Robert Tournay: A Romance of the French Revolution

  Produced by Bethanne M. Simms, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  ROBERT TOURNAY

  A Romance of the French Revolution

  BY WILLIAM SAGE

  _WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ERIC PAPE AND MARY AYER_

  BOSTON AND NEW YORK

  HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

  The Riverside Press, Cambridge 1900

  COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY WILLIAM SAGE

  AND HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  TO MY MOTHER TO WHOM I OWE EVERYTHING I LOVINGLY DEDICATE THIS STORY.

  "A CHEER FOR THE GODDESS OF LIBERTY"]

  CONTENTS

  I. HOW TOURNAY CAME TO PARIS

  II. A LITTLE BREAKFAST AT ST. HILAIRE'S

  III. THE BAKER AND HIS FAMILY

  IV. THE "BON PATRIOT"

  V. A BROKEN DOOR

  VI. A MAN AND A MARQUIS

  VII. GAILLARD GOES ON A JOURNEY

  VIII. PERE LOUCHET'S GUESTS

  IX. PRISON BOAT NUMBER FOUR

  X. OVER THE FRONTIER

  XI. UNDER WHICH FLAG?

  XII. THE FOUR COMMISSIONERS

  XIII. THE SWORD OF ROCROY

  XIV. SOMETHING HIDDEN

  XV. THE PRESIDENT'S NOTE

  XVI. BENEATH THE MASK

  XVII. PIERRE AND JEAN

  XVIII. THE LUXEMBOURG

  XIX. TAPPEUR AND PETITSOU

  XX. UNCLE MICHELET

  XXI. CITIZENESS PRIVAT

  XXII. CITIZENESS PRIVAT'S CARD

  XXIII. TOURNAY'S VISITOR

  XXIV. TWO WOMEN

  XXV. NO. 7 RUE D'ARCIS

  XXVI. THE END OF THE TERROR

  LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

  "A CHEER FOR THE GODDESS OF LIBERTY"

  DE LACHEVILLE FACING A YOUNG WOMAN

  "STOP!" CRIED TOURNAY

  ADJUSTED THE NECKCLOTH TO HIS SATISFACTION

  "WOULD YOU MURDER ME?"

  A MOMENT THEY STOOD IN SILENCE

  ROBERT TOURNAY

  CHAPTER I

  HOW TOURNAY CAME TO PARIS

  The Marquis de Lacheville sat in the dining-hall of the chateau deRochefort. In his hand he held a letter. Although it was from a woman,the writing was not in those delicately traced characters which suggestthe soft hand of some lady of fashion. The note-paper was scented, butthe perfume, like the color, was too pronounced; and the spelling,possibly like the lady's character, was not absolutely flawless.

  A smile played about the cold thin lips of the marquis; he carelesslythrust the missive into his pocket, as one disposes of a bill he doesnot intend to pay, and lifting his eyes, allowed his gaze to wanderthrough the open window toward the figure of a young girl who stoodoutside upon the terrace.

  She was watching a game of tennis in the court below, now and thenconversing with the players, whose voices in return reached deLacheville's ears on the quiet summer air.

  A few minutes before in that dining-hall the Baron de Rochefort hadbetrothed his daughter Edme to his friend and distant kinsman, Mauricede Lacheville. In the eyes of the world it was a suitable match. Themarquis was twenty-five, the girl eighteen. She was an only child; andtheir rank and fortunes were equal.

  They did not love each other. The marquis loved no one but himself.Mademoiselle had been brought up to consider all men very much alike.She might possibly have had some slight preference for the Marquis deSt. Hilaire, who was now playing tennis in the court beneath; but it waswell known that he was dissipating his fortune at the gaming-table.Mademoiselle did not lack strength of will; but, her heart not beinginvolved, she allowed her father to make the choice for her, as was thecustom of the time.

  De Lacheville continued sitting at the table, now lookingdispassionately at the woman who was to become his wife, now lookingbeyond toward the wide sweep of park and meadow land, while hecalculated how much longer his cousin, the baron, would live to enjoypossession of his great wealth.

  What the young girl thought is merely a matter of conjecture. She was asfresh and sweet as the pink rose which she plucked from the trellis andgayly tossed to the marquis below. He caught it gracefully and put it tohis lips--while she laughed merrily with never a thought for the marquiswithin.

  Near the tennis court stood another man. He was tall and well-made,with dark eyes and a sun-browned face. Beyond furnishing new balls andrackets when required, he took no part in the game, for he was the sonof the intendant of the chateau and therefore a servant.

  He watched the rose which the lady so carelessly tossed, with hungryeyes, as a dog watches a bone given to some well-fed and happier rival.At the call from one of the players he replaced a broken racket, thentook up his former post, apparently intent upon the game, but in realityhis mind was far afield.

  It was in the early summer days of the year 1789. Looking out over thebaron's noble estates through the eyes of a girl like mademoiselle, theworld was very beautiful. Glancing at it through the careless eyes ofthe prodigal St. Hilaire, it seemed very pleasing; but in spite of thesewaving crops, and wealthy vineyards, in spite of the plenty in thebaron's household and the rich wines in his cellar, throughout Francethere were many who had not enough to eat. Men, and women too, werecrying out for their share of the world's riches.

  A new wave of thought was sweeping over France. A thought as old as thehills, yet startlingly new to each man as he discovered it. Books werebeing written and words spoken which were soon to cause great politicalchanges in a land already seething with discontent. Change and Progressat last were in the saddle, and they were riding fast. As the carelessnoblemen batted their tennis balls back and forth, thinking only oftheir game; as the young girl leaned over the rose-covered terrace,thinking of the sunlight, the flowers, and the beauty of life, RobertTournay, the intendant's son, pondered deeply on the "rights of man"while he ran after the tennis balls for those who played the game.

  As if wearied by the contemplation of his prospective married bliss,Monsieur de Lacheville yawned, arose from his seat and strolledleisurely from the room, descended the staircase and came out into thepark in the rear of the chateau, unobserved by the tennis players. Thenote in his pocket called him to a rendezvous; and the marquis, aftersome deliberation, had decided to keep it. Once in the wooded park andout of sight of the house, he quickened his pace to a brisk walk;proceeding thus for half a mile he suddenly left the driveway andplunging through the thick foliage by a path which to the casual eye wasbarely visible, came out into a shady and unfrequented alley.

  A few minutes after de Lacheville's disappearance into the woods, theother noblemen, wearied of their sport, retired into the house forrefreshment.

  This left young Tournay free for the time being, and he availed himselfof the opportunity to go down toward a pasture beyond the park wheresome young horses were running wild, innocent of bit or bridle. It wasTournay's intention to break one of these colts for Mademoiselle deRochefort. She was a fearless rider, and it gave the young man pleasureto be commissioned to pick out an animal at once gentle and mettlesomefor the use of his young mistress.

  The Tournays, from father to son, had been for generations theintendants of the de Rochefort estate. With the baron's permissionMatthieu Tournay had sent his son away to school, and he had thusreceived a better education than most young men of his class. He was ofan ambitious temper, and this very education, instead of making him morecontented with his lot in life, increased his restlessness. It onlyserved to show him more clearly the line that separated him from thoseh
e served. In his own mind he had never defined his feeling forMademoiselle de Rochefort. He only knew that it gave him great pleasureto serve her; and yet, as he did her bidding, he felt a pang thatbetween them was the gulf of caste; that even when she smiled upon himit was merely the favored servant whom she greeted; that although hemight be as well educated as the Count de Blois, a better horseman thanSt. Hilaire, and a better man than de Lacheville, _they_ could enter asequals into the presence of this divine being, while such as he mustalways take his place below the salt.

  It was with such thoughts as these revolving in his brain that theintendant's son walked through the woods of the park. He followed nopath, for he knew each tree and twig from childhood. Suddenly he wasinterrupted in his reverie by the sound of voices, and stopping short,recognized the voice of the Marquis de Lacheville in conversation witha woman. Tournay hesitated, then went forward cautiously in thedirection whence the sound came. Had he been born a gentleman he wouldhave chosen another way; or at least would have advanced noisily.Indeed, such had been his first impulse,--but a much stronger interestthan curiosity impelled him forward; and drawing near, he looked througha gap in the hedge.

  On the other side stood de Lacheville facing a young woman. Her cheekswere flushed, and the manner in which she toyed with a riding-whipshowed that the discussion had been heated. Although she was handsomelydressed in a riding-habit and assumed some of the airs of a lady,Tournay recognized her at once as a young girl who had disappeared somemonths before from the village of La Thierry, and whose handsome faceand vivacious manner had caused her to be much admired. Near her stoodthe nobleman, calm and self-composed. Before men, de Lacheville had beenknown to flinch; but with a woman of the humbler class the marquis couldalways play the master.

  "And now, Marianne," said the nobleman slowly, "you had better go,--anddo not make the mistake of coming here again."

  Although she had evidently been worsted in the argument, a defiant lookflashed in her dark eyes as she answered him: "If I believe you speakthe truth I shall not come here again."

  DE LACHEVILLE FACING A YOUNG WOMAN]

  "Of course I speak the truth," replied de Lacheville lightly. "I shallmarry Mademoiselle de Rochefort"--

  The young woman winced, but she did not speak.

  De Lacheville went on slowly as if he enjoyed the situation--"In a yearor two--I am in no hurry. She is very beautiful"--here he pausedagain--"but I prefer your style of beauty, Marianne; I prefer yourvivacity, your life, your fire; I like to see you angry. My engagementto Mademoiselle de Rochefort need make no difference in my regard foryou. That depends upon yourself." Here the marquis stepped forward andkissed her on the lips.

  Tournay controlled himself by a great effort, his heart swelling withthe resentment of a man who hears that which he holds sacred insulted byanother. And this man who held Mademoiselle de Rochefort in such slightesteem was to be her husband.

  "And now, Marianne," said the nobleman, "you must ride away as youcame," and suiting the action to the words he swung her into the saddle.She was docile now and gathered up the reins obediently. "And,Marianne," continued the nobleman, "never write letters to me. I amrather fastidious and do not want my illusions dispelled too soon.Good-by, my child."

  She flushed as he spoke, and a retort seemed about to spring to herlips; but instead of replying she shrugged her shoulders, gave a sharpcut of the whip to the horse, and rode off down the pathway.

  De Lacheville laughed. "She has spirit to the last. She pleases me;" andturning, beheld Robert Tournay in the path before him.

  For a moment neither spoke; then the nobleman asked sternly, "Have youbeen spying upon me?"

  "I have heard what has passed between you and that woman," repliedTournay with a significance that made the marquis start.

  "You villain," replied the nobleman hotly, "if you breathe a word aboutwhat you have seen I will have you whipped by my lackeys."

  Tournay's lips curled defiantly.

  "Or," continued the marquis, "if one word of scandal reaches the ears ofMademoiselle de Rochefort"--

  Before the words had left his lips, Tournay sprang forward and had himby the arm.

  "Do not stain her name by speaking it," he cried fiercely. "I have heardyou insult her; I have seen how you would dishonor her; you, who are notworthy to touch the hem of her garment. What right have you to becomeher husband? Your very presence would degrade her. You shall not wedher."

  White with rage, if not from fear, the marquis struggled to free himselffrom Tournay's grasp, but he could neither throw off his antagonist normove his arm enough to draw his sword. Finding himself powerless in thehands of the stronger man, he remained passive, only the twitching ofhis mouth betraying his passion.

  "And you would prevent my marriage," he said coldly. "So be it. Go tothe baron; tell your story. Go also to mademoiselle, his daughter;repeat the scandal to her ears; say, 'I am your champion;' and how willthey receive you? The baron will have you kicked from the room andmademoiselle will scorn you. Championed by a servant! What an honor fora lady!"

  The truth of what he said struck Tournay harder than any blow; his armsdropped to his side, and he stepped back, as if powerless.

  The marquis arranged the lace ruffle about his neck. Placing his handupon his sword he eyed Tournay as if debating what course to pursue. Hesmarted under the treatment he had received, and his eyes glitteredviciously as if he meditated some prompt reprisal. But above all themarquis was politic, and he also knew that in his biting tongue hepossessed a weapon keener than a sword.

  He stooped and plucked a flower from the border of the path, and as hespoke a sarcastic smile played mockingly about his lips.

  "I shall marry mademoiselle," he began, slowly dwelling on each word,while he plucked the petals from the flower, and tossed them, one byone, into the air. The gesture was a careless one, but there was avicious cruelty about his fingers as he tore the flower. "And you,"continued the marquis,--"you, who one might think had dared to raiseyour eyes toward the lady's face"--

  Tournay stood dumb before his inquisitor. His heart raged and he writhedas if under the lash, but still he stood passive and suffering.

  "And you shall be our servant," ended the nobleman, with a laugh,turning and walking haughtily up the path, but with his hand still onhis sword-hilt lest he should be again taken by surprise.

  As the heels of the marquis crunched the gravel-walk Tournay felt thetruth of each word that he had spoken borne in upon his mind withoverwhelming force. It was not fear of the marquis's sword that had kepthim silent. It was the hopelessness of his own position. What right hadhe to speak? And who would listen to him?

  Silently the young man slipped into the forest as if to seek consolationfrom the great murmuring trees. As he walked slowly beneath their greenarches as under some cathedral roof, a quiet strength came to his soul.He seemed to feel that the day would come when his voice would be heardand listened to. Until then he must bide his time; and in this frame ofmind he went back to the chateau.

  When Tournay reached the house he was greeted by an order from thebaron. The tracks of a boar had been recently discovered in the forestby one of the gamekeepers, and the intendant's son, who was himself akeen huntsman, was directed to escort the party of gentlemen through thewoods to a glade where the animal was supposed to have his lair.

  After he had collected the guns and ammunition, called up the dogs andordered the grooms to bring round the horses, Tournay went to the frontof the chateau to await the pleasure of the young gentlemen who intendedparticipating in the hunt.

  There were half a dozen of them standing under the porte-cochere, andTournay disliked them all in greater or less degree; excepting perhapsthe Marquis de St. Hilaire. St. Hilaire was the eldest of the group, thetallest and the handsomest. He rarely addressed any remark to Tournay,but when he did, it was with perfect politeness. When the Marquis de St.Hilaire rode his horse he did it with a grace none could surpass; whenhe shot, he hit the mark. He had the reputati
on of being one of the mostdissipated young noblemen in the kingdom. He certainly spent money morelavishly than the most prodigal. This reputation was at once the envyand admiration of a host of young followers; and yet if asked, no onecould mention any particular debauchery of which he had been guilty.When his companions, under the excitement of wine, committed extravagantfollies and excesses, St. Hilaire, although by no means sparing of thewinecup, maintained a certain dignity essentially his own. At thegaming-table it was always the Marquis de St. Hilaire who played thehighest. He won a fortune or lost an estate with the same calm andoutward indifference. On every occasion he was the cool, polishedgentleman.

  As Tournay approached the group of noblemen, the Marquis de Lacheville,determined to keep him in a state of submission, greeted him with anarrogant rebuke.

  "You have kept us waiting a pretty length of time."

  "I only received notice of your intended hunt a short time ago, andvarious preparations had to be made," was the rejoinder.

  "Make no excuses," continued the marquis,--"you always have plenty ofthose upon the end of your tongue."

  Tournay bit his lip to keep from replying.

  "Whose horse is that?" called out the marquis a moment later, pointingout one of the animals among the number which were being led up by thegrooms.

  "My own, monsieur le marquis--a present from the baron."

  "Well, it is by all odds the best one among them; I will ride it." Andthe marquis swung himself into the saddle without waiting for a reply.

  Tournay made no audible reply, but the color deepened on his cheek, ashe quietly took another horse.

  "We shall never see that boar if we delay much longer," called out St.Hilaire, who was long since in the saddle. "Are you ready, gentlemen?"

  With one accord they all started down the avenue at a swift gallop;Tournay following a short distance behind them.

  For a mile or so they swept along the parkway until they arrived at thegate which led into the wood. De Lacheville had been correct in hisjudgment of the horse, and was the first to reach the gate. This seemedto make him good-natured for the time being; and as they canteredthrough the forest he allowed Tournay, who was best acquainted with theground, to ride in advance.

  On approaching the entrance to the glade, the party dismounted and thehorses were fastened to the trees. The Counts d'Arlincourt and de Bloiswent to the right; the Marquis de St. Hilaire to the left; Tournay tooktwo dogs and went toward the northern end; while de Lacheville remainednear the entrance.

  It was arranged that Tournay with the dogs should rout the animal fromits lair in the upper end of the dale, and, the thicket beingsurrounded, one of the gentlemen would be sure to bring it down with ashot as it ran out.

  Tournay had not gone half the distance when he heard a noise in theunderbrush, and looking in the direction whence it came, saw the boarmaking its way leisurely down the glade, snuffing from time to time atthe roots of trees for acorns.

  Tournay tried to work down ahead of the animal and drive him off to hisright in the direction of the Marquis St. Hilaire, as he was the bestshot in the company, and with a sportsman's instinct Tournay wanted togive him the opportunity to win the tusks. One of the dogs, however,upset this plan by slipping the leash and bounding off in the directionof the boar; that animal took the alarm at once and started on a rundown the glade with Tournay and the two dogs after him in full pursuit.

  "The Marquis de Lacheville will be the one to shoot him," thoughtTournay bitterly.

  The boar, plunging through a thicket, made straight for the spot wherethe horses had been tied, and where the Marquis de Lacheville had takenup his position.

  "Why does he not fire?" was Tournay's mental inquiry as he followed thetrail at full speed, with ear alert in the momentary expectation ofhearing the sound of a gun. "Can it be that the marquis is going to riskattacking him with the knife?" And he dashed into the thicket,regardless of the brushwood and briars that impeded his progress, tocome out on the other side, leaving a portion of his hunting blouse inthe grasp of a too-persistent bramble.

  Here he beheld so ludicrous a sight that it would have moved him tomerriment, had it not overcome him with wonder. The marquis laysprawling on the grass, his eyes rolling with terror and his loaded gunlying harmlessly by his side. The horses were straining at the tethersand neighing with fright, while in the wood beyond, the boar wasdisappearing from sight with the dogs upon his haunches.

  As Tournay approached, the marquis struggled to his feet. For a momenthe stood silent and then said gruffly:--

  "The brute sprang through the bushes before I expected him; my footslipped and I fell, so he got by me."

  In the instant it flashed through Tournay's mind that the marquis hadfallen in trying to avoid the boar. He received the explanation insilence, his face clearly betraying his suspicion.

  The marquis eyed him savagely. "Where are the others?" he demanded.

  "They have evidently missed all the sport," was the curt rejoinder.

  The marquis scowled, but his anxiety to conceal the mishap from hiscompanions led him to overlook the ring of sarcasm in Tournay's voice.

  "Did they hear or see the boar?" he inquired.

  "I fear not. The animal started too near the centre of the glade, andluckily for him made straight for you."

  "We have not seen him, either," was the cool rejoinder.

  "But I saw him," exclaimed Tournay with open-eyed astonishment.

  "Up in the thicket beyond? Possibly," admitted the marquis, who had nowregained his self-possession and had resolved to put the best possibleface on the matter.

  "No! Right here in the open, as he ran into that clump of beeches."

  "You are mistaken. I did not see him," the marquis insisted, approachinghis horse and untethering him.

  "Monsieur le marquis was possibly not looking in the right direction."

  De Lacheville mounted his horse. He bent down from the saddle, sayingfiercely, "Twice this day you have ventured to oppose me. Have a care!You will rue the hour when you dispute any statement of mine."

  Tournay looked up at him defiantly, and with a significance too deep tobe misconstrued, said: "I will not lie at your bidding, Monsieur deLacheville."

  "You insolent villain!" and the marquis' whip fell viciously across thedefiant brow. The next instant the nobleman was dragged from the saddleand his riderless horse galloped off through the woods.

  For a moment the two men stood looking at each other.

  Tournay was the first to speak: "You will fight me for that blow,Monsieur de Lacheville."

  The marquis gave a harsh laugh: "We do not fight lackeys--we whip them."

  "We are alone, and man to man you shall fight me with my weapons,monsieur le Marquis." Tournay spoke with a certain air of dignity andwith a suppressed fierceness that made the marquis draw back; yet suchwas the nobleman's contempt for the man of humble birth that he made noresponse beyond flicking the whip which he still retained in his hand,and looking at him disdainfully.

  "You have a hunting-knife at your side; arm yourself," commanded Tournaysternly, at the same time drawing from beneath his hunting-blouse along, keen blade.

  The marquis turned pale. "I do not fight with such a weapon," hefaltered, looking about him as if in hopes of succor from his friends.

  "Then for once the low-born has the advantage," replied Tournaypitilessly, "and unless Heaven intervenes, I shall kill you for thatblow."

  The blow itself was forgotten even as he spoke, and he felt a fierce joyas he whispered to himself, "If heaven so wills it, you shall nevermarry her, Marquis de Lacheville."

  There was no fire of revenge in his eyes as he advanced, but the marquissaw the light that burned there and, realizing his pressing danger, drewhis own hunting-knife.

  There was a thrust and parry. Tournay closed in upon him, and thenobleman fell backward with a groan.

  The next instant Tournay threw aside the knife and stood looking withawe upon the prostrate body. The bushe
s behind him parted with a rustleand he looked over his shoulder to see the Marquis de St. Hilairestanding by him.

  "What's the matter?" inquired the latter sternly. "Has the marquisinjured himself?"

  "He struck me," exclaimed Tournay, his face, except for a bright redline across the brow, deadly pale. "And I--I have killed him."

  St. Hilaire stooped down and undid the marquis's waistcoat, Tournaygiving way to him. "He's not dead," said St. Hilaire, after a shortexamination. "Your blade struck the rib. He is not even fatally hurt,but has fainted."

  Tournay stood passive and silent.

  St. Hilaire rose to his feet and proceeded to cut some strips from hisown shirt to make a bandage for de Lacheville's wound.

  "As far as you are concerned, you might as well have killed him," hesaid as he bound up the wound. "The penalty is the same."

  "I'm not afraid of the penalty."

  "Young man," said St. Hilaire, busying himself over the wound, "mountthat horse of yours and ride away from this part of the country as fastas you can. I shall not see you."

  "I'm not a coward to run away."

  "Don't be a fool and stay," replied St. Hilaire sharply, without lookingup from his occupation. "You have acted as I would have done had I beenin your place, but I should not stay afterward with all the odds againstme. Come, you have only a minute to decide. I'll see the marquis has theproper care."

  In another minute Robert Tournay was on his horse's back riding swiftlyaway from the scene. He only thought of one point of refuge and that wasthe city of his dreams, the great city of Paris. Toward it he turned hishorse's head. When he had gone far enough to no longer fear pursuit hedismounted and turned the horse loose, knowing that a man riding a fineanimal could be more easily traced; so the rest of his journey of ahundred miles was made on foot.

  It was about the noon hour, July 12, 1789, when he entered the southerngates of the city. He had been walking since early morning, yet whenonce in the town he was not conscious of any fatigue.

  It seemed to him that there was an unwonted excitement in the air, andthe faces of many people in the crowded streets wore an anxious or anexpectant look. Several times he was on the point of stopping somepasser-by to ask if there was any event of unusual importance takingplace, but the fear of being thought ignorant of city ways deterred him.So he wandered about the streets in search of some cheap and cleanlodging suitable to the size of his purse, where he could be comfortablyhoused until his plans for the future matured. He went through narrow,ill-smelling streets, where strange-looking faces peered at himcuriously from low wine-shops. Thence he wandered into the neighborhoodof beautiful gardens, where he marveled at the splendid buildings, anyone of which he fancied might be the home of the Marquis de St. Hilaire.Finally, he came upon a number of people streaming through an arcadeunder some handsome buildings. Judging that something of unusualinterest was going on there, and being moved by curiosity, he pushed hisway in with the rest, and found himself in a quadrangle of buildingsenclosing a garden. This garden was filled with a dense crowd. Turningto a man at his elbow, he asked the reason of such an assemblage.

  "The king has dismissed Necker," was the reply, "and the people areangry."

  "I should think they might well be angry," replied Tournay, who admiredthe popular minister of finance. "Did the king send away such a greatman without cause?"

  "I know not what cause was assigned, I do not concern myself much withsuch affairs, but I know the people are very wroth and there has beenmuch talk of violence. Some blood has been shed. The German regimentsfired once or twice upon a mob that would not disperse."

  "The villainous foreign regiments!" said Tournay. "Why must we havethese mercenary troops quartered in our city?" He had been in the citybut a few hours, but in his indignation he already referred to Paris as"our city."

  "The native troops would not fire when ordered, and were hurried back tothe barracks by their officers. Worse may come of it. There is muchspeech-making and turmoil; I am going home to keep out of the trouble;"and the stranger hurried away.

  Tournay elbowed through the crowd. Standing upon a table under one ofthe spreading trees, a young man was speaking earnestly to an excitedgroup of listeners that grew larger every moment. Tournay pressed nearenough to hear what he was saying.

  He was tall and slender, with dark waving hair and the face of a poet.He spoke with an impassioned eloquence that moved his hearers mightily,bringing forth acclamation after acclamation from the crowd. Hedenounced tyranny and exalted liberty till young Tournay's blood surgedthrough his veins like fire. He had thought all this himself, unable togive it expression; but here was a man who touched the very note that hehimself would have sounded, touched the same chord in the heart of everyman who heard his voice, and by some subtle power communicated thethrill to those outside the circle till the crowd in the garden wasdrunk with excitement.

  "Citizens," cried the young man, "the exile of Necker is the signal fora St. Bartholomew of patriots. The foreign regiments are about to marchupon us to cut our throats. To arms! Behold the rallying sign." Andstretching up his arm he plucked a green leaf from the branch above hishead and put it in his hat.

  The next instant the trees were almost denuded of their leaves. Tournay,with a green sprig in his hat, swung his hat in the air, and cried, "Toarms--down with the foreign regiments--Vive Necker!"

  He struggled to where the orator was being carried off on men'sshoulders. "What is it?" he said, in his excitement seizing the youngman by the coat,--"what is it that we are to do?"

  "Procure arms. Watch and wait,--and then do as other patriots do," wasthe reply.

  The crowd surged closer about him. The coat gave way, and Tournay wasleft with a piece of the cloth in his hand. Waving it in the air withthe cry of "Patriots, to arms!" he was forced onward by the crowd.