Sir Percy Hits Back · Chapter 12 (1/2)

XII

The soldiers of the Republic together with their officer had spent half the night at Laragne in the tavern kept by the Père Gramme, drinking and jesting with the drabs of the village. Each man had a tale to tell of his own prowess at the château, and how but for him, the ci-devant Frontenac would have slipped through the fingers of justice as readily as the two women had done.

They were very proud of their prisoner, who sat lonely and silent in a corner of the low-raftered room, foul with the odour of sour wine and perspiring humanity. Monsieur de Frontenac⁠—the ci-devant as he was curtly termed⁠—was apparently taking his misfortune calmly; neither threats nor vain promises caused him to depart from his attitude of quiet philosophy. The soldiers had, of course, made up their minds that he knew well enough where his wife and daughter were in hiding, but they had also realized by now that it was not in their power to force him to divulge what he knew.

The lieutenant⁠—a man who had begun life as a notary’s clerk, and therefore had some education⁠—was content to shrug his shoulders and to declare that the citizens of the nearest Committee of Public Safety, had plenty of means at their disposal for making an obdurate prisoner speak. He recalled that at the trial of the Widow Capet she had been forced into admissions which, before that, she would sooner have died than make. Mocking glances, jeers and insults were thereupon cast on the prisoner who remained as unconcerned, as serene as before.

The lieutenant had commandeered billets for his men in the better houses of the village, and just before midnight the party broke up. The prisoner was then conducted to the small, local poste de gendarmerie and there incarcerated in the cell usually occupied by vagabonds and cattle-thieves. Two or three of the soldiers remained at the poste to reinforce the local gendarmes, in case some hotheads in the village meditated a coup to wrest the traitor Frontenac from the clutches of justice. The lieutenant himself had selected the house of Citizen Colombe the grocer of the Rue Haute for his night-quarters? To say that the worthy épicier did not accord this representative of his country’s army a warm welcome, would be to put it mildly. He was furious, and showed it as plainly as he dared; but there is in every French peasant a sound vein of common sense, and he knows⁠—none better⁠—when submission to the ruling powers is not only the best policy, but at the same time the most conducive to the preservation of his own dignity.

Ma’ame Colombe⁠—or rather the citizeness⁠—made the lieutenant comfortable and that was all; but at the bottom of her heart she felt that she must do unto him as she would wish her own son to be done by presently, when he too was a soldier in that army which she detested. She fell asleep thinking of Amédé tramping the high road as these men had done, stockingless, hatless, with unwashed shirt and a dirty worsted cap on his head; and she dreamed all night of him, deprived even of his weekly bath in the big tub, over in the washhouse. That is what she objected to mostly in these men: the dirt. It was wonderful, of course, their fighting for their country, now that all the other countries in the world were attacking France, but Ma’ame Colombe argued to herself that patriotism might just as well be allied to cleanliness. Even the lieutenant, who was after all an officer, and should be setting a good example to his men, would have looked much more imposing if he had washed his face and taken the dust of the road out of his hair.

Great, therefore, was Ma’ame Colombe’s astonishment the next morning when she, along with several of her friends, being at the market, saw another detachment of soldiers marching into Laragne from the direction of Sisteron. Only eight of them there were, with one officer and a wagon drawn by two splendid horses; but nom du ciel! what a different set of men and horses these were. The men clean as new pins, magnificently dressed in blue coats with white facings and belts, white breeches⁠—all spotless⁠—and black gaiters that reached midway up their thighs. Beneath their elegant chapeau-bras, each adorned with a silk tricolour cockade, they wore their own hair, down to their shoulders, unfettered by the old, ridiculous queue, and each man had successfully cultivated a fierce and magnificent moustache. Everything about them glistened with cleanliness, their boots, their buckles, their muskets; as for the officer, never in all their lives had the good ladies of Laragne seen anyone so magnificent: tall, blond, with a moustache that he could easily have tucked behind his ears, and a little tuft of blond beard at the tip of his chin, he walked with drawn sword at the head of his squad, a superb tricolour sash further enhancing the glory of his attire.

Potatoes and eggs and butter were forgotten, while market women and customers stood gaping, open mouthed. Never had such beautiful specimens of manhood been seen in Laragne. By the time they reached the Rue Haute all the village had turned out to have a look at them, and heads appeared at every cottage window. The village urchins followed the little squad, intoning the “Marseillaise” and giving vent to their excitement by performing miracles of acrobatic evolutions. Even Ma’ame Colombe, who was at the moment selecting a piece of meat for Sunday’s dinner, could not help but say to herself that she would not mind Amédé being in the army if he was going to look like that!

At that very moment one of the urchins paused in the midst of a magnificently sketched somersault in order to run down the street and back to the marketplace, shouting excitedly:

“Ma’ame Colombe! Ma’ame Colombe! the soldiers are at the épicerie.”

And so they were! Ma’ame Colombe, hastily straightened her cap and snatching up her market basket, ran to the corner of the Rue Haute just in time to see the soldiers with their officer and wagon come to a halt outside her front door. The worthy Hector with his son Amédé, and the old man who helped in the shop, were busy taking down the shutters and displaying the sacks of various kinds of haricots and lentils in tempting array all along the shop front. Ma’ame Colombe heard the magnificent officer give a quick order: “Halte!” and “Attention!” and the next moment she saw him enter the shop followed by his men, the wagon remaining drawn up a little further down the street. The urchins and gaffers crowded round the doorstep open-mouthed, and Ma’ame Colombe had some difficulty in pushing her way through into her own house.

The officer began by asking Hector Colombe how many soldiers of the Republic were still sleeping under his roof.

“Only the lieutenant and two men, M’sieu’ l’officier,” Hector replied. Whereupon the officer broke in curtly:

“Call me citizen captain. This is the army of the Revolution and its soldiers are not aristos meseems.”

Which remark boded no good to Ma’ame Colombe’s ears. Clean or dirty they all appeared to be the same type of brigands; overbearing, exacting and merciless! Ah that poor dear Amédé!

The officer then demanded to see the lieutenant and the two soldiers. Amédé offered to call them, but was stopped by a brief command from the captain:

“No, not you,” he said curtly, “I want you here, the citizeness can go.”

Ma’ame Colombe, obedient and vaguely frightened, put down her basket and went upstairs to fetch the lieutenant and the two men, who were still in bed. But although she had only been gone a couple of minutes, her sense of fear took on a more tangible form when she came down again, for she found all the drawers of the counter open, and much of their contents scattered about the floor. Some of the soldiers were busy ferreting about, behind and under the counter. The officer stood in the middle of the shop talking with Hector, who looked both choleric and sullen; in the doorway, the crowd of gaffers were being kept back by two of the soldiers, who were using the butts of their muskets when some venturesome urchin tried to cross the threshold. But what filled poor Ma’ame Colombe’s heart with dismay was the sight of Amédé sitting in the parlour behind the shop, with two other soldiers obviously on guard over him.

Her instinct prompted her to run first of all to her husband with a quick whispered: “Hector, what does this mean?”

But the magnificent officer brusquely thrust himself between her and Hector and said gruffly: “It means, citizeness, that not only treason, but also theft has been traced to this house, and that it is lucky for you that news of it reached the Committee of Sisteron in time, else,” he added grimly, “it had been worse for you and your family.”

“Treason and theft?” Ma’ame Colombe exclaimed in hot indignation. “You must take it from me, young man, citizen, captain, or whatever you may be, that I’ll allow no one to⁠—”

“Hold your tongue, woman,” the officer broke in curtly; “you do yourself no good by these protests. Obedience is your wisest course.”

“Good or no good,” Ma’ame Colombe persisted heatedly, “I won’t have the word theft used in connection with this house, and if⁠—”

“Make your wife hold her tongue, citizen,” the officer, now addressing Hector once more, broke in curtly, “or I shall have to send her to the poste for interfering with a soldier of the Republic in the execution of his duty.”

Poor Hector Colombe, whose choler was shrinking in inverse ratio to that of his wife, did his best to pacify the worthy dame.

“It is all a mistake, Angelique,” he said gently. “M’sieu’ le Capitaine⁠—pardon! the citizen captain thinks that Amédé has some papers and valuables belonging to Madame⁠—I mean, to the Citizeness Frontenac⁠—”

“Are they calling my Amédé a thief, then?” Ma’ame Colombe demanded hotly.

“No! No!” Hector replied, trying to be patient and conciliatory. “Have I not told you that it is all a mistake? Everyone knows there are no thieves in this house; but it seems the authorities think that Amédé may have hidden those valuables pour le bon motif.”

“If he had,” the mother retorted obstinately, “he would say so. Let me just ask him⁠—”

Hector had hold of her hand, but she wrenched it free, and before any of the soldiers could bar the way, she had run into the back parlour, shouting:

“Amédé, my little one, have you told those soldiers that you know nothing of Madame’s valuables? Why, nom de Dieu!” she went on, hands on hips, defiant and aggressive like the true female defending its young, “look at the innocent. Is that the face of a thief?”

She pointed at Amédé, who, however, remained strangely silent.

“Voyons, mon petit, tell them!” Angelique Colombe went on with perhaps a shade less assurance than she had displayed at first. The next moment, however, the Captain had seized her unceremoniously by the arm, and dragged her back into the front shop. Here he gave her arm a good shake.

“Did I not order you to hold your tongue?” he demanded roughly.

Cowed, in spite of herself, not so much by the officer’s tone of command as by Amédé’s silence, Ma’ame Colombe did in effect, hold her tongue. A sense of disaster as well as of shame had suddenly descended upon her. Her ample bosom heaving, she sank into a chair and threw her apron over her head. She was not crying, but she felt the need of shutting out from her vision, the picture of Amédé looking so confused and sullen, of Hector looking as perplexed as she was herself, as well as of that magnificent officer with his fine clothes and his tricolour sash. But chiefly she wanted for the moment to lose sight of that crowd of gaffers and urchins and neighbours, all staring at her, with that unexplainable feeling, not exactly of contentment for her misfortune, but which can only be expressed by that untranslatable word Schadenfreude. Thus shut out from the rest of her little world, the poor woman slowly rocked herself backwards and forwards, murmuring inaudible words under cover of her apron, until she heard the captain’s voice saying abruptly:

“Were you the officer in charge of detachment number ninety-seven?”

Curiosity got the better of sorrow, and Ma’ame Colombe peeped round the edge of her apron. The picture which she saw made her drop her apron altogether. The lieutenant who, the night before, had been so overbearing and so hilarious, stood before his superior officer now, a humble, dejected figure, dreading reprimand, like a schoolboy fearing the cane.

“I am in charge of the detachment ninety-seven⁠—yes, citizen captain,” he replied haltingly.

What a contrast these two! Ma’ame Colombe, in spite of her anxiety, her indignation and whatnot, could not help but compare. Womanlike, she had an eye for the handsome male, and what more gorgeous than this Captain of the Republican, or revolutionary army, as he apparently liked to style his men, with his braided jacket and superb tricolour sash, with his blonde hair and fierce moustachios? He poked his tufted chin out at the bedraggled-looking lieutenant before him, looked down with obvious contempt at the latter’s ragged coat and mud-stained breeches. But he made no remark on the want of cleanliness and decency, as Ma’ame Colombe expected him to do.

“Where do you come from?” he demanded.

“From Orange, citizen captain.”

“What is your objective?”

“After this, Serres, citizen captain, and then Valence.”

“And your orders are to arrest on the way every person suspected of treason against the Republic?”

“Yes, citizen.”

“And how have you obeyed these orders, citizen lieutenant?” the captain demanded sternly.

“I have done my best, citizen captain,” the other replied with an attempt at bluster; “at Vaison⁠—”

“I am not talking of Vaison, which you know quite well, citizen lieutenant. I wish to know how you obeyed the orders given to you to arrest the ci-devant Frontenac, his wife and daughter?”

“Citizen⁠—”

“Have you done it, citizen lieutenant?” the officer thundered, and all of the bluster went out of the subaltern as he stammered meekly:

“When we reached the house of the ci-devant Frontenacs, the two women had gone.”

“Gone?” and the Captain’s voice boomed through the low-raftered room like distant roll of cannon. “Gone? Whither?”

“Gone, citizen captain,” the lieutenant murmured under his breath: “spirited away. The devil alone knows how.”

“Which means that there is a traitor among you.”

“Citizen captain⁠—” the other protested.

“A traitor I say. You had secret orders, and yet the women were warned!” And once more the officer’s glance flashed down with scorn on his unfortunate subordinate. His blonde hair seemed to bristle with wrath; his moustachios stood out like spikes: he looked a veritable god of vengeance and of wrath.

“Where,” he thundered, “is the ci-devant Frontenac?”

“At the commissariat, citizen captain, guarded by our men,” the lieutenant replied.

“And the rest of your detachment?”

“In billets in the village.”

“And did you search this house when you entered it?”

“No⁠—that is⁠—no⁠—I did not⁠—that is⁠—” stammered the wretched man.

“Or the other houses where you billeted your men?”

But this time the lieutenant only shook his head in dejected silence.

“Which means that you allowed soldiers of the Republic to sleep under strange roofs without ascertaining whether they were safe. Why, citizen Lieutenant, this place might have been swarming with traitors.”

“The people here, citizen, are⁠—”

“Enough. You are relieved of your command, and you will proceed now with us to Sisteron where you will render an account of your conduct before the Committee of Public Safety.”