“Ah, it is no doubt undeniable,” agreed that person, with reluctance, while he still turned an eye to the carriage, as if to apologise for being thrust up against it: “there are possibly plots. In that case it is only necessary to disconcert them, Monsieur Jacques.”
“But it is exactly to do so, Monsieur Morin,” said a quieter mechanic, “that, after earlier than usual dismissing the school, you were on the point to set off for Paris.”
“Yes, half an hour ago, on foot, to the Club Breton, at the Palais Royal,” continued a peasant beyond.
“Père Pierre had a plot also, you know,” added some one else.
“Pardon me, Monsieur Robert—a plan,” replied the teacher with his peculiar blandness, though his eye continued wandering sideways to the carriage: “to plot, my friend—it does not belong to the virtuous.”
“But from a philosopher,” rejoined the villager, “Monsieur Père Morin is about to become a man of action—he has a plan.”
“Delayed by this beast of a barricade, which deranges everything,” said his rougher neighbour, angrily.
“Monsieur Morin will, then, however, relate to us this plot which he counteracts,” added the keen-eyed mechanic, with emphasis—“and the plan also. We shall perhaps be able to assist him! It seems to me that M. Morin should have avoided being thrust on this side the barrier.”
“Good!” responded Jacques, “we shall assist him! It is no doubt fortunate after all.” The last riders had passed through, and the porters were coming with their keys to unlock the gates. The neighbouring chateau clock struck six with a cracked tone; and the great gates were slowly yielding, to allow time for the Swiss sentries to cross through. They came together to their usual place with a clash; the crowd poured each way between again, among the various country vehicles and market-carts, the passengers and riders, from or to the city, or the town of Versailles—for a few minutes in such sudden disorder as almost to hurl the bystanders from the carriage when it drove forward; save the young man, the teacher, who had held by it for security, and in the attempt to balance himself was urged so close as to seize the hood of the barouche, already in motion. An unaccountable repugnance shot from the young lady’s look and attitude as she started back, extricating her shawl from the accidental clutch—till her heart reproached her next moment at his thorough expression of apology mixed with alarm, for Jackson drove furiously down-hill. She was in vain calling him to stop, when she saw her brother spring up quick as thought, look round, and hurl their unintentional fellow-passenger backward on the road.
“Drive on, Jackson,” shouted Charles, triumphantly. “Serves him right—the very fellow’s face that I detested!”