"Several gendarmes."
"They have their price."
"Granted; but another remains, a bad one."
"Who?"
"The aristocrat who fell into the cave. He is near us."
"His name?"
"Répentigny."
"I will do what I can. We shall see what the Galley is good for in Paris."
THE BEGGARS' BALL
That evening there was a ball on the flat above. It was refreshingly democratic. The rag-pickers who lodged with Madame Gougeon and laid the foundation of her iron business, attended. Thither thronged the beggars, the knife-grinders, the old-bottle collectors of the neighbouring rookeries. The crookedest men of Paris, the most hideous women, the squalidest tatters were on hand. They whirled and jumped furiously in their unwashed feet; they became almost invisible in the clouds of dust; the odour sickened, the screeching and jumping deafened one. Bad, but maddening, wine was drunk in torrents. A man would kick his partner and the combatants tumble over each other in the midst of an applauding circle.
Who were these libels on women, these alleged men, these howling fiends? They were a driblet of two hundred thousand such wretches who overran and menaced the city, a product of the dense illiteracy of the time.
Wife Gougeon entered with the Admiral. They pushed their way to a long table in the corner where some sots were gambling, and sitting down on one of the benches around it, she shouted a couple of words to the man nearest to her, who bolted off into the dust and returned with a red-nosed beggar.
"Motte," said she, leering, "are you now on the Versailles roads?"
"Always," he said sharply.
"Do your division watch Versailles?"
"Without ceasing."
"This is the Admiral."
"The great Admiral? Of the Galley?"
"Certainly."
"I salute you, Chief," he said, raising a ragged arm.
"Have some brandy, Green Cap," the Admiral returned, rapping loudly for drink, which was brought.
"We want," said Madame engagingly, "to find a hog called Répentigny at Versailles."
The man snatched the bottle from the hand of thegarçon, and pouring a glass off, greedily drank it before replying.
"I don't know the name. What age is he?"
"About twenty," the chief said.
"Don't you know any more about him?"
The Admiral described him as closely as possible. They took some time in the conversation. "He ought to be in the company of officers of the Bodyguard," added he. The beggar by that time was becoming unsteady with rapid libations. He nodded, dropping his head.
"Do you understand me?" shouted the Admiral.
"Répentigny," the other muttered, correctly enough.
"Can you meet us at the Place d'Armes of Versailles to-morrow?" wheedled Femme Gougeon.
He looked at her steadily and nodded deliberately.
"Is twelve o'clock too early?"
He shook his head a little.
"He will assuredly do it," she said to her companion.
The next second the beggar fell off the bench, dead drunk.
The following day at Versailles, at the entrance of the Avenue de Paris, two nuns were seen to stop and give alms to an old bent beggar. A conversation took place between them, and was interrupted by the approach of a gendarme.
"I have found him," was the beggar's whisper.
"Where?"
"At the Hôtel de Noailles. Am I to kill him?" he asked excitedly.
"No," said the taller nun.
The gendarme stepped up towards the beggar.
"I arrest you for mendicity," he said, just about to lay his hand on his shoulder.
The beggar—who bore a red nose—started back with an alacrity unexpected of so aged a man. He took to his heels, and, with tatters flying, fled like an arrow from the Avenue.
The gendarme furiously looked after him. When he turned, the pair of nuns also had moved on. They were slipping round a corner which led into a by-street of the old town.
Versailles, the City of the Court, was then in the height of its splendour, gay and triumphant. Everything in it looked towards the Palace of the King, the long and lordly façade of which, with its three concentric courtyards, faced the great square of the town, the Place d'Armes; and behind lay those delicious gardens, groves and waters, the mere remains of which, such as the Tapis Vert, the Basins of Neptune and Enceladus, the Trianons, and the Orangerie, are marvels even to our day. Thousands of costumes and equipages made the town a panorama of luxury; and countless thoroughbreds, of which the King alone possessed more than two thousand, glistened and curvetted in the streets.
The neighbourhood of the Palace was naturally that of the aristocracy. The vast mansions of the Princes of the blood and the Peers of France were clustered about the sides of the Place d'Armes and the streets immediately surrounding. One of these was the Hôtel de Noailles. Its range of buildings, for it surrounded a court, stood at the corner of the Rues de la Pompe et des Bons Enfans. Behind it were its gardens. Opposite, on the Rue des Bons Enfans, were the hotels of the Princes of Condé and the Dukes of Tremouille. The hotels of Luxembourg, Orleans, and Bouillon faced it on the Rue de la Pompe. The Noailles family were themselves many times of royal descent. Adjoining the hotel were the quarters of the Queen's equerries.
Germain sat in his apartment, watching, over the balcony of one of the windows, the incessant movement of lackeys, mounted officials, and carriages on the street near by. Raising his eyes across the gardens of the Tremouille Palace, he rested them with quickened delight on the elegant avenues and groves of the royal pleasure-realm, rich in the golden tones and clear air of an autumn morning.
In the midst the Basin of Neptune, glittering and shining, and with its white statues, seemed to inspire him with a happy suggestion, and he trolled to himself a ballad with a nonsensical chorus, popular in his native land—
"Behind the manor lies the mere,En roulant, ma boulë;Three fair ducks skim its water clear.En roulant, ma boulë roulant.En roulant, ma boulë.Three fair ducks skim its waters clear,The King's son hunteth far and near.The King's son draweth near the lake,He bears his gun of magic make.With magic gun of silver brightHe sights the Black but kills the White.He sights the Black but kills the White;Ah, cruel Prince, my heart you smite."
A rap on the door interrupted him. Dominique put his head in, announcing—
"A woman, sir."
"A woman? Young and beautiful?"
"No, sir; old."
"On what errand?"
"She insists it is business."
"Let her come in."
A figure entered dressed in a faded black shawl, a red dress, and a blue linen apron, and her face shadowed in a hood. She kept back out of the window-light, and he thought she was in great distress.
"Madame," he stammered, putting aside his gaiety, and rose.
"Monseigneur, I supplicate your mercy," she sobbed.
"My mercy? I do not understand."
"Your mercy; I supplicate it," she cried in an agonised voice.
"My good woman, I would never injure you, I protest."
"I am their mother, sir; I am starving."
"Whose mother?"
She represented the prisoners as being sons of hers. When she mentioned the robbery, he recoiled. As she proceeded, however, he condoled with her and gave her a piece of money, which she took, expatiating brokenly on the dependance of her sons' necks on his evidence.
"Mon Dieu! Monsieur," she concluded, "do you know what it is to take three lives of poor men? Can you picture what it means to a parent? You have a heart—you have a God—you have a mother."
The flood of tears and hysterical sobbing were in the highest art of expert mendicancy. She advanced towards him, threw herself upon her knees at his feet, embraced his shoes, and writhed.
Germain was so shaken that for a moment he had an intention of running for a cabriolet to take him to Paris to intercede with the magistrates in the affair. He was about to follow his impulse when a consideration startled him. He had heard the Prince repeatedly speak with satisfaction of the capture of the highwaymen. To interfere with the arrests, he saw, would shock the robbed family; it would banish him, he thought, from the circle of Cyrène. The question troubled him. In a few moments he decided it: he must stretch out a hand of mercy to this woman.
Following the custom among beggars, she watched his countenance furtively during her appeals, interpreting its changes more accurately than he himself was doing, and at its last expression her eyes flashed with triumph.
"Go; I will help you," he said to her in an agitated voice, and calling Dominique, added with great courtesy, "See Madame to the gates, and help her in any way you can."
But no sooner had she left the chamber than a thought which angered him came like a flash, and stepping to the door, he called them back.
"You say these men are your sons?" he said severely, when she had come into the room; "let me see your face."
She shrank from him and hid it more deeply in her hood.
"The man who was a cultivator is forty years of age; you are no more," he pronounced, "how can you be his mother?"
A few mumbled words passed her lips, but he did not listen to them.
"The three are from three different families, three different ranks, three different Provinces, and yet you have pretended to be the parent of all of them. You are the parent of none of them, but have come here to shamefully impose upon my feelings. What you are is a confederate of the gang. Had you been the woman you have pretended I was ready to make sacrifices for you, the extent of which you cannot know. But if, instead of returning sons to a mother, I am to loose again three most dangerous criminals upon the country, it is a different affair. Be well satisfied that I do not immediately have yourself convicted as their accomplice." In his anger he motioned her to be off, and she, dropping the piece of gold which he had given her, crept away with alacrity, not daring to venture a word.
It was only as she passed down through the Prince's halls behind Dominique that she allowed her fury full possession of her, and as she glanced about on the evidences of luxury, she gnashed her teeth and hissed half aloud—
"Ah, but I would stick your throats, you fat hogs!"
"What do you say, Madame?" inquired Dominique.
"Nothing at all."
Germain threw himself again upon his chair and gave himself up to misery.
BROKEN ON THE WHEEL
The prisoners were condemned to death, in the terrible form of breaking on the wheel. Wife Gougeon and the Admiral returned late on the last night before the execution to the old-iron shop, dismayed and ferocious. Her vanity was deeply hurt by the failure of her plan. In the back of the shop, among piles of horse-shoes, locks, spikes, and bars, a meeting of the Big Bench of the Galley-on-land was held to decide the course to be taken. The yellow light of the dip threw their shadows into the recesses and shed its flicker on their faces. Gougeon sat picking at the candle-grease in his apathetic way. Hache cheerfully threw himself on a long box. The Admiral stood wrapped in his cloak, melodramatic as usual.
Femme Gougeon pushed into the centre.
"Men, or whatever you call yourselves," she hissed, throwing her grimy arm into the air, "will you let la Tour, Bec, and Caron die like dogs?" and her deep-set eyes scintillated from one to the other.
A sullen silence ensued.
Finding no reply, she rushed to the window-sill at the rear and took down an assortment of pike-heads and stilletti, with which were a couple of pistols. She thrust a dirk or pike-head into the hand of each, but to the Admiral she gave one of the pistols; the other she kept.
"There," shrieked she furiously, raising her arm to its full height with the pistol. "That is what I say about this."
They were still sullen and reluctant.
"What have you done, Motte?" the Admiral said, turning to the beggar of Versailles.
"I have seen Fouché; he is persuaded an escape is impossible."
"Who is Fouché?"
"A prison guard of the Châtelet, and belongs to our Galley."
"Did you tell him I had the money?"
"He says money in this case is useless; this is not an ordinary business; the Lieutenant sees to it in person on account of the King's interest in it; it is robbery from the person of a Prince, and a crime against the King on his own lands."
"Reasons only too clear," reflected the Admiral. "Where will the execution be?"
At the mention of the unpleasant word a grimace passed over Hache's face.
"On the Place de Grève," Gougeon replied, showing a little interest, "at eight to-morrow."
"How many guards will attend them?"
"Six by the cart, with their officers; and the streets are lined with the guards of Paris," continued Gougeon.
"You intend arescue? Sacre!" vociferated Wife Gougeon. "I will be there too; they dare not arrest me. Greencaps, I tell you those white-gills fear us people, and we could kick their heads about the streets if we all stood together."
"Death to the hogs!" cried the beggar.
"Take care," Gougeon grumbled.
"What do you mean, beast?" retorted his amiable spouse.
"That there are plenty ofsheep[1]on this street."
"Curse thesheep!" ejaculated the Admiral. "Go everywhere, all of you, and rouse the Galley and all ragmen for to-morrow at the Quai Pelletier at half-past seven. Return here by six sharp."
By six next morning the Council had returned, and their friends as they left the door hung about the street corner near by, amusing themselves by striking the lamp with their sticks.
At half-past six the Council issued, shouting—
"To the execution!"
Hache ran up the middle of the street repeating the cry in his stentorian voice, so that as he rushed along the dingy houses poured forth their contents after him like swarms of bees; boys, men, and women mingling pell-mell, half clothed, unkempt, fierce-mouthed, wild-faced, ignorant.
Motte, the beggar, took up the words and sped like the wind up the narrow side streets and lanes, shouting, "To the execution!"
Wife Gougeon screamed it. Even her husband opened his malign jaws from time to time and automatically gave vent to a harsh shout.
Thus sown, it became a cry springing up everywhere. The whole quarter of St. Marcel grew alive, and an immense crowd ran together into the neighbouring square. Little direction was needed to band them into a marching mob, waving clubs, pikes, and bottles, dancing, quarrelling and howling, with ribald songs and shouts of "To the execution!" In one thing they differed notably from a similar crowd in this century, could such be imagined. Ragged and wretched though they were, they worecolourin profusion. The mass was a rich subject for the artist.
Among the women at the front was seen Wife Gougeon brandishing her pistol. The Admiral and Hache were at her side haranguing the leaders. Surging along, the demoniac screams of drunken women and the babel of shouting men, as they approached each new neighbourhood, seemed to stir it to its depths and to add to the rear a new contingent.
Thus their numbers swelled at every street, and the excitement increased to a pitch beyond description. They swept forward by the Rue Mouffetard and through the Latin Quarter till they reached the broad Boulevard St. Germain. Turning along the latter through the Rue St. Jacques they suddenly increased their speed and uproar, and thundered across the Petit Pont Bridge and Isle of France, and once more across a bridge—that of Notre Dame—where they saw the Quai Le Pelletier on the other side lined with a black sea of people. At least a quarter of the population of Paris were crammed together within the available space upon the quays and the neighbouring streets along the Seine, from the towered Châtelet—court-house and prison—some distance below, to the Place de Grève, some distance above, in front of the Hôtel de Ville. A line of blue-coated, white-gaitered soldiers on each side kept the space clear down the centre.
The people were looking forward to the spectacle of the morning with intense delight.
Meanwhile at the prison doors of the Châtelet the three poor wretches of prisoners were forced into a cart by gendarmes in the sight of the multitude. A man sat awaiting them in the cart, curled, powdered, dressed; and perfumed with foppish elegance, and his every motion made with a dainty sense of distinction. He was the people's hero—the public executioner. He took in his hands the ends of the rope which hung from the necks of his victims. Another figure mounted the cart behind them. It was a priest, who knelt, bent his head, and offered to each of them the crucifix; and the cart then proceeded slowly along the soldier-lined streets, accompanied by half a dozen guards carrying their muskets on their shoulders, bayonetted.
The emotions meanwhile of the condemned were told in their bearing. Young Hugues de la Tour stood up, and scornfully refusing the crucifix of the priest, looked around upon the scene with an air of irreconcilable indignation. His companions, Bec and Caron, the men who in the cave had spoken of themselves as ruined, the one by taxes, the other by the tithe, were more abject, and clutched the crucifix in despair.
Comments were shouted freely at the victims. Applause greeted the demeanour of la Tour, rough raillery the terror of his companions.
After this manner they jolted painfully along the cobbled paving, down through the swaying crowd towards the Place de Grève. Though the distance was not perhaps more than a couple of hundred yards the poor men underwent ages of tension. When they came to the Quai Le Pelletier, Hugues heard, as in a dream, a startling stentorian, familiar cry—
"Vive the Galley!"
His bloodshot eyes strained towards the place whence it came, and once more a voice, this time the shriek of a woman, pierced the air—
"Vive the Galley!"
The two other prisoners now raised their heads, still dazed and in a stupor.
Immediately a third voice, loud and shrill, but instinct with the thrill of command, took up the words. It was the Admiral, and his third "Vive the Galley!" was a signal.
Nine soldiers of the line of troops at the point nearest the prisoners were simultaneously thrown on the street, and a score of desperate men had broken into the centre and made a rush for the small guard around the carts. A cry, rising into a multitudinous commotion of shouts, went up from the gazing mob, ever on the verge of a tumult. At the same time there was a resistless swaying on all sides—the two lines of soldiers gave way for a few minutes, and people far and near rushed into the middle of the street. The vortex of St. Marcellese, at the Pont Notre Dame, already filled with winey purpose, pushed forward with a sudden bound towards their leaders and the death-cart, triumphing over their old enemies, the gendarmes, and preparing for every excess.
Femme Gougeon, as leader of a horde of viragoes, was rushing among them shrieking more fiendishly than ever. While some held down the guard or wrested away their arms, the prisoners were lifted out of the cart and began to be hurried along towards the bridge, Bec and Caron struggling like maniacs with their fetters. The mob had at this moment complete mastery.
It lasted only a few seconds. Drums began to beat towards the Place de Grève. The tocsin bell of the Hôtel de Ville sounded. There was a shock—a check of the crowd's volitions. A heavy rolling-back movement took place, and a public roar of fear was heard. People on the edges ran to shelter, and in a few moments more a volley of musketry sounded down the street. The crowd broke in all directions. It scattered away as suddenly as it had risen, and through the clearing smoke the soldiers could be seen closing up and again preparing to fire in volley. The prisoners were left in the hands only of the Admiral and Hache.
"Come, come," cried the latter, urging them to run.
"Brave men, save yourselves; as for us we are lost," was the reply of la Tour.
So Hache and the Admiral disappeared.
Bec and Caron lay prostrate on the deserted pavement. Hugues stood up proudly until a musket-ball broke his arm and knocked him over.
Then the dead and wounded could be counted, scattered over the scene of themêlée.
Sickening it would be to tell in full of the execution which followed.
The Place de Grève was surrounded by an entire regiment, keeping back the crowd, who soon, remastered by overpowering curiosity, struggled for standing room and strained their necks to see. A conspicuous platform had been erected in front of the Hôtel de Ville. Caron was the first to suffer. At the order of the executioner he was caught hold of by two assistants, thrown down, and bound to a large St. Andrew's cross of plank which lay on the platform. The black-robed confessor knelt down at his head and held up the crucifix before him, at the same time hiding his own face by his book and the sleeve of his gown. The executioner adjusted his wig elegantly, took up and minutely examined his crowbar, and casting first a coxcomb look at the breathless spectators, brought the bar into the air with a flourish, and down with a crash on the right thigh of the poor prisoner. The agonising cry of the helpless man was drowned in a tremendous outburst of applause from the crowd. When he had been disposed of in each of his four limbs, Bec was treated in the same manner. Then the assistants, seizing Hugues, threw him on the cross, bound him, and the executioner lifted his bar in the air——
THE SAVING OF LA TOUR
Jude, who had the instincts of a Spanish Dominican, kept the closest watch upon the judicial proceedings against the highwaymen. He was promptly at the Châtelet at the time of their brief and summary trial, and procuring acalèche, sped Versaillesward to retail the news to the Noailles household. Having done so with considerableéclatto her Excellency, he pictured to himself an entrancing dream—that of awaking a joyful sympathy between himself and Cyrène through this highly congratulatory matter. She would smile upon him so divinely, so highly applaud his zeal, and begin to compare him favourably with that new butterfly, Répentigny, whose day must thenceforth come to an end.
It was night before he discovered her whereabouts, for she was at a ball, accompanying the Maréchale de Noailles, chief lady of honour of the Queen. The Maréchale was just then occupying the suite of apartments allotted to her in the Palace, and there Jude waited impatiently until half-past three before the young widow arrived in her boudoir accompanied by her maid.
"You did not expect me here, Madame Baroness," he said.
"In truth I did not, sir," she replied with cold surprise.
"I am the bearer of good news to you."
"Indeed!"
"Madame was robbed last month at Fontainebleau."
"And you bring back my jewels, good Abbé?" She began already to seem more radiant to him than he had dreamed.
"Not that quite."
"You mystify me."
"Madame will remember that three of the villains were caught."
"And Monsieur de Répentigny has found the others?" she cried, her countenance lighting again.
The Abbé's face fell.
"No, I have more agreeable news."
"You are too slow, as usual."
"Complete justice has been done!"
Her face suddenly turned to motionless marble.
"You mean on those three men?" she asked, with horror, which surprised him.
"Certainly."
"How?"
"Their legs will crack this very morning in Paris at eight o'clock."
"Those living beings whom I have seen, that cruel death!" she cried. "Where is the Prime Minister? Christ help me!"
She took no heed of her flimsy, incongruous dress, her fatigue, her need of sleep. Her soul was overwhelmed with the Christian desire to save, and in her sudden energy the girl over-awed the reptile before her.
"Why do you wait, sir?" she exclaimed. "Conduct me to the Minister instantly!"
"What, at this hour? In this manner? Does my lady reflect what will be said to-morrow throughout the town?" he ejaculated.
"You have my command," she answered him, motioning to her maid to follow.
Sometimes leading, and sometimes instructed where to go, the Abbé preceded her through a long maze of chambers and passages, in each of which sentinels were posted, until they came to the antechamber of Monsieur de Calonne.
By good luck, the Minister, like herself, had not yet retired, but was signing papers.
His astonishment was unbounded at both her appearance and her agitated and remarkable request.
"Baroness," said he, "these men for whom you have such singular though meritorious sympathy have flagrantly wronged yourself and the King. How much better are they than the thousands who suffer the same fate every year under the well-weighed sentences of the bench?"
"What rends me, sir, is to see human beings die, into whose faces I have looked."
"That speaks well for your heart, Madame; but what about the laws?"
"Are laws just under which three lives are set against a few trinkets?"
"Well, Baroness, that is the business not of you nor me, but of the magistrates. You admit at least the guilt of the criminals against society?"
"What has society done for these creatures? What have we who live at ease in Versailles done to make them good citizens? But I cease to argue, my lord, and know that in doing so I am presuming beyond any rights I might have. Listen, then, with your good heart—for all France knows the good heart of Monsieur de Calonne—to the intercession of a woman for three of her dying, neglected, and miserable fellow-men."
"They have a fair and powerful advocate," he said, smiling agreeably.
Calonne no longer resisted her appeal, but wrote the necessary order. Putting profound gratitude as well as respect into her three parting curtseys, she flew with it to her chamber.
"Get me anenragé," she exclaimed to Jude. Anenragéwas one of those lean post-horses specially used for quick travel to and from Paris, a distance they could make in a couple of hours.
She would trust no one with the Minister's order, but rapidly threw on a cloak and cap during the absence of the Abbé.
Enragéswere generally to be had on short notice day or night, but this night it seemed as if there were none in all Versailles; her anxiety and impatience increased, and she paced the room in agony of mind. At last Jude returned, and announced the vehicle.
Descending hastily, she stepped into it, still commanding the Abbé to accompany her. As it rattled forward, she kept her eyes fixed impatiently upon the face of her watch. Half-past six—three-quarters—seven—the quarter—the half—at length they were checked at the Châtelet by the crowd surging and swaying around them, with the wave-like confusion of the riot, heard the musketry, and learned from a guard who ran to protect her the cause of the trouble, and that the execution was about to take place on the Place de Grève.
Jude, in cowardly terror, fell back in a stupor, but the coachman was of that Parisian type to whom popular danger was like champagne, and on the promise of a louis he lashed his foaming horse to the Place de Grève. The shrieks of the second victim and the shouts and drums informed Cyrène only too well what was passing. She leaped from the cabriolet, and rushed for the platform.
The strange sight of a beautiful Court lady in ball dress, pushing her way forward in such agitation, had an instantaneous effect on the crowd, and they opened a way to the centre. Stumbling past them, she threw out the paper she carried towards the officer-in-command, and fell fainting at his feet. Hugues de la Tour thus escaped execution.
MADAME L'ETIQUETTE
The Oeil de Boeuf, the famous hall of the courtiers, had a magical enchantment for Lecour. When he first rested his red-heeled shoes upon its polished floor, having entered in the train of the Prince de Poix, the courtiers were awaiting the passing of the King. There were many faces he had not seen at Fontainebleau, and even those familiar showed no sign that he was remembered here. The person who stood at his elbow was an old officer, who had likewise entered with the Prince.
"I am come from the Province of Saintonge," said he, seeming glad to unburden his confidences, "and I am at Court to obtain a great honour for my son, who deserves it—my son, sir, the Chevalier de la Violette, a very gallant youth. At Saintes, under de Grasse, he led the boarding of two of our frigates, one after the other, which had been taken by the enemy, and recovered them both. After the battle, he was taken up for dead, wounded in eleven places. The deck was literally washed with his blood. I am positive the thing has only to be mentioned to the King himself for him to recognise my son's claims and appoint him sub-lieutenant in the Bodyguard. I seek that for him because of the great advantages and favours attached to it. The Prince de Poix must first be induced to recommend him, for the prize is in his company; but I have had the wit to secure in my favour the Princess's secretary, an Abbé to whom I have given forty good louis, and who is to have a hundred more in case of success. The secretary, sir, is very important. What a shame how these low-born knaves rob us poor nobles, and make officers and canons. We must, perforce, 'monsieur' them, and salute them a league off as if they were their masters. The secretary even of the wife is very important. The secretary is more important than the mistress nowadays"; and the old officer laughed at his provincial witticism.
Lecour's eyes fell on a young guard, standing with sword drawn at the door of the King's antechamber. "How secure is the place of these!" he sighed to himself; "how insecure is mine!" A friendly voice sounded, and he noticed Grancey stood before him. "Follow me before the King arrives," said he. "My service is on the Queen to-day." Germain followed. The air of mystery, characteristic of the courtiers, seemed concentrated in their looks towards him as he passed. Their speculations pieced together his entry with a powerful Prince and his familiarity with a favoured officer of the Bodyguard; and his pleasing figure was judged to give him the probability of advancement, to what height in the royal favour no one could foretell. Those among whom he passed bowed low to the mysterious fortune of thedébutant.
The door through which they went led into the great Gallery of Mirrors, a much more vast and beautiful hall than the Oeil de Boeuf. It was the most attractive, in fact, in the Palace, for its range of long windows commanded, from the centre of the eminence, the whole view of the terrace andparterres, which was reflected upon the opposite side by mirrors lining the walls. Every space, every door-panel here, even the locks, was each an elaborate work of art. The ceiling was covered with the great deeds of Louis Quatorze from the brush of le Brun. Antique statues and caskets of massive silver, mosaic tables of precious stones, and priceless cabinets, encrusted with the brass and tin-work executed by the celebrated Buhl, furnished the Gallery.
Quitting Lecour, de Grancey stepped to the centre, and gave the word—
"Gentlemen of the Bodyguard, to your posts of honour!" and thus taking command of the detachment, who were gathered in a corner of the hall, he entered on his duty of disposing and inspecting them. No sooner was this completed than a rustling in the Oeil de Boeuf informed them that the King was passing. Shortly afterwards a noise like thunder was heard, and the throng of courtiers poured in from the Oeil de Boeuf, and filled the great Gallery of Mirrors. They had scarcely arranged themselves when Germain heard a cry of "The Queen!" and beheld the radiant Marie Antoinette advancing. The beautiful mistress of France passed along in state with her suite, bestowing on one and another the attention she considered due, to some a smile, to two or three a curtsey, to many merely a glance. Noticing the humble worship in Germain's eyes, his face and the exploit at Fontainebleau came back to her. She stopped, therefore, as was sometimes her wont, and said graciously, "Monsieur, we do not forget brave men," passing onward again. Instantly the Court noticed the event, and exalted him in its esteem accordingly. But before he could enjoy it, the entire scene was driven temporarily from his thoughts and became a-whirl about another figure of which in the passing train he became suddenly aware. It was the cold, impassive, scrutinising face of an aged dame of such overweening pride and keenness that he seemed to feel himself pierced through by her gaze. He had heard of the severity of the Maréchale de Noailles—"Madame l'Etiquette"—Cyrène's patroness, and knew intuitively that this was she. The danger of his situation became instantaneously real. The train, accustomed to confusion, continued their advance. Only then did he notice that in charge of this old dragon walked Cyrène, her look fixed brightly upon his face.
THE COMMISSION
Lecour returned to the Hôtel de Noailles overwhelmed with forebodings—one of those revulsions which come during long-continued excitement.
"End the farce, fool," he exclaimed to himself despondently, hurrying to the quarters of the Princess. She received him "in her bath,"—a circumstance not unusual and which meant a covered foot-bath and a handsomedéshabillégown.
"Madame," he said. An emotion he could not quite hide caused him to hesitate—"my days at Versailles are ended. I am come to present my gratitude at your feet for the great kindness your Excellencies have shown me. Believe, Madame——"
"Monsieur de Répentigny, you speak of leaving us?"
"It is too true."
"Truth is the only thing I find ill-mannered. Why should you leave us?"
"Because, Madame, it is my duty."
"No gentleman should have duties. Are you discontented with Versailles?"
"On the contrary it is the place where I should be most happy."
"This is a riddle, then. Plainly, you are indispensable to us. Can I tempt you by some pension, some honour, some office? I have a benefice vacant, but should dislike to see those locks of yours tonsured. What do you say to the army?"
"It is impossible, for me."
"The army, I say, it shall be."
"Madame——"
"To-morrow I will hear your choice concerning this commission—horse, foot, or artillery?"
One did not argue with Princesses—partly because Princesses did not argue with one. He humbly retired, revolving an undefined notion of flight.
By chance Grancey entered during the afternoon.
"Homesick, just at the nick of fortune? Do you know that a sub-lieutenancy is vacant in my company? Sub-lieutenant, with rank of a Colonel of Dragoons?"
"I did not."
"You must ask for it."
"That is out of the question, my lord." The gravity and humility of his demeanour astonished Grancey, who surveyed him quizzically. "Is this a newrôle, Répentigny, a part fromThe Unconscious Philosopher? Are you ill?"
"I am leaving Versailles."
"Nonsense."
"And France."
"Never!"
"It is the case."
"But I have named you for the sub-lieutenancy."
Lecour looked up; but it was not enough to revive him from so deep a slough.
"I must go, Baron."
"Galimatias!You shall not throw away a commission in the Bodyguard of the greatest Court in Europe. My brother-officers demand you, and you must not desert me, your friend—yourfriend, Germain."
Germain went over to a window and looked out, to hide the tears with which his eyes were filling. In the courtyard below a coach had stopped at one of the doors. Cyrène was entering it. Why was she brought before him just at that moment. This inopportune glimpse of her cancelled all reasoning. With fevered sight he watched her till the coach disappeared, and turning, said eagerly to de Grancey—
"Is not the Prince's consent required?"
"You agree!" Grancey cried, embracing him joyfully. "As to the Prince, comrade," said he, "the sole difficulty is that he will grant anything to anybody. We must get his signature—for which I admit it is delicate to ask him—before any other applicant."
Lecour's pulses sprang back to life.
"Could thePrincessassist us?" he inquired.
"Perfect!" cried the Baron.
Germain returned to her apartment. The Abbé was handing her a paper and saying—
"An entirely worthy gentleman, your Excellency, and wounded in several of the King's victories, as well as of irreproachable descent."
Germain did not guess until it was too late that this was the petition of the Chevalier de la Violette.
She was stretching out her hand to take the pen which Jude passed to her.
"Madame," Lecour exclaimed breathlessly, "I have a prayer to make to you immediately."
"Yes, Monsieur de Répentigny?"
"For a commission."
"Delightful."
"A vacant commission of sub-lieutenant in the company of the Prince."
She dropped the pen in wonder and looked at the Abbé Jude, whose face turned sickly.
And so Germain obtained a great position.
"As a matter of form," said Major Collinot, the Adjutant of the Bodyguard, at headquarters, "Monsieur de Répentigny of course proves the necessary generations ofnoblesse?"
"Here is the herald's attestation, sir," replied Germain, producing that which Grancey's intercession had obtained for him at Fontainebleau.
Doubly past the strictest tests of ancestry and reassured in boldness he was now ready even to play cards with the dread Maréchale de Noailles—her who it was reported once said, "That although our Lord was born in a stable yet it must be remembered St. Joseph was of royal line and not any common carpenter."
The pomp and glitter of the new life appealed immensely to the youthful instincts of the Canadian. The Baron detailed to his fascinated listener the composition, privileges, and duties of the Gardes—
"We are thirteen hundred, Répentigny, in four companies—the Scotch, the Villeroy, the Noailles, and the Luxembourg, each over three hundred persons; we relieve each other every three months. Just now it is the turn of our company of Noailles. Of the three months, each man spends one on guard at the Palace, one at the hunting-lodge, and one at liberty; after that we withdraw to towns some distance apart, those of the Noailles company to Troyes in Champagne." He told with pride of what good stature and descent it was necessary to be to be received, how keenly sought after even the commissions as privates were, hence the fine picked appearance of the body. He dilated on the various instruments and startling costumes of his company's band; on the style of their horses and the magnificence of their reviews and parades; on the superiority of the pale blue cross-belts which distinguished them, over the silver and white ones of the Scotch company, the green of the Villeroys, the yellow of the Luxembourgs. These differences, he asserted, were the greatest distinctions under the sun.
Let us in our colder blood add to his description that each of these companies consisted of one captain, one adjutant, two lieutenant-commandants of squadron, three lieutenants, ten sub-lieutenants, two standard-bearers, ten quartermasters, two sub-quartermasters, twenty brigadiers or sergeants, two hundred and eighty guards, one timbalier, and five trumpeters. Germain studied the roll with great interest.
DESCAMPATIVOS
Winter passed. The company of Noailles returned from its quarters at Troyes to Versailles. Whatever he did, his passion for Cyrène coloured every thought and scene with an artist's imposition of its own interpretations. The world in which she dwelt was to him a vision, a poem, a garden.
A change had, it is true, come over his character; he became more desperate, but if was only because the deeper had become this affection. The incident of the reprieve of la Tour, which had meanwhile reached him, sank deeper into his heart than the whole round of his pleasures, and made him anxious for the moment when he might again meet her.
The society in which he found himself flying, like one of a tribe of bright-plumaged birds in a grove full of song, centred around the Queen. Marie Antoinette constantly sought refuge with her intimate circle from people and Court at the gardens and dairy of the Little Trianon, in the Park of Versailles, where it was understood that ceremony was banished and the romps and pleasures of country life were in order.
In the month of June Lecour received a command to a private picnic here. It was the highest "honour" he had as yet attained. As a Canadian he had paid his respects in the beginning to the Count de Vaudreuil. The latter was the leader in the pastimes of the Queen's circle, a handsome and accomplished man, and one of social boldness as well as polish. Though in his successes at Court he affected to forget that he was of Canadian extraction, he yet evinced an interest in Lecour on that account and showed courtesy to him. When the Count therefore one day heard the Queen refer with favour to the graceful Guardsman, he added him to the next list of invitations.
The guests, about forty, all approved by Marie Antoinette, included members of both the rival sets at Court. The young Duchess of Polignac, a simple, pleasant woman whom the liking of the Queen had alone raised to importance, was there with several of her connections and friends. The Noailles family, with its haughty alliances, its long-standing greatness, and its contempt for those new people the Polignacs, was to be chiefly represented by the amiable young Duchess of Mouchy, who came late.
No picnic could have been more free and easy. The Queen herself looked a Venus-like dairymaid in straw hat and flowered skirt, and it was announced that the game of the afternoon should be that called "Descampativos." The guests trooped like children from the Little Trianon to a sequestered spot where lofty woods combined to cast a Druid shade upon the lawn. Here Vaudreuil was elected high priest.
Assuming a white robe and mock-heroic solemnity, and standing out in the centre of the grass, he sang forth in a strikingly rich voice—
"Let us raise an altar to Venus the goddess of these groves."
Four attendants, moving quickly forward in response, carrying squares of turf, piled them into an altar as rapidly as possible. The party arranged themselves in a quadrangle around it.
The altar being completed, Pontiff Vaudreuil proceeded with the mystery thus—
"Listen, dryads and demi-gods, to the oracles of the divinity. The decree of Aphrodite hath it that for the space of one hour there shall be fair amity between——" Here he named the company off in pairs, carefully pre-meditated. As pair after pair were called, they stepped forward on the lawn amid a chorus of laughter, and swelled a procession facing the priest and altar.
Lecour wondered as he saw the remaining number dwindle, who should be paired with himself. Strict rules of precedence he knew would govern it. At length, to his astonishment, he heard the words—
"Madame la Baronne de la Roche-Vernay, and Monsieur de Répentigny."
He looked hastily around.
It was then that two ladies were seen hurrying into the arena from the direction of the Trianon. One was the Duchess de Mouchy; the other, of the same age and dressed in a simple cloud of white tulle, came behind her, and Germain, as if in an apparition, saw his Cyrène. Her obeisances to the Queen and company over, she turned and courtesied very deeply to her lover, who trembled with delight under her smile.
He was quickly recalled by the voice of de Vaudreuil, this time crying—
"Her Majesty of France, and her Majesty's servant and subject the High Priest of the goddess."
It was the invariable custom of the ambitious and confident courtier to appropriate the Queen to himself.
Pausing at the close, he raised his arm ritually towards the trees and rested thus a moment speechless.
"Descampativos!" he suddenly exclaimed in a stentorian tone, throwing off his robe.
At the word, the pairs broke ranks, the ladies screamed with merriment, and all the pairs scampered into the woods in different directions to follow what paths might suit them, bound only by the rule of the game to return in an hour.
Germain and Cyrène strayed from the others into the groves, until the voices grew fainter and fainter and at last died away. They walked on without finding any necessity of speaking, for their glances and the ever sweet pang of love in their breasts sufficed. At last they found a little space with a fountain where the water spurted up in three jets out of the points of a Triton's spear, and there being a seat there, they took it, sat down, and looked in each other's eyes.
"My love," he whispered, kissing her cheek.
"Germain," breathed she slowly, her fair breast heaving, and suddenly threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears. Sweet, sweet, sweet, were the moments of their supreme bliss.
image: The House of the Golden DogThe House of the Golden DogFrom the model by Thomas O'Leary in McGill University.
THE SHADOW OF THE GOLDEN DOG
Two old marquises sat together in a parlour in Paris.
"Bring us the best wine in the house," exclaimed one of them, a bronzed and dried soldier in a maroon coat, waving his hand to his lackey, who responded and disappeared.
"Nothing," continued the soldier, turning to his friend, "could be too good for my schoolmate Lotbinière. Here are two chairs worthy of us, generals among this spindle-shanked regiment. Sit down in that one while I draw up here opposite. Throw off the wigs; there. We shall see now how much of each other remains after our long parting. In India I never wore a wig except to receive the Maharajah."
"Excellent, Pierre! There goes mine. Let us sit back and talk ourselves into the good old days when you and I were youngsters."
"And a French king ruled Canada."
"And the French regiments marched its soil. Do you remember the hot morning we stood hand in hand watching the Royal Rousillons wheel into the Place d'Armes in front of the church?"
"How old were we then?"
"I was eleven; it was my birthday. Don't you remember?"
The wine came in and was set on a little table. The first speaker opened a bottle and poured out two glasses.
Pierre le Gardeur, Knight of St. Louis, Brigadier-General, Governor of Mahé and Marquis de Répentigny—for this was he—was a tall, spare man whose complexion the suns of the tropics had browned, whose hair was whitened with foreign service, and whose blue eyes and sensitive, handsome features wore a strange, settled look of melancholy. Evidently some long-standing sorrow threw its shadow over his spirit.
His friend, the Marquis de Lotbinière, was a person of much more worldly aspect, of largish build and beginning to incline to flesh, but whose dark eyes were steady with the air of business capability and self-possession. The care and finish of his dress and manner showed pronounced pride of rank—a kind of well-regulated ostentation. His family were descended from the best of the half-dozen petty gentry in the rude, early days of the colony of his origin. He had by his ability become engineer-in-chief under Montcalm. Yet from the point of view of the Versailles nobility—the standard he himself was most ambitious to apply—he was but an obscure colonel, and his title a questionable affair. He acquired it in this wise.
At the fall of New France the last French Governor, Vaudreuil, passed over to Europe and sold out his Canadian properties. De Lotbinière, who remained, bought them for a song, including the château in Montreal and several large seigniories, chiefly wild lands, but growing in value. In the original grant of one of them to the Marquis de Vaudreuil, he found that it had been intended as a Canadian marquisate, an honorary appellation, however, which the Vaudreuils never pursued any further. This lapsed marquisate of the former proprietors gave Lotbinière his idea; proprietor of a marquisate, he ought to be a marquis. He determined to find some way of procuring the title for himself. He visited Paris as much and long as possible, and, by various devices, kept his name and services before the War Office. During the American Revolution he conceived the project of secretly negotiating with the Revolutionists for the re-transfer of Canada to the French. He persuaded the War Office to permit him to try his hand in the matter without publicly compromising Versailles, and received, on pressing his request, an equivocal grant of the coveted title, to be attached to his Canadian seigniory,but only if held of the Crown of France, and not of any foreign power. His secret negotiations at Washington failed and were never heard of. He nevertheless called himself Marquis.
The two gentlemen were united by relationship, for besides the inextricable genealogical links which bound together the chief families of the colony, each had espoused a daughter of the Chevalier Chaussegros de Léry, king's engineer, an excellent gentleman, who, like de Lotbinière, had returned to Canada after its cession and become a subject, a truly loyal one, of the English Crown.
"I expect our good nephew, Louis de Léry, here in a few minutes," said Répentigny. "He is in the Bodyguard, his father wrote."
"Yes, the company de Villeroy—a fine position."
"I wonder what the boy is like. Has he grown up tall like the de Lérys?"
"Yes, he does them credit, is very distinguished looking, with an air which does not allow everybody to be familiar. Some call Louis cold, but wenoblesseought to have a little of that."
"No, no, Lotbinière, none of it to white men. Not even to blacks and coolies, but certainly none of it to white men."
"You speak from India where all French naturally are high-caste."
A look of pain came over Répentigny's features.
"No, Michel, that is not the reason. Alas! I once despised a man of lower degree. My God, how could I do it again!" And his head dropped upon his breast in profound dejection.
Lotbinière started and paused, looking at him with great sympathy, a cruel old remembrance awaking.
"By the curse of heaven, I have never forgotten it," continued the other.
"Stay, stay," said Lotbinière, leaning over and softly laying a hand on his arm, "you were blameless; young blood was not to be controlled."
"It haunts me for ever," Répentigny went on; "in my wanderings all around the world I see the blood of poor Philibert. I see again that steep street of old Quebec. I hold again in my hand the requisition for his rooms. I see the anger on his face, high-spirited citizen that he was, that I should choose me out the best in his house and treat its master as I did. I feel again my inconsiderate arrogance swelling my veins. I hear his merited reproaches and maledictions. Rage and evil pride overpower me, I draw and lunge. Alas! the flood of life-blood rushes up the blade and warms my hand here,here."
"Calm yourself."
"He follows me."
"Nonsense, Pierre. No one is present," exclaimed Lotbinière in a tone of decision.
"Philibert's son. I met him in Quebec before I fled to France. I met him in Paris before I fled to the East. I met him in Pondicherry. He settled near me in Mahé. Now he is in Paris again. It is dreadful to be reminded of your crime by an avenger. My death, when it comes, will be by his hand, Michel."
"Have no fear. In twenty hours we can have him safe in a place whence such as he never come out."
"That would be more terrible still. Shall I further wrong the wronged? God would be against me as well as remorse. No, when he strikes it will be just. I do not fear his sword, but the memory of his father's blood, and that would grow redder on my hand if I injured the son. Oh, Michel, is the Golden Dog still over the door of Philibert's house in Quebec?"
"Yes, Pierre; forget these things. Take a glass of wine."
"I remember its inscription"—
"I am a dog gnawing a bone:In gnawing it I take my repose.A day will come which has not come,When I will bite him who bit me."
"Philibert, the son, has cut the same on his house at Mahé."
"There, there, we must be bright when young Louis comes."
"With you too, good Michel, I should be brighter. Well, I have spoken of my sorrow for the first time in years, and now I feel freer. Yes, the wine is good, better than any they ship to India."
Répentigny and Lotbinière had just begun to regain their composure when Louis de Léry entered.
He wore the uniform of the Gardes-du-Corps, the same as Germain's company, except that his cross-belt, instead of being of pale blue silk was of green, the distinguishing mark of the company of Villeroy, of which he was a private. But then it must be remembered that with his commission of private in the Bodyguard went the rank and prerogatives of a lieutenant of cavalry.
On crossing the threshold he stood poised perfectly, and and bowed a bow which was a masterpiece. His greetings, though so painfully accurate, were obviously cordial, and after the first were over he smiled and said—
"I now, sir, do myself the additional honour of presenting to you my felicitations upon the happy event which has doubtless brought you to Paris."
"Dear nephew, it is the serious state of our possessions in India, owing to the advances of the English there, that brings me to France. Perhaps I misunderstand."
"I mean, sir, the addition to our family alliances of a Montmorency."
"Indeed, I am unaware of such a distinction. Pray inform me. I have so lately arrived."
"Is it so lately, sir, that you have not heard of the forthcoming marriage of your son, my cousin, with Madame the Baroness de la Roche Vernay? Pardon, if you please, my surprise."
"Still more mysterious to me! Of a certainty, my son Charles, your cousin, is at this moment with his vessel and the Biscay fleet off the coast of Portugal. I do not understand the chance which can have brought him to Paris, however much I desire it, nor his alliance to any one here, for I saw him in person three weeks ago at Lisbon, where he never made the slightest reference to any such matter. There is some mistake, I am certain."
"Is he not the only Chevalier de Répentigny?"
"There, can be but one of the name. It is rare."
"Has he not been lately appointed to a lieutenancy in the King's Bodyguard, company of Noailles?"
"Impossible. I left him captain of the shipLa Minerve. He has not, I regret to say, the influence to become an officer of the Bodyguard."
"This is something strange," remarked the Marquis de Lotbinière. "Did you inquire who this officer was? Suppose, Répentigny, he should be some distant relative of yours: he might be an addition to our influence at Court. An officer of the Bodyguard, if we can claim him as a relative, would be better than any alliance we possess, except Vaudreuil, who does nothing for us."
"There can be no harm in Louis making inquiries."
"I will call upon him. Trustmeto find some connection and make use of it."
"Are you still the marvel you were at genealogies, Michel!"
"Genealogy is a power. Louis, I am interested in this new relative. Can you tell us more about him? Do you know his Province?"
"He is said to be a Canadian."
"A Canadian! Does he say so himself?"
"So report goes."
"Astonishing. How could any Canadian but de Vaudreuil—who owes it to his exceptional gifts—acquire such influence?"
"They say this Sieur de Répentigny is extraordinarily handsome and agreeable."
"But his name! There are so few Canadian families, you can almost count them on your fingers—Fleurys, Bleurys, de Lérys, de Lanaudières, le Gardeurs, le Moynes, Beaujeus, Lotbinières, la Cornes, Salaberrys, and so forth. Can he be of these? He is not a le Gardeur, who alone in Canada could have a right to the appellation 'Répentigny.' Have you heard his family name?"
"He calls himself 'Le Cour de Répentigny.'"
The Marquis quitted his tone of alert judicial inquiry, and thundered out, like a criminal prosecutor—
"Heavens, I have it!"
"What, Uncle."
"He is animpostor. No Canadian named Lecour can be what he pretends—nay, not even a petty gentleman, for I know the whole list by heart to its obscurest members. No Lecour whatever is on it. Who of that name is at Répentigny? Only the merchant of St. Elphège, my oldprotégé. Can it be any of his people! What is the appearance of this fellow?"
"He is about middle height, cheerful, graceful, hair and eyes black."
"It is that well-looking boy of Lecour's—no other. His father would kill himself if he heard of his son duping the highest circles of Versailles. Poor man, he was the least of the very least when I knew him first—a private in my corps. I made him keeper of the canteen. How can the son of such a one be more than a 'pea-soup.' What insolence and folly! He shall learn that this kind of rascality is not permitted by the nobles of France. Beast! animal!"
"See that you make no mistake, Michel. If he is only some foolish young Canadian, would not a private monition be well?" said Répentigny.
"There is no mistake," answered Lotbinière, decidedly. "As for lenient dealings, do you think that is the way to keep down the lower classes? The strong hand and the severe example are the only guarantees of social order."
The irate Marquis rose from his chair and paced the room.
"Villain! The thought of him drives me beyond myself."
De Léry said little, but noted every word of his uncle's statement, and it slowly took shape in his mind in a steel-cold deadly contempt for Lecour.
The true Répentigny alone, his nature long purified of pride, felt no malice nor indignation against this usurper of his name.
THE SECRET OUT
Louis Réné Chaussegros de Léry, that model of blue-blooded elegance, was not the person to encourage any plebeian in basking in the smiles of aristocratic society. There was an inflexible honour in him, as well as pride, which was desperately shocked by the contrivings of Lecour. He therefore detailed the story, without any heat but without any mercy, to the mess-table of the company of Villeroy.
Two or three mornings later, Dominique came into Germain's sitting chamber at Troyes and taking up his Master's service sword looked closely at it as if to examine the polish on the goldwork. Such was his custom when he had something special to say. Dominique's pieces of information were invariably valuable. Germain therefore looked up from the comedy he was reading and gave attention. Dominique related briefly the rumour just come from Châlons: A Guardsman of the Noailles had related it to a comrade in the presence of his servant, and the servant had hurried to communicate it, with many questions, to Dominique.
Germain paled, yet only for an instant. He laughed at the Auvergnat, who snorted apologetically—
"As if Monsieurlookedlike a pedlar!"
"This is a righteous punishment for being born far away, Dominique," he exclaimed; "all colonials must be either mulattoes or cheats; the next time I am born it shall be in Châlons."
There was no parade that day on account of afête.
He dressed himself in exactly as leisurely fashion as he had previously intended and ordered a hack-horse to take him to Versailles. So far he was acting; the world and Dominique his imaginary audience.
Only when he got out of Troyes and, having left the beautiful old Gothic-cathedralled town some distance behind, was speeding along the high-road, did he, for the first time, feel himself sufficiently alone to face his thoughts. With a great rush of vision he seemed to see the whole world of mankind rising against him—in its centre the form and face of a scornful courtier—theRépentigny, withering his pretensions by one contemptuous glance, to the applause of the Oeil de Boeuf. He saw the look of Madame l'Etiquette, the ribaldry of acquaintances at Versailles, the studious oblivion of the Princess de Poix, d'Estaing, Bellecour, and even Grancey; the mess-table derisive over the career of the pseudo-noble; Major Collinot striking his name from the list of the company; his arrest by Guardsmen disgusted at having to touch him; the stony visages of the court-martial; the Bastille; the oar and chain of the galleys. Truly they made no pleasant fate. Behind these, a white figure, veiled in a mist of tears, at whose face he dared not look—deceived by her knight, contaminated by his disgrace, her vision of honour shattered, heart-broken, desolate, forbidden to him for ever by the law which changeth not, of outraged caste.
"Alas! that it all should lead to such an end," he murmured.
By evening he was in Paris, and mechanically went to his old lodgings where he tried to compose himself. A supper was brought which he left unnoticed on the table. From time to time he would rise and walk about the room, feverishly revolving events and fears.
"And these people," he exclaimed, "will dare to say that I am of a lower nature than they. In what am I not noble? in what not their equal? Have they not, for an entire year, approved of me, deferred to me, imitated me? What is this miserablenoblesse? Have I not seen that it is the greatest boors that have the most claim to it. If it consists in antiquity, where are the ancient gentry?—a remnant of pauper ploughmen rotting on their driblets of land. If it lies in title, what is so divine in the rewarded panderers to some unclean King? If it is genealogy and parchments, with what mutual truth do they not sneer away, and tell their tales upon, each other's lying pedigrees? In what sense am I less well-made, less brave, nay, less truthful, than that cringing rout at Versailles? Yes, all of you! the unbreakable word of my old father encloses more real nobility than the entirety of your asinine struts and proclamations? We shall see, too, whethernoblesseis necessary to courage, for here and now I defy you all and all your powers!"
A knock interrupted. It was theconcierge, who handed him a card. Without looking at it, Lecour replied—
"Tell him I am ill and cannot be seen."
The words upon the card might well have produced his answer. When the door was shut he glanced at it, started, and held it in his hands, fascinated by apprehension. It read—
"Le Marquis de Chartier de Lotbinière."
In the name he recognised that of his father's patron.
"It is clear I must leave this place," thought he; and then it flashed upon him that de Lotbinière must have intended to call onthe other Répentigny.
"Yes, he would lodge here. Without doubt the reason this is de Bailleul's resort is that it is a meeting-place for Canadians."
Putting on his hat and cloak he went down to the entrance, and in passing out said as if casually to theconcierge—
"Has the Marquis de Répentigny entered yet?"
"Yes, sir," the man returned.
Germain started out into the night, not knowing where to go. It was about nine o'clock and dark overhead, but the narrow towering streets of old Paris possessed a rude system of lighting and the life at least of a great city, so that he felt less lonely than in his rooms, and walked on and on for several hours.