CHAPTER 25
The March
Athos and Monk passed over, in going from the camp towards
the Tweed, that part of the ground which Digby had traversed
with the fishermen coming from the Tweed to the camp. The
aspect of this place, the aspect of the changes man had
wrought in it, was of a nature to produce a great effect
upon a lively and delicate imagination like that of Athos.
Athos looked at nothing but these desolate spots; Monk
looked at nothing but Athos -- at Athos, who, with his eyes
sometimes directed towards heaven, and sometimes towards the
earth, sought, thought, and sighed.
Digby, whom the last orders of the general, and particularly
the accent with which he had given them, had at first a
little excited, followed the pair at about twenty paces, but
the general having turned round as if astonished to find his
orders had not been obeyed, the aid-de-camp perceived his
indiscretion and returned to his tent.
He supposed that the general wished to make, incognito, one
of those reviews of vigilance which every experienced
captain never fails to make on the eve of a decisive
engagement: he explained to himself the presence of Athos in
this case as an inferior explains all that is mysterious on
the part of his leader. Athos might be, and, indeed, in the
eyes of Digby, must be, a spy, whose information was to
enlighten the general.
At the end of a walk of about ten minutes among the tents
and posts, which were closer together near the headquarters,
Monk entered upon a little causeway which diverged into
three branches. That on the left led to the river, that in
the middle to Newcastle Abbey on the marsh, that on the
right crossed the first lines of Monk's camp, that is to
say, the lines nearest to Lambert's army. Beyond the river
was an advanced post belonging to Monk's army, which watched
the enemy; it was composed of one hundred and fifty Scots.
They had swum across the Tweed, and, in case of attack, were
to recross it in the same manner, giving the alarm; but as
there was no post at that spot, and as Lambert's soldiers
were not so prompt at taking to the water as Monk's were,
the latter appeared not to have much uneasiness on that
side. On this side of the river, at about five hundred paces
from the old abbey, the fishermen had taken up their abode
amidst a crowd of small tents raised by the soldiers of the
neighboring clans, who had with them their wives and
children. All this confusion, seen by the moon's light,
presented a striking coup d'oeil; the half shadow enlarged
every detail, and the light, that flatterer which only
attaches itself to the polished side of things, courted upon
each rusty musket the point still left intact, and upon
every rag of canvas the whitest and least sullied part.
Monk arrived then with Athos, crossing this spot, illumined
with a double light, the silver splendor of the moon, and
the red blaze of the fires at the meeting of the three
causeways; there he stopped, and addressing his companion,
-- "Monsieur," said he, "do you know your road?"
"General, if I am not mistaken, the middle causeway leads
straight to the abbey."
"That is right; but we shall want lights to guide us in the
vaults." Monk turned round.
"Ah! I thought Digby was following us!" said he. "So much
the better; he will procure us what we want."
"Yes, general, there is a man yonder who has been walking
behind us for some time."
"Digby!" cried Monk. "Digby! come here, if you please."
But, instead of obeying, the shadow made a motion of
surprise, and, retreating instead of advancing, it bent down
and disappeared along the jetty on the left, directing its
course towards the lodging of the fishermen.
"It appears not to be Digby," said Monk.
Both had followed the shadow which had vanished. But it was
not so rare a thing for a man to be wandering about at
eleven o'clock at night, in a camp in which are reposing ten
or eleven thousand men, as to give Monk and Athos any alarm
at his disappearance.
"As it is so," said Monk, "and we must have a light, a
lantern, a torch, or something by which we may see where to
set our feet, let us seek this light."
"General, the first soldier we meet will light us."
"No," said Monk, in order to discover if there were not any
connivance between the Comte de la Fere and the fisherman.
"No, I should prefer one of these French sailors who came
this evening to sell me their fish. They leave to-morrow,
and the secret will be better kept by them; whereas, if a
report should be spread in the Scotch army, that treasures
are to be found in the abbey of Newcastle, my Highlanders
will believe there is a million concealed beneath every
slab, and they will not leave stone upon stone in the
building."
"Do as you think best, general," replied Athos in a natural
tone of voice, making evident that soldier or fisherman was
the same to him, and that he had no preference.
Monk approached the causeway behind which had disappeared
the person he had taken for Digby, and met a patrol who,
making the tour of the tents, was going towards
headquarters; he was stopped with his companion, gave the
password, and went on. A soldier, roused by the noise,
unrolled his plaid, and looked up to see what was going
forward. "Ask him," said Monk to Athos, "where the fishermen
are; if I were to speak to him, he would know me."
Athos went up to the soldier, who pointed out the tent to
him; immediately Monk and Athos turned towards it. It
appeared to the general that at the moment they came up, a
shadow like that they had already seen glided into this
tent; but on drawing nearer he perceived he must have been
mistaken, for all of them were asleep pele mele, and nothing
was seen but arms and legs joined, crossed, and mixed.
Athos, fearing lest he should be suspected of connivance
with some of his compatriots, remained outside the tent.
"Hola!" said Monk, in French, "wake up here." Two or three
of the sleepers got up.
"I want a man to light me," continued Monk.
"Your honor may depend upon us," said a voice which made
Athos start. "Where do you wish us to go?"
"You shall see. A light! come, quickly!"
"Yes, your honor. Does it please your honor that I should
accompany you?"
"You or another, it is of very little consequence, provided
I have a light."
"It is strange!" thought Athos, "what a singular voice that
man has!"
"Some fire, you fellows!" cried the fisherman; "come, make
haste!"
Then addressing his companion nearest to him in a low voice:
-- "Get a light, Menneville," said he, "and hold yourself
ready for anything."
One of the fishermen struck light from a stone, set fire to
some tinder, and by the aid of a match lit a lantern. The
light immediately spread all over the tent.
"Are you ready, monsieur?" said Monk to Athos, who had
turned away, not to expose his face to the light.
"Yes, general," replied he.
"Ah! the French gentleman!" said the leader of the fishermen
to himself. "Peste! I have a great mind to charge you with
the commission, Menneville; he may know me. Light! light!"
This dialogue was pronounced at the back of the tent, and in
so low a voice that Monk could not hear a syllable of it; he
was, besides, talking with Athos. Menneville got himself
ready in the meantime, or rather received the orders of his
leader.
"Well?" said Monk.
"I am ready, general," said the fisherman.
Monk, Athos, and the fisherman left the tent.
"It is impossible!" thought Athos. "What dream could put
that into my head?"
"Go forward; follow the middle causeway, and stretch out
your legs," said Monk to the fisherman.
They were not twenty paces on their way when the same shadow
that had appeared to enter the tent came out of it again,
crawled along as far as the piles, and, protected by that
sort of parapet placed along the causeway, carefully
observed the march of the general. All three disappeared in
the night haze. They were walking towards Newcastle, the
white stones of which appeared to them like sepulchres.
After standing for a few seconds under the porch, they
penetrated into the interior. The door had been broken open
by hatchets. A post of four men slept in safety in a corner,
so certain were they that the attack would not take place on
that side.
"Will not these men be in your way?" said Monk to Athos.
"On the contrary, monsieur, they will assist in rolling out
the barrels, if your honor will permit them."
"You are right."
The post, though fast asleep, roused up at the first steps
of the three visitors amongst the briars and grass that
invaded the porch. Monk gave the password, and penetrated
into the interior of the convent, preceded by the light. He
walked last, watching the least movement of Athos, his naked
dirk in his sleeve, and ready to plunge it into the back of
the gentleman at the first suspicious gesture he should see
him make. But Athos, with a firm and sure step, crossed the
chambers and courts.
Not a door, not a window was left in this building. The
doors had been burnt, some on the spot, and the charcoal of
them was still jagged with the action of the fire, which had
gone out of itself, powerless, no doubt, to get to the heart
of those massive joints of oak fastened together with iron
nails. As to the windows, all the panes having been broken,
night birds, alarmed by the torch, flew away through their
holes. At the same time, gigantic bats began to trace their
vast, silent circles around the intruders, whilst the light
of the torch made their shadows tremble on the high stone
walls. Monk concluded there could be no man in the convent,
since wild beasts and birds were there still, and fled away
at his approach.
After having passed the rubbish, and torn away more than one
branch of ivy that had made itself a guardian of the
solitude, Athos arrived at the vaults situated beneath the
great hall, but the entrance of which was from the chapel.
There he stopped. "Here we are, general," said he.
"This, then, is the slab?"
"Yes."
"Ay, and here is the ring -- but the ring is sealed into the
stone."
"We must have a lever."
"That's a thing very easy to find."
Whilst looking round them, Athos and Monk perceived a little
ash of about three inches in diameter, which had shot up in
an angle of the wall, reaching a window, concealed by its
branches.
"Have you a knife?" said Monk to the fisherman.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Cut down this tree; then."
The fisherman obeyed, but not without notching his cutlass.
When the ash was cut and fashioned into the shape of a
lever, the three men penetrated into the vault.
"Stop where you are," said Monk to the fisherman. "We are
going to dig up some powder; your light may be dangerous."
The man drew back in a sort of terror, and faithfully kept
to the post assigned him, whilst Monk and Athos turned
behind a column at the foot of which, penetrating through a
crack, was a moonbeam, reflected exactly on the stone which
the Comte de la Fere had come so far in search.
"This is it," said Athos, pointing out to the general the
Latin inscription.
"Yes," said Monk.
Then, as if still willing to leave the Frenchman one means
of evasion, --
"Do you not observe that this vault has already been broken
into," continued he, "and that several statues have been
knocked down?"
"My lord, you have, without doubt, heard that the religious
respect of your Scots loves to confide to the statues of the
dead the valuable objects they have possessed during their
lives. Therefore, the soldiers had reason to think that
under the pedestals of the statues which ornament most of
these tombs, a treasure was hidden. They have consequently
broken down pedestal and statue: but the tomb of the
venerable canon, with which we have to do, is not
distinguished by any monument. It is simple, therefore it
has been protected by the superstitious fear which your
Puritans have always had of sacrilege. Not a morsel of the
masonry of this tomb has been chipped off."
"That is true," said Monk.
Athos seized the lever.
"Shall I help you?" said Monk.
"Thank you, my lord; but I am not willing that your honor
should lend your hand to a work of which, perhaps, you would
not take the responsibility if you knew the probable
consequences of it."
Monk raised his head.
"What do you mean by that, monsieur?"
"I mean -- but that man ---- "
"Stop," said Monk; "I perceive what you are afraid of. I
shall make a trial." Monk turned towards the fisherman, the
whole of whose profile was thrown upon the wall.
"Come here, friend!" said he in English, and in a tone of
command.
The fisherman did not stir.
"That is well," continued he: "he does not know English.
Speak to me, then, in English, if you please, monsieur."
"My lord," replied Athos, "I have frequently seen men in
certain circumstances have sufficient command over
themselves not to reply to a question put to them in a
language they understood. The fisherman is perhaps more
learned than we believe him to be. Send him away, my lord, I
beg you."
"Decidedly," said Monk, "he wishes to have me alone in this
vault. Never mind, we shall go through with it; one man is
as good as another man; and we are alone. My friend," said
Monk to the fisherman, "go back up the stairs we have just
descended, and watch that nobody comes to disturb us." The
fisherman made a sign of obedience. "Leave your torch," said
Monk; "it would betray your presence, and might procure you
a musket-ball."
The fisherman appeared to appreciate the counsel; he laid
down the light, and disappeared under the vault of the
stairs. Monk took up the torch, and brought it to the foot
of the column.
"Ah, ah!" said he; "money, then, is concealed under this
tomb?"
"Yes, my lord; and in five minutes you will no longer doubt
it."
At the same time Athos struck a violent blow upon the
plaster, which split, presenting a chink for the point of
the lever. Athos introduced the bar into this crack, and
soon large pieces of plaster yielded, rising up like rounded
slabs. Then the Comte de la Fere seized the stones and threw
them away with a force that hands so delicate as his might
not have been supposed capable of having.
"My lord," said Athos, "this is plainly the masonry of which
I told your honor."
"Yes; but I do not yet see the casks," said Monk.
"If I had a dagger," said Athos, looking round him, "you
should soon see them, monsieur. Unfortunately, I left mine
in your tent."
"I would willingly offer you mine," said Monk, "but the
blade is too thin for such work."
Athos appeared to look around him for a thing of some kind
that might serve as a substitute for the weapon he desired.
Monk did not lose one of the movements of his hands, or one
of the expressions of his eyes. "Why do you not ask the
fisherman for his cutlass?" said Monk; "he has a cutlass."
"Ah! that is true," said Athos, "for he cut the tree down
with it." And he advanced towards the stairs.
"Friend," said he to the fisherman, "throw me down your
cutlass, if you please; I want it."
The noise of the falling weapon sounded on the steps.
"Take it," said Monk; "it is a solid instrument, as I have
seen, and a strong hand might make good use of it."
Athos only appeared to give to the words of Monk the natural
and simple sense under which they were to be heard and
understood. Nor did he remark, or at least appear to remark,
that when he returned with the weapon, Monk drew back,
placing his left hand on the stock of his pistol; in the
right he already held his dirk. He went to work then,
turning his back to Monk, placing his life in his hands,
without possible defense. He then struck, during several
seconds, so skillfully and sharply upon the intermediary
plaster, that it separated into two parts, and Monk was able
to discern two barrels placed end to end, and which their
weight maintained motionless in their chalky envelope.
"My lord," said Athos, "you see that my presentiments have
not been disappointed."
"Yes, monsieur," said Monk, "and I have good reason to
believe you are satisfied; are you not?"
"Doubtless, I am; the loss of this money would have been
inexpressibly great to me: but I was certain that God, who
protects the good cause, would not have permitted this gold,
which should procure its triumph, to be diverted to baser
purposes."
"You are, upon my honor, as mysterious in your words as in
your actions, monsieur," said Monk. "Just now I did not
perfectly understand you when you said that you were not
willing to throw upon me the responsibility of the work we
were accomplishing."
"I had reason to say so, my lord."
"And now you speak to me of the good cause. What do you mean
by the words `the good cause'? We are defending at this
moment, in England, five or six causes, which does not
prevent every one from considering his own not only as the
good cause, but as the best. What is yours, monsieur? Speak
boldly, that we may see if, upon this point, to which you
appear to attach a great importance, we are of the same
opinion."
Athos fixed upon Monk one of those penetrating looks which
seem to convey to him to whom they are directed a challenge
to conceal a single one of his thoughts; then, taking off
his hat, he began in a solemn voice, while his interlocutor,
with one hand upon his visage, allowed that long and nervous
hand to compress his mustache and beard, while his vague and
melancholy eye wandered about the recesses of the vaults.
