The Refugees. Arthur Conan Doyle

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      "What is amiss, then?" asked the young soldier, who was somewhat mystified by the scriptural language in use among the French Calvinists of the day.

      "Twenty men of Moab have been quartered upon me, with one Dalbert, their captain, who has long been a scourge to Israel."

      "Captain Claude Dalbert, of the Languedoc Dragoons? I have already some small score to settle with him."

      "Ay, and the scattered remnant has also a score against this murderous dog and self-seeking Ziphite."

      "What has he done, then?"

      "His men are over my house like moths in a cloth bale. No place is free from them. He sits in the room which should be mine, his great boots on my Spanish leather chairs, his pipe in his mouth, his wine-pot at his elbow, and his talk a hissing and an abomination. He has beaten old Pierre of the warehouse."

      "Ha!"

      "And thrust me into the cellar."

      "Ha!"

      "Because I have dragged him back when in his drunken love he would have thrown his arms about your cousin Adele."

      "Oh!" The young man's colour had been rising and his brows knitted at each successive charge, but at this last his anger boiled over, and he hurried forward with fury in his face, dragging his elderly companion by the elbow. They had been passing through one of those winding paths, bordered by high hedges, which thinned away every here and there to give a glimpse of some prowling faun or weary nymph who slumbered in marble amid the foliage. The few courtiers who met them gazed with surprise at so ill-assorted a pair of companions. But the young soldier was too full of his own plans to waste a thought upon their speculations. Still hurrying on, he followed a crescent path which led past a dozen stone dolphins shooting water out of their mouths over a group of Tritons, and so through an avenue of great trees which looked as if they had grown there for centuries, and yet had in truth been carried over that very year by incredible labour from St. Germain and Fontainebleau. Beyond this point a small gate led out of the grounds, and it was through it that the two passed, the elder man puffing and panting with this unusual haste.

      "How did you come, uncle?"

      "In a caleche."

      "Where is it?"

      "That is it, beyond the auberge."

      "Come, let us make for it."

      "And you, Amory, are you coming?"

      "My faith, it is time that I came, from what you tell me. There is room for a man with a sword at his side in this establishment of yours."

      "But what would you do?"

      "I would have a word with this Captain Dalbert."

      "Then I have wronged you, nephew, when I said even now that you were not whole-hearted towards Israel."

      "I know not about Israel," cried De Catinat impatiently. "I only know that if my Adele chose to worship the thunder like an Abenaqui squaw, or turned her innocent prayers to the Mitche Manitou, I should like to set eyes upon the man who would dare to lay a hand upon her. Ha, here comes our caleche! Whip up, driver, and five livres to you if you pass the gate of the Invalides within the hour."

      It was no light matter to drive fast in an age of springless carriages and deeply rutted roads, but the driver lashed at his two rough unclipped horses, and the caleche jolted and clattered upon its way. As they sped on, with the road-side trees dancing past the narrow windows, and the white dust streaming behind them, the guardsman drummed his fingers upon his knees, and fidgeted in his seat with impatience, shooting an occasional question across at his grim companion.

      "When was all this, then?"

      "It was yesterday night."

      "And where is Adele now?"

      "She is at home."

      "And this Dalbert?"

      "Oh, he is there also!"

      "What! you have left her in his power while you came away to Versailles?"

      "She is locked in her room."

      "Pah! what is a lock?" The young man raved with his hands in the air at the thought of his own impotence.

      "And Pierre is there?"

      "He is useless."

      "And Amos Green."

      "Ah, that is better. He is a man, by the look of him."

      "His mother was one of our own folk from Staten Island, near Manhattan. She was one of those scattered lambs who fled early before the wolves, when first it was seen that the king's hand waxed heavy upon Israel. He speaks French, and yet he is neither French to the eye, nor are his ways like our ways."

      "He has chosen an evil time for his visit."

      "Some wise purpose may lie hid in it."

      "And you have left him in the house?"

      "Yes; he was sat with this Dalbert, smoking with him, and telling him strange tales."

      "What guard could he be? He is a stranger in a strange land. You did ill to leave Adele thus, uncle."

      "She is in God's hands, Amory."

      "I trust so. Oh, I am on fire to be there!"

      He thrust his head through the cloud of dust which rose from the wheels, and craned his neck to look upon the long curving river and broad-spread city, which was already visible before them, half hid by a thin blue haze, through which shot the double tower of Notre Dame, with the high spire of St. Jacques and a forest of other steeples and minarets, the monuments of eight hundred years of devotion. Soon, as the road curved down to the river-bank, the city wall grew nearer and nearer, until they had passed the southern gate, and were rattling over the stony causeway, leaving the broad Luxembourg upon their right, and Colbert's last work, the Invalides, upon their left. A sharp turn brought them on to the river quays, and crossing over the Pont Neuf, they skirted the stately Louvre, and plunged into the labyrinth of narrow but important streets which extended to the northward. The young officer had his head still thrust out of the window, but his view was obscured by a broad gilded carriage which lumbered heavily along in front of them. As the road broadened, however, it swerved to one side, and he was able to catch a glimpse of the house to which they were making.

      It was surrounded on every side by an immense crowd.

      Chapter VI. A house of strife

      The house of the Huguenot merchant was a tall, narrow building standing at the corner of the Rue St. Martin and the Rue de Biron. It was four stories in height, grim and grave like its owner, with high peaked roof, long diamond-paned windows, a frame-work of black wood, with gray plaster filling the interstices, and five stone steps which led up to the narrow and sombre door. The upper story was but a warehouse in which the trader kept his stock, but the second and third were furnished with balconies edged with stout wooden balustrades. As the uncle and the СКАЧАТЬ