"Entirely, Quartermaster. You represent Monsieur de Lery, I presume?"

"Yes, but--but--but----" Villerai stammered, and stopped, his face growing redder.

"Proceed quite tranquilly, Monsieur de Villerai," the Marshal remarked.

"What accusation do you bring against Monsieur de Lincy?"

Villerai cast an uncomfortable glance at Germain, then he blurted out "That he is--an--some say an im----. I confess I know nothing against the gentleman myself--he seems to be a very nice young man, but Monsieur de Lery says he is something of that sort."

"And that his proper t.i.tle is not de Lincy, but that he is the son of a merchant in Canada who is no n.o.ble?" Collinot added.

"You know nothing against him yourself?" Beauveau asked of Villerai.

"Nothing myself, very true."

"You bring evidence, then?"

"My Lord--Marshal we have no evidence. I throw myself on your goodness--I had some papers with the contents of which I am unacquainted--but where they are I--I--pardon me your Excellency--this is a very unfortunate affair."

"I think so, Monsieur de Villerai. Your friends have brought to trial a perfectly innocent man--they have allowed him, for several months, to remain under the intolerable vexations of the ban of society, and to stand deprived of his birthright as a gentleman--have destroyed him at Court--have almost blighted his career--have forced him to expose his life to the ocean, to take far-off and highly perilous journeys to collect his defences--and have compelled him more than once to brave mortal combat. They have done all this, as it appears, while his claims were perfectly regular, and while they themselves fail to produce the slightest atom of evidence against him beyond the unsupported a.s.sertions of their own family. What am I, as patron of this regiment, and a military man of sixty years' experience, to say to this state of things?"

"Excuse my--my Lord," de Villerai cried in desperation. "I said our proofs are lost."

"It was your duty to have properly kept them. The opportunity for trial has been given. The accused has responded and cleared himself. You may depart, sir."

"Monsieur de Lincy," continued he, addressing the latter, with an alteration from his severe tone to the kindest of voices, "it almost moves me to tears to think of the indignities to which you have been subjected. Your honour is absolved, and Major Collinot is requested to make entry of this fact on the registers of the company, to avail you in case these charges should ever be repeated. You are reinstalled with your full rank and record, and moreover, in order that your reinstallment may be unequivocal in the eyes of the public, I appoint you my special _aide-de-camp_ for the review of this morning. Horse yourself and report at my apartments."

Lecour had stood throughout the interview perfectly motionless--almost statuesque, except a slight clinching of the hands at times. His feelings, however, were at the highest possible tension, and his eyes observant of the slightest changes on the faces of those concerned, and when he found de Villerai--who was a stranger to him--so helpless, a feeling of triumph unexpectedly possessed him. He knew, of course, about the Record--- divined that de Villerai had been entrusted with it--in fact, through the mysterious means related, it was safe above their heads locked in his own sleeping chamber. But what he had been uncertain of was what sort of a man the Quartermaster would turn out to be as a representative of de Lery--what kind of a case he would make without the writings--how much of them he would recite--how that recital would be received by the tribunal--and whether the tribunal would have any regard whatever to the evidence or condemn him by some instinct of caste prejudice. While turning these thoughts over like lightning in his mind, they were brought to a standstill by the p.r.o.nouncement of Marshal de Beauveau and the sudden relief and violent sense of grat.i.tude produced by the old soldier's sympathetic address to himself.

He felt he had won Cyrene.

He mounted the staircase to his apartment as if his feet were winged.

The quarters were deserted. The company had already mustered and marched to the review ground, a levelled field adjoining the boulevarded rampart, surrounded with willow trees and known as the Champ-de-Mars.

Germain, as he approached it, riding with the Marshal and the Prince, felt as he had not since he had first put on the uniform of the Bodyguard. His spirit seemed to prance with joy like the horse beneath him. He had now that security, the want of which had caused him such an ocean of misery; he felt that his enemies were now conquered, and that Cyrene was at last his.

Thus they rode to the Champ, where he could see the various regiments, drawn up at the "attention," in a long, brilliant line, their arms shining in the sun, the two companies of the Bodyguard mounted, in their centre, with their magnificent standards and gorgeously arrayed bands.

It was a thrilling and beautiful sight.

When they came to the edge of the Champ, the horses of the Marshal and his staff quickened pace, and soon, galloping down the field, they pa.s.sed in front of the whole division, every eye both of soldiers and spectators levelled towards them. Lecour was the object of intense interest. At this conspicuous moment the Marshal called him to his side and entrusted him with a general order to pa.s.s to the commanders of the regiments.

Germain galloped first to the company of Noailles and pa.s.sed the order with a grave salute to the Prince, who had taken his position in front of it as Colonel. As he did so, the enthusiasm of his companions got the better of their discipline, and they broke into a loud, prolonged cry of "Vive de Lincy!" The members of the company of Villeroy had, as a body, always felt more or less contrary in the affair to their companion de Lery, and there was a party who had strongly favoured Germain. The proof, now so clear, that Louis' accusations had been rejected, suddenly converted the rest to Lecour's side and an enthusiasm similar to that of his own company broke out in their ranks too, resulting in a continuation of the cry, "Vive de Lincy!" This extraordinary scene excited the other troops. The whole line broke out again and again into the repeated cry of, "Vive de Lincy!" while Germain rode rapidly along.

The crowd of spectators took it up, and added tremendous shouts of approbation. Nor did the cry end with the parade. He heard it everywhere; at mess-table it was the greeting as he entered, the response to numerous toasts to his health, and the last sound he heard as he sank to sleep at night.

The feelings of de Lery were very different. The shout was to him his social doom. He stood his ground and executed his duty without an external sign, but his heart withered when his comrades there and then commenced to shun him and drive him into Coventry. No protestations, no statements that he could make, would, he knew, have been of any avail; so he spared himself the trouble. Withdrawing entirely into a proud reserve, he was soon banished from the regiment and from society, and driven to find a refuge over the ocean in Canada, where, hidden from the eyes of European criticism, he entered upon a new career.

The Marquis de Lotbiniere heard of the loss of the doc.u.ments first by a letter from de Villerai. On the same day he received the following from the Count de Vaudreuil--

"AT VERSAILLES, the 13th February, 1788.

"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.

Wishing 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 shivering 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."