The White Plumes of Navarre: A Romance of the Wars of Religion

  CHAPTER XL.

  THE MAS OF THE MOUNTAIN

  It was a day of "mistral" in the valley of the Rhone--high, brave,triumphant mistral, the wind of God sent to sweep out the foul odours oflittle tightly-packed towns with tortuous streets, to dry the good richearth after the rain, and to call forth the corn from the corn-land, thegrapes from the ranged vines, and to prove for the thousandth time thestrength and endurance of the misty, dusty, grey-blue olive trees, thatstreamed away from the north-east like a faint-blown river of smoke.

  A brave day it was for those who loved such days--of whom was not ClaireAgnew--certainly a brave day for the whirling wheels, the vastbird-pinions of Jean-Marie's new windmills on the mountain ofBarbentane.

  Jean-Marie found his abode to his taste. At first he had installedClaire with a decent Provencal couple at the famous cross-roads calledin folk-speech "Le Long le Chemin," till he should find someresting-place other than the ground-floor of the creaking and strainingmonsters where he himself spread his mattress, and slept, bearded andnight-capped, among his rich farina dust and the pell-mell of bags ofcorn yet to be ground.

  By the time, however, that Madame Amelie with Professor Anatole was ableto reach France (thanks to the care of the good Bishop of Elne, and thebenevolence of the more secular powers set in motion by the Viceroy ofCatalonia), a new Mas had been bought. The gold laid carefully up withPereira, the honest Hebrew of Bayonne, had been paid out, and thescattered wanderers had once more a home, secure and apart, in thefairest and quietest province of France.

  Nay more, though the way was long, the cattle-tracks across the lowerCanigou were so well known and so constantly followed, thatJean-aux-Choux had been able to bring forward the most part of DameAmelie's bestial. Even her beloved goats bleated on the rocks round theMas of the mountain. The fowls indeed were other, but to the common eyeeven they seemed unchanged, for Jean-Marie had been at some pains tomatch them before the arrival of his mother. Doves _roo-cooed_ about thesheds and circled the tall pigeon-cote on its black pole with flappingwings.

  The house mistress was coming home.

  That day Madame Amelie was to arrive with her son, the Professor, andJean-aux-Choux for an escort. And then at last Claire would learn--whatshe had been wilfully kept in ignorance of by Jean-Marie--the reason forthe sudden desertion of the Abbe John on the sea-shore at Collioure.

  There had been a struggle long and mighty within the stout breast of theMiller-Alcalde before he could bring himself to play the traitor. Afterall (so he argued with his conscience), he was only keeping his promise.John d'Albret had bidden him be silent. Nevertheless, when he sawClaire's wan and anxious face, he was often prompted to speak, eventhough by so doing he might lose all hope of securing a mistress for thenew Mas of the Mountain, who in course of time would succeed MadameAmelie there.

  The grave, strong, sententious ex-Alcalde had allowed no lines of mealdust to gather in the frosty curls of his beard since he had broughtClaire Agnew to France. Busy all day, he had rejoiced in working forher. Then, spruce as any love-making youth, he had promenaded lengthilyand silently with her in the twilight, looking towards the distant sea,across which from the southward his mother and his brothers were tocome.

  The Miller Jean-Marie loved--after a fashion, his own silent, dour,middle-aged fashion--the young girl Claire Agnew, whom he called his"niece" in that strange land. For in this he followed the example of hisbrother, judging that what was right for a learned professor of theSorbonne could not be wrong for a rough miller, earning his bread (andhis "niece's") by the turning of his grindstones and the gigantic whirlof his sails.

  Still, he had never spoken his love, but on this final morning themiller had not gone forth. He was determined to speak at last. Hismother and brother were soon to arrive. The mistral drave too strong forwork. He had indeed little corn to grind--nothing that an hour earlieron the morrow could not put to rights. Then and there he would speak toClaire. At long and last he was sure of himself. His courage would not,as usual, ooze away from his finger nails. He and she were alone in thenewly-furnished rooms of the Mas of the Mountain--for only a fewportable items such as his mother's chair and the ancient pot-belliedhorologe had been brought in a _tartana_ from La Masane to the littleharbour of Les Saintes Maries, where the big mosquitoes are.

  "It is not good for man to be alone," began Jean-Marie, even moresententiously than usual; "I have heard you read that out of your Bibleof Geneva--do you believe it, Claire?"

  "Indeed I do," said the girl, looking up brightly; "I have longed--ah,how I have longed--all these weeks--for your mother!"

  "I was thinking of myself!" said the miller heavily.

  "Ah, well, that will soon be at an end," returned Claire; "I am sorry,but I did my best. I have often heard you sigh and sigh and sigh whenyou and I walked together of the evening. And I knew I was no companyfor you. I was too young and too foolish, was it not so? But now youwill have your mother and your brother, the Professor, who is learned.He knows all about how to grow onions according to the methods ofVirgil! He told me so himself!"

  The big ex-Alcalde looked doubtfully sidelong at his little friend. Hewas not a suspicious man, and usually considered Claire as innocent as afrisking lambling. But now--no, it could not be. She was not making funof him--of the man who had done all these things, who had brought her insafety by paths perilous to this new home!

  So very wisely he decided to take Claire's words at their face value.

  "My mother is my mother," he said, deciding that the time had come atlast, and that nothing was to be gained by putting it off. "DoctorAnatole is my elder brother, and as for me, I have all the familyaffections. But a man of my age needs something else!"

  "What, another windmill?" cried Claire; "well, I will help you. I sawsuch a splendid place for one yesterday, right at the top of the rockyridge they call Frigolet. It is not too high, yet it catches every wind,and oh--you can see miles and miles all about--right to the white towersof Arles, and away to the twin turrets of Chateau Renard among thegreen vineyards. There is no such view in all the mountains. And I willgo up there every day and knit my stocking!"

  "Oh, if only it were _my_ stocking!" groaned the miserable, tongue-tiedmiller, "then I might think about the matter of the windmill."

  Foiled in a direct line, he was trying to arrive at his affair by aside-wind.

  But Claire clapped her hands joyously, glad to get her own way on sucheasy terms.

  "Of course, Jean-Marie, I will knit you a pair of hose--mostgladly--winter woollen ones of the right Canigon fashion----"

  "I did not mean one pair only," said the miller, with a slightly morebrisk air, and an attempt at a knowing smile, "but--for all my life!"

  "Come, you are greedy," cried Claire; "and must your mother gobarefoot--and your brother the Professor, and Don Jordy, and----"

  She was about to add another name, which ought to have been that ofJean-aux-Choux, but was not. She stopped, however, the current of hergay words swiftly arrested by that unspoken name.

  "Jean-Marie, answer me," she said, standing with her back resolutely tothe door, "there is a thing I must know. Tell me, as you are an honestman, what became of Jean d'Albret that night on the sand-dunes atCollioure? It is in my mind that you know more than you have told me.You do know, my brave Alcalde! I am sure of it. For it was you who cameto borrow my hood and mantle, also my long riding-cape to give to him.And I have never seen them since. If, then, this Abbe John is a thiefand a robber, you are his accomplice. Nothing better. Come--out withit!"

  Jean-Marie stood mumbling faintly words without order or significance.

  Claire crossed her arms and set her back to the oaken panels. The millerwould gladly have escaped by the window, but the sill was high.Moreover, he felt that escalade hardly became either his age or habit ofbody.

  Therefore, like many another in a like difficulty, he took refuge inprevarication--to use which well requires, in a man, much practice andconsiderable solidity of treatment. Women
are naturally gifted in thisdirection.

  "He bade--I mean he forbade--me to reveal the matter to you!"

  "Then it had to do with me," she cried, fixing the wretched man with herforefinger; "now I have a right--I demand to know. I will not stay amoment longer in the house if I am not told."

  As she spoke Claire turned the key twice in the lock, extracted it, andslid it into her pocket. These are not the usual preliminaries forquitting a house for ever in hot indignation. But the ex-Alcalde was tooflustered to notice the inconsistency.

  "Speak!" she cried, stamping her foot. And the broad, serious-facedJean-Marie found, among all his wise saws and instances, none wherewithto answer her. "Where did he go, and what did he do with my long cloakand lace mantilla?" she demanded. "Were they a disguise to provide onlyfor his own safety--the coward?"

  The miller flushed. Up till now he had sheltered himself behind the AbbeJohn's express command to say nothing. Now he must speak, and this proudgirl must take that which she had brought on her own head. It was clearto Jean-Marie, as it had been to numerous others, that she had noheart. She was a block of ice, drifted from far northern seas.

  "Well, since you will have it, I will tell you," he said, speakingslowly and sullenly, "but do not blame me if the news proves unwelcome.Jean d'Albret borrowed your cloak and mantilla so that he might lethimself be taken in your place--so as to give you--you--_you_--he carednot for the others--time to escape from the familiars of the Inquisitionsent to take you!"

  He nodded his head almost at each word and opened his hand as ifdisengaging himself from further responsibility. He looked to see thegirl overwhelmed. But instead she rose, as it were, to the stature of agoddess, her face flushed and glorious.

  "Tell it me again," she said hoarsely, even as Valentine la Nina hadonce pleaded to be told, "tell me again--he did that for me?"

  "Aye, for you! Who else?" said the miller scornfully--"for whom does aman do anything but for a silly girl not worth the trouble!"

  She did not heed him.

  "He went to the death for me--to save me--he did what none else couldhave done--saying nothing about it, bidding them keep it from me, lest Ishould know! Oh, oh!"

  The miller turned away in disgust. He pronounced an anathema on thehearts of women. But she wheeled him round and, laying her hands on bothhis shoulders, flashed wet splendid eyes upon him, the like of which hehad never seen.

  "Oh, I am glad--I am glad!" she cried; "I could kiss you for your news,Jean-Marie!"

  And she did so, her tears dropping on his hands.

  "This thing I do not understand!" said the miller to himself, when, nolonger a prisoner, he left Claire to sink her brow into afreshly-lavendered pillow in her own chamber.

  And he never would know.

  Yet Valentine la Nina would have done the same thing. For in theirhearts all women wish to be loved "like that."

  The word is their own--and the voice in which they say it.