Robert Tournay Part 2

"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 n.o.bleman 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 pa.s.sive and silent.

St. Hilaire rose to his feet and proceeded to cut some strips from his own s.h.i.+rt 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 pa.s.ser-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 a.s.semblage.

"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 a.s.signed, 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 impa.s.sioned 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.

CHAPTER II

A LITTLE BREAKFAST AT ST. HILAIRE'S

The Marquis Jean Raphael de St. Hilaire was giving a breakfast-party. It was not one of those large affairs for which the marquis was noted, where a hundred guests would sit down in his large salon to a repast costing the lavish young n.o.bleman a princely sum. This being merely the occasion of a modest little dejeuner, the covers were laid in the marquis's morning cabinet on the second floor, which was more suitable for such an informal meal.

There were present around the table the Count and Countess d'Arlincourt; the old Chevalier de Creux; the witty Madame Diane de Remur; the Count de Blois, dressed in the very latest and most exact fas.h.i.+on; and the Marquis de Lacheville, with the pallor of recent illness on his face. At the lower end of the board sat a young poet who was riding on his first wave of popularity; and next to him was a philosopher.

The guests, having finished the dessert, were lingering over a choice vintage from the marquis's cellar.

The host, leaning back in his chair with half-closed eyes, listened carelessly to the hum of conversation while he toyed with a few sugared almonds.

"And so you think, chevalier," said the Countess d'Arlincourt in reply to a remark by the old n.o.bleman, "that our troublesome times are not yet over?"

"Not yet, my dear countess, nor will they be over for a long time to come."

"Oh, how pessimistic you are, chevalier; for my part I do not see how affairs can be worse than they have been for the last year."

"For a longer period than that," remarked her husband, the Count d'Arlincourt.

"Well, I remember particularly, it was a year ago when you first told me that you could not afford to make me a present of a diamond crescent to wear in my hair at the d.u.c.h.ess de Montmorenci's fancy dress-ball. You had never used that word to me before."

"You have been extremely fortunate," said the Chevalier de Creux, turning a pair of small, bright eyes upon the countess and speaking with just the slightest accent of sarcasm. "Even longer ago than a year, many persons were in need of other necessities than diamonds."

"Oh, yes, I know," interrupted the countess hastily, anxious to show that she was not as ignorant as the chevalier's tone implied,--"bread.

Why don't they give the people enough bread? It is a very simple demand, and things would then be well."