Читать книгу The Third Estate - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 12

Table of Contents

Two men sat in the parlour of a little tavern on the outskirts of Versailles along the Paris road. They were discussing with much animation the present state of affairs in Versailles.

A month previous the three orders—nobles, clergy, and third estate—had met in one of the salons of the palace of Versailles to discuss the grievances and difficulties which had got beyond any glossing over or concealing by the cleverest or the most unscrupulous of ministers.

The finances of France had proved too much even for the methodical talents of a Swiss banker, who, in defiance of precedent, had applied order and system to the medieval intricacies of French taxes and French revenues. France generally was proving too much for anyone who tried to meddle with her writhings between luxury and starvation, but the newly-elected deputies of the third estate, to whom the poorer classes looked for some miracle of deliverance from a life long grown intolerable, were applying themselves to the task of making order out of chaos, with much ardour and determination.

The fifth of May, the States General, after having been received: by the King and attending mass, had solemnly opened, and wild hopes and expectations had for a time gleamed before the eyes of thinking men.

But from the moment the pomp and ceremonies ceased and the serious business of the assembly began, the grave farce to which the King and the two first orders had lent their name was apparent. Nobility and clergy refused to associate themselves with the third estate, left the seats prepared for them vacant and held their meeting in another chamber of he palace.

The third estate thus abandoned, ridiculed, left in confusion and embarrassment, conscious that every day fresh troops were being called into the town, aware of the Court intrigue that was defeating them, aware of the enmity of at least a portion of the Court headed by the Queen and the Count d'Artois, aware of the enmity of the nobles headed by the Prince de Conde and the Prince de Conti, their addresses ignored by the King, their invitations to a conference refused by the other two orders, took matters into their own hands, and, spurred on by the fiery genius of the Comte de Mirabeau elected a president and called themselves, on the suggestion of Deputy Mounier, 'Assembly of the Representatives of the Nation,' which was the clearest defiance Court and nobles had yet received.

They were soon to receive another, yet more daring.

The Assembly, under the presidency of Bailly, passed a resolution temporarily granting the new taxes but declaring the gathering of them illegal until the Assembly should have finished its deliberations.

This vote was passed before four thousand applauding citizens who were eager spectators of the deliberations of the deputies.

The Court lost no time; two regiments of Swiss were brought into the town, all the officers of the chevaux légers and the régiment du Duc de Bourgogne were recalled, and Versailles was full of muskets and swords, the flower of the French nobility among the officers, the pick of the French troops among the men.

It was the evening of the day on which these troops had entered Versailles, the day when the heralds, proceeding through the streets of the town had announced that the meeting of the States General was suspended until the end of the month, that these two men, Camille Desmoulins and Jacques Danton, sat in the little tavern discussing these events.

Neither believed that the Assembly would obey the order of the Court; had not all the members sworn to be faithful to their trust?

The younger of the two, Camille Desmoulins, already famous for his speeches in the Palais Royal and his ardent enthusiasm in the cause of the people, was flushed with ill-suppressed excitement.

He could hardly bear to wait till the morning to see whether the Assembly would meet as usual or not.

'The Court will never permit it,' he said anxiously. 'I see that—'

'There are certain things that M. de Mirabeau will not permit,' replied Jacques Danton heartily. 'That man has power.'

'I do not altogether trust him,' said Camille Desmoulins in a low voice; 'he is, after all, a noble. I think him ambitious, I know him in debt. I believe he will only stay with us while his interests are served.'

'Well? What does it matter if the fellow's motives are not pure? I know him for what he is, a penniless provincial noble who has led a scandalous life and whose own order have denied him. But, by God, I also know him for a man of genius!'

An officer of the chevaux légers with his orderly had entered the tavern, and the few who were drinking in the outer parlour moved aside in awe before so great a personage. Danton and Desmoulins, gazing through the open door of the inner room, observed this newcomer with great curiosity.

He was young, with looks that could not fail to impress the most casual observer. There was, however, something either in his face or his carriage or his manner slightly sinister, and his extreme haughtiness was noticeable in every movement. He wore the full uniform of his regiment: a scarlet coat with facings of white silk, huge skirts and pockets finished with buttons of gold and silver, white silk breeches, high soft riding boots, a full white scarf embroidered in gold passed over the shoulder and knotted at the waist, white gauntlets and a tricorne hat, worn tilted, embroidered with gold and finished with a great white cockade. His sword gleamed with highly polished gold and steel; there was a diamond in the voluminous lace on his breast, his hair was rolled and curled and fastened with a wide black ribbon.

'Who is it?' asked Desmoulins.

'The thing we fight,' answered Danton.

'Yes—but this man, you know him?'

'Tis the Marquis de Sarcey!'

'He!'

'Yes, he came recently to join his regiment. I saw him before.'

'I believe I have seen him in Paris—I forget.'

'But you have heard the name?' asked Danton.

'Yes.'

'An infamous name! Typical of his race, a corrupted race, of his class, a wicked class, a creature expert in every vice, used to every dishonour, useless, arrogant, a parasite on the labour of others! It is such as he we must destroy, Camille—root up and destroy for ever!'

Desmoulins was still looking curiously at the brilliant figure of the officer.

'Is he not going to be married soon?'

'To Mademoiselle de Haultpenne—daughter of that old villain who managed to dip his hand into the coffers of the State in the last reign. It is to be in a few days. These marriages, Camille!'

'One pities the women.'

'The women are the same race—they are glad to be bought and sold. I have no pity for the women—they breed the men. Imagine his mother!'

He did not wait for a reply, but fired by his thoughts continued hotly, his rough voice lowered to a swelling whisper:

'Think what that man comes from—what his life has been, what supports him! The taxes wrung from the starving, the money gained by those who are considered less than the beasts, the corvée, the forced labour, the stolen harvests, all the oppression, the corruption, the foul misuse of power, the wailing misery, the dumb despair that go to supply the means for the wicked luxury and the base vices of that man!'

He had hardly finished speaking when the young officer turned his head sharply and looked through the open door straight at the couple seated at the table in the inner parlour.

Both the men were a little taken aback; not only did they feel the slight confusion common to those who are suddenly discovered in keen observation by the object of their curiosity, but there was something in the brilliant glance of the officer that was disquieting.

The gentle gaze of Camille Desmoulins sank; but Danton soon recovered his rather imprudent assurance.

The officer turned, and walking with an insolent slowness, came towards them. Pausing in the doorway, he put up the square glass he carried and surveyed them curiously as if they had been part of the furniture; then he called his servant and told him to ask the innkeeper who these two people were.

'Two good members of the third estate, M. le Marquis,' said Jacques Danton, resting his elbows on the edge of the table and thrusting forward his heavy jaw.

M. de Sarcey took no notice.

The innkeeper came and in haste supplied the information stumbling over his words in explaining the utter respectability of M. Danton and M. Desmoulins.

M. de Sarcey addressed his servant as if he disdained to hold communication with the others.

'Tell the fellow,' he said, 'to take care how he entertains dangerous agitators here—this is not a moment for leniency.' The shuddering innkeeper vehemently promised and withdrew; he was afraid even to be in the shadow of M. de Sarcey. But Jacques Danton rose in his place.

'Do you pay us the compliment of considering us dangerous, M. le Marquis?' he asked.

M. de Sarcey was turning away without a word when some whim took him to stay, much as he might have stopped to amuse himself with some strange animal he found in his path.

'About as dangerous as M. de Mirabeau and your Assembly,' he answered.

'I am complimented,' replied Jacques Danton.

'Ah?'

'Because M. de Mirabeau is going to be very dangerous indeed.'

'To such as yourself, Monsieur?'

'To such as you, M. le Marquis,' replied Danton.

'This is diverting,' smiled M. de Sarcey. 'I have never spoken with people like yourself before. I suppose you really take all this seriously?'

Danton smiled also.

'The Assembly and M. de Mirabeau?' he asked.

'And such agitations.'

'We take them,' replied Danton, 'very seriously.'

'How amusing. Only your Assembly has ceased to exist. It will not meet to-morrow.'

'I think it will!' cried Camille Desmoulins.

M. de Sarcey flickered him a glance; these two commoners were ceasing to divert him.

'The thoughts of Monsieur are no doubt valuable,' he said, in a tone that brought the blood to the pale face of Camille Desmoulins, and he turned away.