Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  With all this, I could hear nothing of M. le Curé; one saying that he was here, another there, a third that he had gone to Cahors; and, in the end, I returned to the Château in a state of discomfort and unrest hard to describe. I would not again leave the front of the house lest I should miss him; and for hours I paced the avenue, now listening at the gates or looking up the road, now walking quickly to and fro under the walnuts. In time evening fell, and night; and still I was here awaiting the Curé’s coming, chained to the silent house; while my mind tortured me with pictures of what was going forward outside. The restless demon of the time had hold of me; the thought that I lay here idle, while the world heaved, made me miserable, filled me with shame. When André came at last to summon me to supper, I swore at him; and the moment I had done, I went up to the roof of the Château and watched the night, expecting to see again a light in the sky, and the far-off glare of burning houses.

  I saw nothing, however, and the Curé did not come; and, after a wakeful night, seven in the morning saw me in the saddle and on the road to Cahors. André complained of illness and I took Gil only. The country round St. Alais seemed to be deserted; but, half a league farther on, over the hill, I came on a score of peasants trudging sturdily forward. I asked them whither they were going, and why they were not in the fields.

  “We are going to Cahors, Monseigneur, for arms,” they said.

  “For arms! Whom are you going to fight?”

  “The brigands, Monseigneur. They are burning and murdering on every side. By the mercy of God they have not yet visited us. And to-night we shall be armed.”

  “Brigands!” I said. “What brigands?”

  But they could not answer that; and I left them in wonder at their simplicity and rode on. I had not yet done with these brigands, however. Half a league short of Cahors I passed through a hamlet where the same idea prevailed. Here they had raised a rough barricade at the end of the street towards the country, and I saw a man on the church tower keeping watch. Meanwhile every one in the place who could walk had gone to Cahors.

  “Why?” I asked. “For what?”

  “To hear the news.”

  Then I began to see that my imagination had not led me astray. All the world was heaving, all the world was astir. Every one was hurrying to hear and to learn and to tell; to take arms if he had never used arms before, to advise if all his life he had obeyed orders, to do anything and everything but his daily work. After this, that I should find Cahors humming like a hive of bees about to swarm, and the Valandré bridge so crowded that I could scarcely force my way through its three gates, and the queue of people waiting for rations longer, and the rations shorter than ever before — after this, I say, all these things seemed only natural.

  Nor was I much surprised to find that as I rode through the streets, wearing the tricolour, I was hailed here and there with cheers. On the other hand, I noticed that wearers of white cockades were not lacking. They kept the wall in twos and threes, and walked with raised chins, and hands on sword-knots, and were watched askance by the commonalty. A few of them were known to me, more were strangers; and while I blushed under the scornful looks of the former, knowing that I must seem to them a renegade, I wondered who the latter were. Finally I was glad to escape from both by alighting at Doury’s, over whose door a huge tricolour flag hung limp in the sunshine.

  M. le Curé de Saux? Yes, he was even then sitting with the Committee upstairs. Would M. le Vicomte walk up?

  I did so, through a press of noisy people, who thronged the stairs and passages and lobbies, and talked, and gesticulated, and seemed to be settled there for the day. I worked my way through these at last, the door was opened, a fresh gust of noise came out to meet me, and I entered the room. In it, seated round a long table, I found a score of men, of whom some rose to meet me, while more kept their seats; three or four were speaking at once and did not stop on my entrance. I recognised at the farther end Father Benôit and Buton, who came to meet me, and Capitaine Hugues, who rose, but continued to speak. Besides these there were two of the smaller noblesse, who left their chairs, and came to me in an ecstasy, and Doury, who rose and sat down half a dozen times; and one or two Curés and others of that rank, known to me by sight. The uproar was great, the confusion equal to it. Still, somehow, and after a moment of tumult, I found myself received and welcomed and placed in a chair at the end of the table, with M. le Capitaine on one side of me and a notary of Cahors on the other. Then, under cover of the noise, I stole a few words with Father Benôit, who lingered a moment beside me.

  “You could not join us yesterday?” he muttered, with a pathetic look that only I understood.

  “But you left a message, bidding me wait for you!” I answered.

  “I did?” he said. “No; I left a message asking you to follow us — if it pleased you.”

  “Then I never got it,” I replied. “André told me — —”

  “Ah! André,” he answered softly. And he shook his head.

  “The rascal!” I said; “then he lied to me! And — —”

  But some one called the Curé to his place, and we had to part. At the same instant most of the talkers ceased; a moment, and only two were left speaking, who, without paying the least regard to one another, continued to hold forth to their neighbours, haranguing, one on the social contract; the other on the brigands — the brigands who were everywhere burning the corn and killing the people!

  At last M. le Capitaine, after long waiting to speak, attacked the former speaker. “Tut, Monsieur!” he said. “This is not the time for theory. A halfpennyworth of fact ——

  “Is worth a pound of theory!” the man of the brigands — he was a grocer, I believe — cried eagerly; and he brought his fist down on the table.

  “But now is the time! — the God-sent time, to frame the facts to the theory!” the other combatant screamed. “To form a perfect system! To regenerate the world, I say! To — —”

  “To regenerate the fiddlestick!” his opponent answered, with equal heat. “When brigands are at our very doors! when our crops are being burned and our houses plundered! when — —”

  “Monsieur,” the Captain said harshly, commanding silence by the gravity of his tone— “if you please!”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, to be plain, I do not believe any more in your brigands than in M. l’Avoué’s theories.”

  This time it was the grocer’s turn to scream. “What?” he cried. “When they have been seen at Figeac, and Cajarc, and Rodez, and ——

  “By whom?” the soldier asked sharply, interrupting him.

  “By hundreds.”

  “Name one.”

  “But it is notorious!”

  “Yes, Monsieur — it is a notorious lie!” M. le Capitaine answered bluntly. “Believe me, the brigands with whom we have to deal are nearer home. Allow us to arrange with them first, and do not deafen M. le Vicomte with your chattering.”

  “Hear! hear!” the lawyer cried.

  But this insult proved too much for the man of the brigands. He began again, and others joined in, for him and against him; to my despair, it seemed as if the quarrel were only beginning — as if peace would have to be made afresh.

  How all this noise, tumult, and disputation, this absence of the politeness to which I had been accustomed all my life, this vulgar jostling and brawling depressed me I need not say. I sat deafened, lost in the scramble; of no more account, for the moment, than Buton. Nay of less; for while I gazed about me and listened, sunk in wonder at my position at a table with people of a class with whom I had never sat down before — save at the chance table of an inn, where my presence kept all within bounds — it was Buton who, by coming to the officer’s aid, finally gained silence.

  “Now you have had your say, perhaps you will let me have mine,” the Captain said, with acerbity, taking advantage of the hearing thus gained for him. “It is very well for you, M. l’Avoué, and you, Monsieur — I have forgotten your name — you are not figh
ting men, and my difficulty does not affect you. But there are half a dozen at this table who are placed as I am, and they understand. You may organise; but if your officers are carried off every morning, you will not go far.”

  “How carried off?” the lawyer cried, puffing out his thin cheeks. “Members of the Committee of — —”

  “How?” M. le Capitaine rejoined, cutting him short without ceremony— “by the prick of a small sword! You do not understand; but, for some of us, we cannot go three paces from this door without risk of an insult and a challenge.”

  “That is true!” the two gentlemen at the foot of the table cried with one voice.

  “It is true, and more,” the Captain continued, warming as he spoke. “It is no chance work, but a plan. It is their plan for curbing us. I have seen three men in the streets to-day, who, I can swear, are fencing-masters in fine clothes.”

  “Assassins!” the lawyer cried pompously.

  “That is all very well,” Hugues said more soberly. “You can call them what you please. But what is to be done? If we cannot move abroad without a challenge and a duel, we are helpless. You will have all your leaders picked off.”

  “The people will avenge you!” the lawyer said, with a grand air.

  M. le Capitaine shrugged his shoulders. “Thank you for nothing,” he said.

  Father Benôit interposed. “At present,” he said anxiously, “I think that there is only one thing to be done. You have said, M. le Capitaine, that some of the committee are not fighting men. Why, I would ask, should any fight, and play into our opponents’ hands?”

  “Par Dieu! I think that you are right!” Hugues answered frankly. And he looked round as if to collect opinions. “Why should we? I am sure that I do not wish to fight. I have given my proofs.”

  There was a short pause, during which we looked at one another doubtfully. “Well, why not?” the Captain said at last. “This is not play, but business. We are no longer gentlemen at large, but soldiers under discipline.”

  “Yes,” I said stiffly, for I found all looking at me. “But it is difficult, M. le Capitaine, for men of honour to divest themselves of certain ideas. If we are not to protect ourselves from insult, we sink to the level of beasts.”

  “Have no fear, M. le Vicomte!” Buton cried abruptly. “The people will not suffer it!”

  “No, no; the people will not suffer it!” one or two echoed; and for a moment the room rang with cries of indignation.

  “Well, at any rate,” the Captain said at last, “all are now warned. And if, after this, they fight lightly, they do it with full knowledge that they are playing their adversaries’ game. I hope all understand that. For my part,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders with a dry laugh, “they may cane me; I shall not fight them! I am no fool!”

  CHAPTER XII.

  THE DUEL.

  I have said already how all this weighed me down; with what misgivings I looked along the table, from the pale, pinched features of the lawyer to the smug grin of the grocer, or Buton’s coarse face; with what sinkings of heart I found myself on a sudden the equal of these men, addressed now with rude abruptness, and now with servility; last, but not least, with what despondency I listened to the wrangling which followed, and which it needed all the exertions of the Captain to control. Fortunately, the sitting did not last long. After half an hour of debate and conversation, during which I did what I could to aid the few who knew anything of business, the meeting broke up; and while some went out on various missions, others remained to deal with such affairs as arose. I was one of those appointed to stay, and I drew Father Benôit into a corner, and, hiding for a moment the feeling of despair which possessed me, I asked him if any further outbreaks had occurred in the country round.

  “No,” he answered, secretly pressing my hand. “We have done so much good, I think.” Then, in a different tone, which showed how clearly he read my mind, he continued, under his breath, “Ah! M. le Vicomte, let us only keep the peace! Let us do what lies to our hands. Let us protect the innocent, and then, no matter what happens. Alas, I foresee more than I predicted. More than I dreamed of is in peril. Let us only cling to — —”

  He stopped, and turned, startled by the noisy entrance of the Captain; who came in so abruptly that those who remained at the table sprang to their feet. M. Hugues’ face was flushed, his eyes were gleaming with anger. The lawyer, who stood nearest to the door, turned a shade paler, and stammered out a question. But the Captain passed by him with a glance of contempt, and came straight to me. “M. le Vicomte,” he said out loud, blurting out his words in haste, “you are a gentleman. You will understand me. I want your help.”

  I stared at him. “Willingly,” I said. “But what is the matter?”

  “I have been insulted!” he answered, his moustaches curling.

  “How?”

  “In the street! And by one of those puppies! But I will teach him manners! I am a soldier, sir, and I — —”

  “But, stay, M. le Capitaine,” I said, really taken aback. “I understood that there was to be no fighting. And that you in particular — —”

  “Tut! tut!”

  “Would be caned before you would go out.”

  “Sacré Nom!” he cried, “what of that? Do you think that I am not a gentleman because I have served in America instead of in France?”

  “No,” I said, scarcely able to restrain a smile. “But it is playing into their hands. So you said yourself, a minute ago, and — —”

  “Will you help me, or will you not, sir?” he retorted angrily. And then, as the lawyer tried to intervene, “Be silent, you!” he continued, turning on him so violently that the scrivener jumped back a pace. “What do you know of these things? You miserable pettifogger! you — —”

  “Softly, softly, M. le Capitaine,” I said, startled by this outbreak, and by the prospect of further brawling which it disclosed. “M. l’Avoué is doing merely his duty in remonstrating. He is in the right, and ——

  “I have nothing to do with him! And for you — you will not assist me?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “Then, if you will, I crave your services at once! At once,” he said more calmly; but he still kept his shoulder to the lawyer. “I have appointed a meeting behind the Cathedral. If you will honour me, I must ask you to do so immediately.”

  I saw that it was useless to say more; that he had made up his mind; and for answer I took up my hat. In a moment we were moving towards the door. The lawyer, the grocer, half a dozen cried out on us, and would have stopped us. But Father Benôit remained silent, and I went on down the stairs, and out of the house. Outside it was easy to see that the quarrel and insult had had spectators; a gloomy crowd, not compact, but made up of watching groups, filled all the sunny open part of the square. The pavement, on the other hand, along which we had to pass to go to the Cathedral, had for its only occupants a score or more of gentlemen, who, wearing white cockades, walked up and down in threes and fours. The crowd eyed them silently; they affected to see nothing of the crowd. Instead, they talked and smiled carelessly, and with half-opened eyes; swung their canes, and saluted one another, and now and then stopped to exchange a word or a pinch of snuff. They wore an air of insolence, ill-hidden, which the silent, almost cowed looks of the multitude, as it watched them askance, seemed to justify.

  We had to run the gauntlet of these; and my face burned with shame, as we passed. Many of the men, whom I met now, I had met two days before at Madame St. Alais’, where they had seen me put on the white cockade; they saw me now in the opposite camp, they knew nothing of my reasons, and I read in their averted eyes and curling lips what they thought of the change. Others — and they looked at me insolently, and scarcely gave me room to pass — were strangers, wearing military swords, and the cross of St. Louis.

  Fortunately the passage was as short as it was painful. We passed under the north wall of the Cathedral, and through a little door into a garden, where lime trees tempered the glare o
f the sun, and the town, with its crowd and noise, seemed to be in a moment left behind. On the right rose the walls of the apse and the heavy eastern domes of the Cathedral; in front rose the ramparts; on the left an old, half-ruined tower of the fourteenth century lifted a frowning ivy-covered head. In the shadow, at its foot, on a piece of smooth sward, a group of four persons were standing waiting for us.

  One was M. de St. Alais, one was Louis; the others were strangers. A sudden thought filled me with horror. “Whom are you going to fight?” I muttered.

  “M. de St. Alais,” the Captain answered, in the same tone. And then, being within earshot of the others, I could say no more. They stepped forward, and saluted us.

  “M. le Vicomte?” Louis said. He was grave and stern. I scarcely knew him.

  I assented mechanically, and we stepped aside from the others. “This is not a case that admits of intervention, I believe?” he said, bowing.

  “I suppose not,” I answered huskily.

  In truth, I could scarcely speak for horror. I was waking slowly to the consciousness of the dilemma in which I had placed myself. Were St. Alais to fall by the Captain’s sword, what would his sister say to me, what would she think of me, how would she ever touch my hand? And yet could I wish ill to my own principal? Could I do so in honour, even if something sturdy and practical, something of plain gallantry in the man, whom I was here to second, had not already and insensibly won my heart?