CHAPTER XXX
THE TERROR COMES TO KÉRNAK
"I love him. Oh, Gabrielle, I love him. And—and yet I bade him go to Varenac."
"You love Morice?"
Gabrielle's arm was round her cousin's slender waist as they sat together in the deep embrasure of a window overlooking the clustering heads of the oak-trees, which grew around the foot of the hillock on which the château stood, and away over the purple landes where the mist-wraiths of evening gathered.
"You love Morice?"
A pair of big, troubled eyes were raised to hers at the repetition of the words.
"Oh, yes, I love him, with all my heart, Gabrielle."
"With all your heart? But you have only known him these few short days."
Cécile sighed.
"Yet it is there," she whispered, laying her little hand over her heart. "I do not understand, for I have never loved before, but I think I loved him from the first moment he stood in the hall and told us that he was my cousin."
"And then you found——"
"Ah, yes—yes, the great cloud came, just when the sun was beginning to shine. But, though I despaired, love did not die, Gabrielle."
"Love cannot die, little cousin. It is for always."
"But it became bitter. Mother of Heaven! how bitter! You do not know the tears I shed—and the shame, when Jéhan told the story."
"And yet you loved him, even though he were a traitor?"
"Yes. But after all, he is no traitor, Gabrielle. He has gone to Varenac to prove it."
"Thank God for that."
"Thank God. Yes, that is easy to say; but supposing—supposing——"
"I will suppose nothing, dear Cécile. We are asking all the time that the good God will take care of those we love, and He will hear us."
"Holy Virgin, grant He may. Let us go on praying all the time. But you, Gabrielle, for you it is different. A brother——"
"He is my only one."
"So is Jéhan to me, and yet I do not think of him now."
The colour came rosily to Gabrielle's cheeks.
"There is one at Varenac who is more than brother to me," she whispered, plucking at the end of her fichu.
"A—a lover? Oh, Gabrielle, forgive me. I understand. It is the tall Monsieur with the dark face and grey eyes, which can look two things at once. And he——"
"He is at Varenac. Cécile, Cécile, God grant they may all come back in safety. I am afraid."
The two girls clung to each other, finding comfort in this new bond of sympathy.
"We will not be afraid," Cécile murmured in her cousin's ear. "We will ask le bon Dieu to guard them. See, it is getting dark—perhaps they will soon be back now. It is certain that the men of Varenac will listen to Morice and cry, 'Vive le roi,' and then others will take example and do the same, and Monsieur de la Rouerie will march at the head of his army into France to save the poor King and Queen, and put an end to the dreadful Revolution. Afterwards we shall all be happy."
It was the summing up of a child who knows nothing of the world, and even Gabrielle smiled at such a rose-coloured picture.
"That is a very charming dream," she replied, "and I would that we could see Michael and Morice riding over the heath to tell us that the first part is accomplished."
"Yes, and Jéhan. Poor Jéhan! I fear we forget him."
Gabrielle sighed.
"Poor Jéhan! Yes, and yet I think he will be quite happy if he can carry good news to this great hero of yours, the Marquis de la Rouerie."
"Ciel! It is true he is a hero. And so handsome. All the demoiselles of Brittany are in love with him; but Jéhan says his head is too full of the Royalist cause to think of women. Ah, Gabrielle, look! I believe it is a messenger."
As she spoke Cécile pushed open the casement, peering out into the gathering darkness.
Certainly it was some one who came in haste. Clattering steps in the courtyard and a panting cry told that.
"It is——?" murmured Gabrielle.
The two girls looked at each other.
"Jean Marie, one of the shepherds. He is a good boy, and—and promised to bring warning."
"Warning?"
"Of danger."
They were standing now, the cool evening air blowing in on them, setting stray curls fluttering.
Perhaps it was the snap of autumn chill that sent a shudder through Cécile's slender frame.
"Come," she said, holding out an impulsive hand to her cousin. "Let us go down and see what Madame Maman and the good father are talking about."
Lights were already kindled in the salon below. Madame de Quernais, seated near the fire, was conversing gravely with a little man in the brown habit of a Benedictine.
A little man with a round and kindly face, which reminded one of a russet apple long gathered.
He nodded smilingly to the two girls as they curtsied, whilst Madame bade them come nearer the fire, as they looked cold.
"It is certainly chilly," replied Père Mouet. "Henri Joustoc says it will be a winter of great severity. But I do not heed the croakers. Always take the days as they come, and leave the future to the bon Dieu. That is the secret of happiness."
The salon door was flung open most unceremoniously as he spoke, and in rushed Guillaume, the butler.
It was evident that the poor man was too excited to remember the ceremonies, on which both he and his mistress set such store.
"Ah! ah! M'd'me," he gasped. "Ah! ah! It is Jean Marie who brings news."
Madame de Quernais had risen—not hurriedly, but with all the grave dignity which was her birthright.
As for Père Mouet, he had already advanced to Guillaume's side.
"Peace, my son," he commanded gently. "You will alarm Mesdames. If there is news, it will be told more quickly if you compose yourself."
The quiet words certainly had a soothing effect on poor Guillaume, though his eyes continued to roll wildly.
"It is the Terror," he groaned. "Jean M'rie brought the news. There are men from Paris, men of Brittany, who come with evil tongues to bid our people rise and murder their masters. Ohé, they are very clever, clever as Monsieur Satan himself, and the fools listen to them. Already they cry, 'Vive la nation,' 'Vive la guillotine!' 'Vive liberté!'"
"Tsch, tsch," smiled Père Mouet, "their throats will soon get hoarse, and then they will drink and go to sleep. To-morrow, when they awake, I will talk to them."
"Ah, mon père," cried Guillaume, "they will not wait till to-morrow. That is why Jean M'rie came running at once with the news. Already they cry, 'À Varenac! À Kérnak!' They will be here to-night and will do the same as they did at Baud and Villerais."
Père Mouet glanced across towards Madame de Quernais.
If indeed the Terror were here it would be wise not to delay.
Madame still stood erect, her hand clasping the back of the chair, her powdered head held high.
If she had been alone she would certainly have defied these canaille with her last breath.
But there were the children.
Her proud lips quivered a little as she looked at Cécile, who stood near, with Gabrielle's hand locked in her own.
Yes, there must be no defiance.
"Take Jean Marie to the kitchen, Guillaume," she said, speaking very slowly and decidedly. "Give him some supper; also"—she drew a ring from her finger—"this souvenir of his mistress, with her best thanks. Perhaps one day I shall have opportunity of thanking and rewarding him more befittingly."
The old butler bowed, took the ring in silence, and withdrew.
Instantly Madame turned to the others.
"We must lose no time; is that what you would say, father?" she asked abruptly.
Père Mouet nodded.
"Not a moment more than necessary, Madame," he replied. "It is quite likely that Count Jéhan may be at the cave before us. We must certainly not delay—for sake of these children."
He murmured the last words in a lower key.
"Make haste and put your cloaks on, mes enfants," Madame de Quernais said. "And the little bags are packed as I ordered? That is good. As we cannot take the servants we must be content with few things."
She stifled a sigh as she spoke, whilst only Père Mouet noted how her hands clenched and unclenched.
"There are many, daughter," he replied gently, "who can never sufficiently thank the good God if they escape with nothing but their lives."
"It is true, father. I will do penance for such rebellion. Nor will I tempt Providence with my complainings. Thank you, Cécile. At any rate I shall be warm. Come, we are all ready now."
She drew more closely round her the heavy, fur-lined cloak Cécile had brought, and herself opened the casement which led to the terrace and avenue.
In silence Père Mouet and the two girls followed her.
At that moment danger was too pressing—for Cécile at least—to feel acute pain at leaving her home.
The darkness without would have been intense had it not been for the moonlight, which but partially succeeded in piercing the misty gloom of the lande which stretched before them.
A long, weary walk it must be, though not one of the four who set out on it lacked courage. But what was happening at Varenac?
Who would they find awaiting them in the Cave of Lost Souls?
Those were the questions which stirred their pulses with growing dread.
It was well they had their cloaks, for it was cold enough here, facing the night wind across the bleak moors.
But they did not complain.
Keeping close together, they tramped on, Madame de Quernais walking out as bravely as any of them, disdaining proffered help over the uneven ground.
Presently a low exclamation from the priest brought them to a halt.
"Listen," he said in a whisper. "What is that?"
It was a question which grew easier to answer every second. There could be no mistaking the tramp, tramp of many feet, the shouts and cries of many voices.
The mob was on its way to the château.
"Allons, enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé,
Centre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé....
Aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons;
Marchons, marchons!
Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons."
Nearer and clearer came the sounds, each word distinct as the song rose from many throats in growing tumult.
They learnt their lesson easily, after all, these Breton peasants.
"They are coming this way," said Madame de Quernais quietly.
"Alas! I fear it is true; but they may not see us. The mists protect us."
The wind is rising; it will blow the mists aside."
"Peace, my daughter. Have we not sought the protection of God? Have no fear."
"It is not for myself, father."
Madame's voice trembled a little.
"The lambs of the flock are in His special care. See, let us go forward—yonder."
As he spoke Père Mouet pointed to where, on a low hillock, a Calvary had been placed.
Over the head of the rugged rock, which had been hewn into a rough cross, hung a blackened crown of thorns.
Nearer and nearer came the trampling of feet, the sound of singing and shouting. The men of Kérnak had been drinking at the Golden Merman on their way hither.
It was the wine, quite as much as the words of Jean Floessel, which had made them red republicans that night.
Around the foot of the Calvary knelt the little group of fugitives—waiting.
"Aux armes, citoyens."
Torches flared, killing the white charm of the moonlight with their sickly rays.
"Aux armes——"
A burst of laughter, followed by fierce shouting, checked the song.
The men of Kérnak had come in sight of the Calvary, and those who now stood awaiting them there.