Robert Tournay Part 7

"Bread! Bread!" was the answering shout.

"The women of Paris will lead you to it. Then you shall help yourselves."

"Show us where it is and we'll take it fast enough," was the answering cry.

"Where should it be but in the king's palace? There they are feasting while the people in Paris are starving. They shall give the people of their bread!"

"What if they have eaten it all?" asked another voice.

"Then shall the king bake more," answered the girl--"enough for every one in his kingdom. He shall be the nation's baker, and his wife shall help him knead the dough, and their little boy shall give out the loaves."

There was a laugh at this and cries of "Good! Good!"

"My friends," she continued, taking off her cap and swinging it by the ta.s.sel, "this marching is hot work, and talking is dry business. Has any one a drink for La Demoiselle Liberte?"

A number of bottles were instantly proffered her.

"This _eau de vie_ puts new life into one," she exclaimed, throwing back her head and putting a flask to her lips. With an easy gesture she took a deep draught of the liquor, to the increasing admiration of the bystanders. On removing the bottle from her lips, she said with a nod: "How many of you men can beat that? Here goes one more." She was on the point of repeating the act when she caught sight of Tournay, who had drawn near and stood by the wheel of the truck looking at her intently.

"Here, friend, you look at this liquor thirstily; take a good pull at it. You're a likely youth, and a sup of brandy will foster your strength! What! You will not drink? Bah, man! I would not have it said that I was a little boy, afraid of good liquor. But why do you stare at me like that, without speaking? Have you no tongue?" Tournay put aside the proffered bottle and said:--

"I stared at you because I know you. You are Marianne Froment, the miller's daughter, who left La Thierry a year ago. And you should remember Robert Tournay."

The young woman shook her head with a decided gesture.

"You mistake, friend; my name is not Marianne Froment. I know no miller, and have never heard of the place you speak of."

Tournay remembered when he had seen her last in the alley of the park.

He felt no animosity toward her; instead he felt compa.s.sion for the silly girl whose head had been turned by the flattery of a n.o.bleman who had already grown tired of her.

"It is you who are mistaken, Marianne," he replied quietly, "although when I knew you at La Thierry, drinking strong liquor was not one of your practices."

"I am La Demoiselle Liberte," replied the girl defiantly, throwing her brown curls back from her forehead and replacing her cap. "I have drunk such liquor as this from my cradle. So here's to you! May you some day grow to be a man."

Tournay stayed the bottle in its course to her lips, and took her hand in his.

"You are Marianne Froment," he persisted, "and it would be much better for you to be in the quiet country of La Thierry. Why not go back?"

"If Marianne did go back, who would speak to her? Who among all those who live there would take her by the hand?" she asked.

"Have I not taken you by the hand just now?" asked Tournay.

"I believe you would be the only one," she replied, stifling a sigh.

"Not even my father would do that. But you are no longer at La Thierry.

What are you doing here, and what sent you away from home? Are you going back?"

Tournay shook his head. "There are reasons," he replied slowly, "why I can never return."

"Neither can Marianne Froment," rejoined the girl. "Therefore, compatriot, drink with me to our future good comradeship. And pa.s.s the bottle to your neighbor. Then let us go on together. _En avant_, my friends," she cried out in a loud voice. "The sooner we start again the earlier we shall reach our bakery. Follow the carriage of La Demoiselle Liberte, and she will lead you to it."

A score of brawny arms grasped the ropes attached to the truck, and with a heavy rattle the cannon was drawn through the crowd, which cheered it on its way.

The forty thousand swept into Versailles in an overpowering tide, finding nothing to stop their triumphant course.

The crowd choked up the streets of the town, filling the public square and invading the a.s.sembly chamber.

The a.s.sembly, with all the gravity and dignity of its recent birth, rose to its feet to greet as many of the Paris deputation as could crowd into the room, steaming with the sweat and dust of the march. Outside the door another crowd remained, clamoring noisily.

The president of the a.s.sembly addressed them in a few words full of dignity. "I have just learned," he said in his quiet way, "that the king has been pleased to accord his royal sanction to all the articles of the Bill of Popular Rights which was pa.s.sed by your a.s.sembly on the 5th of August."

"Will that give the people more bread?" asked La Demoiselle, looking up at Tournay with an inquiring expression in her brown eyes. Despite her red cap, her swagger, and her boisterous talk, she was very pretty and child-like. As he looked down upon her standing by his side her brown head did not reach his shoulder.

"Whether it gives them bread or not, it is a glorious thing for the people," exclaimed Tournay with enthusiasm.

A few minutes later the demoiselle yawned. "The old fellow is too tiresome," she said; "let us go to the palace and get our bread."

Evidently the same thought moved the rest of the deputation. They began to file out, while President Meunier was still addressing them, with a restless scuffling of their feet, and a murmuring among themselves, "To the palace! To the palace!"

The last Tournay saw of Demoiselle Liberte she was pushing through the crowd that made way for her right willingly, while she cried out: "I will show you the bakery, my brave people; I am now on my way to interview the chief baker."

The forty thousand got their bread. They got their bread and more. They pressed in so close upon their monarch, they were so menacing, so determined in their way, that he promised to dismiss his royal Flanders regiment and go back to Paris with his beloved subjects. And so the hungry, sullen, desperate mob became a shouting, happy, victorious one.

They cheered their monarch, who had sworn to be a father to his people; they cheered the royal family, even the queen; but most of all they cheered the loaves of bread which were distributed among the eager mult.i.tude. Every shop in the town was soon depleted of its stock, and all the bakers were working over-time to supply the food.

"Did I not tell you I would lead you where bread was plenty?" demanded the Demoiselle de la Liberte gayly of those gathered around. "The king is a capital baker; we have only to keep him with us and we shall have food at all times." And she dipped her crust in a cup of wine.

"We will take our baker back with us to Paris," cried one.

"Aye, and the baker's wife and his little boy," cried another. At this there was a laugh.

Tournay, who had aided in the distribution of the food, approached the group, relieved by the thought that all were satisfied and contented, at least for the moment.

"Ah, there is my handsome compatriot," exclaimed the demoiselle as soon as she set eyes upon him. "Wilt thou join us in our supper, compatriot?"

she called out. She was seated carelessly on the truck of the gun-carriage, with a cup of wine in one hand and a half-loaf in the other, her face flushed with excitement. Unlike most of the women who stood about her, she was of graceful form, with hands and arms unblackened by hard toil, and the skin of her throat soft and white. She wore her red cap in a rakish manner on the side of her head, its ta.s.sel falling down over her forehead between her eyes. Every little while she would throw it back by a quick toss of the head.

Tournay took the cup from her outstretched hand, and put it to his lips.

"Marianne," he said in a low tone, "it would be better if you were at home among your own people."

"Why do you still call me by that name?" she asked in a tone of suppressed pa.s.sion. "_My_ home is Paris. _These_ are my people. They never question who I am nor whence I came. There is not one in La Thierry who would deal thus with me, unless it be yourself. You took my hand this morning. And for that I will take yours and call you my compatriot." Then changing to her usual tone of gayety, she cried aloud, "Come, compatriot! This has been a glorious day. The people of Paris have captured their king and are about to take him to Paris. Give us a toast!"

Tournay felt that what she had said was true. Probably not one of those who had known Marianne in La Thierry would speak to her should she return there. He turned to those who stood around the gun. "Friends," he cried, "I drink to freedom! May all among you who love it as I do live for it and be ready to die for it." There was a shout as he turned away and left them, and over his shoulder, looking back, he saw the demoiselle dancing on the cannon, cup in hand.

He left the crowded part of the city to find some quiet spot as a change from the noise and tumult of the past two days. Turning a corner he came face to face with a man whom he had seen among the crowd in the a.s.sembly hall,--a man of gigantic stature with deep-set eyes. His appearance was so striking that he could have pa.s.sed nowhere unnoticed, and even in the crowded hall Tournay's gaze had returned to him constantly. As they met, Tournay again looked at him earnestly. The man stopped with the abrupt question:--

"Why did you come to Versailles?"

"Because," answered Tournay, "when I saw great numbers of people in Paris starving, and heard of the banqueting here, my blood boiled. This Flanders regiment, which is feeding fat at the people's cost, must be sent away. We cannot pause on our way to freedom with the destruction of the Bastille. The king must come to Paris where the people need him, and not spend his time here under the influence of a corrupt n.o.bility."