"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.

Loud, snarling talk of their precious liberty and the way in which they meant to earn it.

Ha, ha! They were beginning to find that out in Brittany too.

They had heard, even in Paris, how the aristocrats of St. Malo and Vannes--ay, and Nantes too--were learning that their day was done. And so, being Bretons themselves, they had come home to join in the fun, and teach their comrades and brothers how the work went in Paris.

Click! click! click! But there were plenty of ways to exterminate vermin besides taking them to the arms of the "widow."

Jean Gouicket and his friends listened agape, not sure whether to applaud or shiver, the former sweating in sudden fear when the great Trouet bellowed for more wine of a better flavour.

A threat underlay the command, and the trembling Gouicket made haste to obey, though it was gall and wormwood to the worthy man to bring to these vaurien comrades the wine which Monsieur le Comte, or M'nsieur l'Abbe would pay a big price for.

Before he returned Marcel had been joined by a stranger--a heavy-faced, ill-looking fellow with a tangle of rough hair, and wearing the sleeveless coat and plaited trousers of a Breton peasant.

But Marcel evidently found him amusing, for he did not even fill his gla.s.s with the wine Gouicket placed, with reverent fingers and very great reluctance, by his side.

"Your name, my friend?" he was asking.

"Bertrand Manseau. A good Republican."

"ca, ca. And you come from Kernak?"

The man spat and cursed the name before acquiescing.

"It is the place of aristos?"

"Yes, citoyen. But not for long I hope."

His cunning little black eyes blinked with satisfaction.

"All in good time, all in good time. You know Varenac?"

"Si. How could it be otherwise? I have lived between Kernak and Varenac all my life."

"And what have you to say of Varenac?"

"It is a place of fools."

"Ha, ha! Does that mean also of aristos?"

"There is one; that is sufficient."

"But the old aristo died. He who has now come is a good citizen."

Bertrand's face was livid with rage.

"A good citizen! Mille diables! A _good citizen_. What! the new Marquis who came last week from England? Nom d'un chien, Citoyen Marcel, he is the worst of the lot--a cursed aristo to his finger-tips."