“Yet, M. de Mirabeau?” I said. “I have heard you call him a great man.”
“It is true,” Father Benôit answered, keeping his eyes on mine, while he drummed softly on the table with his fingers.
“I have heard you speak of him with admiration.”
“Often.”
“And of M. de Lafayette?”
“Yes.”
“And the Lameths?”
M. le Curé nodded.
“Yet all these,” I said stubbornly, “all these are nobles — nobles leading the people!”
“Yes,” he said.
“And you do not blame them?”
“No, I do not blame them.”
“Nay, you admire them! You admire them, Father,” I persisted, glowering at him.
“I know I do,” he said. “I know that I am weak and a fool. Perhaps worse, M. le Vicomte, in that I have not the courage of my convictions. But, though I admire those men, though I think them great and to be admired, I have heard men speak of them who thought otherwise; and — it may be weak — but I knew you as a boy, and I would not have men speak so of you. There are things we admire at a distance,” he continued, looking at me a little drolly, to hide the affection that shone in his eyes, “which we, nevertheless, do not desire to find in those we love. Odium heaped on a stranger is nothing to us; on our friends, it were worse than death.”
He stopped, his voice trembling; and we were both silent for a while. Still, I would not let him see how much his words had touched me; and by-and-by ——
“But my father?” I said. “He was strongly on the side of reform!”
“Yes, by the nobles, for the people.”
“But the nobles have cast me out!” I answered. “Because I have gone a yard, I have lost all. Shall I not go two, and win all back?”
“Win all,” he said softly— “but lose how much?”
“Yet if the people win? And you say they will?”
“Even then, Tribune of the People,” he answered gently, “and an outcast!”
They were the very words I had applied to myself as I rode; and I started. With sudden vividness I saw the picture they presented; and I understood why Father Benôit had hesitated so long in my case. With the purest intentions and the most upright heart, I could not make myself other than what I was; I should rise, were my efforts crowned with success, to a point of splendid isolation; suspected by the people, whose benefactor I had been, hated and cursed by the nobles whom I had deserted.
Such a prospect would have been far from deterring some; and others it might have lured. But I found myself, in this moment of clear vision, no hero. Old prejudices stirred in the blood, old traditions, born of centuries of precedence and privilege, awoke in the memory. A shiver of doubt and mistrust — such as, I suppose, has tormented reformers from the first, and caused all but the hardiest to flinch — passed through me, as I gazed across the candles at the Curé. I feared the people — the unknown. The howl of exultation, that had rent the air in the Market-place at Cahors, the brutal cries that had hailed Gontaut’s fall, rang again in my ears. I shrank back, as a man shrinks who finds himself on the brink of an abyss, and through the wavering mist, parted for a brief instant by the wind, sees the cruel rocks and jagged points that wait for him below.
It was a moment of extraordinary prevision, and though it passed, and speedily left me conscious once more of the silent room and the good Curé — who affected to be snuffing one of the long candles — the effect it produced on my mind continued. After Father Benôit had taken his leave, and the house was closed, I walked for an hour up and down the walnut avenue; now standing to gaze between the open iron gates that gave upon the road; now turning my back on them, and staring at the grey, gaunt, steep-roofed house with its flanking tower and round tourelles.
Henceforth, I made up my mind, I would stand aside. I would welcome reform, I would do in private what I could to forward it; but I would not a second time set myself against my fellows. I had had the courage of my opinions. Henceforth, no man could say that I had hidden them, but after this I would stand aside and watch the course of events.
A cock crowed at the rear of the house — untimely; and across the hushed fields, through the dusk, came the barking of a distant dog. As I stood listening, while the solemn stars gazed down, the slight which St. Alais had put upon me dwindled — dwindled to its true dimensions. I thought of Mademoiselle Denise, of the bride I had lost, with a faint regret that was almost amusement. What would she think of this sudden rupture? I wondered. Of this strange loss of her fiancé? Would it awaken her curiosity, her interest? Or would she, fresh from her convent school, think that things in the world went commonly so — that fiancés came and passed, and receptions found their natural end in riot?
I laughed softly, pleased that I had made up my mind. But, had I known, as I listened to the rustling of the poplars in the road, and the sounds that came out of the darkened world beyond them, what was passing there — had I known that, I should have felt even greater satisfaction. For this was Wednesday, the 22nd of July; and that night Paris still palpitated after viewing strange things. For the first time she had heard the horrid cry, “A la lanterne!” and seen a man, old and white-headed, hanged, and tortured, until death freed him. She had seen another, the very Intendant of the City, flung down, trampled and torn to pieces in his own streets — publicly, in full day, in the presence of thousands. She had seen these things, trembling; and other things also — things that had made the cheeks of reformers grow pale, and betrayed to all thinking men that below Lafayette, below Bailly, below the Municipality and the Electoral Committee, roared and seethed the awakened forces of the Faubourgs, of St. Antoine, and St. Marceau!
What could be expected, what was to be expected, but that such outrages, remaining unpunished, should spread? Within a week the provinces followed the lead of Paris. Already, on the 21st the mob of Strasbourg had sacked the Hôtel de Ville and destroyed the Archives; and during the same week, the Bastilles at Bordeaux and Caen were taken and destroyed. At Rouen, at Rennes, at Lyons, at St. Malo, were great riots, with fighting; and nearer Paris, at Poissy, and St. Germain, the populace hung the millers. But, as far as Cahors was concerned, it was not until the astonishing tidings of the King’s surrender reached us, a few days later — tidings that on the 17th of July he had entered insurgent Paris, and tamely acquiesced in the destruction of the Bastille — it was not until that news reached us, and hard on its heels a rumour of the second rising on the 22nd, and the slaughter of Foulon and Berthier — it was not until then, I say, that the country round us began to be moved. Father Benôit, with a face of astonishment and doubt, brought me the tidings, and we walked on the terrace discussing it. Probably reports, containing more or less of the truth, had reached the city before, and, giving men something else to think of, had saved me from challenge or molestation. But, in the country where I had spent the week in moody unrest, and not unfrequently reversing in the morning the decision at which I had arrived in the night, I had heard nothing until the Curé came — I think on the morning of the 29th of July.
“And what do you think now?” I said thoughtfully, when I had listened to his tale.
“Only what I did before,” he answered stoutly. “It has come. Without money, and therefore without soldiers who will fight, with a starving people, with men’s minds full of theories and abstractions, that all tend towards change, what can a Government do?”
“Apparently it can cease to govern,” I said tartly; “and that is not what any one wants.”
“There must be a period of unrest,” he replied, but less confidently. “The forces of order, however, the forces of the law have always triumphed. I don’t doubt that they will again.”
“After a period of unrest?”
“Yes,” he answered. “After a period of unrest. And, I confess, I wish that we were through that. But we must be of good heart, M. le Vicomte. We must trust the people; we must confide in their good sense, t
heir capacity for government, their moderation — —”
I had to interrupt him. “What is it, Gil?” I said with a gesture of apology. The servant had come out of the house and was waiting to speak to me.
“M. Doury, M. le Vicomte, from Cahors,” he answered.
“The inn-keeper?”
“Yes, Monsieur; and Buton. They ask to see you.”
“Together?” I said. It seemed a strange conjunction.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Well, show them here,” answered, after consulting my companion’s face. “But Doury? I paid my bill. What can he want?”
“We shall see,” Father Benôit answered, his eyes on the door. “Here they come. Ah! Now, M. le Vicomte,” he continued in a lower tone, “I feel less confident.”
I suppose he guessed something akin to the truth; but for my part I was completely at a loss. The innkeeper, a sleek, complaisant man, of whom, though I had known him some years, I had never seen much beyond the crown of his head, nor ever thought of him as apart from his guests and his ordinary, wore, as he advanced, a strange motley of dignity and subservience; now strutting with pursed lips, and an air of extreme importance, and now stooping to bow in a shame-faced and half-hearted manner. His costume was as great a surprise as his appearance, for, instead of his citizen’s suit of black, he sported a blue coat with gold buttons, and a canary waistcoat, and he carried a gold-headed cane; sober splendours, which, nevertheless, paled before two large bunches of ribbons, white, red, and blue, which he wore, one on his breast, and one in his hat.
His companion, who followed a foot or two behind, his giant frame and sun-burned face setting off the citizen’s plumpness, was similarly bedizened. But though be-ribboned and in strange company, he was still Baton, the smith. His face reddened as he met my eyes, and he shielded himself as well as he could behind Doury’s form.
“Good-morning, Doury,” I said. I could have laughed at the awkward complaisance of the man’s manner, if something in the gravity of the Curé’s face had not restrained me. “What brings you to Saux?” I continued. “And what can I do for you?”
“If it please you, M. le Vicomte,” he began. Then he paused, and straightening himself — for habit had bent his back — he continued abruptly, “Public business, Monsieur, with you on it.”
“With me?’ I said, amazed. On public business?”
He smiled in a sickly way, but stuck to his text. “Even so, Monsieur,” he said. “There are such great changes, and — and so great need of advice.”
“That I ought not to wonder at M. Doury seeking it at Saux?”
“Even so, Monsieur.”
I did not try to hide my contempt and amusement; but shrugged my shoulders, and looked at the Curé.
“Well,” I said, after a moment of silence, “and what is it? Have you been selling bad wine? Or do you want the number of courses limited by Act of the States General? Or — —”
“Monsieur,” he said, drawing himself up with an attempt at dignity, “this is no time for jesting. In the present crisis inn-keepers have as much at stake as, with reverence, the noblesse; and deserted by those who should lead them — —”
“What, the inn-keepers?” I cried.
He grew as red as a beetroot. “M. le Vicomte understands that I mean the people,” he said stiffly. “Who deserted, I say, by their natural leaders — —”
“For instance?”
“M. le Duc d’Artois, M. le Prince de Condé, M. le Duc de Polignac, M. — —”
“Bah!” I said. “How have they deserted?”
“Pardieu, Monsieur! Have you not heard?”
“Have I not heard what?”
“That they have left France? That on the night of the 17th, three days after the capture of the Bastille, the princes of the blood left France by stealth, and — —”
“Impossible!” I said. “Impossible! Why should they leave?”
“That is the very question, M. le Vicomte,” he answered, with eager forwardness, “that is being asked. Some say that they thought to punish Paris by withdrawing from it. Some that they did it to show their disapproval of his most gracious Majesty’s amnesty, which was announced on that day. Some that they stand in fear. Some even that they anticipated Foulon’s fate — —”
“Fool!” I cried, stopping him sternly — for I found this too much for my stomach— “you rave! Go back to your menus and your bouillis! What do you know about State affairs? Why, in my grandfather’s time,” I continued wrathfully, “if you had spoken of princes of the blood after that fashion, you would have tasted bread and water for six months, and been lucky had you got off unwhipped!”
He quailed before me, and forgetting his new part in old habits, muttered an apology. He had not meant to give offence, he said. He had not understood. Nevertheless, I was preparing to read him a lesson when, to my astonishment, Buton intervened.
“But, Monsieur, that is thirty years back,” he said doggedly.
“What, villain?” I exclaimed, almost breathless with astonishment, “what do you in this galère?”
“I am with him,” he answered, indicating his companion by a sullen gesture.
“On State business?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Why, mon Dieu,” I cried, staring at them between amusement and incredulity, “if this is true, why did you not bring the watch-dog as well! And Farmer Jean’s ram? And the good-wife’s cat? And M. Doury’s turnspit? And — —”
M. le Curé touched my arm. “Perhaps you had better hear what they have to say,” he observed softly. “Afterwards, M. le Vicomte — —”
I nodded sulkily. “What is it, then?” I said. “Ask what you want to ask.”
“The Intendant has fled,” Doury answered, recovering something of his lost dignity, “and we are forming, in pursuance of advice received from Paris, and following the glorious example of that city, a Committee; a Committee to administer the affairs of the district. From that Committee, I, Monsieur, with my good friend here, have the honour to be a deputation.”
“With him?” I said, unable to control myself longer. “But, in heaven’s name, what has he to do with the Committee? Or the affairs of the district?”
And I pointed with relentless finger at Buton, who reddened under his tan, and moved his huge feet uneasily, but did not speak.
“He is a member of it,” the inn-keeper answered, regarding his colleague with a side glance, which seemed to express anything but liking. “This Committee, to be as perfect as possible, Monsieur le Vicomte will understand, must represent all classes.”
“Even mine, I suppose,” I said, with a sneer.
“It is on that business we have come,” he answered awkwardly. “To ask, in a word, M. le Vicomte, that you will allow yourself to be elected a member, and not only a member ——
“What elevation!”
“But President of the Committee.”
After all — it was no more than I had been foreseeing! It had come suddenly, but in the main it was only that in sober fact which I had foreseen in a dream. Styled the mandate of the people, it had sounded well; by the mouth of Doury, the inn-keeper, Buton assessor, it jarred every nerve in me. I say, it should not have surprised me; while such things were happening in the world, with a King who stood by and saw his fortress taken, and his servants killed, and pardoned the rebels; with an Intendant of Paris slaughtered in his own streets; with rumours and riots in every province, and flying princes, and swinging millers, there was really nothing wonderful in the invitation. And now, looking back, I find nothing surprising in it. I have lived to see men of the same trade as Doury, stand by the throne, glittering in stars and orders; and a smith born in the forge sit down to dine with Emperors. But that July day on the terrace at Saux, the offer seemed of all farces the wildest, and of all impertinences the most absurd.
“Thanks, Monsieur,” I said, at last, when I had sufficiently recovered from my astonishment. “If I understand you rightly, you ask me to
sit on the same Committee with that man?” And I pointed grimly to Buton. “With the peasant born on my land, and subject yesterday to my justice? With the serf whom my fathers freed? With the workman living on my wages?”
Doury glanced at his colleague. “Well, M. le Vicomte,” he said, with a cough, “to be perfect, you understand, a Committee must represent all.”
“A Committee!” I retorted, unable to repress my scorn. “It is a new thing in France. And what is the perfect Committee to do?”
Doury on a sudden recovered himself, and swelled with importance. “The Intendant has fled,” he said, “and people no longer trust the magistrates. There are rumours of brigands, too; and corn is required. With all this the Committee must deal. It must take measures to keep the peace, to supply the city, to satisfy the soldiers, to hold meetings, and consider future steps. Besides, M. le Vicomte,” he continued, puffing out his cheeks, “it will correspond with Paris; it will administer the law; it will — —”
“In a word,” I said quietly, “it will govern. The King, I suppose, having abdicated.”
Doury shrank bodily, and even lost some of his colour. “God forbid!” he said, in a whining tone. “It will do all in his Majesty’s name.”
“And by his authority?”
The inn-keeper stared at me, startled and nonplussed; and muttered something about the people.
“Ah!” I said. “It is the people who invite me to govern, then, is it? With an inn-keeper and a peasant? And other inn-keepers and peasants, I suppose? To govern! To usurp his Majesty’s functions? To supersede his magistrates; to bribe his forces? In a word, friend Doury,” I continued suavely, “to commit treason. Treason, you understand?”
The inn-keeper did; and he wiped his forehead with a shaking hand, and stood, scared and speechless, looking at me piteously. A second time the blacksmith took it on himself to answer.
“Monseigneur,” he muttered, drawing his great black hand across his beard.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 211
