“No,” said Henri. “I will not stoop to tell them a falsehood; nor if I did so, would they ever believe me again.” And he walked towards the passage, intending to go down to the front-door.
“Stop, Henri, stop a moment!” said Agatha, “I will go down to them. I will speak to them. They are not accustomed to hear me speak to them in numbers, as they are to you, and that of itself will make them inclined to listen to me. I will beg them to spare the unfortunate man, and I think they will not refuse me.”
She got up and walked to the door, and her brother did not attempt to stop her.
“Let me go alone, Henri,” said she. “You may, at any rate, be sure that they will not hurt me.” And, without waiting for his reply, she descended the stairs, and walked into the hall. When Chapeau left them, the crowd were collected immediately in the front of the house and on the steps, but none of them had yet forced their way into the château; since he had gone upstairs, however, they had pushed open the door, and now filled the hall; although their accustomed respect for the persons and property of those above them, had still kept them from breaking into the room, in which they knew were M. de Lescure and Adolphe Denot. The foremost of them drew back when they saw Agatha come among them, and as she made her way to the front-door, they retreated before her, till she found herself standing on the top of the steps, and surrounded by what seemed to her a countless crowd of heads. There was a buzz of many voices among them, and she stood there silent before them a moment or two, till there should be such silence as would enable them to hear her.
Agatha Larochejaquelin had never looked more beautiful than she did at this time. Her face was more than ordinarily pale, for her life had lately been one of constant watching and deep anxiety; but hers was a countenance which looked even more lovely without than with its usual slight tinge of colour. Her beautiful dark-brown hair was braided close to her face, and fastened in a knot behind her head. She was dressed in a long white morning wrapper, which fell quite down over her feet, and added in appearance to her natural high stature. She seemed to the noisy peasants, as she stood there before them, sad-looking and sorrowful, but so supremely beautiful, to be like some goddess who had come direct from heaven to give them warning and encouragement. The hum of their voices soon dropped, and they stood as silent before her, as though no strong passion, no revenge and thirst for blood had induced them, but a moment before, all but to mutiny against the leaders who had led them so truly, and loved them so well.
“Friends, dear friends,” she began in her sweet voice, low, but yet plainly audible to those whom she addressed; and then she paused a moment to think of the words she would use to them, and as she did so they cheered her loudly, and blessed her, and assured her, in their rough way, how delighted they were to have saved her and the Marquis from their enemies.
“Dear friends,” she continued, “I have come to thank you for the readiness and kindness with which you have hurried to my protection—to tell you how grateful I and mine are for your affection, and at the same time to ask a favour from your hands.”
“God bless you, Mademoiselle. We will do anything for Mademoiselle Agatha. We all know that Mademoiselle is an angel. We will do anything for her,” said different voices in the crowd. “Anything but pardon the traitor who has insulted her,” said the man who had been most prominent in demanding Denot’s death. “Anything at all—anything, without exception. We will do anything we are asked, whatever it is, for Mademoiselle Agatha,” said some of the younger men among the crowd, whom her beauty made more than ordinarily enthusiastic in her favour. “Mademoiselle will not sully her beautiful lips to ask the life of a traitor,” said another. “We will do anything else; but Denot must die.” “Yes, Denot must die,” exclaimed others. “He shall die; he is not fit to live. When the traitor is hung, we will do anything, go anywhere, for Mademoiselle.”
“Ah! friends,” said she, “the favour I would ask of you is to spare the life of this miserable young man. Hear me, at any rate,” she continued, for there was a murmur among the more resolute of Denot’s enemies. “You will not refuse to hear what I say to you. You demand vengeance, you say, because he has betrayed your cause, and insulted me. If I can forgive the insult, if my brother can, surely you should do so too. Think, dear friends, what my misery must be, if on my account you shed the blood of this poor creature. You say he has betrayed the cause for which you are fighting. It is true, he has done so; but it is not only your cause which he has betrayed. Is it not my cause also? Is it not my brother’s? Is it not M. de Lescure’s? And if we can forgive him, should not you also do so too? He has lived in this house as though he were a child of my father’s. You know that my brother has treated him as a brother. Supposing that you, any of you, had had a brother who has done as he has done, would you not still pray, in spite of his crimes, that he might be forgiven? I know you all love my brother. He deserves from you that you should love him well, for he has proved to you that he loves you. He—Henri Larochejaquelin—your own leader, begs you to forgive the crime of his adopted brother. Have we not sufficient weight with you—are we not near enough to your hearts, to obtain from you this boon?”
“We will, we will,” shouted they; “we will forgive—no, we won’t forgive him, but we’ll let him go; only, Mademoiselle, let him go from this—let him not show himself here any more. There, lads, there’s an end of it. Give Momont back the rope. We will do nothing to displease M. Henri and Mademoiselle Agatha,” and then they gave three cheers for the inhabitants of Durbellière; and Agatha, after thanking them for their kindness and their courtesy, returned into the house.