Scaramouche by Rafael Sabatini (best color ebook reader txt) 📕

M. de Lesdiguières exploded yet again. “Death of my life!” he cried. “Have you the effrontery to suggest that M. de La Tour d’Azyr should be hanged? Have you?”

“But why not, monsieur, if it is the law, and there is precedent for it, as I have shown you, and if it can be established that what I state is the truth⁠—as established it can be without difficulty?”

“Do you ask me, why not? Have you temerity to ask me that?”

“I have, monsieur. Can you answer me? If you cannot, monsieur, I shall understand that whilst it is possible for a powerful family like that of La Roche Jeannine to set the law in motion, the law must remain inert for the obscure and uninfluential, however brutally wronged by a great nobleman.”

M. de Lesdiguières perceived that in argument he would accomplish nothing against this impassive, resolute young man. The menace of him grew more fierce.

“I should advise you to take yourself off at once, and to be thankful for the opportunity to depart unscathed.”

“I am, then, to understand, monsieur, that there will be no inquiry into this case? That nothing that I can say will move you?”

“You are to understand that if you are still there in two minutes it will be very much the worse for you.” And M. de Lesdiguières tinkled the silver hand-bell upon his table.

“I have informed you, monsieur, that a duel⁠—so-called⁠—has been fought, and a man killed. It seems that I must remind you, the administrator of the King’s justice, that duels are against the law, and that it is your duty to hold an inquiry. I come as the legal representative of the bereaved mother of M. de Vilmorin to demand of you the inquiry that is due.”

The door behind André-Louis opened softly. M. de Lesdiguières, pale with anger, contained himself with difficulty.

“You seek to compel us, do you, you impudent rascal?” he growled. “You think the King’s justice is to be driven headlong by the voice of any impudent roturier? I marvel at my own patience with you. But I give you a last warning, master lawyer; keep a closer guard over that insolent tongue of yours, or you will have cause very bitterly to regret its glibness.” He waved a jewelled, contemptuous hand, and spoke to the usher standing behind André. “To the door!” he said, shortly.

André-Louis hesitated a second. Then with a shrug he turned. This was the windmill, indeed, and he a poor knight of rueful countenance. To attack it at closer quarters would mean being dashed to pieces. Yet on the threshold he turned again.

“M. de Lesdiguières,” said he, “may I recite to you an interesting fact in natural history? The tiger is a great lord in the jungle, and was for centuries the terror of lesser beasts, including the wolf. The wolf, himself a hunter, wearied of being hunted. He took to associating with other wolves, and then the wolves, driven to form packs for self-protection, discovered the power of the pack, and took to hunting the tiger, with disastrous results to him. You should study Buffon, M. de Lesdiguières.”

“I have studied a buffoon this morning, I think,” was the punning sneer with which M. de Lesdiguières replied. But that he conceived himself witty, it is probable he would not have condescended to reply at all. “I don’t understand you,” he added.

“But you will, M. de Lesdiguières. You will,” said André-Louis, and so departed.

He had broken his futile lance with the windmill⁠—the image suggested by M. de Kercadiou persisted in his mind⁠—and it was, he perceived, by sheer good fortune that he had escaped without hurt. There remained the wind itself⁠—the whirlwind. And the events in Rennes, reflex of the graver events in Nantes, had set that wind blowing in his favour.

He set out briskly to retrace his steps towards the Place Royale, where the gathering of the populace was greatest, where, as he judged, lay the heart and brain of this commotion that was exciting the city.

But the commotion that he had left there was as nothing to the commotion which he found on his return. Then there had been a comparative hush to listen to the voice of a speaker who denounced the First and Second Estates from the pedestal of the statue of Louis XV. Now the air was vibrant with the voice of the multitude itself, raised in anger. Here and there men were fighting with canes and fists; everywhere a fierce excitement raged, and the gendarmes sent thither by the King’s Lieutenant to restore and maintain order were so much helpless flotsam in that tempestuous human ocean.

There were cries of “To the Palais! To the Palais! Down with the assassins! Down with the nobles! To the Palais!”

An artisan who stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the press enlightened André-Louis on the score of the increased excitement.

“They’ve shot him dead. His body is lying there where it fell at the foot of the statue. And there was another student killed not an hour ago over there by the cathedral works. Pardi! If they can’t prevail in one way they’ll prevail in another.” The man was fiercely emphatic. “They’ll stop at nothing. If they can’t overawe us, by God, they’ll assassinate us. They are determined to conduct these States of Brittany in their own way. No interests but their own shall be considered.”

André-Louis left him still talking, and clove himself a way through that human press.

At the statue’s base he came upon a little cluster of students about the body of the murdered lad, all stricken with fear and helplessness.

“You here, Moreau!” said a voice.

He looked round to find himself confronted by a slight, swarthy man of little more than thirty, firm of mouth and impertinent of nose, who considered him with disapproval. It was Le Chapelier, a lawyer of Rennes, a prominent member of