And then . . . was this the prelude to a still greater change? The priest flung himself down before his prie-dieu. Oh, if what Gilbert had said this morning only meant that his eyes were opening at last to the greatest motive power of human life, he would not grudge these years of anguish in which he had been forced to watch the dying, as it seemed, of early faith and early enthusiasms in the man whom he had loved more than a son. He would not grudge his own retirement during these long twenty years, his voluntary serving of a simple and credulous people, the despair which had threatened sometimes to overwhelm him. He would be a thousand-fold repaid.

But gradually, as the weeks wore on to Christmas, the priest’s hope in this respect died out. Yet his conviction of a change in Gilbert had become certainty. The Marquis’ moderation was gone; he was filled with a restless zeal for a cause on which, before his journey to Paris, he had looked almost as a spectator. Not Louis himself was more enraged at the imprisonment of the Royal Family, more horror-struck at the King’s trial. At last the supreme shock of the 21st of January hurried matters to a crisis.

Gilbert would not lay a finger on his own tenantry; it was not a time, had it been possible, to collect powder or arms, but he must try, if not to establish, at least to discover some accord among such of the neighbouring gentry as had not emigrated. There were, for instance, Gabriel Baudry d’Asson still in hiding at Brachain, Grelier de Concize at La Chapelle-Themer, M. de Verteuil, the three De Béjarry brothers. . . . All this, stern, resolute, and eager, he propounded one snowy evening at the end of January in the library to M. des Graves and to Louis, who, white as a sheet in his deep mourning, sat at the end of the table with his chin in his hand and stared at him, for once deprived of speech by the catastrophe. Before them lay a printed sheet, which began by stating that the Directory of the department had considered “that the death of a tyrant might lead the slaves who served him to excesses likely to disturb the public peace. . . .” It was the latest proclamation against priests and émigrés, the King’s execution having, ironically enough, stirred up the authorities at Fontenay to fresh activity against those who were most crushed by it.

So, in the hush of horror that lay heavy on them all, Gilbert, with the example and the precept of La Rouërie before him, began to make plans. But the apathy of the countryside was remarkable. He could see quite well from the attitude of his own tenantry that the King’s death, instead of stirring them to action, had numbed them. And with them he held his hand. The idea of influencing ignorant peasantry, of pushing them like sheep into they knew not what, was intensely repugnant to him. If they themselves moved, well and good. Louis, who had no such quixotic scruples, was made to give his word that he would say nothing to incite them. Therefore anything that Château-Foix could accomplish must be done amongst men of his own class, and of these there were not many remaining. He entered into correspondence with a few; he thought, he planned, but the day of action seemed after all a long way off.

Suddenly the promise of it sprang into much nearer view. Lulled by the quiet reigning in the department, the authorities had not thought it necessary to replace the troops of the line, which had been drawn off during the previous summer. Now, at the beginning of February, it occurred to them to reorganise the National Guard on a more solid basis, and they issued a decree to that not very unreasonable effect. Commissioners were to be sent into every canton, and all persons capable of bearing arms were to be enrolled, if necessary by force.

And at once it was made clear to the misguided Directory how deceptive was the apathy on which they had relied. The commissioners met almost everywhere with the most lively opposition, which sometimes ended in actual affray. Even the village of Chantemerle was in a ferment, and the peasants at first refused absolutely to send their contingent to Chantonnay. But the thought that, if they did not, the commissioners would presently descend upon them, finally decided them, very grudgingly, to do as they were required. Gilbert had advised them to this course. It did not seem to him, nor to M. des Graves, that the crisis had come, but . . . was it coming?

CHAPTER XXXI
WAX FLOWERS

“O merry was the lilting amang our ladies a’

They danc’d i’ the parlour, and sang in the ha’,

. . . . . . . .