THE BAKER AND HIS FAMILY
The Count d'Arlincourt had just left the palace at Versailles.
He had been present at the reception to the Royal Flanders regiment. He
had heard their vow of fidelity to the king. He had been among the
officers and the nobles of the court who had trampled under foot the
tricolor of Paris and decorated their coats with the white cockade, and
now he left the royal presence with his sovereign's thanks and
commendations ringing in his ears.
As he proceeded through the courtyard three gentlemen entered at the
main gate. A shade of annoyance passed over the count's brow as he
recognized St. Hilaire and two other noblemen, all members of the States
General, and all reputed to lean somewhat too radically toward the
popular side in politics. He had hardly seen St. Hilaire since the
breakfast party at the house of the latter three months before. The
toast of the marquis and his expressed sympathy with revolutionary
orders had caused a decided estrangement.
Indeed, St. Hilaire and the two noblemen who were with him had become
alienated from their order, and many of their former friends among the
nobility had refused to speak or hold any relations with them whatever.
The count could not avoid meeting them, but he was undecided whether to
ignore them entirely or pass them with such a slight inclination of the
head as to be equally cutting.
The cordial bow of the Marquis de St. Hilaire, however, for whom he had
always felt a peculiar and inexplicable regard, caused him to change his
mind.
He saluted the three gentlemen politely, though with a certain reserve
of manner natural to him, and addressed St. Hilaire.
"A word with you, marquis," he said, "if I may be pardoned for taking
you from these gentlemen for a few minutes?"
St. Hilaire turned to his companions: "With your permission, messieurs,
I will join you in five minutes in the palace."
The gentlemen bowed in assent and walked toward the palace, leaving the
count and the marquis alone in the centre of the court.
"You were not present at the reception in the palace. We missed you
greatly, marquis," the former began, with an attempt at cordiality of
manner, having resolved to make one last appeal to his friend.
"Thank you, my dear d'Arlincourt, for your kindness in saying so,"
replied the marquis affably, "but I must tell you frankly that even if
affairs in the Assembly had not claimed my time, other circumstances
would have rendered my presence at this banquet impossible."
"The king," continued d'Arlincourt quietly, "inquired for you several
times and seemed much disturbed at your absence."
"I am now on my way to wait upon his majesty," replied St. Hilaire.
The count's face lighted up. "A tardy apology is better than none at
all, for I presume you are going to explain your absence."
"The two gentlemen who have left us, and myself, have been sent by the
convention as a committee to urge his majesty to sanction their latest
decrees,--the bill relating to popular rights," replied St. Hilaire
quietly.
"For the love of Heaven, Raphael!" burst out the count, "can it be
possible that you intend to persist in championing the popular cause,
like the Duke d'Orleans, or the Marquis de Lafayette? Your present
position is that of a madman. Come back to our side now. To-morrow it
may be too late."
"For the life of me, Andre," replied St. Hilaire lightly, "I cannot tell
you to-day what my line of action will be to-morrow, but in any case I
beg you will not compare me either with the duke or Lafayette. I am
neither as dull as the one nor as virtuous as the other. Why not permit
me still to resemble only the Marquis de St. Hilaire?"
"Then," replied the count warmly, "I tell you that as the Marquis de St.
Hilaire, your duty to the king should have brought you to the reception
in honor of the Flanders regiment."
The marquis dropped his air of levity suddenly. "Do you know, count,"
he said slowly, "I have just come from the Assembly, where news reached
us a little while ago that a mob of forty thousand was marching from
Paris toward Versailles."
The count started with surprise, but betrayed no other emotion.
"Is it a fitting time to be feting a regiment composed of mercenaries?
Is it a fitting time to be clinking glasses and drinking toasts when
forty thousand men and women are approaching with their cry for bread?"
The count drew himself up as he replied,--"What more fitting time could
there be for the loyal nobles to gather about their sovereign than in
the hour of danger? I, for one, would not let the fear of any Paris mob
keep me from the king's side at such a moment."
St. Hilaire flushed deeply. "Count d'Arlincourt," he said quickly, "I
pass over that insinuation because it comes from an old friend. But know
this: that I am one of the members of the Assembly who have sworn to
support the constitution and enforce the rights of man. I should indeed
have been false to my trust had I participated in a fete to these
foreigners where oaths were openly made to defeat that constitution."
"Our ideas of duty evidently differ," replied the count stiffly. "My
duty is to my king."
"They do differ," said St. Hilaire. "My first allegiance is to the
nation. Count d'Arlincourt, I respect you and your opinions, but I also
have a regard for my oath. I have chosen my path and I shall follow
it."
"Good-day, Marquis de St. Hilaire," said the count, in his usual cold
manner.
"Farewell, Count d'Arlincourt," was the polite rejoinder, and raising
his hat St. Hilaire passed onward in the direction of the palace.
Forty thousand men and women were marching from Paris to Versailles.
They had forced a king to recall a banished minister. They had sacked a
prison fortress,--razing to the ground walls that had frowned on them
for ages, wiping out in one day a landmark of tyranny that had been
standing there for centuries. Now they were coming to see their king at
his palace. They had heard of the banquet at Versailles, given in honor
of the royal Flanders regiment, where wine had flowed like water and
where food was in abundance. At such a banquet, they argued, there must
be bread enough for the whole world; and they were coming to get their
share of it.
Although it was in the month of October, the sun was hot and the road
dusty. In the front rank, amid all the dust and sweat and noise, walked
Robert Tournay. He carried no weapon, nor did he seek to lead; but
animated by curiosity and by sympathy, he felt himself drawn into this
great heaving mass of people who had decided to correct these abuses
themselves, even if to do it they had to take the laws into their own
hands.
Hearing a shout and rumble of wheels behind him, Tournay looked over his
shoulder to see a cannon coming through the crowd, which parted on each
side to let it pass, and then closed up behind it. This cannon was drawn
along the road by a score of men, whose bare feet, beating the dust,
sent up a pulverous cloud that blew back into the faces of those behind
like smoke.
Seated upon the gun carriage, her hair streaming in the wind, was a
young woman wearing the red cap of liberty, and waving in her hand a
blood-red flag. The cannon stopped under the shade of some poplar trees,
and men stood around it wiping the perspiration from their foreheads.
"A cheer for the Goddess of Liberty," cried a voice in the crowd. A
shout went up that made the poplars tremble.
"Citizens," cried the girl, in response, standing erect and flinging her
flag to the breeze, "you want bread!"
"Bread! Bread!" was the answering shout.
"The women of Paris will lead you to it. Then you shall help
yourselves."
"Show us where it is and we'll take it fast enough," was the answering
cry.
"Where should it be but in the king's palace? There they are feasting
while the people in Paris are starving. They shall give the people of
their bread!"
"What if they have eaten it all?" asked another voice.
"Then shall the king bake more," answered the girl--"enough for every
one in his kingdom. He shall be the nation's baker, and his wife shall
help him knead the dough, and their little boy shall give out the
loaves."
There was a laugh at this and cries of "Good! Good!"
"My friends," she continued, taking off her cap and swinging it by the
tassel, "this marching is hot work, and talking is dry business. Has any
one a drink for La Demoiselle Liberte?"
A number of bottles were instantly proffered her.
"This _eau de vie_ puts new life into one," she exclaimed, throwing back
her head and putting a flask to her lips. With an easy gesture she took
a deep draught of the liquor, to the increasing admiration of the
bystanders. On removing the bottle from her lips, she said with a nod:
"How many of you men can beat that? Here goes one more." She was on the
point of repeating the act when she caught sight of Tournay, who had
drawn near and stood by the wheel of the truck looking at her intently.
"Here, friend, you look at this liquor thirstily; take a good pull at
it. You're a likely youth, and a sup of brandy will foster your
strength! What! You will not drink? Bah, man! I would not have it said
that I was a little boy, afraid of good liquor. But why do you stare at
me like that, without speaking? Have you no tongue?" Tournay put aside
the proffered bottle and said:--
"I stared at you because I know you. You are Marianne Froment, the
miller's daughter, who left La Thierry a year ago. And you should
remember Robert Tournay."
The young woman shook her head with a decided gesture.
"You mistake, friend; my name is not Marianne Froment. I know no miller,
and have never heard of the place you speak of."
Tournay remembered when he had seen her last in the alley of the park.
He felt no animosity toward her; instead he felt compassion for the
silly girl whose head had been turned by the flattery of a nobleman who
had already grown tired of her.
"It is you who are mistaken, Marianne," he replied quietly, "although
when I knew you at La Thierry, drinking strong liquor was not one of
your practices."
"I am La Demoiselle Liberte," replied the girl defiantly, throwing her
brown curls back from her forehead and replacing her cap. "I have drunk
such liquor as this from my cradle. So here's to you! May you some day
grow to be a man."
Tournay stayed the bottle in its course to her lips, and took her hand
in his.
"You are Marianne Froment," he persisted, "and it would be much better
for you to be in the quiet country of La Thierry. Why not go back?"
"If Marianne did go back, who would speak to her? Who among all those
who live there would take her by the hand?" she asked.
"Have I not taken you by the hand just now?" asked Tournay.
"I believe you would be the only one," she replied, stifling a sigh.
"Not even my father would do that. But you are no longer at La Thierry.
What are you doing here, and what sent you away from home? Are you going
back?"
Tournay shook his head. "There are reasons," he replied slowly, "why I
can never return."
"Neither can Marianne Froment," rejoined the girl. "Therefore,
compatriot, drink with me to our future good comradeship. And pass the
bottle to your neighbor. Then let us go on together. _En avant_, my
friends," she cried out in a loud voice. "The sooner we start again the
earlier we shall reach our bakery. Follow the carriage of La Demoiselle
Liberte, and she will lead you to it."
A score of brawny arms grasped the ropes attached to the truck, and with
a heavy rattle the cannon was drawn through the crowd, which cheered it
on its way.
The forty thousand swept into Versailles in an overpowering tide,
finding nothing to stop their triumphant course.
The crowd choked up the streets of the town, filling the public square
and invading the Assembly chamber.
The Assembly, with all the gravity and dignity of its recent birth, rose
to its feet to greet as many of the Paris deputation as could crowd into
the room, steaming with the sweat and dust of the march. Outside the
door another crowd remained, clamoring noisily.
The president of the Assembly addressed them in a few words full of
dignity. "I have just learned," he said in his quiet way, "that the
king has been pleased to accord his royal sanction to all the articles
of the Bill of Popular Rights which was passed by your Assembly on the
5th of August."
"Will that give the people more bread?" asked La Demoiselle, looking up
at Tournay with an inquiring expression in her brown eyes. Despite her
red cap, her swagger, and her boisterous talk, she was very pretty and
child-like. As he looked down upon her standing by his side her brown
head did not reach his shoulder.
"Whether it gives them bread or not, it is a glorious thing for the
people," exclaimed Tournay with enthusiasm.
A few minutes later the demoiselle yawned. "The old fellow is too
tiresome," she said; "let us go to the palace and get our bread."
Evidently the same thought moved the rest of the deputation. They began
to file out, while President Meunier was still addressing them, with a
restless scuffling of their feet, and a murmuring among themselves, "To
the palace! To the palace!"
The last Tournay saw of Demoiselle Liberte she was pushing through the
crowd that made way for her right willingly, while she cried out: "I
will show you the bakery, my brave people; I am now on my way to
interview the chief baker."
* * * * *
The forty thousand got their bread. They got their bread and more. They
pressed in so close upon their monarch, they were so menacing, so
determined in their way, that he promised to dismiss his royal Flanders
regiment and go back to Paris with his beloved subjects. And so the
hungry, sullen, desperate mob became a shouting, happy, victorious one.
They cheered their monarch, who had sworn to be a father to his people;
they cheered the royal family, even the queen; but most of all they
cheered the loaves of bread which were distributed among the eager
multitude. Every shop in the town was soon depleted of its stock, and
all the bakers were working over-time to supply the food.
"Did I not tell you I would lead you where bread was plenty?" demanded
the Demoiselle de la Liberte gayly of those gathered around. "The king
is a capital baker; we have only to keep him with us and we shall have
food at all times." And she dipped her crust in a cup of wine.
"We will take our baker back with us to Paris," cried one.
"Aye, and the baker's wife and his little boy," cried another. At this
there was a laugh.
Tournay, who had aided in the distribution of the food, approached the
group, relieved by the thought that all were satisfied and contented, at
least for the moment.
"Ah, there is my handsome compatriot," exclaimed the demoiselle as soon
as she set eyes upon him. "Wilt thou join us in our supper, compatriot?"
she called out. She was seated carelessly on the truck of the
gun-carriage, with a cup of wine in one hand and a half-loaf in the
other, her face flushed with excitement. Unlike most of the women who
stood about her, she was of graceful form, with hands and arms
unblackened by hard toil, and the skin of her throat soft and white. She
wore her red cap in a rakish manner on the side of her head, its tassel
falling down over her forehead between her eyes. Every little while she
would throw it back by a quick toss of the head.
Tournay took the cup from her outstretched hand, and put it to his lips.
"Marianne," he said in a low tone, "it would be better if you were at
home among your own people."
"Why do you still call me by that name?" she asked in a tone of
suppressed passion. "_My_ home is Paris. _These_ are my people. They
never question who I am nor whence I came. There is not one in La
Thierry who would deal thus with me, unless it be yourself. You took my
hand this morning. And for that I will take yours and call you my
compatriot." Then changing to her usual tone of gayety, she cried aloud,
"Come, compatriot! This has been a glorious day. The people of Paris
have captured their king and are about to take him to Paris. Give us a
toast!"
Tournay felt that what she had said was true. Probably not one of those
who had known Marianne in La Thierry would speak to her should she
return there. He turned to those who stood around the gun. "Friends," he
cried, "I drink to freedom! May all among you who love it as I do live
for it and be ready to die for it." There was a shout as he turned away
and left them, and over his shoulder, looking back, he saw the
demoiselle dancing on the cannon, cup in hand.
He left the crowded part of the city to find some quiet spot as a change
from the noise and tumult of the past two days. Turning a corner he came
face to face with a man whom he had seen among the crowd in the Assembly
hall,--a man of gigantic stature with deep-set eyes. His appearance was
so striking that he could have passed nowhere unnoticed, and even in the
crowded hall Tournay's gaze had returned to him constantly. As they met,
Tournay again looked at him earnestly. The man stopped with the abrupt
question:--
"Why did you come to Versailles?"
"Because," answered Tournay, "when I saw great numbers of people in
Paris starving, and heard of the banqueting here, my blood boiled. This
Flanders regiment, which is feeding fat at the people's cost, must be
sent away. We cannot pause on our way to freedom with the destruction of
the Bastille. The king must come to Paris where the people need him, and
not spend his time here under the influence of a corrupt nobility."
"The king," mused the other; "do you believe in kings?"
"How do you mean?--'Do I believe in kings'?"
"Seventeen years ago," said the giant, "when only a boy, I stood in the
cathedral at Rheims while the coronation of the king was taking place.
I had never seen a king before, and moved by a strong desire to see a
being so exalted, I had walked many leagues to gratify my curiosity.
When I saw a pale-faced stripling kneel before the archbishop to receive
the crown, I could hardly keep from bursting into loud laughter at the
thought that such a puny creature could hold the destiny of a great
nation in his hands. I have often thought of it since, and to this day
it is as absurd as it was then."
"I think a nation should have a king," said Tournay, after a few
moments' thought. "But he should reign in the interests of his people.
And of all the people, not a small part."
"And so you came down here to see that our little king did his duty,"
suggested the large man, smiling.
"I came here, as I have already said, because in my humble way I wanted
to do something for my country."
"For your country?" repeated his companion interrogatively; "for the
people?"
"Yes," answered Tournay, "the people,--the common people, to whom I
belong; those who have never had a voice lifted up to speak for them,
nor a hand to fight their battles."
"There is a voice to speak for them at last," replied the giant, his
eyes shining with a fierce light. "France is full of them. From north to
south, from east to west, they have been called and are answering. In
the Assembly their voices are heard. In every street in Paris their
voices are heard. I can speak for them and I will; aye and fight for
them too," and he lifted his massive arm with a gesture which in its
force seemed to indicate that alone he could fight for and win the
people's cause. "Throughout France there are millions of arms which like
mine are ready to strike down tyranny. Have no fear, my friend. The
nation has found a champion in itself! The people have taken up their
own cause!" The power of the man, his earnestness and energy, stirred
Tournay to the depths of his soul. He looked with admiration at the
lion-like figure standing before him. Then grasping the man's hand he
said with earnestness:--
"I too am one of them,--I may not be of much use, still I am one. Will
you show me how I can be of more service?"
"A stout arm and a brave heart are always worth much," replied the
giant. "I like you, friend; your voice has the true ring in it. And
where Jacques Danton likes he trusts. Come with me and I will tell you
more."