Corse de Leon; or, The Brigand: A Romance. Volume 1 (of 2)

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  With that strange, dizzy sensation which we feel when awaking from thefirst stunning effects of any great catastrophe, Bernard de Rohancontinued to gaze around him for some minutes, as the morning rosebrighter and brighter upon the wild scene of destruction in the midst ofwhich he stood. He was himself much bruised and injured: blood was uponvarious parts of his garments; his strong, muscular arm would scarcelysupport him as he leaned against the rock, and his brain still reeledgiddily from time to time with the fall and the blows he had received:but his own corporeal pain engaged less of his attention than theterrible picture which the rising light displayed. Everywhere appearedvestiges of the desolating phenomenon of the preceding night. The orderof all things around him, and especially to the northeast, seemed tohave been entirely broken up and changed. The granite rocks from thehigher summits of the mountain were now piled up in immense massesbelow, mingled with vast tracts of the most dissimilar substances,slate, and sandstone, and common vegetable earth, with here and there athick layer of snow protruding through the chasms, marked in longstreaks by the various kinds of earth over which it had passed. Shiveredfir-trees, and immense fragments of oak, with their green foliage stillwaving in the air, stuck out here and there in scattered disarray fromthe tumbled chaos of rock, and sand, and earth; and the fragments of acottage roof, which lay reversed high up the side of the mountainouspile that now blocked up the valley, showed that the sweepingdestruction had, at all events, reached one of the homes of earth'schildren.

  Such was the scene towards the northeast: but it was evident that thefallen masses had not yet firmly fixed themselves in the position whichthey were probably to bear for ages afterward. From time to time a rockrolled over, but slowly, making its way down into the valley withincreasing speed, sometimes pausing and fixing itself in a new bed partof the way down. None of these, however, in their descent, reached thespot where Bernard de Rohan stood, for he was at least three hundredyards from the base of the mountain which had thus been produced duringthe night. As it came down, indeed, the immense body had beenaccompanied by the fall of large masses of stone, which were scatteredon all sides, so that the green bosom of the valley--which, on thepreceding day, had been carpeted by soft and equal turf, only brokenhere and there by a tall tree, or clumps of shrubs and bushes, or elseby large fantastic lumps of rock or stone, fallen immemorial agesbefore, and clothed by the hand of time with lichens or creepingplants--was now thickly spotted with fresh fragments, which from spaceto space had shivered the trees in their descent, and in other placeswas soiled with long tracks of various-coloured earths, which hadshowered down like torrents as the great mass descended farther on.

  The stream, swollen, turbid, and furious, was rushing on amid the rocksin the middle of the valley; but the traces of where it had lately beenevidently showed that it was rapidly decreasing in volume, and hadalready much diminished. Bernard de Rohan traced it up with his eye tothe spot where it descended from the hill, crossing the road, which ranalong the top of a steep bank on the opposite side. The cataract throughwhich he had forced his horse the night before was there visible, andstill showed a large column of rushing water, though it, too, wasgreatly lessened. This waterfall, however, gave the young cavalier somemark by which to judge of the distances; and he found that he must havebeen carried down the stream nearly three hundred yards before herecovered himself and got to land. He thus perceived how near the chiefmass of falling mountain must have passed to the spot where he had beenstanding, and he felt that the detached rock, which had struck his horseand cast him down into the stream before the whole fell, had probablysaved his life.

  But what had become of his companion? he asked himself. What had becomeof that being who, strange, and wild, and erring as he doubtless was,had contrived, not only to fix himself strongly upon his affections, butto excite, in a considerable degree, his admiration and esteem? Had heperished in that awful scene? Had he closed his wild and turbulentexistence in the tremendous convulsion which had taken place? He fearedit might be so; and yet, when he looked up and saw distinctlythat--though ploughed up by the heavy stones that had fallen, and thus,in many places, rendered impassable--the road was still to be traced bythe eye for some thirty yards beyond the cascade, he did hope--thoughthe hope was but faint--that Corse de Leon might have escaped.

  If so, traces of him and of the way that he had taken might yet befound. But another possibility soon presented itself to the mind ofBernard de Rohan, The brigand might have been thrown over the precipiceby some of the falling rocks, like the young cavalier himself, and mighteven then be lying mutilated and in agony not far off. Without amoment's delay, Bernard proceeded to search along the course of thestream, which was far too much swollen to permit of his passing it.

  Nothing of Corse de Leon could he see, however; not a vestige, not atrack; but a few yards from the spot where the cascade, after strikingthe road, bounded down again into the valley below, he found, in the bedof the stream, crushed and mangled in an awful manner, the carcass ofthe poor horse which he had himself so lately ridden. The size of theanimal had caused it to be entangled sooner among the rocks in the bedof the stream than he had been, but it had evidently been killed by theblow of the first fragment of stone which struck it, for its two frontlegs were broken, and its chest actually dashed in.

  It was a painful and a sickening spectacle in the midst of a scene sowild, so awful, and extraordinary; but one additional horror which mightwell have been there was wanting. The vultures, which are said to bescared from their pursuit of prey by no portent, had, nevertheless, notapproached as yet; and Bernard de Rohan, with his arms crossed upon hischest, remained for a moment looking at the dead body of the animal, asit lay half out of the water and half hidden by the rushing stream, withmany a dark and gloomy association crossing his mind, though vaguely andunencouraged.

  As he stood and gazed, a small bird upon an opposite tree, which hadescaped uninjured throughout the late catastrophe, burst out in a wildand somewhat melancholy song; and Bernard de Rohan, with his heartheavier than before, turned and retrod his steps, in the hopes offinding some place where he could cross the torrent farther down thevalley. In this expectation he was disappointed; the stream only grewlarger, and deeper, and more impetuous, swelled by the differentrivulets that were pouring down the sides of the mountains; and atlength, after wandering on more than three miles, it plunged through adeep chasm in the rock, which left no footing for the young cavalier tomake his way farther on that side of the valley. Could he have passedthe waters, it would have been easy to have made his way up to thelittle mountain road by which he had passed the preceding night, andwhich was now before his eyes. But he was shut in between the torrent onone side and the high mountain on the other; and, although he saw somesheep-paths and other tracks, he knew not where they led to, but hadonly the certainty that they must take him to a distance from the spotwhich he wished to reach immediately, in order to relieve the darkestanxiety of all the many that were at his heart. Turning back, then, hemade a desperate, but ineffectual effort to pass the masses of themountains which had been thrown down, and by midday he was forced toretread his steps nearly to the same spot where he had found himself inthe morning.

  In much pain from the bruises he had received, and exhausted withexertion and want of food, he sat down for a time to rest, and drank ofthe waters of the stream, although they were still troubled. He thentook the resolution of endeavouring to climb the mountains which formedthat side of the valley where he then was, trusting that he might findsome one to show him the nearest way to the inn on the eastern slope ofthe hills. The path was rugged and winding, the mountain bleak and arid,and several hours elapsed while he wandered on, before he heard thesound of any living creature, or saw any moving thing, except when onceor twice some object of the chase started away from his path, and whenthe golden lizards, basking in the sun, turned round their snake-likeheads to gaze on the unwonted human form that passed them.

  At length
, however, towards five o'clock in the evening, completelytired out, without having tasted food, and with no drink whatsoever butthat one draught from the stream, he heard--as may well be supposed,with joy--the barking of a dog; and, looking up, he saw upon a point ofthe crag above a noble animal of the Alpine breed, baying fiercely atthe step of a stranger.

  Bernard de Rohan went on; and, following the dog as it retreated beforehim, he soon heard the bleating of some sheep, and, in a minute or twoafter, beheld a small white wreath of smoke rising in the clear mountainair, with the roof of a little cottage in a sheltered nook of the hill.It was as poor a habitation as can be conceived; but the sight was aglad one to the young cavalier, and he approached the little low-walledyard, which served as a sort of fold, with feelings of infinite joy.

  The barking of the dog brought forth the shepherd, holding a large potof boiling ewe-milk in his hand. He was a small, plain-featured man, notvery intelligent, who, notwithstanding his solitary life, had notacquired that desire of knowing more of his fellow-creatures which is soconstantly the result of voluntary seclusion in monasteries. He was,however, hospitable and kind-hearted, and received the young strangerwith a gladdening welcome. He set before him, in the very first place,the best of all he had; and asked, with some eagerness, of news from thevalley; for he was already aware of what had occurred during thepreceding night, and, indeed, knew far more than Bernard de Rohanhimself.

  The young cavalier told him all that he had to tell, and then questionedhim rapidly and anxiously in turn. His first question, as may be easilysupposed, referred to Gandelot's inn; and oh! how much more freely didhe seem to breathe when the old-man replied, "Oh, that is quite safe!The fall did not come within half a league of it."

  "Are you sure, quite sure?" demanded Bernard de Rohan.

  "My son was down there to-day with cheeses," answered the man, "and sawthem all. He will be home with the rest of the sheep presently, and willtell you more about it."

  "Was there a young lady there?" Bernard de Rohan inquired, with as muchcalmness as he could command.

  "Yes, he talked of a stranger lady from France," replied the shepherd,"with a number of soldiers and attendants belonging to some French lord,for whom they were all grieving and weeping bitterly, because he hadbeen killed somehow."

  "How long will it be ere your son returns?" asked Bernard de Rohan,eager, notwithstanding all the fatigues that he had suffered, to reachthe inn that night.

  The answer he received was one of those vague and indefinite replieswhich are always given on such occasions by persons to whom, as to theshepherd, time seems of little or no value. He said that the lad wouldbe back very soon; but hour after hour passed, and he did not appear.

  The young cavalier became impatient; and, finding that it wasimpossible, from any direction the old man could give, to learn the pathwhich he ought to pursue, he urged him, with many promises of reward, toconduct him to Gandelot's small hostelry himself.

  Had he proposed to the good shepherd, however, a pilgrimage toJerusalem, it would not have seemed more impracticable. He declared thatit was perfectly out of the question; that, now his wife was dead, therewas nobody to remain in his cottage; that the distance was fully fourleagues, and that it would take them as many hours to go. "It will bedark in half an hour," he continued, "and we should but break our necksover the rocks and precipices."

  Bernard de Rohan found that it was impossible to move him; the son didnot come home till the evening was beginning to grow gray, and the youngcavalier was obliged, unwillingly, to resign all hopes of rejoining hisbride before the next day.

  With the shepherd and his son, the use of any other light but that ofthe broad sun was unknown except in the depth of the winter; and, thoughBernard de Rohan could have sat up for many an hour questioning theyounger man upon all he had seen and heard at the inn, but a shortperiod was allowed him for so doing ere they retired to repose.

  The information that he obtained was but little, for neither the eldernor the younger mountaineer was very intelligent or very communicative.The latter, indeed, seemed to divine at once, what had never struck theold man, that the young cavalier who had become their accidental guestwas no other than the person by whose supposed death the lady whom hehad seen at the inn had been plunged into such deep grief.

  "She will be mighty glad to see you," he said, taking the matter forgranted; "and, if we set off by daylight to-morrow, you will just catchher as she wakes, for you nobles are sad lie-abeds."

  "Pray tell me, however, before we sleep," said Bernard de Rohan, "howthe lady obtained information of the danger I have so fortunatelyescaped. Was it from Corse de Leon?"

  The young man started, and gazed earnestly in his face by the dim lightwhich still found its way into the cottage. "Corse de Leon!" he said,"Corse de Leon! that is a name we never mention in these parts of thecountry. No! no! I know nothing about Corse de Leon, though they do saythat he has as many poor men's prayers as rich men's curses."

  Bernard de Rohan found that that name had effectually closed the youngshepherd's mouth, and not a word more upon the subject could be obtainedfrom him.

  He interrupted their habits of early sleep no longer, but made the bestof such means of repose as they could give him, and, wearied out withlong exertion, soon fell asleep, with the happy certainty that she whomhe loved was free, and corporeally well, while the mental anguish whichhe knew she must be suffering he had the means of joyfully removing onthe succeeding day.

  The pain of the bruises which he had received woke the young cavalier assoon as excessive fatigue had been in some degree relieved. But thenights were at that season short; daylight soon appeared; the shepherdsrose with the first ray of the sun; and, without other breakfast than adraught of warm milk, Bernard and his guide set off across themountains. The time occupied by their journey was fully as much as theold man had said; for mountain leagues are generally long ones, and theroad was rough and difficult to tread.

  At length the view of a plainer country broke upon the eye; and as theydescended a steep hill by a footway upon the open mountain side, Bernardde Rohan saw before him the rich lands towards Chambery, and, at thedistance of about half a mile, the little inn of Gandelot, seatedquietly at the foot of the passes. It looked tranquil and happy in themorning light; but why or wherefore the young gentleman could not tell,a feeling of uneasiness took possession of him at the very quietnesswhich the whole scene displayed. There were none of his people hangingabout the door, passing a morning half hour in listless idleness. Therewere none at the gates of the stables rubbing down horses or cleaningtrappings and arms. There was no busy bustling about of attendants andstable-boys. There was nothing, in short, to be seen, but one or twodomestic animals at the entrance of the farmyard, and the servant of theauberge, in a bright-coloured petticoat, cleaning some culinary utensilsat the door of the inn.

  The young cavalier hurried his pace, and, getting before the guide,advanced close to the girl before she saw him. She looked up at theapproaching step, and then uttered a loud scream, which Bernard de Rohaneasily understood to be her comment upon seeing the dead alive again. Hepassed on at once, however, through the half-opened door into thekitchen, but, to his dismay, it presented the complete picture of an innafter guests have departed. Everything had been put in order, and lookedcold and vacant. The neatly-swept hearth possessed not more fire thanmight have lain in the hollow of one's hand, and over it the hostess wascooking a mess for the breakfast of herself and her husband; while theaubergiste stood at a well-washed table, counting some money, which hecovered over with his hand at the girl's scream, and looked anxiouslytowards the door.

  The surprise of good Gandelot seemed scarcely less than that of theservant, although it only took the outward form and expression of adeadly paleness. He recovered himself in a moment, however, and then,with a look of honest joy and satisfaction, in spite of all differenceof rank and habitual restraint, he seized Bernard de Rohan by the hand,exclaiming, "Jesu Maria! Well, there have been m
any tears shed to nopurpose. Why, bless my soul, how happy the poor lady's heart will be!"

  "Where is she?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, eagerly. "Where is she? Itseems as though there were nobody here."

  "No, indeed," replied Gandelot. "What you say is very true. There isnobody here but your lordship's humble servant and his good wife. Why,what a pity that you came not yesterday at this hour! You would havesaved the poor lady many a weary minute."

  "Where is she, then! Where is she?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, moreeagerly than ever. "When did she go? Where is she gone to? Where are myservants, too, and my men-at-arms?"

  "Alack, and a well-a-day, sir!" replied the host, "they have all takenwing, and are scattered away like a flock of plovers. Here the ladyarrived at the inn, with good Father Willand and some ten or twelve ofyour men, on the day before yesterday, late in the evening; and thenthere were consultations after consultations as to what was to be done,for every one knew and had heard by that time that you were a prisonerin the castle of Masseran; and the gentleman who came at the head ofyour men--not the servants, but the men-at-arms that came afteryou--vowed that he would attack the castle, and blow open the gates witha petard, and set you free. But when he had talked very high in this wayfor some time, Father Willand told him to hold his tongue; for, in thefirst place, the walls of the castle of Masseran were made of stoneshard enough to break his teeth, and, in the next, as he had got nopetard to blow the gates open with but the one in his mouth, it would beof very little service. With that there came not long afterward amessenger from one whom I must not name, telling the lady and the priestand all to keep as quiet as might be, for that you would be liberatedbefore daylight on the next morning; and, as his word never fails, theyall did keep quiet, but we sat up and watched to see what would come ofit. A terrible night you know it was; but we were to have a moreterrible morning, for by daylight news came up the valley--"

  "That I was killed in the land-slip," said Bernard de Rohan,interrupting him.

  "No, no," replied the aubergiste, "not that at all; but that the towerwhich was called the prison-tower of the castle of Masseran had takenfire and fallen, crushing the dungeon in which you had been placed, andyou along with it, in the ruins. The lady went half-distracted, thoughshe would not believe that it was true till Father Willand himself wentup near the castle, with a body of your men to prevent any of theMasseran people from taking him, and then came back and told her it wasall too sure. He told her, besides, that the people of the castle vowedit was some one on her part seeking to deliver you who had set fire tothe tower, and the good priest advised her to get across the frontierwith all speed. But she was so cast down with grief that she seemed tocare little more about herself in this world, and lay, my wife said,partly kneeling by her bedside, partly lying upon it, with her faceburied in the clothes, and the sobs coming so thick and hard that it waspainful to hear. She could not be got to speak or answer a word to anyone; and in the midst of all this came in some one whom you know."

  "Who? who?" demanded Bernard de Rohan.

  The aubergiste whispered, in a scarcely audible voice, the name of Corsede Leon; and the young cavalier exclaimed, with feelings of as much joyas he could feel at that moment, "Then he is safe, at least; that issome satisfaction."

  "Ay, so far safe," replied the man, "that he is not killed as he mighthave been. But when he came here his left shoulder was out, and wouldhave been useless for ever if he had not made four of us pull it in bymain force, and never winked his eyes or uttered a word till it went inwith a great start, and then only shut his teeth close."

  "But he could have told them," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "he couldhave told that I had escaped before the tower took fire."

  "I don't know how it is," replied the landlord; "but, sure enough, hethinks you dead as well as they do. He had a long conversation apartwith Father Willand in that little room, out of the corner there, whichyou have never seen, and, mayhap, did not know of, for the door is inthe dark, behind the closet and the chimney. What they talked about Idon't know, but in the end I heard him say, 'Tell her nothing about ittill she can bear to hear more. As he is dead, it matters not much howit happened.' Then the priest went to the lady, and, with greatpersuasion, got her down from her chamber, and made her take some wine,and, in the end, got her to set off, with some eight or ten of yourpeople accompanying them. That was about twelve o'clock yesterdaymorning; and, in an hour or two after, the rest of your people went awayover the mountains to join the good Marechal de Brissac, by thedirections of the person you know."

  "This is unfortunate," said Bernard de Rohan, musing, "this is mostunfortunate. Do you know which way the lady has taken?"

  "She went first to Bonvoisin," replied the host; "but whither she was toturn her steps after that, I know not."

  "And I am left here alone," continued the young gentleman, "withouthorse or arms, at the moment I need them most. Can you furnish me with ahorse, good Gandelot?"

  "Faith, I have none to give, sir," answered the man, "or I wouldwillingly trust you, if you did not pay me till this time twelvemonth."

  "Nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I wanted not to be your debtor,Gandelot. Money, thank God, I have with me, but my resource must beCorse de Leon. Where can he be found?"

  "Hush! hush!" exclaimed the aubergiste, terrified at the loud tone inwhich his companion pronounced the name of the brigand. "Hush! hush! forHeaven's sake. There is somebody talking all this time to the girloutside the door."

  "It is but the shepherd who guided me hither," replied the youngcavalier. "But answer my question, good Gandelot: where is he to befound?"

  "If you will sit here for an hour or two," replied the other, "my wifeshall get you something ready to break your fast, and I will go up theside of the hill to see after the person you mention."

  "But I wish to proceed immediately," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan. "If Icould but get a horse, I would set out at once."

  "There is no one who can get you either horse or arms within fiveleagues," replied the aubergiste, "except the man we were talking of. Hecan do both, and more too, for he can tell you where the lady is to befound, which I can't. So you have nothing for it but to confer with him.However, it will be better to send this shepherd back at once to his ownplace, and for you either to go into that little room there to the left,or up the stairs into your room above, for it would be a sad thing to bestopped again; and, although we stand on free land here, yet this Lordof Masseran's people are no ways scrupulous into whose face they poketheir fist, or into whose soup they dip their spoon."

  Though feeling sick at heart with impatience, the young cavalier sawthat the plan suggested was the only one he could follow. Havingrewarded the shepherd for his trouble in guiding him thither, he allowedthe good aubergiste to lead him to his place of concealment; and, urginghim in the strongest terms to lose no time, he sat himself down to whileaway the hours as best he might, with all the checkered thoughts of thepast and the future.