THE VENGEANCE OF THE MOB
By the carriage there was silence for a moment, but the more distant
part of the crowd was still shouting, and the music had not ceased to
roll along the aisles of the great church.
A laugh broke the silence.
"A dozen men!" exclaimed Felix, "and we stand like fools. Quick, de
Bornais, shout a command! The delay need be only for a moment."
But no word came from de Bornais, and without it his men did not move.
"Are you afraid?" Felix cried. "Ho! men of Vayenne, to the rescue of
your Duchess!"
He tried to spring forward to lead the attack, but two of Herrick's
companions seized him, and held him fast.
But his words had their effect. Unarmed as it was, the crowd surged
toward the carriage, sullen determination in its face, angry
threatening in its throat.
"Curse you, de Bornais! Shout!" raged the Count, struggling to free
himself.
Had de Bornais obeyed the command, it had gone hard with the little
band of men that surrounded Herrick. As it was, the sword points
barely kept the crowd in check. But no word came from de Bornais, yet
it was difficult to believe that fear was behind that set face, that
there was no daring in the man whose limbs showed no sign of
trembling. As repentance may come late to a man, so it seemed to come
to de Bornais. Every thought that had driven him forward in this
scheme, every word Father Bertrand had drummed into his ears, all were
forgotten in his admiration of the man before him. Treachery against
him was of no avail. Right and Justice seemed to keep watch and ward
beside him. Better to stop here and now upon the path that conscience
told him he ought never to have walked in.
Christine had not moved, the folds of her train still hung over the
carriage step just as the page in his sudden bewilderment had dropped
them. She had not taken her eyes from Herrick's face. She had spoken
no word when he had said she was his prisoner. She was almost
conscious of waiting for his next order, and knew that she would obey
it. This hateful marriage was not to be. The power to choose had been
suddenly wrested from her, and her heart beat out its gladness. She
had forgotten the surging crowd behind her, but Felix's cry to de
Bornais had a meaning for her. She waited for de Bornais' quick
command, knowing that, if it came, some impulse which she would not be
able to control would force her to Herrick's side. It did not come. De
Bornais stood still and silent, his head bowed, his arms loose-hanging
by his side. There was danger; Christine saw it in the grim-set faces
of the men about Herrick. They showed that they were men holding their
lives in their hands, ready to lose them in the defence of their
leader, to barter them freely for the lives of their enemies.
The tension was at the breaking pitch, there wanted but a man in the
crowd to throw a stick or a stone, and the little band would have been
overwhelmed, when from the distance came the shouts of "Long live the
Duke!" The crowd heard them, wavered for a moment, and then turned,
and began to struggle backward.
"Mademoiselle, let me help you to your carriage," said Herrick.
"Yonder come the men who have fought with me upon the frontier. They
shall make free passage for you to the castle."
Her hand rested in his for a moment as she stepped into the carriage.
He set free the folds of her dress carefully, and closed the door. She
did not speak to thank him, but she lowered her head, and a tear fell
suddenly into her lap. Lucille saw it, and her hand went out to touch
Christine's in silent sympathy; but it fell unnoticed by Herrick, who
had turned suddenly to Felix.
The Count had made a last effort, and had shouted to stay the
struggling retreat of the crowd.
"Would you leave your Duchess to her death? Strike, curs, strike!"
"Silence, fool!" said Herrick. "Only very hardly shall I save you from
the swift vengeance of these men who come. To cry against me will be
your death. Look! Are such men to be played with, think you?"
On they came, forcing their way wedge-like through the crowd, which
burst aside from them to right and left, blows helping the pace of any
who were slow to move.
"Lemasle, Mademoiselle returns to the castle," said Herrick. "See to
it. A prisoner in her own rooms; none to have speech with her but her
companion who is in the carriage."
There were a few swift orders from the captain, instantly obeyed, and
then, surrounded by soldiers, Christine's carriage moved slowly away.
"Briant, the Count and de Bornais are prisoners. Find safe ward for
them in the castle."
"Traitors!" And there was no mistaking the temper of the soldiers who
surrounded them.
"I said safe ward," Herrick commanded. "Safe ward in the castle.
Pierre Briant, I hold you responsible for their safety."
Briant saluted.
"Be silent if you value life," Herrick said to the Count. "And you, de
Bornais, I trusted you."
"I have betrayed the trust, sir."
"And your men?"
"Are now without a leader, sir."
"They shall stay with me," Herrick returned, "and prove what honor is
in them."
Another sharp command, and the Count and de Bornais were marched
quickly away.
"Your horse," said Herrick to one of de Bornais' men, who immediately
dismounted; and springing to the saddle Herrick gave orders that the
crowd should be dispersed in every quarter of the city. The men were
to march in different directions, but no violence was to be used
unless it was absolutely necessary.
"The rabble will easily shout for us again now we have returned to
Vayenne." And with part of his force, Herrick started to ride through
the city.
"You have forgotten me, friend Roger," said Jean, who had slipped his
knife into its hiding-place beneath his tunic and now had his bauble
in his hand.
"Another horse, there! Mount, friend Jean. If they shout for the Duke,
they shall also shout for him who has helped the Duke to know that
life is still worth the living. Forward!" And there was a joy in
Herrick's voice that would seem to argue he had read in Christine's
eyes something of what was in her heart.
The mob, leaderless and without definite purpose, scattered in all
directions. Some there were who hastened to reach their homes as
speedily as possible. Some, hurrying away in gangs, and finding
themselves in some quiet quarter, safe from pursuit apparently, took
to plundering. The sight of a half-closed shop inflamed their desire
to reap some profit for themselves before they dispersed, and they
were quick to follow any man who had the daring to lead the way. The
cries of those who were robbed, and the incapability of the rioters to
keep from quarrelling and shouting, soon attracted some of the
soldiers who were parading the city to restore order. Many of the
soldiers were in no humor to be lenient, and the slightest resistance
met with immediate retribution. Then were ugly blows struck, wounds
given which would not heal for many a day; and here and there some
persistent rioter paid for his temerity with his life. It was a case
in which violence was necessary, the soldiers argued, and they had
merely fulfilled the Duke's commands.
A section of the mob showed a different spirit. They had shouted
Herrick's name as he rode through the streets, and his lip had curved
scornfully at the fickleness of the rabble. Not an hour since the
shouts had been for his enemies. Fickle they were, but perhaps with
more reason than appeared on the surface. Herrick's presence, and the
sight of the soldiers in the streets brought to sudden remembrance
what had been accomplished upon the frontier. There might be a doubt
who lawfully should rule in Montvilliers, but this man had saved the
country from invasion. So they shouted for him, and for the soldiers
who had returned victorious. It was easy for them to imagine
themselves on the side of order; they became anxious to help the
soldiers, and were loud in their praises of them. To some of the
soldiers such praise was not displeasing; besides, many of them had
friends in the crowd, relations some of them. There were no rioters to
disperse here, only a friendly and loyal crowd surrounded them. Here
and there an open tavern door was suggestive, and the health of the
brave heroes was drunk. So it chanced that certain of the soldiers
became absorbed by the crowd, became virtually their leaders. Such
men, loud in their praises of the Duke, set the crowd about them
thinking of the Duke's enemies. The traitors ought to suffer. Why not
since they were enemies? But Count Felix and de Bornais were safe
within the walls of the castle, and where was there an enemy of whom
an example might be made?
Who first mentioned the Rue St. Romain no one knew, but in a moment
the name of Father Bertrand was being repeated with eager excitement.
He had crowned Duke Roger, and even then he must have been a traitor
in his heart. Some discovered suddenly that he had been a plague to
the city for years. One man, whether speaking out of his imagination,
or because some chance word had reached his ears, declared that the
priest would have sold the country to her enemies had he been able to
do so. At this there was a hiss of rage, and a purpose seemed to come
into the heart of every man.
"Ay, Duke Roger said there were vipers in Vayenne, and we had come to
crush them," a soldier cried, and his words stirred the smouldering
fire into flame.
"The Rue St. Romain!" was the quick answer. "Down with the priest!"
Into the quiet street poured the crowd. Justice was theirs, they
argued, the Duke's will was their mandate, yet they went quietly, lest
they might be robbed of their prey.
One knocked at the door, but there was no answer. No cassocked figure
opened it. A dozen men hammered at it. Still no answer.
"Open it, or we break it down!" was the cry.
The man in the cassock rushed up the stairs calling "Mercier!
Mercier!"
"What is it?"
"A crowd is at the door angrily demanding admittance. There is murder
in their eyes."
For a moment Mercier stood irresolute at the top of the stairs, while
hammering again sounded on the door. He knew nothing of what had
happened. He had heard the distant shoutings, but had attributed them
to another cause.
"In the name of the Duke, open!" came the shout from the crowd
without.
"He has come back!" Mercier exclaimed, and then turning to his
companion he went on: "Quick! we can leave by the back way. Few know
of it. The Duke is in Vayenne. Find him. Tell him what the crowd is
doing. They use his name, but I dare swear he set them to no such task
as this. Come! They are breaking the door. Run quickly and inquire as
you go. Hundreds will surely know where the Duke is to be found."
As Mercier slipped out of this back entrance which opened into an
alley and so into a street beyond, the crowd broke open the door, and
rushed into the house.
"Down with the priest!" they shouted. Some burst into this room, some
into that, their passion let loose as the waters from a dam. At first
they did not stay to plunder and break, they were too intent on
finding the priest; but when every room had been entered and found
empty, their rage found vent in spoliation. Some of them had known the
room on the ground floor with its ascetic simplicity. Had they not
often said that the priest lived no better, in no more comfort, than
the poorest among them? The room on the first floor was a revelation
to them. Was it not a further proof of the villainy of the priest?
"Curse him!" cried a man as he sent his stick through one of the
pictures. In a moment they had taken the action as an example, and the
room was wrecked. The whole house was wrecked from roof to cellar,
windows smashed, doors torn from their hinges, the stairs broken, even
part of the walls and floors and ceilings were hacked to pieces. Might
there not be some hiding hole, behind the walls or under the floors,
where the priest had crept?
"Where is he?" asked one. There had come a pause, for the wreckage was
complete.
"The church! St. Etienne!" came the answer.
"Is he to find sanctuary there?"
The question was asked fiercely, and none answered it, but one idea
seemed to impel each one of them to reach the street as soon as
possible, and immediately they were struggling toward the door.
Meanwhile a man ran quickly through the city, and ever and anon he
paused to ask: "Where is the Duke?" Some answered him by questions,
some pointed to the way they had seen the Duke take only a little
while ago, some shouted out directions after him. He found Herrick
after a long search returning from the Place Beauvoisin. Herrick had
heard that Countess Elisabeth was confined in the gate tower, and he
had at once had the horses put to her carriage and seen that she was
safely conveyed home again.
The man in the cassock ran panting to his side, and in a few words
told his story.
"They broke in as I left, sir."
Herrick stayed to hear no more. Part of the crowd were using his name
as an excuse for plunder, for murder perhaps; and in another moment he
was leading his men quickly in the direction of the Rue St. Romain.
There had been consternation in St. Etienne at the sudden interruption
of the wedding, but the real cause was not known at first. As the
whisper that the Duke had returned and had arrested both Mademoiselle
de Liancourt and the Count became a certainty, the congregation left
quickly.
Father Bertrand stood motionless by the altar. He stood alone there
for a few moments after the last person had gone. Then he returned
slowly to the sacristy, unrobed, and gave orders that all the doors of
the church should be shut. It was the church he thought of, there was
no thought of his personal safety. Nor was it fear that made him
remain in the sacristy. The Countess Elisabeth had said that he did
not bear upon him the mark of an honest man, but she had only seen
part of the schemer, she knew nothing of the priest. His ways may have
been narrow, cramped by the very work he had been called upon to
accomplish, but according to the light that was in him, he was an
honest man and a brave one. He had been called to fight in one
particular direction for the church he loved, and he had allowed
nothing to turn him from the thing he had set out to perform. Were
many men as honest as this? for, truly had Father Bertrand said that
personal honor lay along a different road. Now all his schemes were
ruined. His work in Vayenne was over, the end not attained. He had
failed. It was a broken man who sat leaning slightly forward in his
chair in the sacristy.
The sacristy opened into a cloister, and so into a street at the east
end of the church. This way came Mercier.
"Fly, father, fly. There is yet time," he said.
"Whither, my son?"
"They are seeking you," panted Mercier. "They have broken into your
house. They will wreck it, and not finding you, will come here,
father."
"I do not hide. When they come they shall find me."
"It means death," Mercier said in a hoarse whisper. "Hide for a little
while. I have already sent to find the Duke. Surely this is not done
by his command?"
"Failure to the man who plays for high stakes often means death,
Mercier," the priest answered. "We have failed, and I do not shirk the
penalty. Indeed, is there anything left but death for me?"
"The Duke will be merciful," pleaded Mercier.
"I look for no man's mercy. My conscience is clear. But for you,
Mercier, there is danger, too; we must not forget that. Hasten. Make
your peace quickly with the Duke. You were but a tool. They will not
seek to break the tool, once they have crushed the hand that held it."
"Come, father, there is yet time."
"Go quickly, Mercier. Listen! They are shouting in the street. Go, I
say. I would be alone." And he put his hands on Mercier's shoulders,
and gently pushed him from the sacristy. "Go, and peace be with you."
The crowd were not at the door of the sacristy, but at one of the
larger doors which opened into the Rue St. Romain: Father Bertrand
passed into the church. For a few moments he knelt before the altar in
a side chapel, and then he went with firm steps toward this door.
Long ago the crowd had lost all self-control. The spoliation of the
priest's house had but inflamed their appetite for further violence.
The door of the house had been locked against them, and they had
broken it down and done their will; was the closed door of the church
to stop them from wreaking their vengeance upon the priest? So they
hammered upon the door, crying aloud for their prey.
"Break it down!" shouted those behind, some of the men who were
superstitious in their sober state, and had a reverence for sacred
things. All reverence, all superstition was forgotten. They would kill
the priest, but they were unlikely to stop at this. All control was
gone, every restraint loosened. To wreck and spoil had become fierce
joy. What mad delight it would be to wreck St. Etienne!
Suddenly the door was flung open from within, and Father Bertrand with
arms outstretched stood upon the step.
"Who are they that thus insult the House of God?" he cried in a loud
voice.
For an instant the crowd fell back before the commanding figure. But
behind, the crowd surged and shouted, as though they struggled to get
to the front.
"False priest! Betrayer of his country! Traitor."
The cries were sharp and fierce, and then one man, a soldier, sprang
forward, and struck twice at the priest's breast. For an instant he
swayed, his arms flung upward, the fingers wide outspread, and then
he fell prone across the threshold. But there was no forward rush into
the church. The body of the murdered priest guarded it. That was a
barrier they dared not pass.
Nor was it those at the back of the crowd seeking to press forward to
the front which caused the surging and shouting there; it was Herrick
and his men fighting their way to the priest's rescue. Even as the man
stepped back after striking the second blow, Herrick was upon him, and
cut him down.
Silence fell suddenly upon the crowd, and then another soldier who had
been leading the mob pointed to his dead comrade; and said:
"Sir, is that justice? Did you not say that there were vipers in
Vayenne that must be crushed?"