overthrow of religious and civil institutions; and which the unblushing impudence of some has held forth as an advantage to religion. "But what," exclaimed St. Augustine, "what worse death to the soul than freedom in error?" [21] For only destroy those fences, which keep men within the paths of truth, leave them to the headlong sway of their natural evil propensities, and the "bottomless pit" at once yawns before you, from which St. John saw the smoke arise, which darkened the sun, and which shed its locusts over the face of the earth. [22] For hence arise these revolutions in the minds of men: hence this aggravated corruption of youth; hence this contempt among the people of sacred things, and of the most holy institutions and laws; hence, in one word, that pest of all others, most to be dreaded in a state, unbridled liberty of opinion, licenciousness of speech, and a lust of novelty, which, according to the experience of all ages, portend the downfal of the most powerful and flourishing empires.

Hither tends that worst and never sufficiently to be execrated and detested liberty of the press, for the diffusion of all manner of writings, which some so loudly contend for, and so actively promote. We shudder, Venerable Brethren, at the sight of the monstrous doctrines, or rather portentous errors, which crowd upon Us in the shape of numberless volumes and pamphlets, small in size, but big with evils, which stalk forth in every direction, breathing a malediction which we deplore over the face of the earth. Yet are there not wanting, alas! those who carry their effrontery so far, as to persist in maintaining that this amalgamation of errors is sufficiently resisted, if in this inundation of bad books, a volume now and then issue from the press in favour of religion and truth. But is it not a crime then, never sufficiently to be reprobated, to commit deliberate and greater evil, merely with the hope of seeing some good arise out of it?—Or is that man in his senses, who entrusts poison to every hand, exposes it at every mart, suffers it to be carried about oh all occasions, aye, and to, become a necessary ingredient of every cup, because an antidote may be afterwards procured which chance may render effective?

Far other hath been the discipline of the Church, in extirpating this pest of bad books, even as far back as the times of the Apostles, who we read committed a great number of books publicly to the flames. [23] It is enough to read the laws passed in the fifth Council of Lateran on this Subject and the constitution afterwards promulgated by Our predecessor of happy memory, Leo X.; "that what was wholesomely invented for the increase of faith, and for the extension of useful arts, may not be diverted to a contrary purpose, and become an obstacle to the salvation of Christ's faithful." [24] The subject engaged the closest attention of the Fathers of the Council of Trent, and as a remedy to so great an evil, they passed that most salutary decree for forming an index of the works in which depraved doctrine was contained. [25] "No means must be here omitted," says Clement XIII. Our predecessor of happy memory, in the Encyclical Letter on die proscription of bad books,—"no means must be here omitted, as the extremity of the case calls for all our exertions, to exterminate the fatal pest which spreads through so many works; nor can the materials of error be otherwise destroyed, than by the flames which consume the depraved elements of the evil." [26] From the anxious vigilance then of the Holy Apostolic See, through every age, in condemning and in removing from men's hands suspected and profane books, becomes more than evident, the falsity, the rashness, and the injury offered to the Apostolic See by that doctrine, pregnant with the most deplorable evils to the Christian world, advocated by some condemning this censure of books as a needless burden, rejecting it as intolerable, or with infamous effrontery proclaiming it to be irreconcilable with the rights of men, or denying in fine the right of exercising such a power, or the existence of it in the Church.

Having moreover heard that doctrines are now circulated in writings among the common people, subversive of the fidelity and the submission due to princes, and that in consequence the flame of sedition is every where kindling; all care must be employed to prevent the people being seduced from the path of duty. Be the admonition of the Apostle known to all, that "there is no power but from God; and those that are ordained of God. Therefore he that resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God, And they that resist, purchase to themselves damnation." [27] Wherefore both divine and human laws cry out against those who by the basest machinations of treason and rebellion, strive to dissolve the bonds of allegiance to princes, and to drive them from their states.

It was to preserve their character undefiled with this foul blot, that the Christians of old, under the rage of persecution, continued to deserve the praise of the Emperors and of the Empire, not merely by the fidelity, exactness, and promptitude with which they discharged every office imposed upon them not at variance with their religion, but more particularly by their constancy in the field, and the readiness with which they shed their blood in the common cause. "The christian soldier," says St. Augustine, "fought under the banner of the Pagan Emperor; but when the cause of Christ came on, he acknowledged no other than his celestial Master. He separated the character of his eternal from that of his temporal Lord; but to please the former, he became the obedient subject of the latter." [28] —It was with eyes steadily fixed on this distinction, that Mauritius, the dauntless martyr, and the Theban legion's captain, found a ready answer to the Emperor, as recorded by St. Eucherius. "We are your soldiers O Emperor, but we are bold to confess, that we are at the same time servants of God. …, And now not the last hope of life moves us to rebel. With arms in our hands we remain defenceless, for we choose rather to die than to shed blood." [29] But to set in its true light the fidelity of the first Christians to their princes, we should remember with Tertullian, that at that time "the Christians were neither wanting in numbers, nor in resources to resist their persecutors. We are but of yesterday," he exclaims, "yet do we fill every place around you; your cities and your islands; your fortresses and your municipal towns; your councils, your very camps; your tribunes and the palace, the senate and the forum. To what warlike achievements should we not be adequate, and prepared for, even against forces more numerous than ourselves? We, who so little fear death, if our religion did not require us rather to suffer than to inflict death. If numerous as we are, we had retired from you in some distant corner of the earth, the desertion of so many citizens of every class, would have branded the character of your government with infamy; and would itself have been your punishment Then would you have stood aghast at the solitude extending before you. … You would have asked for your own subjects. The number of your enemies would then have exceeded that of the citizens left behind; but as it is, those enemies shew meanly before the multitude of Christians." [30]

These illustrious examples of unshaken subjection to Rulers necessarily flowing from the ever holy precepts of the Christian Religion, loudly condemn the insolence and impiety of those who, maddening in the free unbridled passion of untamed liberty, leave no stone unturned to break down and destroy the constitution of states, and under the appearance of liberty to bring slavery on the people.—This was the object of the impious ravings and schemes of the Waldenses, of the Beguardins, of the Wickliffites, and of the other children of Belial, the refuse of human nature and its stain, who were so often and so justly anathematized by the Apostolic See. Nor had they any other object than to triumph with Luther in the boast "that they were independent of every one;" and to attain this the more easily and readily, they fearlessly waded through every crime.

Nor can we augur more consoling consequences to religion and to governments, from the zeal of some to separate the Church from the State, and to burst the bond, which unites the priesthood to the Empire. For it is clear, that this union is dreaded by the profane lovers of liberty, only because it has never failed to confer prosperity on both.

But in addition to the other bitter causes of Our solicitude, and of that weight of sorrow which oppresses Us in the midst of so much confusion, come certain associations, and political assemblies, in which, as if a league were struck with the followers of every false religion and form of worship, under a pretended zeal for piety, but in reality urged by the desire of change, and of promoting sedition, liberty of every kind is maintained, revolutions in the state and in religion are fomented, and the sanctity of all authority is torn in pieces.

With a heavy heart, but with confidence in Him who commands die winds, and brings tranquillity. We have written on these subjects to you, Venerable Brethren, that putting on the buckler of faith, you may be encouraged to go forth and fight the battles of the Lord. You above all others it behoveth to stand as a wall against every height exalting itself against the knowledge of God. Unsheath then the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God, and let those who hunger after justice, receive bread from your hands. Called to be labourers in the vineyard of the Lord, confine yourselves to this, labour at this, that every root of bitterness may be torn up in the field entrusted to your care, and that every noxious weed being destroyed, a joyful harvest of virtues may flourish. Embrace with paternal tenderness those in particular who have devoted their minds to sacred studies and to philosophical enquiries. Exhort them and warn them, however, against an imprudent reliance on the unassisted powers of their own minds, which might seduce them from the pathway of truth into the high road of impiety. Bid them remember that "God is the guide of wisdom, and the director of the wise," [31] and that without God it is impossible to understand the nature of God, who teaches men by his word to know God. [32] He is a proud, or rather a foolish man, who weighs in a human balance the mysteries of faith, which surpass all understanding, or who confides in the deductions of his own intellect, which subject to the common fatality of human nature, is necessarily weak and infirm.

May this our seal for the welfare of religious and public order, acquire aid and authority from the princes. Our dearest sons in Christ, who, let them reflect, have rceived their power not merely for their temporal rule, but chiefly for the protection of the Church. Let them carefully observe, that whatever is done for the good of the Church, necessarily benefits their government, and confirms the peace of their states. Let them be persuaded that the cause of the Faith interests them more nearly than that of their Kingdom; and let them weigh the vast importance to themselves, (We speak with St. Leo, the Sovereign Pontiff,) "that the crown of faith should be added to the diadem which they have received from the hand of God." Placed over their subjects as parents and as guardians, they will ensure for them a true, constant, rich repose and tranquility, if they make it their first care to protect religion and piety towards God, who has written on his thigh, "King of Kings, and Lord of Lords."

But that all may have a successful and happy issue, let us raise our eyes to the most blessed Virgin Mary, who alone destroys heresies, who is our greatest hope, yea the entire ground of our hope. [33] May She exert her patronage to draw down an efficacious blessing on our desires, our plans, and proceedings, in the present straitened condition of the Lord's flock. We will also implore, in humble prayer, from Peter the Prince of the Apostles, and from his fellow Apostle Paul, that you may all stand as a wall to prevent any other foundation than what hath been laid: and supported by this cheering hope, We have confidence that the Author and Finisher of faith, Jesus Christ, will at last console us all in the "tribulations which have found us exceedingly." To you, Venerable Brethren, and to the flocks committed to your care, We most lovingly impart, as auspicious of celestial help, the Apostolic Benediction.

Dated at Rome, from S. Mary Major's, August 15th, the festival of the Assumption of the same Blessed Virgin Mary, the year of our Lord 1832, of our Pontificate the Second.

 

1.                       Luke xxii 32.
2.       1 Cor. iv. 21.
3.       Luke xxii. 53.
4.       Is. xxiv. 4, 5.
5.       St. Celest. P. Epistle xxi. to the Bishops of Gaul.
6.       St. Agatho P. Epistle to the Emp. apud Labb. Tom. ii. page 235.
7.       St Innocent, P. Epis. ii. apud Constat.
8.       St. Cyp. On the Unity of the Church.
9.       Council of Flor. Sess. xxv. In definit apud Labb. Tom. xviii. Col. 528, edit. Ven.
10.    St. Jerome, Epis. ii. to Nepotian, i. 24.
11.    From Can. Ap. xxxviii. apud Labb. To. 1. page 88, Edit. Mansi.
12.    Council of Trent Sess. xiii. de Eucharist in prœm.
13.    St. Cyprian, Ep. lii. Edit. Baluz.
14.    St. Gelasius P. in his Ep. to the Bp. of Lucania.
15.    Ephes. v. 32.
16.    Fphes. iv. 5.
17.    Luke xi. 23.
18.   Athanasian Creed.
19.   S. Hier. Ep. 58.
20.    S. Aug. In Psal. cont. part. Donat.
21.    S. Aug. Ep. 166.
22.    Apocal. 9. 3,
23.    Acts xix.
24.   Act. Conc. Lateran V. sess. 10. ubi refertur Const. Leonis X.
25.    Con. Trid. sess. 18. 25.
26.    Lett Clem. xiii. Chretianæ, 26 Nov. 1766.
27.    Rom. xiii. 1. 2.
28.    S. Aug. In Psal. 124. n 7.
29.    S. Eucher. Apud, Ruinart.
30.    Tertul in Apologet Cap. 37.
31.    Wisd. vii. 15.
32.    S. Iren. 14. 10.
33.    S. Bern. Serm. de Nat. B. M. V. 7.

Tuesday's Serial: "St. Martin’s Summer" by Rafael Sabatini (in English) - IX.

 

CHAPTER XI. VALERIE’S GAOLER

My child, said the Dowager, and her eyes dwelt on Valerie with a look of studied gentleness, “why will you not be reasonable?”

The constant reflection that Garnache was at large, making his way back to Paris to stir up vengeance for the outrage put upon him, was not without a certain chastening effect upon the Dowager. She had a way of saying that she had as good a stomach for a fight as any man in France, and a fight there should be if it came to it and Garnache should return to assail Condillac. Yet a certain pondering of the consequences, a certain counting of the cost—ordinarily unusual to her nature led her to have recourse to persuasion and to a gentleness no less unusual.

Valerie’s eyes were raised to hers with a look that held more scorn than wonder. They were standing in the antechamber of Valerie’s room. Yonder at his post lounged the recruit “Battista,” looking a trifle cleaner than when first he had been presented to the Marquise, but still not clean enough for a lady’s antechamber. He was leaning stolidly against the sill of the window, his eyes on the distant waters of the Isere, which shone a dull copper colour in the afterglow of the October sunset. His face was vacant, his eyes pensive, as he stood there undisturbed by the flow of a language he did not understand.

Fortunio and Marius had departed, and the Marquise—played upon by her unusual tremors—had remained behind for a last word with the obstinate girl.

“In what, madame,” asked Valerie, “does my conduct fall short of reasonableness?”

The Dowager made a movement of impatience. If at every step she were to be confronted by these questions, which had in them a savour of challenge, she was wasting time in remaining.

“You are unreasonable, in this foolish clinging to a promise given for you.”

“Given by me, madame,” the girl amended, knowing well to what promise the Dowager referred.

“Given by you, then; but given at an age when you could not understand the nature of it. They had no right to bind you so.”

“If it is for any to question that right, it is for me,” Valerie made answer, her eyes ever meeting the Dowager’s unflinchingly. “And I am content to leave that right unquestioned. I am content to fill the promise given. In honour I could not do less.”

“Ah! In honour!” The Dowager sighed. Then she came a step nearer, and her face grew sweetly wistful. “But your heart, child; what of your heart?”

“My heart concerns myself. I am the betrothed of Florimond—that is all that concerns the world and you. I respect and admire him more than any living man, and I shall be proud to become his wife when he returns, as his wife I shall become in spite of all that you and your son may do.”

The Dowager laughed softly, as if to herself.

“And if I tell you that Florimond is dead?”

“When you give me proof of that, I shall believe it,” the girl replied. The Marquise looked at her, her face manifesting no offence at the almost insulting words.

“And if I were to lay that proof before you?” she inquired, sadly almost.

Valerie’s eyes opened a trifle wider, as if in apprehension. But her answer was prompt and her voice steady. “It still could have no effect upon my attitude towards your son.”

“This is foolishness, Valerie—”

“In you it is, madame,” the girl broke in; “a foolishness to think you can constrain a girl, compel her affections, command her love, by such means as you have employed towards me. You think that it predisposes me to be wooed, that it opens my heart to your son, to see myself gaoled that he may pay me his court.”

“Gaoled, child? Who gaols you?” the Dowager cried, as if the most surprising utterance had fallen from Valerie’s lips.

Mademoiselle smiled in sorrow and some scorn.

“Am I not gaoled, then?” she asked. “What call you this? What does that fellow there? He is to lie outside my door at nights to see that none holds communication with me. He is to go with me each morning to the garden, when, by your gracious charity I take the air. Sleeping and waking the man is ever within hearing of any word that I may utter—”

“But he has no French!” the Dowager protested.

“To ensure, no doubt, against any attempt of mine to win him to my side, to induce him to aid me escape from this prison. Oh, madame, I tell you you do but waste time, and you punish me and harass yourself to little purpose. Had Marius been such a man as I might have felt it in my nature to love—which Heaven forbid!—these means by which you have sought to bring that thing about could but have resulted in making me hate him as I do.”

The Dowager’s fears were banished from her mind at that, and with them went all thought of conciliating Valerie. Anger gleamed in her eyes; the set of her lips grew suddenly sneering and cruel, so that the beauty of her face but served to render it hateful the more.

“So that you hate him, ma mie?” a ripple of mockery on the current of her voice, “and he a man such as any girl in France might be proud to wed. Well, well, you are not to be constrained, you say.” And the Marquise’s laugh was menacing and unpleasant. “Be not so sure, mademoiselle. Be not so sure of that. It may well betide that you shall come to beg upon your knees for this alliance with a man whom you tell me that you hate. Be not so sure you cannot be constrained.”

Their eyes met; both women were white to the lips, but it was curbed passion in the one, and deadly fear in the other; for what the Dowager’s words left unsaid her eyes most eloquently conveyed. The girl shrank back, her hands clenched, her lip caught in her teeth.

“There is a God in heaven, madame,” she reminded the Marquise.

“Aye—in heaven,” laughed the Marquise, turning to depart. She paused by the door, which the Italian had sprung forward to open for her.

“Marius shall take the air with you in the morning if it is fine. Ponder meanwhile what I have said.”

“Does this man remain here, madame?” inquired the girl, vainly seeking to render her voice steady.

“In the outer anteroom is his place: but as the key of this room is on his side of the door, he may enter here when he so pleases, or when he thinks that he has reason to. If the sight of him displeases you, you may lock yourself from it in your own chamber yonder.”

The same she said in Italian to the man, who bowed impassively, and followed the Dowager into the outer room, closing the door upon mademoiselle. It was a chamber almost bare of furniture, save for a table and chair which had been placed there, so that the gaoler might take his meals.

The man followed the Marquise across the bare floor, their steps resounding as they went, and he held the outer door for her.

Without another word she left him, and where he stood he could hear her steps as she tripped down the winding staircase of stone. At last the door of the courtyard closed with a bang, and the grating of a key announced to the mercenary that he and his charge were both imprisoned in that tower of the Chateau de Condillac.

Left alone in the anteroom, mademoiselle crossed to the window and dropped limply into a chair. Her face was still very white, her heart beating tumultuously, for the horrid threat that had been conveyed in the Dowager’s words had brought her her first thrill of real fear since the beginning of this wooing-by-force three months ago, a wooing which had become more insistent and less like a wooing day by day, until it had culminated in her present helpless position.

She was a strong-souled, high-spirited girl, but tonight hope seemed extinguished in her breast. Florimond, too, seemed to have abandoned her. Either he had forgotten her, or he was dead, as the Dowager said. Which might be the true state of things she did not greatly care. The realization of how utterly she was in the power of Madame de Condillac and her son, and the sudden chance discovery of how unscrupulously that power might be wielded, filled her mind to the exclusion of all else.

By the window she sat, watching, without heeding them, the fading colours in the sky. She was abandoned to these monsters, and it seemed they would devour her. She could hope for no help from outside since they had as she believed—slain Monsieur de Garnache. Her mind dwelt for a moment on that glimpse of rescue that had been hers a week ago, upon the few hours of liberty which she had enjoyed, but which only seemed now to increase the dark hopelessness of her imprisonment.

Again with the eyes of her mind she beheld that grim, stalwart figure, saw his great nose, his greying hair, his fierce mustachios and his stern, quick eyes. Again she heard the rasp of his metallic voice with its brisk derision. She saw him in the hall below, his foot upon the neck of that popinjay of Condillac daring them all to draw a breath, should he forbid it; again in fancy she rode on the withers of his horse at the gallop towards Grenoble. A sigh escaped her. Surely that was the first man who was indeed a man she had ever set eyes on since her father died. Had Garnache been spared, she would have felt courage and she would have hoped, for there was something about him that suggested energy and resource such as it is good to lean upon in times of stress. Again she heard that brisk, metallic voice: “Are you content, madame? Have you had fine deeds enough for one day?”

And then, breaking in upon her musings came the very voice of her day-dream, so suddenly, sounding so natural and lifelike that she almost screamed, so startled was she.

“Mademoiselle,” it said, “I beg that you’ll not utterly lose heart. I have come back to the thing Her Majesty bade me do, and I’ll do it, in spite of that tigress and her cub.”

She sat still as a statue, scarce breathing, her eyes fixed upon the violet sky. The voice had ceased, but still she sat on. Then it was slowly borne in upon her that that was no dream-voice, no trick of her overburdened mind. A voice, a living, actual voice had uttered those words in this room, here at her elbow.

She turned, and again she almost screamed; for there, just behind her, his glittering eyes fixed upon her with singular intentness, stood the swarthy, black-haired Italian gaoler they had given her because he had no French.

He had come up so quietly behind her that she had not heard his approach, and he was leaning forward now, with an odd suggestion of crouching in his attitude, like a beast about to spring. Yet his gaze riveted hers as with a fascination. And so, while she looked, his lips moved, and from them, in that same voice of her dreams, came from this man who had no French, the words:

“Be not afraid, mademoiselle. I am that blunderer, Garnache, that unworthy fool whose temper ruined what chance of saving you he had a week ago.”

She stared like one going mad.

“Garnache!” said she, in a husky whisper. “You Garnache?”

Yet the voice, she knew, was Garnache’s and none other. It was a voice not easily mistaken. And now, as she looked and looked, she saw that the man’s nose was Garnache’s, though oddly stained, and those keen eyes, they were Garnache’s too. But the hair that had been brown and flecked with grey was black; the reddish mustachios that had bristled like a mountain cat’s were black, too, and they hung limp and hid from sight the fine lines of his mouth. A hideous stubble of unshorn beard defaced his chin and face, and altered its sharp outline; and the clear, healthy skin that she remembered was now a dirty brown.

Suddenly the face smiled, and it was a smile that reassured her and drove away the last doubt that she had. She was on her feet in an instant.

“Monsieur, monsieur,” was all that she could say; but her longing was to fling her arms about the neck of this man, as she might have flung them about the neck of a brother or a father, and sob out upon his shoulder the sudden relief and revulsion that his presence brought.

Garnache saw something of her agitation, and to relieve it he smiled and began to tell her the circumstances of his return and his presentation to Madame as a knave who had no French.

“Fortune was very good to me, mademoiselle,” said he. “I had little hope that such a face as mine could be disguised, but I take no pride in what you see. It is the handiwork of Rabecque, the most ingenious lackey that ever served a foolish master. It helped me that having been ten years in Italy when I was younger, I acquired the language so well as to be able to impose even upon Fortunio. In that lay a circumstance which at once disarmed suspicion, and if I stay not so long as it shall take the dye to wear from my hair and beard and the staining from my face, I shall have little to fear.”

“But, monsieur,” she cried, “you have everything to fear!” And alarm grew in her eyes.

But he laughed again for answer. “I have faith in my luck, mademoiselle, and I think I am on the tide of it at present. I little hoped when I made my way into Condillac in this array that I should end, by virtue of my pretended ignorance of French, in being appointed gaoler to you. I had some ado to keep the joy from my eyes when I heard them planning it. It is a thing that has made all else easy.”

“But what can you do alone, monsieur?” she asked him; and there was a note almost of petulance in her voice.

He moved to the window, and leaned his elbow on the sill. The light was fast fading. “I know not yet. But I am here to contrive a means. I shall think and watch.”

“You know in what hourly peril I am placed,” she cried, and suddenly remembering that he must have overheard and understood the Dowager’s words, a sudden heat came to her cheeks to recede again and leave them marble-pale. And she thanked Heaven that in the dusk and in the shadow where she stood he could but ill make out her face.

“If you think that I have been rash in returning—”

“No, no, not rash, monsieur; noble and brave above all praise. I would indeed I could tell you how noble and brave I account your action.”

“It is as nothing to the bravery required to let Rabecque do this hideous work upon a face for which I have ever entertained some measure of respect.”

He jested, sooner than enlighten her that it was his egregious pride had fetched him back when he was but a few hours upon his journey Pariswards, his inability to brook the ridicule that would be his when he announced at the Luxembourg that failure had attended him.

“Ah, but what can you do alone?” she repeated.

“Give me at least a day or two to devise some means; let me look round and take the measure of this gaol. Some way there must be. I have not come so far and so successfully to be beaten now. Still,” he continued, “if you think that I overrate my strength or my resource, if you would sooner that I sought men and made an assault upon Condillac, endeavouring to carry it and to let the Queen’s will prevail by force of arms, tell me so, and I am gone tomorrow.”

“Whither would you go?” she cried, her voice strained with sudden affright.

“I might seek help at Lyons or Moulins. I might find loyal soldiers who would be willing to follow me by virtue of my warrant to levy such help as I may require, if I but tell them that the help was refused me in Grenoble. I am not sure that it would be so, for, unfortunately, my warrant is for the Seneschal of Dauphiny only. Still, I might make the attempt.”

“No, no,” she implored him, and in her eagerness to have him put all thought of leaving her from his mind, she caught him by the arm and raised a pleading face to his. “Do not leave me here, monsieur; of your pity do not leave me alone amongst them. Think me a coward if you will, monsieur: I am no less. They have made a coward of me.”

He understood the thing she dreaded, and a great pity welled up from his generous heart for this poor unfriended girl at the mercy of the beautiful witch of Condillac and her beautiful rascally son. He patted the hand that clutched his arm.

“I think, myself, that it will be best if I remain, now that I have come so far,” he said. “Let me ponder things. It may well be that I shall devise some way.”

“May Heaven inspire you, monsieur. I shall spend the night in prayer, I think, imploring God and His saints to show you the way you seek.”

“Heaven, I think, should hear your prayers, mademoiselle,” he answered musingly, his glance upon the white, saintly face that seemed to shine in the deepening gloom. Then, suddenly he stirred and bent to listen.

“Sh! Some one is coming,” he whispered. And he sped quickly from her side and into the outer room, where he sank noiselessly on to his chair as the steps ascended the stone staircase and a glow of yellow light grew gradually in the doorway that opened on to it.

 

 

CHAPTER XII. A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE

That he might inspire the more confidence in the Dowager and her son Garnache organized and performed a little comedy at Condillac a couple of nights after his appointment as mademoiselle’s gaoler. He gave an alarm at dead midnight, and when half-clad men, followed presently by madame and Marian, rushed into the anteroom where he stood, a very picture of the wildest excitement, he drew their attention to two twisted sheets, tied end to end, hanging from the window which overlooked the moat; and in answer to the marquise’s questions he informed her that he had been disturbed by sounds of movements and upon entering the chamber he had discovered mademoiselle making these preparations for departure.

Valerie, locked in the inner chamber, refused to come forth as the Marquise bade her, but her voice reassured Madame de Condillac of her presence, and so, since her attempt had failed, madame was content to let her be.

“The little fool,” she said, peering down from the window into the night; “she would have been killed for certain. Her rope of sheets does not reach more than a third of the way down. She would have had over thirty feet to fall, and if that had not been enough to finish her, she would of a certainty have, been drowned in the moat.”

She signified her satisfaction with the faithful “Battista’s” vigilance by a present of some gold pieces in the morning, and since the height of the window and the moat beneath it did not appear sufficient obstacles to mademoiselle’s attempts at effecting her escape, the Dowager had the window nailed down. Thus, only by breaking it could egress be obtained, and the breaking of it could not be effected without such a noise as must arouse “Battista.”

Under Garnache’s instructions the comedy was carried a little further. Mademoiselle affected for her gaoler a most unconquerable aversion, and this she took pains to proclaim.

One morning, three days after her attempted escape, she was taking the air in the garden of Condillac, “Battista,” ever watchful, a few paces behind her, when suddenly she was joined by Marius—a splendid, graceful figure in a riding-suit of brown velvet and biscuit-coloured hose, his points tipped with gold, his long boots of the finest marroquin leather, his liver-coloured hound at his heels. It was the last day of October, but the weather, from cold and wet that it had been for the past fortnight, had taken on a sudden improvement. The sun shone, the air was still and warm, and but for the strewn leaves and the faint smell of decay with which the breath of autumn is ever laden, one might have fancied it a day of early spring.

It was not Valerie’s wont to pause when Marius approached. Since she might not prevent him from walking where he listed, she had long since abandoned the futility of bidding him begone when he came near her. But, at least, she had never stopped in her walk, never altered its pace; she had suffered what she might not avoid, but she had worn the outward air of suffering it with indifference. This morning, however, she made a departure from her long habit. Not only did she pause upon observing his approach, but she called to him as if she would have him hasten to her side. And hasten he did, a new light in his eyes that was mostly of surprise, but a little, also, of hope.

She was gracious to him for once, and gave him good morning in a manner that bordered upon the pleasant. Wondering, he fell into step beside her, and they paced together the yew-bordered terrace, the ever-vigilant but discreet “Battista” following them, though keeping now a few paces farther in the rear.

For a little while they appeared constrained, and their talk was of the falling leaves and the grateful change that had so suddenly come upon the weather. Suddenly she stopped and faced him.

“Will you do me a favour, Marius?” she asked. He halted too, and turned to her, studying her gentle face, seeking to guess her mind in the clear hazel eyes she raised to his. His eyebrows lifted slightly with surprise. Nevertheless—

“There is in all the world, Valerie, nothing you could ask me that I would not do,” he protested.

She smiled wistfully. “How easy it is to utter words!” she sighed.

“Marry me,” he answered, leaning towards her, his eyes devouring her now, “and you shall find my words very quickly turned to deeds.”

“Ah,” said she, and her smile broadened and took on a scornful twist, “you make conditions now. If I will marry you, there is nothing you will not do for me; so that, conversely, I may take it that if I do not marry you, there is nothing you will do. But in the meantime, Marius, until I resolve me whether I will marry you or not, would you not do a little thing that I might ask of you?”

“Until you resolve?” he cried, and his face flushed with the sudden hope he gathered from those words. Hitherto there had been no suggestion of a possible modification of attitude towards his suit. It had been repulsion, definite and uncompromising. Again he studied her face. Was she fooling him, this girl with the angel-innocence of glance? The thought of such a possibility cooled him instantly. “What is it you want of me?” he asked, his voice ungracious.

“Only a little thing, Marius.” Her glance travelled back over her shoulder to the tall, limber fellow in leather jerkin and with cross-gartered legs who lounged a dozen steps behind them. “Rid me of that ruffian’s company,” said she.

Marius looked back at “Battista,” and from him to Valerie. Then he smiled and made a slight movement with his shoulders.

“But to what end?” he asked, as one who pleadingly opposes an argument that is unreasonable. “Another would replace him, and there is little to choose among the men that garrison Condillac.”

“Little, perhaps; but that little matters.” Sure of her ground, and gathering from his tone and manner that the more ardently she begged this thing the less likely would it be that she should prevail, she pursued her intercessions with a greater heat. “Oh,” she cried, in a pretended rage, “it is to insult me to give me that unclean knave for perpetual company. I loathe and detest him. The very sight of him is too much to endure.”

“You exaggerate,” said he coldly.

“I do not; indeed I do not,” she rejoined, looking frankly, pleadingly into his face. “You do not realize what it is to suffer the insolent vigilance of such as he; to feel that your every step is under surveillance; to feel his eyes ever upon you when you are within his sight. Oh, it is insufferable!”

Suddenly he gripped her arm, his face within a hand’s breadth of her own, his words falling hot and quickly on her ear.

“It is yours to end it when you will, Valerie,” he passionately reminded her. “Give yourself into my keeping. Let it be mine to watch over you henceforth. Let me—”

Abruptly he ceased. She had drawn back her head, her face was white to the lips, and in her eyes, as they dwelt on his at such close quarters, there appeared a look of terror, of loathing unutterable. He saw it, and releasing her arm he fell back as if she had struck him. The colour left his face too.

“Or is it,” he muttered thickly, “that I inspire you, with much the same feeling as does he?”

She stood before him with lowered eyelids, her bosom heaving still from the agitation of fear his closeness had aroused in her. He studied her in silence a moment, with narrowing eyes and tightening lips. Then anger stirred in him, and quenched the sorrow with which at first he had marked the signs of her repulsion. But anger in Marius de Condillac was a cold and deadly emotion that vented itself in no rantings, uttered no loud-voiced threats or denunciations, prompted no waving of arms or plucking forth of weapons.

He stooped towards her again from his stately, graceful height. The cruelty hidden in the beautiful lines of his mouth took instant prominence in the smile that flickered round it.

“I think that Battista makes a very excellent watchdog,” he said, and you would have thought him amused, as if at the foolish subterfuge of some little child. “You may be right to dislike him. He knows no French, so that it may not be yours to pervert and bribe him with promises of what you will do if he assists you to escape; but you will see that this very quality which renders him detestable to you renders him invaluable to us.”

He laughed softly, as one well pleased with his own astuteness, doffed his hat with a politeness almost exaggerated, and whistling his dog he abruptly left her.

Thus were Marius and his mother—to whom he bore the tale of Valerie’s request—tricked further into reposing the very fullest trust in the watchful, incorruptible “Battista.” Realizing that this would be so, Garnache now applied himself more unreservedly to putting into effect the plans he had been maturing. And he went about it with a zest that knew no flagging, with a relish that nothing could impair. Not that it was other than usual for Garnache to fling himself whole-heartedly into the conduct of any enterprise he might have upon his hands; but he had come into this affair at Condillac against his will; stress of circumstances it was had driven him on, step by step, to take a personal hand in the actual deliverance of Valerie.

It was vanity and pride that had turned him back when already he was on the road to Paris; not without yet a further struggle would he accept defeat. To this end had he been driven, for the first time in his life, to the indignity of his foul disguise; and he, whose methods had ever been direct, had been forced to have recourse to the commonest of subterfuges. It was with anger in his heart that he had proceeded to play the part he had assumed. He felt it to be a thing unworthy of him, a thing that derogated from his self-respect. Had he but had the justification of some high political aim, he might have endured it with a better resignation; the momentous end to be served might have sanctioned the ignoble means adopted. But here was a task in itself almost as unworthy of him as the methods by which he now set about accomplishing it. He was to black his face and dye his beard and hair, stain his skin and garb himself in filthy rags, for no better end than that he might compass the enlargement of a girl from the captivity into which she had been forced by a designing lady of Dauphiny. Was that a task to set a soldier, a man of his years and birth and name? He had revolted at it; yet that stubborn pride of his that would not brook his return to Paris to confess himself defeated by a woman over this woman’s business, held him relentlessly to his distasteful course.

And gradually the distaste of it had melted. It had begun to fall away five nights ago, when he had heard what passed between Madame de Condillac and Valerie. A great pity for this girl, a great indignation against those who would account no means too base to achieve their ends with her, a proper realization of the indignities she was suffering, caused him to shed some of his reluctance, some of his sense of injury to himself.

His innate chivalry, that fine spirit of his which had ever prompted him to defend the weak against the oppressor, stirred him now, and stirred him to such purpose that, in the end, from taking up the burden of his task reluctantly, he came to bear it zestfully and almost gladly. He was rejoiced to discover himself equipped with histrionic gifts of which he had had no suspicion hitherto, and it delighted him to set them into activity.

Now it happened that at Condillac there was a fellow countryman of “Battista’s,” a mercenary from Northern Italy, a rascal named Arsenio, whom Fortunio had enlisted when first he began to increase the garrison a month ago. Upon this fellow’s honesty Garnache had formed designs. He had closely observed him, and in Arsenio’s countenance he thought he detected a sufficiency of villainy to augur well for the prosperity of any scheme of treachery that might be suggested to him provided the reward were adequate.

Garnache went about sounding the man with a wiliness peculiarly his own. Arsenio being his only compatriot at Condillac it was not wonderful that in his few daily hours of relief from his gaoler’s duty “Battista” should seek out the fellow and sit in talk with him. The pair became intimate, and intercourse between them grew more free and unrestrained. Garnache waited, wishing to risk nothing by precipitancy, and watched for his opportunity. It came on the morrow of All Saints. On that Day of the Dead, Arsenio, whose rearing had been that of a true son of Mother Church, was stirred by the memory of his earthly mother, who had died some three years before. He was silent and moody, and showed little responsiveness to Garnache’s jesting humour. Garnache, wondering what might be toward in the fellow’s mind, watched him closely.

Suddenly the little man—he was a short, bowlegged, sinewy fellow—heaved a great sigh as he plucked idly at a weed that grew between two stones of the inner courtyard, where they were seated on the chapel steps.

“You are a dull comrade to-day, compatriot,” said Garnache, clapping him on the shoulder.

“It is the Day of the Dead,” the fellow answered him, as though that were an ample explanation. Garnache laughed.

“To those that are dead it no doubt is; so was yesterday, so will to-morrow be. But to us who sit here it is the day of the living.”

“You are a scoffer,” the other reproached him, and his rascally face was oddly grave. “You don’t understand.”

“Enlighten me, then. Convert me.”

“It is the day when our thoughts turn naturally to the dead, and mine are with my mother, who has lain in her grave these three years. I am thinking of what she reared me and of what I am.”

Garnache made a grimace which the other did not observe. He stared at the little cut-throat, and there was some dismay in his glance. What ailed the rogue? Was he about to repent him of his sins, and to have done with villainy and treachery; was he minded to slit no more gullets in the future, be faithful to the hand that paid him, and lead a godlier life? Peste! That was a thing that would nowise suit Monsieur de Garnache’s ends just then. If Arsenio had a mind to reform, let him postpone that reformation until Garnache should have done with him. So he opened his lips and let out a deep guffaw of mockery.

“We shall have you turning monk,” said he, “a candidate for canonization going barefoot, with flagellated back and shaven head. No more wine, no more dice, no more wenches, no more—”

“Peace!” snapped the other.

“Say ‘Pax,”’ suggested Garnache, “‘Pax tecum,’ or ‘vobiscum.’ It is thus you will be saying it later.”

“If my conscience pricks me, is it aught to you? Have you no conscience of your own?”

“None. Men wax lean on it in this vale of tears. It is a thing invented by the great to enable them to pursue the grinding and oppression of the small. If your master pays you ill for the dirty work you do for him and another comes along to offer you some rich reward for an omission in that same service, you are warned that if you let yourself be tempted, your conscience will plague you afterwards. Pish! A clumsy, childish device that, to keep you faithful.”

Arsenio looked up. Words that defamed the great were ever welcome to him; arguments that showed him he was oppressed and imposed upon sounded ever gratefully in his ears. He nodded his approval of “Battista’s” dictum.

“Body of Bacchus!” he swore, “you are right in that, compatriot. But my case is different. I am thinking of the curse that Mother Church has put upon this house. Yesterday was All Saints, and never a Mass heard I. To-day is All Souls, and never a prayer may I offer up in this place of sin for the rest of my mother’s soul.”

“How so?” quoth Garnache, looking in wonder at this religiously minded cut-throat.

“How so? Is not the House of Condillac under excommunication, and every man who stays in it of his own free will? Prayers and Sacraments are alike forbidden here.”

Garnache received a sudden inspiration. He leapt to his feet, his face convulsed as if at the horror of learning of a hitherto undreamt-of state of things. He never paused to give a moment’s consideration to the cut-throat’s mind, so wonderfully constituted as to enable him to break with impunity every one of the commandments every day of the week for the matter of a louis d’or or two, and yet be afflicted by qualms of conscience at living under a roof upon which the Church had hurled her malediction.

“What are you saying, compatriot? What is it that you tell me?”

“The truth,” said Arsenio, with a shrug. “Any man who wilfully abides in the services of Condillac”—and instinctively he lowered his voice lest the Captain or the Marquise should be within earshot—, “is excommunicate.”

“By the Host!” swore the false Piedmontese. “I am a Christian man myself, Arsenio, and I have lived in ignorance of this thing?”

“That ignorance may be your excuse. But now that you know—” Arsenio shrugged his shoulders.

“Now that I know, I had best have a care of my soul and look about me for other employment.”

“Alas!” sighed Arsenio; “it is none so easy to find.”

Garnache looked at him. Garnache began to have in his luck a still greater faith than hitherto. He glanced stealthily around; then he sat down again, so that his mouth was close to Arsenio’s ear.

“The pay is beggarly here, yet I have refused a fortune offered me by another that I might remain loyal to my masters at Condillac. But this thing that you tell me alters everything. By the Host! yes.”

“A fortune?” sneered Arsenio.

“Aye, a fortune—at least, fifty pistoles. That is a fortune to some of us.”

Arsenio whistled. “Tell me more,” said he.

Garnache rose with the air of one about to depart.

“I must think of it,” said he, and he made shift to go. But the other’s hand fell with a clenching grip upon his arm.

“Of what must you think, fool?” said he. “Tell me this service you have been offered. I have a conscience that upbraids me. If you refuse these fifty pistoles, why should not I profit by your folly?”

“There would not be the need. Two men are required for the thing I speak of, and there are fifty pistoles for each. If I decide to undertake the task, I’ll speak of you as a likely second.”

He nodded gloomily to his companion, and shaking off his hold he set out to cross the yard. But Arsenio was after him and had fastened again upon his arm, detaining him.

“You fool!” said he; “you’d not refuse this fortune?”

“It would mean treachery,” whispered Garnache.

“That is bad,” the other agreed, and his face fell. But remembering what Garnache had said, he was quick to brighten again. “Is it to these folk here at Condillac?” he asked. Garnache nodded. “And they would pay—these people that seek our service would pay you fifty pistoles?”

“They seek my service only, as yet. They might seek yours were I to speak for you.”

“And you will, compatriot. You will, will you not? We are comrades, we are friends, and we are fellow-countrymen in a strange land. There is nothing I would not do for you, Battista. Look, I would die for you if there should come the need! Body of Bacchus! I would. I am like that when I love a man.”

Garnache patted his shoulder. “You are a good fellow, Arsenio.”

“And you will speak for me?”

“But you do not know the nature of the service,” said Garnache. “You may refuse it when it is definitely offered you.”

“Refuse fifty pistoles? I should deserve to be the pauper that I am if such had been my habits. Be the service what it may, my conscience pricks me for serving Condillac. Tell me how the fifty pistoles are to be earned, and you may count upon me to put my hand to anything.”

Garnache was satisfied. But he told Arsenio no more that day, beyond assuring him he would speak for him and let him know upon the morrow. Nor on the morrow, when they returned to the subject at Arsenio’s eager demand, did Garnache tell him all, or even that the service was mademoiselle’s. Instead he pretended that it was some one in Grenoble who needed two such men as they.

“Word has been brought me,” he said mysteriously. “You must not ask me how.”

“But how the devil are we to reach Grenoble? The Captain will never let us go,” said Arsenio, in an ill-humour.

“On the night that you are of the watch, Arsenio, we will depart together without asking the Captain’s leave. You shall open the postern when I come to join you here in the courtyard.”

“But what of the man at the door yonder?” And he jerked his thumb towards the tower where mademoiselle was a captive, and where at night “Battista” was locked in with her. At the door leading to the courtyard a sentry was always posted for greater security. That door and that sentry were obstacles which Garnache saw the futility of attempting to overcome without aid. That was why he had been forced to enlist Arsenio’s assistance.

“You must account for him, Arsenio,” said he.

“Thus?” inquired Arsenio coolly, and he passed the edge of his hand significantly across his throat. Garnache shook his head.

“No,” said he; “there will be no need for that. A blow over the head will suffice. Besides, it may be quieter. You will find the key of the tower in his belt. When you have felled him, get it and unlock the door; then whistle for me. The rest will be easy.”

“You are sure he has the key?”

“I have it from madame herself. They were forced to leave it with him to provide for emergencies. Mademoiselle’s attempted escape by the window showed them the necessity for it.” He did not add that it was the implicit confidence they reposed in “Battista” himself that had overcome their reluctance to leave the key with the sentry.

To seal the bargain, and in earnest of all the gold to come, Garnache gave Arsenio a couple of gold louis as a loan to be repaid him when their nameless employer should pay him his fifty pistoles in Grenoble.

The sight and touch of the gold convinced Arsenio that the thing was no dream. He told Garnache that he believed he would be on guard-duty on the night of the following Wednesday—this was Friday—and so for Wednesday next they left the execution of their plans unless, meantime, a change should be effected in the disposition of the sentries.