This fool of an Englishman had fallen in love--with an aristo. He was judge enough of men to guess the rest.
"Will be as ready to cry 'Vive le roi,' as 'Vive la nation,' when he bids them."
"No, no! There has been some delay. I do not altogether understand, for old Pierre Koustak at the Manor is a fool too; but I believe M'nsieur le Marquis is there alone. He waits for a friend."
"Nom d'un chien! a friend will arrive. Mille diables! a friend will arrive."
Marcel tossed off another glass of wine thirstily--it might have been the commonest vintage--and Jean Gouicket, watching, was filled with exquisite pain at the sight.
"En avant!" screamed Marcel, springing to his feet.
Instantly the parlour of Le Bon Camarade was in confusion.
All talked at once, and none knew what they talked of, saving that it was in the cause of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
Poor Jean Gouicket wished devoutly that there would be less of the latter and more honesty in payment; but he dared not ask for his money, recalling the fate of a parsimonious landlord at Vannes.
All things, especially wine, were common in this great bond of brotherhood.
His good comrades and friends were to divide into five sections, and hasten at once to Varenac, Kérnak, and other villages around.
In all these villages the tree of liberty was to be planted, and death to the aristos proclaimed.
For himself he had a little business of importance to undertake, but would join them at Varenac shortly.
They would soon have plenty of amusement.
A burst of enthusiasm greeted these orders. The Marseillaise, started in a shrill falsetto, was echoed by fifty lusty throats.
It was in the midst of the din that Marcel Trouet, with Bertrand at his side, hurried off in the direction of the Manor of Varenac.
The trusted agent of the Committee of Public Safety had something to say to a ci-devant Marquis and member of a certain London Corresponding Club.
The thought of the meeting appeared to cause the little man the liveliest excitement and anger.
The Terror was coming to Varenac in spite of turncoats.
Sir Stephen Berrington sat alone in the library at the Manor of Varenac.
Not that he was fond of his own company. Peste! He hated it. But there was no alternative just now.