“Buton,” I answered suavely, “permit me. For a man who aspires to govern the country, you are too respectful.”
“You have omitted one thing it is for the Committee to do,” the smith answered hoarsely, looking — like a timid, yet sullen, dog — anywhere but in my face.
“And that is?”
“To protect the Seigneurs.”
I stared at him, between anger and surprise. This was a new light. After a pause, “From whom?” I said curtly.
“Their people,” he answered.
“Their Butons,” I said. “I see. We are to be burned in our beds, are we?”
He stood sulkily silent.
“Thank you, Buton,” I said. “And that is your return for a winter’s corn. Thanks! In this world it is profitable to do good!”
The man reddened through his tan, and on a sudden looked at me for the first time. “You know that you lie, M. le Vicomte!” he said.
“Lie, sirrah?” I cried.
“Yes, Monsieur,” he answered. “You know that I would die for the seigneur, as much as if the iron collar were round my neck! That before fire touched the house of Saux it should burn me! That I am my lord’s man, alive and dead. But, Monseigneur,” and, as he continued, he lowered his tone to one of earnestness, striking in a man so rough, “there are abuses, and there must be an end of them. There are tyrants, and they must go. There are men and women and children starving, and there must be an end of that. There is grinding of the faces of the poor, Monseigneur — not here, but everywhere round us — and there must be an end of that. And the poor pay taxes and the rich go free; the poor make the roads, and the rich use them; the poor have no salt, while the King eats gold. To all these things there is now to be an end — quietly, if the seigneurs will — but an end. An end, Monseigneur, though we burn châteaux,” he added grimly.
CHAPTER VI.
A MEETING IN THE ROAD.
The unlooked-for eloquence which rang in the blacksmith’s words, and the assurance of his tone, no less than this startling disclosure of thoughts with which I had never dreamed of crediting him, or any peasant, took me so aback for a moment that I stood silent. Doury seized the occasion, and struck in.
“You see now, M. le Vicomte,” he said complacently, “the necessity for such a Committee. The King’s peace must be maintained.”
“I see,” I answered harshly, “that there are violent men abroad, who were better in the stocks. Committee? Let the King’s officers keep the King’s peace! The proper machinery — —”
“It is shattered!”
The words were Doury’s. The next moment he quailed at his presumption. “Then let it be repaired!” I thundered. “Mon Dieu! that a set of tavern cooks and base-born rascals should go about the country prating of it, and prating to me! Go, I will have nothing to do with you or your Committee. Go, I say!”
“Nevertheless — a little patience, M. le Vicomte,” he persisted, chagrin on his pale face— “nevertheless, if any of the nobility would give us countenance, you most of all — —”
“There would then be some one to hang instead of Doury!” I answered bluntly. “Some one behind whom he could shield himself, and lesser villains hide. But I will not be the stalking-horse.”
“And yet, in other provinces,” he answered desperately, his disappointment more and more pronounced, “M. de Liancourt and M. de Rochefoucauld have not disdained to — —”
“Nevertheless, I disdain!” I retorted. “And more, I tell you, and I bid you remember it, you will have to answer for the work you are doing. I have told you it is treason. It is treason; I will have neither act nor part in it. Now go.”
“There will be burning,” the smith muttered.
“Begone!” I said sternly. “If you do not — —”
“Before the morn is old the sky will be red,” he answered. “On your head, Seigneur, be it!”
I aimed a blow at him with my cane; but he avoided it with a kind of dignity, and stalked away, Doury following him with a pale, hang-dog face, and his finery sitting very ill upon him. I stood and watched them go, and then I turned to the Curé to hear what he had to say.
But I found him gone also. He, too, had slipped away; through the house, to intercept them at the gates, perhaps, and dissuade them. I waited for him, querulously tapping the walk with my stick, and watching the corner of the house. Presently he came round it, holding his hat an inch or two above his head, his lean, tall figure almost shadowless, for it was noon. I noticed that his lips moved as he came towards me; but, when I spoke, he looked up cheerfully.
“Yes,” he said in answer to my question, “I went through the house, and stopped them.”
“It would be useless,” I said. “Men so mad as to think that they could replace his Majesty’s Government with a Committee of smiths and pastrycooks — —”
“I have joined it,” he answered, smiling faintly.
“The Committee?” I ejaculated, breathless with surprise.
“Even so.”
“Impossible!”
“Why?” he said quietly. “Have I not always predicted this day? Is not this what Rousseau, with his Social Contract, and Beaumarchais, with his ‘Figaro,’ and every philosopher who ever repeated the one, and every fine lady who ever applauded the other, have been teaching? Well, it has come, and I have advised you, M. le Vicomte, to stand by your order. But I, a poor man, I stand by mine. And for the Committee of what seems to you, my friend, impossible people, is not any kind of government” — this more warmly, and as if he were arguing with himself— “better than none? Understand, Monsieur, the old machinery has broken down. The Intendant has fled. The people defy the magistrates. The soldiers side with the people. The huissiers and tax collectors are — the Good God knows where!”
“Then,” I said indignantly, “it is time for the gentry to — —”
“Take the lead and govern?” he rejoined. “By whom? A handful of servants and game-keepers? Against the people? against such a mob as you saw in the Square at Cahors? Impossible, Monsieur.”
“But the world seems to be turning upside down,” I said helplessly.
“The greater need of a strong unchanging holdfast — not of the world,” he answered reverently; and he lifted his hat a moment from his head and stood in thought. Then he continued: “However, the matter is this. I hear from Doury that the gentry are gathering at Cahors, with the view of combining, as you suggest, and checking the people. Now, it must be useless, and it may be worse. It may lead to the very excesses they would prevent.”
“In Cahors?”
“No, in the country. Buton, be sure, did not speak without warrant. He is a good man, but he knows some who are not, and there are lonely châteaux in Quercy, and dainty women who have never known the touch of a rough hand, and — and children.”
“But,” I cried aghast, “do you fear a Jacquerie?”
“God knows,” he answered solemnly. “The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge. How many years have men spent at Versailles the peasant’s blood, life, bone, flesh! To pay back at last, it may be, of their own! But God forbid, Monsieur, God forbid. Yet, if ever — it comes now.”
* * * * *
When he was gone I could not rest. His words had raised a fever in me. What might not be afoot, what might not be going on, while I lay idle? And, presently, to quench my thirst for news, I mounted and rode out on the way to Cahors. The day was hot, the time for riding ill-chosen; but the exercise did me good. I began to recover from the giddiness of thought into which the Curé’s fears, coming on the top of Buton’s warning, had thrown me. For a while I had seen things with their eyes; I had allowed myself to be carried away by their imaginations; and the prospect of a France ruled by a set of farriers and postillions had not seemed so bizarre as it began to look, now that I had time, mounting the long hill, which lies one league from Saux and two from Cahors, to consider it calmly. For a moment, the wild idea of a whole gentry fleein
g like hares before their peasantry, had not seemed so very wild.
Now, on reflection, beginning to see things in their normal sizes, I called myself a simpleton. A Jacquerie? Three centuries and more had passed since France had known the thing in the dark ages. Could any, save a child alone in the night, or a romantic maiden solitary in her rock castle, dream of its recurrence? True, as I skirted St. Alais, which lies a little aside from the road, at the foot of the hill, I saw at the village-turning a sullen group of faces that should have been bent over the hoe; a group, gloomy, discontented, waiting — waiting, with shock heads and eyes glittering under low brows, for God knows what. But I had seen such a gathering before; in bad times, when seed was lacking, or when despair, or some excessive outrage on the part of the fermier, had driven the peasants to fold their hands and quit the fields. And always it had ended in nothing, or a hanging at most. Why should I suppose that anything would come of it now, or that a spark in Paris must kindle a fire here?
In fact, I as good as made up my mind; and laughed at my simplicity. The Curé had let his predictions run away with him, and Buton’s ignorance and credulity had done the rest. What, I now saw, could be more absurd than to suppose that France, the first, the most stable, the most highly civilised of States, wherein for two centuries none had resisted the royal power and stood, could become in a moment the theatre of barbarous excesses? What more absurd than to conceive it turned into the Petit Trianon of a gang of rôturiers and canaille?
At this point in my thoughts I broke off, for, as I reached it, a coach came slowly over the ridge before me and began to descend the road. For a space it hung clear-cut against the sky, the burly figure of the coachman and the heads of the two lackeys who swung behind it visible above the hood. Then it began to drop down cautiously towards me. The men behind sprang down and locked the wheels, and the lumbering vehicle slid and groaned downwards, the wheelers pressing back, the leading horses tossing their heads impatiently. The road there descends not in lacets, but straight, for nearly half a mile between poplars; and on the summer air the screaming of the wheels and the jingling of the harness came distinctly to the ear.
Presently I made out that the coach was Madame St. Alais’; and I felt inclined to turn and avoid it. But the next moment pride came to my aid, and I shook my reins and went on to meet it.
I had scarcely seen a person except Father Benôit since the affair at Cahors, and my cheek flamed at the thought of the rencontre before me. For the same reason the coach seemed to come on very slowly; but at last I came abreast of it, passed the straining horses, and looked into the carriage with my hat in my hand, fearing that I might see Madame, hoping I might see Louis, ready with a formal salute at least. Politeness required no less.
But sitting in the place of honour, instead of M. le Marquis, or his mother, or M. le Comte, was one little figure throned in the middle of the seat; a little figure with a pale inquiring face that blushed scarlet at sight of me, and eyes that opened wide with fright, and lips that trembled piteously. It was Mademoiselle!
Had I known a moment earlier that she was in the carriage and alone, I should have passed by in silence; as was doubtless my duty after what had happened. I was the last person who should have intruded on her. But the men, grinning, I dare say, at the encounter — for probably Madame’s treatment of me was the talk of the house — had drawn up, and I had reined up instinctively; so that before I quite understood that she was alone, save for two maids who sat with their backs to the horses, we were gazing at one another — like two fools!
“Mademoiselle!” I said.
“Monsieur!” she answered mechanically.
Now, when I had said that, I had said all that I had a right to say. I should have saluted, and gone on with that. But something impelled me to add— “Mademoiselle is going — to St. Alais?”
Her lips moved, but I heard no sound. She stared at me like one under a spell. The elder of her women, however, answered for her, and said briskly: ——
“Ah, oui, Monsieur.”
“And Madame de St. Alais?”
“Madame remains at Cahors,” the woman answered in the same tone, “with M. le Marquis, who has business.”
Then, at any rate, I should have gone on; but the girl sat looking at me, silent and blushing; and something in the picture, something in the thought of her arriving alone and unprotected at St. Alais, taken with a memory of the lowering faces I had seen in the village, impelled me to stand and linger; and finally to blurt out what I had in my mind.
“Mademoiselle,” I said impulsively, ignoring her attendants, “if you will take my advice — you will not go on.”
One of the women muttered “Ma foi!” under her breath. The other said “Indeed!” and tossed her head impertinently. But Mademoiselle found her voice.
“Why, Monsieur?” she said clearly and sweetly, her eyes wide with a surprise that for the moment overcame her shyness.
“Because,” I answered diffidently — I repented already that I had spoken— “the state of the country is such — I mean that Madame la Marquise scarcely understands perhaps that — that — —”
“What, Monsieur?” Mademoiselle asked primly.
“That at St. Alais,” I stammered, “there is a good deal of discontent, Mademoiselle, and — —”
“At St. Alais?” she said.
“In the neighbourhood, I should have said,” I answered awkwardly. “And — and in fine,” I continued very much embarrassed, “it would be better, in my poor opinion, for Mademoiselle to turn and — —”
“Accompany Monsieur, perhaps?” one of the women said; and she giggled insolently.
Mademoiselle St. Alais flashed a look at the offender, that made me wink. Then with her cheeks burning, she said: ——
“Drive on!”
I was foolish and would not let ill alone. “But, Mademoiselle,” I said, “a thousand pardons, but — —”
“Drive on!” she repeated; this time in a tone, which, though it was still sweet and clear, was not to be gainsaid. The maid who had not offended — the other looked no little scared — repeated the order, the coach began to move, and in a moment I was left in the road, sitting on my horse with my hat in my hand, and looking foolishly at nothing.
The straight road running down between lines of poplars, the descending coach, lurching and jolting as it went, the faces of the grinning lackeys as they looked back at me through the dust — I well remember them all. They form a picture strangely vivid and distinct in that gallery where so many more important have faded into nothingness. I was hot, angry, vexed with myself; conscious that I had trespassed beyond the becoming, and that I more than deserved the repulse I had suffered. But through all ran a thread of a new feeling — a quite new feeling. Mademoiselle’s face moved before my eyes — showing through the dust; her eyes full of dainty surprise, or disdain as delicate, accompanied me as I rode. I thought of her, not of Buton or Doury, the Committee or the Curé, the heat or the dull road. I ceased to speculate except on the chances of a peasant rising. That, that alone assumed a new and more formidable aspect; and became in a moment imminent and probable. The sight of Mademoiselle’s childish face had given a reality to Buton’s warnings, which all the Curé’s hints had failed to impart to them.
So much did the thought now harass me, that to escape it I shook up my horse, and cantered on, Gil and André following, and wondering, doubtless, why I did not turn. But, wholly taken up with the horrid visions which the blacksmith’s words had called up, I took no heed of time until I awoke to find myself more than half-way on the road to Cahors, which lies three leagues and a mile from Saux. Then I drew rein and stood in the road, in a fit of excitement and indecision. Within the half-hour I might be at Madame St. Alais’ door in Cahors, and, whatever happened then, I should have no need to reproach myself. Or in a little more I might be at home, ingloriously safe.
Which was it to be? The moment, though I did not know it, was fateful. On the one hand, Mademois
elle’s face, her beauty, her innocence, her helplessness, pleaded with me strangely, and dragged me on to give the warning. On the other, my pride urged me to return, and avoid such a reception as I had every reason to expect.
In the end I went on. In less than half an hour I had crossed the Valaridré bridge.
Yet it must not be supposed that I decided without doubt, or went forward without misgiving. The taunts and sneers to which Madame had treated me were too recent for that; and a dozen times pride and resentment almost checked my steps, and I turned and went home again. On each occasion, however, the ugly faces and brutish eyes I had seen in the village rose before me; I remembered the hatred in which Gargouf, the St. Alais’ steward, was held; I pictured the horrors that might be enacted before help could come from Cahors; and I went on.
Yet with a mind made up to ridicule; which even the crowded streets, when I reached them, failed to relieve, though they wore an unmistakable air of excitement. Groups of people, busily conversing, were everywhere to be seen; and in two or three places men were standing on stools — in a fashion then new to me — haranguing knots of idlers. Some of the shops were shut, there were guards before others, and before the bakehouses. I remarked a great number of journals and pamphlets in men’s hands, and that where these were, the talk rose loudest. In some places, too, my appearance seemed to create excitement, but this was of a doubtful character, a few greeting me respectfully, while more stared at me in silence. Several asked me, as I passed, if I brought news, and seemed disappointed when I said I did not; and at two points a handful of people hooted me.
This angered me a little, but I forgot it in a thing still more surprising. Presently, as I rode, I heard my name called; and turning, found M. de Gontaut hurrying after me as fast as his dignity and lameness would permit. He leaned, as usual, on the arm of a servant, his other hand holding a cane and snuff-box; and two stout fellows followed him. I had no reason to suppose that he would appreciate the service I had done him more highly, or acknowledge it more gratefully, than on the day of the riot; and my surprise was great when he came up, his face all smiles.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 212