Lord Tonys Wife | Page 5

of humanity inside the barn.
But Pierre, heedless of light and darkness, of heat or of cold, proceeded
quietly and methodically to distribute the primitive implements of
warfare to this crowd of ignorant men who were by now over ready for
mischief: and with every weapon which he placed in willing hands he
found the right words for willing ears-- words which would kindle
passion and lust of vengeance most readily where they lay dormant, or
would fan them into greater vigour where they smouldered.
'For thee this scythe, Hector Lebrun,' he would say to a tall, lanky

youth whose emaciated arms and bony hands were stretched with
longing toward the bright piece of steel; 'remember last year's harvest,
the heavy tax thou wert forced to pay, so that not one sou of profit went
into thy pocket, and thy mother starved whilst M. le duc and his brood
feasted and danced and shiploads of corn were sunk in the Loire lest
abundance made bread too cheap for the poor!'
'For thee this pick-axe, Henri Meunier! Remember the new roof on thy
hut, which thou didst build to keep the wet off thy wife's bed who was
crippled with ague --and the heavy impost levied on thee by the
tax-collector for this improvement to thy miserable hovel.'
'This pole for thee, Charles Blanc! Remember the beating administered
to thee by the duc's bailiff for daring to keep a tame rabbit to amuse thy
children!'
'Remember! Remember, mes amis!' he added exultantly, 'remember
every wrong you have endured, every injustice, every blow! remember
your poverty and his wealth, your crusts of dry bread and his succulent
meals, your rags and his silks and velvets, remember your starving
children and ailing mother, your care-laden wife and toil-worn
daughters! Forget nothing, mes amis, to-night, and at the gates of the
château de Kernogan demand of its arrogant owner wrong for wrong
and outrage for outrage.'
A deafening cry of triumph greeted this peroration, scythes and sickles
and axes and poles were brandished in the air and several scores of
hands were stretched out to Pierre and clasped in this newly-found
bond of vengeful fraternity.
III
Then it was that with vigorous play of the elbows Jean Adet, the miller,
forced his way through the crowd till he stood face to face with his son.
'Unfortunate!' he cried, 'what is all this? What dost thou propose to do?
Whither are ye all going?'

'To Kernogan!' they all shouted in response.
'En avant, Pierre! we follow!' cried some of them impatiently.
But Jean Adet --who was a powerful man despite his years-- had seized
Pierre by the arm and dragged him to a distant corner of the barn:
'Pierre!' he said in tones of command, 'I forbid thee in the name of thy
duty and the obedience which thou dost owe to me and to thy mother,
to move another step in this hot-headed adventure. I was on the
high-road, walking homewards, when that conflagration and the
senseless cries of these poor lads warned me that some awful mischief
was afoot. Pierre! my son! I command thee to lay that weapon down.'
But Pierre -- who in his normal state was a dutiful son and sincerely
fond of his father -- shook himself free from Jean Adet's grasp.
'Father!' he said loudly and firmly, 'this is no time for interference. We
are all of us men here and know our own minds. What we mean to do
to-night we have thought on and planned for weeks and months. I pray
you, father, let me be! I am not a child and I have work to do.'
'Not a child?' exclaimed the old man as he turned appealingly to the
lads who had stood by, silent and sullen during this little scene. 'Not a
child? But you are all only children, my lads. You don't know what you
are doing. You don't know what terrible consequences this mad
escapade will bring upon us all, upon the whole village, aye! and the
country-side. Do you suppose for one moment that the château of
Kernogan will fall at the mercy of a few ignorant unarmed lads like
yourselves? Why! four hundred of you would not succeed in forcing
your way even as far as the courtyard of the palace. M. le duc has had
wind for some time of your turbulent meetings at the auberge: he has
kept an armed guard inside his castle yard for weeks past, a company of
artillery with two guns hoisted upon his walls. My poor lads! you are
running straight to ruin! Go home, I beg of you! Forget this night's
escapade! Nothing but misery to you and yours can result from it.'
They listened quietly, if surlily, to Jean Adet's impassioned words. Far

be