Part 40 (2/2)
”I should always be well disposed, sir, to oblige persons who, like Monsieur de Lery, might have aroused my interest; but _it is impossible for me to become the accuser of anybody whatsoever_.
_Such a maxim is absolutely opposed to all my principles_ and to the invariable law which I have made for myself and from which I cannot depart. It is the place of the Prince de Poix to examine the candidates who present themselves for admission to the Bodyguard; that duty is entirely foreign to me. Be convinced of all the regret I feel in being unable, in this case, to do what would be agreeable to you, and accept fresh a.s.surances of the sincere attachment with which I have the honour to be, sir,
”Your very humble and obedient servant,
”THE COUNT DE VAUDREUIL.”
A worse blow followed, in a brief newspaper account conveying word of the total defeat of the accusations.
Great movements, he heard, had been aroused among the highest circles of Court, in Lecour's favour; the Prince de Poix had proved a broken reed, while the Bodyguards of both companies had clamoured for their de Lincy.
The Marquis vented his rage upon de Villerai behind his back, but after a few days concluded it advantageous to make no further references to the son of the cantineer.
Germain's first action was to rush to Versailles and clasp in his arms the love of his life. She, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with the happiness, faith, and trustfulness of a pure young girl, rejoiced in the vindication of her insulted knight.
News of another addition to his possessions arrived, while it brought a grief. Events had been too much for the Chevalier de Bailleul. He died in the latter part of the month of February, and a letter from the intendant of his estates informed Germain both of the sad event and at the same time that the veteran had bequeathed him Eaux Tranquilles and his fortune. The intendant, a local attorney named Populus, quoted the clauses of the will, and asked instructions from his new master.
CHAPTER XLII
A HARD SEASON
The first few days by Germain and Cyrene, after the death of de Bailleul, were spent in genuine sorrow. Their thoughts were recalled to those dear and delicious weeks at Fontainebleau, and they decided that Germain should revisit Eaux Tranquilles and prepare it for their bridal.
Wis.h.i.+ng to do so undisturbed by business he sent no word to his intendant, but set out on the journey mounted on a good horse, along the road by Bicetre and Corbeil. It was the beginning of March, the end of a winter so severe as to have surpa.s.sed the memory of living men. The Seine had been frozen over from Havre to Paris for the first time since 1709; and, added to the horrors of famine arising from destruction of the last summer's harvest by hail, the icy fields and gleaming river now had a terrible aspect to the s.h.i.+vering poor; and even to him, Canadian though he was, accustomed to think of winter as a time of merriment, for he thought of the misery of the people.
Towards evening he was forced by a hail storm to stop at the inn of Grelot, a hamlet which adjoined the park of Eaux Tranquilles.
In the morning he was roused by voices in the village street, and saw by the sunlight pouring in at the window that the day was well up and the storm over. The number of voices, though not many, seemed to him unusual for such a somnolent place at Grelot, so that he rose, took up his clothing, which had been dried over night by the host and thrust in at the door at daybreak, partly dressed himself, sat down at the window and looked out from behind the shutters.
On the opposite side of the road he saw, sitting under a spreading oak on a bench, the persons who were talking. The long boughs of the tree were gnarled and leafless, but they overspread most of the little three-cornered s.p.a.ce which const.i.tuted the village green, and the sun upon their interlacing surfaces cheerfully suggested the coming of spring. Three famished peasants sat on the bench. The bones protruded on their hollow faces, and their eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. They were all over fifty; one was much older, and leaned feebly on a cudgel.
Their dress was mean and patched; their battered sabots stuffed with straw and wool. One was whittling with a curved knife. He was a sabot-maker.
”It is not possible to live this way,” he protested. ”People will not buy sabots nor bucket-yokes.”
”They need food before sabots,” remarked the old man.
”But I too must have food. Are we never to have good bread again? Three years ago we had good bread.”
”This barley, half eaten away, produces more bran than flour,” said the old man, trembling with weakness. ”To make bread of it, my woman is obliged to work it over several times, and each time there seems so little left that she weeps. We must soon die.”
”Yet there is always a fight for it at the wickets, when it is distributed,” said the third man.
”And one must fight to keep his share. I go to the wickets with my big knife out,” the sabot-maker added fiercely.
”And when one eats it, it gives him inflammation and pains,” continued the old man. ”I have seen many years of famine, but never so little bread, and that so hard and stinking.”
”As for me I have found a secret,” gravely said the third man, whose hollow countenance displayed an unnatural pallor. ”Over in the Seigneur's park, above the little spring of water, there is a ledge of rock. Below that ledge there lies plenty of white clay. That clay is good to eat. You are hungry no more when you have taken breakfast of that.”
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