Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  Andre-Louis stood forward boldly — impudently, thought M. de Lesdiguieres.

  “You are His Majesty’s Lieutenant here in Brittany,” he said — and it almost seemed to the august lord of life and death that this fellow had the incredible effrontery to address him as one man speaking to another. “You are the dispenser of the King’s high justice in this province.”

  Surprise spread on that handsome, sallow face under the heavily powdered wig.

  “Is your business concerned with this infernal insubordination of the canaille?” he asked.

  “It is not, monsieur.”

  The black eyebrows rose. “Then what the devil do you mean by intruding upon me at a time when all my attention is being claimed by the obvious urgency of this disgraceful affair?”

  “The affair that brings me is no less disgraceful and no less urgent.”

  “It will have to wait!” thundered the great man in a passion, and tossing back a cloud of lace from his hand, he reached for the little silver bell upon his table.

  “A moment, monsieur!” Andre-Louis’ tone was peremptory. M. de Lesdiguieres checked in sheer amazement at its impudence. “I can state it very briefly...”

  “Haven’t I said already...”

  “And when you have heard it,” Andre-Louis went on, relentlessly, interrupting the interruption, “you will agree with me as to its character.”

  M. de Lesdiguieres considered him very sternly.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Andre-Louis Moreau.”

  “Well, Andre-Louis Moreau, if you can state your plea briefly, I will hear you. But I warn you that I shall be very angry if you fail to justify the impertinence of this insistence at so inopportune a moment.”

  “You shall be the judge of that, monsieur,” said Andre-Louis, and he proceeded at once to state his case, beginning with the shooting of Mabey, and passing thence to the killing of M. de Vilmorin. But he withheld until the end the name of the great gentleman against whom he demanded justice, persuaded that did he introduce it earlier he would not be allowed to proceed.

  He had a gift of oratory of whose full powers he was himself hardly conscious yet, though destined very soon to become so. He told his story well, without exaggeration, yet with a force of simple appeal that was irresistible. Gradually the great man’s face relaxed from its forbidding severity. Interest, warming almost to sympathy, came to be reflected on it.

  “And who, sir, is the man you charge with this?”

  “The Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.”

  The effect of that formidable name was immediate. Dismayed anger, and an arrogance more utter than before, took the place of the sympathy he had been betrayed into displaying.

  “Who?” he shouted, and without waiting for an answer, “Why, here’s impudence,” he stormed on, “to come before me with such a charge against a gentleman of M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s eminence! How dare you speak of him as a coward....”

  “I speak of him as a murderer,” the young man corrected. “And I demand justice against him.”

  “You demand it, do you? My God, what next?”

  “That is for you to say, monsieur.”

  It surprised the great gentleman into a more or less successful effort of self-control.

  “Let me warn you,” said he, acidly, “that it is not wise to make wild accusations against a nobleman. That, in itself, is a punishable offence, as you may learn. Now listen to me. In this matter of Mabey — assuming your statement of it to be exact — the gamekeeper may have exceeded his duty; but by so little that it is hardly worth comment. Consider, however, that in any case it is not a matter for the King’s Lieutenant, or for any court but the seigneurial court of M. de La Tour d’Azyr himself. It is before the magistrates of his own appointing that such a matter must be laid, since it is matter strictly concerning his own seigneurial jurisdiction. As a lawyer you should not need to be told so much.”

  “As a lawyer, I am prepared to argue the point. But, as a lawyer I also realize that if that case were prosecuted, it could only end in the unjust punishment of a wretched gamekeeper, who did no more than carry out his orders, but who none the less would now be made a scapegoat, if scapegoat were necessary. I am not concerned to hang Benet on the gallows earned by M. de La Tour d’Azyr.”

  M. de Lesdiguieres smote the table violently. “My God!” he cried out, to add more quietly, on a note of menace, “You are singularly insolent, my man.”

  “That is not my intention, sir, I assure you. I am a lawyer, pleading a case — the case of M. de Vilmorin. It is for his assassination that I have come to beg the King’s justice.”

  “But you yourself have said that it was a duel!” cried the Lieutenant, between anger and bewilderment.

  “I have said that it was made to appear a duel. There is a distinction, as I shall show, if you will condescend to hear me out.”

  “Take your own time, sir!” said the ironical M. de Lesdiguieres, whose tenure of office had never yet held anything that remotely resembled this experience.

  Andre-Louis took him literally. “I thank you, sir,” he answered, solemnly, and submitted his argument. “It can be shown that M. de Vilmorin never practised fencing in all his life, and it is notorious that M. de La Tour d’Azyr is an exceptional swordsman. Is it a duel, monsieur, where one of the combatants alone is armed? For it amounts to that on a comparison of their measures of respective skill.”

  “There has scarcely been a duel fought on which the same trumpery argument might not be advanced.”

  “But not always with equal justice. And in one case, at least, it was advanced successfully.”

  “Successfully? When was that?”

  “Ten years ago, in Dauphiny. I refer to the case of M. de Gesvres, a gentleman of that province, who forced a duel upon M. de la Roche Jeannine, and killed him. M. de Jeannine was a member of a powerful family, which exerted itself to obtain justice. It put forward just such arguments as now obtain against M. de La Tour d’Azyr. As you will remember, the judges held that the provocation had proceeded of intent from M. de Gesvres; they found him guilty of premeditated murder, and he was hanged.”

  M. de Lesdiguieres exploded yet again. “Death of my life!” he cried. “Have you the effrontery to suggest that M. de La Tour d’Azyr should be hanged? Have you?”

  “But why not, monsieur, if it is the law, and there is precedent for it, as I have shown you, and if it can be established that what I state is the truth — as established it can be without difficulty?”

  “Do you ask me, why not? Have you temerity to ask me that?”

  “I have, monsieur. Can you answer me? If you cannot, monsieur, I shall understand that whilst it is possible for a powerful family like that of La Roche Jeannine to set the law in motion, the law must remain inert for the obscure and uninfluential, however brutally wronged by a great nobleman.”

  M. de Lesdiguieres perceived that in argument he would accomplish nothing against this impassive, resolute young man. The menace of him grew more fierce.

  “I should advise you to take yourself off at once, and to be thankful for the opportunity to depart unscathed.”

  “I am, then, to understand, monsieur, that there will be no inquiry into this case? That nothing that I can say will move you?”

  “You are to understand that if you are still there in two minutes it will be very much the worse for you.” And M. de Lesdiguieres tinkled the silver hand-bell upon his table.

  “I have informed you, monsieur, that a duel — so-called — has been fought, and a man killed. It seems that I must remind you, the administrator of the King’s justice, that duels are against the law, and that it is your duty to hold an inquiry. I come as the legal representative of the bereaved mother of M. de Vilmorin to demand of you the inquiry that is due.”

  The door behind Andre-Louis opened softly. M. de Lesdiguieres, pale with anger, contained himself with difficulty.

  “You seek to compel us, do you, you impudent
rascal?” he growled. “You think the King’s justice is to be driven headlong by the voice of any impudent roturier? I marvel at my own patience with you. But I give you a last warning, master lawyer; keep a closer guard over that insolent tongue of yours, or you will have cause very bitterly to regret its glibness.” He waved a jewelled, contemptuous hand, and spoke to the usher standing behind Andre. “To the door!” he said, shortly.

  Andre-Louis hesitated a second. Then with a shrug he turned. This was the windmill, indeed, and he a poor knight of rueful countenance. To attack it at closer quarters would mean being dashed to pieces. Yet on the threshold he turned again.

  “M. de Lesdiguieres,” said he, “may I recite to you an interesting fact in natural history? The tiger is a great lord in the jungle, and was for centuries the terror of lesser beasts, including the wolf. The wolf, himself a hunter, wearied of being hunted. He took to associating with other wolves, and then the wolves, driven to form packs for self-protection, discovered the power of the pack, and took to hunting the tiger, with disastrous results to him. You should study Buffon, M. de Lesdiguieres.”

  “I have studied a buffoon this morning, I think,” was the punning sneer with which M. de Lesdiguieres replied. But that he conceived himself witty, it is probable he would not have condescended to reply at all. “I don’t understand you,” he added.

  “But you will, M. de Lesdiguieres. You will,” said Andre-Louis, and so departed.

  CHAPTER VII. THE WIND

  He had broken his futile lance with the windmill — the image suggested by M. de Kercadiou persisted in his mind — and it was, he perceived, by sheer good fortune that he had escaped without hurt. There remained the wind itself — the whirlwind. And the events in Rennes, reflex of the graver events in Nantes, had set that wind blowing in his favour.

  He set out briskly to retrace his steps towards the Place Royale, where the gathering of the populace was greatest, where, as he judged, lay the heart and brain of this commotion that was exciting the city.

  But the commotion that he had left there was as nothing to the commotion which he found on his return. Then there had been a comparative hush to listen to the voice of a speaker who denounced the First and Second Estates from the pedestal of the statue of Louis XV. Now the air was vibrant with the voice of the multitude itself, raised in anger. Here and there men were fighting with canes and fists; everywhere a fierce excitement raged, and the gendarmes sent thither by the King’s Lieutenant to restore and maintain order were so much helpless flotsam in that tempestuous human ocean.

  There were cries of “To the Palais! To the Palais! Down with the assassins! Down with the nobles! To the Palais!”

  An artisan who stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the press enlightened Andre-Louis on the score of the increased excitement.

  “They’ve shot him dead. His body is lying there where it fell at the foot of the statue. And there was another student killed not an hour ago over there by the cathedral works. Pardi! If they can’t prevail in one way they’ll prevail in another.” The man was fiercely emphatic. “They’ll stop at nothing. If they can’t overawe us, by God, they’ll assassinate us. They are determined to conduct these States of Brittany in their own way. No interests but their own shall be considered.”

  Andre-Louis left him still talking, and clove himself a way through that human press.

  At the statue’s base he came upon a little cluster of students about the body of the murdered lad, all stricken with fear and helplessness.

  “You here, Moreau!” said a voice.

  He looked round to find himself confronted by a slight, swarthy man of little more than thirty, firm of mouth and impertinent of nose, who considered him with disapproval. It was Le Chapelier, a lawyer of Rennes, a prominent member of the Literary Chamber of that city, a forceful man, fertile in revolutionary ideas and of an exceptional gift of eloquence.

  “Ah, it is you, Chapelier! Why don’t you speak to them? Why don’t you tell them what to do? Up with you, man!” And he pointed to the plinth.

  Le Chapelier’s dark, restless eyes searched the other’s impassive face for some trace of the irony he suspected. They were as wide asunder as the poles, these two, in their political views; and mistrusted as Andre-Louis was by all his colleagues of the Literary Chamber of Rennes, he was by none mistrusted so thoroughly as by this vigorous republican. Indeed, had Le Chapelier been able to prevail against the influence of the seminarist Vilmorin, Andre-Louis would long since have found himself excluded from that assembly of the intellectual youth of Rennes, which he exasperated by his eternal mockery of their ideals.

  So now Le Chapelier suspected mockery in that invitation, suspected it even when he failed to find traces of it on Andre-Louis’ face, for he had learnt by experience that it was a face not often to be trusted for an indication of the real thoughts that moved behind it.

  “Your notions and mine on that score can hardly coincide,” said he.

  “Can there be two opinions?” quoth Andre-Louis.

  “There are usually two opinions whenever you and I are together, Moreau — more than ever now that you are the appointed delegate of a nobleman. You see what your friends have done. No doubt you approve their methods.” He was coldly hostile.

  Andre-Louis looked at him without surprise. So invariably opposed to each other in academic debates, how should Le Chapelier suspect his present intentions?

  “If you won’t tell them what is to be done, I will,” said he.

  “Nom de Dieu! If you want to invite a bullet from the other side, I shall not hinder you. It may help to square the account.”

  Scarcely were the words out than he repented them; for as if in answer to that challenge Andre-Louis sprang up on to the plinth. Alarmed now, for he could only suppose it to be Andre-Louis’ intention to speak on behalf of Privilege, of which he was a publicly appointed representative, Le Chapelier clutched him by the leg to pull him down again.

  “Ah, that, no!” he was shouting. “Come down, you fool. Do you think we will let you ruin everything by your clowning? Come down!”

  Andre-Louis, maintaining his position by clutching one of the legs of the bronze horse, flung his voice like a bugle-note over the heads of that seething mob.

  “Citizens of Rennes, the motherland is in danger!”

  The effect was electric. A stir ran, like a ripple over water, across that froth of upturned human faces, and completest silence followed. In that great silence they looked at this slim young man, hatless, long wisps of his black hair fluttering in the breeze, his neckcloth in disorder, his face white, his eyes on fire.

  Andre-Louis felt a sudden surge of exaltation as he realized by instinct that at one grip he had seized that crowd, and that he held it fast in the spell of his cry and his audacity.

  Even Le Chapelier, though still clinging to his ankle, had ceased to tug. The reformer, though unshaken in his assumption of Andre-Louis’ intentions, was for a moment bewildered by the first note of his appeal.

  And then, slowly, impressively, in a voice that travelled clear to the ends of the square, the young lawyer of Gavrillac began to speak.

  “Shuddering in horror of the vile deed here perpetrated, my voice demands to be heard by you. You have seen murder done under your eyes — the murder of one who nobly, without any thought of self, gave voice to the wrongs by which we are all oppressed. Fearing that voice, shunning the truth as foul things shun the light, our oppressors sent their agents to silence him in death.”

  Le Chapelier released at last his hold of Andre-Louis’ ankle, staring up at him the while in sheer amazement. It seemed that the fellow was in earnest; serious for once; and for once on the right side. What had come to him?

  “Of assassins what shall you look for but assassination? I have a tale to tell which will show that this is no new thing that you have witnessed here to-day; it will reveal to you the forces with which you have to deal. Yesterday...”

  There was an interruption. A voice in
the crowd, some twenty paces, perhaps, was raised to shout:

  “Yet another of them!”

  Immediately after the voice came a pistol-shot, and a bullet flattened itself against the bronze figure just behind Andre-Louis.

  Instantly there was turmoil in the crowd, most intense about the spot whence the shot had been fired. The assailant was one of a considerable group of the opposition, a group that found itself at once beset on every side, and hard put to it to defend him.

  From the foot of the plinth rang the voice of the students making chorus to Le Chapelier, who was bidding Andre-Louis to seek shelter.

  “Come down! Come down at once! They’ll murder you as they murdered La Riviere.”

  “Let them!” He flung wide his arms in a gesture supremely theatrical, and laughed. “I stand here at their mercy. Let them, if they will, add mine to the blood that will presently rise up to choke them. Let them assassinate me. It is a trade they understand. But until they do so, they shall not prevent me from speaking to you, from telling you what is to be looked for in them.” And again he laughed, not merely in exaltation as they supposed who watched him from below, but also in amusement. And his amusement had two sources. One was to discover how glibly he uttered the phrases proper to whip up the emotions of a crowd: the other was in the remembrance of how the crafty Cardinal de Retz, for the purpose of inflaming popular sympathy on his behalf, had been in the habit of hiring fellows to fire upon his carriage. He was in just such case as that arch-politician. True, he had not hired the fellow to fire that pistol-shot; but he was none the less obliged to him, and ready to derive the fullest, advantage from the act.

  The group that sought to protect that man was battling on, seeking to hew a way out of that angry, heaving press.