Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  But I was not to pass through it yet.

  A second time when I had the latch in my grasp, and the door an inch open, a hand plucked me back; so forcibly, that the latch rattled as it fell, and I turned in a rage. To my astonishment it was Louis again, but with a changed face — a face of strange excitement. He retained his hold on me.

  “No,” he said, between his teeth. “You have called me a coward, M. le Vicomte, and I will not wait! Not an hour. You shall fight me now. There is a garden at the back, and — —”

  But I had grown as cold as he hot. “I shall do nothing of the kind,” I said, cutting him short. “After the Assembly — —”

  He raised his hand and deliberately struck me with his glove across the face.

  “Will that persuade you, then?” he said, as I involuntarily recoiled. “After that, Monsieur, if you are a gentleman, you will fight me. There is a garden at the back, and in ten minutes — —”

  “In ten minutes the Assembly may have risen,” I said.

  “I will not keep you so long!” he answered sternly. “Come, sir! Or must I strike you again?”

  “I will come,” I said slowly. “After you, Monsieur.”

  CHAPTER III.

  IN THE ASSEMBLY.

  The blow, and the insult with which he accompanied it, put an end for the moment to my repentance. But short as was the distance across the floor from the one door to the other, it gave me time to think again; to remember that this was Louis; and that whatever cause I had had to complain of him, whatever grounds to suspect that he was the tool of others, no friend could have done more to assuage my wrath, nor the most honest more to withhold me from entering on an impossible task. Melting quickly, melting almost instantly, I felt with a kind of horror that if kindness alone had led him to interpose, I had made him the worst return in the world; in fine, before the outer door could be opened to us, I repented anew. When the usher held it for me to pass, I bade him close it, and, to Louis’ surprise, turned, and, muttering something, ran back. Before he could do more than utter a cry I was across the vestibule; a moment, and I had the door of the Assembly open.

  Instantly I saw before me — I suppose that my hand had raised the latch noisily — tiers of surprised faces all turned my way. I heard a murmur of mingled annoyance and laughter. The next moment I was threading my way to my place with the monotonous voice of the President in my ears, and the scene round me so changed — from that low-toned altercation outside, to this Chamber full of light and life, and thronged with starers — that I sank into my seat, dazzled and abashed; and almost forgetful for the time of the purpose which brought me thither.

  A little, and my face grew hotter still; and with good reason. Each of the benches on which we sat held three. I shared mine with one of the Harincourts and M. d’Aulnoy, my place being between them. I had scarcely taken it five seconds, when Harincourt rose slowly, and, without turning his face to me, moved away down the gangway, and, fanning himself delicately with his hat, assumed a leaning position against a desk with his gaze on the President. Half a minute, and D’Aulnoy followed his example. Then the three behind me rose, and quietly and without looking at me found other places. The three before me followed suit. In two minutes I sat alone, isolated, a mark for all eyes; a kind of leper in the Assembly!

  I ought to have been prepared for some such demonstration. But I was not, and my cheeks burned, as if the curious looks to which I was exposed were a hot fire. It was impossible for me, taken by surprise, to hide my embarrassment; for, wherever I gazed, I met sneering eyes and contemptuous glances; and pride would not let me hang my head. For many minutes, therefore, I was unconscious of everything but that scorching gaze. I could not hear what was going forward. The President’s voice was a dull, meaningless drawl to me.

  Yet all the while anger and resentment were hardening me in my resolve; and, presently, the cloud passed from my mind, and left me exulting. The monotonous reading, to which I had listened without understanding it, came to an end, and was followed by short, sharp interrogations — a question and an answer, a name and a reply. It was that awoke me. The drawl had been the reading of the cahier; now they were voting on it.

  Presently it would be my turn; it was coming to my turn now. With each vote — I need not say that all were affirmative — more faces, and yet more, were turned to the place where I sat; more eyes, some hostile, some triumphant, some merely curious, were directed to my face. Under other circumstances this might have cowed me; now it did not. I was wrought up to face it. The unfriendly looks of so many who had called themselves my friends, the scornful glances of new men of ennobled families, who had been glad of my father’s countenance, the consciousness that all had deserted me merely because I maintained in practice opinions which half of them had proclaimed in words — these things hardened me to a pitch of scorn no whit below that of my opponents; while the knowledge that to blench now must cover me with lasting shame closed the door to thoughts of surrender.

  The Assembly, on the other hand, felt the novelty of its position. Men were not yet accustomed to the war of the Senate; to duels of words more deadly than those of the sword: and a certain doubt, a certain hesitation, held the majority in suspense, watching to see what would happen. Moreover, the leaders, both M. de St. Alais, who headed the hotter and prouder party of the Court, and the nobles of the Robe and Parliament, who had only lately discovered that their interest lay in the same direction, found themselves embarrassed by the very smallness of the opposition; since a substantial majority must have been accepted as a fact, whereas one man — one man only standing in the way of unanimity — presented himself as a thing to be removed, if the way could be discovered.

  “M. le Comte de Cantal?” the President cried, and looked, not at the person he named, but at me.

  “Content!”

  “M. le Vicomte de Marignac?”

  “Content!”

  The next name I could not hear, for in my excitement it seemed that all in the Chamber were looking at me, that voice was failing me, that when the moment came I should sit dumb and paralysed, unable to speak, and for ever disgraced. I thought of this, not of what was passing; then, in a moment, self-control returned; I heard the last name before mine, that of M. d’Aulnoy, heard the answer given. Then my own name, echoing in hollow silence.

  “M. le Vicomte de Saux?”

  I stood up. I spoke, my voice sounding harsh, and like another man’s. “I dissent from this cahier!” I cried.

  I expected an outburst of wrath; it did not come. Instead, a peal of laughter, in which I distinguished St. Alais’ tones, rang through the room, and brought the blood to my cheeks. The laughter lasted some time, rose and fell, and rose again; while I stood pilloried. Yet this had one effect the laughers did not anticipate. On occasions the most taciturn become eloquent. I forgot the periods from Rochefoucauld and Liancourt, which I had so carefully prepared; I forgot the passages from Turgot, of which I had made notes, and I broke out in a strain I had not foreseen or intended.

  “Messieurs!” I cried, hurling my voice through the Chamber, “I dissent from this cahier because it is effete and futile; because, if for no other reason, the time when it could have been of service is past. You claim your privileges; they are gone! Your exemptions; they are gone! You protest against the union of your representatives with those of the people; but they have sat with them! They have sat with them, and you can no more undo that by a protest than you can set back the tide! The thing is done. The dog is hungry, you have given it a bone. Do you think to get the bone back, unmouthed, whole, without loss? Then you are mad. But this is not all, nor the principal of my objections to this cahier. France to-day stands naked, bankrupt, without treasury, without money. Do you think to help her, to clothe her, to enrich her, by maintaining your privileges, by maintaining your exemptions, by standing out for the last jot and tittle of your rights? No, Messieurs. In the old days those exemptions, those rights, those privileges, wherein our ancestors gloried, a
nd gloried well, were given to them because they were the buckler of France. They maintained and armed and led men; the commonalty did the rest. But now the people fight, the people pay, the people do all. Yes, Messieurs, it is true; it is true that which we have all heard, ‘Le manant paye pour tout!’”

  I paused; expecting that now, at last, the long-delayed outburst of anger would come. Instead, before any in the Chamber could speak, there rose through the windows, which looked on the market-place, and had been widely opened on account of the heat, a great cry of applause; the shout of the street, that for the first time heard its wrongs voiced. It was full of assent and rejoicing, yet no attack could have disconcerted me more completely. I stood astonished, and silenced.

  The effect which it had on me was slight, however, in comparison with that which it had on my opponents. The cries of dissent they were about to utter died stillborn at the portent; and, for a moment, men stared at one another as if they could not believe their ears. For that moment a silence of rage, of surprise, prevailed through the whole Chamber. Then M. de St. Alais sprang to his feet.

  “What is this?” he cried, his handsome face dark with excitement. “Has the King ordered us, too, to sit with the third estate? Has he so humiliated us? If not, M. le President — if not, I say,” he continued, sternly putting down an attempt at applause, “and if this be not a conspiracy between some of our body and the canaille to bring about another Jacquerie — —”

  The President, a weak man of a Robe family, interrupted him. “Have a care, Monsieur,” he said. “The windows are still open.”

  “Open?”

  The President nodded.

  “And what if they are? What of it?” St. Alais answered harshly. “What of it, Monsieur?” he continued, looking round him with an eye which seemed to collect and express the scorn of the more fiery spirits. “If so, let it be so! Let them be open. Let the people hear both sides, and not only those who flatter them; those who, by building on their weakness and ignorance, and canting about their rights and our wrongs, think to exalt themselves into Retzs and Cromwells! Yes, Monsieur le President,” he continued, while I strove in vain to interrupt him, and half the Assembly rose to their feet in confusion, “I repeat the phrase — who, to the ambition of a Cromwell or a Retz add their violence, not their parts!”

  The injustice of the reproach stung me, and I turned on him. “M. le Marquis!” I cried hotly, “if, by that phrase, you refer to me — —”

  He laughed scornfully. “As you please, Monsieur,” he said.

  “I fling it back! I repudiate it!” I cried. “M. de St. Alais has called me a Retz — a Cromwell — —”

  “Pardon me,” he interposed swiftly; “a would-be Retz!”

  “A traitor, either way!” I answered, striving against the laughter, which at his repartee flashed through the room, bringing the blood rushing to my face. “A traitor either way! But I say that he is the traitor who to-day advises the King to his hurt.”

  “And not he who comes here with a mob at his back?” St. Alais retorted, with heat almost equal to my own. “Who, one man, would brow-beat a hundred, and dictate to this Assembly?”

  “Monsieur repeats himself,” I cried, cutting him short in my turn, though no laughter followed my gibe. “I deny what he says. I fling back his accusations; I retort upon him! And, for the rest, I object to this cahier, I dissent from it, I — —”

  But the Assembly was at the end of its patience. A roar of “Withdraw! withdraw!” drowned my voice, and, in a moment, the meeting so orderly a few minutes before, became a scene of wild uproar. A few of the elder men continued to keep their seats, but the majority rose; some had already sprung to the windows, and closed them, and still stood with their feet on the ledge, looking down on the confusion. Others had gone to the door and taken their stand there, perhaps with the idea of resisting intrusion. The President in vain cried for silence. His voice, equally with mine, was lost in the persistent clamour, which swelled to a louder pitch whenever I offered to speak, and sank only when I desisted.

  At length M. de St. Alais raised his hand, and with little difficulty procured silence. Before I could take advantage of it, the President interposed. “The Assembly of the noblesse of Quercy,” he said hurriedly, “is in favour of this cahier, maintaining our ancient rights, privileges, and exemptions. The Vicomte de Saux alone protests. The cahier will be presented.”

  “I protest!” I cried weakly.

  “I have said so,” the President answered, with a sneer. And a peal of derisive laughter, mingled with shouts of applause, ran round the Chamber. “The cahier will be presented. The matter is concluded.”

  Then, in a moment, magically, as it seemed to me, the Chamber resumed its ordinary aspect. The Members who had risen returned to their seats, those who had closed the windows descended, a few retired, the President proceeded with some ordinary business. Every trace of the storm disappeared. In a twinkling all was as it had been.

  Even where I sat; for no isolation, no division from my fellows could exceed that in which I had sat before. But whereas before I had had my weapon in reserve and my revenge in prospect, that was no longer so. I had shot my bolt, and I sat miserable, fettered by the silence and the strange glances that hemmed me in, and growing each moment more depressed and more self-conscious; longing to escape, yet shrinking from moving, even from looking about me.

  In this condition not the least of my misery lay in the reflection that I had done no good; that I had suffered for a quixotism, and shown myself stubborn and obstinate to no purpose. Too late, I considered that I might have maintained my principles and yet conformed; I might have stated my convictions and waived them in deference to the majority. I might have ——

  But alas! whatever I might have done, I had not done it; and the die was cast. I had declared myself against my order; I had forfeited all I could claim from my order. Henceforth, I was not of it. It was no fancy that already men who had occasion to pass before me drew their skirts aside and bowed formally as to one of another class!

  How long I should have endured this penance — these veiled insults and the courtesy that stung deeper — before I plucked up spirit to withdraw, I cannot say. It was an interposition from without that broke the spell. An usher came to me with a note. I opened it with clumsy fingers under a fire of hostile eyes, and found that it was from Louis.

  “If you have a spark of honour” — it ran— “you will meet me, without a moment’s delay, in the garden at the back of the Chapter House. Do so, and you may still call yourself a gentleman. Refuse, or delay even for ten minutes, and I will publish your shame from one end of Quercy to the other. He cannot call himself Adrien du Pont de Saux, who puts up with a blow!”

  I read it twice while the usher waited. The words had a cruel, heartless ring in them; the taunting challenge was brutal in its directness. Yet my heart grew soft as I read, and I had much ado to keep the tears from my eyes — under all those eyes. For Louis did not deceive me this time. This note, so unlike him, this desperate attempt to draw me out, and save me from opponents more ruthless, were too transparent to delude me; and, in a moment, the icy bands which had been growing over me melted. I still sat alone; but I was not quite deserted. I could hold up my head again, for I had a friend. I remembered that, after all, through all, I was Adrien du Pont de Saux, guiltless of aught worse than holding in Quercy opinions which the Lameths and Mirabeaus, the Liancourts and Rochefoucaulds held in their provinces; guiltless, I told myself, of aught besides standing for right and justice.

  But the usher waited. I took from the desk before me a scrap of paper, and wrote my answer. “Adrien does not fight with Louis because St. Alais struck Saux.”

  I wrapped it up and gave it to the usher; then I sat back a different man, able to meet all eyes, with a heart armed against all misfortunes. Friendship, generosity, love, still existed, though the gentry of Quercy, the Gontauts, and Marignacs, sat aloof. Life would still hold sweets, though the grass should grow
in the walnut avenue, and my shield should never quarter the arms of St. Alais.

  So I took courage, stood up, and moved to go out. But the moment I did so, a dozen Members sprang to their feet also; and, as I walked down one gangway towards the door, they crowded down another parallel with it; offensively, openly, with the evident intention of intercepting me before I could escape. The commotion was so great that the President paused in his reading to watch the result; while the mass of Members who kept their places, rose that they might have a better view. I saw that I was to be publicly insulted, and a fierce joy took the place of every other feeling. If I went slowly, it was not through fear; the pent-up passions of the last hour inspired me, and I would not have hastened the climax for the world. I reached the foot of the gangway, in another moment we must have come into collision, when an abrupt explosion of voices, a great roar in the street, that penetrated through the closed windows, brought us to a halt. We paused, listening and glaring, while the few who had not stood up before, rose hurriedly, and the President, startled and suspicious, asked what it was.

  For answer the sound rose again — dull, prolonged, shaking the windows; a hoarse shout of triumph. It fell — not ceasing, but passing away into the distance — and then once more it swelled up. It was unlike any shout I had ever heard.

  Little by little articulate words grew out of it, or succeeded it; until the air shook with the measured rhythm of one stern sentence. “A bas la Bastille! A bas la Bastille!”

  We were to hear many such cries in the time to come, and grow accustomed to such alarms; to the hungry roar in the street, and the loud knocking at the door that spelled fate. But they were a new thing then, and the Assembly, as much outraged as alarmed by this second trespass on its dignity, could only look at its President, and mutter wrathful threats against the canaille. The canaille that had crouched for a century seemed in some unaccountable way to be changing its posture!