His neighbour, who was given to seeing things in an unpleasant light, shook his pate and sighed. "You forget," he said, "that these mooncalves neither think nor reason. They are buffeted by impulse, led by the nose by the first comer. Whether we give up the culprits or no, they will want to retaliate on all of us. It is class against class, and has been all along." This was true enough, and gloom descended on the company.
"What they will do," suggested one of the party, "will depend upon the man who is their leader."
There was the case in a nutshell. When the people arrived at Montbazon, the Baron de Vaux must interpellate the leader, and be guided by that person's attitude.
The distance between the two dwellings was so short; the rustics had spread helter-skelter in so many directions, that the movements of their betters were rapidly ascertained. One party, which had made for Lorge, found the gates wide open, the mansion apparently deserted, and were about to prosecute the search elsewhere, when Jean Boulot appeared upon the scene, declaring that his love was a prisoner. A further search was made, and lying in her bed they found Toinon, a prey to stony despair. Brave girl as she was, she had given way to despondency, for what could two women do against such a close and small-meshed network of foes--absolutely friendless and forlorn?
But here was Jean at last, faithful and true, at the head of a rabblement. With a cry she fell upon his breast, and sobbed there as if her heart were broken, while he thanked Heaven for her safety.
The servants had one and all decamped with such valuables as were easily carried. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Brunelle. To linger here was wasting time. Somebody had seen the abbé and the chevalier spurring like maniacs in the direction of Montbazon. "To Montbazon--to Montbazon," was the general shout, and as the crowd moved rapidly thitherward, its numbers were each moment augmented by newcomers armed with scythes and staves, who each had something to tell. The Marquis de Gange had been seen galloping to Montbazon, the baron and many of the Seigneurie also. Montbazon, by will of avenging Providence, had become a vermin trap which was full, and, please Heaven, not one should escape.
Deputy Jean Boulot did not approve of such sentiments. To yell "Ça Ira" in discordant chorus--to gambol in the mazes of a dance which bore some distorted rustic resemblance to the Carmagnole--these were safe and harmless outlets for feverish activity. But honest Jean had the cause of the people too deeply at heart to allow his adherents to disgrace it. Before reaching Montbazon, therefore, he got on a great stone in the middle of a field, and harangued his little army. He would have no unnecessary violence, he roundly declared. Whatever the conduct of the towns had been, the country parts of Touraine had been conspicuous for decency. Unless his hearers promised to obey, he would shake the dust from off his feet and leave them. The three wretches had been delivered by God into their hands. The sovereign people should do what they chose with the at-present-offending vermin, but the innocent should be protected. The de Vaux family knew nothing of the tragedy, had instantly succoured the suffering marquise, when he, Jean, had placed her under their protection, and it would be an evil and disgraceful thing if their reward was to be the destruction of their property. The people hearkened and applauded. Brave Jean, honest clearheaded Jean, an honour to the province, and to France! Of course he should be obeyed, provided he did not strive to shelter his late master. "Ça ira, Ça ira! Quick, quick, no more delay." Jean looking round was satisfied, for with Heaven's help, he saw his way to save Montbazon from pillage.
It was with some relief that on mounting by means of a ladder to the top of the gateway, and surveying the vast seething sea of heads below, and the forest of glinting scythes, the baron beheld a man come forward whom he had personally known for years. He had disliked the man, and somewhat dreaded him for his treasonable preachings to the rustics. "A dangerous firebrand," he had always declared, "who will do a deal of mischief;" but as the sanguinary chronicle of history unrolled itself, marked with many smears, he had been compelled to admit that the whilom gamekeeper in authority at Blois had shown both discretion and forbearance. A Collot d'Herbois or a Marat might have headed this vast concourse. There was hope in the fact that the presiding chief was one who could listen to reason.
"I am sorry to see you, Jean Boulot," the baron began, curtly, "at the head of a menacing throng. Are you here as a patron of grave-diggers?"
"You know what we are here for, and what we justly demand," returned Boulot, as shortly.