Читать книгу Robert Tournay - William Sage - Страница 5

Table of Contents

"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.