CHAPTER IV.
L'AMI DU PEUPLE.
There were others who stood also; impressed by a sight which, in thelight of the news we had just heard, that astonishing, that amazingnews, seemed to have especial significance. We had not yet grownaccustomed in France to crowds. For centuries the one man, theindividual, King, Cardinal, Noble, or Bishop, had stood forward, andthe many, the multitude, had melted away under his eye; had bowed andpassed.
But here, within our view, rose the cold lowering dawn of a new day.Perhaps, if we had not heard what we had heard--that news, I mean--orif the people had not heard it, the effect on us, the action on theirpart, might have been different. As it was, the crowd that faced us inthe Square as we came out, the great crowd that faced us and stretchedfrom wall to wall, silent, vigilant, menacing, showed not a sign offlinching; and we did. We stood astonished, each halting as he cameout, and looking, and then consulting his neighbour's eyes to learnwhat he thought.
We had over our heads the great Cathedral, from the shadow of which weissued. We had among us many who had been wont to see a hundredpeasants tremble at their frown. But in a moment, in a twinkling, asif that news from Paris had shaken the foundations of Society, wefound these things in question. The crowd in the Square did nottremble. In a silence that was grimmer than howling it gave back lookfor look. Nor only that; but as we issued, they made no way for us,and those of the Assembly who had already gone down, had to walk alongthe skirts of the press to get to the inn. We who came later saw this,and it had its weight with us. We were Nobles of the province; but wewere only two hundred, and between us and the Trois Rois, between usand our horses and servants, stretched this line of gloomy faces,these thousands of silent men.
No wonder that the sight, and something that underlay the sight,diverted my mind for a moment from M. Harincourt and his purpose, andthat I looked abroad; while he, too, stood gaping and frowning, andforgot me. Perforce we had to go down; one by one reluctantly, ameagre string winding across the face of the crowd; sullen defiance onone side, scorn on the other. In Cahors it came to be remembered asthe first triumph of the people, the first step in the degradation ofthe privileged. A word had brought it about. A word, _the Bastillefallen_, had combined the floating groups, and formed of them thiswhich we saw--the people.
Under such circumstances it needed only the slightest spark to bringabout an explosion; and that was presently supplied. M. de Gontaut, atall, thin, old man, who could remember the early days of the lateKing, walked a little way in front of me. He was lame, and used acane, and as a rule a servant's arm. This morning, the lackey was notforthcoming, and he felt the inconvenience of skirting instead ofcrossing the square. Nevertheless he was not foolish enough to thrusthimself into the crowd; and all might have gone well, if a rogue inthe front rank of the throng had not, perhaps by accident, tripped upthe cane with his foot. M. le Baron turned in a flash, every hair ofhis eyebrows on end, and struck the fellow with his stick.
"Stand back, rascal!" he cried, trembling, and threatening to repeatthe blow. "If I had you, I would soon----"
The man spat at him.
M. de Gontaut uttered an oath, and in ungovernable rage struck thewretch two or three blows--how many I could not see, though I was onlya few paces behind. Apparently the man did not strike back, butshrank, cowed by the old noble's fury. But those behind flung himforward, with cries of "Shame! _A bas la Noblesse!_" and he fellagainst M. de Gontaut. In a moment the Baron was on the ground.
It was so quickly done that only those in the immediate neighbourhood,St. Alais, the Harincourts, and myself, saw the fall. Probably the mobmeant no great harm; they had not yet lost all reverence. But at thetime, with the tale of De Launay in my ears, and my imaginationinflamed, I thought that they intended M. de Gontaut's death, and as Isaw his old head fall, I sprang forward to protect him.
St. Alais was before me, however. Bounding forward, with rage not lessthan Gontaut's, he hurled the aggressor back with a blow which senthim into the arms of his supporters. Then dragging M. de Gontaut tohis feet, the Marquis whipped out his sword, and darting the brightpoint hither and thither with the skill of a practised fencer, in atwinkling he cleared a space round him, and made the nearest give backwith shrieks and curses.
Unfortunately he touched one man; the fellow was not hurt, but at theprick he sank down screaming, and in a second the mood of the crowdchanged. Shrieks, half-playful, gave way to a howl of rage. Some oneflung a stick, which struck the Marquis on the chest, and for a momentstopped him. The next instant he sprang at the man who had thrown it,and would have run him through, but the fellow fled, and the crowd,with a yell of triumph, closed over his path. This stopped St. Alaisin mid course, and left him only the choice between retreating, orwounding people who were innocent.
He fell back with a sneering word, and sheathed his sword. But themoment his back was turned a stone struck him on the head, and hestaggered forward. As he fell the crowd uttered a yell, and half adozen men dashed at him to trample on him.
Their blood was up; this time I made no mistake, I read mischief intheir eyes. The scream of the man whom he had wounded, though thefellow was more frightened than hurt, was in their ears. One of theHarincourts struck down the foremost, but this only enraged withoutchecking them. In a moment he was swept aside and flung back, stunnedand reeling; and the crowd rushed upon their victim.
I threw myself before him. I had just time to do that, and cry "Shame!shame!" and force back one or two; and then my intervention must havecome to nothing, it must have fared as ill with me as with him, if inthe nick of time, with a ring of grimy faces threatening us, and adozen hands upraised, I had not been recognised. Buton, the blacksmithof Saux--one of the foremost--screamed out my name, and turning withoutstretched arms, forced back his neighbours. A man of huge strength,it was as much as he could do to stem the torrent; but in a moment hisfrenzied cries became heard and understood. Others recognised me, thecrowd fell back. Some one raised a cry of "_Vive Saux!_ Long live thefriend of the people!" and the shout being taken up first in one placeand then in another, in a trice the Square rang with the words.
I had not then learned the fickleness of the multitude, or that from_A bas_ to _vive_ is the step of an instant; and despite myself, andthough I despised myself for the feeling, I felt my heart swell on thewave of sound. "_Vive Saux! Vive l'ami du peuple!_" My equals hadscorned me, but the people--the people whose faces wore a new lookto-day, the people to whom this one word, the Bastille fallen, hadgiven new life--acclaimed me. For a moment, even while I cried tothem, and shook my hands to them to be silent, there flashed on me thethings it meant; the things they had to give, power and tribuneship!"_Vive Saux!_ long live the friend of the people!" The air shook withthe sound; the domes above me gave it back. I felt myself lifted up onit; I felt myself for the minute another and a greater man!
Then I turned and met St. Alais' eye, and I fell to earth. He hadrisen, and, pale with rage, was wiping the dust from his coat with ahandkerchief. A little blood was flowing from the wound in his head,but he paid no heed to it, in the intentness with which he was staringat me, as if he read my thoughts. As soon as something like silencewas obtained, he spoke.
"Perhaps if your friends have quite done with us, M. de Saux--we maygo home?" he said, his voice trembling a little.
I stammered something in answer to the sneer, and turned to accompanyhim; though my way to the inn lay in the opposite direction. Only thetwo Harincourts and M. de Gontaut were with us. The rest of theAssembly had either got clear, or were viewing the fracas from thedoor of the Chapter House, where they stood, cut off from us by a wallof people. I offered my arm to M. de Gontaut, but he declined it witha frigid bow, and took Harincourt's; and M. le Marquis, when I turnedto him, said, with a cold smile, that they need not trouble me.
"Doubtless we shall be safe," he sneered, "if you will give orders tothat effect."
I bowed, without retorting on him;
he bowed; and he turned away. Butthe crowd had either read his attitude aright, or gathered that therewas an altercation between us, for the moment he moved they set up ahowl. Two or three stones were thrown, notwithstanding Buton's effortsto prevent it; and before the party had retired ten yards the rabblebegan to press on them savagely. Embarrassed by M. de Gontaut'spresence and helplessness, the other three could do nothing. For aninstant I had a view of St. Alais standing gallantly at bay with theold noble behind him, and the blood trickling down his cheek. Then Ifollowed them, the crowd made instant way for me, again the air rangwith cheers, and the Square in the hot July sunshine seemed a sea ofwaving hands.
M. de St. Alais turned to me. He could still smile, and withmarvellous self-command, in one and the same instant he recovered fromhis discomfiture and changed his tactics.
"I am afraid that after all we must trouble you," he said politely."M. le Baron is not a young man, and your people, M. de Saux, aresomewhat obstreperous."
"What can I do?" I said sullenly. I had not the heart to leave them totheir fortunes; at the same time I was as little disposed to acceptthe onus he would lay on me.
"Accompany us home," he said pleasantly, drawing out his snuff-box andtaking a pinch.
The people had fallen silent again, but watched us heedfully. "If youthink it will serve?" I answered.
"It will," he said briskly. "You know, M. le Vicomte, that a man isborn and a man dies every minute? Believe me no King dies--but anotherKing is born."
I winced under the sarcasm, under the laughing contempt of his eye.Yet I saw nothing for it but to comply, and I bowed and turned to gowith them. The crowd opened before us; amid mingled cheers and yellswe moved away. I intended only to accompany them to the outskirts ofthe throng, and then to gain the inn by a by-path, get my horses andbe gone. But a party of the crowd continued to follow us through thestreets, and I found no opportunity. Almost before I knew it, we wereat the St. Alais' door, still with this rough attendance at our heels.
Madame and Mademoiselle, with two or three women, were on the balcony,looking and listening; at the door below stood a group of scaredservants. While I looked, however, Madame left her place above and ina moment appeared at the door, the servants making way for her. Shestared in wonder at us, and from us to the rabble that followed; thenher eye caught the bloodstains on M. de St. Alais' cravat, and shecried out to know if he was hurt.
"No, Madame," he said lightly. "But M. de Gontaut has had a fall."
"What has happened?" she asked quickly. "The town seems to have gonemad! I heard a great noise a while ago, and the servants brought in awild tale about the Bastille."
"It is true."
"What? That the Bastille----"
"Has been taken by the mob, Madame; and M. de Launay murdered."
"Impossible!" Madame cried with flashing eyes. "That old man?"
"Yes," M. de St. Alais answered with treacherous suavity. "Messieursthe Mob are no respecters of persons. Fortunately, however," he wenton, smiling at me in a way that brought the blood to my cheeks, "theyhave leaders more prudent and sagacious than themselves."
But Madame had no ears for his last words, no thought save of thisastonishing news from Paris. She stood, her cheeks on fire, her eyesfull of tears; she had known De Launay. "Oh, but the King will punishthem!" she cried at last. "The wretches! The ingrates! They should allbe broken on the wheel! Doubtless the King has already punished them."
"He will, by-and-by, if he has not yet," St. Alais answered. "But forthe moment, you will easily understand, Madame, that things are out ofjoint. Men's heads are turned, and they do not know themselves. Wehave had a little trouble here. M. de Gontaut has been roughlyhandled, and I have not entirely escaped. If M. de Saux had not hadhis people well in hand," he continued, turning to me with a laughingeye, "I am afraid that we should have come off worse."
Madame stared at me, and, beginning slowly to comprehend, seemed tofreeze before me. The light died out of her haughty face. She lookedat me grimly. I had a glimpse of Mademoiselle's startled eyes behindher, and of the peeping servants; then Madame spoke. "Are these someof--M. de Saux's people?" she asked, stepping forward a pace, andpointing to the crew of ruffians who had halted a few paces away, andwere watching us doubtfully.
"A handful," M. de St. Alais answered lightly. "Just his bodyguard,Madame. But pray do not speak of him so harshly; for, being my mother,you must be obliged to him. If he did not quite save my life, at leasthe saved my beauty."
"With those?" she said scornfully.
"With those or from those," he answered gaily. "Besides, for a day ortwo we may need his protection. I am sure that, if you ask him,Madame, he will not refuse it."
I stood, raging and helpless, under the lash of his tongue; and Madamede St. Alais looked at me. "Is it possible," she said at last, "thatM. de Saux has thrown in his lot with wretches such as those?" And shepointed with magnificent scorn to the scowling crew behind me. "Withwretches who----"
"Hush, Madame," M. le Marquis said in his gibing fashion. "You are toobold. For the moment they are our masters, and M. de Saux is theirs.We must, therefore----"
"We must not!" she answered impetuously, raising herself to her fullheight and speaking with flashing eyes. "What? Would you have mepalter with the scum of the streets? With the dirt under our feet?With the sweepings of the gutter? Never! I and mine have no part withtraitors!"
"Madame!" I cried, stung to speech by her injustice. "You do not knowwhat you say! If I have been able to stand between your son anddanger, it has been through no vileness such as you impute to me."
"Impute?" she exclaimed. "What need of imputation, Monsieur, withthose wretches behind you? Is it necessary to cry '_A bas le roi!_' tobe a traitor? Is not that man as guilty who fosters false hopes, andmisleads the ignorant? Who hints what he dare not say, and holds outwhat he dares not promise? Is he not the worst of traitors? For shame,Monsieur, for shame!" she continued. "If your father----"
"Oh!" I cried. "This is intolerable!"
She caught me up with a bitter gibe. "It is!" she retorted. "It _is_intolerable--that the King's fortresses should be taken by the rabble,and old men slain by scullions! It is intolerable that nobles shouldforget whence they are sprung, and stoop to the kennel! It isintolerable that the King's name should be flouted, and catchwords setabove it! All these things are intolerable; but they are not of ourdoing. They are your acts. And for you," she continued--and suddenlystepping by me, she addressed the group of rascals who lingered,listening and scowling, a few paces away--"for you, poor fools, do notbe deceived. This gentleman has told you, doubtless, that there is nolonger a King of France! That there are to be no more taxes nor_corvees_; that the poor will be rich, and everybody noble! Well,believe him if you please. There have been poor and rich, noble andsimple, spenders and makers, since the world began, and a King inFrance. But believe him if you please. Only now go! Leave my house.Go, or I will call out my servants, and whip you through the streetslike dogs! To your kennels, I say!"
She stamped her foot, and to my astonishment, the men, who must haveknown that her threat was an empty one, sneaked away like the dogs towhich she had compared them. In a moment--I could scarcely believeit--the street was empty. The men who had come near to killing M. deGontaut, who had stoned M. de St. Alais, quailed before a woman! In atwinkling the last man was gone, and she turned to me, her faceflushed, her eyes gleaming with scorn.
"There, sir," she said, "take that lesson to heart. That is your bravepeople! And now, Monsieur, do you go too! Henceforth my house is noplace for you. I will have no traitors under my roof--no, not for amoment."
She signed to me to go with the same insolent contempt which hadabashed the crowd; but before I went I said one word. "You were myfather's friend, Madame," I said before them all.
She looked at me harshly, but did not answer.
"It would have better become you, therefore," I continued, "to help methan to hurt me. As it is, were I the most loyal of his Majesty'ssubj
ects, you have done enough to drive me to treason. In the future,Madame la Marquise, I beg that you will remember that."
And I turned and went, trembling with rage.
The crowd in the Square had melted by this time, but the streets werefull of those who had composed it; who now stood about in eagergroups, discussing what had happened. The word Bastille was on everytongue; and, as I passed, way was made for me, and caps were lifted."God bless you, M. de Saux," and, "You are a good man," were mutteredin my ear. If there seemed to be less noise and less excitement thanin the morning, the air of purpose that everywhere prevailed was notto be mistaken.
This was so clear that, though noon was barely past, shopkeepers hadclosed their shops and bakers their bakehouses; and a calm, moreominous than the storm that had preceded it, brooded over the town.The majority of the Assembly had dispersed in haste, for I saw none ofthe Members, though I heard that a large body had gone to thebarracks. No one molested me--the fall of the Bastille served me sofar--and I mounted, and rode out of town, without seeing any one, evenLouis.
To tell the truth, I was in a fever to be at home; in a fever toconsult the only man who, it seemed to me, could advise me in thiscrisis. In front of me, I saw it plainly, stretched two roads; the oneeasy and smooth, if perilous, the other arid and toilsome. Madame hadcalled me the Tribune of the People, a would-be Retz, a would-beMirabeau. The people had cried my name, had hailed me as a saviour.Should I fit on the cap? Should I take up the _role?_ My own caste hadspurned me. Should I snatch at the dangerous honour offered to me, andstand or fall with the people?
With the people? It sounded well, but, in those days, it was a vaguerphrase than it is now; and I asked myself who, that had ever taken upthat cause, had stood? A bread riot, a tumult, a local revolt--suchas this which had cost M. de Launay his life--of things of that sizethe people had shown themselves capable; but of no lasting victory.Always the King had held his own, always the nobles had kept theirprivileges. Why should it be otherwise now?
There were reasons. Yes, truly; but they seemed less cogent, theweight of precedent against them heavier, when I came to think, with atrembling heart, of acting on them. And the odium of deserting myorder was no small matter to face. Hitherto I had been innocent; ifthey had put out the lip at me, they had done it wrongfully. But if Iaccepted this part, the part they assigned to me, I must be preparedto face not only the worst in case of failure, but in success to be apariah. To be Tribune of the People, and an outcast from my kind!
I rode hard to keep pace with these thoughts; and I did not doubt thatI should be the first to bring the tale to Saux. But in those daysnothing was more marvellous than the speed with which news of thiskind crossed the country. It passed from mouth to mouth, from eye toeye; the air seemed to carry it. It went before the quickesttraveller.
Everywhere, therefore, I found it known. Known by people who had stoodfor days at cross-roads, waiting for they knew not what; known byscowling men on village bridges, who talked in low voices and eyed thetowers of the Chateau; known by stewards and agents, men of the stampof Gargouf, who smiled incredulously, or talked, like Madame St.Alais, of the King, and how good he was, and how many he would hangfor it. Known, last of all, by Father Benoit, the man I would consult.He met me at the gate of the Chateau, opposite the place where the_carcan_ had stood. It was too dark to see his face, but I knew thefall of his _soutane_ and the shape of his hat. I sent on Gil andAndre, and he walked beside me up the avenue, with his hand on thewithers of my horse.
"Well, M. le Vicomte, it has come at last," he said.
"You have heard?"
"Buton told me."
"What? Is he here?" I said in surprise. "I saw him at Cahors less thanthree hours ago."
"Such news gives a man wings," Father Benoit answered with energy. "Isay again, it has come. It has come, M. le Vicomte."
"Something," I said prudently.
"Everything," he answered confidently. "The mob took the Bastille, butwho headed them? The soldiers; the Garde Francaise. Well, M. leVicomte, if the army cannot be trusted, there is an end of abuses, anend of exemptions, of extortions, of bread famines, of Foulons andBerthiers, of grinding the faces of the poor, of----"
The Cure's list was not half exhausted when I cut it short. "But ifthe army is with the mob, where will things stop?" I said wearily.
"We must see to that," he answered.
"Come and sup with me," I said, "I have something to tell you, andmore to ask you."
He assented gladly. "For there will be no sleep for me to-night," hesaid, his eye sparkling. "This is great news, glorious news, M. leVicomte. Your father would have heard it with joy."
"And M. de Launay?" I said as I dismounted.
"There can be no change without suffering," he answered stoutly,though his face fell a little. "His fathers sinned, and he has paidthe penalty. But God rest his soul! I have heard that he was a goodman."
"And died in his duty," I said rather tartly.
"Amen," Father Benoit answered.
Yet it was not until we were sat down in the Chestnut Parlour (whichthe servants called the English Room), and, with candles between us,were busy with our cheese and fruit, that I appreciated to the fullthe impression which the news had made on the Cure. Then, as hetalked, as he told and listened, his long limbs and lean form trembledwith excitement; his thin face worked. "It is the end," he said. "Youmay depend upon it, M. le Vicomte, it is the end. Your father told memany times that in money lay the secret of power. Money, he used tosay, pays the army, the army secures all. A while ago the moneyfailed. Now the army fails. There is nothing left."
"The King?" I said, unconsciously quoting Madame la Marquise.
"God bless his Majesty!" the Cure answered heartily. "He means well,and now he will be able to do well, because the nation will be withhim. But without the nation, without money or an army--a name only.And the name did not save the Bastille."
Then, beginning with the scene at Madame de St. Alais' reception, Itold him all that had happened to me; the oath of the sword, thedebate in the Assembly, the tumult in the Square--last of all, theharsh words with which Madame had given me my _conge_; all. As helistened he was extraordinarily moved. When I described the scene inthe Chamber, he could not be still, but in his enthusiasm, walkedabout the parlour, muttering. And, when I told him how the crowd hadcried "_Vive Saux!_" he repeated the words softly and looked at mewith delighted eyes. But when I came--halting somewhat in my speech,and colouring and playing with my bread to hide my disorder--to tellhim my thoughts on the way home, and the choice that, as it seemed tome, was offered to me, he sat down, and fell also to crumbling hisbread and was silent.
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