BERTRAND TELLS A TALE
The wine at the sign of Le Bon Camarade was abominable.
Marcel Trouet, trusted servant and officer of the Committee of Public
Safety in Paris, evinced his disapprobation by flinging the contents of
his glass on the floor and bellowing for the landlord.
Jean Gouicket came in haste. He knew who were the great ones now, this
burly Breton. Aha! the cunning one! At the first whisper of Liberty,
Equality, and Fraternity, he had taken down his signboard, and the
Duchesse Anne, with its ermines and arms, had been quickly painted out
and replaced by a fine red cap and the name of Le Bon Camarade.
But just in time! Ohe! Jean Gouicket could only gasp out a
thanksgiving and promise of many candles to Monseigneur St.
Jean--beneath his breath, of course--when Trouet and his party arrived.
That party! It was a grim one enough at first sight--a rabble of
idlers with four or five of those other great ones whom Marcel Trouet
had brought from Paris.
Not that they were Parisians--nothing of the sort: they were Bretons,
every one--dark-skinned, gloomy-faced fellows, with crafty, downcast
eyes and scowling lips.
These were men, though, who had seen life beyond the dreary landes, and
faced more than the fierce, monotonous battling between sea and shore,
such as engrossed their fellows.
And they had learnt to talk in Paris.
Loud, snarling talk of their precious liberty and the way in which they
meant to earn it.
Ha, ha! They were beginning to find that out in Brittany too.
They had heard, even in Paris, how the aristocrats of St. Malo and
Vannes--ay, and Nantes too--were learning that their day was done. And
so, being Bretons themselves, they had come home to join in the fun,
and teach their comrades and brothers how the work went in Paris.
Click! click! click! But there were plenty of ways to exterminate
vermin besides taking them to the arms of the "widow."
Jean Gouicket and his friends listened agape, not sure whether to
applaud or shiver, the former sweating in sudden fear when the great
Trouet bellowed for more wine of a better flavour.
A threat underlay the command, and the trembling Gouicket made haste to
obey, though it was gall and wormwood to the worthy man to bring to
these vaurien comrades the wine which Monsieur le Comte, or M'nsieur
l'Abbe would pay a big price for.
Before he returned Marcel had been joined by a stranger--a heavy-faced,
ill-looking fellow with a tangle of rough hair, and wearing the
sleeveless coat and plaited trousers of a Breton peasant.
But Marcel evidently found him amusing, for he did not even fill his
glass with the wine Gouicket placed, with reverent fingers and very
great reluctance, by his side.
"Your name, my friend?" he was asking.
"Bertrand Manseau. A good Republican."
"Ca, ca. And you come from Kernak?"
The man spat and cursed the name before acquiescing.
"It is the place of aristos?"
"Yes, citoyen. But not for long I hope."
His cunning little black eyes blinked with satisfaction.
"All in good time, all in good time. You know Varenac?"
"Si. How could it be otherwise? I have lived between Kernak and
Varenac all my life."
"And what have you to say of Varenac?"
"It is a place of fools."
"Ha, ha! Does that mean also of aristos?"
"There is one; that is sufficient."
"But the old aristo died. He who has now come is a good citizen."
Bertrand's face was livid with rage.
"A good citizen! Mille diables! A _good citizen_. What! the new
Marquis who came last week from England? Nom d'un chien, Citoyen
Marcel, he is the worst of the lot--a cursed aristo to his finger-tips."
It was Trouet's turn to stare.
"Bah! comrade, you do not know him. I tell you he is my friend. It is
I who brought him from England on purpose to teach those fools at
Varenac to cry 'Vive la Revolution.'"
"I do not care what you say. He is a cursed aristo; I have seen him."
Bertrand rubbed his back, scowling darkly over a sore memory.
"You have seen him?"
Marcel poured out a glass of wine and tossed it down at a gulp,
indifferent just now as to flavour. He was getting excited.
"Yes, certainly. He would have killed me if it had not been for the
girl. I tell you he is the most cursed aristo of them all."
"Where was this? What girl? Quickly then, idiot! I will know what
you say."
Bertrand told his story. Alas! it was not only the story of
Mademoiselle Cecile's rescue, but more also that he had learnt by
spying and close tracking of his enemy.
All was soon clear to Monsieur Trouet.
This fool of an Englishman had fallen in love--with an aristo. He was
judge enough of men to guess the rest.
"And he has gone to Varenac?"
"Certainly!"
"And the people?"
"Will be as ready to cry 'Vive le roi,' as 'Vive la nation,' when he
bids them."
"He has already----"
"No, no! There has been some delay. I do not altogether understand,
for old Pierre Koustak at the Manor is a fool too; but I believe
M'nsieur le Marquis is there alone. He waits for a friend."
"Nom d'un chien! a friend will arrive. Mille diables! a friend will
arrive."
Marcel tossed off another glass of wine thirstily--it might have been
the commonest vintage--and Jean Gouicket, watching, was filled with
exquisite pain at the sight.
"En avant!" screamed Marcel, springing to his feet.
Instantly the parlour of Le Bon Camarade was in confusion.
All talked at once, and none knew what they talked of, saving that it
was in the cause of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Poor Jean Gouicket wished devoutly that there would be less of the
latter and more honesty in payment; but he dared not ask for his money,
recalling the fate of a parsimonious landlord at Vannes.
All things, especially wine, were common in this great bond of
brotherhood.
At last Marcel made himself heard.
His good comrades and friends were to divide into five sections, and
hasten at once to Varenac, Kernak, and other villages around.
In all these villages the tree of liberty was to be planted, and death
to the aristos proclaimed.
For himself he had a little business of importance to undertake, but
would join them at Varenac shortly.
They would soon have plenty of amusement.
A burst of enthusiasm greeted these orders. The Marseillaise, started
in a shrill falsetto, was echoed by fifty lusty throats.
It was in the midst of the din that Marcel Trouet, with Bertrand at his
side, hurried off in the direction of the Manor of Varenac.
The trusted agent of the Committee of Public Safety had something to
say to a ci-devant Marquis and member of a certain London Corresponding
Club.
The thought of the meeting appeared to cause the little man the
liveliest excitement and anger.
But never mind! never mind!
The Terror was coming to Varenac in spite of turncoats.
"Ca ira!"