A Modern Telemachus. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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      ‘Mentor was a cross old man,’ said Ulysse.

      To which Estelle replied that he was a goddess; and Arthur very decidedly disclaimed either character, especially the pushing over rocks.  And thus they glided on, spending a night in the great, busy, bewildering city of Lyon, already the centre of silk industry; but more interesting to the travellers as the shrine of the martyrdoms.  All went to pray at the Cathedral except Arthur.  The time was not come for heeding church architecture or primitive history; and he only wandered about the narrow crooked streets, gazing at the toy piles of market produce, and looking at the stalls of merchandise, but as one unable to purchase.  His mother had indeed contrived to send him twenty guineas, but he knew that he must husband them well in case of emergencies, and Lady Nithsdale had sewn them all up, except one, in a belt which he wore under his clothes.

      He had arrived at the front of the Cathedral when the party came out.  Madame de Bourke had been weeping, but looked more peaceful than he had yet seen her, and Estelle was much excited.  She had bought a little book, which she insisted on her Mentor’s reading with her, though his Protestant feelings recoiled.

      ‘Ah!’ said Estelle, ‘but you are not Christian.’

      ‘Yes, truly, Mademoiselle.’

      ‘And these died for the Christian faith.  Do you know mamma said it comforted her to pray there; for she was sure that whatever happened, the good God can make us strong, as He made the young girl who sat in the red-hot chair.  We saw her picture, and it was dreadful.  Do read about her, Monsieur Arture.’

      They read, and Arthur had candour enough to perceive that this was the simple primitive narrative of the death of martyrs struggling for Christian truth, long ere the days of superstition and division.  Estelle’s face lighted with enthusiasm.

      ‘Is it not noble to be a martyr?’ she asked.

      ‘Oh!’ cried Ulysse; ‘to sit in a red-hot chair!  It would be worse than to be thrown off a rock!  But there are no martyrs in these days, sister?’ he added, pressing up to Arthur as if for protection.

      ‘There are those who die for the right,’ said Arthur, thinking of Lord Derwentwater, who in Jacobite eyes was a martyr.

      ‘And the good God makes them strong,’ said Estelle, in a low voice.  ‘Mamma told me no one could tell how soon we might be tried, and that I was to pray that He would make us as brave as St. Blandina!  What do you think could harm us, Monsieur, when we are going to my dear papa?’

      It was Lanty who answered, from behind the Abbé, on whose angling endeavours he was attending.  ‘Arrah then, nothing at all, Mademoiselle.  Nothing in the four corners of the world shall hurt one curl of your blessed little head, while Lanty Callaghan is to the fore.’

      ‘Ah! but you are not God, Lanty,’ said Estelle gravely; ‘you cannot keep things from happening.’

      ‘The Powers forbid that I should spake such blasphemy!’ said Lanty, taking off his hat.  ‘’Twas not that I meant, but only that poor Lanty would die ten thousand deaths—worse than them as was thrown to the beasts—before one of them should harm the tip of that little finger of yours!’

      Perhaps the same vow was in Arthur’s heart, though not spoken in such strong terms.

      Thus they drifted on till the old city of Avignon rose on the eyes of the travellers, a dark pile of buildings where the massive houses, built round courts, with few external windows, recalled that these had once been the palaces of cardinals accustomed to the Italian city feuds, which made every house become a fortress.

      On the wharf stood a gentleman in a resplendent uniform of blue and gold, whom the children hailed with cries of joy and outstretched arms, as their uncle.  The Marquis de Varennes was soon on board, embracing his sister and her children, and conducting them to one of the great palaces, where he had rooms, being then in garrison.  Arthur followed, at a sign from the lady, who presented him to her brother as ‘Monsieur Arture’—a young Scottish gentleman who will do my husband the favour of acting as his secretary.

      She used the word gentilhomme, which conveyed the sense of nobility of blood, and the Marquis acknowledged the introduction with one of those graceful bows that Arthur hated, because they made him doubly feel the stiffness of his own limitation.  He was glad to linger with Lanty, who was looking in wonder at the grim buildings.

      ‘And did the holy Father live here?’ said he.  ‘Faith, and ’twas a quare taste he must have had; I wonder now if there would be vartue in a bit of a stone from his palace.  It would mightily please my old mother if there were.’

      ‘I thought it was the wrong popes that lived here,’ suggested Arthur.

      Lanty looked at him a moment as if in doubt whether to accept a heretic suggestion, but the education received through the Abbé came to mind, and he exclaimed—

      ‘May be you are in the right of it, sir; and I’d best let the stones alone till I can tell which is the true and which is the false.  By the same token, little is the difference it would make to her, unless she knew it; and if she did, she’d as soon I brought her a hair of the old dragon’s bristles.’

      Lanty found another day or two’s journey bring him very nearly in contact with the old dragon, for at Tarascon was the cave in which St. Martha was said to have demolished the great dragon of Provence with the sign of the cross.  Madame de Bourke and her children made a devout pilgrimage thereto; but when Arthur found that it was the actual Martha of Bethany to whom the legend was appended, he grew indignant, and would not accompany the party.  ‘It was a very different thing from the martyrs of Lyon and Vienne!  Their history was credible, but this—’

      ‘Speak not so loud, my friend,’ said M. de Varennes.  ‘Their shrines are equally good to console women and children.’

      Arthur did not quite understand the tone, nor know whether to be gratified at being treated as a man, or to be shocked at the Marquis’s defection from his own faith.

      The Marquis, who was able to accompany his sister as far as Montpelier, was amused at her two followers, Scotch and Irish, both fine young men—almost too fine, he averred.

      ‘You will have to keep a careful watch on them when you enter Germany, sister,’ he said, ‘or the King of Prussia will certainly kidnap them for his tall regiment of grenadiers.’

      ‘O brother, do not speak of any more dangers: I see quite enough before me ere I can even rejoin my dear husband.’

      A very serious council was held between the brother and sister.  The French army under Marshal Berwick had marched across on the south side on the Pyrenees, and was probably by this time in the county of Rousillon, intending to besiege Rosas.  Once with them all would be well, but between lay the mountain roads, and the very quarter of Spain that had been most unwilling to accept French rule.

      The Marquis had been authorised to place an escort at his sister’s service, but though the numbers might guard her against mere mountain banditti, they would not be sufficient to protect her from hostile troops, such as might only too possibly be on the way to encounter Berwick.  The expense and difficulty of the journey on the mountain roads would likewise be great, and it seemed advisable to avoid these dangers by going by sea.  Madame de Bourke eagerly acceded to this plan, her terror of the wild Pyrenean passes and wilder inhabitants had always been such that she was glad to catch at any means of avoiding them, and she had made more than one voyage before.

      Estelle was gratified СКАЧАТЬ