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ROBERT TOURNAY
A Romance of the French Revolution
BY WILLIAM SAGE
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ERIC PAPE AND MARY AYER_
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1900
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY WILLIAM SAGE
AND HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO MY MOTHER
TO WHOM I OWE EVERYTHING
I LOVINGLY DEDICATE
THIS STORY.
[Illustration: "A CHEER FOR THE GODDESS OF LIBERTY"]
CONTENTS
I. HOW TOURNAY CAME TO PARIS
II. A LITTLE BREAKFAST AT ST. HILAIRE'S
III. THE BAKER AND HIS FAMILY
IV. THE "BON PATRIOT"
V. A BROKEN DOOR
VI. A MAN AND A MARQUIS
VII. GAILLARD GOES ON A JOURNEY
VIII. PERE LOUCHET'S GUESTS
IX. PRISON BOAT NUMBER FOUR
X. OVER THE FRONTIER
XI. UNDER WHICH FLAG?
XII. THE FOUR COMMISSIONERS
XIII. THE SWORD OF ROCROY
XIV. SOMETHING HIDDEN
XV. THE PRESIDENT'S NOTE
XVI. BENEATH THE MASK
XVII. PIERRE AND JEAN
XVIII. THE LUXEMBOURG
XIX. TAPPEUR AND PETITSOU
XX. UNCLE MICHELET
XXI. CITIZENESS PRIVAT
XXII. CITIZENESS PRIVAT'S CARD
XXIII. TOURNAY'S VISITOR
XXIV. TWO WOMEN
XXV. NO. 7 RUE D'ARCIS
XXVI. THE END OF THE TERROR
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"A CHEER FOR THE GODDESS OF LIBERTY"
DE LACHEVILLE FACING A YOUNG WOMAN
"STOP!" CRIED TOURNAY
ADJUSTED THE NECKCLOTH TO HIS SATISFACTION
"WOULD YOU MURDER ME?"
A MOMENT THEY STOOD IN SILENCE
ROBERT TOURNAY
CHAPTER I
HOW TOURNAY CAME TO PARIS
The Marquis de Lacheville sat in the dining-hall of the chateau de
Rochefort. In his hand he held a letter. Although it was from a woman,
the writing was not in those delicately traced characters which suggest
the soft hand of some lady of fashion. The note-paper was scented, but
the perfume, like the color, was too pronounced; and the spelling,
possibly like the lady's character, was not absolutely flawless.
A smile played about the cold thin lips of the marquis; he carelessly
thrust the missive into his pocket, as one disposes of a bill he does
not intend to pay, and lifting his eyes, allowed his gaze to wander
through the open window toward the figure of a young girl who stood
outside upon the terrace.
She was watching a game of tennis in the court below, now and then
conversing with the players, whose voices in return reached de
Lacheville's ears on the quiet summer air.
A few minutes before in that dining-hall the Baron de Rochefort had
betrothed his daughter Edme to his friend and distant kinsman, Maurice
de Lacheville. In the eyes of the world it was a suitable match. The
marquis was twenty-five, the girl eighteen. She was an only child; and
their rank and fortunes were equal.
They did not love each other. The marquis loved no one but himself.
Mademoiselle had been brought up to consider all men very much alike.
She might possibly have had some slight preference for the Marquis de
St. Hilaire, who was now playing tennis in the court beneath; but it was
well known that he was dissipating his fortune at the gaming-table.
Mademoiselle did not lack strength of will; but, her heart not being
involved, she allowed her father to make the choice for her, as was the
custom of the time.
De Lacheville continued sitting at the table, now looking
dispassionately at the woman who was to become his wife, now looking
beyond toward the wide sweep of park and meadow land, while he
calculated how much longer his cousin, the baron, would live to enjoy
possession of his great wealth.
What the young girl thought is merely a matter of conjecture. She was as
fresh and sweet as the pink rose which she plucked from the trellis and
gayly tossed to the marquis below. He caught it gracefully and put it to
his lips--while she laughed merrily with never a thought for the marquis
within.
Near the tennis court stood another man. He was tall and well-made,
with dark eyes and a sun-browned face. Beyond furnishing new balls and
rackets when required, he took no part in the game, for he was the son
of the intendant of the chateau and therefore a servant.
He watched the rose which the lady so carelessly tossed, with hungry
eyes, as a dog watches a bone given to some well-fed and happier rival.
At the call from one of the players he replaced a broken racket, then
took up his former post, apparently intent upon the game, but in reality
his mind was far afield.
It was in the early summer days of the year 1789. Looking out over the
baron's noble estates through the eyes of a girl like mademoiselle, the
world was very beautiful. Glancing at it through the careless eyes of
the prodigal St. Hilaire, it seemed very pleasing; but in spite of these
waving crops, and wealthy vineyards, in spite of the plenty in the
baron's household and the rich wines in his cellar, throughout France
there were many who had not enough to eat. Men, and women too, were
crying out for their share of the world's riches.
A new wave of thought was sweeping over France. A thought as old as the
hills, yet startlingly new to each man as he discovered it. Books were
being written and words spoken which were soon to cause great political
changes in a land already seething with discontent. Change and Progress
at last were in the saddle, and they were riding fast. As the careless
noblemen batted their tennis balls back and forth, thinking only of
their game; as the young girl leaned over the rose-covered terrace,
thinking of the sunlight, the flowers, and the beauty of life, Robert
Tournay, the intendant's son, pondered deeply on the "rights of man"
while he ran after the tennis balls for those who played the game.
As if wearied by the contemplation of his prospective married bliss,
Monsieur de Lacheville yawned, arose from his seat and strolled
leisurely from the room, descended the staircase and came out into the
park in the rear of the chateau, unobserved by the tennis players. The
note in his pocket called him to a rendezvous; and the marquis, after
some deliberation, had decided to keep it. Once in the wooded park and
out of sight of the house, he quickened his pace to a brisk walk;
proceeding thus for half a mile he suddenly left the driveway and
plunging through the thick foliage by a path which to the casual eye was
barely visible, came out into a shady and unfrequented alley.
A few minutes after de Lacheville's disappearance into the woods, the
other noblemen, wearied of their sport, retired into the house for
refreshment.
This left young Tournay free for the time being, and he availed himself
of the opportunity to go down toward a pasture beyond the park where
some young horses were running wild, innocent of bit or bridle. It was
Tournay's intention to break one of these colts for Mademoiselle de
Rochefort. She was a fearless rider, and it gave the young man pleasure
to be commissioned to pick out an animal at once gentle and mettlesome
for the use of his young mistress.
The Tournays, from father to son, had been for generations the
intendants of the de Rochefort estate. With the baron's permission
Matthieu Tournay had sent his son away to school, and he had thus
received a better education than most young men of his class. He was of
an ambitious temper, and this very education, instead of making him more
contented with his lot in life, increased his restlessness. It only
served to show him more clearly the line that separated him from those
he served. In his own mind he had never defined his feeling for
Mademoiselle de Rochefort. He only knew that it gave him great pleasure
to serve her; and yet, as he did her bidding, he felt a pang that
between them was the gulf of caste; that even when she smiled upon him
it was merely the favored servant whom she greeted; that although he
might be as well educated as the Count de Blois, a better horseman than
St. Hilaire, and a better man than de Lacheville, _they_ could enter as
equals into the presence of this divine being, while such as he must
always take his place below the salt.
It was with such thoughts as these revolving in his brain that the
intendant's son walked through the woods of the park. He followed no
path, for he knew each tree and twig from childhood. Suddenly he was
interrupted in his reverie by the sound of voices, and stopping short,
recognized the voice of the Marquis de Lacheville in conversation with
a woman. Tournay hesitated, then went forward cautiously in the
direction whence the sound came. Had he been born a gentleman he would
have chosen another way; or at least would have advanced noisily.
Indeed, such had been his first impulse,--but a much stronger interest
than curiosity impelled him forward; and drawing near, he looked through
a gap in the hedge.
On the other side stood de Lacheville facing a young woman. Her cheeks
were flushed, and the manner in which she toyed with a riding-whip
showed that the discussion had been heated. Although she was handsomely
dressed in a riding-habit and assumed some of the airs of a lady,
Tournay recognized her at once as a young girl who had disappeared some
months before from the village of La Thierry, and whose handsome face
and vivacious manner had caused her to be much admired. Near her stood
the nobleman, calm and self-composed. Before men, de Lacheville had been
known to flinch; but with a woman of the humbler class the marquis could
always play the master.
"And now, Marianne," said the nobleman slowly, "you had better go,--and
do not make the mistake of coming here again."
Although she had evidently been worsted in the argument, a defiant look
flashed in her dark eyes as she answered him: "If I believe you speak
the truth I shall not come here again."
[Illustration: DE LACHEVILLE FACING A YOUNG WOMAN]
"Of course I speak the truth," replied de Lacheville lightly. "I shall
marry Mademoiselle de Rochefort"--
The young woman winced, but she did not speak.
De Lacheville went on slowly as if he enjoyed the situation--"In a year
or two--I am in no hurry. She is very beautiful"--here he paused
again--"but I prefer your style of beauty, Marianne; I prefer your
vivacity, your life, your fire; I like to see you angry. My engagement
to Mademoiselle de Rochefort need make no difference in my regard for
you. That depends upon yourself." Here the marquis stepped forward and
kissed her on the lips.
Tournay controlled himself by a great effort, his heart swelling with
the resentment of a man who hears that which he holds sacred insulted by
another. And this man who held Mademoiselle de Rochefort in such slight
esteem was to be her husband.
"And now, Marianne," said the nobleman, "you must ride away as you
came," and suiting the action to the words he swung her into the saddle.
She was docile now and gathered up the reins obediently. "And,
Marianne," continued the nobleman, "never write letters to me. I am
rather fastidious and do not want my illusions dispelled too soon.
Good-by, my child."
She flushed as he spoke, and a retort seemed about to spring to her
lips; but instead of replying she shrugged her shoulders, gave a sharp
cut of the whip to the horse, and rode off down the pathway.
De Lacheville laughed. "She has spirit to the last. She pleases me;" and
turning, beheld Robert Tournay in the path before him.
For a moment neither spoke; then the nobleman asked sternly, "Have you
been spying upon me?"
"I have heard what has passed between you and that woman," replied
Tournay with a significance that made the marquis start.
"You villain," replied the nobleman hotly, "if you breathe a word about
what you have seen I will have you whipped by my lackeys."
Tournay's lips curled defiantly.
"Or," continued the marquis, "if one word of scandal reaches the ears of
Mademoiselle de Rochefort"--
Before the words had left his lips, Tournay sprang forward and had him
by the arm.
"Do not stain her name by speaking it," he cried fiercely. "I have heard
you insult her; I have seen how you would dishonor her; you, who are not
worthy to touch the hem of her garment. What right have you to become
her husband? Your very presence would degrade her. You shall not wed
her."
White with rage, if not from fear, the marquis struggled to free himself
from Tournay's grasp, but he could neither throw off his antagonist nor
move his arm enough to draw his sword. Finding himself powerless in the
hands of the stronger man, he remained passive, only the twitching of
his mouth betraying his passion.
"And you would prevent my marriage," he said coldly. "So be it. Go to
the baron; tell your story. Go also to mademoiselle, his daughter;
repeat the scandal to her ears; say, 'I am your champion;' and how will
they receive you? The baron will have you kicked from the room and
mademoiselle will scorn you. Championed by a servant! What an honor for
a lady!"
The truth of what he said struck Tournay harder than any blow; his arms
dropped to his side, and he stepped back, as if powerless.
The marquis arranged the lace ruffle about his neck. Placing his hand
upon his sword he eyed Tournay as if debating what course to pursue. He
smarted under the treatment he had received, and his eyes glittered
viciously as if he meditated some prompt reprisal. But above all the
marquis was politic, and he also knew that in his biting tongue he
possessed a weapon keener than a sword.
He stooped and plucked a flower from the border of the path, and as he
spoke a sarcastic smile played mockingly about his lips.
"I shall marry mademoiselle," he began, slowly dwelling on each word,
while he plucked the petals from the flower, and tossed them, one by
one, into the air. The gesture was a careless one, but there was a
vicious cruelty about his fingers as he tore the flower. "And you,"
continued the marquis,--"you, who one might think had dared to raise
your eyes toward the lady's face"--
Tournay stood dumb before his inquisitor. His heart raged and he writhed
as if under the lash, but still he stood passive and suffering.
"And you shall be our servant," ended the nobleman, with a laugh,
turning and walking haughtily up the path, but with his hand still on
his sword-hilt lest he should be again taken by surprise.
As the heels of the marquis crunched the gravel-walk Tournay felt the
truth of each word that he had spoken borne in upon his mind with
overwhelming force. It was not fear of the marquis's sword that had kept
him silent. It was the hopelessness of his own position. What right had
he to speak? And who would listen to him?
Silently the young man slipped into the forest as if to seek consolation
from the great murmuring trees. As he walked slowly beneath their green
arches as under some cathedral roof, a quiet strength came to his soul.
He seemed to feel that the day would come when his voice would be heard
and listened to. Until then he must bide his time; and in this frame of
mind he went back to the chateau.
When Tournay reached the house he was greeted by an order from the
baron. The tracks of a boar had been recently discovered in the forest
by one of the gamekeepers, and the intendant's son, who was himself a
keen huntsman, was directed to escort the party of gentlemen through the
woods to a glade where the animal was supposed to have his lair.
After he had collected the guns and ammunition, called up the dogs and
ordered the grooms to bring round the horses, Tournay went to the front
of the chateau to await the pleasure of the young gentlemen who intended
participating in the hunt.
There were half a dozen of them standing under the porte-cochere, and
Tournay disliked them all in greater or less degree; excepting perhaps
the Marquis de St. Hilaire. St. Hilaire was the eldest of the group, the
tallest and the handsomest. He rarely addressed any remark to Tournay,
but when he did, it was with perfect politeness. When the Marquis de St.
Hilaire rode his horse he did it with a grace none could surpass; when
he shot, he hit the mark. He had the reputation of being one of the most
dissipated young noblemen in the kingdom. He certainly spent money more
lavishly than the most prodigal. This reputation was at once the envy
and admiration of a host of young followers; and yet if asked, no one
could mention any particular debauchery of which he had been guilty.
When his companions, under the excitement of wine, committed extravagant
follies and excesses, St. Hilaire, although by no means sparing of the
winecup, maintained a certain dignity essentially his own. At the
gaming-table it was always the Marquis de St. Hilaire who played the
highest. He won a fortune or lost an estate with the same calm and
outward indifference. On every occasion he was the cool, polished
gentleman.
As Tournay approached the group of noblemen, the Marquis de Lacheville,
determined to keep him in a state of submission, greeted him with an
arrogant rebuke.
"You have kept us waiting a pretty length of time."
"I only received notice of your intended hunt a short time ago, and
various preparations had to be made," was the rejoinder.
"Make no excuses," continued the marquis,--"you always have plenty of
those upon the end of your tongue."
Tournay bit his lip to keep from replying.
"Whose horse is that?" called out the marquis a moment later, pointing
out one of the animals among the number which were being led up by the
grooms.
"My own, monsieur le marquis--a present from the baron."
"Well, it is by all odds the best one among them; I will ride it." And
the marquis swung himself into the saddle without waiting for a reply.
Tournay made no audible reply, but the color deepened on his cheek, as
he quietly took another horse.
"We shall never see that boar if we delay much longer," called out St.
Hilaire, who was long since in the saddle. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"
With one accord they all started down the avenue at a swift gallop;
Tournay following a short distance behind them.
For a mile or so they swept along the parkway until they arrived at the
gate which led into the wood. De Lacheville had been correct in his
judgment of the horse, and was the first to reach the gate. This seemed
to make him good-natured for the time being; and as they cantered
through the forest he allowed Tournay, who was best acquainted with the
ground, to ride in advance.
On approaching the entrance to the glade, the party dismounted and the
horses were fastened to the trees. The Counts d'Arlincourt and de Blois
went to the right; the Marquis de St. Hilaire to the left; Tournay took
two dogs and went toward the northern end; while de Lacheville remained
near the entrance.
It was arranged that Tournay with the dogs should rout the animal from
its lair in the upper end of the dale, and, the thicket being
surrounded, one of the gentlemen would be sure to bring it down with a
shot as it ran out.
Tournay had not gone half the distance when he heard a noise in the
underbrush, and looking in the direction whence it came, saw the boar
making its way leisurely down the glade, snuffing from time to time at
the roots of trees for acorns.
Tournay tried to work down ahead of the animal and drive him off to his
right in the direction of the Marquis St. Hilaire, as he was the best
shot in the company, and with a sportsman's instinct Tournay wanted to
give him the opportunity to win the tusks. One of the dogs, however,
upset this plan by slipping the leash and bounding off in the direction
of the boar; that animal took the alarm at once and started on a run
down the glade with Tournay and the two dogs after him in full pursuit.
"The Marquis de Lacheville will be the one to shoot him," thought
Tournay bitterly.
The boar, plunging through a thicket, made straight for the spot where
the horses had been tied, and where the Marquis de Lacheville had taken
up his position.
"Why does he not fire?" was Tournay's mental inquiry as he followed the
trail at full speed, with ear alert in the momentary expectation of
hearing the sound of a gun. "Can it be that the marquis is going to risk
attacking him with the knife?" And he dashed into the thicket,
regardless of the brushwood and briars that impeded his progress, to
come out on the other side, leaving a portion of his hunting blouse in
the grasp of a too-persistent bramble.
Here he beheld so ludicrous a sight that it would have moved him to
merriment, had it not overcome him with wonder. The marquis lay
sprawling on the grass, his eyes rolling with terror and his loaded gun
lying harmlessly by his side. The horses were straining at the tethers
and neighing with fright, while in the wood beyond, the boar was
disappearing from sight with the dogs upon his haunches.
As Tournay approached, the marquis struggled to his feet. For a moment
he stood silent and then said gruffly:--
"The brute sprang through the bushes before I expected him; my foot
slipped and I fell, so he got by me."
In the instant it flashed through Tournay's mind that the marquis had
fallen in trying to avoid the boar. He received the explanation in
silence, his face clearly betraying his suspicion.
The marquis eyed him savagely. "Where are the others?" he demanded.
"They have evidently missed all the sport," was the curt rejoinder.
The marquis scowled, but his anxiety to conceal the mishap from his
companions led him to overlook the ring of sarcasm in Tournay's voice.
"Did they hear or see the boar?" he inquired.
"I fear not. The animal started too near the centre of the glade, and
luckily for him made straight for you."
"We have not seen him, either," was the cool rejoinder.
"But I saw him," exclaimed Tournay with open-eyed astonishment.
"Up in the thicket beyond? Possibly," admitted the marquis, who had now
regained his self-possession and had resolved to put the best possible
face on the matter.
"No! Right here in the open, as he ran into that clump of beeches."
"You are mistaken. I did not see him," the marquis insisted, approaching
his horse and untethering him.
"Monsieur le marquis was possibly not looking in the right direction."
De Lacheville mounted his horse. He bent down from the saddle, saying
fiercely, "Twice this day you have ventured to oppose me. Have a care!
You will rue the hour when you dispute any statement of mine."
Tournay looked up at him defiantly, and with a significance too deep to
be misconstrued, said: "I will not lie at your bidding, Monsieur de
Lacheville."
"You insolent villain!" and the marquis' whip fell viciously across the
defiant brow. The next instant the nobleman was dragged from the saddle
and his riderless horse galloped off through the woods.
For a moment the two men stood looking at each other.
Tournay was the first to speak: "You will fight me for that blow,
Monsieur de Lacheville."
The marquis gave a harsh laugh: "We do not fight lackeys--we whip them."
"We are alone, and man to man you shall fight me with my weapons,
monsieur le Marquis." Tournay spoke with a certain air of dignity and
with a suppressed fierceness that made the marquis draw back; yet such
was the nobleman's contempt for the man of humble birth that he made no
response beyond flicking the whip which he still retained in his hand,
and looking at him disdainfully.
"You have a hunting-knife at your side; arm yourself," commanded Tournay
sternly, at the same time drawing from beneath his hunting-blouse a
long, keen blade.
The marquis turned pale. "I do not fight with such a weapon," he
faltered, looking about him as if in hopes of succor from his friends.
"Then for once the low-born has the advantage," replied Tournay
pitilessly, "and unless Heaven intervenes, I shall kill you for that
blow."
The blow itself was forgotten even as he spoke, and he felt a fierce joy
as he whispered to himself, "If heaven so wills it, you shall never
marry her, Marquis de Lacheville."
There was no fire of revenge in his eyes as he advanced, but the marquis
saw the light that burned there and, realizing his pressing danger, drew
his own hunting-knife.
There was a thrust and parry. Tournay closed in upon him, and the
nobleman fell backward with a groan.
The next instant Tournay threw aside the knife and stood looking with
awe upon the prostrate body. The bushes behind him parted with a rustle
and he looked over his shoulder to see the Marquis de St. Hilaire
standing by him.
"What's the matter?" inquired the latter sternly. "Has the marquis
injured himself?"
"He struck me," exclaimed Tournay, his face, except for a bright red
line across the brow, deadly pale. "And I--I have killed him."
St. Hilaire stooped down and undid the marquis's waistcoat, Tournay
giving way to him. "He's not dead," said St. Hilaire, after a short
examination. "Your blade struck the rib. He is not even fatally hurt,
but has fainted."
Tournay stood passive and silent.
St. Hilaire rose to his feet and proceeded to cut some strips from his
own shirt to make a bandage for de Lacheville's wound.
"As far as you are concerned, you might as well have killed him," he
said as he bound up the wound. "The penalty is the same."
"I'm not afraid of the penalty."
"Young man," said St. Hilaire, busying himself over the wound, "mount
that horse of yours and ride away from this part of the country as fast
as you can. I shall not see you."
"I'm not a coward to run away."
"Don't be a fool and stay," replied St. Hilaire sharply, without looking
up from his occupation. "You have acted as I would have done had I been
in your place, but I should not stay afterward with all the odds against
me. Come, you have only a minute to decide. I'll see the marquis has the
proper care."
In another minute Robert Tournay was on his horse's back riding swiftly
away from the scene. He only thought of one point of refuge and that was
the city of his dreams, the great city of Paris. Toward it he turned his
horse's head. When he had gone far enough to no longer fear pursuit he
dismounted and turned the horse loose, knowing that a man riding a fine
animal could be more easily traced; so the rest of his journey of a
hundred miles was made on foot.
It was about the noon hour, July 12, 1789, when he entered the southern
gates of the city. He had been walking since early morning, yet when
once in the town he was not conscious of any fatigue.
It seemed to him that there was an unwonted excitement in the air, and
the faces of many people in the crowded streets wore an anxious or an
expectant look. Several times he was on the point of stopping some
passer-by to ask if there was any event of unusual importance taking
place, but the fear of being thought ignorant of city ways deterred him.
So he wandered about the streets in search of some cheap and clean
lodging suitable to the size of his purse, where he could be comfortably
housed until his plans for the future matured. He went through narrow,
ill-smelling streets, where strange-looking faces peered at him
curiously from low wine-shops. Thence he wandered into the neighborhood
of beautiful gardens, where he marveled at the splendid buildings, any
one of which he fancied might be the home of the Marquis de St. Hilaire.
Finally, he came upon a number of people streaming through an arcade
under some handsome buildings. Judging that something of unusual
interest was going on there, and being moved by curiosity, he pushed his
way in with the rest, and found himself in a quadrangle of buildings
enclosing a garden. This garden was filled with a dense crowd. Turning
to a man at his elbow, he asked the reason of such an assemblage.
"The king has dismissed Necker," was the reply, "and the people are
angry."
"I should think they might well be angry," replied Tournay, who admired
the popular minister of finance. "Did the king send away such a great
man without cause?"
"I know not what cause was assigned, I do not concern myself much with
such affairs, but I know the people are very wroth and there has been
much talk of violence. Some blood has been shed. The German regiments
fired once or twice upon a mob that would not disperse."
"The villainous foreign regiments!" said Tournay. "Why must we have
these mercenary troops quartered in our city?" He had been in the city
but a few hours, but in his indignation he already referred to Paris as
"our city."
"The native troops would not fire when ordered, and were hurried back to
the barracks by their officers. Worse may come of it. There is much
speech-making and turmoil; I am going home to keep out of the trouble;"
and the stranger hurried away.
Tournay elbowed through the crowd. Standing upon a table under one of
the spreading trees, a young man was speaking earnestly to an excited
group of listeners that grew larger every moment. Tournay pressed near
enough to hear what he was saying.
He was tall and slender, with dark waving hair and the face of a poet.
He spoke with an impassioned eloquence that moved his hearers mightily,
bringing forth acclamation after acclamation from the crowd. He
denounced tyranny and exalted liberty till young Tournay's blood surged
through his veins like fire. He had thought all this himself, unable to
give it expression; but here was a man who touched the very note that he
himself would have sounded, touched the same chord in the heart of every
man who heard his voice, and by some subtle power communicated the
thrill to those outside the circle till the crowd in the garden was
drunk with excitement.
"Citizens," cried the young man, "the exile of Necker is the signal for
a St. Bartholomew of patriots. The foreign regiments are about to march
upon us to cut our throats. To arms! Behold the rallying sign." And
stretching up his arm he plucked a green leaf from the branch above his
head and put it in his hat.
The next instant the trees were almost denuded of their leaves. Tournay,
with a green sprig in his hat, swung his hat in the air, and cried, "To
arms--down with the foreign regiments--Vive Necker!"
He struggled to where the orator was being carried off on men's
shoulders. "What is it?" he said, in his excitement seizing the young
man by the coat,--"what is it that we are to do?"
"Procure arms. Watch and wait,--and then do as other patriots do," was
the reply.
The crowd surged closer about him. The coat gave way, and Tournay was
left with a piece of the cloth in his hand. Waving it in the air with
the cry of "Patriots, to arms!" he was forced onward by the crowd.