Part 41 (1/2)

”Prove it--to Jehan?”

”Yes.”

Morice raised his head proudly.

”I will prove it to the whole world,” said he.

”And you will come to Kernak?”

”If you will. But my heart burns to reach Varenac. You--you do not know all, perhaps. I tell you every moment is precious, the danger nearer.”

He spoke feverishly, thinking of Marcel Trouet.

But she could bring reasons for her importunity.

”You may fail if you go alone. The people do not know you. They might refuse to believe that you are their Marquis; but they will believe Jehan.”

He saw that the argument was good.

”Then let us go to Kernak,” he cried, turning back along the path, with a sudden gesture of impatience.

Cecile smiled.

”Yes, to Kernak,” she echoed, with a happy sob.

Even their love, born in autumn sunlight, and wellnigh killed by autumn blasts, took no first place at that moment in their hearts, when a man's honour and a country's hopes were at stake; though Cecile, being a woman, felt her heart beat gladly when she remembered that she had turned her lover from the road to Varenac--and death.

CHAPTER XXV

BERTRAND TELLS A TALE

The wine at the sign of Le Bon Camarade was abominable.

Marcel Trouet, trusted servant and officer of the Committee of Public Safety in Paris, evinced his disapprobation by flinging the contents of his gla.s.s on the floor and bellowing for the landlord.

Jean Gouicket came in haste. He knew who were the great ones now, this burly Breton. Aha! the cunning one! At the first whisper of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, he had taken down his signboard, and the d.u.c.h.esse Anne, with its ermines and arms, had been quickly painted out and replaced by a fine red cap and the name of Le Bon Camarade.

But just in time! Ohe! Jean Gouicket could only gasp out a thanksgiving and promise of many candles to Monseigneur St.

Jean--beneath his breath, of course--when Trouet and his party arrived.

That party! It was a grim one enough at first sight--a rabble of idlers with four or five of those other great ones whom Marcel Trouet had brought from Paris.

Not that they were Parisians--nothing of the sort: they were Bretons, every one--dark-skinned, gloomy-faced fellows, with crafty, downcast eyes and scowling lips.

These were men, though, who had seen life beyond the dreary landes, and faced more than the fierce, monotonous battling between sea and sh.o.r.e, such as engrossed their fellows.

And they had learnt to talk in Paris.