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.
"À 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 liberté.' 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 Marseillaise.
"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."
But the words, which would have been magic a week ago, fell now on deaf ears.
"Le jour de gloire est arrivé."
The echo of the song rang out from the crowd.
They were in no listening and obedient mood just now.
Marcel Trouet's friends knew how to speak—and fever is infectious.
"Friends—ah! ah! foolish ones, listen——"
It was once more the piteous voice of old Koustak, but none heeded it.
They were crowding around the outer door.
"If they will but listen," groaned Jéhan de Quernais—"if only for a minute."
Michael nodded.
"They may do so yet."
"Not if they succeed in entering the Manor. Their mood is dangerous—and—if Trouet declares that Denningham is Varenac——"
"We shall not live long to prove the contrary."
"And there are the women."
Michael's eyes flashed.
"I had not forgotten."
"If they will but listen. Hark! Morice is trying again. With Koustak beside him it is possible that they may be persuaded."
"If he has time."
"We must make time. There is the courtyard."
"And the outer gate is strong. The Manor was not built yesterday."
"Shall we come?"
"Immediately."
Without another word the two young men turned and hurried downstairs.
There was a chance still for the Cause.
It was Gabrielle's brother who stood in peril; also Gabrielle herself.
Thus each thought, and drew their pistols as they ran.
The men of Varenac had not expected resistance.
The firing of pistols as two of the most enthusiastic of their number scaled the wall was something of a shock. Who were these new enemies?
Marcel Trouet did not answer the question, but, from a safer distance, screamed to good citizens to advance.
Once more the double report of firearms rang out from behind the ivy.
There was some heavy cursing amongst the crowd.
Aha! They were cunning, those two on the other side, but they did not know Varenac as Meldroc Tirais did. That crumbling corner near where the wood was stacked was unknown to them.
"Aux armes, citoyens."
But the shout of triumph came too soon. Back from the gate ran Michael Berrington, swift as sleuth-hound on its prey, with sword drawn.
There was fighting now, at gate and breach, rare fighting too, enough to warm the heart of any man.
And Michael was in fighting vein—the Irish blood in him saw to that—and the grimmer the work the merrier grew his mood.
Hotspur Mike he had been called at college, and Hotspur Mike was he, in very truth, that night.
A Breton peasant is no coward when the humour is on him, and his temper roused for the combat, so work there was in plenty for Michael's blade.
Surely the fairies must have kissed his eyelids—so his enemies swore, as they drew back for a moment—for this man seemed to see as well in the darkness as by day.
But the breach in the wall was growing—and Gabrielle was at Kérnak.
It was therefore no time for throwing away life, just because the fire of the fight ran lustily in his veins.
"Back! back!" cried Michael, in English, and, sword in hand, ran back himself across the courtyard, even as a dozen sturdy peasants flung themselves at a scramble over the wall.
Count Jéhan was not slow to obey the command, though he too had fought as la Rouerie's follower should fight.
"Fire! fire!" screamed Marcel Trouet, emptying his barrels into the darkness.
"Kill them—kill the vermin, before they run to ground. Mille diables! Kill them, vile aristos."
But pistols were few amongst his followers, and, though men started quickly enough in pursuit, Michael and his companion had reached the porch first, and made haste to slip heavy bars across the oaken door before their adversaries flung themselves, cursing and yelling, against it from without. The situation promised to be a desperate one.
All hope that the mob would listen to their new lord was gone.
Monsieur le Marquis had come too late. What therefore remained?
Little enough, save to die, crying, "Vive le roi," "Vive Bretagne" in the face of these murderers of king and country. So Count Jéhan thought.
But Michael found not the smallest consolation in such a prospect.
Life was strong in his veins,—life and love. It was not only for his own sake that that life was precious.
Gabrielle must be saved—and those other poor ladies of Kérnak.
But how could they be reached? How were they to save themselves?
Already the great crowd was surging about the door. Ere long they would be in the Manor itself,—and after that——? Michael did not look further.
He was half way up the stairs when he met Morice hurrying down with Pierre Koustak at his side.
The old man was crying bitterly, but Morice was calm. The reckless idler of Carlton House, with head crammed by fopperies and vanities, had been transformed into a man—and a Marquis de Varenac.
"We must escape," he said, pausing for a moment. "They will not listen. And ... and we should reach Kérnak without delay."
"But how?" Michael's voice sounded harsh enough.
A roar from without and the sound of cracking timber answered him.
"Dieu de Dieu!" moaned Koustak. "Hasten, Messieurs, or it will be too late."
He clung to Morice's hand as he spoke.
"Koustak knows of a secret passage which leads to the stables," explained Morice hurriedly. "We can ride to Kérnak."
"To Kérnak."
The relief in Michael's voice rang high.
"They will be in before we can reach it," muttered Count Jéhan. "Already——"
A crash completed the sentence.
But they were running now, all together.
"This way—this way, Messieurs," sobbed their guide, and tore aside a curtain.
A panel in the wall slipped back easily enough—one did not allow hinges to rust in the Brittany of those days—and soon they were groping their way down a dark, narrow passage.
Morice's heart beat fast. He was returning to Kérnak without shame. Even failure could not keep him from exulting over that thought.
He would be able to look little Cécile in the eyes,—to take her brother's hand.
Above them rose shouts and cries. The mob was searching the Manor. Afterwards they would swarm out again into the gardens—the stables.
At present they were occupied.
Click. Click.
A trap-door creaked, and the restless stamping of horse-hoofs proved welcome sound enough.
They had reached the stables of Varenac. But no moment must be lost, for they had a Trouet to reckon with besides these addle-pated peasants.
Already they were leading out the horses. Three of them,—for Koustak had declared that he must remain—his daughter Olérie was here, and he could never leave Varenac.
Shouts and yells told of fury and disappointment in the Manor close by.
Had they found their Citoyen yet?
A faint moonlight showed the fugitives a wild stretch of desolate moor and forest. Yonder lay Kérnak.
What was happening there?
It was the fearful question of each heart.
"Le jour de gloire est arrivé."
Dark forms were already seen hurrying from the house. Trouet had bethought himself of the stables.
It was time to be going.
Pierre Koustak was the first to urge it, even whilst he clung to the hand of a master whom he had been so ready to serve and love even before he knew him. But the Terror had come to Varenac, and there was no room there now for noble Marquises.
"Farewell—farewell."
It was a sad leave-taking for all; but those who rode away had less regret than he who stayed.
A flame of fire rose, leaping high in the air from an upper window of the old building.
Pierre Koustak's arms were around his daughter, but it was she who upheld him.
He had vowed never to leave Varenac, and soon there would be no Varenac left. Then it was time for him to be going too.
"Jesu, Maria, mercy! Monsieur le Marquis—farewell. Ah! he is already gone. Jesu! Maria!"
The grey head sank forward.
It was too heavy for Olérie to support. Gently she laid him on the ground, close to a clump of laurels. Trembling and weeping, she knelt over him.
Yes, she might well weep, but the tears should all be for herself.
The old man was smiling, his eyes closed; but no breath issued through the parted lips. Pierre Koustak would never leave Varenac now.