“I know, I know, old master,” broke in La Boulaye; “but how shall all this help me? For all that I have the welfare of France at heart, it weighs little with me at the moment by comparison with my own affairs. What am I to do, Duhamel? How am I to take payment for this?” And he pressed his finger to his seared cheek.
“Wait,” said the old man impressively. “That is the moral you might have drawn from what I have said. Be patient. I promise you your patience shall not be overtaxed. To-day they say that you presume; that you are not one of them — although, by my soul, you have as good an air as any nobleman in France.” And he eyed the lean height of the secretary with a glance of such pride as a father might take in a well-grown son.
Elegant of figure, La Boulaye was no less elegant in dress, for all that, from head to foot — saving the silver buckles on his shoes and the unpretentious lace at throat and wrists — he was dressed in the black that his office demanded. His countenance, too, though cast in a mould of thoughtfulness that bordered on the melancholy, bore a lofty stamp that might have passed for birth and breeding, and this was enhanced by the careful dressing of his black unpowdered hair, gathered into a club by a broad ribbon of black silk.
“But what shall waiting avail me?” cried the young man, with some impatience. “What am I to do in the meantime?”
“Go to Amiens,” said the other. “You have learning, you have eloquence, you have a presence and an excellent address. For success no better attributes could be yours.” He approached the secretary, and instinctively lowered his voice. “We have a little club there — a sort of succursal to the Jacobins. We are numerous, but we have no very shining member yet. Come with me, and I will nominate you. Beginning thus, I promise you that you shall presently become a man of prominence in Picardy. Anon we may send you to Paris to represent us in the States-General. Then, when the change comes, who shall say to what heights it may not be yours to leap?”
“I will think of it,” answered La Boulaye cordially, “and not a doubt of it but that I will come. I did not know that you had gone so far—”
“Sh! You know now. Let that suffice. It is not good to talk of these things just yet.”
“But in the meantime,” La Boulaye persisted, “what of this?” And again he pointed to his cheek.
“Why, let it heal, boy.”
“I promised the Marquis that I would demand satisfaction of his son, and I am tempted to do so and risk the consequences.”
“I am afraid the consequences will be the only satisfaction that you will get. In fact, they will be anticipations rather than consequences, for they’ll never let you near the boy.”
“I know not that,” he answered. “The lad is more generous than his sire, and if I were to send him word that I have been affronted, he might consent to meet me. For the rest, I could kill him blindfolded,” he added, with a shrug.
“Bloodthirsty animal!” rejoined Duhamel. “Unnatural tutor! Do you forget that you were the boy’s preceptor?”
With that Duhamel carried the argument into new fields, and showed La Boulaye that to avenge upon the young Vicomte the insults received at the hands of the old Marquis was hardly a worthy method of taking vengeance. At last he won him to his way, and it was settled that on the morrow La Boulaye should journey with him to Amiens.
“But, Caron, we are forgetting our friend Charlot and his bride,” he broke off suddenly. “Come, boy; the ceremony will be at an end by this.”
He took La Boulaye by the arm, and led him out and down the street to the open space opposite St. Ildefonse. The wedding-party was streaming out through the door of the little church into the warm sunshine of that April morning. In the churchyard they formed into a procession of happy be-ribboned and nosegayed men and women — the young preceding, the old following, the bridal couple. Two by two they came, and the air rang with their laughter and joyous chatter. Then another sound arose, and if the secretary and the pedagogue could have guessed of what that beating of hoofs was to be the prelude, they had scarce smiled so easily as they watched the approaching cortege.
From a side street there now emerged a gaily apparelled cavalcade. At its head rode the Marquis de Bellecour, the Vicomte, and a half-dozen other gentlemen, followed by, perhaps, a dozen lacqueys. It was a hunting party that was making its way across the village to the open country beyond. The bridal procession crossing their path caused them to draw rein, and to wait until it should have passed — which argued a very condescending humour, for it would not have been out of keeping with their habits to have ridden headlong through it. Their presence cast a restraint upon the peasants. The jests were silenced, the laughter hushed, and like a flight of pigeons under the eye of the hawk, they scurried past the Seigneurie, and some of them prayed God that they might be suffered to pass indeed.
Bellecour eyed them in cold disdain, until presently Charlot and his bride were abreast of him. Then his eye seemed to take life and his sallow face to kindle into expression. He leant lightly from the saddle.
“Stay!” he commanded coldly, and as they came to a halt, daring not to disobey him— “approach, girl,” he added.
Charlot’s brows grew black. He looked up at the Marquis, but if his glance was sullen and threatening, it was also not free from fear. Marie obeyed, with eyes downcast and a heightened colour. If she conjectured at all why they had been stopped, it was but to conclude that M. le Marquis was about to offer her some mark of appreciation. Uneasiness, in her dear innocence, she knew none.
“What is your name, child?” inquired the Marquis more gently.
“It was Marie Michelin, Monseigneur,” she made answer timidly. “But it has just been changed to Marie Tardivet.”
“You have just been wed, eh?”
“We are on our way from church, Monseigneur.”
“C’est ca,” he murmured, as if to himself, and his eyes taking such stock of her as made Charlot burn to tear him from his horse. Then, in a kindly, fatherly voice, he added: “My felicitations, Marie; may you be a happy wife and a happier mother.”
“Merci, Monseigneur,” she murmured, with crimson cheeks, whilst Charlot breathed once more, and from his heart gave thanks to Heaven, believing the interview at an end. But he went too fast.
“Do you know, Marie, that you are a very comely child?” quoth the Marquis, in tones which made the bridegroom’s blood run cold.
Some in that noble company nudged one another, and one there was who burst into a loud guffaw.
“Charlot has often told me so,” she laughed, all unsuspicious.
The Marquis moved on his horse that he might bend lower. With his forefinger he uptilted her chin, and now, as she met his glance thus at close quarters, an unaccountable fear took possession of her, and the colour died out of her plump cheeks.
“Yes,” said Bellecour, with a smile, “this Tardivet has good taste. My congratulations, to him. We must find you a wedding gift, little woman,” he continued more briskly. “It is an ancient and honoured custom that is falling somewhat into neglect. Go up to the Chateau with Blaise and Jean there. This good Tardivet must curb his impatience until to-morrow.”
He turned in his saddle, and beckoning the two servants he had named, he bade Marie to mount behind Blaise.
She drew back now, her cheeks white as those of the dead. With a wild terror in her eyes she turned to Charlot, who stood the very picture of anguish and impotent rage. In the cortege, where but a few moments ago all had been laughter, a sob or two sounded now from some of the women.
“By my faith,” laughed Bellecour contemptuously eyeing their dejection, “you have more the air of a burial than a bridal party.”
“Mercy my lord!” cried the agonised voice of Charlot, as, distraught with grief, he flung himself before the Marquis.
“Who seeks to harm you, fool?” was Bellecour’s half-derisive rejoinder.
“Do not take her from me, my lord,” the young man pleaded piteously.
“She shall return to-morrow,
booby,” answered the noble. “Out of the way!”
But Charlot was obstinate. The Marquis might be claiming no more than by ancient law was the due of the Seigneur, but Charlot was by no means minded to submit in craven acquiescence to that brutal, barbarous law.
“My lord,” he cried, “you shall not take her. She is my wife. She belongs to me. You shall not take her!”
He caught hold of the Marquis’s bridle with such a strength and angry will that the horse was forced to back before him.
“Insolent clod!” exclaimed Bellecour, with an angry laugh and a sharp, downward blow of the butt of his whip upon the peasant’s head. Charlot’s hand grew nerveless and released the bridle as he sank stunned to the ground. Bellecour touched his horse with the spur and rode over the prostrate fellow with no more concern than had he been a dog’s carcase. “Blaise, see to the girl,” he called over his shoulder, adding to his company: “Come, messieurs, we have wasted time enough.”
Not a hand was raised to stay him, not a word of protest uttered, as the nobles rode by, laughing, and chatting among themselves, with the utmost unconcern of the tragedy that was being enacted.
Like a flock of frightened sheep the peasants stood huddled together and watched them go. In the same inaction — for all that not a little grief was blent with the terror on their countenances — they stood by and allowed Blaise to lift the half-swooning girl to the withers of his horse. No reply had they to the coarse jest with which he and his fellow-servant rode off. But La Boulaye, who, from the point where he and Duhamel had halted, had observed the whole scene from its inception, turned now a livid face upon his companion.
“Shall such things be?” he cried passionately. “Merciful God! Are we men, Duhamel, and do we permit such things to take place?”
The old pedagogue shrugged his shoulders in despair. His face was heavily scored by sorrow.
“Helas!” he sighed. “Are they not masters of all that they may take? The Marquis goes no further than is by ancient law allowed his class. It is the law needs altering, my friend, and then the men will alter. Meanwhile, behold them — lords of life and death.”
“Lords of hell are they!” blazed the young revolutionist. “That is where they belong, whence they are come, and whither they shall return. Poltroons!” he cried, shaking his fist at the group of cowed peasants that surrounded the prostrate Charlot “Sheep! Worthless clods! The nobles do well to despise you, for, by my faith, you invite nothing but contempt, you that will suffer rape and murder to be done under your eyes, and never do more than look scared encouragement upon your ravishers!”
“Blame not these poor wretches, Caron,” sighed the old man. “They dare not raise a hand.”
“Then, pardieu! here, at least, is one who does dare,” he cried furiously, as from the breast pocket of his coat he drew a pistol.
Blaise, with the girl across the withers of his horse, was approaching them, followed by Jean.
“What would you do?” cried the old man fearfully, setting a restraining hand upon La Boulaye’s sleeve. But Caron shook himself free.
“This,” was all he answered, and simultaneously, he levelled his pistol and fired at Blaise.
Shot through the head, the servant collapsed forward; then, as the horse reared and started off at a gallop, he toppled sideways and fell. The girl went down with him and lay in the road whilst he was dragged along, his head bumping horribly on the stones as faster and faster went the frightened horse.
With a shout that may have been either anger or dismay Jean reined in his horse, and sat for a second hesitating whether to begin by recovering the girl, or avenging his comrade. But his doubts were solved for him by La Boulaye, who took a deliberate aim at him.
“Begone!” cried the secretary, “unless you prefer to go by the road I’ve sent your fellow.” And being a discreet youth, Jean made off in silence by the street down which poor Blaise had been dragged.
“Carom” cried Duhamel, in a frenzy of apprehension. “I tremble for you, my son. Fly from Bellecour at once — now, this very instant. Go to my friends at Amiens; they will—”
But Caron had already left his side to repair to the spot where Marie was lying. The peasantry followed him, though leisurely, in their timid hesitation. They were asking themselves whether, even so remotely as by tending the girl, they dared participate in the violence La Boulaye had committed. That a swift vengeance would be the Seigneur’s answer they were well assured, and a great fear possessed them that in that vengeance those of the Chateau might lack discrimination. Charlot was amongst them, and on his feet, but still too dazed to have a clear knowledge of the circumstances. Presently, however, his faculties awakening and taking in the situation, he staggered forward, and came lurching towards La Boulaye, who was assisting the frightened Marie to rise. With a great sob the girl flung herself into her husband’s arms.
“Charlot, mon Charlot!” she cried, and added a moment later: “It was he — this brave gentleman — who rescued me.”
“Monsieur,” said Charlot, “I shall remember it to my dying day.”
He would have said more, but the peasants, stirred by fear, now roused themselves and plucked at his coat.
“Get you gone, Charlot, Get you gone quickly,” they advised him. “And if you are wise you will leave Bellecour without delay. It is not safe for you here.”
“It is not safe for any of us,” exclaimed one. “I have no mind to be caught when the Seigneur returns. There will be a vengeance. Ah Dieu! what a vengeance!”
The warning acted magically. There were hurried leave-takings, and then, like a parcel of scuttling rabbits, they made for their burrows to hide from the huntsman that would not be long in coming. And ere the last of them was out of sight there arose a stamping of hoofs and a chorus of angry voices. Down tine street thundered the Marquis’s cavalcade, brought back by the servant who had escaped and who had ridden after them. Some anger there was — particularly in the heart of the Lord of Bellecour — but greater than their anger was their excitement at the prospect of a man-hunt, with which the chase on which they had been originally bent made but a poor comparison.
“There he is, Monseigneur” cried Jean, as he pointed to La Boulaye. “And yonder are the girl and her husband.”
“Ah! The secretary again, eh?” laughed the nobleman, grimly, as he came nearer. “Ma foi, life must have grown wearisome to him. Secure the woman, Jean.”
Caron stood before him, pale in his impotent rage, which was directed as much against the peasants who had fled as against the nobles who approached. Had these clods but stood there, and defended themselves and their manhood with sticks and stones and such weapons as came to their hands, they might have taken pride in being trampled beneath the hoofs of the Seigneurie. Thus, at least, might they have proved themselves men. But to fly thus — some fifty of them from the approach of less than a score — was to confess unworthiness of a better fate than that of which their seigneurs rendered themselves the instruments.
Himself he could do no more than the single shot in his pistol would allow. That much, however, he would do, and like him whose resources are reduced, and yet who desires to spend the little that he has to best advantage, he levelled the weapon boldly at the advancing Marquis, and pulled the trigger. But Bellecour was an old campaigner, and by an old campaigner’s trick he saved himself at the last moment. At sight of that levelled barrel he pulled his horse suddenly on to its haunches, and received the charge in the animal’s belly. With a shriek of pain the horse sought to recover its feet, then tumbled forward hurling the Marquis from the saddle. La Boulaye had an inspiration to fling himself upon the old roue and seek with his hands to kill him before they made an end of himself. But ere he could move to execute his design a horseman was almost on top of him. He received a stunning blow on the head. The daylight faded in his eyes, he felt a sensation of sinking, and a reverberating darkness engulfed him.
CHAPTER III. THE WORD OF BELLECOUR
When La
Boulaye recovered consciousness he was lying on his back in the middle of the courtyard of the Chateau de Bellecour. From a great stone balcony above, a little group, of which Mademoiselle de Bellecour was the centre, observed the scene about the captive, who was being resuscitated that he might fittingly experience the Seigneur’s vengeance.
She had returned from the morning’s affair in the park with a conscience not altogether easy. To have stood by whilst her father had struck Caron, and moreover, to have done so without any sense of horror, or even of regret, was a matter in which she asked herself whether she had done well. Certainly La Boulaye had presumed unpardonably in speaking to her as he had spoken, and for his presumption it was fitting that he should be punished. Had she interfered she must have seemed to sympathise, and thus the lesson might have suffered in salutariness. And yet Caron La Boulaye was a man of most excellent exterior, and, when passion had roused him out of his restraint and awkwardness, of most ardent and eloquent address. The very sombreness that — be it from his mournful garments or from a mind of thoughtful habit — seemed to envelop him was but an additional note of poetry in a personality which struck her now as eminently poetical. In the seclusion of her own chamber, as she recalled the burning words and the fall of her father’s whip upon the young man’s pale face, she even permitted herself to sigh. Had he but been of her own station, he had been such a man as she would have taken pride in being wooed by. As it was — she halted there and laughed disdainfully, yet with never so faint a note of regret. It was absurd! She was Mademoiselle de Bellecour, and he her father’s secretary; educated, if you will — aye, and beyond his station — but a vassal withal, and very humbly born. Yes, it was absurd, she told herself again: the eagle may not mate with the sparrow.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 65
