Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Yes,” M. de St. Alais answered with treacherous suavity. “Messieurs the Mob are no respecters of persons. Fortunately, however,” he went on, smiling at me in a way that brought the blood to my cheeks, “they have leaders more prudent and sagacious than themselves.”

  But Madame had no ears for his last words, no thought save of this astonishing news from Paris. She stood, her cheeks on fire, her eyes full of tears; she had known De Launay. “Oh, but the King will punish them!” she cried at last. “The wretches! The ingrates! They should all be broken on the wheel! Doubtless the King has already punished them.”

  “He will, by-and-by, if he has not yet,” St. Alais answered. “But for the moment, you will easily understand, Madame, that things are out of joint. Men’s heads are turned, and they do not know themselves. We have had a little trouble here. M. de Gontaut has been roughly handled, and I have not entirely escaped. If M. de Saux had not had his people well in hand,” he continued, turning to me with a laughing eye, “I am afraid that we should have come off worse.”

  Madame stared at me, and, beginning slowly to comprehend, seemed to freeze before me. The light died out of her haughty face. She looked at me grimly. I had a glimpse of Mademoiselle’s startled eyes behind her, and of the peeping servants; then Madame spoke. “Are these some of — M. de Saux’s people?” she asked, stepping forward a pace, and pointing to the crew of ruffians who had halted a few paces away, and were watching us doubtfully.

  “A handful,” M. de St. Alais answered lightly. “Just his bodyguard, Madame. But pray do not speak of him so harshly; for, being my mother, you must be obliged to him. If he did not quite save my life, at least he saved my beauty.”

  “With those?” she said scornfully.

  “With those or from those,” he answered gaily. “Besides, for a day or two we may need his protection. I am sure that, if you ask him, Madame, he will not refuse it.”

  I stood, raging and helpless, under the lash of his tongue; and Madame de St. Alais looked at me. “Is it possible,” she said at last, “that M. de Saux has thrown in his lot with wretches such as those?” And she pointed with magnificent scorn to the scowling crew behind me. “With wretches who — —”

  “Hush, Madame,” M. le Marquis said in his gibing fashion. “You are too bold. For the moment they are our masters, and M. de Saux is theirs. We must, therefore — —”

  “We must not!” she answered impetuously, raising herself to her full height and speaking with flashing eyes. “What? Would you have me palter with the scum of the streets? With the dirt under our feet? With the sweepings of the gutter? Never! I and mine have no part with traitors!”

  “Madame!” I cried, stung to speech by her injustice. “You do not know what you say! If I have been able to stand between your son and danger, it has been through no vileness such as you impute to me.”

  “Impute?” she exclaimed. “What need of imputation, Monsieur, with those wretches behind you? Is it necessary to cry ‘A bas le roi!’ to be a traitor? Is not that man as guilty who fosters false hopes, and misleads the ignorant? Who hints what he dare not say, and holds out what he dares not promise? Is he not the worst of traitors? For shame, Monsieur, for shame!” she continued. “If your father — —”

  “Oh!” I cried. “This is intolerable!”

  She caught me up with a bitter gibe. “It is!” she retorted. “It is intolerable — that the King’s fortresses should be taken by the rabble, and old men slain by scullions! It is intolerable that nobles should forget whence they are sprung, and stoop to the kennel! It is intolerable that the King’s name should be flouted, and catchwords set above it! All these things are intolerable; but they are not of our doing. They are your acts. And for you,” she continued — and suddenly stepping by me, she addressed the group of rascals who lingered, listening and scowling, a few paces away— “for you, poor fools, do not be deceived. This gentleman has told you, doubtless, that there is no longer a King of France! That there are to be no more taxes nor corvées; that the poor will be rich, and everybody noble! Well, believe him if you please. There have been poor and rich, noble and simple, spenders and makers, since the world began, and a King in France. But believe him if you please. Only now go! Leave my house. Go, or I will call out my servants, and whip you through the streets like dogs! To your kennels, I say!”

  She stamped her foot, and to my astonishment, the men, who must have known that her threat was an empty one, sneaked away like the dogs to which she had compared them. In a moment — I could scarcely believe it — the street was empty. The men who had come near to killing M. de Gontaut, who had stoned M. de St. Alais, quailed before a woman! In a twinkling the last man was gone, and she turned to me, her face flushed, her eyes gleaming with scorn.

  “There, sir,” she said, “take that lesson to heart. That is your brave people! And now, Monsieur, do you go too! Henceforth my house is no place for you. I will have no traitors under my roof — no, not for a moment.”

  She signed to me to go with the same insolent contempt which had abashed the crowd; but before I went I said one word. “You were my father’s friend, Madame,” I said before them all.

  She looked at me harshly, but did not answer.

  “It would have better become you, therefore,” I continued, “to help me than to hurt me. As it is, were I the most loyal of his Majesty’s subjects, you have done enough to drive me to treason. In the future, Madame la Marquise, I beg that you will remember that.”

  And I turned and went, trembling with rage.

  The crowd in the Square had melted by this time, but the streets were full of those who had composed it; who now stood about in eager groups, discussing what had happened. The word Bastille was on every tongue; and, as I passed, way was made for me, and caps were lifted. “God bless you, M. de Saux,” and, “You are a good man,” were muttered in my ear. If there seemed to be less noise and less excitement than in the morning, the air of purpose that everywhere prevailed was not to be mistaken.

  This was so clear that, though noon was barely past, shopkeepers had closed their shops and bakers their bakehouses; and a calm, more ominous than the storm that had preceded it, brooded over the town. The majority of the Assembly had dispersed in haste, for I saw none of the Members, though I heard that a large body had gone to the barracks. No one molested me — the fall of the Bastille served me so far — and I mounted, and rode out of town, without seeing any one, even Louis.

  To tell the truth, I was in a fever to be at home; in a fever to consult the only man who, it seemed to me, could advise me in this crisis. In front of me, I saw it plainly, stretched two roads; the one easy and smooth, if perilous, the other arid and toilsome. Madame had called me the Tribune of the People, a would-be Retz, a would-be Mirabeau. The people had cried my name, had hailed me as a saviour. Should I fit on the cap? Should I take up the rôle? My own caste had spurned me. Should I snatch at the dangerous honour offered to me, and stand or fall with the people?

  With the people? It sounded well, but, in those days, it was a vaguer phrase than it is now; and I asked myself who, that had ever taken up that cause, had stood? A bread riot, a tumult, a local revolt — such as this which had cost M. de Launay his life — of things of that size the people had shown themselves capable; but of no lasting victory. Always the King had held his own, always the nobles had kept their privileges. Why should it be otherwise now?

  There were reasons. Yes, truly; but they seemed less cogent, the weight of precedent against them heavier, when I came to think, with a trembling heart, of acting on them. And the odium of deserting my order was no small matter to face. Hitherto I had been innocent; if they had put out the lip at me, they had done it wrongfully. But if I accepted this part, the part they assigned to me, I must be prepared to face not only the worst in case of failure, but in success to be a pariah. To be Tribune of the People, and an outcast from my kind!

  I rode hard to keep pace with these thoughts; and I did not doubt that I should be
the first to bring the tale to Saux. But in those days nothing was more marvellous than the speed with which news of this kind crossed the country. It passed from mouth to mouth, from eye to eye; the air seemed to carry it. It went before the quickest traveller.

  Everywhere, therefore, I found it known. Known by people who had stood for days at cross-roads, waiting for they knew not what; known by scowling men on village bridges, who talked in low voices and eyed the towers of the Château; known by stewards and agents, men of the stamp of Gargouf, who smiled incredulously, or talked, like Madame St. Alais, of the King, and how good he was, and how many he would hang for it. Known, last of all, by Father Benôit, the man I would consult. He met me at the gate of the Château, opposite the place where the carcan had stood. It was too dark to see his face, but I knew the fall of his soutane and the shape of his hat. I sent on Gil and André, and he walked beside me up the avenue, with his hand on the withers of my horse.

  “Well, M. le Vicomte, it has come at last,” he said.

  “You have heard?”

  “Buton told me.”

  “What? Is he here?” I said in surprise. “I saw him at Cahors less than three hours ago.”

  “Such news gives a man wings,” Father Benôit answered with energy. “I say again, it has come. It has come, M. le Vicomte.”

  “Something,” I said prudently.

  “Everything,” he answered confidently. “The mob took the Bastille, but who headed them? The soldiers; the Garde Française. Well, M. le Vicomte, if the army cannot be trusted, there is an end of abuses, an end of exemptions, of extortions, of bread famines, of Foulons and Berthiers, of grinding the faces of the poor, of — —”

  The Curé’s list was not half exhausted when I cut it short. “But if the army is with the mob, where will things stop?” I said wearily.

  “We must see to that,” he answered.

  “Come and sup with me,” I said, “I have something to tell you, and more to ask you.”

  He assented gladly. “For there will be no sleep for me to-night,” he said, his eye sparkling. “This is great news, glorious news, M. le Vicomte. Your father would have heard it with joy.”

  “And M. de Launay?” I said as I dismounted.

  “There can be no change without suffering,” he answered stoutly, though his face fell a little. “His fathers sinned, and he has paid the penalty. But God rest his soul! I have heard that he was a good man.”

  “And died in his duty,” I said rather tartly.

  “Amen,” Father Benôit answered.

  Yet it was not until we were sat down in the Chestnut Parlour (which the servants called the English Room), and, with candles between us, were busy with our cheese and fruit, that I appreciated to the full the impression which the news had made on the Curé. Then, as he talked, as he told and listened, his long limbs and lean form trembled with excitement; his thin face worked. “It is the end,” he said. “You may depend upon it, M. le Vicomte, it is the end. Your father told me many times that in money lay the secret of power. Money, he used to say, pays the army, the army secures all. A while ago the money failed. Now the army fails. There is nothing left.”

  “The King?” I said, unconsciously quoting Madame la Marquise.

  “God bless his Majesty!” the Curé answered heartily. “He means well, and now he will be able to do well, because the nation will be with him. But without the nation, without money or an army — a name only. And the name did not save the Bastille.”

  Then, beginning with the scene at Madame de St. Alais’ reception, I told him all that had happened to me; the oath of the sword, the debate in the Assembly, the tumult in the Square — last of all, the harsh words with which Madame had given me my congé; all. As he listened he was extraordinarily moved. When I described the scene in the Chamber, he could not be still, but in his enthusiasm, walked about the parlour, muttering. And, when I told him how the crowd had cried “Vive Saux!” he repeated the words softly and looked at me with delighted eyes. But when I came — halting somewhat in my speech, and colouring and playing with my bread to hide my disorder — to tell him my thoughts on the way home, and the choice that, as it seemed to me, was offered to me, he sat down, and fell also to crumbling his bread and was silent.

  CHAPTER V.

  THE DEPUTATION.

  He sat silent so long, with his eyes on the table, that presently I grew nettled; wondering what ailed him, and why he did not speak and say the things that I expected. I had been so confident of the advice he would give me, that, from the first, I had tinged my story with the appropriate colour. I had let my bitterness be seen; I had suppressed no scornful word, but supplied him with all the ground he could desire for giving me the advice I supposed to be upon his lips.

  And yet he did not speak. A hundred times I had heard him declare his sympathy with the people, his hatred of the corruption, the selfishness, the abuses of the Government; within the hour I had seen his eye kindle as he spoke of the fall of the Bastille. It was at his word I had burned the carcan; at his instance I had spent a large sum in feeding the village during the famine of the past year. Yet now — now, when I expected him to rise up and bid me do my part, he was silent!

  I had to speak at last. “Well?” I said irritably. “Have you nothing to say, M. le Curé?” And I moved one of the candles so as to get a better view of his features. But he still looked down at the table, he still avoided my eye, his thin face thoughtful, his hand toying with the crumbs.

  At last, “M. le Vicomte,” he said softly, “through my mother’s mother I, too, am noble.”

  I gasped; not at the fact with which I was familiar, but at the application I thought he intended. “And for that,” I said amazed, “you would — —”

  He raised his hand to stop me. “No,” he said gently, “I would not. Because, for all that, I am of the people by birth, and of the poor by my calling. But — —”

  “But what?” I said peevishly.

  Instead of answering me he rose from his seat, and, taking up one of the candles, turned to the panelled wall behind him, on which hung a full-length portrait of my father, framed in a curious border of carved foliage. He read the name below it. “Antoine du Pont, Vicomte de Saux,” he said, as if to himself. “He was a good man, and a friend to the poor. God keep him.”

  He lingered a moment, gazing at the grave, handsome face, and doubtless recalling many things; then he passed, holding the candle aloft, to another picture which flanked the table: each wall boasted one. “Adrien du Pont, Vicomte de Saux,” he read, “Colonel of the Regiment Flamande. He was killed, I think, at Minden. Knight of St. Louis and of the King’s Bedchamber. A handsome man, and doubtless a gallant gentleman. I never knew him.”

  I answered nothing, but my face began to burn as he passed to a third picture behind me. “Antoine du Pont, Vicomte de Saux,” he read, holding up the candle, “Marshal and Peer of France, Knight of the King’s Orders, a Colonel of the Household and of the King’s Council. Died of the plague at Genoa in 1710. I think I have heard that he married a Rohan.”

  He looked long, then passed to the fourth wall, and stood a moment quite silent. “And this one?” he said at last. “He, I think, has the noblest face of all. Antoine, Seigneur du Pont de Saux, of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem, Preceptor of the French tongue. Died at Valetta in the year after the Great Siege — of his wounds, some say; of incredible labours and exertions, say the Order. A Christian soldier.”

  It was the last picture, and, after gazing at it a moment, he brought the candle back and set it down with its two fellows on the shining table; that, with the panelled walls, swallowed up the light, and left only our faces white and bright, with a halo round them, and darkness behind them. He bowed to me. “M. le Vicomte,” he said at last, in a voice which shook a little, “you come of a noble stock.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “It is known,” I said. “And for that?”

  “I dare not advise you.”

  “But the cause is
good!” I cried.

  “Yes,” he answered slowly. “I have been saying so all my life. I dare not say otherwise now. But — the cause of the people is the people’s. Leave it to the people.”

  “You say that!” I answered, staring at him, angry and perplexed. “You, who have told me a hundred times that I am of the people! that the nobility are of the people; that there are only two things in France, the King and the people.”

  He smiled somewhat sadly; tapping on the table with his fingers. “That was theory,” he said. “I try to put it into practice, and my heart fails me. Because I, too, have a little nobility, M. le Vicomte, and know what it is.”

  “I don’t understand you,” I said in despair. “You blow hot and cold, M. le Curé. I told you just now that I spoke for the people at the meeting of the noblesse, and you approved.”

  “It was nobly done.”

  “Yet now?”

  “I say the same thing,” Father Benôit answered, his fine face illumined with feeling. “It was nobly done. Fight for the people, M. le Vicomte, but among your fellows. Let your voice be heard there, where all you will gain for yourself will be obloquy and black looks. But if it comes, if it has come, to a struggle between your class and the commons, between the nobility and the vulgar; if the noble must side with his fellows or take the people’s pay, then” — Father Benôit’s voice trembled a little, and his thin white hand tapped softly on the table— “I would rather see you ranked with your kind.”

  “Against the people?”

  “Yes, against the people,” he answered, shrinking a little.

  I was astonished. “Why, great heaven,” I said, “the smallest logic — —”

  “Ah!” he answered, shaking his head sadly, and looking at me with kind eyes. “There you beat me; logic is against me. Reason, too. The cause of the people, the cause of reform, of honesty, of cheap grain, of equal justice, must be a good one. And who forwards it must be in the right. That is so, M. le Vicomte. Nay, more than that. If the people are left to fight their battle alone the danger of excesses is greater. I see that. But instinct does not let me act on the knowledge.”