A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 53

It was evident that the poor man was too excited to remember the ceremonies, on which both he and his mistress set such store.

"Ah! ah! M'd'me," he gasped. "Ah! ah! It is Jean Marie who brings news."

Madame de Quernais had risen--not hurriedly, but with all the grave dignity which was her birthright.

As for Pere Mouet, he had already advanced to Guillaume's side.

"Peace, my son," he commanded gently. "You will alarm Mesdames. If there is news, it will be told more quickly if you compose yourself."

The quiet words certainly had a soothing effect on poor Guillaume, though his eyes continued to roll wildly.

"It is the Terror," he groaned. "Jean M'rie brought the news. There are men from Paris, men of Brittany, who come with evil tongues to bid our people rise and murder their masters. Ohe, they are very clever, clever as Monsieur Satan himself, and the fools listen to them.

Already they cry, 'Vive la nation,' 'Vive la guillotine!' 'Vive liberte!'"

"Tsch, tsch," smiled Pere Mouet, "their throats will soon get hoa.r.s.e, and then they will drink and go to sleep. To-morrow, when they awake, I will talk to them."

"Ah, mon pere," cried Guillaume, "they will not wait till to-morrow.

That is why Jean M'rie came running at once with the news. Already they cry, 'a Varenac! a Kernak!' They will be here to-night and will do the same as they did at Baud and Villerais."

Pere Mouet glanced across towards Madame de Quernais.

If indeed the Terror were here it would be wise not to delay.

Madame still stood erect, her hand clasping the back of the chair, her powdered head held high.

If she had been alone she would certainly have defied these canaille with her last breath.

But there were the children.

Her proud lips quivered a little as she looked at Cecile, who stood near, with Gabrielle's hand locked in her own.

Yes, there must be no defiance.

"Take Jean Marie to the kitchen, Guillaume," she said, speaking very slowly and decidedly. "Give him some supper; also"--she drew a ring from her finger--"this souvenir of his mistress, with her best thanks.

Perhaps one day I shall have opportunity of thanking and rewarding him more befittingly."

The old butler bowed, took the ring in silence, and withdrew.

Instantly Madame turned to the others.

"We must lose no time; is that what you would say, father?" she asked abruptly.

Pere Mouet nodded.

"Not a moment more than necessary, Madame," he replied. "It is quite likely that Count Jehan may be at the cave before us. We must certainly not delay--for sake of these children."

He murmured the last words in a lower key.

"Make haste and put your cloaks on, mes enfants," Madame de Quernais said. "And the little bags are packed as I ordered? That is good. As we cannot take the servants we must be content with few things."

She stifled a sigh as she spoke, whilst only Pere Mouet noted how her hands clenched and unclenched.

"There are many, daughter," he replied gently, "who can never sufficiently thank the good G.o.d if they escape with nothing but their lives."

"It is true, father. I will do penance for such rebellion. Nor will I tempt Providence with my complainings. Thank you, Cecile. At any rate I shall be warm. Come, we are all ready now."

She drew more closely round her the heavy, fur-lined cloak Cecile had brought, and herself opened the cas.e.m.e.nt which led to the terrace and avenue.

In silence Pere Mouet and the two girls followed her.

At that moment danger was too pressing--for Cecile at least--to feel acute pain at leaving her home.

The darkness without would have been intense had it not been for the moonlight, which but partially succeeded in piercing the misty gloom of the lande which stretched before them.

A long, weary walk it must be, though not one of the four who set out on it lacked courage. But what was happening at Varenac?

Who would they find awaiting them in the Cave of Lost Souls?

Those were the questions which stirred their pulses with growing dread.

It was well they had their cloaks, for it was cold enough here, facing the night wind across the bleak moors.

But they did not complain.

Keeping close together, they tramped on, Madame de Quernais walking out as bravely as any of them, disdaining proffered help over the uneven ground.

Presently a low exclamation from the priest brought them to a halt.

"Listen," he said in a whisper. "What is that?"

It was a question which grew easier to answer every second. There could be no mistaking the tramp, tramp of many feet, the shouts and cries of many voices.

The mob was on its way to the chateau.

"Allons, enfants de la patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrive, Centre nous de la tyrannie L'etendard sanglant est leve....

Aux armes, citoyens, formez vos bataillons; Marchons, marchons!

Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons."

Nearer and clearer came the sounds, each word distinct as the song rose from many throats in growing tumult.

They learnt their lesson easily, after all, these Breton peasants.

"They are coming this way," said Madame de Quernais quietly.

"Alas! I fear it is true; but they may not see us. The mists protect us."

The wind is rising; it will blow the mists aside."