Dusk of the following day was falling when the homing Andre-Louis approached Gavrillac. Realizing fully what a hue and cry there would presently be for the apostle of revolution who had summoned the people of Nantes to arms, he desired as far as possible to conceal the fact that he had been in that maritime city. Therefore he made a wide detour, crossing the river at Bruz, and recrossing it a little above Chavagne, so as to approach Gavrillac from the north, and create the impression that he was returning from Rennes, whither he was known to have gone two days ago.
Within a mile or so of the village he caught in the fading light his first glimpse of a figure on horseback pacing slowly towards him. But it was not until they had come within a few yards of each other, and he observed that this cloaked figure was leaning forward to peer at him, that he took much notice of it. And then he found himself challenged almost at once by a woman’s voice.
“It is you, Andre—at last!”
He drew rein, mildly surprised, to be assailed by another question, impatiently, anxiously asked.
“Where have you been?”
“Where have I been, Cousin Aline? Oh... seeing the world.”
“I have been patrolling this road since noon to-day waiting for you.” She spoke breathlessly, in haste to explain. “A troop of the marechaussee from Rennes descended upon Gavrillac this morning in quest of you. They turned the chateau and the village inside out, and at last discovered that you were due to return with a horse hired from the Breton arme. So they have taken up their quarters at the inn to wait for you. I have been here all the afternoon on the lookout to warn you against walking into that trap.”
“My dear Aline! That I should have been the cause of so much concern and trouble!”
“Never mind that. It is not important.”
“On the contrary; it is the most important part of what you tell me. It is the rest that is unimportant.”
“Do you realize that they have come to arrest you?” she asked him, with increasing impatience. “You are wanted for sedition, and upon a warrant from M. de Lesdiguieres.”
“Sedition?” quoth he, and his thoughts flew to that business at Nantes. It was impossible they could have had news of it in Rennes and acted upon it in so short a time.
“Yes, sedition. The sedition of that wicked speech of yours at Rennes on Wednesday.”
“Oh, that!” said he. “Pooh!” His note of relief might have told her, had she been more attentive, that he had to fear the consequences of a greater wickedness committed since. “Why, that was nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I almost suspect that the real intentions of these gentlemen of the marechaussee have been misunderstood. Most probably they have come to thank me on M. de Lesdiguieres’ behalf. I restrained the people when they would have burnt the Palais and himself inside it.”
“After you had first incited them to do it. I suppose you were afraid of your work. You drew back at the last moment. But you said things of M. de Lesdiguieres, if you are correctly reported, which he will never forgive.”
“I see,” said Andre-Louis, and he fell into thought.
But Mlle. de Kercadiou had already done what thinking was necessary, and her alert young mind had settled all that was to be done.
“You must not go into Gavrillac,” she told him, “and you must get down from your horse, and let me take it. I will stable it at the chateau to-night. And sometime to-morrow afternoon, by when you should be well away, I will return it to the Breton arme.”
“Oh, but that is impossible.”
“Impossible? Why?”
“For several reasons. One of them is that you haven’t considered what will happen to you if you do such a thing.”
“To me? Do you suppose I am afraid of that pack of oafs sent by M. Lesdiguieres? I have committed no sedition.”
“But it is almost as bad to give aid to one who is wanted for the crime. That is the law.”
“What do I care for the law? Do you imagine that the law will presume to touch me?”
“Of course there is that. You are sheltered by one of the abuses I complained of at Rennes. I was forgetting.”
“Complain of it as much as you please, but meanwhile profit by it. Come, Andre, do as I tell you. Get down from your horse.” And then, as he still hesitated, she stretched out and caught him by the arm. Her voice was vibrant with earnestness. “Andre, you don’t realize how serious is your position. If these people take you, it is almost certain that you will be hanged. Don’t you realize it? You must not go to Gavrillac. You must go away at once, and lie completely lost for a time until this blows over. Indeed, until my uncle can bring influence to bear to obtain your pardon, you must keep in hiding.”
“That will be a long time, then,” said Andre-Louis. “M. de Kercadiou has never cultivated friends at court.”
“There is M. de La Tour d’Azyr,” she reminded him, to his astonishment.
“That man!” he cried, and then he laughed. “But it was chiefly against him that I aroused the resentment of the people of Rennes. I should have known that all my speech was not reported to you.”
“It was, and that part of it among the rest.”
“Ah! And yet you are concerned to save me, the man who seeks the life of your future husband at the hands either of the law or of the people? Or is it, perhaps, that since you have seen his true nature revealed in the murder of poor Philippe, you have changed your views on the subject of becoming Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr?”
“You often show yourself without any faculty of deductive reasoning.”
“Perhaps. But hardly to the extent of imagining that M. de La Tour d’Azyr will ever lift a finger to do as you suggest.”
“In which, as usual, you are wrong. He will certainly do so if I ask him.”
“If you ask him?” Sheer horror rang in his voice.
“Why, yes. You see, I have not yet said that I will be Marquise de La Tour d’Azyr. I am still considering. It is a position that has its advantages. One of them is that it ensures a suitor’s complete obedience.”
“So, so. I see the crooked logic of your mind. You might go so far as to say to him: ‘Refuse me this, and I shall refuse to be your marquise.’ You would go so far as that?”
“At need, I might.”
“And do you not see the converse implication? Do you not see that your hands would then be tied, that you would be wanting in honour if afterwards you refused him? And do you think that I would consent to anything that could so tie your hands? Do you think I want to see you damned, Aline?”
Her hand fell away from his arm.
“Oh, you are mad!” she exclaimed, quite out of patience.
“Possibly. But I like my madness. There is a thrill in it unknown to such sanity as yours. By your leave, Aline, I think I will ride on to Gavrillac.”
“Andre, you must not! It is death to you!” In her alarm she backed her horse, and pulled it across the road to bar his way.
It was almost completely night by now; but from behind the wrack of clouds overhead a crescent moon sailed out to alleviate the darkness.
“Come, now,” she enjoined him. “Be reasonable. Do as I bid you. See, there is a carriage coming up behind you. Do not let us be found here together thus.”
He made up his mind quickly. He was not the man to be actuated by false heroics about dying, and he had no fancy whatever for the gallows of M. de Lesdiguieres’ providing. The immediate task that he had set himself might be accomplished. He had made heard—and ringingly—the voice that M. de La Tour d’Azyr imagined he had silenced. But he was very far from having done with life.
“Aline, on one condition only.”
“And that?”
“That you swear to me you will never seek the aid of M. de La Tour d’Azyr on my behalf.”
“Since you insist, and as time presses, I consent. And now ride on with me as far as the lane. There is that carriage coming up.”
The lane to which she referred was one that branched off the road some three hundred yards nearer the village and led straight up the hill to the chateau itself. In silence they rode together towards it, and together they turned into that thickly hedged and narrow bypath. At a depth of fifty yards she halted him.
“Now!” she bade him.
Obediently he swung down from his horse, and surrendered the reins to her.
“Aline,” he said, “I haven’t words in which to thank you.”
“It isn’t necessary,” said she.
“But I shall hope to repay you some day.”
“Nor is that necessary. Could I do less than I am doing? I do not want to hear of you hanged, Andre; nor does my uncle, though he is very angry with you.”
“I suppose he is.”
“And you can hardly be surprised. You were his delegate, his representative. He depended upon you, and you have turned your coat. He is rightly indignant, calls you a traitor, and swears that he will never speak to you again. But he doesn’t want you hanged, Andre.”
“Then we are agreed on that at least, for I don’t want it myself.”
“I’ll make your peace with him. And now—good-bye, Andre. Send me a word when you are safe.”
She held out a hand that looked ghostly in the faint light. He took it and bore it to his lips.
“God bless you, Aline.”
She was gone, and he stood listening to the receding clopper-clop of hooves until it grew faint in the distance. Then slowly, with shoulders hunched and head sunk on his breast, he retraced his steps to the main road, cogitating whither he should go. Quite suddenly he checked, remembering with dismay that he was almost entirely without money. In Brittany itself he knew of no dependable hiding-place, and as long as he was in Brittany his peril must remain imminent. Yet to leave the province, and to leave it as quickly as prudence dictated, horses would be necessary. And how was he to procure horses, having no money beyond a single louis d’or and a few pieces of silver?
There was also the fact that he was very weary. He had had little sleep since Tuesday night, and not very much then; and much of the time had been spent in the saddle, a wearing thing to one so little accustomed to long rides. Worn as he was, it was unthinkable that he should go far to-night. He might get as far as Chavagne, perhaps. But there he must sup and sleep; and what, then, of to-morrow?
Had he but thought of it before, perhaps Aline might have been able to assist him with the loan of a few louis. His first impulse now was to follow her to the chateau. But prudence dismissed the notion. Before he could reach her, he must be seen by servants, and word of his presence would go forth.
There was no choice for him; he must tramp as far as Chavagne, find a bed there, and leave to-morrow until it dawned. On the resolve he set his face in the direction whence he had come. But again he paused. Chavagne lay on the road to Rennes. To go that way was to plunge further into danger. He would strike south again. At the foot of some meadows on this side of the village there was a ferry that would put him across the river. Thus he would avoid the village; and by placing the river between himself and the immediate danger, he would obtain an added sense of security.
A lane, turning out of the highroad, a quarter of a mile this side of Gavrillac, led down to that ferry. By this lane some twenty minutes later came Andre-Louis with dragging feet. He avoided the little cottage of the ferryman, whose window was alight, and in the dark crept down to the boat, intending if possible to put himself across. He felt for the chain by which the boat was moored, and ran his fingers along this to the point where it was fastened. Here to his dismay he found a padlock.
He stood up in the gloom and laughed silently. Of course he might have known it. The ferry was the property of M. de La Tour d’Azyr, and not likely to be left unfastened so that poor devils might cheat him of seigneurial dues.
There being no possible alternative, he walked back to the cottage, and rapped on the door. When it opened, he stood well back, and aside, out of the shaft of light that issued thence.
“Ferry!” he rapped out, laconically.
The ferryman, a burly scoundrel well known to him, turned aside to pick up a lantern, and came forth as he was bidden. As he stepped from the little porch, he levelled the lantern so that its light fell on the face of this traveller.
“My God!” he ejaculated.
“You realize, I see, that I am pressed,” said Andre-Louis, his eyes on the fellow’s startled countenance.
“And well you may be with the gallows waiting for you at Rennes,” growled the ferryman. “Since you’ve been so foolish as to come back to Gavrillac, you had better go again as quickly as you can. I will say nothing of having seen you.”
“I thank you, Fresnel. Your advice accords with my intention. That is why I need the boat.”
“Ah, that, no,” said Fresnel, with determination. “I’ll hold my peace, but it’s as much as my skin is worth to help you.
“You need not have seen my face. Forget that you have seen it.”
“I’ll do that, monsieur. But that is all I will do. I cannot put you across the river.”
“Then give me the key of the boat, and I will put myself across.”
“That is the same thing. I cannot. I’ll hold my tongue, but I will not—I dare not—help you.”
Andre-Louis looked a moment into that sullen, resolute face, and understood. This man, living under the shadow of La Tour d’Azyr, dared exercise no will that might be in conflict with the will of his dread lord.
“Fresnel,” he said, quietly, “if, as you say, the gallows claim me, the thing that has brought me to this extremity arises out of the shooting of Mabey. Had not Mabey been murdered there would have been no need for me to have raised my voice as I have done. Mabey was your friend, I think. Will you for his sake lend me the little help I need to save my neck?”
The man kept his glance averted, and the cloud of sullenness deepened on his face.
“I would if I dared, but I dare not.” Then, quite suddenly he became angry. It was as if in anger he sought support. “Don’t you understand that I dare not? Would you have a poor man risk his life for you? What have you or yours ever done for me that you should ask that? You do not cross to-night in my ferry. Understand that, monsieur, and go at once—go before I remember that it may be dangerous even to have talked to you and not give information. Go!”
He turned on his heel to reenter his cottage, and a wave of hopelessness swept over Andre-Louis.
But in a second it was gone. The man must be compelled, and he had the means. He bethought him of a pistol pressed upon him by Le Chapelier at the moment of his leaving Rennes, a gift which at the time he had almost disdained. True, it was not loaded, and he had no ammunition. But how was Fresnel to know that?
He acted quickly. As with his right hand he pulled it from his pocket, with his left he caught the ferryman by the shoulder, and swung him round.
“What do you want now?” Fresnel demanded angrily. “Haven’t I told you that I...”
He broke off short. The muzzle of the pistol was within a foot of his eyes.
“I want the key of the boat. That is all, Fresnel. And you can either give it me at once, or I’ll take it after I have burnt your brains. I should regret to kill you, but I shall not hesitate. It is your life against mine, Fresnel; and you’ll not find it strange that if one of us must die I prefer that it shall be you.”
Fresnel dipped a hand into his pocket, and fetched thence a key. He held it out to Andre-Louis in fingers that shook—more in anger than in fear.
“I yield to violence,” he said, showing his teeth like a snarling dog. “But don’t imagine that it will greatly profit you.”
Andre-Louis took the key. His pistol remained levelled.
“You threaten me, I think,” he said. “It is not difficult to read your threat. The moment I am gone, you will run to inform against me. You will set the marechaussee on my heels to overtake me.”
“No, no!” cried the other. He perceived his peril. He read his doom in the cold, sinister note on which Andre-Louis addressed him, and grew afraid. “I swear to you, monsieur, that I have no such intention.”
“I think I had better make quite sure of you.”
“O my God! Have mercy, monsieur!” The knave was in a palsy of terror. “I mean you no harm—I swear to Heaven I mean you no harm. I will not say a word. I will not...”
“I would rather depend upon your silence than your assurances. Still, you shall have your chance. I am a fool, perhaps, but I have a reluctance to shed blood. Go into the house, Fresnel. Go, man. I follow you.”
In the shabby main room of that dwelling, Andre-Louis halted him again. “Get me a length of rope,” he commanded, and was readily obeyed.
Five minutes later Fresnel was securely bound to a chair, and effectively silenced by a very uncomfortable gag improvised out of a block of wood and a muffler.
On the threshold the departing Andre-Louis turned.
“Good-night, Fresnel,” he said. Fierce eyes glared mute hatred at him. “It is unlikely that your ferry will be required again to-night. But some one is sure to come to your relief quite early in the morning. Until then bear your discomfort with what fortitude you can, remembering that you have brought it entirely upon yourself by your uncharitableness. If you spend the night considering that, the lesson should not be lost upon you. By morning you may even have grown so charitable as not to know who it was that tied you up. Good-night.”
He stepped out and closed the door.
To unlock the ferry, and pull himself across the swift-running waters, on which the faint moonlight was making a silver ripple, were matters that engaged not more than six or seven minutes. He drove the nose of the boat through the decaying sedges that fringed the southern bank of the stream, sprang ashore, and made the little craft secure. Then, missing the footpath in the dark, he struck out across a sodden meadow in quest of the road.
Coming presently upon the Redon road, Andre-Louis, obeying instinct rather than reason, turned his face to the south, and plodded wearily and mechanically forward. He had no clear idea of whither he was going, or of whither he should go. All that imported at the moment was to put as great a distance as possible between Gavrillac and himself.
He had a vague, half-formed notion of returning to Nantes; and there, by employing the newly found weapon of his oratory, excite the people into sheltering him as the first victim of the persecution he had foreseen, and against which he had sworn them to take up arms. But the idea was one which he entertained merely as an indefinite possibility upon which he felt no real impulse to act.
Meanwhile he chuckled at the thought of Fresnel as he had last seen him, with his muffled face and glaring eyeballs. “For one who was anything but a man of action,” he writes, “I felt that I had acquitted myself none so badly.” It is a phrase that recurs at intervals in his sketchy “Confessions.” Constantly is he reminding you that he is a man of mental and not physical activities, and apologizing when dire necessity drives him into acts of violence. I suspect this insistence upon his philosophic detachment—for which I confess he had justification enough—to betray his besetting vanity.
With increasing fatigue came depression and self-criticism. He had stupidly overshot his mark in insultingly denouncing M. de Lesdiguieres. “It is much better,” he says somewhere, “to be wicked than to be stupid. Most of this world’s misery is the fruit not as priests tell us of wickedness, but of stupidity.” And we know that of all stupidities he considered anger the most deplorable. Yet he had permitted himself to be angry with a creature like M. de Lesdiguieres—a lackey, a fribble, a nothing, despite his potentialities for evil. He could perfectly have discharged his self-imposed mission without arousing the vindictive resentment of the King’s Lieutenant.
He beheld himself vaguely launched upon life with the riding-suit in which he stood, a single louis d’or and a few pieces of silver for all capital, and a knowledge of law which had been inadequate to preserve him from the consequences of infringing it.
He had, in addition—but these things that were to be the real salvation of him he did not reckon—his gift of laughter, sadly repressed of late, and the philosophic outlook and mercurial temperament which are the stock-in-trade of your adventurer in all ages.
Meanwhile he tramped mechanically on through the night, until he felt that he could tramp no more. He had skirted the little township of Guichen, and now within a half-mile of Guignen, and with Gavrillac a good seven miles behind him, his legs refused to carry him any farther.
He was midway across the vast common to the north of Guignen when he came to a halt. He had left the road, and taken heedlessly to the footpath that struck across the waste of indifferent pasture interspersed with clumps of gorse. A stone’s throw away on his right the common was bordered by a thorn hedge. Beyond this loomed a tall building which he knew to be an open barn, standing on the edge of a long stretch of meadowland. That dark, silent shadow it may have been that had brought him to a standstill, suggesting shelter to his subconsciousness. A moment he hesitated; then he struck across towards a spot where a gap in the hedge was closed by a five-barred gate. He pushed the gate open, went through the gap, and stood now before the barn. It was as big as a house, yet consisted of no more than a roof carried upon half a dozen tall, brick pillars. But densely packed under that roof was a great stack of hay that promised a warm couch on so cold a night. Stout timbers had been built into the brick pillars, with projecting ends to serve as ladders by which the labourer might climb to pack or withdraw hay. With what little strength remained him, Andre-Louis climbed by one of these and landed safely at the top, where he was forced to kneel, for lack of room to stand upright. Arrived there, he removed his coat and neckcloth, his sodden boots and stockings. Next he cleared a trough for his body, and lying down in it, covered himself to the neck with the hay he had removed. Within five minutes he was lost to all worldly cares and soundly asleep.
When next he awakened, the sun was already high in the heavens, from which he concluded that the morning was well advanced; and this before he realized quite where he was or how he came there. Then to his awakening senses came a drone of voices close at hand, to which at first he paid little heed. He was deliciously refreshed, luxuriously drowsy and luxuriously warm.
But as consciousness and memory grew more full, he raised his head clear of the hay that he might free both ears to listen, his pulses faintly quickened by the nascent fear that those voices might bode him no good. Then he caught the reassuring accents of a woman, musical and silvery, though laden with alarm.
“Ah, mon Dieu, Leandre, let us separate at once. If it should be my father...”
And upon this a man’s voice broke in, calm and reassuring:
“No, no, Climene; you are mistaken. There is no one coming. We are quite safe. Why do you start at shadows?”
“Ah, Leandre, if he should find us here together! I tremble at the very thought.”
More was not needed to reassure Andre-Louis. He had overheard enough to know that this was but the case of a pair of lovers who, with less to fear of life, were yet—after the manner of their kind—more timid of heart than he. Curiosity drew him from his warm trough to the edge of the hay. Lying prone, he advanced his head and peered down.
In the space of cropped meadow between the barn and the hedge stood a man and a woman, both young. The man was a well-set-up, comely fellow, with a fine head of chestnut hair tied in a queue by a broad bow of black satin. He was dressed with certain tawdry attempts at ostentatious embellishments, which did not prepossess one at first glance in his favour. His coat of a fashionable cut was of faded plum-coloured velvet edged with silver lace, whose glory had long since departed. He affected ruffles, but for want of starch they hung like weeping willows over hands that were fine and delicate. His breeches were of plain black cloth, and his black stockings were of cotton—matters entirely out of harmony with his magnificent coat. His shoes, stout and serviceable, were decked with buckles of cheap, lack-lustre paste. But for his engaging and ingenuous countenance, Andre-Louis must have set him down as a knight of that order which lives dishonestly by its wits. As it was, he suspended judgment whilst pushing investigation further by a study of the girl. At the outset, be it confessed that it was a study that attracted him prodigiously. And this notwithstanding the fact that, bookish and studious as were his ways, and in despite of his years, it was far from his habit to waste consideration on femininity.
The child—she was no more than that, perhaps twenty at the most—possessed, in addition to the allurements of face and shape that went very near perfection, a sparkling vivacity and a grace of movement the like of which Andre-Louis did not remember ever before to have beheld assembled in one person. And her voice too—that musical, silvery voice that had awakened him—possessed in its exquisite modulations an allurement of its own that must have been irresistible, he thought, in the ugliest of her sex. She wore a hooded mantle of green cloth, and the hood being thrown back, her dainty head was all revealed to him. There were glints of gold struck by the morning sun from her light nut-brown hair that hung in a cluster of curls about her oval face. Her complexion was of a delicacy that he could compare only with a rose petal. He could not at that distance discern the colour of her eyes, but he guessed them blue, as he admired the sparkle of them under the fine, dark line of eyebrows.
He could not have told you why, but he was conscious that it aggrieved him to find her so intimate with this pretty young fellow, who was partly clad, as it appeared, in the cast-offs of a nobleman. He could not guess her station, but the speech that reached him was cultured in tone and word. He strained to listen.
“I shall know no peace, Leandre, until we are safely wedded,” she was saying. “Not until then shall I count myself beyond his reach. And yet if we marry without his consent, we but make trouble for ourselves, and of gaining his consent I almost despair.”
Evidently, thought Andre-Louis, her father was a man of sense, who saw through the shabby finery of M. Leandre, and was not to be dazzled by cheap paste buckles.
“My dear Climene,” the young man was answering her, standing squarely before her, and holding both her hands, “you are wrong to despond. If I do not reveal to you all the stratagem that I have prepared to win the consent of your unnatural parent, it is because I am loath to rob you of the pleasure of the surprise that is in store. But place your faith in me, and in that ingenious friend of whom I have spoken, and who should be here at any moment.”
The stilted ass! Had he learnt that speech by heart in advance, or was he by nature a pedantic idiot who expressed himself in this set and formal manner? How came so sweet a blossom to waste her perfumes on such a prig? And what a ridiculous name the creature owned!
Thus Andre-Louis to himself from his observatory. Meanwhile, she was speaking.
“That is what my heart desires, Leandre, but I am beset by fears lest your stratagem should be too late. I am to marry this horrible Marquis of Sbrufadelli this very day. He arrives by noon. He comes to sign the contract—to make me the Marchioness of Sbrufadelli. Oh!” It was a cry of pain from that tender young heart. “The very name burns my lips. If it were mine I could never utter it—never! The man is so detestable. Save me, Leandre. Save me! You are my only hope.”
Andre-Louis was conscious of a pang of disappointment. She failed to soar to the heights he had expected of her. She was evidently infected by the stilted manner of her ridiculous lover. There was an atrocious lack of sincerity about her words. They touched his mind, but left his heart unmoved. Perhaps this was because of his antipathy to M. Leandre and to the issue involved.
So her father was marrying her to a marquis! That implied birth on her side. And yet she was content to pair off with this dull young adventurer in the tarnished lace! It was, he supposed, the sort of thing to be expected of a sex that all philosophy had taught him to regard as the maddest part of a mad species.
“It shall never be!” M. Leandre was storming passionately. “Never! I swear it!” And he shook his puny fist at the blue vault of heaven—Ajax defying Jupiter. “Ah, but here comes our subtle friend...” (Andre-Louis did not catch the name, M. Leandre having at that moment turned to face the gap in the hedge.) “He will bring us news, I know.”
Andre-Louis looked also in the direction of the gap. Through it emerged a lean, slight man in a rusty cloak and a three-cornered hat worn well down over his nose so as to shade his face. And when presently he doffed this hat and made a sweeping bow to the young lovers, Andre-Louis confessed to himself that had he been cursed with such a hangdog countenance he would have worn his hat in precisely such a manner, so as to conceal as much of it as possible. If M. Leandre appeared to be wearing, in part at least, the cast-offs of nobleman, the newcomer appeared to be wearing the cast-offs of M. Leandre. Yet despite his vile clothes and viler face, with its three days’ growth of beard, the fellow carried himself with a certain air; he positively strutted as he advanced, and he made a leg in a manner that was courtly and practised.
“Monsieur,” said he, with the air of a conspirator, “the time for action has arrived, and so has the Marquis... That is why.”
The young lovers sprang apart in consternation; Climene with clasped hands, parted lips, and a bosom that raced distractingly under its white fichu-menteur; M. Leandre agape, the very picture of foolishness and dismay.
Meanwhile the newcomer rattled on. “I was at the inn an hour ago when he descended there, and I studied him attentively whilst he was at breakfast. Having done so, not a single doubt remains me of our success. As for what he looks like, I could entertain you at length upon the fashion in which nature has designed his gross fatuity. But that is no matter. We are concerned with what he is, with the wit of him. And I tell you confidently that I find him so dull and stupid that you may be confident he will tumble headlong into each and all of the traps I have so cunningly prepared for him.”
“Tell me, tell me! Speak!” Climene implored him, holding out her hands in a supplication no man of sensibility could have resisted. And then on the instant she caught her breath on a faint scream. “My father!” she exclaimed, turning distractedly from one to the other of those two. “He is coming! We are lost!”
“You must fly, Climene!” said M. Leandre.
“Too late!” she sobbed. “Too late! He is here.”
“Calm, mademoiselle, calm!” the subtle friend was urging her. “Keep calm and trust to me. I promise you that all shall be well.”
“Oh!” cried M. Leandre, limply. “Say what you will, my friend, this is ruin—the end of all our hopes. Your wits will never extricate us from this. Never!”
Through the gap strode now an enormous man with an inflamed moon face and a great nose, decently dressed after the fashion of a solid bourgeois. There was no mistaking his anger, but the expression that it found was an amazement to Andre-Louis.
“Leandre, you’re an imbecile! Too much phlegm, too much phlegm! Your words wouldn’t convince a ploughboy! Have you considered what they mean at all? Thus,” he cried, and casting his round hat from him in a broad gesture, he took his stand at M. Leandre’s side, and repeated the very words that Leandre had lately uttered, what time the three observed him coolly and attentively.
“Oh, say what you will, my friend, this is ruin—the end of all our hopes. Your wits will never extricate us from this. Never!”
A frenzy of despair vibrated in his accents. He swung again to face M. Leandre. “Thus,” he bade him contemptuously. “Let the passion of your hopelessness express itself in your voice. Consider that you are not asking Scaramouche here whether he has put a patch in your breeches. You are a despairing lover expressing...”
He checked abruptly, startled. Andre-Louis, suddenly realizing what was afoot, and how duped he had been, had loosed his laughter. The sound of it pealing and booming uncannily under the great roof that so immediately confined him was startling to those below.
The fat man was the first to recover, and he announced it after his own fashion in one of the ready sarcasms in which he habitually dealt.
“Hark!” he cried, “the very gods laugh at you, Leandre.” Then he addressed the roof of the barn and its invisible tenant. “Hi! You there!”
Andre-Louis revealed himself by a further protrusion of his tousled head.
“Good-morning,” said he, pleasantly. Rising now on his knees, his horizon was suddenly extended to include the broad common beyond the hedge. He beheld there an enormous and very battered travelling chaise, a cart piled up with timbers partly visible under the sheet of oiled canvas that covered them, and a sort of house on wheels equipped with a tin chimney, from which the smoke was slowly curling. Three heavy Flemish horses and a couple of donkeys—all of them hobbled—were contentedly cropping the grass in the neighbourhood of these vehicles. These, had he perceived them sooner, must have given him the clue to the queer scene that had been played under his eyes. Beyond the hedge other figures were moving. Three at that moment came crowding into the gap—a saucy-faced girl with a tip-tilted nose, whom he supposed to be Columbine, the soubrette; a lean, active youngster, who must be the lackey Harlequin; and another rather loutish youth who might be a zany or an apothecary.
All this he took in at a comprehensive glance that consumed no more time than it had taken him to say good-morning. To that good-morning Pantaloon replied in a bellow:
“What the devil are you doing up there?”
“Precisely the same thing that you are doing down there,” was the answer. “I am trespassing.”
“Eh?” said Pantaloon, and looked at his companions, some of the assurance beaten out of his big red face. Although the thing was one that they did habitually, to hear it called by its proper name was disconcerting.
“Whose land is this?” he asked, with diminishing assurance.
Andre-Louis answered, whilst drawing on his stockings. “I believe it to be the property of the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.”
“That’s a high-sounding name. Is the gentleman severe?”
“The gentleman,” said Andre-Louis, “is the devil; or rather, I should prefer to say upon reflection, that the devil is a gentleman by comparison.”
“And yet,” interposed the villainous-looking fellow who played Scaramouche, “by your own confessing you don’t hesitate, yourself, to trespass upon his property.”
“Ah, but then, you see, I am a lawyer. And lawyers are notoriously unable to observe the law, just as actors are notoriously unable to act. Moreover, sir, Nature imposes her limits upon us, and Nature conquers respect for law as she conquers all else. Nature conquered me last night when I had got as far as this. And so I slept here without regard for the very high and puissant Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr. At the same time, M. Scaramouche, you’ll observe that I did not flaunt my trespass quite as openly as you and your companions.”
Having donned his boots, Andre-Louis came nimbly to the ground in his shirt-sleeves, his riding-coat over his arm. As he stood there to don it, the little cunning eyes of the heavy father conned him in detail. Observing that his clothes, if plain, were of a good fashion, that his shirt was of fine cambric, and that he expressed himself like a man of culture, such as he claimed to be, M. Pantaloon was disposed to be civil.
“I am very grateful to you for the warning, sir...” he was beginning.
“Act upon it, my friend. The gardes-champetres of M. d’Azyr have orders to fire on trespassers. Imitate me, and decamp.”
They followed him upon the instant through that gap in the hedge to the encampment on the common. There Andre-Louis took his leave of them. But as he was turning away he perceived a young man of the company performing his morning toilet at a bucket placed upon one of the wooden steps at the tail of the house on wheels. A moment he hesitated, then he turned frankly to M. Pantaloon, who was still at his elbow.
“If it were not unconscionable to encroach so far upon your hospitality, monsieur,” said he, “I would beg leave to imitate that very excellent young gentleman before I leave you.”
“But, my dear sir!” Good-nature oozed out of every pore of the fat body of the master player. “It is nothing at all. But, by all means. Rhodomont will provide what you require. He is the dandy of the company in real life, though a fire-eater on the stage. Hi, Rhodomont!”
The young ablutionist straightened his long body from the right angle in which it had been bent over the bucket, and looked out through a foam of soapsuds. Pantaloon issued an order, and Rhodomont, who was indeed as gentle and amiable off the stage as he was formidable and terrible upon it, made the stranger free of the bucket in the friendliest manner.
So Andre-Louis once more removed his neckcloth and his coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his fine shirt, whilst Rhodomont procured him soap, a towel, and presently a broken comb, and even a greasy hair-ribbon, in case the gentleman should have lost his own. This last Andre-Louis declined, but the comb he gratefully accepted, and having presently washed himself clean, stood, with the towel flung over his left shoulder, restoring order to his dishevelled locks before a broken piece of mirror affixed to the door of the travelling house.
He was standing thus, the gentle Rhodomont babbled aimlessly at his side, when his ears caught the sound of hooves. He looked over his shoulder carelessly, and then stood frozen, with uplifted comb and loosened mouth. Away across the common, on the road that bordered it, he beheld a party of seven horsemen in the blue coats with red facings of the marechaussee.
Not for a moment did he doubt what was the quarry of this prowling gendarmerie. It was as if the chill shadow of the gallows had fallen suddenly upon him.
And then the troop halted, abreast with them, and the sergeant leading it sent his bawling voice across the common.
“Hi, there! Hi!” His tone rang with menace.
Every member of the company—and there were some twelve in all—stood at gaze. Pantaloon advanced a step or two, stalking, his head thrown back, his manner that of a King’s Lieutenant.
“Now, what the devil’s this?” quoth he, but whether of Fate or Heaven or the sergeant, was not clear.
There was a brief colloquy among the horsemen, then they came trotting across the common straight towards the players’ encampment.
Andre-Louis had remained standing at the tail of the travelling house. He was still passing the comb through his straggling hair, but mechanically and unconsciously. His mind was all intent upon the advancing troop, his wits alert and gathered together for a leap in whatever direction should be indicated.
Still in the distance, but evidently impatient, the sergeant bawled a question.
“Who gave you leave to encamp here?”
It was a question that reassured Andre-Louis not at all. He was not deceived by it into supposing or even hoping that the business of these men was merely to round up vagrants and trespassers. That was no part of their real duty; it was something done in passing—done, perhaps, in the hope of levying a tax of their own. It was very long odds that they were from Rennes, and that their real business was the hunting down of a young lawyer charged with sedition. Meanwhile Pantaloon was shouting back.
“Who gave us leave, do you say? What leave? This is communal land, free to all.”
The sergeant laughed unpleasantly, and came on, his troop following.
“There is,” said a voice at Pantaloon’s elbow, “no such thing as communal land in the proper sense in all M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s vast domain. This is a terre censive, and his bailiffs collect his dues from all who send their beasts to graze here.”
Pantaloon turned to behold at his side Andre-Louis in his shirt-sleeves, and without a neckcloth, the towel still trailing over his left shoulder, a comb in his hand, his hair half dressed.
“God of God!” swore Pantaloon. “But it is an ogre, this Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr!”
“I have told you already what I think of him,” said Andre-Louis. “As for these fellows you had better let me deal with them. I have experience of their kind.” And without waiting for Pantaloon’s consent, Andre-Louis stepped forward to meet the advancing men of the marechaussee. He had realized that here boldness alone could save him.
When a moment later the sergeant pulled up his horse alongside of this half-dressed young man, Andre-Louis combed his hair what time he looked up with a half smile, intended to be friendly, ingenuous, and disarming.
In spite of it the sergeant hailed him gruffly: “Are you the leader of this troop of vagabonds?”
“Yes... that is to say, my father, there, is really the leader.” And he jerked a thumb in the direction of M. Pantaloon, who stood at gaze out of earshot in the background. “What is your pleasure, captain?”
“My pleasure is to tell you that you are very likely to be gaoled for this, all the pack of you.” His voice was loud and bullying. It carried across the common to the ears of every member of the company, and brought them all to stricken attention where they stood. The lot of strolling players was hard enough without the addition of gaolings.
“But how so, my captain? This is communal land free to all.”
“It is nothing of the kind.”
“Where are the fences?” quoth Andre-Louis, waving the hand that held the comb, as if to indicate the openness of the place.
“Fences!” snorted the sergeant. “What have fences to do with the matter? This is terre censive. There is no grazing here save by payment of dues to the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.”
“But we are not grazing,” quoth the innocent Andre-Louis.
“To the devil with you, zany! You are not grazing! But your beasts are grazing!”
“They eat so little,” Andre-Louis apologized, and again essayed his ingratiating smile.
The sergeant grew more terrible than ever. “That is not the point. The point is that you are committing what amounts to a theft, and there’s the gaol for thieves.”
“Technically, I suppose you are right,” sighed Andre-Louis, and fell to combing his hair again, still looking up into the sergeant’s face. “But we have sinned in ignorance. We are grateful to you for the warning.” He passed the comb into his left hand, and with his right fumbled in his breeches’ pocket, whence there came a faint jingle of coins. “We are desolated to have brought you out of your way. Perhaps for their trouble your men would honour us by stopping at the next inn to drink the health of... of this M. de La Tour d’ Azyr, or any other health that they think proper.”
Some of the clouds lifted from the sergeant’s brow. But not yet all.
“Well, well,” said he, gruffly. “But you must decamp, you understand.” He leaned from the saddle to bring his recipient hand to a convenient distance. Andre-Louis placed in it a three-livre piece.
“In half an hour,” said Andre-Louis.
“Why in half an hour? Why not at once?”
“Oh, but time to break our fast.”
They looked at each other. The sergeant next considered the broad piece of silver in his palm. Then at last his features relaxed from their sternness.
“After all,” said he, “it is none of our business to play the tipstaves for M. de La Tour d’Azyr. We are of the marechaussee from Rennes.” Andre-Louis’ eyelids played him false by flickering. “But if you linger, look out for the gardes-champetres of the Marquis. You’ll find them not at all accommodating. Well, well—a good appetite to you, monsieur,” said he, in valediction.
“A pleasant ride, my captain,” answered Andre-Louis.
The sergeant wheeled his horse about, his troop wheeled with him. They were starting off, when he reined up again.
“You, monsieur!” he called over his shoulder. In a bound Andre-Louis was beside his stirrup. “We are in quest of a scoundrel named Andre-Louis Moreau, from Gavrillac, a fugitive from justice wanted for the gallows on a matter of sedition. You’ve seen nothing, I suppose, of a man whose movements seemed to you suspicious?”
“Indeed, we have,” said Andre-Louis, very boldly, his face eager with consciousness of the ability to oblige.
“You have?” cried the sergeant, in a ringing voice. “Where? When?”
“Yesterday evening in the neighbourhood of Guignen...”
“Yes, yes,” the sergeant felt himself hot upon the trail.
“There was a fellow who seemed very fearful of being recognized ... a man of fifty or thereabouts...”
“Fifty!” cried the sergeant, and his face fell. “Bah! This man of ours is no older than yourself, a thin wisp of a fellow of about your own height and of black hair, just like your own, by the description. Keep a lookout on your travels, master player. The King’s Lieutenant in Rennes has sent us word this morning that he will pay ten louis to any one giving information that will lead to this scoundrel’s arrest. So there’s ten louis to be earned by keeping your eyes open, and sending word to the nearest justices. It would be a fine windfall for you, that.”
“A fine windfall, indeed, captain,” answered Andre-Louis, laughing.
But the sergeant had touched his horse with the spur, and was already trotting off in the wake of his men. Andre-Louis continued to laugh, quite silently, as he sometimes did when the humour of a jest was peculiarly keen.
Then he turned slowly about, and came back towards Pantaloon and the rest of the company, who were now all grouped together, at gaze.
Pantaloon advanced to meet him with both hands out-held. For a moment Andre-Louis thought he was about to be embraced.
“We hail you our saviour!” the big man declaimed. “Already the shadow of the gaol was creeping over us, chilling us to the very marrow. For though we be poor, yet are we all honest folk and not one of us has ever suffered the indignity of prison. Nor is there one of us would survive it. But for you, my friend, it might have happened. What magic did you work?”
“The magic that is to be worked in France with a King’s portrait. The French are a very loyal nation, as you will have observed. They love their King—and his portrait even better than himself, especially when it is wrought in gold. But even in silver it is respected. The sergeant was so overcome by the sight of that noble visage—on a three-livre piece—that his anger vanished, and he has gone his ways leaving us to depart in peace.”
“Ah, true! He said we must decamp. About it, my lads! Come, come...”
“But not until after breakfast,” said Andre-Louis. “A half-hour for breakfast was conceded us by that loyal fellow, so deeply was he touched. True, he spoke of possible gardes-champetres. But he knows as well as I do that they are not seriously to be feared, and that if they came, again the King’s portrait—wrought in copper this time—would produce the same melting effect upon them. So, my dear M. Pantaloon, break your fast at your ease. I can smell your cooking from here, and from the smell I argue that there is no need to wish you a good appetite.”
“My friend, my saviour!” Pantaloon flung a great arm about the young man’s shoulders. “You shall stay to breakfast with us.”
“I confess to a hope that you would ask me,” said Andre-Louis.