A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 49

"A little man, M'nsieur, with a villainous face and villainous red cap.

He had the air of a Republican leader, and there was a scar, very red, across his forehead."

"Marcel Trouet!"

The three looked at each other.

Michael's face was very grim.

"It was he who murdered my father."

"But why?"

Morice's voice faltered a little over the question.

"I cannot tell. But there can be no second possibility. He may have mistaken him for another."

"For----"

Count Jehan shrugged his shoulders.

"For you yourself, my cousin. He may have heard too much talk of the Marquis and too little of the Citizen. It is wonderful how news spreads. Meantime----"

"Meantime," Michael replied slowly, "the men of Varenac will come hither to greet their new lord."

"Their new lord?"

"Denningham told me of a proposed masquerade."

"Ah!"

They were understanding now.

It was time.

A scream from Olerie, who stood at the window, was echoed by a dull roar from without as she threw the cas.e.m.e.nt open. Instinctively the four men ran to her side. Up the avenue of stately oaks--the pride of many a generation of Varenacs--came a crowd of men and women.

Uncertainly at first, but with growing strength, rose the sounds of the familiar tune:

"Aux armes, citoyens!

Le jour de gloire est arrive."

Then a pause.

"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"

The cry went up from hundreds of throats, a deep, exultant roar of welcome and antic.i.p.ation.

Morice moved forward.

A tiny balcony without would give him the opportunity he desired.

"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"

Bareheaded he stepped out.

"I am the Marquis de Varenac," he cried.

CHAPTER XXIX

"I AM THE MARQUIS DE VARENAC"

A moment's hush, then again the mighty cry:

"Citoyen Varenac! Citoyen!"

Morice leant forward into the darkness. Behind him lights gleamed, from below a few torches lit up the surrounding gloom.

Yellow light flaring on pale, eager faces, turning curiously upwards.

"No, my people," he cried in clear, ringing tones, that could be heard even on the outskirts of the crowd. "I am no Citoyen, but your Marquis, the heir of your well-loved Marquis Gilles de Varenac, come to you from England with Breton blood in my veins, Breton love in my heart, to cry 'Vive le roi. Vive la reine. Vive Bretagne.'"

A murmur broke his words, a murmur which grew, battling as it were with two elements, uncertain and faltering.

That last cry had stirred their blood--and yet the poison, so cunningly distilled amongst them, was busy at work.

And, whilst they still wavered, some crying one thing, and some another, a shrill voice rose, dominating and stilling the growing outcry.

"a bas les aristos," it yelled. "Down with traitors and liars. Hein!

men of Brittany, are you such fools? That is no Citoyen Varenac, he is an impostor. The Citoyen has another voice. He cries 'Vive la nation,' 'Vive liberte.' As for that fellow, he is no Varenac but a liar. Come, let us find the Citoyen before his enemies murder him.

Let us----"

"I am the Marquis de Varenac," cried Morice, "as Heaven is above. Men of Varenac, listen to me. Will you believe one who knows? Pierre Koustak will tell you I speak truth."

But the temper of the mob was uncertain.

"Vive la nation," cried many voices, and a woman in shrill tones began once more screaming out the first lines of the Ma.r.s.eillaise.

"Vive la nation. Death to the aristos. Where is the Citoyen Varenac?"

The cries were threatening.

A shot was fired towards the balcony, but Morice stood unmoved whilst old Koustak stepped from the window to his side.

"Friends, friends," he shouted. "Ah! you are all mad. It is Monsieur le Marquis, our M'nsieur le Marquis."