THE BAKER AND HIS FAMILY
The Count d'Arlincourt had just left the palace at Versailles.
He had been present at the reception to the Royal Flanders regiment. He had heard their vow of fidelity to the king. He had been among the officers and the nobles of the court who had trampled under foot the tricolor of Paris and decorated their coats with the white cockade, and now he left the royal presence with his sovereign's thanks and commendations ringing in his ears.
As he proceeded through the courtyard three gentlemen entered at the main gate. A shade of annoyance passed over the count's brow as he recognized St. Hilaire and two other noblemen, all members of the States General, and all reputed to lean somewhat too radically toward the popular side in politics. He had hardly seen St. Hilaire since the breakfast party at the house of the latter three months before. The toast of the marquis and his expressed sympathy with revolutionary orders had caused a decided estrangement.
Indeed, St. Hilaire and the two noblemen who were with him had become alienated from their order, and many of their former friends among the nobility had refused to speak or hold any relations with them whatever.
The count could not avoid meeting them, but he was undecided whether to ignore them entirely or pass them with such a slight inclination of the head as to be equally cutting.
The cordial bow of the Marquis de St. Hilaire, however, for whom he had always felt a peculiar and inexplicable regard, caused him to change his mind.
He saluted the three gentlemen politely, though with a certain reserve of manner natural to him, and addressed St. Hilaire.
"A word with you, marquis," he said, "if I may be pardoned for taking you from these gentlemen for a few minutes?"
St. Hilaire turned to his companions: "With your permission, messieurs, I will join you in five minutes in the palace."
The gentlemen bowed in assent and walked toward the palace, leaving the count and the marquis alone in the centre of the court.
"You were not present at the reception in the palace. We missed you greatly, marquis," the former began, with an attempt at cordiality of manner, having resolved to make one last appeal to his friend.
"Thank you, my dear d'Arlincourt, for your kindness in saying so," replied the marquis affably, "but I must tell you frankly that even if affairs in the Assembly had not claimed my time, other circumstances would have rendered my presence at this banquet impossible."
"The king," continued d'Arlincourt quietly, "inquired for you several times and seemed much disturbed at your absence."
"I am now on my way to wait upon his majesty," replied St. Hilaire.
The count's face lighted up. "A tardy apology is better than none at all, for I presume you are going to explain your absence."
"The two gentlemen who have left us, and myself, have been sent by the convention as a committee to urge his majesty to sanction their latest decrees,—the bill relating to popular rights," replied St. Hilaire quietly.
"For the love of Heaven, Raphael!" burst out the count, "can it be possible that you intend to persist in championing the popular cause, like the Duke d'Orleans, or the Marquis de Lafayette? Your present position is that of a madman. Come back to our side now. To-morrow it may be too late."
"For the life of me, André," replied St. Hilaire lightly, "I cannot tell you to-day what my line of action will be to-morrow, but in any case I beg you will not compare me either with the duke or Lafayette. I am neither as dull as the one nor as virtuous as the other. Why not permit me still to resemble only the Marquis de St. Hilaire?"
"Then," replied the count warmly, "I tell you that as the Marquis de St. Hilaire, your duty to the king should have brought you to the reception in honor of the Flanders regiment."
The marquis dropped his air of levity suddenly. "Do you know, count," he said slowly, "I have just come from the Assembly, where news reached us a little while ago that a mob of forty thousand was marching from Paris toward Versailles."
The count started with surprise, but betrayed no other emotion.
"Is it a fitting time to be fêting a regiment composed of mercenaries? Is it a fitting time to be clinking glasses and drinking toasts when forty thousand men and women are approaching with their cry for bread?"
The count drew himself up as he replied,—"What more fitting time could there be for the loyal nobles to gather about their sovereign than in the hour of danger? I, for one, would not let the fear of any Paris mob keep me from the king's side at such a moment."
St. Hilaire flushed deeply. "Count d'Arlincourt," he said quickly, "I pass over that insinuation because it comes from an old friend. But know this: that I am one of the members of the Assembly who have sworn to support the constitution and enforce the rights of man. I should indeed have been false to my trust had I participated in a fête to these foreigners where oaths were openly made to defeat that constitution."
"Our ideas of duty evidently differ," replied the count stiffly. "My duty is to my king."
"They do differ," said St. Hilaire. "My first allegiance is to the nation. Count d'Arlincourt, I respect you and your opinions, but I also have a regard for my oath. I have chosen my path and I shall follow it."
"Good-day, Marquis de St. Hilaire," said the count, in his usual cold manner.
"Farewell, Count d'Arlincourt," was the polite rejoinder, and raising his hat St. Hilaire passed onward in the direction of the palace.
Forty thousand men and women were marching from Paris to Versailles. They had forced a king to recall a banished minister. They had sacked a prison fortress,—razing to the ground walls that had frowned on them for ages, wiping out in one day a landmark of tyranny that had been standing there for centuries. Now they were coming to see their king at his palace. They had heard of the banquet at Versailles, given in honor of the royal Flanders regiment, where wine had flowed like water and where food was in abundance. At such a banquet, they argued, there must be bread enough for the whole world; and they were coming to get their share of it.
Although it was in the month of October, the sun was hot and the road dusty. In the front rank, amid all the dust and sweat and noise, walked Robert Tournay. He carried no weapon, nor did he seek to lead; but animated by curiosity and by sympathy, he felt himself drawn into this great heaving mass of people who had decided to correct these abuses themselves, even if to do it they had to take the laws into their own hands.
Hearing a shout and rumble of wheels behind him, Tournay looked over his shoulder to see a cannon coming through the crowd, which parted on each side to let it pass, and then closed up behind it. This cannon was drawn along the road by a score of men, whose bare feet, beating the dust, sent up a pulverous cloud that blew back into the faces of those behind like smoke.
Seated upon the gun carriage, her hair streaming in the wind, was a young woman wearing the red cap of liberty, and waving in her hand a blood-red flag. The cannon stopped under the shade of some poplar trees, and men stood around it wiping the perspiration from their foreheads.
"A cheer for the Goddess of Liberty," cried a voice in the crowd. A shout went up that made the poplars tremble.
"Citizens," cried the girl, in response, standing erect and flinging her flag to the breeze, "you want bread!"
"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 tassel, "this marching is hot work, and talking is dry business. Has any one a drink for La Demoiselle Liberté?"
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 compassion for the silly girl whose head had been turned by the flattery of a nobleman 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 Liberté," 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 pass 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 Liberté, 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 Assembly chamber.
The Assembly, 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 Assembly 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 passed by your Assembly 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 Liberté 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 multitude. 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 Liberté 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 tassel 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 passion. "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 Assembly hall,—a man of gigantic stature with deep-set eyes. His appearance was so striking that he could have passed 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 nobility."
"The king," mused the other; "do you believe in kings?"
"How do you mean?—'Do I believe in kings'?"
"Seventeen years ago," said the giant, "when only a boy, I stood in the cathedral at Rheims while the coronation of the king was taking place. I had never seen a king before, and moved by a strong desire to see a being so exalted, I had walked many leagues to gratify my curiosity. When I saw a pale-faced stripling kneel before the archbishop to receive the crown, I could hardly keep from bursting into loud laughter at the thought that such a puny creature could hold the destiny of a great nation in his hands. I have often thought of it since, and to this day it is as absurd as it was then."
"I think a nation should have a king," said Tournay, after a few moments' thought. "But he should reign in the interests of his people. And of all the people, not a small part."
"And so you came down here to see that our little king did his duty," suggested the large man, smiling.
"I came here, as I have already said, because in my humble way I wanted to do something for my country."
"For your country?" repeated his companion interrogatively; "for the people?"
"Yes," answered Tournay, "the people,—the common people, to whom I belong; those who have never had a voice lifted up to speak for them, nor a hand to fight their battles."
"There is a voice to speak for them at last," replied the giant, his eyes shining with a fierce light. "France is full of them. From north to south, from east to west, they have been called and are answering. In the Assembly their voices are heard. In every street in Paris their voices are heard. I can speak for them and I will; aye and fight for them too," and he lifted his massive arm with a gesture which in its force seemed to indicate that alone he could fight for and win the people's cause. "Throughout France there are millions of arms which like mine are ready to strike down tyranny. Have no fear, my friend. The nation has found a champion in itself! The people have taken up their own cause!" The power of the man, his earnestness and energy, stirred Tournay to the depths of his soul. He looked with admiration at the lion-like figure standing before him. Then grasping the man's hand he said with earnestness:—
"I too am one of them,—I may not be of much use, still I am one. Will you show me how I can be of more service?"
"A stout arm and a brave heart are always worth much," replied the giant. "I like you, friend; your voice has the true ring in it. And where Jacques Danton likes he trusts. Come with me and I will tell you more."