Even their love, born in autumn sunlight, and wellnigh killed by autumn blasts, took no first place at that moment in their hearts, when a man's honour and a country's hopes were at stake; though Cécile, being a woman, felt her heart beat gladly when she remembered that she had turned her lover from the road to Varenac—and death.
CHAPTER XXV
BERTRAND TELLS A TALE
The wine at the sign of Le Bon Camarade was abominable.
Marcel Trouet, trusted servant and officer of the Committee of Public Safety in Paris, evinced his disapprobation by flinging the contents of his glass on the floor and bellowing for the landlord.
Jean Gouicket came in haste. He knew who were the great ones now, this burly Breton. Aha! the cunning one! At the first whisper of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, he had taken down his signboard, and the Duchesse Anne, with its ermines and arms, had been quickly painted out and replaced by a fine red cap and the name of Le Bon Camarade.
But just in time! Ohé! Jean Gouicket could only gasp out a thanksgiving and promise of many candles to Monseigneur St. Jean—beneath his breath, of course—when Trouet and his party arrived.
That party! It was a grim one enough at first sight—a rabble of idlers with four or five of those other great ones whom Marcel Trouet had brought from Paris.
Not that they were Parisians—nothing of the sort: they were Bretons, every one—dark-skinned, gloomy-faced fellows, with crafty, downcast eyes and scowling lips.