any fault of his own, now a rebel, an outlaw, for whom the wheel and the stake are prepared; against whom all, even the most savage and disgraceful cruelty is permitted; his temples are closed and demolished; his priests are exiled and murdered; he is ignorant of his offence, he only feels his misfortune: in the deepest recesses of the soul that spirit is aroused which remembers its eternal and imperishable rights, and again war and murder rage; fury excites fury, life becomes cheap, martyrdom a pleasure; and if there be evil foes, they look with a scornful and fiendish laugh from the summits of the mountains down on this hideous massacre, where the very last traces of love, godly fear, and humility are covered with reeking blood. Do you mean that it is thus I must be a Christian, in order to justify the cruelty of my party; or to be a good subject, must I lend a hand to these executioners of the Marshal? In this case, indeed, is our respect for the king, as well as our worship of God infinitely different."
Edmond had listened to this long harangue of his father, without testifying any signs of impatience; at length said he, sighing deeply: "We are standing then on two opposite shores, a wide stream between us; I understand your meaning so little, that I even shrink with fear from it, for according to that, our holy religion may vanish in the empty folly of every fool, who has the arrogance to set himself up for a teacher, and just enough ability to mislead the ignorant, novelty-hunting populace; thus then might indeed the sacred edifice of the state with its, by heaven itself, consecrated representative sink into the dust, if every malcontent is permitted to dispute with him those rights by which the king is king, and if lie finds an opportunity to rob him of them. Then come chaos and anarchy bringing in their train the hellish fiends of murder, vengeance, fire, and sword, in order to destroy and slay the friends of the throne, the nobles and the priests. Oh! my father, to this only then their doctrine tends. Can my king be no more to me my visible god on earth, to whom I blindly and unreservedly submitted my whole heart with all its impulses, can I no longer believe, that to him alone belongs all responsibility? In this case I can neither act, nor think. Must my church, for which innumerable miracles, and thousands of the sublimest spirits speak and confirm it, yield to contemptible communities of yesterday, out of whatever corner they creep, who seek with gross deception and delirious ravings to cover and decorate their pitiful wretchedness;--no, I would just as soon fly to the unenlightened heathens of the North Pole, and attach myself to their absurd faith."
"Miracles!" exclaimed the old Lord, "and what then do you call miracles? the dull eye cannot discern them, just because they are too great and too mighty. That these poor people, who were perfectly content if they only had their hardly-earned dry bread, and who in the recesses of their mountains revered every commander as a deity;--that these should venture to defy the Intendant, the Marshal with his armies, and even the king himself;--that these poor, common men were enabled to sacrifice their wives, their children, and their lives, and die martyrs for their doctrine: Is this then no miracle? A miserable band without education, without arms, without having ever seen service, led by young men, who scarcely know what a sword is, should defeat regular troops and experienced commanders in more than one battle; and, sometimes too, one against four: Is that no miracle? How, if these rebels, for such they are in reality, should desire to found the truth of their doctrine upon this, what have you to oppose against them?"
"Rather mention too," said Edmond, with bitterness, "their prophets, their ecstasies, their absurd convulsive contortions, which the young learn from the old and deceive and grossly lie with the name of God on their lips."
"My son," said his father, sighing, while he gazed with emotion on the dark eyes of his son. "In all unrestrained passions man is transformed into an inexplicable but fearful miracle, then becomes realised and identified with him, what the wildest fancy itself cannot imagine more irrational. Let every man beware of this state, still less let him seek it, as you do, Edmond; your fire will consume you. Go not yonder so often to the lady of Castelnau: this will nourish your enthusiasm and destroy you." Edmond quitted the hall abruptly without saying a word. The old man looked after him, sighed and said to himself, "Ardent love and bigotry encouraged by an enthusiastic woman what may they not effect in our times in this poor youth; who knows the misery that is still before me!"
"For God's sake, my Lord," exclaimed old Frantz, rushing in, "what is the matter with our son; there he is running up the vineyard without a hat, and the storm is fast gathering. Oh, if you had but not scolded him! He will never indeed give up the lady!"
"How do you know," asked the father, "that the conversation related to her?"
"He ran by me," replied Frantz, "and looked at me with that very peculiar, fierce expression, which he only has, if any one speaks of the Lady Christine; then only he stamps his feet; he has thrown down the apple-tree there, and kicked back his own Hector that was running after him, which he never does at any other time; some harm will yet befall our Edmond."
"May God watch over him," said his father; at that moment a flash of lightning darted from the dark stormy clouds, and cast a singular light round the vineyards, so violent a clap of thunder immediately succeeded, that the whole of the great building rocked and creaked. Hector crouched down by Frantz, and the little Eveline ran into the hall with her fair locks fluttering behind her, immediately after her entrance, the rain began to descend in torrents, the herds were seen everywhere hastily crowding together; the shepherds hallooed to their flocks, the dogs barked, and in the intervals of the roaring of the tempest the rustling of the trees was heard; the streams dashed loudly down the hills and the rain pelted heavily on the roof of the house. Martha began to chaunt aloud from the upper story; soon after the trampling of horses and hasty footsteps were heard. The door opened and three men entered, the foremost of them, who had alighted from his horse, turned to the proprietor of the house with these words: "Necessity requires no bidding! the proverb, my Lord Counsellor of Parliament is quite right, for otherwise I had not ventured to renew a former acquaintance so unceremoniously: I am the vicar of St. Sulpice, there beyond St. Hippolite, and take the liberty to beg the shelter of your roof for a short time in this remote place, against the violence of the storm."
"You are welcome, my friend," said the Counsellor of Parliament, "as well as the other gentlemen; you shall have a fire to warm and dry yourselves, and you will do well to remain here this evening, for the storm will certainly last until night, as is usually the case in this neighbourhood."
Frantz and another domestic had already lighted a fire in the large chimney, and the strangers approached the friendly flames in order to dry their garments, while the vicar begged the servant to take care of his nag.
The other two strangers had made their request and testified their respect for the Counsellor of Parliament only by a silent bow, during which the little fair girl took advantage of the momentary confusion, to approach the guests and examine them with curiosity. One of these appeared to be a huntsman, for he wore a green dress and carried a couteau-de-chasse and a rifle, the latter, which was loaded, he very carefully placed on the mantel-piece. During these various proceedings, Eveline had already in her way formed an acquaintance with the third stranger, who seemed to be her favorite, for she gave him her handkerchief to wipe the rain from his face, and offered him some fruit, which he smilingly declined, and after looking at him for some time, she said, "Where have you left your hat?" "The storm without has carried it off from me," said the young stranger, "and blew it far, far away, so that I could not catch it again."
"It must have been drole enough," said Eveline, laughing, "you after the hat, the storm after you, and the rain after the storm, you could not overtake your hat, but the rain and storm overtook you."
The Lord of Beauvais drew near, and said, "You entertain this stranger already?" "Does he not look good and kind;" exclaimed the child, "just like the schoolmaster in the village, who teaches me to read, but who is obliged to limp already with his young, thin legs."
"Behave politely, my child," said the Counsellor kindly, and he put aside her fair locks from her forehead. He examined his guest while he was paying the usual compliments. The young stranger appeared to be about sixteen, or seventeen years of age, he
