The Project Gutenberg EBook of Robert Tournay, by William Sage This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Robert Tournay A Romance of the French Revolution Author: William Sage Release Date: January 4, 2011 [EBook #34846] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROBERT TOURNAY *** Produced by Bethanne M. Simms, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ROBERT TOURNAY A Romance of the French Revolution BY WILLIAM SAGE WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ERIC PAPE AND MARY AYER BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1900 COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY WILLIAM SAGE AND HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO MY MOTHER TO WHOM I OWE EVERYTHING I LOVINGLY DEDICATE THIS STORY. "A CHEER FOR THE GODDESS OF LIBERTY" CONTENTS CHAPTER I. How Tournay came to Paris CHAPTER II. A Little Breakfast at St. Hilaire's CHAPTER III. The Baker and his Family CHAPTER IV. The "Bon Patriot" CHAPTER V. A Broken Door CHAPTER VI. A Man and a Marquis CHAPTER VII. Gaillard goes on a Journey CHAPTER VIII. Père Louchet's Guests CHAPTER IX. Prison Boat Number Four CHAPTER X. Over the Frontier CHAPTER XI. Under Which Flag? CHAPTER XII. The Four Commissioners CHAPTER XIII. The Sword of Rocroy CHAPTER XIV. Something Hidden CHAPTER XV. The President's Note CHAPTER XVI. Beneath the Mask CHAPTER XVII. Pierre and Jean CHAPTER XVIII. The Luxembourg CHAPTER XIX. Tappeur and Petitsou CHAPTER XX. Uncle Michelet CHAPTER XXI. Citizeness Privat CHAPTER XXII. Citizeness Privat's Card CHAPTER XXIII. Tournay's Visitor CHAPTER XXIV. Two Women CHAPTER XXV. No. 7 Rue d'Arcis CHAPTER XXVI. The End of the Terror LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "A Cheer for the Goddess of Liberty" De Lacheville facing a young Woman "Stop!" cried Tournay Adjusted the Neckcloth to his satisfaction "Would you murder me?" A moment they stood in silence ROBERT TOURNAY CHAPTER I HOW TOURNAY CAME TO PARIS The Marquis de Lacheville sat in the dining-hall of the château de Rochefort. In his hand he held a letter. Although it was from a woman, the writing was not in those delicately traced characters which suggest the soft hand of some lady of fashion. The note-paper was scented, but the perfume, like the color, was too pronounced; and the spelling, possibly like the lady's character, was not absolutely flawless. A smile played about the cold thin lips of the marquis; he carelessly thrust the missive into his pocket, as one disposes of a bill he does not intend to pay, and lifting his eyes, allowed his gaze to wander through the open window toward the figure of a young girl who stood outside upon the terrace. She was watching a game of tennis in the court below, now and then conversing with the players, whose voices in return reached de Lacheville's ears on the quiet summer air. A few minutes before in that dining-hall the Baron de Rochefort had betrothed his daughter Edmé to his friend and distant kinsman, Maurice de Lacheville. In the eyes of the world it was a suitable match. The marquis was twenty-five, the girl eighteen. She was an only child; and their rank and fortunes were equal. They did not love each other. The marquis loved no one but himself. Mademoiselle had been brought up to consider all men very much alike. She might possibly have had some slight preference for the Marquis de St. Hilaire, who was now playing tennis in the court beneath; but it was well known that he was dissipating his fortune at the gaming-table. Mademoiselle did not lack strength of will; but, her heart not being involved, she allowed her father to make the choice for her, as was the custom of the time. De Lacheville continued sitting at the table, now looking dispassionately at the woman who was to become his wife, now looking beyond toward the wide sweep of park and meadow land, while he calculated how much longer his cousin, the baron, would live to enjoy possession of his great wealth. What the young girl thought is merely a matter of conjecture. She was as fresh and sweet as the pink rose which she plucked from the trellis and gayly tossed to the marquis below. He caught it gracefully and put it to his lips—while she laughed merrily with never a thought for the marquis within. Near the tennis court stood another man. He was tall and well-made, with dark eyes and a sun-browned face. Beyond furnishing new balls and rackets when required, he took no part in the game, for he was the son of the intendant of the château and therefore a servant. He watched the rose which the lady so carelessly tossed, with hungry eyes, as a dog watches a bone given to some well-fed and happier rival. At the call from one of the players he replaced a broken racket, then took up his former post, apparently intent upon the game, but in reality his mind was far afield. It was in the early summer days of the year 1789. Looking out over the baron's noble estates through the eyes of a girl like mademoiselle, the world was very beautiful. Glancing at it through the careless eyes of the prodigal St. Hilaire, it seemed very pleasing; but in spite of these waving crops, and wealthy vineyards, in spite of the plenty in the baron's household and the rich wines in his cellar, throughout France there were many who had not enough to eat. Men, and women too, were crying out for their share of the world's riches. A new wave of thought was sweeping over France. A thought as old as the hills, yet startlingly new to each man as he discovered it. Books were being written and words spoken which were soon to cause great political changes in a land already seething with discontent. Change and Progress at last were in the saddle, and they were riding fast. As the careless noblemen batted their tennis balls back and forth, thinking only of their game; as the young girl leaned over the rose-covered terrace, thinking of the sunlight, the flowers, and the beauty of life, Robert Tournay, the intendant's son, pondered deeply on the "rights of man" while he ran after the tennis balls for those who played the game. As if wearied by the contemplation of his prospective married bliss, Monsieur de Lacheville yawned, arose from his seat and strolled leisurely from the room, descended the staircase and came out into the park in the rear of the château, unobserved by the tennis players. The note in his pocket called him to a rendezvous; and the marquis, after some deliberation, had decided to keep it. Once in the wooded park and out of sight of the house, he quickened his pace to a brisk walk; proceeding thus for half a mile he suddenly left the driveway and plunging through the thick foliage by a path which to the casual eye was barely visible, came out into a shady and unfrequented alley. A few minutes after de Lacheville's disappearance into the woods, the other noblemen, wearied of their sport, retired into the house for refreshment. This left young Tournay free for the time being, and he availed himself of the opportunity to go down toward a pasture beyond the park where some young horses were running wild, innocent of bit or bridle. It was Tournay's intention to break one of these colts for Mademoiselle de Rochefort. She was a fearless rider, and it gave the young man pleasure to be commissioned to pick out an animal at once gentle and mettlesome for the use of his young mistress. The Tournays, from father to son, had been for generations the intendants of the de Rochefort estate. With the baron's permission Matthieu Tournay had sent his son away to school, and he had thus received a better education than most young men of his class. He was of an ambitious temper, and this very education, instead of making him more contented with his lot in life, increased his restlessness. It only served to show him more clearly the line that separated him from those he served. In his own mind he had never defined his feeling for Mademoiselle de Rochefort. He only knew that it gave him great pleasure to serve her; and yet, as he did her bidding, he felt a pang that between them was the gulf of caste; that even when she smiled upon him it was merely the favored servant whom she greeted; that although he might be as well educated as the Count de Blois, a better horseman than St. Hilaire, and a better man than de Lacheville, they could enter as equals into the presence of this divine being, while such as he must always take his place below the salt. It was with such thoughts as these revolving in his brain that the intendant's son walked through the woods of the park. He followed no path, for he knew each tree and twig from childhood. Suddenly he was interrupted in his reverie by the sound of voices, and stopping short, recognized the voice of the Marquis de Lacheville in conversation with a woman. Tournay hesitated, then went forward cautiously in the direction whence the sound came. Had he been born a gentleman he would have chosen another way; or at least would have advanced noisily. Indeed, such had been his first impulse,—but a much stronger interest than curiosity impelled him forward; and drawing near, he looked through a gap in the hedge. On the other side stood de Lacheville facing a young woman. Her cheeks were flushed, and the manner in which she toyed with a riding-whip showed that the discussion had been heated. Although she was handsomely dressed in a riding-habit and assumed some of the airs of a lady, Tournay recognized her at once as a young girl who had disappeared some months before from the village of La Thierry, and whose handsome face and vivacious manner had caused her to be much admired. Near her stood the nobleman, calm and self-composed. Before men, de Lacheville had been known to flinch; but with a woman of the humbler class the marquis could always play the master. "And now, Marianne," said the nobleman slowly, "you had better go,—and do not make the mistake of coming here again." Although she had evidently been worsted in the argument, a defiant look flashed in her dark eyes as she answered him: "If I believe you speak the truth I shall not come here again." DE LACHEVILLE FACING A YOUNG WOMAN "Of course I speak the truth," replied de Lacheville lightly. "I shall marry Mademoiselle de Rochefort"— The young woman winced, but she did not speak. De Lacheville went on slowly as if he enjoyed the situation—"In a year or two—I am in no hurry. She is very beautiful"—here he paused again—"but I prefer your style of beauty, Marianne; I prefer your vivacity, your life, your fire; I like to see you angry. My engagement to Mademoiselle de Rochefort need make no difference in my regard for you. That depends upon yourself." Here the marquis stepped forward and kissed her on the lips. Tournay controlled himself by a great effort, his heart swelling with the resentment of a man who hears that which he holds sacred insulted by another. And this man who held Mademoiselle de Rochefort in such slight esteem was to be her husband. "And now, Marianne," said the nobleman, "you must ride away as you came," and suiting the action to the words he swung her into the saddle. She was docile now and gathered up the reins obediently. "And, Marianne," continued the nobleman, "never write letters to me. I am rather fastidious and do not want my illusions dispelled too soon. Good-by, my child." She flushed as he spoke, and a retort seemed about to spring to her lips; but instead of replying she shrugged her shoulders, gave a sharp cut of the whip to the horse, and rode off down the pathway. De Lacheville laughed. "She has spirit to the last. She pleases me;" and turning, beheld Robert Tournay in the path before him. For a moment neither spoke; then the nobleman asked sternly, "Have you been spying upon me?" "I have heard what has passed between you and that woman," replied Tournay with a significance that made the marquis start. "You villain," replied the nobleman hotly, "if you breathe a word about what you have seen I will have you whipped by my lackeys." Tournay's lips curled defiantly. "Or," continued the marquis, "if one word of scandal reaches the ears of Mademoiselle de Rochefort"— Before the words had left his lips, Tournay sprang forward and had him by the arm. "Do not stain her name by speaking it," he cried fiercely. "I have heard you insult her; I have seen how you would dishonor her; you, who are not worthy to touch the hem of her garment. What right have you to become her husband? Your very presence would degrade her. You shall not wed her." White with rage, if not from fear, the marquis struggled to free himself from Tournay's grasp, but he could neither throw off his antagonist nor move his arm enough to draw his sword. Finding himself powerless in the hands of the stronger man, he remained passive, only the twitching of his mouth betraying his passion. "And you would prevent my marriage," he said coldly. "So be it. Go to the baron; tell your story. Go also to mademoiselle, his daughter; repeat the scandal to her ears; say, 'I am your champion;' and how will they receive you? The baron will have you kicked from the room and mademoiselle will scorn you. Championed by a servant! What an honor for a lady!" The truth of what he said struck Tournay harder than any blow; his arms dropped to his side, and he stepped back, as if powerless. The marquis arranged the lace ruffle about his neck. Placing his hand upon his sword he eyed Tournay as if debating what course to pursue. He smarted under the treatment he had received, and his eyes glittered viciously as if he meditated some prompt reprisal. But above all the marquis was politic, and he also knew that in his biting tongue he possessed a weapon keener than a sword. He stooped and plucked a flower from the border of the path, and as he spoke a sarcastic smile played mockingly about his lips. "I shall marry mademoiselle," he began, slowly dwelling on each word, while he plucked the petals from the flower, and tossed them, one by one, into the air. The gesture was a careless one, but there was a vicious cruelty about his fingers as he tore the flower. "And you," continued the marquis,—"you, who one might think had dared to raise your eyes toward the lady's face"— Tournay stood dumb before his inquisitor. His heart raged and he writhed as if under the lash, but still he stood passive and suffering. "And you shall be our servant," ended the nobleman, with a laugh, turning and walking haughtily up the path, but with his hand still on his sword-hilt lest he should be again taken by surprise. As the heels of the marquis crunched the gravel-walk Tournay felt the truth of each word that he had spoken borne in upon his mind with overwhelming force. It was not fear of the marquis's sword that had kept him silent. It was the hopelessness of his own position. What right had he to speak? And who would listen to him? Silently the young man slipped into the forest as if to seek consolation from the great murmuring trees. As he walked slowly beneath their green arches as under some cathedral roof, a quiet strength came to his soul. He seemed to feel that the day would come when his voice would be heard and listened to. Until then he must bide his time; and in this frame of mind he went back to the château. When Tournay reached the house he was greeted by an order from the baron. The tracks of a boar had been recently discovered in the forest by one of the gamekeepers, and the intendant's son, who was himself a keen huntsman, was directed to escort the party of gentlemen through the woods to a glade where the animal was supposed to have his lair. After he had collected the guns and ammunition, called up the dogs and ordered the grooms to bring round the horses, Tournay went to the front of the château to await the pleasure of the young gentlemen who intended participating in the hunt. There were half a dozen of them standing under the porte-cochère, and Tournay disliked them all in greater or less degree; excepting perhaps the Marquis de St. Hilaire. St. Hilaire was the eldest of the group, the tallest and the handsomest. He rarely addressed any remark to Tournay, but when he did, it was with perfect politeness. When the Marquis de St. Hilaire rode his horse he did it with a grace none could surpass; when he shot, he hit the mark. He had the reputation of being one of the most dissipated young noblemen in the kingdom. He certainly spent money more lavishly than the most prodigal. This reputation was at once the envy and admiration of a host of young followers; and yet if asked, no one could mention any particular debauchery of which he had been guilty. When his companions, under the excitement of wine, committed extravagant follies and excesses, St. Hilaire, although by no means sparing of the winecup, maintained a certain dignity essentially his own. At the gaming-table it was always the Marquis de St. Hilaire who played the highest. He won a fortune or lost an estate with the same calm and outward indifference. On every occasion he was the cool, polished gentleman. As Tournay approached the group of noblemen, the Marquis de Lacheville, determined to keep him in a state of submission, greeted him with an arrogant rebuke. "You have kept us waiting a pretty length of time." "I only received notice of your intended hunt a short time ago, and various preparations had to be made," was the rejoinder. "Make no excuses," continued the marquis,—"you always have plenty of those upon the end of your tongue." Tournay bit his lip to keep from replying. "Whose horse is that?" called out the marquis a moment later, pointing out one of the animals among the number which were being led up by the grooms. "My own, monsieur le marquis—a present from the baron." "Well, it is by all odds the best one among them; I will ride it." And the marquis swung himself into the saddle without waiting for a reply. Tournay made no audible reply, but the color deepened on his cheek, as he quietly took another horse. "We shall never see that boar if we delay much longer," called out St. Hilaire, who was long since in the saddle. "Are you ready, gentlemen?" With one accord they all started down the avenue at a swift gallop; Tournay following a short distance behind them. For a mile or so they swept along the parkway until they arrived at the gate which led into the wood. De Lacheville had been correct in his judgment of the horse, and was the first to reach the gate. This seemed to make him good-natured for the time being; and as they cantered through the forest he allowed Tournay, who was best acquainted with the ground, to ride in advance. On approaching the entrance to the glade, the party dismounted and the horses were fastened to the trees. The Counts d'Arlincourt and de Blois went to the right; the Marquis de St. Hilaire to the left; Tournay took two dogs and went toward the northern end; while de Lacheville remained near the entrance. It was arranged that Tournay with the dogs should rout the animal from its lair in the upper end of the dale, and, the thicket being surrounded, one of the gentlemen would be sure to bring it down with a shot as it ran out. Tournay had not gone half the distance when he heard a noise in the underbrush, and looking in the direction whence it came, saw the boar making its way leisurely down the glade, snuffing from time to time at the roots of trees for acorns. Tournay tried to work down ahead of the animal and drive him off to his right in the direction of the Marquis St. Hilaire, as he was the best shot in the company, and with a sportsman's instinct Tournay wanted to give him the opportunity to win the tusks. One of the dogs, however, upset this plan by slipping the leash and bounding off in the direction of the boar; that animal took the alarm at once and started on a run down the glade with Tournay and the two dogs after him in full pursuit. "The Marquis de Lacheville will be the one to shoot him," thought Tournay bitterly. The boar, plunging through a thicket, made straight for the spot where the horses had been tied, and where the Marquis de Lacheville had taken up his position. "Why does he not fire?" was Tournay's mental inquiry as he followed the trail at full speed, with ear alert in the momentary expectation of hearing the sound of a gun. "Can it be that the marquis is going to risk attacking him with the knife?" And he dashed into the thicket, regardless of the brushwood and briars that impeded his progress, to come out on the other side, leaving a portion of his hunting blouse in the grasp of a too-persistent bramble. Here he beheld so ludicrous a sight that it would have moved him to merriment, had it not overcome him with wonder. The marquis lay sprawling on the grass, his eyes rolling with terror and his loaded gun lying harmlessly by his side. The horses were straining at the tethers and neighing with fright, while in the wood beyond, the boar was disappearing from sight with the dogs upon his haunches. As Tournay approached, the marquis struggled to his feet. For a moment he stood silent and then said gruffly:— "The brute sprang through the bushes before I expected him; my foot slipped and I fell, so he got by me." In the instant it flashed through Tournay's mind that the marquis had fallen in trying to avoid the boar. He received the explanation in silence, his face clearly betraying his suspicion. The marquis eyed him savagely. "Where are the others?" he demanded. "They have evidently missed all the sport," was the curt rejoinder. The marquis scowled, but his anxiety to conceal the mishap from his companions led him to overlook the ring of sarcasm in Tournay's voice. "Did they hear or see the boar?" he inquired. "I fear not. The animal started too near the centre of the glade, and luckily for him made straight for you." "We have not seen him, either," was the cool rejoinder. "But I saw him," exclaimed Tournay with open-eyed astonishment. "Up in the thicket beyond? Possibly," admitted the marquis, who had now regained his self-possession and had resolved to put the best possible face on the matter. "No! Right here in the open, as he ran into that clump of beeches." "You are mistaken. I did not see him," the marquis insisted, approaching his horse and untethering him. "Monsieur le marquis was possibly not looking in the right direction." De Lacheville mounted his horse. He bent down from the saddle, saying fiercely, "Twice this day you have ventured to oppose me. Have a care! You will rue the hour when you dispute any statement of mine." Tournay looked up at him defiantly, and with a significance too deep to be misconstrued, said: "I will not lie at your bidding, Monsieur de Lacheville." "You insolent villain!" and the marquis' whip fell viciously across the defiant brow. The next instant the nobleman was dragged from the saddle and his riderless horse galloped off through the woods. For a moment the two men stood looking at each other. Tournay was the first to speak: "You will fight me for that blow, Monsieur de Lacheville." The marquis gave a harsh laugh: "We do not fight lackeys—we whip them." "We are alone, and man to man you shall fight me with my weapons, monsieur le Marquis." Tournay spoke with a certain air of dignity and with a suppressed fierceness that made the marquis draw back; yet such was the nobleman's contempt for the man of humble birth that he made no response beyond flicking the whip which he still retained in his hand, and looking at him disdainfully. "You have a hunting-knife at your side; arm yourself," commanded Tournay sternly, at the same time drawing from beneath his hunting-blouse a long, keen blade. The marquis turned pale. "I do not fight with such a weapon," he faltered, looking about him as if in hopes of succor from his friends. "Then for once the low-born has the advantage," replied Tournay pitilessly, "and unless Heaven intervenes, I shall kill you for that blow." The blow itself was forgotten even as he spoke, and he felt a fierce joy as he whispered to himself, "If heaven so wills it, you shall never marry her, Marquis de Lacheville." There was no fire of revenge in his eyes as he advanced, but the marquis saw the light that burned there and, realizing his pressing danger, drew his own hunting-knife. There was a thrust and parry. Tournay closed in upon him, and the nobleman fell backward with a groan. The next instant Tournay threw aside the knife and stood looking with awe upon the prostrate body. The bushes behind him parted with a rustle and he looked over his shoulder to see the Marquis de St. Hilaire standing by him. "What's the matter?" inquired the latter sternly. "Has the marquis injured himself?" "He struck me," exclaimed Tournay, his face, except for a bright red line across the brow, deadly pale. "And I—I have killed him." St. Hilaire stooped down and undid the marquis's waistcoat, Tournay giving way to him. "He's not dead," said St. Hilaire, after a short examination. "Your blade struck the rib. He is not even fatally hurt, but has fainted." Tournay stood passive and silent. St. Hilaire rose to his feet and proceeded to cut some strips from his own shirt to make a bandage for de Lacheville's wound. "As far as you are concerned, you might as well have killed him," he said as he bound up the wound. "The penalty is the same." "I'm not afraid of the penalty." "Young man," said St. Hilaire, busying himself over the wound, "mount that horse of yours and ride away from this part of the country as fast as you can. I shall not see you." "I'm not a coward to run away." "Don't be a fool and stay," replied St. Hilaire sharply, without looking up from his occupation. "You have acted as I would have done had I been in your place, but I should not stay afterward with all the odds against me. Come, you have only a minute to decide. I'll see the marquis has the proper care." In another minute Robert Tournay was on his horse's back riding swiftly away from the scene. He only thought of one point of refuge and that was the city of his dreams, the great city of Paris. Toward it he turned his horse's head. When he had gone far enough to no longer fear pursuit he dismounted and turned the horse loose, knowing that a man riding a fine animal could be more easily traced; so the rest of his journey of a hundred miles was made on foot. It was about the noon hour, July 12, 1789, when he entered the southern gates of the city. He had been walking since early morning, yet when once in the town he was not conscious of any fatigue. It seemed to him that there was an unwonted excitement in the air, and the faces of many people in the crowded streets wore an anxious or an expectant look. Several times he was on the point of stopping some passer-by to ask if there was any event of unusual importance taking place, but the fear of being thought ignorant of city ways deterred him. So he wandered about the streets in search of some cheap and clean lodging suitable to the size of his purse, where he could be comfortably housed until his plans for the future matured. He went through narrow, ill-smelling streets, where strange-looking faces peered at him curiously from low wine-shops. Thence he wandered into the neighborhood of beautiful gardens, where he marveled at the splendid buildings, any one of which he fancied might be the home of the Marquis de St. Hilaire. Finally, he came upon a number of people streaming through an arcade under some handsome buildings. Judging that something of unusual interest was going on there, and being moved by curiosity, he pushed his way in with the rest, and found himself in a quadrangle of buildings enclosing a garden. This garden was filled with a dense crowd. Turning to a man at his elbow, he asked the reason of such an assemblage. "The king has dismissed Necker," was the reply, "and the people are angry." "I should think they might well be angry," replied Tournay, who admired the popular minister of finance. "Did the king send away such a great man without cause?" "I know not what cause was assigned, I do not concern myself much with such affairs, but I know the people are very wroth and there has been much talk of violence. Some blood has been shed. The German regiments fired once or twice upon a mob that would not disperse." "The villainous foreign regiments!" said Tournay. "Why must we have these mercenary troops quartered in our city?" He had been in the city but a few hours, but in his indignation he already referred to Paris as "our city." "The native troops would not fire when ordered, and were hurried back to the barracks by their officers. Worse may come of it. There is much speech-making and turmoil; I am going home to keep out of the trouble;" and the stranger hurried away. Tournay elbowed through the crowd. Standing upon a table under one of the spreading trees, a young man was speaking earnestly to an excited group of listeners that grew larger every moment. Tournay pressed near enough to hear what he was saying. He was tall and slender, with dark waving hair and the face of a poet. He spoke with an impassioned eloquence that moved his hearers mightily, bringing forth acclamation after acclamation from the crowd. He denounced tyranny and exalted liberty till young Tournay's blood surged through his veins like fire. He had thought all this himself, unable to give it expression; but here was a man who touched the very note that he himself would have sounded, touched the same chord in the heart of every man who heard his voice, and by some subtle power communicated the thrill to those outside the circle till the crowd in the garden was drunk with excitement. "Citizens," cried the young man, "the exile of Necker is the signal for a St. Bartholomew of patriots. The foreign regiments are about to march upon us to cut our throats. To arms! Behold the rallying sign." And stretching up his arm he plucked a green leaf from the branch above his head and put it in his hat. The next instant the trees were almost denuded of their leaves. Tournay, with a green sprig in his hat, swung his hat in the air, and cried, "To arms—down with the foreign regiments—Vive Necker!" He struggled to where the orator was being carried off on men's shoulders. "What is it?" he said, in his excitement seizing the young man by the coat,—"what is it that we are to do?" "Procure arms. Watch and wait,—and then do as other patriots do," was the reply. The crowd surged closer about him. The coat gave way, and Tournay was left with a piece of the cloth in his hand. Waving it in the air with the cry of "Patriots, to arms!" he was forced onward by the crowd. CHAPTER II A LITTLE BREAKFAST AT ST. HILAIRE'S The Marquis Jean Raphael de St. Hilaire was giving a breakfast-party. It was not one of those large affairs for which the marquis was noted, where a hundred guests would sit down in his large salon to a repast costing the lavish young nobleman a princely sum. This being merely the occasion of a modest little déjeuner, the covers were laid in the marquis's morning cabinet on the second floor, which was more suitable for such an informal meal. There were present around the table the Count and Countess d'Arlincourt; the old Chevalier de Creux; the witty Madame Diane de Rémur; the Count de Blois, dressed in the very latest and most exact fashion; and the Marquis de Lacheville, with the pallor of recent illness on his face. At the lower end of the board sat a young poet who was riding on his first wave of popularity; and next to him was a philosopher. The guests, having finished the dessert, were lingering over a choice vintage from the marquis's cellar. The host, leaning back in his chair with half-closed eyes, listened carelessly to the hum of conversation while he toyed with a few sugared almonds. "And so you think, chevalier," said the Countess d'Arlincourt in reply to a remark by the old nobleman, "that our troublesome times are not yet over?" "Not yet, my dear countess, nor will they be over for a long time to come." "Oh, how pessimistic you are, chevalier; for my part I do not see how affairs can be worse than they have been for the last year." "For a longer period than that," remarked her husband, the Count d'Arlincourt. "Well, I remember particularly, it was a year ago when you first told me that you could not afford to make me a present of a diamond crescent to wear in my hair at the Duchess de Montmorenci's fancy dress-ball. You had never used that word to me before." "You have been extremely fortunate," said the Chevalier de Creux, turning a pair of small, bright eyes upon the countess and speaking with just the slightest accent of sarcasm. "Even longer ago than a year, many persons were in need of other necessities than diamonds." "Oh, yes, I know," interrupted the countess hastily, anxious to show that she was not as ignorant as the chevalier's tone implied,—"bread. Why don't they give the people enough bread? It is a very simple demand, and things would then be well." "My dear child," put in Madame de Rémur, "it would do no good to give them bread to-day; they would be hungry again to-morrow. The trouble is with the finances. When they are set right everything will go well; and the people can buy all the bread they want, and you can have your diamond crescent," and the speaker smiled at the chevalier and shrugged her white shoulders. "Yes, but," persisted the countess, raising her pretty eyebrows, "when will the finances be set right? The people cannot go forever without bread." "Nor can women go forever without diamonds," laughed Madame de Rémur. "Women with your eyes, fair Diane, have no need of other diamonds," said the Marquis de St. Hilaire debonairely. The lady smiled graciously at the compliment. She was a young and attractive widow and she looked at St. Hilaire not unkindly. "We have frequently had financial crises in the past," said d'Arlincourt, "and gotten safely over them; and so we should to-day, were it not for the host of philosophical writers who have broken loose; who call the people's attention to their ills, and foment trouble where there is none. Of course you will understand that I make the usual exception as to present company," he added, bowing slightly to the philosopher. But the latter seemed lost in thought and did not appear to hear the count's remark. The poet took up the conversation in a low tone. "Should we not look to these very men, these philosophers, these encyclopædists, to point the way out of the difficulty?" and he turned from one to the other with a shrug. "Bah, no! They are the very ones to blame, I tell you," repeated d'Arlincourt. "My dear count," cried Madame d'Arlincourt, "I cannot permit you to speak slightingly of our philosophers. They are all the fashion now. The door of every salon in Paris is open to them. The other night, at a great reception given by the Duchess de Montmorenci, half the invited guests were philosophers, poets, encyclopædists. They say that even some of the nobility were overlooked in order to make room for the men of letters." The Marquis de St. Hilaire threw a small cake to the spaniel that sat on its haunches begging for it. "We cannot very well overlook this new order of nobility of the ink-and-paper that has exerted such an influence during the last generation," he said carelessly. "I should not overlook them if I had my way," cried the Count d'Arlincourt. "I should lock them safely up in the Bastille." "Oh!" cried the ladies in one breath; "barbarian!" "These men are doubtless responsible for the inflamed state of the public mind," said St. Hilaire, again taking up the conversation. "Of course they are," agreed the count. "And so are Calonne and Brienne," continued the marquis. "They mismanaged affairs during their terms of office." Here the philosopher smiled an assent. "But the blame rests more heavily upon other shoulders than those of scribbling writers or corrupt officials," and the marquis paused to look around the table. "I am all attention," cried the Countess d'Arlincourt, prepared for something amusing. "Upon whom does it rest?" "Upon the nobility themselves," answered St. Hilaire. For a moment there was silence; then came a storm of protests from all sides, only the chevalier and the philosopher making no audible reply, although the latter said to himself:— "You are right, monsieur le marquis." "St. Hilaire is in one of his mad fits," de Lacheville exclaimed. "If it were not for the nobility there would be no poetry, no wit," murmured the poet. "The nobility is the mainstay of the throne, the vitality of the country," said d'Arlincourt. "What have we done?" cried the ladies in concert. "We ask for nothing better than to have everybody contented and happy." And they shrugged their pretty white shoulders as if to throw off the burden that St. Hilaire had placed there. "Look at me," exclaimed St. Hilaire, rising and speaking with an animation he had not shown before. He was a man of twenty-five with a face so handsome that dissipation had not been able to mar its beauty. "I am a type of my class." "An honor to it," said the poet. "Thank you; then you will agree that the cap which I put on will fit other heads as well. I have wasted two fortunes." "St. Hilaire is in one of his remorseful moods," whispered de Lacheville in the ear of Madame de Rémur. "I have spent them in riotous living with men like myself." Here he looked at de Lacheville. "I feel deeply honored, my dear marquis," said the latter, bowing. "When I wanted more money I knew where to get it." "Happy fellow," called out de Lacheville with a laugh. "I went to the steward who managed my estates. I have estates, or rather had them, for they are now mortgaged to the last notch, in Normandy, Picardy, Auvergne and Poitou—I would say to my steward, 'I need more money.'" "'Very well, monsieur le marquis, but I must put on the screws a little to get it.' "'Put on a dozen if you like, but get me the funds.' "'It shall be done, monsieur le marquis.' "Again and again I went to him for money. He always responded in the same manner, but each time the screws had to be turned a little tighter. Do you suppose my peasants love me for that? No, they hate me just as yours hate you, de Lacheville, and yours hate you, d'Arlincourt." De Lacheville laughed, and the count lifted up his hand in denial. "I knew that the day of reckoning would come," St. Hilaire went on. "Every time I went to Monsieur Rignot, my steward, every time he put on the screws at my request, I knew it was bringing us nearer the final smash." "Us!" repeated d'Arlincourt, with a gesture of impatience. "Yes, us," said St. Hilaire; "we are all in the same boat, but we have all done the same thing in a greater or less degree. We shall all have to pay the penalty." "There is where I differ with you, my dear marquis," said the Count d'Arlincourt; "I am willing to take what responsibility falls to me by right, but I emphatically refuse to pay the penalty of your follies." "My follies are but those of my class. You may have been an exception yourself, d'Arlincourt, but that will not save you." "What penalties must we pay? Save him from what?" demanded the pretty countess, looking at St. Hilaire with her large blue eyes. "From the revolution," was the answer. There was a general exclamation of surprise. D'Arlincourt took up the word. "Like all men given to excess,—pardon the remark, marquis, but you have yourself admitted it,—you exaggerate the present unquiet state of affairs. The people will not revolt. They have no real cause. If you had made such a statement twenty years ago during the ascendancy of the infamous du Barry I might not have contradicted you. But now the people as a mass are loyal. They love their king." "I still affirm," said St. Hilaire, "that the time is ripe for a revolution. Sooner or later it must come." The chevalier from the further end of the table said quietly; "It has come." "Surely you are not serious," said d'Arlincourt, turning to the chevalier, "in calling the disturbance of the past few days a revolution. Why, I have seen more serious revolts than this blow into nothing. Our Paris mob is a fickle creature, demanding blood one moment and the next moment throwing up its cap with delight if you show it a colored picture." "The disturbance of to-day will become great enough to shake France to its centre," said the chevalier. "One would think that you possessed the gift of second sight," laughed de Lacheville. "I do," replied the old man impressively. "Give us an example of it, then," demanded d'Arlincourt. "What part am I to take in the new revolution?" "I see behind you, my dear d'Arlincourt," replied the chevalier, leaning back in his chair and looking in the count's direction through half-closed eyelids, "the shadow of a scaffold." Unwittingly the count turned with a start, to see Blaise standing behind him in the act of filling his glass with wine. There was a general laugh. "Madame de Rémur will bare her white shoulders to the rude grasp of the executioner. De Lacheville will escape. No, he will not. He will die by his own hand to cheat the scaffold." "And I," interrupted the Countess d'Arlincourt, "shall I share their fate?" The chevalier looked at her with a peculiar expression in his eyes. "My sight fails here," he said. "I cannot foretell your fate. Yet you may live; your beauty should save you. People do not kill those who please them; those who bore them are less fortunate." And he turned his snapping brown eyes in the direction of the gentle poet and the venerable philosopher. "St. Hilaire's sudden and great interest in the people's welfare may prove of service to him," remarked d'Arlincourt significantly. "It will not save him," replied the chevalier. "He will finally come to the same end. The shadow of the scaffold is behind him also." St. Hilaire laughed as he cracked an almond. "Though I may sympathize somewhat with a people who have been oppressed and robbed, I should feel unhappy indeed to be left out in the cold when so many of the illustrious had gone before. But you have overlooked yourself. That is like you, chevalier, unselfish to the last." "Oh, I am too old to be of importance; I shall die of gout," said the old nobleman. "You have disposed of us effectually," said the poet, "and I shall be greatly honored at being permitted to leave this world in such good company. But may I ask, are we to be the sole victims of your revolution?" "Far from it," answered the old chevalier, closing his eyes and speaking in an abstracted manner, as if talking to himself, while his friends listened in rapt attention, half inclined to smile at the affair as at a joke, and yet so serious was he that they could not escape the influence of his seriousness. "I can see," he continued, "a long line of the most illustrious in France. They are passing onward to the block. They are princes of the blood; aye, even the king's head shall fall." "Enough!" cried out the voice of d'Arlincourt, above the general exclamations of horror that the chevalier's pretended vision called forth. "You overstep the line, Chevalier de Creux. I do not object to a pleasantry, but when you go so far as to predict the execution of the king you carry a jest too far. It is time to call a halt." "But was it a jest?" asked the chevalier dryly. "A very poor one," said de Lacheville. "My dear friend," said the chevalier in his blandest tone, "I am not predicting what I should like to have take place. Not what ought to be, but what will be." The count scowled and de Lacheville turned away with a shrug and began a conversation with Madame de Rémur. "We all know that the chevalier is a merry gentleman, yet no jester," said St. Hilaire. "What will be, will be. I, for one, am willing to drink a toast to the chevalier's revolution. Blaise, bring out some of that wine I received from the Count de Beaujeu. I lost fifty thousand livres to him the night he made me a present of this wine; it will be like drinking liquid gold." Blaise filled the glasses amid general silence. St. Hilaire rose to his feet, holding his wine-glass above his head. "What, my friends, you are not afraid?" he exclaimed in a tone of surprise, looking about the table where only the chevalier and the philosopher had followed his example. "Is it possible you have taken the chevalier's visions so much to heart?" They all rose from their places, ashamed to have it thought that they had taken in too serious a vein the little comedy played by the chevalier. "Any excuse to drink such wine as this," said de Lacheville, with a forced laugh. "We drink to the revolution!" cried St. Hilaire in his reckless manner—and he touched glasses with Madame de Rémur and then with the Countess d'Arlincourt. As the glasses clinked about the table, a heavy booming sound fell upon the ears of the revelers. "What noise is that?" cried the countess nervously. They stopped to listen, holding their glasses aloft. The booming ceased, then followed a roar like that of the angry surf beating upon a rockbound shore. "It is the chevalier's revolution," exclaimed Madame de Rémur. "Are we to be frightened from drinking our toast by a little noise?" cried St. Hilaire. "What if it be the revolution? Let us drink to it. Come!" and they drained their glasses to the accompaniment of what sounded like a volley of musketry. The ladies looked pale and were glad to quit the table for the salon, where they were joined by the poet and the philosopher, leaving the others still at their wine. The Marquis de Lacheville took another glass, and then a third. "You had best be careful how you heat your blood with this rich wine, de Lacheville, while that wound in your side is scarcely healed," remarked d'Arlincourt. "Confound the wound, and curse the young villain who gave it me," growled de Lacheville. "I have been forced to lead the life of an anchorite for the past fortnight; but such nectar as this cannot inflame, it only soothes," and he reached out his hand toward the decanter. As he did so, the sound of guns reverberated again through the room, making the windows rattle and jarring the dishes on the table. The ladies in the adjoining room cried out in alarm, and d'Arlincourt rose and went to reassure them. "I will go with you," said the chevalier, and he joined the count. De Lacheville threw his napkin down upon the spot of wine that had splashed from his upraised glass upon the damask cloth. "The devil take them!" he cried petulantly; then filling his glass again with an air of bravado, "will they not permit a man to breakfast in peace?" "Your nerves must be badly shaken, de Lacheville, if you permit such a slight thing to disturb you," laughed St. Hilaire, filling a glass to the brim. D'Arlincourt entered from the next room hurriedly. "I am going to see what all this firing means," he said. "Will you accompany me, gentlemen?" "I make it a point never to seek for news or excitement, but rather allow them to come to me," said St. Hilaire leisurely. "You would better sit down and let me send a servant to ascertain the cause of this turmoil." "Why leave the house in search of truth when we have with us an oracle in the shape of the chevalier?" interposed the Marquis de Lacheville. "I shall be able to bring a more accurate account," replied d'Arlincourt with an impatient shrug. "As you will," said St. Hilaire. "Blaise, give the Count d'Arlincourt his hat and sword. Are you quite sure you do not want some of my lackeys to accompany you?" he asked. D'Arlincourt declined the offer and hastily left the room. The two marquises were left in possession of the dining-room and the wine. They both continued to drink, each after his own fashion. With each successive glass, de Lacheville became louder in voice and more boastful, while as St. Hilaire sipped his wine, he became quieter and more indifferent. Within ten minutes d'Arlincourt returned to them, his face betraying great excitement. "A mob has attacked and captured the Bastille. The multitude is surging through the streets. They will pass before this very door." "It is impossible that they could have taken the Bastille!" exclaimed de Lacheville, rising to his feet and steadying himself by holding to the back of his chair. "There are thirty thousand of them," replied d'Arlincourt, "and through some treachery they have obtained arms. In order to save bloodshed Governor Delaunay surrendered the fortress on receiving the promise of the insurgents that the lives of all its defenders should be spared. They are now dragging him through the streets, crying out for his blood. The man was mad to trust the word of such a rabble." "Let us go into the salon," remarked St. Hilaire quietly. "There we can reassure the ladies and also view this interesting spectacle." The three gentlemen entered the room which fronted upon the street, d'Arlincourt with compressed lips and flashing eyes; de Lacheville, unsteady of gait and with wine-flushed face, murmuring maledictions against the beast multitude; and St. Hilaire, cool and calm as was his wont. In the salon they found the chevalier entertaining Madame de Rémur with an anecdote which was the occasion of much laughter on her part. The poet was reciting some of his own verses to the countess, while the philosopher was asleep in an arm-chair. "The crowd have torn down the Bastille," cried de Lacheville, speaking in a thick voi...