A Courier of Fortune by Arthur W. Marchmont - HTML preview

CHAPTER XXX
 THE TROOPS MARCH

THE week that followed was a wild one indeed for Morvaix, and the citizens, freed suddenly from the blighting curse of the Tiger’s rule, gave themselves up, all classes alike, to a carnival of revelry and rejoicing.

The news of the strange occurrences which had culminated in the Governor’s death was carried far and wide through the city the same night by the liberated prisoners, who streamed out of the Castle in a gay throng, laughing and jesting, straining their throats with shouts and cheers for Gerard and Gabrielle, Bourbon and Malincourt, and jostling and shouldering one another in the mad race to be first to tell the glad tidings.

A garbled and distorted tale it was they told in describing the scene, the true meaning of which, although they had witnessed it, they could but imperfectly understand. But the main fact spoke for itself. The Tyrant was dead—had died by his own hand, rather than face the anger of the Great Bourbon who had brought an army to punish him and save the city.

They had seen this with their own eyes, and with their own ears had heard the words with which Gerard had afterwards dismissed them, promising solemnly good government for the future, relief from the grinding taxation and redress for their long suffered wrongs. And the whole livelong night was spent in rejoicing.

The morrow found the great news confirmed. A proclamation was issued from the Castle announcing that the Duc de Rochelle was dead, and that Gerard de Bourbon would act for the time as Governor, and this was followed by Gerard’s first decree as Governor, repealing some of the Tyrant’s ordinances, and detailing a number of measures to be taken immediately for the relief of the poorer citizens.

Nor was this all. The leading burghers were summoned to the Castle and informed of the forthcoming alliance between the Houses of Bourbon and Malincourt through the marriage of Gerard and Gabrielle; and told that Gerard hoped to remain permanently in Morvaix as the Governor of the Province. The burghers were also requested to take urgent counsel together as to the best means to be adopted to restore the impaired trade and fortunes of the city; and were thus sent on their way rejoicing with lighter hearts than they had known for many a long year.

A few days wrought wonders in changing the look of the little city and the demeanour of the people, who had many a substantial proof of the spirit of the new rule; and before the week was out it was known that couriers had passed between Morvaix and the Duke de Bourbon and that they had brought back from the Suzerain confirmation of Gerard’s appointment as the new Governor.

A crowd of smiling men and women were gathered in the market place cheering and rejoicing over this fresh good news, when two horsemen came riding from the Castle toward the south gate. They were de Proballe and Jacques Dauban; and of all the great throng their faces alone were dark and gloomy. Gerard had held de Proballe a close prisoner, intending to punish him severely; but at Gabrielle’s intercession had released him, on condition that he and Dauban left the city never to return to it.

“We are so happy, let us forgive,” she had pleaded; and herself had provided her uncle with a sum of money. But Pascal had not forgiven Dauban, and learning when he and his master were to be released, had whispered a word to Babillon which had results.

As the two men reached the farther end of the market place, where it narrowed into the street leading to the city gate, they found the press of people so great that no more than a walking pace was possible; and just at that moment they were recognized. Cries and hooting, coarse jests and gibes, took the place of smiles and cheers; clenched fists were raised in menace, as the people closed round the horses, rough hands being laid on the bridles.

De Proballe scowled in anger, and when one man seized the bridle of his horse and jeered at him to his face, he was foolhardy enough in his rage to raise his whip and strike the man across the mouth.

It was the spark to the tinder, and the flame burst out directly. In a moment he and Dauban were torn from their horses and jostled and shouldered and thrust from hand to hand, in the midst of a rough but not over ill-tempered crowd.

Babillon was close at hand, and himself raised the cry of “No violence on such a day as this. No violence.” And the cry was caught up by the people, and followed by bursts of thunderous jeering laughter at the sour looks and angry faces of the two men. It was rough jesting, however; and just when the people were tiring of it and the pair were getting back to their horses, a cry was raised by some one of “The pond, the pond;” and this, too, swelled into a roar.

Dauban was seized first by half a dozen stalwart fellows, and, writhing, struggling and kicking in futile resistance, was borne along and tossed into the middle of the pond which was near. He emerged a minute later, a shivering, soaked, half-drowned and all-bedraggled figure to be greeted, as he shook himself and stood squeezing the dirty water from his clothes, with such a roar of raucous laughter as might have been heard through half the city.

De Proballe’s turn came next; and despite his angry, vehement protests, he was seized in the same manner, and carried, fighting and screaming out impotent threats and curses, in the direction of the pond.

But before his ruthless captors reached the pond, an interruption came. Gerard and Gabrielle, with some others in attendance, had been riding, and were returning, when their attention was attracted by the sounds of the disturbance, and they came in full view of the proceedings just when Dauban stood shivering after his ducking and the crowd had seized upon de Proballe.

Gerard was for letting the thing be settled by the people, but Gabrielle would not, and with a touch of the spur, put her horse in the way.

Her appearance was the signal for a rousing cheer, and as soon as she could be heard, she said to those about her—

“You do not best show yourselves my friends in this. If you will please me, you will let M. de Proballe free. If I have forgiven him, cannot you?”

A shout of assent was the answer; and in a moment he was set at liberty; the two horses were brought up, and he and Dauban mounted, a wild burst of laughter at the figure which Dauban made being mingled in the cheers for Gabrielle and Malincourt.

De Proballe said not a word of thanks, and would not even look at Gabrielle; and as he passed close to Gerard it was with a scowl and an oath. Then he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode out of the city and into the open country, closely followed by Dauban, who kept glancing timorously over his shoulder in fear of yet further trouble.

“I would not have had either of them hurt,” said Gabrielle, when Gerard joined her and they resumed the ride to the maison.

“A kindliness worthy of your gentle heart, Gabrielle. But I am differently cast, I fear. It would not have hurt him. He has stirred much dirty water in Morvaix, and if he had had to carry away a little of a different kind in his mouth and on his clothes it would have served him right. But he has had a good fright, and that’s something; and if you are glad no worse has chanced to him, why I am glad also. I would rather he had a dry skin than you be displeased.”

“It is best as it is, Gerard, although—it would have served him right;” and she laughed and added: “I could almost have wished we had not ridden up in time.”

“Nay, it gave the people a chance of seeing more evidence of your sweet nature, Gabrielle. How they cheered you! ’Twas a good-humoured crowd, too.”

“You have changed the temper of the people almost as if by the wave of a wizard’s wand.”

“Not I. ’Twas you they cheered. They know whom to thank. Your popularity is so great that you set me a difficult task to rival it.”

“How different from that angry sullen mob that faced the soldiers when we first met—and but little more than a week ago.” And in this easy happy fashion they chatted until Malincourt was reached.

On the terrace they found Lucette and Denys, now fast on the road to recovery, in converse with Dubois.

“I was chiding Captain Dubois for leaving us, Gabrielle,” cried Lucette smiling. “But he has an iron will—shot-proof against any arguments.”

“I wish you could persuade him to remain, Lucette,” said Gerard. “I have tried to bribe him with the offer of the command of the troops here, but he is, as you say, iron, and insists on leaving to-morrow with d’Alembert.”

“I am a soldier, mademoiselle,” answered Dubois, “and there is news of some fighting yet to be done. My place is with Bourbon’s army.”

“Ours will be a Bourbon army, too, friend.”

“I beg you, my lord, urge me no more. I have arranged the matters on which we spoke. The mercenaries who were in the late Governor’s troops have for the most part been enrolled in the companies that march to-morrow, and so many of the Bourbon men as you desired have taken their places. But your force will be chiefly Morvaix men—a sort of citizens’ army; and to command such a force is no more to my liking than it is fitted to my powers. I should but cause you infinite trouble by being constantly at loggerheads with your burghers.”

“You take them too seriously, captain. They are worthy men,” said Gabrielle.

“As men most worthy, doubtless, mademoiselle; as talkers, unsurpassed in France, I think; but I am a plain soldier.”

“I should like details of your arrangements now they are completed, Dubois. Come into the house and give them to me. Denys may well assist at the conference, for he will now be high in my esteem and confidence. Come, Denys—if Lucette will spare you to me.”

Denys flushed with pleasure, and Lucette smiled.

“What a wonderful change in everything, Gabrielle,” she exclaimed when the three men had left them. “How happy you look. And what a little cheat you were.”

“I? When?”

“Innocent! Why the day after M. Gerard met you in the market place. When you said that if for a moment you had swerved from thoughts of duty, a night’s reflection had sobered you. Sobered you! Intoxicated you, you should have said.”

“I did not know that Gerard was——” Lucette broke in with a merry laugh, and Gabrielle blushed.

“Was Gerard de Cobalt? Nor was he. But do you remember my words, when you were such a philosopher about the plagues of love? I told you you would learn to know it all some day. Oh, Gabrielle, what a lecture I might read you now! You cannot find him near you without a dozen tremors and a fleeting tide of colour in your face and light in your eyes; and when he is not by your side, how restless is Gabrielle, with glances here and glances there, listening for his footstep or his voice, and impatience, oh, such impatience, at all that keeps him from you.”

“If I plead guilty, has the court no mercy for me?”

“My dearest, I love you for it. But I told you how it would be; and God knows neither you nor I would have it otherwise. Ah, here is M. Pascal,” she said as he came round the house.

“Mademoiselle, I have hastened from the city to crave your pardon,” he said to Gabrielle.

“You are already assured of it, monsieur, for I know the offence will be but a trifle.”

“You must not trust all men, Gabrielle,” put in Lucette briskly.

“Yet unwittingly I may have offended. It was I who instigated the baiting of M. de Proballe and the scurvy knave he calls his secretary. I knew when he would leave, and set on Babillon to frighten him. I have heard it was against your wish, and would not have you blame your citizens for the act of a rough Bourbon soldier.”

“What happened to them?” asked Lucette. And when Pascal told her of Dauban’s treatment, she laughed and clapped her hands.

“May I tack a condition to my pardon, monsieur?” asked Gabrielle, smiling.

“Were I one of your cautious burghers, I would urge that the condition be first specified.”

“It is that you do not leave with the Bourbon forces to-morrow, but remain to be a friend and help to us all.”

“Then I pray you undo the tacking. Remember how sad a place Morvaix must ever be in my memory.”

“Sad?” exclaimed Lucette. “Monsieur!”

“I mean because of my many bereavements here.”

“Bereavements, monsieur?” said Gabrielle, with a frown of perplexity.

“Bereavements truly; what else? ’Twas here in Morvaix I lost my wife, after a union of but a few minutes; and after that my newly betrothed was snatched from me by inexorable fate.”

They both laughed, and Lucette said—

“Then you are desolate?”

“In truth could I be otherwise? I am always, and in earnest what Gerard was in masquerade for a few hours—a courier of fortune; and without the hope that the fortune I chased may prove as charming and delightful.”

“I would you could have stayed, monsieur; and I thank you for your pretty compliments,” said Gabrielle, smiling and blushing.

“You go to Paris, monsieur, I understand,” said Lucette. “Doubtless there you will find consolation.”

“In Paris there may be distractions, even if not consolation,” he answered gaily.

“Try to persuade him to remain, Lucette,” said Gabrielle, going into the house.

“Why will you not remain, M. Pascal?” asked Lucette half nervously and more seriously than usual with her.

“Is not the answer there, with her, Lucette, and here perhaps with you?” He spoke lightly, but his eyes were serious.

“I am not sure that I understand you.”

“And I am sure there is no need that you should. They will be a happy pair, I hope with all my heart; as I hope indeed that you will be happy with M. St. Jean—a prince of worthy fellows—even if a trifle disposed to jealousy. I have had much talk with him in the last few days.”

She was silent a moment turning over a ring on her finger.

“I hope you will be happy also.” Her voice was soft and low and trembled slightly.

“I am a soldier and love my colours. I have health and strength, a sound body and a modicum of wits, trust in myself and strong hope, and kindly memories to carry with me from Morvaix. Why should I not be happy?”

“Despite your bereavements?” And she smiled.

“Or perhaps because of them, Lucette.”

“A double-edged sentence that, surely.”

“And therefore best suited to the thought behind it.”

She lifted her eyes and looked at him searchingly, and he met the look with an easy smile.

“I wonder what you mean?” she said, so earnestly that her tone was almost sad.

“Your wonder is not greater than my own,” he laughed.

“In our worst troubles recently you laughed. You have a laugh for everything.”

“The finest mask with which Nature ever fitted man or woman is a laugh, Lucette. Yes, I can laugh at my own follies and wishes and troubles and—aye, even at my own bereavements.”

The gaiety of his tone was just as bright and free; and he continued to smile when Lucette again looked at him earnestly.

“Is that smile a mask, too? I would gladly know what is behind it,” she said.

“I think I myself shall know better when, say, there are twenty leagues between Morvaix and me.”

They stood looking one at the other a moment, and then Denys came out and joined them.

“Come to my rescue, Denys,” cried Pascal gaily. “Here is Madame Burgher trying to cross-examine me.”

“Aye, come and take a lesson in word fencing, Denys,” said Lucette.

“You may need many lessons when you fence with Lucette, my good friend.”

“I know it,” replied Denys with a smile, as he slipped his arm into hers and glanced at her.

“They would keep me in Morvaix,” laughed Pascal.

“And not they alone, Pascal. Do you know, Lucette, I have tried by the hour to persuade him to stay. But he tells me there are—shall I say it?” and he looked at Pascal, who shrugged his shoulders. “There are a woman’s eyes calling him away.”

“Warning me away, was what I said, friend.”

“’Tis the same thing,” declared Denys.

“Maybe; but ’twas the term I used. I think I have learnt to read more warnings than beckonings in women’s eyes. But ’tis the same in the end.”

Lucette watched him steadily as he spoke, and then surprised Denys by saying very seriously, and with something very much like a sigh—

“If that be the reason, it is well that you go, Pascal.”

“What, have you changed sides, Lucette?” cried Denys, rallying her.

“’Tis a woman’s way, Denys, and ever will be,” laughed Pascal.

“Wherever you go, Pascal, I wish you Godspeed with all my heart,” said Lucette in the same earnest, almost strenuous tone; and gave him her hand, which he carried to his lips.

“Denys will not mind that, at any rate,” he said.

Lucette shivered.

“Take me in, Denys, I am chilled,” she said; and without saying more or looking again at Pascal, she hurried in.

“’Tis a woman’s way, Denys, only and always a woman’s way,” he said, as Denys lingered a moment and then hurried after her.

Pascal watched them with a smile until they had gone, and then turned grave, nodded once or twice, smiled again, and again was grave, until, with a shrug of the shoulders, he turned and swung away.

The next morning all was bustle and commotion at the Castle, for the Bourbon troops were marching out. Gerard and Gabrielle and all from Malincourt were there to bid them farewell. They stood together, the centre of a large group, watching them start, and Lucette and Denys were a little apart from the rest.

Dubois, taciturn and quiet as usual, was busy seeing that everything was in due order; and Pascal, activity itself, moved gaily here, there and everywhere in the ranks, with eyes for everything and everybody, laughing and jesting in uncontrollable spirits.

His company was the last to start, and all his soldiers, although many of them were leaving behind friends in Morvaix and breaking pleasant associations, seemed to take the infection of their leader’s gaiety, and faced the parting with laughs and jokes and pleasantry.

The merriest and most cheerful of all the companies was Pascal’s, and he himself the merriest and most cheerful of them, as they saluted Gerard and cheered Gabrielle and then marched away with sturdy, stalwart stride.

Pascal waited to mount his horse until almost the last ranks were on the move.

“What spirits he has,” exclaimed Denys to Lucette as they stood watching the men. “I am sorry he is going.”

But Lucette was silent.

The last rank passed, and then Pascal, turning in the saddle, waved his hand and smiled. His eyes rested for a moment on Lucette’s, at least so it seemed to her; and she raised her kerchief and waved back to him just as he touched his horse and moved after his men.

She continued to wave and to stare after him, but he did not look back until, quite in the distance, he turned and again, as she thought, looked at her; and again she answered, waving to him.

He did not look back any more, and when, the last sign of the troops having disappeared and she was still staring after them, Denys touched her arm, she started almost as one awakened from a dream.

“I am glad he has gone,” she said, sighing; and then Denys saw that her eyes were dimmed with tears.

“Tears? Lucette?” he cried.

“It strains one’s eyes to stare so long. Give me your arm, Denys dear, and be patient with me to-day. I—I—oh, Denys dearest, I am so glad you are well again,” and she walked away clinging closely to his side.

And Denys, not understanding this mood of hers, was almost as much perplexed by her humour as he was delighted by her tenderness.

THE END.