The glare of the burning house threw a light as strong as that of day on the scene before us; on the line of savage frenzied faces that confronted us, and the great pile of wreckage that stood about and bore witness to their fury. But for a moment the light failed to show us to them; we were in the shadow of the wall, and it was not until we had advanced some paces that the ominous silence was broken, and the mob, with a howl of rage, sprang forward, like bloodhounds slipped from the leash. Low-browed and shock-headed, half-naked, and black with smoke and blood, they seemed more like beasts than men; and like beasts they came on, snapping the teeth and snarling, while from the rear — for the foremost were past speech — came screams of “Mort aux Tyrans! Mort aux Accapareurs!” that, mingling with the tumult of the fire, were enough to scare the stoutest.
Had my escort blenched for an instant our fate was sealed. But they stood firm, and before their stern front all but one man quailed and fell back — fell back snarling and crying for our blood. That one came on, and aimed a blow at me with a knife. On the instant Buton raised his iron bar, and with a stentorian cry of “Respect the Tricolour!” struck him to the ground, and strode over him.
“Respect the Tricolour!” he shouted again, with the voice of a bull; and the effect of the words was magical. The crowd heard, fell back, and fell aside, staring stupidly at me and my burden.
“Respect the Tricolour!” Father Benôit cried, raising his hand aloft; and he made the sign of the cross. On that in an instant a hundred voices took it up; and almost before I could apprehend the change, those who a moment earlier had been gaping for our blood were thrusting one another back, and shouting as with one voice, “Way, way for the Tricolour!”
There was something unutterably new, strange, formidable in this reverence; this respect paid by these savages to a word, a ribbon, an idea. It made an impression on me that was never quite effaced. But at the moment I was scarcely conscious of this. I heard and saw things dully. Like a man in a dream, I walked through the crowd, and, stumbling under my burden, passed down the lane of brutish faces, down the avenue, down to the gate. There Father Benôit would have taken Mademoiselle from me, but I would not let him.
“To Saux! To Saux!” I said feverishly; and then, I scarcely knew how, I found myself on a horse holding her before me. And we were on the road to Saux, lighted on our way by the flames of the burning Château.
CHAPTER X.
THE MORNING AFTER THE STORM.
Father Benôit had the forethought, when we reached the cross-roads, to leave a man there to await the party from Cahors, and warn them of Mademoiselle’s safety; and we had not ridden more than half a mile before the clatter of hoofs behind us announced that they were following. I was beginning to recover from the stupor into which the excitement of the night had thrown me, and I reined up to deliver over my charge, should M. de St. Alais desire to take her.
But he was not of the party. The leader was Louis, and his company consisted, to my surprise, of no more than six or seven servants, old M. de Gontaut, one of the Harincourts, and a strange gentleman. Their horses were panting and smoking with the speed at which they had come, and the men’s eyes glittered with excitement. No one seemed to think it strange that I carried Mademoiselle; but all, after hurriedly thanking God that she was safe, hastened to ask the number of the rioters.
“Nearly a hundred,” I said. “As far as I could judge. But where is M. le Marquis?”
“He had not returned when the alarm came.”
“You are a small party?”
Louis swore with vexation. “I could get no more,” he said. “News came at the same time that Marignac’s house was on fire, and he carried off a dozen. A score of others took fright, and thought it might be the same with them; and they saddled up in haste, and went to see. In fact,” he continued bitterly, “it seemed to me to be every one for himself. Always excepting my good friends here.”
M. de Gontaut began to chuckle, but choked for want of breath. “Beauty in distress!” he gasped. Poor fellow, he could scarcely sit his horse.
“But you will come on to Saux?” I said. They were turning their horses in a cloud of steam that mistily lit up the night.
“No!” Louis answered, with another oath; and I did not wonder that he was not himself, that his usual good nature had deserted him. “It is now or never! If we can catch them at this work — —”
I did not hear the rest. The trampling of their horses, as they drove in the spurs and started down the road, drowned the words. In a moment they were fifty paces away; all but one, who, detaching himself at the last moment, turned his horse’s head, and rode up to me. It was the stranger, the only one of the party, not a servant, whom I did not know.
“How are they armed, if you please?” he asked.
“They have at least one gun,” I said, looking at him curiously. “And by this time probably more. The mass of them had pikes and pitchforks.”
“And a leader?”
“Petit Jean, the smith, of St. Alais, gave orders.”
“Thank you, M. le Vicomte,” he said, and saluted. Then, touching his horse with the spur, he rode off at speed after the others.
I was in no condition to help them, and I was anxious to put Mademoiselle, who lay in my arms like one dead, in the women’s care. The moment they were gone, therefore, we pursued our way, Father Benôit and I silent and full of thought, the others chattering to one another without pause or stay. Mademoiselle’s head lay on my right shoulder. I could feel the faint beating of her heart; and in that slow, dark ride had time to think of many things: of her courage and will and firmness — this poor little convent-bred one, who a fortnight before had not found a word to throw at me; last, but not least, of the womanly weakness, dear to my man’s heart, that had sapped her reserve at last, and brought her arms to my neck and her cry to my ear. The faint perfume of her hair was in my nostrils; I longed to kiss the half-shrouded head. But, if in an hour I had learned to love her, I had learned to honour her more; and I repressed the impulse, and only held her more gently, and tried to think of other things until she should be out of my arms.
If I did not find that so easy, it was not for want of food for thought. The glow of the fire behind us reddened all the sky at our backs; the murmur of the mob pursued us; more than once, as we went, a figure sneaked by us in the blackness, and fled, as if to join them. Father Benôit fancied that there was a second fire a league to the east; and in the tumult and upheaval of all things on this night, and the consequent confusion of thought into which I had fallen, it would scarcely have surprised me if flames had broken out before us also, and announced that Saux was burning.
But I was spared that. On the contrary, the whole village came out to meet us, and accompanied us, cheering, from the gates to the door of the Château, where, in the glare of the lights they carried, and amid a great silence of curiosity and expectation, Mademoiselle was lifted from my saddle and carried into the house. The women who pressed round the door to see, stooped forward to follow her with their eyes; but none as I followed her.
* * * * *
Much that passes for fair at night wears a foul look by day; and things tolerable in the suffering have a knack of seeming fantastically impossible in the retrospect. When I awoke next morning, in the great chair in the hall — wherein, tradition had it, Louis the Thirteenth had once sat — and, after three hours of troubled sleep, found André standing over me, and the sun pouring in through door and window, I fancied for a moment that the events of the night, as I remembered them, were a dream. Then my eyes fell on a brace of pistols, which I had placed by my side over night, and on the tray at which Father Benôit and I had refreshed ourselves; and I knew that the things had happened. I sprang up.
“Is M. de St. Alais here?” I said.
“No, Monsieur.”
“Nor M. le Comte?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“What!” I said. “Have none of the party come?” For I had gone to sleep expecting
to be called up to receive them within the hour.
“No, M. le Vicomte,” the old man answered, “except — except one gentleman who was with them, and who is now walking with M. le Curé in the garden. And for him — —”
“Well?” I said sharply, for André, who had got on his most gloomy and dogmatic air, stopped with a sniff of contempt.
“He does not seem to be a man for whom M. le Vicomte should be roused,” he answered obstinately. “But M. le Curé would have it; and in these days, I suppose, we must tramp for a smith, let alone an officer of excise.”
“Buton is here, then?”
“Yes, Monsieur; and walking on the terrace, as if of the family. I do not know what things are coming to,” André continued, grumbling, and raising his voice as I started to go out, “or what they would be at. But when M. le Vicomte took away the carcan I knew what was likely to happen. Oh! yes,” he went on still more loudly, while he stood holding the tray, and looking after me with a sour face, “I knew what would happen! I knew what would happen!”
And, certainly, if I had not been shaken completely out of the common rut of thought, I should have found something odd, myself, in the combination of the three men whom I found on the terrace. They were walking up and down, Father Benôit, with downcast eyes and his hands behind him, in the middle. On one side of him moved Buton, coarse, heavy-shouldered, and clumsy, in his stained blouse; on the other side paced the stranger of last night, a neat, middle-sized man, very plainly dressed, with riding boots and a sword. Remembering that he had formed one of Louis’ party, I was surprised to see that he wore the tricolour; but I forgot this in my anxiety to know what had become of the others. Without standing on ceremony, I asked him.
“They attacked the rioters, lost one man, and were beaten off,” he answered with dry precision.
“And M. le Comte?”
“Was not hurt. He returned to Cahors, to raise more men. I, as my advice seemed to be taken in ill part, came here.”
He spoke in a blunt, straightforward way, as to an equal; and at once seemed to be, and not to be, a gentleman. The Curé, seeing that he puzzled me, hastened to introduce him.
“This, M. le Vicomte,” he said, “is M. le Capitaine Hugues, late of the American Army. He has placed his services at the disposal of the Committee.”
“For the purpose,” the Captain went on, before I had made up my mind how to take it, “of drilling and commanding a body of men to be raised in Quercy to keep the peace. Call them militia; call them what you like.”
I was a good deal taken aback. The man, alert, active, practical, with the butt of a pistol peeping from his pocket, was something new to me.
“You have served his Majesty?” I said at last, to gain time to think.
“No,” he answered. “There are no careers in that army, unless you have so many quarterings. I served under General Washington.”
“But I saw you last night with M. de St. Alais?”
“Why not, M. le Vicomte?” he answered, looking at me plainly. “I heard that a house was being burned. I had just arrived, and I placed myself at M. le Comte’s disposal. But they had no method, and would take no advice.”
“Well,” I said, “these seem to me to be rather extreme steps. You know — —”
“M. de Marignac’s house was burned last night,” the Curé said softly.
“Oh!”
“And I fear that we shall hear of others. I think that we must look matters in the face, M. le Vicomte.”
“It is not a question of thinking or looking, but of doing!” the Captain said, interrupting him harshly. “We have a long summer’s day before us, but if by to-night we have not done something, there will be a sorry dawning in Quercy to-morrow.”
“There are the King’s troops,” I said.
“They refuse to obey orders. Therefore, they are worse than useless.”
“Their officers?”
“They are staunch; but the people hate them. A knight of St. Louis is to the mob what a red rag is to a bull. I can answer for it that they have enough to do to keep their men in barracks, and guard their own heads.”
I resented his familiarity, and the impatience with which he spoke; but, resent it as I might, I could not return to the tone I had used yesterday. Then it had seemed an outrageous thing that Buton should stand by and listen. To-day the same thing had an ordinary air. And this, moreover, was a different man from Doury; arguments that had crushed the one would have no weight with the other. I saw that, and, rather helplessly, I asked Father Benôit what he would have.
He did not answer. It was the Captain who replied. “We want you to join the Committee,” he said briskly.
“I discussed that yesterday,” I answered with some stiffness. “I cannot do so. Father Benôit will tell you so.”
“It is not Father Benôit’s answer I want,” the Captain replied. “It is yours, M. le Vicomte.”
“I answered yesterday,” I said haughtily— “and refused.”
“Yesterday is not to-day,” he retorted. “M. de St. Alais’ house stood yesterday; it is a smoking ruin today. M. de Marignac’s likewise. Yesterday much was conjecture. To-day facts speak for themselves. A few hours’ hesitation, and the province will be in a blaze from one end to the other.”
I could not gainsay this; at the same time there was one other thing I could not do, and that was change my views again. Having solemnly put on the white cockade in Madame St. Alais’ drawing-room, I had not the courage to execute another volte-face. I could not recant again.
“It is impossible — impossible in my case,” I stammered at last peevishly, and in a disjointed way. “Why do you come again to me? Why do you not go to some one else? There are two hundred others whose names — —”
“Would be of no use to us,” M. le Capitaine answered brusquely; “whereas yours would reassure the fearful, attach some moderate men to the cause and not disgust the masses. Let me be frank with you, M. le Vicomte,” he continued in a different tone. “I want your co-operation. I am here to take risks, but none that are unnecessary; and I prefer that my commission should issue from above as well as from below. Add your name to the Committee and I accept their commission. Without doubt I could police Quercy in the name of the Third Estate, but I would rather hang, draw, and quarter in the name of all three.”
“Still, there are others — —”
“You forget that I have got to rule the canaille in Cahors,” he answered impatiently, “as well as these mad clowns, who think that the end of the world is here. And those others you speak of — —”
“Are not acceptable,” Father Benôit said gently, looking at me with yearning in his kind eyes. The light morning air caught the skirts of his cassock as he spoke, and lifted them from his lean figure. He held his shovel hat in his hand, between his face and the sun. I knew that there was a conflict in his mind as in mine, and that he would have me and would have me not; and the knowledge strengthened me to resist his words.
“It is impossible,” I said.
“Why?”
I was spared the necessity of answering. I had my face to the door of the house, and as the last word was spoken saw André issue from it with M. de St. Alais. The manner in which the old servant cried, “M. le Marquis de St. Alais, to see M. le Vicomte!” gave us a little shock, it was so full of sly triumph; but nothing on M. de St. Alais’ part, as he approached, betrayed that he noticed this. He advanced with an air perfectly gay, and saluted me with good humour. For a moment I fancied that he did not know what had happened in the night; his first words, however, dispelled the idea.
“M. le Vicomte,” he said, addressing me with both ease and grace, “we are for ever grateful to you. I was abroad on business last night, and could do nothing; and my brother must, I am told, have come too late, even if, with so small a force, he could effect anything. I saw Mademoiselle as I passed through the house, and she gave me some particulars.”
“She has left her room?” I cried in surpri
se. The other three had drawn back a little, so that we enjoyed a kind of privacy.
“Yes,” he answered, smiling slightly at my tone. “And I can assure you, M. le Vicomte, has spoken as highly of you as a maiden dare. For the rest, my mother will convey the thanks of the family to you more fitly than I can. Still, I may hope that you are none the worse.”
I muttered that I was not; but I hardly knew what I said. St. Alais’ demeanour was so different from that which I had anticipated, his easy calmness and gaiety were so unlike the rage and heat which seemed natural in one who had just heard of the destruction of his house and the murder of his steward, that I was completely nonplussed. He appeared to be dressed with his usual care and distinction, though I was bound to suppose that he had been up all night; and, though the outrages at St. Alais and Marignac’s had given the lie to his most confident predictions, he betrayed no sign of vexation.
All this dazzled and confused me; yet I must say something. I muttered a hope that Mademoiselle was not greatly shaken by her experiences.
“I think not,” he said. “We St. Alais are not made of sugar. And after a night’s rest — But I fear that I am interrupting you?” And for the first time he let his eyes rest on my companions.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 217