CHAPTER V.
THE DEPUTATION.
He sat silent so long, with his eyes on the table, that presently Igrew nettled; wondering what ailed him, and why he did not speak andsay the things that I expected. I had been so confident of the advicehe would give me, that, from the first, I had tinged my story with theappropriate colour. I had let my bitterness be seen; I had suppressedno scornful word, but supplied him with all the ground he could desirefor giving me the advice I supposed to be upon his lips.
And yet he did not speak. A hundred times I had heard him declare hissympathy with the people, his hatred of the corruption, theselfishness, the abuses of the Government; within the hour I had seenhis eye kindle as he spoke of the fall of the Bastille. It was at hisword I had burned the _carcan_; at his instance I had spent a largesum in feeding the village during the famine of the past year. Yetnow--now, when I expected him to rise up and bid me do my part, he wassilent!
I had to speak at last. "Well?" I said irritably. "Have you nothing tosay, M. le Cure?" And I moved one of the candles so as to get a betterview of his features. But he still looked down at the table, he stillavoided my eye, his thin face thoughtful, his hand toying with thecrumbs.
At last, "M. le Vicomte," he said softly, "through my mother's motherI, too, am noble."
I gasped; not at the fact with which I was familiar, but at theapplication I thought he intended. "And for that," I said amazed, "youwould----"
He raised his hand to stop me. "No," he said gently, "I would not.Because, for all that, I am of the people by birth, and of the poor bymy calling. But----"
"But what?" I said peevishly.
Instead of answering me he rose from his seat, and, taking up one ofthe candles, turned to the panelled wall behind him, on which hung afull-length portrait of my father, framed in a curious border ofcarved foliage. He read the name below it. "Antoine du Pont, Vicomtede Saux," he said, as if to himself. "He was a good man, and a friendto the poor. God keep him."
He lingered a moment, gazing at the grave, handsome face, anddoubtless recalling many things; then he passed, holding the candlealoft, to another picture which flanked the table: each wall boastedone. "Adrien du Pont, Vicomte de Saux," he read, "Colonel of theRegiment Flamande. He was killed, I think, at Minden. Knight of St.Louis and of the King's Bedchamber. A handsome man, and doubtless agallant gentleman. I never knew him."
I answered nothing, but my face began to burn as he passed to a thirdpicture behind me. "Antoine du Pont, Vicomte de Saux," he read,holding up the candle, "Marshal and Peer of France, Knight of theKing's Orders, a Colonel of the Household and of the King's Council.Died of the plague at Genoa in 1710. I think I have heard that hemarried a Rohan."
He looked long, then passed to the fourth wall, and stood a momentquite silent. "And this one?" he said at last. "He, I think, has thenoblest face of all. Antoine, Seigneur du Pont de Saux, of the Orderof St. John of Jerusalem, Preceptor of the French tongue. Died atValetta in the year after the Great Siege--of his wounds, some say; ofincredible labours and exertions, say the Order. A Christian soldier."
It was the last picture, and, after gazing at it a moment, he broughtthe candle back and set it down with its two fellows on the shiningtable; that, with the panelled walls, swallowed up the light, and leftonly our faces white and bright, with a halo round them, and darknessbehind them. He bowed to me. "M. le Vicomte," he said at last, in avoice which shook a little, "you come of a noble stock."
I shrugged my shoulders. "It is known," I said. "And for that?"
"I dare not advise you."
"But the cause is good!" I cried.
"Yes," he answered slowly. "I have been saying so all my life. I darenot say otherwise now. But--the cause of the people is the people's.Leave it to the people."
"_You_ say that!" I answered, staring at him, angry and perplexed."You, who have told me a hundred times that I am of the people! thatthe nobility are of the people; that there are only two things inFrance, the King and the people."
He smiled somewhat sadly; tapping on the table with his fingers. "Thatwas theory," he said. "I try to put it into practice, and my heartfails me. Because I, too, have a little nobility, M. le Vicomte, andknow what it is."
"I don't understand you," I said in despair. "You blow hot and cold,M. le Cure. I told you just now that I spoke for the people at themeeting of the noblesse, and you approved."
"It was nobly done."
"Yet now?"
"I say the same thing," Father Benoit answered, his fine faceillumined with feeling. "It was nobly done. Fight for the people, M.le Vicomte, but among your fellows. Let your voice be heard there,where all you will gain for yourself will be obloquy and black looks.But if it comes, if it has come, to a struggle between your class andthe commons, between the nobility and the vulgar; if the noble mustside with his fellows or take the people's pay, then"--Father Benoit'svoice trembled a little, and his thin white hand tapped softly on thetable--"I would rather see you ranked with your kind."
"Against the people?"
"Yes, against the people," he answered, shrinking a little.
I was astonished. "Why, great heaven," I said, "the smallestlogic----"
"Ah!" he answered, shaking his head sadly, and looking at me with kindeyes. "There you beat me; logic is against me. Reason, too. The causeof the people, the cause of reform, of honesty, of cheap grain, ofequal justice, _must_ be a good one. And who forwards it must be inthe right. That is so, M. le Vicomte. Nay, more than that. If thepeople are left to fight their battle alone the danger of excesses isgreater. I see that. But instinct does not let me act on theknowledge."
"Yet, M. de Mirabeau?" I said. "I have heard you call him a greatman."
"It is true," Father Benoit answered, keeping his eyes on mine, whilehe drummed softly on the table with his fingers.
"I have heard you speak of him with admiration."
"Often."
"And of M. de Lafayette?"
"Yes."
"And the Lameths?"
M. le Cure nodded.
"Yet all these," I said stubbornly, "all these are nobles--noblesleading the people!"
"Yes," he said.
"And you do not blame them?"
"No, I do not blame them."
"Nay, you admire them! You admire them, Father," I persisted,glowering at him.
"I know I do," he said. "I know that I am weak and a fool. Perhapsworse, M. le Vicomte, in that I have not the courage of myconvictions. But, though I admire those men, though I think them greatand to be admired, I have heard men speak of them who thoughtotherwise; and--it may be weak--but I knew you as a boy, and I wouldnot have men speak so of you. There are things we admire at adistance," he continued, looking at me a little drolly, to hide theaffection that shone in his eyes, "which we, nevertheless, do notdesire to find in those we love. Odium heaped on a stranger is nothingto us; on our friends, it were worse than death."
He stopped, his voice trembling; and we were both silent for a while.Still, I would not let him see how much his words had touched me; andby-and-by----
"But my father?" I said. "He was strongly on the side of reform!"
"Yes, by the nobles, for the people."
"But the nobles have cast me out!" I answered. "Because I have gone ayard, I have lost all. Shall I not go two, and win all back?"
"Win all," he said softly--"but lose how much?"
"Yet if the people win? And you say they will?"
"Even then, Tribune of the People," he answered gently, "and anoutcast!"
They were the very words I had applied to myself as I rode; and Istarted. With sudden vividness I saw the picture they presented; and Iunderstood why Father Benoit had hesitated so long in my case. Withthe purest intentions and the most upright heart, I could not makemyself other than what I was; I should rise, were my efforts crownedwith success, to a point of splendid isolation; suspected by thepeople, whose benefactor I had been, hated
and cursed by the nobleswhom I had deserted.
Such a prospect would have been far from deterring some; and others itmight have lured. But I found myself, in this moment of clear vision,no hero. Old prejudices stirred in the blood, old traditions, born ofcenturies of precedence and privilege, awoke in the memory. A shiverof doubt and mistrust--such as, I suppose, has tormented reformersfrom the first, and caused all but the hardiest to flinch--passedthrough me, as I gazed across the candles at the Cure. I feared thepeople--the unknown. The howl of exultation, that had rent the air inthe Market-place at Cahors, the brutal cries that had hailed Gontaut'sfall, rang again in my ears. I shrank back, as a man shrinks who findshimself on the brink of an abyss, and through the wavering mist,parted for a brief instant by the wind, sees the cruel rocks andjagged points that wait for him below.
It was a moment of extraordinary prevision, and though it passed, andspeedily left me conscious once more of the silent room and the goodCure--who affected to be snuffing one of the long candles--the effectit produced on my mind continued. After Father Benoit had taken hisleave, and the house was closed, I walked for an hour up and down thewalnut avenue; now standing to gaze between the open iron gates thatgave upon the road; now turning my back on them, and staring at thegrey, gaunt, steep-roofed house with its flanking tower and round_tourelles_.
Henceforth, I made up my mind, I would stand aside. I would welcomereform, I would do in private what I could to forward it; but I wouldnot a second time set myself against my fellows. I had had the courageof my opinions. Henceforth, no man could say that I had hidden them,but after this I would stand aside and watch the course of events.
A cock crowed at the rear of the house--untimely; and across thehushed fields, through the dusk, came the barking of a distant dog. AsI stood listening, while the solemn stars gazed down, the slight whichSt. Alais had put upon me dwindled--dwindled to its true dimensions. Ithought of Mademoiselle Denise, of the bride I had lost, with a faintregret that was almost amusement. What would she think of this suddenrupture? I wondered. Of this strange loss of her _fiance?_ Would itawaken her curiosity, her interest? Or would she, fresh from herconvent school, think that things in the world went commonly so--that_fiances_ came and passed, and receptions found their natural end inriot?
I laughed softly, pleased that I had made up my mind. But, had Iknown, as I listened to the rustling of the poplars in the road, andthe sounds that came out of the darkened world beyond them, what waspassing there--had I known that, I should have felt even greatersatisfaction. For this was Wednesday, the 22nd of July; and that nightParis still palpitated after viewing strange things. For the firsttime she had heard the horrid cry, "_A la lanterne!_" and seen a man,old and white-headed, hanged, and tortured, until death freed him. Shehad seen another, the very Intendant of the City, flung down, trampledand torn to pieces in his own streets--publicly, in full day, in thepresence of thousands. She had seen these things, trembling; and otherthings also--things that had made the cheeks of reformers grow pale,and betrayed to all thinking men that below Lafayette, below Bailly,below the Municipality and the Electoral Committee, roared and seethedthe awakened forces of the Faubourgs, of St. Antoine, and St. Marceau!
What could be expected, what was to be expected, but that suchoutrages, remaining unpunished, should spread? Within a week theprovinces followed the lead of Paris. Already, on the 21st the mob ofStrasbourg had sacked the Hotel de Ville and destroyed the Archives;and during the same week, the Bastilles at Bordeaux and Caen weretaken and destroyed. At Rouen, at Rennes, at Lyons, at St. Malo, weregreat riots, with fighting; and nearer Paris, at Poissy, and St.Germain, the populace hung the millers. But, as far as Cahors wasconcerned, it was not until the astonishing tidings of the King'ssurrender reached us, a few days later--tidings that on the 17th ofJuly he had entered insurgent Paris, and tamely acquiesced in thedestruction of the Bastille--it was not until that news reached us,and hard on its heels a rumour of the second rising on the 22nd, andthe slaughter of Foulon and Berthier--it was not until then, I say,that the country round us began to be moved. Father Benoit, with aface of astonishment and doubt, brought me the tidings, and we walkedon the terrace discussing it. Probably reports, containing more orless of the truth, had reached the city before, and, giving mensomething else to think of, had saved me from challenge ormolestation. But, in the country where I had spent the week in moodyunrest, and not unfrequently reversing in the morning the decision atwhich I had arrived in the night, I had heard nothing until the Curecame--I think on the morning of the 29th of July.
"And what do you think now?" I said thoughtfully, when I had listenedto his tale.
"Only what I did before," he answered stoutly. "It has come. Withoutmoney, and therefore without soldiers who will fight, with a starvingpeople, with men's minds full of theories and abstractions, that alltend towards change, what can a Government do?"
"Apparently it can cease to govern," I said tartly; "and that is notwhat any one wants."
"There must be a period of unrest," he replied, but less confidently."The forces of order, however, the forces of the law have alwaystriumphed. I don't doubt that they will again."
"After a period of unrest?"
"Yes," he answered. "After a period of unrest. And, I confess, I wishthat we were through that. But we must be of good heart, M. leVicomte. We must trust the people; we must confide in their goodsense, their capacity for government, their moderation----"
I had to interrupt him. "What is it, Gil?" I said with a gesture ofapology. The servant had come out of the house and was waiting tospeak to me.
"M. Doury, M. le Vicomte, from Cahors," he answered.
"The inn-keeper?"
"Yes, Monsieur; and Buton. They ask to see you."
"Together?" I said. It seemed a strange conjunction.
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Well, show them here," answered, after consulting my companion'sface. "But Doury? I paid my bill. What can he want?"
"We shall see," Father Benoit answered, his eyes on the door. "Herethey come. Ah! Now, M. le Vicomte," he continued in a lower tone, "Ifeel less confident."
I suppose he guessed something akin to the truth; but for my part Iwas completely at a loss. The innkeeper, a sleek, complaisant man, ofwhom, though I had known him some years, I had never seen much beyondthe crown of his head, nor ever thought of him as apart from hisguests and his ordinary, wore, as he advanced, a strange motley ofdignity and subservience; now strutting with pursed lips, and an airof extreme importance, and now stooping to bow in a shame-faced andhalf-hearted manner. His costume was as great a surprise as hisappearance, for, instead of his citizen's suit of black, he sported ablue coat with gold buttons, and a canary waistcoat, and he carried agold-headed cane; sober splendours, which, nevertheless, paled beforetwo large bunches of ribbons, white, red, and blue, which he wore, oneon his breast, and one in his hat.
His companion, who followed a foot or two behind, his giant frame andsun-burned face setting off the citizen's plumpness, was similarlybedizened. But though be-ribboned and in strange company, he was stillBaton, the smith. His face reddened as he met my eyes, and he shieldedhimself as well as he could behind Doury's form.
"Good-morning, Doury," I said. I could have laughed at the awkwardcomplaisance of the man's manner, if something in the gravity of theCure's face had not restrained me. "What brings you to Saux?" Icontinued. "And what can I do for you?"
"If it please you, M. le Vicomte," he began. Then he paused, andstraightening himself--for habit had bent his back--he continuedabruptly, "Public business, Monsieur, with you on it."
"With me?' I said, amazed. On public business?"
He smiled in a sickly way, but stuck to his text. "Even so, Monsieur,"he said. "There are such great changes, and--and so great need ofadvice."
"That I ought not to wonder at M. Doury seeking it at Saux?"
"Even so, Monsieur."
I did not try to hide my contempt and amusement; but shrugged myshoulders, and looke
d at the Cure.
"Well," I said, after a moment of silence, "and what is it? Have youbeen selling bad wine? Or do you want the number of courses limited byAct of the States General? Or----"
"Monsieur," he said, drawing himself up with an attempt at dignity,"this is no time for jesting. In the present crisis inn-keepers haveas much at stake as, with reverence, the noblesse; and deserted bythose who should lead them----"
"What, the inn-keepers?" I cried.
He grew as red as a beetroot. "M. le Vicomte understands that I meanthe people," he said stiffly. "Who deserted, I say, by their naturalleaders----"
"For instance?"
"M. le Duc d'Artois, M. le Prince de Conde, M. le Duc de Polignac,M.----"
"Bah!" I said. "How have they deserted?"
"_Pardieu_, Monsieur! Have you not heard?"
"Have I not heard what?"
"That they have left France? That on the night of the 17th, three daysafter the capture of the Bastille, the princes of the blood leftFrance by stealth, and----"
"Impossible!" I said. "Impossible! Why should they leave?"
"That is the very question, M. le Vicomte," he answered, with eagerforwardness, "that is being asked. Some say that they thought topunish Paris by withdrawing from it. Some that they did it to showtheir disapproval of his most gracious Majesty's amnesty, which wasannounced on that day. Some that they stand in fear. Some even thatthey anticipated Foulon's fate----"
"Fool!" I cried, stopping him sternly--for I found this too much formy stomach--"you rave! Go back to your menus and your bouillis! Whatdo you know about State affairs? Why, in my grandfather's time," Icontinued wrathfully, "if you had spoken of princes of the blood afterthat fashion, you would have tasted bread and water for six months,and been lucky had you got off unwhipped!"
He quailed before me, and forgetting his new part in old habits,muttered an apology. He had not meant to give offence, he said. He hadnot understood. Nevertheless, I was preparing to read him a lessonwhen, to my astonishment, Buton intervened.
"But, Monsieur, that is thirty years back," he said doggedly.
"What, villain?" I exclaimed, almost breathless with astonishment,"what do you in this _galere?_"
"I am with him," he answered, indicating his companion by a sullengesture.
"On State business?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Why, _mon Dieu_," I cried, staring at them between amusement andincredulity, "if this is true, why did you not bring the watch-dog aswell! And Farmer Jean's ram? And the good-wife's cat? And M. Doury'sturnspit? And----"
M. le Cure touched my arm. "Perhaps you had better hear what they haveto say," he observed softly. "Afterwards, M. le Vicomte----"
I nodded sulkily. "What is it, then?" I said. "Ask what you want toask."
"The Intendant has fled," Doury answered, recovering something of hislost dignity, "and we are forming, in pursuance of advice receivedfrom Paris, and following the glorious example of that city, aCommittee; a Committee to administer the affairs of the district. Fromthat Committee, I, Monsieur, with my good friend here, have the honourto be a deputation."
"With him?" I said, unable to control myself longer. "But, in heaven'sname, what has he to do with the Committee? Or the affairs of thedistrict?"
And I pointed with relentless finger at Buton, who reddened under histan, and moved his huge feet uneasily, but did not speak.
"He is a member of it," the inn-keeper answered, regarding hiscolleague with a side glance, which seemed to express anything butliking. "This Committee, to be as perfect as possible, Monsieur leVicomte will understand, must represent all classes."
"Even mine, I suppose," I said, with a sneer.
"It is on that business we have come," he answered awkwardly. "To ask,in a word, M. le Vicomte, that you will allow yourself to be elected amember, and not only a member----
"What elevation!"
"But President of the Committee."
After all--it was no more than I had been foreseeing! It had comesuddenly, but in the main it was only that in sober fact which I hadforeseen in a dream. Styled the mandate of the people, it had soundedwell; by the mouth of Doury, the inn-keeper, Buton assessor, it jarredevery nerve in me. I say, it should not have surprised me; while suchthings were happening in the world, with a King who stood by and sawhis fortress taken, and his servants killed, and pardoned the rebels;with an Intendant of Paris slaughtered in his own streets; withrumours and riots in every province, and flying princes, and swingingmillers, there was really nothing wonderful in the invitation. Andnow, looking back, I find nothing surprising in it. I have lived tosee men of the same trade as Doury, stand by the throne, glittering instars and orders; and a smith born in the forge sit down to dine withEmperors. But that July day on the terrace at Saux, the offer seemedof all farces the wildest, and of all impertinences the most absurd.
"Thanks, Monsieur," I said, at last, when I had sufficiently recoveredfrom my astonishment. "If I understand you rightly, you ask me to siton the same Committee with that man?" And I pointed grimly to Buton."With the peasant born on my land, and subject yesterday to myjustice? With the serf whom my fathers freed? With the workman livingon my wages?"
Doury glanced at his colleague. "Well, M. le Vicomte," he said, with acough, "to be perfect, you understand, a Committee must representall."
"A Committee!" I retorted, unable to repress my scorn. "It is a newthing in France. And what is the perfect Committee to do?"
Doury on a sudden recovered himself, and swelled with importance. "TheIntendant has fled," he said, "and people no longer trust themagistrates. There are rumours of brigands, too; and corn is required.With all this the Committee must deal. It must take measures to keepthe peace, to supply the city, to satisfy the soldiers, to holdmeetings, and consider future steps. Besides, M. le Vicomte," hecontinued, puffing out his cheeks, "it will correspond with Paris; itwill administer the law; it will----"
"In a word," I said quietly, "it will govern. The King, I suppose,having abdicated."
Doury shrank bodily, and even lost some of his colour. "God forbid!"he said, in a whining tone. "It will do all in his Majesty's name."
"And by his authority?"
The inn-keeper stared at me, startled and nonplussed; and mutteredsomething about the people.
"Ah!" I said. "It is the people who invite me to govern, then, is it?With an inn-keeper and a peasant? And other inn-keepers and peasants,I suppose? To govern! To usurp his Majesty's functions? To supersedehis magistrates; to bribe his forces? In a word, friend Doury," Icontinued suavely, "to commit treason. Treason, you understand?"
The inn-keeper did; and he wiped his forehead with a shaking hand, andstood, scared and speechless, looking at me piteously. A second timethe blacksmith took it on himself to answer.
"Monseigneur," he muttered, drawing his great black hand across hisbeard.
"Buton," I answered suavely, "permit me. For a man who aspires togovern the country, you are too respectful."
"You have omitted one thing it is for the Committee to do," the smithanswered hoarsely, looking--like a timid, yet sullen, dog--anywherebut in my face.
"And that is?"
"To protect the Seigneurs."
I stared at him, between anger and surprise. This was a new light.After a pause, "From whom?" I said curtly.
"Their people," he answered.
"Their Butons," I said. "I see. We are to be burned in our beds, arewe?"
He stood sulkily silent.
"Thank you, Buton," I said. "And that is your return for a winter'scorn. Thanks! In this world it is profitable to do good!"
The man reddened through his tan, and on a sudden looked at me for thefirst time. "You know that you lie, M. le Vicomte!" he said.
"Lie, sirrah?" I cried.
"Yes, Monsieur," he answered. "You know that I would die for theseigneur, as much as if the iron collar were round my neck! Thatbefore fire touched the house of Saux it should burn me! That I am mylord's man, alive
and dead. But, Monseigneur," and, as he continued,he lowered his tone to one of earnestness, striking in a man so rough,"there are abuses, and there must be an end of them. There aretyrants, and they must go. There are men and women and childrenstarving, and there must be an end of that. There is grinding of thefaces of the poor, Monseigneur--not here, but everywhere round us--andthere must be an end of that. And the poor pay taxes and the rich gofree; the poor make the roads, and the rich use them; the poor have nosalt, while the King eats gold. To all these things there is now to bean end--quietly, if the seigneurs will--but an end. An end,Monseigneur, though we burn chateaux," he added grimly.