The Count d'Arlincourt had just left the palace at Versailles.
He had been present at the reception to the Royal Flanders regiment. He had heard their vow of fidelity to the king. He had been among the officers and the nobles of the court who had trampled under foot the tricolor of Paris and decorated their coats with the white cockade, and now he left the royal presence with his sovereign's thanks and commendations ringing in his ears.
As he proceeded through the courtyard three gentlemen entered at the main gate. A shade of annoyance passed over the count's brow as he recognized St. Hilaire and two other noblemen, all members of the States General, and all reputed to lean somewhat too radically toward the popular side in politics. He had hardly seen St. Hilaire since the breakfast party at the house of the latter three months before. The toast of the marquis and his expressed sympathy with revolutionary orders had caused a decided estrangement.
Indeed, St. Hilaire and the two noblemen who were with him had become alienated from their order, and many of their former friends among the nobility had refused to speak or hold any relations with them whatever.
The count could not avoid meeting them, but he was undecided whether to ignore them entirely or pass them with such a slight inclination of the head as to be equally cutting.
The cordial bow of the Marquis de St. Hilaire, however, for whom he had always felt a peculiar and inexplicable regard, caused him to change his mind.
He saluted the three gentlemen politely, though with a certain reserve of manner natural to him, and addressed St. Hilaire.
"A word with you, marquis," he said, "if I may be pardoned for taking you from these gentlemen for a few minutes?"
St. Hilaire turned to his companions: "With your permission, messieurs, I will join you in five minutes in the palace."
The gentlemen bowed in assent and walked toward the palace, leaving the count and the marquis alone in the centre of the court.
"You were not present at the reception in the palace. We missed you greatly, marquis," the former began, with an attempt at cordiality of manner, having resolved to make one last appeal to his friend.
"Thank you, my dear d'Arlincourt, for your kindness in saying so," replied the marquis affably, "but I must tell you frankly that even if affairs in the Assembly had not claimed my time, other circumstances would have rendered my presence at this banquet impossible."
"The king," continued d'Arlincourt quietly, "inquired for you several times and seemed much disturbed at your absence."
"I am now on my way to wait upon his majesty," replied St. Hilaire.
The count's face lighted up. "A tardy apology is better than none at all, for I presume you are going to explain your absence."
"The two gentlemen who have left us, and myself, have been sent by the convention as a committee to urge his majesty to sanction their latest decrees,—the bill relating to popular rights," replied St. Hilaire quietly.
"For the love of Heaven, Raphael!" burst out the count, "can it be possible that you intend to persist in championing the popular cause, like the Duke d'Orleans, or the Marquis de Lafayette? Your present position is that of a madman. Come back to our side now. To-morrow it may be too late."
"For the life of me, André," replied St. Hilaire lightly, "I cannot tell you to-day what my line of action will be to-morrow, but in any case I beg you will not compare me either with the duke or Lafayette. I am neither as dull as the one nor as virtuous as the other. Why not permit me still to resemble only the Marquis de St. Hilaire?"
"Then," replied the count warmly, "I tell you that as the Marquis de St. Hilaire, your duty to the king should have brought you to the reception in honor of the Flanders regiment."
The marquis dropped his air of levity suddenly. "Do you know, count," he said slowly, "I have just come from the Assembly, where news reached us a little while ago that a mob of forty thousand was marching from Paris toward Versailles."
The count started with surprise, but betrayed no other emotion.
"Is it a fitting time to be fêting a regiment composed of mercenaries? Is it a fitting time to be clinking glasses and drinking toasts when forty thousand men and women are approaching with their cry for bread?"
The count drew himself up as he replied,—"What more fitting time could there be for the loyal nobles to gather about their sovereign than in the hour of danger? I, for one, would not let the fear of any Paris mob keep me from the king's side at such a moment."
St. Hilaire flushed deeply. "Count d'Arlincourt," he said quickly, "I pass over that insinuation because it comes from an old friend. But know this: that I am one of the members of the Assembly who have sworn to support the constitution and enforce the rights of man. I should indeed have been false to my trust had I participated in a fête to these foreigners where oaths were openly made to defeat that constitution."
"Our ideas of duty evidently differ," replied the count stiffly. "My duty is to my king."
"They do differ," said St. Hilaire. "My first allegiance is to the nation. Count d'Arlincourt, I respect you and your opinions, but I also have a regard for my oath. I have chosen my path and I shall follow it."
"Good-day, Marquis de St. Hilaire," said the count, in his usual cold manner.
"Farewell, Count d'Arlincourt," was the polite rejoinder, and raising his hat St. Hilaire passed onward in the direction of the palace.
Forty thousand men and women were marching from Paris to Versailles. They had forced a king to recall a banished minister. They had sacked a prison fortress,—razing to the ground walls that had frowned on them for ages, wiping out in one day a landmark of tyranny that had been standing there for centuries. Now they were coming to see their king at his palace. They had heard of the banquet at Versailles, given in honor of the royal Flanders regiment, where wine had flowed like water and where food was in abundance. At such a banquet, they argued, there must be bread enough for the whole world; and they were coming to get their share of it.
Although it was in the month of October, the sun was hot and the road dusty. In the front rank, amid all the dust and sweat and noise, walked Robert Tournay. He carried no weapon, nor did he seek to lead; but animated by curiosity and by sympathy, he felt himself drawn into this great heaving mass of people who had decided to correct these abuses themselves, even if to do it they had to take the laws into their own hands.
Hearing a shout and rumble of wheels behind him, Tournay looked over his shoulder to see a cannon coming through the crowd, which parted on each side to let it pass, and then closed up behind it. This cannon was drawn along the road by a score of men, whose bare feet, beating the dust, sent up a pulverous cloud that blew back into the faces of those behind like smoke.
Seated upon the gun carriage, her hair streaming in the wind, was a young woman wearing the red cap of liberty, and waving in her hand a blood-red flag. The cannon stopped under the shade of some poplar trees, and men stood around it wiping the perspiration from their foreheads.
"A cheer for the Goddess of Liberty," cried a voice in the crowd. A shout went up that made the poplars tremble.
"Citizens," cried the girl, in response, standing erect and flinging her flag to the breeze, "you want bread!"
"Bread! Bread!" was the answering shout.
"The women of Paris will lead you to it. Then you shall help yourselves."
"Show us where it is and we'll take it fast enough," was the answering cry.
"Where should it be but in the king's palace? There they are feasting while the people in Paris are starving. They shall give the people of their bread!"
"What if they have eaten it all?" asked another voice.
"Then shall the king bake more," answered the girl—"enough for every one in his kingdom. He shall be the nation's baker, and his wife shall help him knead the dough, and their little boy shall give out the loaves."
There was a laugh at this and cries of "Good! Good!"
"My friends," she continued, taking off her cap and swinging it by the tassel, "this marching is hot work, and talking is dry business. Has any one a drink for La Demoiselle Liberté?"
A number of bottles were instantly proffered her.
"Thiseau de vieputs new life into one," she exclaimed, throwing back her head and putting a flask to her lips. With an easy gesture she took a deep draught of the liquor, to the increasing admiration of the bystanders. On removing the bottle from her lips, she said with a nod: "How many of you men can beat that? Here goes one more." She was on the point of repeating the act when she caught sight of Tournay, who had drawn near and stood by the wheel of the truck looking at her intently.
"Here, friend, you look at this liquor thirstily; take a good pull at it. You're a likely youth, and a sup of brandy will foster your strength! What! You will not drink? Bah, man! I would not have it said that I was a little boy, afraid of good liquor. But why do you stare at me like that, without speaking? Have you no tongue?" Tournay put aside the proffered bottle and said:—
"I stared at you because I know you. You are Marianne Froment, the miller's daughter, who left La Thierry a year ago. And you should remember Robert Tournay."
The young woman shook her head with a decided gesture.
"You mistake, friend; my name is not Marianne Froment. I know no miller, and have never heard of the place you speak of."
Tournay remembered when he had seen her last in the alley of the park. He felt no animosity toward her; instead he felt compassion for the silly girl whose head had been turned by the flattery of a nobleman who had already grown tired of her.
"It is you who are mistaken, Marianne," he replied quietly, "although when I knew you at La Thierry, drinking strong liquor was not one of your practices."
"I am La Demoiselle Liberté," replied the girl defiantly, throwing her brown curls back from her forehead and replacing her cap. "I have drunk such liquor as this from my cradle. So here's to you! May you some day grow to be a man."
Tournay stayed the bottle in its course to her lips, and took her hand in his.
"You are Marianne Froment," he persisted, "and it would be much better for you to be in the quiet country of La Thierry. Why not go back?"
"If Marianne did go back, who would speak to her? Who among all those who live there would take her by the hand?" she asked.
"Have I not taken you by the hand just now?" asked Tournay.
"I believe you would be the only one," she replied, stifling a sigh. "Not even my father would do that. But you are no longer at La Thierry. What are you doing here, and what sent you away from home? Are you going back?"
Tournay shook his head. "There are reasons," he replied slowly, "why I can never return."
"Neither can Marianne Froment," rejoined the girl. "Therefore, compatriot, drink with me to our future good comradeship. And pass the bottle to your neighbor. Then let us go on together.En avant, my friends," she cried out in a loud voice. "The sooner we start again the earlier we shall reach our bakery. Follow the carriage of La Demoiselle Liberté, and she will lead you to it."
A score of brawny arms grasped the ropes attached to the truck, and with a heavy rattle the cannon was drawn through the crowd, which cheered it on its way.
The forty thousand swept into Versailles in an overpowering tide, finding nothing to stop their triumphant course.
The crowd choked up the streets of the town, filling the public square and invading the Assembly chamber.
The Assembly, with all the gravity and dignity of its recent birth, rose to its feet to greet as many of the Paris deputation as could crowd into the room, steaming with the sweat and dust of the march. Outside the door another crowd remained, clamoring noisily.
The president of the Assembly addressed them in a few words full of dignity. "I have just learned," he said in his quiet way, "that the king has been pleased to accord his royal sanction to all the articles of the Bill of Popular Rights which was passed by your Assembly on the 5th of August."
"Will that give the people more bread?" asked La Demoiselle, looking up at Tournay with an inquiring expression in her brown eyes. Despite her red cap, her swagger, and her boisterous talk, she was very pretty and child-like. As he looked down upon her standing by his side her brown head did not reach his shoulder.
"Whether it gives them bread or not, it is a glorious thing for the people," exclaimed Tournay with enthusiasm.
A few minutes later the demoiselle yawned. "The old fellow is too tiresome," she said; "let us go to the palace and get our bread."
Evidently the same thought moved the rest of the deputation. They began to file out, while President Meunier was still addressing them, with a restless scuffling of their feet, and a murmuring among themselves, "To the palace! To the palace!"
The last Tournay saw of Demoiselle Liberté she was pushing through the crowd that made way for her right willingly, while she cried out: "I will show you the bakery, my brave people; I am now on my way to interview the chief baker."
The forty thousand got their bread. They got their bread and more. They pressed in so close upon their monarch, they were so menacing, so determined in their way, that he promised to dismiss his royal Flanders regiment and go back to Paris with his beloved subjects. And so the hungry, sullen, desperate mob became a shouting, happy, victorious one. They cheered their monarch, who had sworn to be a father to his people; they cheered the royal family, even the queen; but most of all they cheered the loaves of bread which were distributed among the eager multitude. Every shop in the town was soon depleted of its stock, and all the bakers were working over-time to supply the food.
"Did I not tell you I would lead you where bread was plenty?" demanded the Demoiselle de la Liberté gayly of those gathered around. "The king is a capital baker; we have only to keep him with us and we shall have food at all times." And she dipped her crust in a cup of wine.
"We will take our baker back with us to Paris," cried one.
"Aye, and the baker's wife and his little boy," cried another. At this there was a laugh.
Tournay, who had aided in the distribution of the food, approached the group, relieved by the thought that all were satisfied and contented, at least for the moment.
"Ah, there is my handsome compatriot," exclaimed the demoiselle as soon as she set eyes upon him. "Wilt thou join us in our supper, compatriot?" she called out. She was seated carelessly on the truck of the gun-carriage, with a cup of wine in one hand and a half-loaf in the other, her face flushed with excitement. Unlike most of the women who stood about her, she was of graceful form, with hands and arms unblackened by hard toil, and the skin of her throat soft and white. She wore her red cap in a rakish manner on the side of her head, its tassel falling down over her forehead between her eyes. Every little while she would throw it back by a quick toss of the head.
Tournay took the cup from her outstretched hand, and put it to his lips. "Marianne," he said in a low tone, "it would be better if you were at home among your own people."
"Why do you still call me by that name?" she asked in a tone of suppressed passion. "Myhome is Paris.Theseare my people. They never question who I am nor whence I came. There is not one in La Thierry who would deal thus with me, unless it be yourself. You took my hand this morning. And for that I will take yours and call you my compatriot." Then changing to her usual tone of gayety, she cried aloud, "Come, compatriot! This has been a glorious day. The people of Paris have captured their king and are about to take him to Paris. Give us a toast!"
Tournay felt that what she had said was true. Probably not one of those who had known Marianne in La Thierry would speak to her should she return there. He turned to those who stood around the gun. "Friends," he cried, "I drink to freedom! May all among you who love it as I do live for it and be ready to die for it." There was a shout as he turned away and left them, and over his shoulder, looking back, he saw the demoiselle dancing on the cannon, cup in hand.
He left the crowded part of the city to find some quiet spot as a change from the noise and tumult of the past two days. Turning a corner he came face to face with a man whom he had seen among the crowd in the Assembly hall,—a man of gigantic stature with deep-set eyes. His appearance was so striking that he could have passed nowhere unnoticed, and even in the crowded hall Tournay's gaze had returned to him constantly. As they met, Tournay again looked at him earnestly. The man stopped with the abrupt question:—
"Why did you come to Versailles?"
"Because," answered Tournay, "when I saw great numbers of people in Paris starving, and heard of the banqueting here, my blood boiled. This Flanders regiment, which is feeding fat at the people's cost, must be sent away. We cannot pause on our way to freedom with the destruction of the Bastille. The king must come to Paris where the people need him, and not spend his time here under the influence of a corrupt nobility."
"The king," mused the other; "do you believe in kings?"
"How do you mean?—'Do I believe in kings'?"
"Seventeen years ago," said the giant, "when only a boy, I stood in the cathedral at Rheims while the coronation of the king was taking place. I had never seen a king before, and moved by a strong desire to see a being so exalted, I had walked many leagues to gratify my curiosity. When I saw a pale-faced stripling kneel before the archbishop to receive the crown, I could hardly keep from bursting into loud laughter at the thought that such a puny creature could hold the destiny of a great nation in his hands. I have often thought of it since, and to this day it is as absurd as it was then."
"I think a nation should have a king," said Tournay, after a few moments' thought. "But he should reign in the interests of his people. And of all the people, not a small part."
"And so you came down here to see that our little king did his duty," suggested the large man, smiling.
"I came here, as I have already said, because in my humble way I wanted to do something for my country."
"For your country?" repeated his companion interrogatively; "for the people?"
"Yes," answered Tournay, "the people,—the common people, to whom I belong; those who have never had a voice lifted up to speak for them, nor a hand to fight their battles."
"There is a voice to speak for them at last," replied the giant, his eyes shining with a fierce light. "France is full of them. From north to south, from east to west, they have been called and are answering. In the Assembly their voices are heard. In every street in Paris their voices are heard. I can speak for them and I will; aye and fight for them too," and he lifted his massive arm with a gesture which in its force seemed to indicate that alone he could fight for and win the people's cause. "Throughout France there are millions of arms which like mine are ready to strike down tyranny. Have no fear, my friend. The nation has found a champion in itself! The people have taken up their own cause!" The power of the man, his earnestness and energy, stirred Tournay to the depths of his soul. He looked with admiration at the lion-like figure standing before him. Then grasping the man's hand he said with earnestness:—
"I too am one of them,—I may not be of much use, still I am one. Will you show me how I can be of more service?"
"A stout arm and a brave heart are always worth much," replied the giant. "I like you, friend; your voice has the true ring in it. And where Jacques Danton likes he trusts. Come with me and I will tell you more."
Colonel Robert Tournay of the Republican army sat over his coffee in the café of the "Bon Patriot" one December morning in the year 1793 of the Gregorian Calendar, and the year 2 of the French Republic.
The four years that had passed since the July afternoon, when he first entered Paris through the southern gate, had been full of stirring events in which Tournay had taken such an active part as to make the time equal to many years of an ordinary lifetime,—years which had drawn lines upon his forehead that are not usual upon the brow of twenty-six. His figure was considerably heavier, but even more elastic and muscular, telling of a life of constant bodily exercise.
Shortly after his return to Paris from Versailles on the eventful day when the Demoiselle de la Liberté, accompanied by her forty thousand, brought the baker and his family back to their people, Tournay had enrolled himself in the National Guard to protect Paris and the country against foreign invasion.
From Paris to the army at the front was the next step, where he served with such bravery as to gain promotion to his present rank. Promotions were rapid in those days, and men rose from the lowest social ranks to the highest military positions, if they proved their fitness by valor and ability.
By the winter of '93 Tournay had won the shoulder-straps of a colonel, and had now been sent to Paris by General Hoche with dispatches to the National Convention. His dispatches had been delivered and he was waiting impatiently for the reply which he was to take back to the front. More than eighteen months had passed since he had been in Paris, and the scenes in the city streets had a new charm for him. It was with a feeling of pride that he looked out from the windows of the "Bon Patriot" and saw the active, bustling crowds on the boulevards and realized that the Republic was an accomplished fact and that he had done his part toward creating it. And yet there was some sadness mingled with his pride. Although an ardent Republican he could not sympathize in all the horrors of the Revolution,—indeed he had been greatly shocked by them. Yet his long absence from Paris had prevented him from witnessing the worst phases of the reign of terror, and thus he could not fully realize them. He was, moreover, first of all, a man of the people. He had resented from childhood the cruelty and oppressions under which they had suffered, and his joy at the abolition of unjust laws, his pride in the assertion of equality for all men, overweighed his regret for the bloodshed that had accompanied the triumph of their cause and the gaining of the Republic.
Sitting over his coffee, he recalled his early life at La Thierry. Since the day of his flight, he had never returned there, and with the exception of an annual letter from his father, who although a Royalist could not quite make up his mind to cast off his only son, he had no communication with the inhabitants of the château. From these occasional and brief epistles he had learned that the Baron de Rochefort had gone to England almost at the outbreak of the Revolution. In a more roundabout way he learned the cause of the baron's departure to be a secret mission to the Court of St. James on behalf of the tottering French monarchy. The mission had come to naught; the baron had fallen ill in London and died there a few months after his arrival.
Edmé, his only child, was therefore left at La Thierry, where she lived in great seclusion, with Matthieu Tournay still in faithful attendance. The marriage with the Marquis de Lacheville had never taken place. As the Revolution progressed and the de Rochefort fortune dwindled, the marquis's ardor, never at glowing heat, cooled perceptibly, and during the past two years nothing had been heard of him at the château. It was thought that he had either gone abroad or was living in seclusion in Paris.
Tournay had sometimes felt a little anxious as to the safety of Mademoiselle Edmé and his father, but the letters he received from old Matthieu were reassuring, and as the place was a secluded one and the family not known to have shared actively in the royalist cause, his anxieties had for some time been allayed and he thought of them now as likely to escape suspicion and to remain there in quiet obscurity.
Tournay was roused from his reverie by the conversation of two men at an adjoining table, or, more strictly speaking, a man and a boy, for the younger was not over seventeen years of age. His face was quite innocent of any beard. On his yellow curls he wore the red nightcap of the Jacobins and his belt was an arsenal of knives and pistols. Taking up a glass of beer he blew off the froth with a quick puff of the lips.
"Thus would I blow off the heads of all kings," he said in a voice that courted attention; "I give you a toast, comrade: death to every tyrant in Europe."
"I'll drink that toast willingly," answered the other, a big fellow, who despite his swagger and insolent manner, had a face bearing considerable traces of good looks. "But I should prefer to drink confusion to each in a separate glass, seeing that you are standing treat for the day," and he laughed at his own wit.
"The Revolution does not march quick enough to suit my fancy," he went on, turning his glass upside down to indicate that it needed replenishing, and then wiping the froth from the ends of his drooping brown mustache. "The convention is too slow in its work of purging the nation. Were it not for Robespierre we should make no progress. Why are there still aristocrats walking in the broad light of day?"
"Very few come out in the daylight, citizen," remarked the boy. "They creep out at night generally."
"Well, why are they allowed to live at all, young friend?" said the elder man, striking the table with his fist.
"Be patient, good Citizen Gonflou; the Committee of Public Safety has sent out a good batch of arrests within the last twenty-four hours," said the lad knowingly. "I have it from my brother, who has been charged with the execution of one."
"Your brother, Bernard Gardin?" inquired the other as he drained his glass. "Who is it now?"
"Bernard has gone down to our old home in the village of La Thierry to arrest a young aristocrat by the name of Edmé de Rochefort," replied the boy.
"Oh, oh, a woman!" laughed Gonflou. "Well, I'm glad I've not got your brother's work. I'm too tender-hearted when it comes to be a question of women."
Tournay uttered an exclamation of surprise. The next instant he tipped over his coffee-cup with a clatter to cover up the betrayal of interest in the conversation, and in replacing it, managed to draw his chair nearer to the two men.
"When did he start?" was the inquiry of Gonflou.
"This morning at six. He will return in four days."
Recovered from the first shock, Tournay's resolution was immediate. Edmé de Rochefort must be saved from arrest—and from the death that was almost certain to follow.
He was a man of action, accustomed to think quickly, and he began at once to devise means to save her. His first thought was of Danton. On this man's friendship he felt sure he could rely. His ability and willingness to assist him he resolved to test immediately.
The conversation between the two men at the adjoining table took another turn and he saw he was likely to hear no more on this subject, so he rose from his seat and hurried from the café. Ten minutes later he climbed the dark stairway that led to Danton's lodging. Here he found the Republican giant in his shirtsleeves,—a short pipe between his lips, bending over his writing table. He did not look up as Tournay took a chair at his elbow, but a nod from the massive head showed that he was aware of his presence.
"Jacques," asked Tournay abruptly, "was an order for the arrest of a certain Citizeness Edmé de Rochefort signed by the committee last night?"
Danton looked at him for a moment while he stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"Hum—de Rochefort? A daughter of the Baron Honoré who went to England as emissary from the late monarchy? Yes, I believe the woman is to be arrested," was the reply.
"If I furnish you with abundant reason for it will you have the order rescinded at once?"
"I cannot," was the answer.
"Is there any other charge against the Citizeness de Rochefort except that she is the daughter of her father?"
"None that I know of."
"Why arrest a young woman merely because her father went to England as an emissary of Louis Capet more than three years ago?"
Danton shrugged his shoulders. Tournay continued.
"In view of the length of time which has elapsed, in view of the absolute lack of result from the baron's mission, in view of the youth and innocence of this girl, will you not endeavor to have this order rescinded?"
"Why do you desire it so strongly?" demanded Danton, laying down his pen for the first time.
"Because I have known her from a child. I was born on the de Rochefort estate," was the prompt reply.
"Is that all?" asked Danton.
"No, it is not the only reason. I abhor this dragging of the weak and innocent into the political whirlpool. We do not need to make war upon women. I have protested against this before now, and I tell you again that we are disgracing the Republic by the crimes committed in its name. You are all-powerful with the masses, Jacques, your voice is always listened to,—why do you not put an end to the atrocities, which instead of decreasing, are growing worse daily? Where is your eloquence? Where is your power? How can you sit passively by and see these horrors? Are they done with your sanction? Can it be that a man with your strength can take a pleasure in crushing the weak and defenseless?"
"Would to God that I had the power to stop it," cried Danton. "Do you think that I take pleasure in the arrest of innocent young women? Do you think that it is with delight that I see our prisons crowded with thousands whose only crime is to have been born among the aristocrats?" He rose and paced the floor savagely. "You talk of my power with the people. You say they listen to my voice. To keep that power I must remain in advance. If once I lag behind it is gone forever. We have given life to this terrible creature the Revolution, and we must march before it. If we falter it will crush us too."
"Let it crush us then," cried Tournay, springing to his feet. "I will no longer be driven by it."
Danton looked at him a moment with kindly eyes, then shook his head and said mournfully: "And France, what would she do without me? All I have done has been done for her sake. And I do not regret what has been done," he continued, resuming his former manner. "No, when I see what we have done I regret nothing. That the innocent have perished, I know, and I deplore it. That the innocent must still perish is inevitable. But what is the blood of a few thousand to wash out the cruelty of ages? What are the cries of a few compared with the groans of millions throughout the centuries! Even now the allied armies of all Europe are thundering at the doors of France. We cannot pause now. They have dared us to the combat, and in return, as gage of battle, we have hurled them down the bleeding head of a king. We must go on."
Then sinking into his seat, he said quietly, "No, Robert, my friend, let Robespierre and his followers have their way in these small matters for a little while longer. What are the lives of a few peachy-cheeked girls weighed against the destiny of a nation?" And he took up his pen.
Tournay sat in silent thought for a few minutes. He saw that it would be useless to say more. After Danton's pen had labored heavily over a few pages, he exclaimed, "Jacques!"
"Well?"
"Will you procure me a passport from the Committee of Public Safety which will take me to the German frontier?"
"Are you going to run away?" asked Danton, still busy over his work.
"Whatever happens, I shall never leave France," replied Tournay quietly.
"Very well," said Danton, ringing a bell. "I never shall suspect your patriotism, but there are those who might if you talked to them as you have to me."
As his secretary appeared in answer to the summons, he took up a sheet of paper to write the order.
"Make it for Colonel Robert Tournay and wife," said Tournay carelessly, leaning over his shoulder.
Danton looked up at him suddenly. "I did not know you were married," he said.
Tournay made no reply.
Danton wrote a few lines rapidly. "Take this to the secretary of the Committee of Public Safety," he said to his clerk, "and return with an answer in half an hour."
In less than that time the man returned with the information that the secretary was away and would not return until two o'clock that afternoon.
"Will that do?" asked Danton, turning to Tournay.
"And it is now ten," said Tournay rather impatiently. "It will have to do, I am afraid."
"I will send it to your lodgings the moment it comes in," said Danton, resuming his work.
"Very well, do so, and many thanks. If I am not there have it left with the friend who shares my lodgings." Tournay quitted the office and hastened home, stopping on the way at a stable where his horse was quartered, to give instructions that the animal be saddled and brought to his door without delay.
Reaching his house, he ran up the four flights of stairs that led to the little suite of rooms which he was sharing with his friend Gaillard.
Gaillard was a versatile fellow; he had been a poet, an actor, and a journalist. Sometimes the one and sometimes the other, as inclination prompted or destiny decreed.
Shortly after Tournay's first arrival at Paris, he had met Gaillard, who was then a journalist, at a public meeting. The chance acquaintance led to friendship. He had found the young writer in some financial straits and had rendered him such assistance as his own slender purse could afford.
Gaillard, who never forgot the favor, was devoted to his friend. He watched his career as a soldier with interest and pride, and now that Tournay had come to Paris for a few days, Gaillard had insisted that his small chambers should have the honor of sheltering the gallant officer of the Republic.
Gaillard was at present amusing crowds nightly at the Theatre of the Republic, where he was playing a series of comedy rôles.
It was with satisfaction that Tournay, as he ascended the stairs, heard Gaillard's voice in the room, repeating the lines of his part for that evening's performance.
"Well, my brave colonel, how goes the convention to-day?" said Gaillard, as Tournay entered the room. "Has the Tribunal done me the honor to request that I be shaved by the guillotine?"
"I have not been to the convention to-day. Other business has prevented," replied Tournay, going into his bedroom and taking a pair of pistols from his wardrobe.
"No? then I must wait until I get to the club before I learn the exact number of the nobility who are to patronize the national razor to-day."
"Are you in the piece for to-night, Gaillard?" asked Tournay, hardly hearing what his friend was saying.
"I am."
"That's unfortunate, for I wanted to ask a great service of you," said Tournay, as he proceeded to clean and load the weapon.
"Tell me what it is; I may be able to help you."
"I am going at once to La Thierry."
"La Thierry?" inquired Gaillard.
"Yes. It is my birthplace. I am going there on an important errand. I must start instantly. I cannot even wait for a paper which is to be sent to me here by Danton. I am perfectly willing to let you know that it is a passport to the frontier, for myself and one other. The paper will not arrive until two o'clock, several hours after I am on the way. I must have a swift messenger follow with it and join me at the inn in the village of La Thierry."
"I will see that this is done," replied Gaillard. "Is that all?"
"That is all," said Tournay, hurrying from the room. On the threshold he turned. "Are you positive that you will be able to find a trustworthy messenger? Failure would be fatal."
"I swear to you to have it there," cried Gaillard, lifting up his arm and striking a dramatic attitude.
Tournay knew that, despite his apparent frivolity, Gaillard possessed not only a loyal heart, but a clear head, and he felt that he could trust him thoroughly. Much relieved in mind, he descended the stairway and sprang upon his horse at the door. Since leaving Danton he had been thinking out a plan which he hoped would successfully save Mademoiselle Edmé de Rochefort, but to carry it into effect he must reach La Thierry before Gardin. So putting spurs to his horse, he dashed through the streets at a pace which threatened the lives of a number of the good citizens. In a short time he was out of the gates, galloping along the road toward La Thierry at a tremendous pace. Then suddenly recollecting that the road to be traveled was a long one, he drew a tighter rein on his horse and slackened his speed.
"Thou must restrain thy ardor," he said, leaning forward and stroking the sleek neck of the animal affectionately; "thou hast a long journey before thee and must not break down under it."
At ten o'clock that night he drew up before the inn at Vallières, just half the distance to La Thierry. He reluctantly saw that his horse had entirely given out. As for himself, he would have gone on if he could have obtained a fresh beast. He looked critically at those in the stable of the inn, and realized that with four hours' rest his own horse would bring him to his journey's end more readily than any of the sorry animals the landlord had to offer. Having come to this decision he threw himself fully dressed on a bed for a short sleep. He slept until two in the morning. Then, after a hasty cup of coffee, he was again in the saddle and continuing his journey.
He rode steadily on with the advancing day, passing some travelers, none of whom he recognized. At noon he entered the village of Amand. Thence there were two roads to La Thierry. One, the more direct, led to the right over the hill; the other, to the left and along the river, was the longer but the better road. If his horse had been fresh, Tournay would have taken the short-cut, going over hill and dale at a gallop, but his tired beast decided him to choose the river road.
Toward the end of the afternoon he saw in the distance the spire of the church of La Thierry. He felt positive by this time that Gardin must have taken the upper road or he should have overtaken him before this, so rapidly had he traveled.
Every step of the way was familiar to him. Every bend in the river, every stone by the wayside was associated with his boyhood. Just before he came to the village of La Thierry, he left the main road and turning to the right followed a lane that made a short cut to the château de Rochefort. It was about two miles long and in summer was an archway of shaded trees and full of refreshment. Now the branches were bare, and the flying feet of his steed sank to the fetlocks in the carpet of damp, dead leaves.
As he approached the château on the right he heard a sound that caused him to draw rein in consternation. Springing from his horse he fastened him to a sapling by the wayside, seized his pistols from his holsters, and hurried forward on foot. At every step he took the sounds grew louder. There was no mistaking their meaning.
The lane terminated about a hundred yards from the house. Tournay threw himself flat upon the earth and working his way to a place where he was sheltered by the overhanging branches of some hemlock trees, looked cautiously out toward the château.
An attack was being made on the château at the front. Half a score of men armed with clubs and various other weapons were endeavoring to break down the iron-studded oaken door. A gigantic figure with shirt open to the waist, whom Tournay recognized as the blacksmith of La Thierry, was dealing blow after blow in rapid succession with a huge sledge-hammer. The door, which had been built to resist a siege during the religious wars of the sixteenth century, groaned and trembled under the blows of the mighty Vulcan, but still held fast to the hinges. A man, standing a little apart from the others and directing their movements, Tournay knew to be Gardin. Seeing that they were making little headway, the latter ordered his men to desist, evidently to form a more definite plan of attack. In the mean time Tournay was working along the line of the hemlocks towards the rear of the house. Suddenly three or four men detached themselves from the attacking party and approached him. Fearing that he had been discovered, he lay perfectly quiet. He soon saw that they were making for the trunk of a sturdy ash-tree which had been recently felled by a stroke of lightning. This they soon stripped of its branches, and hewing off about thirty feet of the trunk they bore it back on their shoulders with shouts of triumph. Here was a battering-ram which would clear a way for them.
Seeing them again occupied with the assault, Tournay continued to crawl cautiously along the edge of the grove until he was in a line with the rear buildings. Here were the servants' rooms, the business offices of the estate, and at one corner the office and the rooms occupied by Matthieu Tournay, the steward. This, the oldest part of the building, was covered thick with old ivy, by whose gnarled and twisted roots he had climbed often, when a boy, to the little chamber in the roof which had been his own. From this he knew well how to reach the apartments in the main building. The repeated blows of the ash-tree against the doors warned him that they could not resist the attack much longer. He climbed quickly up until he reached the well-known little window under the eaves. Dashing it open with his fist he swung himself into the attic-room which he had known so well in his boyhood.
"Open, in the name of the Republic."
No answer.
Crash! Crash! Blow followed blow upon the door of the old château.
"Again, citizens, once again! Brasseur! bring fagots, we'll fire the old trap. Forgons, take this sledge-hammer in your big hands. At it, man!—we'll soon have the lair of the aristocrats down about their ears. Defour, Haillons, and you others, take up that ash-tree and let it strike in the same place as before."
Amid a pandemonium of shouts and curses the blows continued to rain upon the iron-studded outer door of the château de Rochefort, and the tree, used as a battering-ram, poised upon the shoulders of a dozen men, was dashed forward with a force that made the hinge-bolts start from their sockets and the oaken panels fill the air with splinters.
The besieged had taken refuge in one of the large salons on the second floor. There were only four of them: an old man, a priest, and two women.
"They have nearly forced the outer door," cried old Matthieu Tournay, wiping the perspiration from his brow with trembling hand.
"But the inner one," exclaimed the priest, laying his hand on Matthieu's arm. "How long will that keep them off?"
"They'll break through that easily. Nothing can save us now; we are all lost," replied the old man.
"May the Blessed Virgin preserve us from the monsters," murmured the priest, looking towards the woman.
Edmé de Rochefort stood near the window. The terrifying sounds which echoed through the lower part of the building would have unnerved her, had not anger supplied a sustaining force, and brought a deep flush to supplant the pallor on her cheeks. The spirit of her race was roused within her. Had she been a man she would have charged alone, sword in hand, against the mob; but being only a woman she stood waiting the issue. Trembling slightly, she stood with her small hands clenched and white teeth firmly set. At her elbow was Agatha, her maid. She was paler than her mistress, but it was not for herself she feared. Her devotion made her fear more for Edmé's safety than for her own.
As the shouts redoubled Edmé saw the two old men turn, pallid and trembling, towards her.
"They seek me only," she said resolutely. "Why should I endanger your lives by remaining here? I will go to meet them!"
"You shall not go!" cried Agatha, placing herself in front of her mistress.
"It can only be a question of a few minutes at the longest. Let me go, Agatha."
"Listen," cried the priest, "they are in the house! They are coming up the stairway now!"
"No," cried old Matthieu, "I can still hear them down there in the courtyard."
Nevertheless a quick footstep was heard approaching from the corridor. The portières at the further end of the room were thrown apart, and a man, wearing the uniform of the Republican army, entered the salon.
"Robert!" came in a glad cry from old Tournay's lips.
Tournay did not wait to exchange words with his father, but approached Edmé.
"I have ridden from Paris to prevent your arrest, mademoiselle; thank God I have arrived in time. Only do as I direct and I shall be able to save you."
"How are we to know that we can trust you?" she said, looking at him fixedly.
He caught his breath as if unprepared for such a question. "Youmusttrust me, mademoiselle."
Edmé laughed scornfully.
The color which rose to his cheek showed that her laugh cut even deeper than her words.
"Mademoiselle," he began, "if you"—
She interrupted him passionately. "Are not those men below who seek to destroy my château your friends? They have been clamoring for admittance in the name of the Republic." And she looked significantly at the tricolored cockade in his hat.
"And because I am a Republican and wear the uniform of the nation do you really think that I could have anything in common with those ruffians? You do me great injustice; I am here with one object, to protect this household."
Edmé continued to look steadily at him.
"You say nothing, mademoiselle. You condemn me by your silence. I will prove to you how deeply you wrong me even if it take my life. I would give that gladly only to prove it to you. But there is more than my life at stake. There is your safety—and the safety of these, your servants. My father—mademoiselle!"
Edmé's look softened a little as she answered:—
"Although since you left our house we have only thought of you as an enemy, still I believe your father's son would be incapable of treachery. As for saving us, listen to the mob below. One man is helpless against so many."
"I can save you—but it depends upon yourself. No matter what I may say or do, you must trust me implicitly."
"Oh! do as my son says, mademoiselle!" interposed old Matthieu, joining his hands beseechingly. "For your sake, for all our sakes, listen to and be guided by him."
"If you can really protect us in this dreadful hour I should be guilty if I risked the lives of those who have faithfully remained at my side, by refusing your aid. I will follow your father's and your counsel," said Edmé quietly.
"Is the door of the salon barred?" asked Tournay of his father.
"With such slight fastenings as we have," answered the old man.
"See that it is fast," said Tournay. "It will give us a few minutes. Then listen to me."
There was a crash—louder than any that had yet been heard, and the mob poured into the lower part of the château.
Here they paused for a moment to recover breath and wipe the perspiration from their brows. Then some of the party began again their work of destruction among the pieces of furniture, while others brought up wine from the cellar to refresh themselves and their thirsty companions.
Gardin, anxious only to make the arrest, stormed at this slight delay.
"Cannot you leave your wine until your work is done, citizens?" he called out impatiently. "The aristocrat is above stairs—follow me!"
Through the large hall of the château and up the broad staircase, on the heels of their leader, swarmed the mob, yelling and cursing.
Gardin and Forgons, like bloodhounds who scent their prey, made direct for the door of the great salon, where the little party awaited them. Gardin shook the door violently, then threw himself against it to force an entrance.
"Here, citizen, we have already proven that two pair of shoulders are better than one at that game," laughed Forgons, adding his strength to that of Gardin. Under their combined weight the door yielded with a suddenness that precipitated both men into the room,—Gardin on his hands and face while Forgons fell over him,—and the two rolled together in the middle of the floor. Amid a shout of rough laughter from the men in the rear the two leaders regained their feet.
The scowl on Gardin's face vanished in a look of astonishment when he found himself face to face with a man in the uniform of a colonel of the French army.
Matthieu and the old priest had retreated to the corner of the room at their entrance. Beside the chimney-piece stood Edmé de Rochefort. The sight of the frenzied mob, the knowledge that it was her arrest alone they sought; the shrinking dread which the thought of their rude touch inspired, made her heart sink with sickening terror. Yet beyond trembling slightly, she gave no sign of fear.
Gardin had expected to find a frightened girl, surrounded possibly by a few servants who remained faithful. The sight of Tournay's tall figure, his resolute face, above all his uniform, standing between him and the object of his search, made him hesitate.
"There she is! That's the aristocrat!" exclaimed Forgons, as Gardin hesitated. "Let me get my hands upon her." He rushed forward, but before he could touch Edmé, Tournay pushed him backward with a force that sent him reeling into the group of men behind.
"A thousand devils," cried Forgons, when he regained his equilibrium, "what is the meaning of this, citizen colonel? Are you defending the little aristocrat?"
"Keep back, will you, Forgons," interposed Gardin, fearing that his dignity as leader would be usurped. "Leave me to manage this affair. I am here," he said, addressing Colonel Tournay, "to apprehend the person of an aristocrat, and shall brook no interference on the part of any one."
"Let me look at your warrant," demanded Tournay, in a tone of authority.
"I am not obliged to show that to you," replied Gardin doggedly.
"Let me see it, I say!" was the determined rejoinder.
Gardin slowly drew a document from the breast of his coat and handed it over with a sullen "Well, there's no harm in your seeing it."
Tournay read it carefully. Then folding it up with great deliberation he returned it.
"It seems quite regular."
"Regular," repeated Gardin, with a laugh,—"well, I like that. Of course it's quite regular,—signed and stamped by the Committee of Public Safety." Then with a show of mock politeness: "Now if the citizen colonel will condescend to step aside I will conduct this young citizeness from the room."
"That order of arrest calls for a certain citizeness de Rochefort, does it not?" asked Tournay, without moving.
"Certainly it does. The Citizeness Edmé de Rochefort who stands there, right behind you."
"You will not find her here," replied Tournay.
"None of your jests with me, citizen colonel; why, as I said before, she's standing behind you. I should know her for an aristocrat by the proud look on her face if I had not seen her a hundred times here in La Thierry."
"This is not Citizeness de Rochefort."
"That's a lie," replied Gardin bluntly, "and in any case she is the woman I am going to arrest."
"That woman is Citizeness Tournay, my wife. You cannot arrest her on that warrant, Citizen Gardin."
As the colonel spoke these words, which he did slowly and deliberately, Mademoiselle de Rochefort drew a quick, short breath.
"It is a trick," cried Gardin savagely; "you are trying to save her by a subterfuge."
Tournay repeated coolly, "She is my wife, and I am Robert Tournay, colonel in the Army of the Moselle. Again I advise you not to try to arrest her without a warrant."
"And I say again it is a lying trick," cried Gardin, beside himself with rage. "You cannot save your aristocratic sweetheart this way, citizen colonel. The Republic demands her arrest and I mean to take her."
"Citizen Ambrose," said Tournay, turning to the priest, "is not this woman my wife?"
"Most certainly," said the old priest, coming forward with dignity; "this lady is Madame Robert Tournay."
"Madame!" cried Gardin, repeating the word in a rage. "There are no ladies in France now, and all priests are liars. This is a trick, and you, citizen colonel, shall answer for it. Out of my way!" He grasped Tournay by the lapel of his coat, and twisting his fingers into the cloth endeavored to force the colonel to one side. There was a sharp struggle, then Tournay threw him off with such violence as to send him staggering across the room. His head struck the sharp edge of a mahogany cabinet as he reeled backward, and he rolled senseless to the floor.
With a shout of rage at the assault upon their leader the mob rushed forward to close about Tournay. But he was too quick for them; the muzzles of a pair of pistols met them as they advanced, one covering Forgons, who was in front, the other leveled at the men behind him.
The mob cowered and fell back a little. Clubs, hammers, and knives were their only weapons, which they still brandished threateningly. If Tournay had shown the least sign of flinching he would have fallen the next moment, beaten and crushed to death. He advanced a step forward. Before the threatening muzzles of the steadily-aimed pistols, the men recoiled still further, and were quiet for a moment. Tournay seized the opportunity to speak.
"This fellow," he cried in a loud voice, pointing to Gardin, "has dared to lay hands upon an officer of the Republican army. In doing so he has insulted the nation and deserves death. Is there any man here who would repeat this insult?"
The mob, taken by surprise, looked at their fallen leader and then at the two shining pistol-barrels that confronted them, and remained irresolute. Tournay thought he heard Edmé catch her breath quickly when the answer from the mob drowned everything.
"No, no! There are none here who would insult the nation!"
"Citizens, I am of the people, like yourselves. I am also a soldier of France. I have fought its battles, I wear its colors. See!" he went on, taking off his hat and pointing to the tricolor cockade—"here is the tricolor. If you do not respect that, you insult the Republic. Is there any one here who would dare to insult the Republic?"
"No, no!" came in quick response. "Long live the Republic!"
"But all who wear the tricolor are not our friends," muttered Forgons uneasily.
"Citizens," continued Tournay, affecting not to hear, "Gardin has no warrant to arrest this woman, who is not an aristocrat, since she has become my wife, the Citizeness Tournay. As for Gardin, he has insulted the Republic. He has forfeited the right to lead you. In the name of the Republic I appoint you, Forgons, the secretary of this section. To-night I return to Paris and will see that the confirmation of your appointment is sent you at once. Now, citizens, take up this fellow," he said, pointing to Gardin. "He shows signs of returning consciousness. A little cold water pumped over his head will bring him back to life. Come, follow me, I will be your leader for the present."
The mob took up the body and bore it off, cheering loudly for the Republic. Forgons went with them slowly, shaking his head, with a puzzled expression on his face.
Colonel Tournay accompanied the crowd of zealous Republicans who had been the followers of Gardin, until he saw them dispersed to their various homes or noisily installed in the wine-room of the village inn. Then he rapidly retraced his steps to the château.
He found Mademoiselle Rochefort seated in the salon, contemplating half mournfully, half disdainfully, the evidences of the mob's incursion, which surrounded her in the shape of costly pieces of furniture from the drawing-room, now marred and broken; and bottles from the wine cellars, shattered and strewn upon the floor.
She did not make any movement as Tournay entered the room, but seemed occupied with her own thoughts; and for a few moments he stood in silence, hesitating to speak, as if the communication he had to make required more tact and diplomacy than for the moment he felt himself master of.
Finally, approaching her, he said: "Mademoiselle, the immediate danger is past. You have nothing to fear for the present. As soon as you have recovered sufficiently I would like to speak with you."
She let her hand drop from her forehead and looked up at him. Her face was very pale, but she was quite composed and the voice was firm with which she answered:—
"I am able to hear you now, Robert Tournay."
He drew a sigh of relief. "She has the de Rochefort spirit," he thought.
"All is quiet now," he said. "But when Gardin fully recovers consciousness I fear he will excite his followers to further violence. It will be unsafe for you to remain here." As she did not answer, he continued,—"I have made arrangements, mademoiselle, to conduct you to the German frontier. Can you prepare to accompany me at once?"
"I am prepared to leave here at once—but—I cannot go with you. It is better that I go alone," Mademoiselle de Rochefort replied.
"Alone! It would be folly in you to attempt it. Do you suppose that I could stand quietly by and see you incur such a danger?"
Mademoiselle de Rochefort's eyes, at all other times so frank and fearless, did not meet his earnest gaze; she answered him hastily, as one who would have an unpleasant interview come to a speedy end:—
"You have saved me from a great danger. Believe me, I am not ungrateful. You have already done too much. I cannot accept anything more from you. Pray leave me now to go my own way."
"That is impossible, mademoiselle; I shall only leave you when you are across the frontier. Traveling as my wife, under the passports that I have secured, the journey can be made in comparative safety, provided always that we start in time."
At the words "my wife" Mademoiselle de Rochefort started, but she only repeated:—
"I cannot go with you."
"But," ejaculated Tournay, "I don't understand; it was agreed"—
She looked up at him. "I agreed to permit you to tell those wretches that I was your wife, Father Ambrose, your father, and you, all protesting that it was the only way to prevent them from destroying the château and those within it. But you also said that the marriage would not be considered valid, and as soon as the danger was over you would go away."
"I said," answered Tournay quietly, "that I should in no way consider the marriage valid; that when I had once taken you to a place of safety I should leave you. But until then I shall remain by your side."
"Some one said you would go away at once, either your father or the priest, and so I yielded. Now you tell me I must go away with you, and"—she hesitated at the words, "be known as your wife."
"But no one will know who you are," said Tournay earnestly. "The carriage will be a closed one—you shall have Agatha with you. No one shall be allowed to intrude upon you. Three or four days will bring us to the frontier. As soon as you are there, and in the care of some of your friends who have already emigrated, I will leave you. Cannot you trust me three days?" he asked sorrowfully.
"I cannot go with you," she repeated. "You are of the Republic—I have already accepted too much from your hands. Can I forget that those hands which you now stretch out to aid me have helped to tear down a throne? that like all the Republicans, you share the guilt of a king's murder?"
"I am only guilty of loving France more than the king. I did help to destroy a monarchy, but it was to build up a Republic."
"Then, instead of aiding, you should denounce me. I am of the Monarchy and I hate your Republic," she said defiantly. "I will accept protection from one of my own order or trust to God and my own efforts to preserve me."
"Where are those of your own order?" demanded Tournay bitterly. "They are scattered like leaves. Some have taken refuge in England or in Prussia. Some are hiding here in France. Your own class fail you in the time of need."
"They do not fail," cried Edmé. "If none are here it is because they are risking their lives elsewhere for our unhappy and hopeless cause; or languishing in your Republican prisons where so many of the chivalry of France lie awaiting death."
As if the thought goaded her to desperation she added fiercely, "Where I will join them rather than purchase my freedom at the price you propose."
"Mademoiselle," said Tournay calmly but with great firmness, "listen to reason. There is no time for lengthy explanation. I am actuated only by a desire for your safety. You must accompany me hence. I shall take you away with me."
Edmé arose and confronted him with a look of scorn. "I stood here a short time ago," she said, "and before all that rabble heard myself proclaimed your wife; I, Edmé de Rochefort, called a wife of a Republican—one of their number. Oh, the shame of it! What would my father have said if he had heard that I owed my life to a man steeped in the blood of the Revolution? That his daughter consented to be called the wife of her steward's son! a man of ignoble birth, a servant"—
"Stop!" cried Tournay, the blood mounting to his forehead. "Stop! It is true that those of my blood have served your family for generations. It was one of my blood, I have heard it told, who in days gone by gave up his life for one of your ancestors upon the field of battle. Was that ignoble? My father served yours faithfully during a long life; was that ignoble? So have I, in my turn, served you. I was born to the position, but I served you proudly, not ignobly. In speaking thus, you wrong yourself more than you do me, mademoiselle."