CHAPTER V
THE SON
Olivier did not wait until the end of the rejoicings at Saint-Prix. About five o'clock, profiting by a moment when the public were occupied with one of the usual commonplaces of popular festivals, and their attention was fixed on the simulated dispute of two mountebanks on the stage, he made his way through the gaping groups until he reached the country. Besides the pleasure of surprising his mother and Thérèse by his unexpected return, the thoughts of an early supper and a long sleep possessed him pleasantly as he quickened his steps.
His nerves had been more unstrung by all this bustle and movement of the revels than by the sleepless night he had passed on the eve of the fête. His brain reeled; he had been dazed in the midst of the surging tumult, the boisterous merrymaking of a multitude let loose under the burning midsummer sun, as the clamour rolled in swelling waves of sound above the crowd, above the gleam and shimmer of tricolour scarves and cockades, up to the official stands, in murmurs of enthusiastic approval, which harmonised with the extravagant harangues of the orators almost as a musical accompaniment.
How they mouthed their periods, and declaimed their sentences, lavish of revolutionary rant, repeated and reiterated to such excess that Olivier's heart throbbed and a pulse beat at his temples, responsive to the din of those recurring words liberty, equality, fraternity, truth, justice, virtue, tyrant, pervert, corruptor, and suspect! And to think that to-morrow it would all begin again! For at the workshop they discussed politics, and he dared not be indifferent, or even appear luke-warm before these enthusiasts, or he would be immediately suspected! Ah, yes! Every one was suspected who did not howl with the wolves.
"My God! I am weary to death of it all," he exclaimed, in a sudden revulsion of feeling at the rôle he had assumed for fourteen months—he, the son of a noble, of a Vendean! His lips quivered, his breast heaved at the thought of the string of horrors discussed and upheld in his presence, which caused every fibre of his being to shrink, and against which his whole soul revolted in mute indignation.
The image of two women rose before his eyes: his mother with joined hands imploring him to moderate his zeal, to subdue the impetuous ardour of his youth a while longer.
"Have but a little patience," she would say; "it will not, cannot last. The reaction is nearer than you think."
He smiled at her over-confidence, feigned perhaps to quiet him, as he hastened his steps, thinking of the expected kiss, picturing her joy and surprise, imagining himself already in her arms, looking into her eyes, so full of tender love, and saying to her, "Yes, mother, it is I, and I am going to stay till to-morrow morning!"
Olivier had taken a path across a rough and woody district, which shortened his walk by the third of a mile. He felt worn out, but at the sight of the trees in the distance which surrounded their little cottage, he took heart and quickened his steps.
The gardener was waiting for him at the door, and Olivier called out to him joyfully—