THE MORNING AFTER THE STORM.
Father Benoit had the forethought, when we reached the cross-roads, to
leave a man there to await the party from Cahors, and warn them of
Mademoiselle's safety; and we had not ridden more than half a mile
before the clatter of hoofs behind us announced that they were
following. I was beginning to recover from the stupor into which the
excitement of the night had thrown me, and I reined up to deliver over
my charge, should M. de St. Alais desire to take her.
But he was not of the party. The leader was Louis, and his company
consisted, to my surprise, of no more than six or seven servants, old
M. de Gontaut, one of the Harincourts, and a strange gentleman. Their
horses were panting and smoking with the speed at which they had come,
and the men's eyes glittered with excitement. No one seemed to think
it strange that I carried Mademoiselle; but all, after hurriedly
thanking God that she was safe, hastened to ask the number of the
rioters.
"Nearly a hundred," I said. "As far as I could judge. But where is M.
le Marquis?"
"He had not returned when the alarm came."
"You are a small party?"
Louis swore with vexation. "I could get no more," he said. "News came
at the same time that Marignac's house was on fire, and he carried off
a dozen. A score of others took fright, and thought it might be the
same with them; and they saddled up in haste, and went to see. In
fact," he continued bitterly, "it seemed to me to be every one for
himself. Always excepting my good friends here."
M. de Gontaut began to chuckle, but choked for want of breath. "Beauty
in distress!" he gasped. Poor fellow, he could scarcely sit his horse.
"But you will come on to Saux?" I said. They were turning their horses
in a cloud of steam that mistily lit up the night.
"No!" Louis answered, with another oath; and I did not wonder that he
was not himself, that his usual good nature had deserted him. "It is
now or never! If we can catch them at this work----"
I did not hear the rest. The trampling of their horses, as they drove
in the spurs and started down the road, drowned the words. In a moment
they were fifty paces away; all but one, who, detaching himself at the
last moment, turned his horse's head, and rode up to me. It was the
stranger, the only one of the party, not a servant, whom I did not
know.
"How are they armed, if you please?" he asked.
"They have at least one gun," I said, looking at him curiously. "And
by this time probably more. The mass of them had pikes and
pitchforks."
"And a leader?"
"Petit Jean, the smith, of St. Alais, gave orders."
"Thank you, M. le Vicomte," he said, and saluted. Then, touching his
horse with the spur, he rode off at speed after the others.
I was in no condition to help them, and I was anxious to put
Mademoiselle, who lay in my arms like one dead, in the women's care.
The moment they were gone, therefore, we pursued our way, Father
Benoit and I silent and full of thought, the others chattering to one
another without pause or stay. Mademoiselle's head lay on my right
shoulder. I could feel the faint beating of her heart; and in that
slow, dark ride had time to think of many things: of her courage and
will and firmness--this poor little convent-bred one, who a fortnight
before had not found a word to throw at me; last, but not least, of
the womanly weakness, dear to my man's heart, that had sapped her
reserve at last, and brought her arms to my neck and her cry to my
ear. The faint perfume of her hair was in my nostrils; I longed to
kiss the half-shrouded head. But, if in an hour I had learned to love
her, I had learned to honour her more; and I repressed the impulse,
and only held her more gently, and tried to think of other things
until she should be out of my arms.
If I did not find that so easy, it was not for want of food for
thought. The glow of the fire behind us reddened all the sky at our
backs; the murmur of the mob pursued us; more than once, as we went, a
figure sneaked by us in the blackness, and fled, as if to join them.
Father Benoit fancied that there was a second fire a league to the
east; and in the tumult and upheaval of all things on this night, and
the consequent confusion of thought into which I had fallen, it would
scarcely have surprised me if flames had broken out before us also,
and announced that Saux was burning.
But I was spared that. On the contrary, the whole village came out to
meet us, and accompanied us, cheering, from the gates to the door of
the Chateau, where, in the glare of the lights they carried, and amid
a great silence of curiosity and expectation, Mademoiselle was lifted
from my saddle and carried into the house. The women who pressed round
the door to see, stooped forward to follow her with their eyes; but
none as I followed her.
* * * * *
Much that passes for fair at night wears a foul look by day; and
things tolerable in the suffering have a knack of seeming
fantastically impossible in the retrospect. When I awoke next morning,
in the great chair in the hall--wherein, tradition had it, Louis the
Thirteenth had once sat--and, after three hours of troubled sleep,
found Andre standing over me, and the sun pouring in through door and
window, I fancied for a moment that the events of the night, as I
remembered them, were a dream. Then my eyes fell on a brace of
pistols, which I had placed by my side over night, and on the tray at
which Father Benoit and I had refreshed ourselves; and I knew that the
things had happened. I sprang up.
"Is M. de St. Alais here?" I said.
"No, Monsieur."
"Nor M. le Comte?"
"No, Monsieur."
"What!" I said. "Have none of the party come?" For I had gone to sleep
expecting to be called up to receive them within the hour.
"No, M. le Vicomte," the old man answered, "except--except one
gentleman who was with them, and who is now walking with M. le Cure in
the garden. And for him----"
"Well?" I said sharply, for Andre, who had got on his most gloomy and
dogmatic air, stopped with a sniff of contempt.
"He does not seem to be a man for whom M. le Vicomte should be
roused," he answered obstinately. "But M. le Cure would have it; and
in these days, I suppose, we must tramp for a smith, let alone an
officer of excise."
"Buton is here, then?"
"Yes, Monsieur; and walking on the terrace, as if of the family. I do
not know what things are coming to," Andre continued, grumbling, and
raising his voice as I started to go out, "or what they would be at.
But when M. le Vicomte took away the _carcan_ I knew what was likely
to happen. Oh! yes," he went on still more loudly, while he stood
holding the tray, and looking after me with a sour face, "I knew what
would happen! I knew what would happen!"
And, certainly, if I had not been shaken completely out of the common
rut of thought, I should have found something odd, myself, in the
combination of the three men whom I found on the terrace. They were
walking up and down, Father Benoit, with downcast eyes and his hands
behind him, in the middle. On one side of him moved Buton, coarse,
heavy-shouldered, and clumsy, in his stained blouse; on the other side
paced the stranger of last night, a neat, middle-sized man, very
plainly dressed, with riding boots and a sword. Remembering that he
had formed one of Louis' party, I was surprised to see that he wore
the tricolour; but I forgot this in my anxiety to know what had become
of the others. Without standing on ceremony, I asked him.
"They attacked the rioters, lost one man, and were beaten off," he
answered with dry precision.
"And M. le Comte?"
"Was not hurt. He returned to Cahors, to raise more men. I, as my
advice seemed to be taken in ill part, came here."
He spoke in a blunt, straightforward way, as to an equal; and at once
seemed to be, and not to be, a gentleman. The Cure, seeing that he
puzzled me, hastened to introduce him.
"This, M. le Vicomte," he said, "is M. le Capitaine Hugues, late of
the American Army. He has placed his services at the disposal of the
Committee."
"For the purpose," the Captain went on, before I had made up my mind
how to take it, "of drilling and commanding a body of men to be raised
in Quercy to keep the peace. Call them militia; call them what you
like."
I was a good deal taken aback. The man, alert, active, practical, with
the butt of a pistol peeping from his pocket, was something new to me.
"You have served his Majesty?" I said at last, to gain time to think.
"No," he answered. "There are no careers in that army, unless you have
so many quarterings. I served under General Washington."
"But I saw you last night with M. de St. Alais?"
"Why not, M. le Vicomte?" he answered, looking at me plainly. "I heard
that a house was being burned. I had just arrived, and I placed myself
at M. le Comte's disposal. But they had no method, and would take no
advice."
"Well," I said, "these seem to me to be rather extreme steps. You
know----"
"M. de Marignac's house was burned last night," the Cure said softly.
"Oh!"
"And I fear that we shall hear of others. I think that we must look
matters in the face, M. le Vicomte."
"It is not a question of thinking or looking, but of doing!" the
Captain said, interrupting him harshly. "We have a long summer's day
before us, but if by to-night we have not done something, there will
be a sorry dawning in Quercy to-morrow."
"There are the King's troops," I said.
"They refuse to obey orders. Therefore, they are worse than useless."
"Their officers?"
"They are staunch; but the people hate them. A knight of St. Louis is
to the mob what a red rag is to a bull. I can answer for it that they
have enough to do to keep their men in barracks, and guard their own
heads."
I resented his familiarity, and the impatience with which he spoke;
but, resent it as I might, I could not return to the tone I had used
yesterday. Then it had seemed an outrageous thing that Buton should
stand by and listen. To-day the same thing had an ordinary air. And
this, moreover, was a different man from Doury; arguments that had
crushed the one would have no weight with the other. I saw that, and,
rather helplessly, I asked Father Benoit what he would have.
He did not answer. It was the Captain who replied. "We want you to
join the Committee," he said briskly.
"I discussed that yesterday," I answered with some stiffness. "I
cannot do so. Father Benoit will tell you so."
"It is not Father Benoit's answer I want," the Captain replied. "It is
yours, M. le Vicomte."
"I answered yesterday," I said haughtily--"and refused."
"Yesterday is not to-day," he retorted. "M. de St. Alais' house stood
yesterday; it is a smoking ruin today. M. de Marignac's likewise.
Yesterday much was conjecture. To-day facts speak for themselves. A
few hours' hesitation, and the province will be in a blaze from one
end to the other."
I could not gainsay this; at the same time there was one other thing I
could not do, and that was change my views again. Having solemnly put
on the white cockade in Madame St. Alais' drawing-room, I had not the
courage to execute another _volte-face_. I could not recant again.
"It is impossible--impossible in my case," I stammered at last
peevishly, and in a disjointed way. "Why do you come again to me? Why
do you not go to some one else? There are two hundred others whose
names----"
"Would be of no use to us," M. le Capitaine answered brusquely;
"whereas yours would reassure the fearful, attach some moderate men to
the cause and not disgust the masses. Let me be frank with you, M. le
Vicomte," he continued in a different tone. "I want your co-operation.
I am here to take risks, but none that are unnecessary; and I prefer
that my commission should issue from above as well as from below. Add
your name to the Committee and I accept their commission. Without
doubt I could police Quercy in the name of the Third Estate, but I
would rather hang, draw, and quarter in the name of all three."
"Still, there are others----"
"You forget that I have got to rule the _canaille_ in Cahors," he
answered impatiently, "as well as these mad clowns, who think that the
end of the world is here. And those others you speak of----"
"Are not acceptable," Father Benoit said gently, looking at me with
yearning in his kind eyes. The light morning air caught the skirts of
his cassock as he spoke, and lifted them from his lean figure. He held
his shovel hat in his hand, between his face and the sun. I knew that
there was a conflict in his mind as in mine, and that he would have me
and would have me not; and the knowledge strengthened me to resist his
words.
"It is impossible," I said.
"Why?"
I was spared the necessity of answering. I had my face to the door of
the house, and as the last word was spoken saw Andre issue from it
with M. de St. Alais. The manner in which the old servant cried, "M.
le Marquis de St. Alais, to see M. le Vicomte!" gave us a little
shock, it was so full of sly triumph; but nothing on M. de St. Alais'
part, as he approached, betrayed that he noticed this. He advanced
with an air perfectly gay, and saluted me with good humour. For a
moment I fancied that he did not know what had happened in the night;
his first words, however, dispelled the idea.
"M. le Vicomte," he said, addressing me with both ease and grace, "we
are for ever grateful to you. I was abroad on business last night, and
could do nothing; and my brother must, I am told, have come too late,
even if, with so small a force, he could effect anything. I saw
Mademoiselle as I passed through the house, and she gave me some
particulars."
"She has left her room?" I cried in surprise. The other three had
drawn back a little, so that we enjoyed a kind of privacy.
"Yes," he answered, smiling slightly at my tone. "And I can assure
you, M. le Vicomte, has spoken as highly of you as a maiden dare. For
the rest, my mother will convey the thanks of the family to you more
fitly than I can. Still, I may hope that you are none the worse."
I muttered that I was not; but I hardly knew what I said. St. Alais'
demeanour was so different from that which I had anticipated, his easy
calmness and gaiety were so unlike the rage and heat which seemed
natural in one who had just heard of the destruction of his house and
the murder of his steward, that I was completely nonplussed. He
appeared to be dressed with his usual care and distinction, though I
was bound to suppose that he had been up all night; and, though the
outrages at St. Alais and Marignac's had given the lie to his most
confident predictions, he betrayed no sign of vexation.
All this dazzled and confused me; yet I must say something. I muttered
a hope that Mademoiselle was not greatly shaken by her experiences.
"I think not," he said. "We St. Alais are not made of sugar. And after
a night's rest--- But I fear that I am interrupting you?" And for the
first time he let his eyes rest on my companions.
"It is to Father Benoit and to Buton here, that your thanks are really
due, M. le Marquis," I said. "For without their aid----"
"That is so, is it?" he said coldly. "I had heard it."
"But not all?" I exclaimed.
"I think so," he said. Then, continuing to look at them, though he
spoke to me, he continued: "Let me tell you an apologue, M. le
Vicomte. Once upon a time there was a man who had a grudge against a
neighbour because the good man's crops were better than his. He went,
therefore, secretly and by night, and not all at once--not all at
once, Messieurs, but little by little--he let on to his neighbour's
land the stream of a river that flowed by both their farms. He
succeeded so well that presently the flood not only covered the crops,
but threatened to drown his neighbour, and after that his own crops
and himself! Apprised too late of his folly---- But how do you like
the apologue, M. le Cure?"
"It does not touch me," Father Benoit answered with a wan smile.
"I am no man's servant, as the slave boasted," St. Alais answered with
a polite sneer.
"For shame! for shame, M. le Marquis!" I cried, losing patience. "I
have told you that but for M. le Cure and the smith here, Mademoiselle
and I----"
"And I have told you," he answered, interrupting me with grim good
humour, "what I think of it, M. le Vicomte! That is all."
"But you do not know what happened?" I persisted, stung to wrath by
his injustice. "You are not, you cannot be, aware that when Father
Benoit and his companions arrived, Mademoiselle de St. Alais and I
were in the most desperate plight? that they saved us only at great
risk to themselves? and that for our safety at last you have to thank
rather the tricolour, which those wretches respected, than any display
of force which we were able to make."
"That, too, is so, is it?" he said, his face grown dark. "I shall have
something to say to it presently. But, first, may I ask you a
question, M. le Vicomte? Am I right in supposing that these gentlemen
are waiting on you from--pardon me if I do not get the title
correctly--the Honourable the Committee of Public Safety?"
I nodded.
"And I presume that I may congratulate them on your answer?"
"No, you may not!" I replied, with satisfaction. "This gentleman"--and
I pointed to the Capitaine Hugues--"has laid before me certain
proposals and certain arguments in favour of them."
"But he has not laid before you the most potent of all arguments," the
Captain said, interposing, with a dry bow. "I find it, and you, M. le
Vicomte, will find it, too, in M. le Marquis de St. Alais!"
The Marquis stared at him coldly. "I am obliged to you," he said
contemptuously. "By-and-by, perhaps, I shall have more to say to you.
For the present, however, I am speaking to M. le Vicomte." And he
turned and addressed me again. "These gentlemen have waited on you. Do
I understand that you have declined their proposals?"
"Absolutely!" I answered. "But," I continued warmly, "it does not
follow that I am without gratitude or natural feeling."
"Ah!" he said. Then, turning, with an easy air, "I see your servant
there," he said. "May I summon him one moment?"
"Certainly."
He raised his hand, and Andre, who was watching us from the doorway,
flew to take his orders.
He turned to me again. "Have I your permission?"
I bowed, wondering.
"Go, my friend, to Mademoiselle de St. Alais," he said. "She is in the
hall. Beg her to be so good as to honour us with her presence."
Andre went, with his most pompous air; and we remained, wondering. No
one spoke. I longed to consult Father Benoit by a look, but I dared
not do so, lest the Marquis, who kept his eyes on my face, his own
wearing an enigmatical smile, should take it for a sign of weakness.
So we stood until Mademoiselle appeared in the doorway, and, after a
momentary pause, came timidly along the terrace towards us.
She wore a frock which I believe had been my mother's, and was too
long for her; but it seemed to my eyes to suit her admirably. A
kerchief covered her shoulders, and she had another laid lightly on
her unpowdered hair, which, knotted up loosely, strayed in tiny
ringlets over her neck and ears. To this charming disarray, her
blushes, as she came towards us, shading her eyes from the sun, added
the last piquancy. I had not seen her since the women lifted her from
my saddle, and, seeing her now, coming along the terrace in the fresh
morning light, I thought her divine! I wondered how I could have let
her go. An insane desire to defy her brother and whirl her off, out of
this horrid imbroglio of parties and politics, seized upon me.
But she did not look towards me, and my heart sank. She had eyes only
for M. le Marquis; approaching him as if he had a magnet which drew
her to him.
"Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "I am told that your escape last
night was due to your adoption of an emblem, which I see that you are
still wearing. It is one which no subject of his Majesty can wear with
honour. Will you oblige me by removing it?"
Pale and red by turns, she shot a piteous glance at us. "Monsieur?"
she muttered, as if she did not understand.
"I think I have spoken plainly," he said. "Be good enough to remove
it."
Wincing under the rebuke, she hesitated, looking for a moment as if
she would burst into tears. Then, with her lip trembling, and with
trembling fingers, she complied, and began to unfasten the tricolour,
which the servants--without her knowledge, it may be--had removed from
the robe she had worn to that which she now wore. It took her a long
time to remove it, under our eyes, and I grew hot with indignation.
But I dared not interfere, and the others looked on gravely.
"Thank you," M. de Alais said, when, at last, she had succeeded in
unpinning it. "I know, Mademoiselle, that you are a true St. Alais,
and would die rather than owe your life to disloyalty. Be good enough
to throw that down, and tread upon it."
She started violently at the words. I think we all did. I know that I
took a step forward, and, but for M. le Marquis' raised hand, must
have intervened. But I had no right; we were spectators, it was for
her to act. She stood a moment with all our eyes upon her, stood
staring breathless and motionless at her brother; then, still looking
at him, with a shivering sigh, she slowly and mechanically lifted her
hand, and dropped the ribbon. It fluttered down.
"Tread upon it!" the Marquis said ruthlessly.
She trembled; her face, her child's face, grown quite white. But she
did not move.
"Tread upon it!" he said again.
And then, without looking down, she moved her foot forward, and
touched the ribbon.