Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  And yet there were signs, even then, to be read by those with eyes, that foretold something, if but a tithe of the inconceivable future; of which signs I myself remarked sufficient by the way next day to fill my mind with other thoughts than private resentment; with some nobler aims than self-assertion. Riding to Cahors, with Gil and André at my back, I saw not only the havoc caused by the great frosts of the winter and spring, not only walnut trees blackened and withered, vines stricken, rye killed, a huge proportion of the land fallow, desert, gloomy and unsown: not only those common signs of poverty to which use had accustomed me — though on my first return from England I had viewed them with horror — mud cabins, I mean, and unglazed windows, starved cattle, and women bent double, gathering weeds. But I saw other things more ominous; a strange herding of men at cross-roads and bridges, where they waited for they knew not what; a something lowering in these men’s silence, a something expectant in their faces; worst of all, a something dangerous in their scowling eyes and sunken cheeks. Hunger had pinched them; the elections had roused them. I trembled to think of the issue, and that in the hint of danger I had given St. Alais, I had been only too near the mark.

  A league farther on, where the woodlands skirt Cahors, I lost sight of these things; but for a time only. They reappeared presently in another form. The first view of the town, as, girt by the shining Lot, and protected by ramparts and towers, it nestles under the steep hills, is apt to take the eye; its matchless bridge, and time-worn Cathedral, and great palace seldom failing to rouse the admiration even of those who know them. But that day I saw none of these things. As I passed down towards the market-place they were selling grain under a guard of soldiers with fixed bayonets; and the starved faces of the waiting crowd that filled all that side of the square, their shrunken, half-naked figures, and dark looks, and the sullen muttering, which seemed so much at odds with the sunshine, occupied me, to the exclusion of everything else.

  Or not quite. I had eyes for one other thing, and that was the astonishing indifference with which those whom curiosity, or business, or habit had brought to the spot, viewed this spectacle. The inns were full of the gentry of the province, come to the Assembly; they looked on from the windows, as at a show, and talked and jested as if at home in their châteaux. Before the doors of the Cathedral a group of ladies and clergymen walked to and fro, and now and then they turned a listless eye on what was passing; but for the most part they seemed to be unconscious of it, or, at the best, to have no concern with it. I have heard it said since, that in those days we had two worlds in France, as far apart as hell and heaven; and what I saw that evening went far to prove it.

  In the square a shop at which pamphlets and journals were sold was full of customers, though other shops in the neighbourhood were closed, their owners fearing mischief. On the skirts of the crowd, and a little aloof from it, I saw Gargouf, the St. Alais’ steward. He was talking to a countryman; and, as I passed, I heard him say with a gibe, “Well, has your National Assembly fed you yet?”

  “Not yet,” the clown answered stupidly, “but I am told that in a few days they will satisfy everybody.”

  “Not they!” the agent answered brutally. “Why, do you think that they will feed you?”

  “Oh, yes, by your leave; it is certain,” the man said. “And, besides, every one is agreed — —”

  But then Gargouf saw me, saluted me, and I heard no more. A moment later, however, I came on one of my own people, Buton, the blacksmith, in the middle of a muttering group. He looked at me sheepishly, finding himself caught; and I stopped, and rated him soundly, and saw him start for home before I went to my quarters.

  These were at the Trois Rois, where I always lay when in town; Doury, the innkeeper, providing a supper ordinary for the gentry at eight o’clock, at which it was the custom to dress and powder.

  The St. Alais had their own house in Cahors, and, as the Marquis had forewarned me, entertained that evening. The greater part of the company, indeed, repaired to them after the meal. I went myself a little late, that I might avoid any private talk with the Marquis; I found the rooms already full and brilliantly lighted, the staircase crowded with valets, and the strains of a harpsichord trickling melodiously from the windows. Madame de St. Alais was in the habit of entertaining the best company in the province; with less splendour, perhaps, than some, but with so much ease, and taste, and good breeding, that I look in vain for such a house in these days.

  Ordinarily, she preferred to people her rooms with pleasant groups, that, gracefully disposed, gave to a salon an air elegant and pleasing, and in character with the costume of those days, the silks and laces, powder and diamonds, the full hoops and red-heeled shoes. But on this occasion the crowd and the splendour of the entertainment apprised me, as soon as I crossed the threshold, that I was assisting at a party of more than ordinary importance; nor had I advanced far before I guessed that it was a political rather than a social gathering. All, or almost all, who would attend the Assembly next day were here; and though, as I wound my way through the glittering crowd, I heard very little serious talk — so little, that I marvelled to think that people could discuss the respective merits of French and Italian opera, of Grétry and Bianchi, and the like, while so much hung in the balance — of the effect intended I had no doubt; nor that Madame, in assembling all the wit and beauty of the province, was aiming at things higher than amusement.

  With, I am bound to confess, a degree of success. At any rate it was difficult to mix with the throng which filled her rooms, to run the gauntlet of bright eyes and witty tongues, to breathe the atmosphere laden with perfume and music, without falling under the spell, without forgetting. Inside the door M. de Gontaut, one of my father’s oldest friends, was talking with the two Harincourts. He greeted me with a sly smile, and pointed politely inwards.

  “Pass on, Monsieur,” he said. “The farthest room. Ah! my friend, I wish I were young again!”

  “Your gain would be my loss, M. le Baron,” I said civilly, and slid by him. Next, I had to speak to two or three ladies, who detained me with wicked congratulations of the same kind; and then I came on Louis. He clasped my hand, and we stood a moment together. The crowd elbowed us; a simpering fool at his shoulder was prating of the social contract. But as I felt the pressure of Louis’ hand, and looked into his eyes, it seemed to me that a breath of air from the woods penetrated the room, and swept aside the heavy perfumes.

  Yet there was trouble in his look. He asked me if I had seen Victor.

  “Yesterday,” I said, understanding him perfectly, and what was amiss. “Not to-day.”

  “Nor Denise?”

  “No. I have not had the honour of seeing Mademoiselle.”

  “Then, come,” he answered. “My mother expected you earlier. What did you think of Victor?”

  “That he went Victor, and has returned a great personage!” I said, smiling.

  Louis laughed faintly, and lifted his eyebrows with a comical air of sufferance.

  “I was afraid so,” he said. “He did not seem to be very well pleased with you. But we must all do his bidding — eh, Monsieur? And, in the meantime, come. My mother and Denise are in the farthest room.”

  He led the way thither as he spoke; but we had first to go through the card-room, and then the crowd about the farther doorway was so dense that we could not immediately enter; and so I had time — while outwardly smiling and bowing — to feel a little suspense. At last we slipped through and entered a smaller room, where were only Madame la Marquise — who was standing in the middle of the floor talking with the Abbé Mesnil — two or three ladies, and Denise de St. Alais.

  Mademoiselle had her seat on a couch by one of the ladies; and naturally my eyes went first to her. She was dressed in white, and it struck me with the force of a blow how small, how childish she was! Very fair, of the purest complexion, and perfectly formed, she seemed to derive an extravagant, an absurd, air of dignity from the formality of her dress, from the height of the powder
ed hair that strained upwards from her forehead, from the stiffness of her brocaded petticoat. But she was very small. I had time to note this, to feel a little disappointment, and to fancy that, cast in a larger mould, she would have been supremely handsome; and then the lady beside her, seeing me, spoke to her, and the child — she was really little more — looked up, her face grown crimson. Our eyes met — thank God! she had Louis’ eyes — and she looked down again, blushing painfully.

  I advanced to pay my respects to Madame, and kissed the hand, which, without at once breaking off her conversation, she extended to me.

  “But such powers!” the Abbé, who had something of the reputation of a philosophe, was saying to her. “Without limit! Without check! Misused, Madame — —”

  “But the King is too good!” Madame la Marquise answered, smiling.

  “When well advised, I agree. But then the deficit?”

  The Marquise shrugged her shoulders. “His Majesty must have money,” she said.

  “Yes — but whence?” the Abbé asked, with answering shrug.

  “The King was too good at the beginning,” Madame replied, with a touch of severity. “He should have made them register the edicts. However, the Parliament has always given way, and will do so again.”

  “The Parliament — yes,” the Abbé retorted, smiling indulgently. “But it is no longer a question of the Parliament; and the States General — —”

  “States General pass,” Madame responded grandly. “The King remains!”

  “Yet if trouble comes?”

  “It will not,” Madame answered with the same grand air. “His Majesty will prevent it.” And then with a word or two more she dismissed the Abbé and turned to me. She tapped me on the shoulder with her fan. “Ah! truant,” she said, with a glance in which kindness and a little austerity were mingled. “I do not know what I am to say to you! Indeed, from the account Victor gave me yesterday, I hardly knew whether to expect you this evening or not. Are you sure that it is you who are here?”

  “I will answer for my heart, Madame,” I answered, laying my hand upon it.

  Her eyes twinkled kindly.

  “Then,” she said, “bring it where it is due, Monsieur.” And she turned with a fine air of ceremony, and led me to her daughter. “Denise,” she said, “this is M. le Vicomte de Saux, the son of my old, my good friend. M. le Vicomte — my daughter. Perhaps you will amuse her while I go back to the Abbé.”

  Probably Mademoiselle had spent the evening in an agony of shyness, expecting this moment; for she curtesied to the floor, and then stood dumb and confused, forgetting even to sit down, until I covered her with fresh blushes by begging her to do so. When she had complied, I took my stand before her, with my hat in my hand; but between seeking for the right compliment, and trying to trace a likeness between her and the wild, brown-faced child of thirteen, whom I had known four years before — and from the dignified height of nineteen immeasurably despised — I grew shy myself.

  “You came home last week, Mademoiselle?” I said at last.

  “Yes, Monsieur,” she answered, in a whisper, and with downcast eyes.

  “It must be a great change for you!”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  Silence: then, “Doubtless the Sisters were good to you?” I suggested.

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “Yet, you were not sorry to leave?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  But on that the meaning of what she had last said came home to her, or she felt the banality of her answers; for, on a sudden, she looked swiftly up at me, her face scarlet, and, if I was not mistaken, she was within a little of bursting into tears. The thought appalled me. I stooped lower.

  “Mademoiselle!” I said hurriedly, “pray do not be afraid of me. Whatever happens, you shall never have need to fear me. I beg of you to look on me as a friend — as your brother’s friend. Louis is my — —”

  Crash! While the name hung on my lips, something struck me on the back, and I staggered forward, almost into her arms; amid a shiver of broken glass, a flickering of lights, a rising chorus of screams and cries. For a moment I could not think what was happening, or had happened; the blow had taken away my breath. I was conscious only of Mademoiselle clinging terrified to my arm, of her face, wild with fright, looking up to me, of the sudden cessation of the music. Then, as people pressed in on us, and I began to recover, I turned and saw that the window behind me had been driven in, and the lead and panes shattered; and that among the débris on the floor lay a great stone. It was that which had struck me.

  CHAPTER II.

  THE ORDEAL.

  It was wonderful how quickly the room filled — filled with angry faces, so that almost before I knew what had happened, I found a crowd round me, asking what it was; M. de St. Alais foremost. As all spoke at once, and in the background where they could not see, ladies were screaming and chattering, I might have found it difficult to explain. But the shattered window and the great stone on the floor spoke for themselves, and told more quickly than I could what had taken place.

  On the instant, with a speed which surprised me, the sight blew into a flame passions already smouldering. A dozen voices cried, “Out on the canaille!” In a moment some one in the background followed this up with “Swords, Messieurs, swords!” Then, in a trice half the gentlemen were elbowing one another towards the door, St. Alais, who burned to avenge the insult offered to his guests, taking the lead. M. de Gontaut and one or two of the elders tried to restrain him, but their remonstrances were in vain, and in a moment the room was almost emptied of men. They poured out into the street, and began to scour it with drawn blades and raised voices. A dozen valets, running out officiously with flambeaux, aided in the search; for a few minutes the street, as we who remained viewed it from the windows, seemed to be alive with moving lights and figures.

  But the rascals who had flung the stone, whatever the motive which inspired them, had fled in time; and presently our party returned, some a little ashamed of their violence, others laughing as they entered, and bewailing their silk stockings and spattered shoes; while a few, less fashionable or more impetuous, continued to denounce the insult, and threaten vengeance. At another time, the act might have seemed trivial, a childish insult; but in the strained state of public feeling it had an unpleasant and menacing air which was not lost on the more thoughtful. During the absence of the street party, the draught from the broken window had blown a curtain against some candles and set it alight; and though the stuff had been torn down with little damage, it still smoked among the débris on the floor. This, with the startled faces of the ladies, and the shattered glass, gave a look of disorder and ruin to the room, where a few minutes before all had worn so seemly and festive an air.

  It did not surprise me, therefore, that St. Alais’ face, stern enough at his entrance, grew darker as he looked round.

  “Where is my sister?” he said abruptly, almost rudely.

  “Here,” Madame la Marquise answered. Denise had flown long before to her side, and was clinging to her.

  “She is not hurt?”

  “No,” Madame answered, playfully tapping the girl’s cheek. “M. de Saux had most reason to complain.”

  “Save me from my friends, eh, Monsieur?” St. Alais said, with an unpleasant smile.

  I started. The words were not much in themselves, but the sneer underlying them was plain. I could scarcely pass it by. “If you think, M. le Marquis,” I said sharply, “that I knew anything of this outrage — —”

  “That you knew anything? Ma foi, no!” he replied lightly, and with a courtly gesture of deprecation. “We have not fallen to that yet. That any gentleman in this company should sink to play the fellow to those — is not possible! But I think we may draw a useful lesson from this, Messieurs,” he continued, turning from me and addressing the company. “And that is a lesson to hold our own, or we shall soon lose all.”

  A hum of approbation ran round the room.

  “To mai
ntain privileges, or we shall lose rights.”

  Twenty voices were raised in assent.

  “To stand now,” he continued, his colour high, his hand raised, “or never!”

  “Then now! Now!”

  The cry rose suddenly not from one, but from a hundred throats — of men and women; in a moment the room catching his tone seemed to throb with enthusiasm, with the pulse of resolve. Men’s eyes grew bright under the candles, they breathed quickly, and with heightened colour. Even the weakest felt the influence; the fool who had prated of the social contract and the rights of man was as loud as any. “Now! Now!” they cried with one voice.

  What followed on that I have never completely fathomed; nor whether it was a thing arranged, or merely an inspiration, born of the common enthusiasm. But while the windows still shook with that shout, and every eye was on him, M. de Alais stepped forward, the most gallant and perfect figure, and with a splendid gesture drew his sword.

  “Gentlemen!” he cried, “we are of one mind, of one voice. Let us be also in the fashion. If, while all the world is fighting to get and hold, we alone stand still and on the defensive — we court attack, and, what is worse, defeat! Let us unite then, while it is still time, and show that, in Quercy at least, our Order will stand or fall together. You have heard of the oath of the Tennis Court and the 20th of June. Let us, too, take an oath — this 22nd of July; not with uplifted hands like a club of wordy debaters, promising all things to all men; but with uplifted swords. As nobles and gentlemen, let us swear to stand by the rights, the privileges, and the exemptions of our Order!”

  A shout that made the candles flicker and jump, that filled the street, and was heard even in the distant market-place, greeted the proposal. Some drew their swords at once, and flourished them above their heads; while ladies waved their fans or kerchiefs. But the majority cried, “To the larger room! To the larger room!” And on the instant, as if in obedience to an order, the company turned that way, and flushed, and eager, pressed through the narrow doorway into the next room.