A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 42

It was Trouet's turn to stare.

"Bah! comrade, you do not know him. I tell you he is my friend. It is I who brought him from England on purpose to teach those fools at Varenac to cry 'Vive la Revolution.'"

"I do not care what you say. He is a cursed aristo; I have seen him."

Bertrand rubbed his back, scowling darkly over a sore memory.

"You have seen him?"

Marcel poured out a gla.s.s of wine and tossed it down at a gulp, indifferent just now as to flavour. He was getting excited.

"Yes, certainly. He would have killed me if it had not been for the girl. I tell you he is the most cursed aristo of them all."

"Where was this? What girl? Quickly then, idiot! I will know what you say."

Bertrand told his story. Alas! it was not only the story of Mademoiselle Cecile's rescue, but more also that he had learnt by spying and close tracking of his enemy.

All was soon clear to Monsieur Trouet.

This fool of an Englishman had fallen in love--with an aristo. He was judge enough of men to guess the rest.

"And he has gone to Varenac?"

"Certainly!"

"And the people?"

"Will be as ready to cry 'Vive le roi,' as 'Vive la nation,' when he bids them."

"He has already----"

"No, no! There has been some delay. I do not altogether understand, for old Pierre Koustak at the Manor is a fool too; but I believe M'nsieur le Marquis is there alone. He waits for a friend."

"Nom d'un chien! a friend will arrive. Mille diables! a friend will arrive."

Marcel tossed off another gla.s.s of wine thirstily--it might have been the commonest vintage--and Jean Gouicket, watching, was filled with exquisite pain at the sight.

"En avant!" screamed Marcel, springing to his feet.

Instantly the parlour of Le Bon Camarade was in confusion.

All talked at once, and none knew what they talked of, saving that it was in the cause of liberty, equality, and fraternity.

Poor Jean Gouicket wished devoutly that there would be less of the latter and more honesty in payment; but he dared not ask for his money, recalling the fate of a parsimonious landlord at Vannes.

All things, especially wine, were common in this great bond of brotherhood.

At last Marcel made himself heard.

His good comrades and friends were to divide into five sections, and hasten at once to Varenac, Kernak, and other villages around.

In all these villages the tree of liberty was to be planted, and death to the aristos proclaimed.

For himself he had a little business of importance to undertake, but would join them at Varenac shortly.

They would soon have plenty of amus.e.m.e.nt.

A burst of enthusiasm greeted these orders. The Ma.r.s.eillaise, started in a shrill falsetto, was echoed by fifty l.u.s.ty throats.

It was in the midst of the din that Marcel Trouet, with Bertrand at his side, hurried off in the direction of the Manor of Varenac.

The trusted agent of the Committee of Public Safety had something to say to a ci-devant Marquis and member of a certain London Corresponding Club.

The thought of the meeting appeared to cause the little man the liveliest excitement and anger.

But never mind! never mind!

The Terror was coming to Varenac in spite of turncoats.

"ca ira!"

CHAPTER XXVI

A BLIND ATONEMENT

Sir Stephen Berrington sat alone in the library at the Manor of Varenac.

Not that he was fond of his own company. Peste! He hated it. But there was no alternative just now.

Morry's sister had gone to Kernak with that young fool Michael to keep her company, and Morry himself had not arrived.

Too bad that! If it had not been for Morry's over-persuasion he would never have left town.

He was none too fond of my Lord Denningham's company. The fellow was all right at the card-table, but otherwise he was a demned wet blanket.

Yes; a demned wet blanket!

Sir Stephen yawned, helped himself to another gla.s.s of punch from the bowl at his elbow, and continued to bewail his lot.

Where was Denningham? Wet blanket or no, even he would be better than no one in this old barn.

It was beginning to grow dusk, and Steenie was not fond of moping in the twilight.

Memory and he were ill friends.

Yet memory, unbidden, came and perched herself beside him.