“Monsieur!” exclaimed he, drawing back from the boy’s offer with an offended look, “you insult me!”
In the indignant noise which ensued, apologies would have been unavailing; but at the appearance of another gendarme pushing up, Charles Willoughby seated himself, turned his shoulder on the rabble, and contented himself with explaining matters to the official beside him, into whose palm he had easily enough slipped the rejected coin. It produced no apparent increase of deference in the man’s stiff civility; but he exchanged a few prompt words with his comrade, who took out a stump of pencil and a scrap of paper, put the end of the first into his mouth, and rested the latter on the carriage-wheel, looking up imperturbably for further particulars. An authoritative word or two from the other, as he raised his voice, and glanced from the throng to the obstacles in the street, on the other side of which market-drivers from Paris were grumbling, served to restore a degree of order. “Yes, Martin, it will be sufficient,” he loudly observed to his companion, “to take notice of the passports. Attention, then, Martin!”
“Monsieur will exhibit the passports,” said the sergeant in the same tone, as he turned again to the carriage. Charles Willoughby looked blank, though he mechanically felt for them in his pocket, and inquired at Jackson, at Mrs Mason, at all the party, looking below the cushions and beneath the seats. It was to no purpose; he had to admit that they were not forthcoming; a gentleman of the party, who would no doubt directly appear, had happened to have them in his pocket. The gendarmes stood up, and looked to each other significantly; the one put up his paper and pencil, with a shrug of his shoulders; the other addressed himself with a rigid air of regret to the carriage.
“It will be necessary to descend, mesdames et monsieur,” he said firmly, “until the affair can be adjusted. No, monsieur,” he rejoined in a lower voice to Charles, who was hinting at a further douceur, “impossible—a bribe!—and in the circumstances. But the thing is doubtless a mere bagatelle, which M. le Maire will very soon arrange at his chateau.”
“Yes! yes! Live justice!” screamed the gathered village, male and female, boys, girls, and children, down to the very crowing of the infant in arms, the excitement of poodles on the thresholds, the rousing up of fowls going early to roost above the doorways inside the dingy cottages.
“But, M. le Gendarme,” interposed the injured Morin himself, calmly, “I entertain no resentment against monsieur.”
“Only a complaint, M. Morin,” said the sergeant, with dignity. “It must be attended to. Besides that, the passports, which concern the State, are wanting. It is far more important.” The mob shrieked applause; even showing symptoms of disapprobation against their outraged teacher, who was silenced.
“Well, then, gendarme,” said young Willoughby, still contemptuous except to the lawful authorities beside him, “what do you mean by our getting down? Can you not take us at once to your mayor? This is not his chateau, I suppose?”
“Impossible, monsieur,” was the unruffled answer, “as M. le Comte has this afternoon gone to his hotel in Paris, and the commissary of the commune resides at some distance. It is by favour, I assure you, monsieur, that you are not conducted there, or to the guard-house of the district—which, of course, was impossible in the case of mesdames your companions.” The affable sergeant of police bowed towards the ladies. “At the auberge here, however, of the Fleur-de-lis, they will enjoy very superior accommodation with M. Grostète, who is the landlord. He is even an artist; the ménage, too, of madame the hostess is admirable.”
With regard to the prolongation of the dilemma, the village mob found an evident luxury in it, appearing to balance oddly enough between the wildest rage and looks of murmured interest; as if, the more struck they were with the youth’s blunt, spirited manner, the mother’s obvious distress, and the young lady’s pale, startled air, through her veil and out of her simple straw-hat, with her governess’s ill-maintained fastidiousness, the more unwilling the whole audience grew to lose hold of these, but would fain have been wrought up to extract something more tragic by way of sequel. The young man who had been the occasion of all, first relieved the party from their difficulty: Morin had fixed his light-blue eyes on the ground, and raised them thoughtfully as he moved forward to the chief gendarme.