ke one of a waiting crowd of clients, mostly men.
     There he spent another half-hour, and employed the time  in considering
exactly what he should say. This consideration made him realize the weakness
of the case he proposed to set before a man whose  views of law and morality
were coloured by his social rank.
     At  last he  was ushered through a narrow but  very massive and  richly
decorated door into a fine, well-lighted room furnished with enough gilt and
satin to have supplied the boudoir of a lady of fashion.
     It  was a trivial setting for a King's Lieutenant, but about the King's
Lieutenant  there was - at  least to ordinary eyes - nothing trivial. At the
far end of the chamber, to  the right of one of the tall windows that looked
out  over  the inner court, before a goat-legged writing-table with  Watteau
panels, heavily  encrusted  with  ormolu, sat  that  exalted  being. Above a
scarlet coat with  an order flaming on its breast,  and a billow of lace  in
which  diamonds sparkled  like drops of water, sprouted the massive powdered
head of M. de  Lesdiguieres. It  was thrown  back to scowl upon this visitor
with an  expectant arrogance  that made  Andre-Louis  wonder  almost  was  a
genuflexion awaited from him.
     Perceiving a lean, lantern-jawed young man,  with  straight, lank black
hair, in a caped riding-coat of brown  cloth, and yellow  buckskin breeches,
his knee-boots splashed with mud, the scowl upon that August visage deepened
until it brought  together  the thick black eyebrows above  the great hooked
nose.
     "You  announce  yourself  as  a  lawyer of Gavrillac with an  important
communication,"  he  growled.  It  was  a  peremptory  command to make  this
communication  without wasting the valuable  time of a King's Lieutenant, of
whose  immense importance  it  conveyed something  more than  a  hint. M. de
Lesdiguieres accounted himself an imposing personality,  and  he  had  every
reason to do so, for in his time he had seen many a poor devil scared out of
all his senses by the thunder of his voice.
     He waited now to see the same thing happen to this youthful lawyer from
Gavrillac. But he waited in vain.
     Andre-Louis found him ridiculous. He knew pretentiousness for the  mask
of worthlessness and weakness. And here he beheld pretentiousness incarnate.
It was to  be read in that arrogant poise of the head,  that scowling  brow,
the inflexion  of that reverberating voice. Even  more difficult  than it is
for a man to be a hero to his valet - who has witnessed the dispersal of the
parts that make up the imposing whole - is it for a man to be a hero to  the
student of Man who has witnessed the same in a different sense.
     Andre-Louis   stood  forward  boldly  -  impudently,   thought   M.  de
Lesdiguieres.
     "You are His Majesty's Lieutenant here in  Brittany," he said -  and it
almost seemed to the August lord of life and  death that this fellow had the
incredible effrontery to address him  as one  man speaking  to another. "You
are the dispenser of the King's high justice in this province."
     Surprise  spread  on  that  handsome,  sallow  face under  the  heavily
powdered wig.
     "Is your  business concerned with  this infernal insubordination of the
canaille?" he asked.
     "It is not, monsieur."
     The black eyebrows rose. "Then what the devil do you mean  by intruding
upon  me at  a  time when all my attention  is being claimed by  the obvious
urgency of this disgraceful affair?"
     "The affair that brings me is no less disgraceful and no less urgent."
     "It will  have to  wait!"  thundered the  great  man  in a passion, and
tossing back a cloud of lace from his hand, he reached for the little silver
bell upon his table.
     "A   moment,  monsieur!"  Andre-Louis'  tone  was  peremptory.   M.  de
Lesdiguieres  checked  in sheer amazement at its impudence.  "I can state it
very briefly... "
     "Haven't I said already... "
     "And  when  you  have heard  it,"  Andre-Louis  went  on, relentlessly,
interrupting the interruption, "you will agree with me as to its character."
     M. de Lesdiguieres considered him very sternly.
     "What is your name?" he asked.
     "Andre-Louis Moreau."
     "Well,  Andre-Louis Moreau, if you can state  your plea briefly, I will
hear you. But I warn you that I shall be  very angry  if you fail to justify
the impertinence of this insistence at so inopportune a moment."
     "You  shall be the judge of  that, monsieur,"  said Andre-Louis, and he
proceeded at  once to state  his case, beginning with the shooting of Mabey,
and passing thence to  the killing of M. de Vilmorin. But he withheld  until
the  end the name of  the great gentleman  against whom he demanded justice,
persuaded  that  did he  introduce it  earlier  he would  not be  allowed to
proceed.
     He  had a  gift of oratory of whose  full  powers he was himself hardly
conscious  yet, though destined very soon to become so..  He  told his story
well,  without  exaggeration, yet  with a  force  of simple appeal  that was
irresistible.  Gradually the  great man's face relaxed from  its  forbidding
severity. Interest, warming almost to sympathy, came to be reflected on it.
     "And who, sir, is the man you charge with this?"
     "The Marquis de La Tour d'Azyr."
     The  effect of that formidable name was immediate.  Dismayed anger, and
an  arrogance more  utter than before, took the place of the sympathy he had
been betrayed into displaying.
     "Who?" he  shouted, and without  waiting for  an  answer,  "Why, here's
impudence,"  he stormed on, "to come before me with such a charge  against a
gentleman of M. de La Tour d'Azyr's eminence! How dare you speak of him as a
coward."
     "I speak of him as  a murderer," the young man corrected. "And I demand
justice against him."
     "You demand it, do you? My God, what next?"
     "That is for you to say, monsieur."
     It surprised the great gentleman into  a more or less successful effort
of self-control.
     "Let me warn you,"  said he, acidly, "that it  is not wise to make wild
accusations against a nobleman. That, in itself, is a punishable offence, as
you may learn. Now  listen  to me. In this  matter of Mabey -  assuming your
statement of it to be exact - the gamekeeper may have exceeded his duty; but
by so little that it is hardly worth comment. Consider, however, that in any
case it is not a matter for the King's Lieutenant, or for any court  but the
seigneurial  court of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  himself. It  is before  the
magistrates of his own appointing  that such a matter must be laid, since it
is matter strictly concerning  his own seigneurial jurisdiction. As a lawyer
you should not need to be told so much."
     "As a lawyer, I am prepared to argue the point. But, as a lawyer I also
realize that if that case were  prosecuted, it could  only end in the unjust
punishment  of a wretched  gamekeeper, who did  no more than  carry  out his
orders, but  who  none the less would now be made a  scapegoat, if scapegoat
were necessary. I am not concerned to hang Benet on the gallows earned by M.
de La Tour d'Azyr."
     M.  de Lesdiguieres smote the table violently. "My God!" he cried  out,
to add more quietly, on a note of menace,  "You are  singularly insolent, my
man."
     "That is not my intention, sir, I assure you. I am a lawyer, pleading a
case - the  case of M. de Vilmorin. It is for his assassination  that I have
come to beg the King's justice."
     "But you  yourself have said that it was a duel!" cried the Lieutenant,
between anger and bewilderment.
     "I have said that it was made to appear a duel. There is a distinction,
as I shall show, if you will condescend to hear me out."
     "Take your  own time, sir!" said the ironical M. de Lesdiguieres, whose
tenure of office had  never yet  held anything that remotely resembled  this
experience.
     Andre-Louis  took  him  literally.  "I  thank you,  sir,"  he answered,
solemnly, and submitted his argument. "It can  be shown that M. de  Vilmorin
never practised fencing in all  his life, and it is notorious that M.  de La
Tour d'Azyr is an exceptional swordsman. Is it a  duel, monsieur, where  one
of the combatants alone  is armed? For it amounts to that on a comparison of
their measures of respective skill."
     "There has  scarcely been a duel  fought  on which  the  same  trumpery
argument might not be advanced."
     "But  not always with equal  justice. And in one case, at least, it was
advanced successfully."
     "Successfully? When was that?"
     "Ten years ago,  in Dauphiny.  I refer to the case of M. de  Gesvres, a
gentleman  of that province, who forced a duel upon M. de la Roche Jeannine,
and  killed him. M. de  Jeannine  was a member of a  powerful  family, which
exerted itself to obtain  justice. It put forward just such arguments as now
obtain  against M. de La Tour d'Azyr. As  you will remember, the judges held
that the provocation had proceeded of intent from M. de  Gesvres; they found
him guilty of premeditated murder, and he was hanged."
     M. de  Lesdiguieres exploded yet again. "Death  of  my life!" he cried.
"Have  you the  effrontery  to suggest that M.  de La Tour  d'Azyr should be
hanged? Have you?"
     "But why not,  monsieur, if it  is the  law, and there is precedent for
it, as I  have shown you, and if it can be  established that what I state is
the truth - as established it can be without difficulty?"
     "Do you ask me, why not? Have you temerity to ask me that?"
     "I have, monsieur. Can you answer me?  If you cannot, monsieur, I shall
understand that whilst  it is possible for a powerful family like that of La
Roche Jeannine to  set the law in motion, the law must  remain inert for the
obscure and uninfluential, however brutally wronged by a great nobleman."
     M.  de  Lesdiguieres perceived  that  in argument he  would  accomplish
nothing against  this impassive,  resolute young man. The menace of him grew
more fierce.
     "I should advise you to take yourself off at once,  and  to be thankful
for the opportunity to depart unscathed."
     "I  am, then, to  understand,  monsieur, that there will be  no inquiry
into this case? That nothing that I can say will move you?"
     "You are  to understand that if you are still  there in two minutes  it
will be  very much the worse  for you." And  M. de Lesdiguieres tinkled  the
silver hand-bell upon his table.
     "I have  informed  you, monsieur,  that  a  duel - so-called - has been
fought, and a man killed. It seems that I must remind you, the administrator
of the King's justice, that  duels are against the law,  and that it is your
duty to hold an inquiry. I come as the legal  representative of the bereaved
mother of M. de Vilmorin to demand of you the inquiry that is due."
     The  door behind Andre-Louis opened  softly. M.  de  Lesdiguieres, pale
with anger, contained himself with difficulty.
     "You seek  to compel us, do you, you impudent rascal?" he growled. "You
think  the  King's justice is to  be driven  headlong by  the  voice of  any
impudent roturier? I marvel  at my  own patience with you. But I  give you a
last warning, master lawyer; keep a closer  guard over that insolent  tongue
of yours, or you will have cause very bitterly  to  regret its glibness." He
waved a jewelled, contemptuous hand, and spoke to  the usher standing behind
Andre. "To the door!" he said, shortly.
     Andre-Louis hesitated  a second. Then with a shrug he turned.  This was
the windmill, indeed, and he a poor knight of rueful countenance. To  attack
it  at  closer quarters  would  mean being  dashed  to  pieces.  Yet on  the
threshold he turned again.
     "M. de Lesdiguieres," said he, "may I recite to you an interesting fact
in  natural history? The tiger  is  a great lord in  the jungle, and was for
centuries the terror of lesser beasts, including the wolf. The wolf, himself
a hunter, wearied of being hunted. He took to associating with other wolves,
and  then the wolves, driven  to form packs for  self-protection, discovered
the power of  the  pack,  and  took to hunting  the  tiger,  with disastrous
results to him. You should study Buffon, M. de Lesdiguieres."
     "I have studied a buffoon this morning, I think," was the punning sneer
with which M. de Lesdiguieres replied. But that he  conceived himself witty,
it  is probable he would  not have condescended  to reply  at all. "I  don't
understand you," he added.
     "But you will, M. de Lesdiguieres. You will," said Andre-Louis,  and so
departed.

        CHAPTER VII. THE WINDII


     He had broken  his futile lance with the windmill - the image suggested
by M.  de Kercadiou persisted  in his mind -  and it  was, he perceived,  by
sheer good fortune that he had escaped without hurt. There remained the wind
itself  -  the  whirlwind.  And the  events in Rennes, reflex of the  graver
events in Nantes, had set that wind blowing in his favour.
     He set out briskly to retrace his steps towards the Place Royale, where
the gathering of the populace was  greatest,  where,  as he judged, lay  the
heart and brain of this commotion that was exciting the city.
     But  the commotion  that  he  had  left  there was  as nothing  to  the
commotion  which he  found on his return. Then there had  been a comparative
hush  to listen to the voice of a speaker who denounced the First and Second
Estates from the pedestal of the statue of Louis XV. Now the air was vibrant
with the  voice of the multitude itself, raised in anger. Here and there men
were fighting with canes  and fists; everywhere a  fierce excitement  raged,
and  the gendarmes  sent  thither by  the  King's Lieutenant  to restore and
maintain  order  were so  much helpless flotsam in  that  tempestuous  human
ocean.
     There  were  cries  of "To  the  Palais! To the Palais! Down  with  the
assassins! Down with the nobles! To the Palais!"
     An  artisan who  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder with  him  in  the press
enlightened Andre-Louis on the score of the increased excitement.
     "They've  shot him dead. His body is  lying there where it fell at  the
foot  of  the statue. And  there was another student killed not an hour  ago
over there by the cathedral works. Pardi!  If they can't prevail in  one way
they'll prevail in another." The man was fiercely emphatic. "They'll stop at
nothing. If  they can't overawe us, by God, they'll assassinate us. They are
determined  to conduct these  States  of  Brittany  in  their  own  way.  No
interests but their own shall be considered."
     Andre-Louis  left  him still talking, and  clove  himself a way through
that human press.
     At the statue's  base he  came upon a  little cluster of students about
the body of the murdered lad, all stricken with fear and helplessness.
     "You here, Moreau!" said a voice.
     He looked round to find himself confronted by a slight,  swarthy man of
little  more  than thirty,  firm  of  mouth  and  impertinent of  nose,  who
considered him with disapproval. It was Le Chapelier, a  lawyer of Rennes, a
prominent  member of the  Literary Chamber  of  that city,  a  forceful man,
fertile in revolutionary ideas and of an exceptional gift of eloquence.
     "Ah, it is  you, Chapelier! Why don't you speak to  them? Why don't you
tell them what to do? Up with you, man!" And he pointed to the plinth.
     Le Chapelier's  dark, restless eyes searched the other's impassive face
for some trace of the irony  he suspected. They were as wide  asunder as the
poles, these two,  in their political views;  and mistrusted as  Andre-Louis
was by all his colleagues  of the Literary Chamber of Rennes, he was by none
mistrusted so  thoroughly as by  this  vigorous  republican. Indeed, had  Le
Chapelier been able  to  prevail  against the influence  of  the  seminarist
Vilmorin, Andre-Louis would long since have found himself excluded from that
assembly of the intellectual youth  of  Rennes,  which he exasperated by his
eternal mockery of their ideals.
     So now Le Chapelier  suspected mockery in that invitation, suspected it
even when he  failed to find traces  of it on Andre-Louis' face, for he  had
learnt  by experience  that it was  a  face  not often to be trusted for  an
indication of the real thoughts that moved behind it.
     "Your notions and mine on that score can hardly coincide," said he.
     "Can there be two opinions?" quoth Andre-Louis.
     "There are usually two opinions whenever you and I are together, Moreau
- more than ever now that you are the  appointed delegate of a nobleman. You
see what your friends have done. No doubt you approve their methods." He was
coldly hostile.
     Andre-Louis looked at  him  without  surprise. So invariably opposed to
each other in  academic debates, how should Le Chapelier suspect his present
intentions?
     "If you won't tell them what is to be done, I will," said he.
     "Nom de  Dieu! If  you want to invite a bullet from  the other  side, I
shall not hinder you. It may help to square the account."
     Scarcely were the words out than  he repented them; for as if in answer
to that challenge Andre-Louis  sprang up on to the plinth. Alarmed  now, for
he could only suppose it to be Andre-Louis'  intention to speak on behalf of
Privilege, of which he was a publicly appointed representative, Le Chapelier
clutched him by the leg to pull him down again.
     "Ah, that,  no!" he was shouting. "Come down, you fool. Do you think we
will let you ruin everything by your clowning? Come down!"
     Andre-Louis,  maintaining his  position by clutching one of the legs of
the bronze horse, flung his voice  like a bugle-note over  the heads of that
seething mob.
     "Citizens of Rennes, the motherland is in danger!"
     The effect was  electric. A  stir ran, like a ripple over water, across
that froth of upturned human faces, and completest silence followed. In that
great silence they looked at this slim young man, hatless, long wisps of his
black  hair  fluttering  in the breeze,  his neckcloth in disorder, his face
white, his eyes on fire.
     Andre-Louis  felt  a  sudden  surge of  exaltation  as  he realized  by
instinct that at one grip he had seized that crowd, and that he held it fast
in the spell of his cry and his audacity.
     Even Le Chapelier,  though still  clinging to  his ankle, had ceased to
tug.  The  reformer,  though  unshaken  in  his assumption  of  Andre-Louis'
intentions, was for a moment bewildered by the first note of his appeal.
     And then, slowly, impressively, in a voice  that travelled clear to the
ends of the square, the young lawyer of Gavrillac began to speak.
     "Shuddering  in  horror  of  the  vile deed here perpetrated,  my voice
demands to be heard by you.  You have seen murder done under your eyes - the
murder of  one who  nobly, without any thought  of self,  gave voice  to the
wrongs by which we are all oppressed. Fearing that voice, shunning the truth
as foul things shun the light, our  oppressors sent their agents  to silence
him in death."
     Le  Chapelier released at last his hold of Andre-Louis'  ankle, staring
up at him  the  while in sheer amazement. It seemed that  the  fellow was in
earnest; serious for once; and for once  on the right side. What had come to
him?
     "Of assassins what shall you look for but  assassination? I have a tale
to tell which will show that this is no new  thing  that you have  witnessed
here to-day; it will reveal to  you the forces with which you have to  deal.
Yesterday... "
     There was  an interruption. A voice  in  the crowd, some twenty  paces,
perhaps, was raised to shout:
     "Yet another of them!"
     Immediately after the voice  came a pistol-shot, and a bullet flattened
itself against the bronze figure just behind Andre-Louis.
     Instantly there was turmoil in the crowd,  most intense about  the spot
whence  the  shot  had been  fired. The  assailant was one of a considerable
group  of the opposition, a group  that  found itself at once beset on every
side, and hard put to it to defend him.
     >From the  foot  of the plinth rang  the voice of the  students  making
chorus to Le Chapelier, who was bidding Andre-Louis to seek shelter.
     "Come  down! Come  down at once! They'll murder you as they murdered La
Riviere."
     "Let  them!" He flung wide his arms in  a gesture supremely theatrical,
and laughed. "I stand here at their mercy. Let them,  if they will, add mine
to the blood that will presently rise up to choke them. Let them assassinate
me.  It is a  trade they understand.  But until they  do  so, they shall not
prevent me from speaking to you, from  telling you what is to be  looked for
in  them." And again he laughed, not merely in exaltation  as they  supposed
who watched him from below, but also in amusement. And his amusement had two
sources.  One was to  discover how glibly he uttered the  phrases proper  to
whip up the emotions of a crowd: the other was in the remembrance of how the
crafty  Cardinal de Retz, for the purpose  of inflaming popular  sympathy on
his  behalf, had  been in  the  habit  of hiring  fellows  to fire upon  his
carriage. He was in just such case as that arch-politician. True, he had not
hired the fellow to fire that pistol-shot; but he was  none the less obliged
to him, and ready to derive the fullest, advantage from the act.
     The group that sought to protect that man was  battling on, seeking  to
hew a way out of that angry, heaving press.
     "Let  them  go!"  Andre-Louis called down... "What matters one assassin
more or less? Let them go, and listen to me, my countrymen!"
     And presently, when some measure  of order was restored,  he began  his
tale. In simple language now, yet with a vehemence and directness that drove
home  every  point,  he  tore  their  hearts  with  the story of yesterday's
happenings  at Gavrillac. He drew  tears  from  them with  the pathos of his
picture  of  the  bereaved  widow Mabey and her  three  starving,  destitute
children -  "orphaned to avenge the death  of a pheasant" - and the bereaved
mother of that M. de Vilmorin, a student of Rennes,  known here  to  many of
them, who had met his death in a noble endeavour to champion the cause of an
esurient member of their afflicted order.
     "The Marquis  de La Tour d'Azyr said of him that he had too dangerous a
gift of eloquence. It was to silence his brave voice that he killed him. But
he has failed of his object. For I, poor Philippe de Vilmorin's friend, have
assumed the mantle of his apostleship,  and I speak  to  you with his  voice
to-day."
     It  was a statement that helped Le Chapelier at last to understand,  at
least in part,  this bewildering change in Andre-Louis,  which  rendered him
faithless to the side that employed him.
     "I am not here," continued Andre-Louis, "merely to demand at your hands
vengeance upon Philippe de Vilmorin's murderers. I  am  here to tell you the
things he would to-day have told you had he lived."
     So far  at least he was frank. But he did not add that they were things
he  did not himself believe, things that  he accounted the  cant by which an
ambitious bourgeoisie - speaking through the mouths of the lawyers, who were
its articulate  part  - sought to overthrow to its own advantage the present
state of things. He left his audience in the  natural belief that  the views
he expressed were the views he held.
     And now in a  terrible voice, with an eloquence that amazed himself, he
denounced  the inertia  of  the  royal  justice  where  the  great  are  the
offenders.  It  was  with  bitter  sarcasm that  he  spoke  of  their King's
Lieutenant, M. de Lesdiguieres.
     "Do you  wonder,"  he asked  them,  "that  M.  de  Lesdiguieres  should
administer the law so that it shall ever be  favourable to our great nobles?
Would it be just, would it be reasonable that he should otherwise administer
it?" He paused dramatically to let his sarcasm sink in. It had the effect of
reawakening  Le Chapelier's doubts, and checking his  dawning  conviction in
Andre-Louis' sincerity. Whither was he going now?
     He was  not  left  long  in  doubt. Proceeding, Andre-Louis spoke as he
conceived  that  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  would have spoken. He had  so often
argued with him, so often attended the  discussions of the Literary Chamber,
that he had all the rant of the reformers - that was yet true in substance -
at his fingers' ends.
     "Consider, after all, the composition of this France of ours. A million
of  its  inhabitants  are members of  the  privileged classes. They  compose
France. They are France. For surely you  cannot suppose  the remainder to be
anything that matters. It cannot be pretended that twenty-four million souls
are of any account, that they can be representative of this great nation, or
that  they can exist for any purpose  but that  of servitude  to the million
elect."
     Bitter  laughter shook them now, as he desired it should. "Seeing their
privileges  in  danger of  invasion by these  twenty-four millions -  mostly
canailles; possibly created by God, it is true, but clearly so created to be
the slaves of Privilege - does it surprise you that the dispensing of  royal
justice  should be  placed  in the  stout hands  of these Lesdiguieres,  men
without brains to think  or hearts  to be touched? Consider  what it is that
must be defended against the assault of us others - canaille. Consider a few
of  these feudal rights  that are in  danger of being  swept away should the
Privileged  yield  even  to  the  commands of their sovereign; and admit the
Third Estate to an equal vote with themselves.
     "What would  become of the right of terrage on the land, of parciere on
the  fruit-trees, of  carpot on the vines? What of the corvees by which they
command forced labour,  of  the ban de  vendage, which gives them the  first
vintage, the banvin which enables them to control to their own advantage the
sale of wine? What of their right of grinding the last liard of taxation out
of  the  people  to  maintain  their  own  opulent  estate;  the  cens,  the
lods-et-ventes, which  absorb a fifth of the value of the land, the blairee,
which must be paid before herds can feed on communal lands, the pulverage to
indemnify  them for the dust raised on their roads by  the  herds that go to
market, the sextelage on everything offered for sale  in the public markets,
the etalonnage,  and all the rest? What of their rights over men and animals
for  field labour, of ferries over rivers, and  of  bridges over streams, of
sinking wells, of warren, of dovecot,  and of fire, which last yields them a
tax on every  peasant hearth? What  of their exclusive rights of fishing and
of hunting, the violation of which is ranked as almost a capital offence?
     "And what of other rights, unspeakable, abominable, over the  lives and
bodies of  their  people, rights which, if rarely exercised, have never been
rescinded. To this day if  a noble returning from the  hunt were to slay two
of his  serfs to bathe and  refresh his feet  in their blood, he could still
claim in his sufficient defence that it  was his absolute feudal right to do
so.
     "Rough-shod, these million Privileged ride over the souls and bodies of
twenty-four  million  contemptible  canaille  existing  but  for  their  own
pleasure. Woe  betide him who so much as raises his voice in  protest in the
name of humanity against an excess of these already excessive abuses. I have
told you of one remorselessly slain in cold  blood for  doing  no  more than
that. Your  own eyes have witnessed the assassination  of another here  upon
this plinth,  of  yet another over there  by the  cathedral works,  and  the
attempt upon my own life.
     "Between  them and  the justice due  to them in such cases  stand these
Lesdiguieres, these King's  Lieutenants;  not  instruments  of justice,  but
walls erected for the shelter of Privilege and Abuse whenever it exceeds its
grotesquely excessive rights.
     "Do you wonder that they will not yield  an inch; that they will resist
the election  of a Third Estate  with  the  voting power  to sweep all these
privileges  away,  to compel the Privileged to submit themselves  to a  just
equality in the  eyes  of the law  with  the meanest  of  the canaille  they
trample underfoot, to provide that  the moneys  necessary to save this state
from the bankruptcy into which they have all but plunged it shall  be raised
by taxation to be borne by themselves in the same proportion as by others?
     "Sooner  than yield to  so much  they  prefer to resist  even the royal
command."
     A phrase occurred to him used yesterday by  Vilmorin, a phrase to which
he had refused to attach importance when uttered then. He  used  it now. "In
doing this they are striking at the very foundations  of  the throne.  These
fools  do not perceive that  if that throne falls over, it is they who stand
nearest to it who will be crushed."
     A terrific roar  acclaimed that statement. Tense and quivering with the
excitement that  was flowing through  him, and from him out into that  great
audience,  he stood a moment  smiling ironically. Then  he  waved  them into
silence,, and saw by their ready obedience how completely he possessed them.
For  in the  voice  with  which  he spoke each now recognized  the voice  of
himself, giving at last expression to the thoughts that for months and years
had been inarticulately stirring in each simple mind.
     Presently he  resumed, speaking more  quietly,  that ironic smile about
the corner of his mouth growing more marked:
     "In taking my  leave of M.  de Lesdiguieres I gave him warning out of a
page of natural history. I told  him that when  the  wolves,  roaming singly
through  the  jungle, were weary of  being hunted by the  tiger, they banded
themselves into  packs, and  went a-hunting the  tiger in their  turn. M. de
Lesdiguieres contemptuously answered that he did not understand me. But your
wits are better than his. You understand me, I think? Don't you?"
     Again a great roar, mingled now with  some approving laughter, was  his
answer. He had wrought  them up to a  pitch  of dangerous  passion, and they
were ripe for any violence to which he urged them. If he had failed with the
windmill, at least he was now master of the wind.
     "To the Palais!" they shouted,  waving their hands,  brandishing canes,
and  - here  and  there  - even a sword. "To  the Palais!  Down  with  M. de
Lesdiguieres! Death to the King's Lieutenant!"
     He was master of the wind, indeed. His dangerous gift of oratory
     - a gift nowhere more powerful than  in France, since nowhere  else are
men's emotions so quick to respond to the appeal of eloquence
     - had given  him this mastery. At his bidding now the gale  would sweep
away  the windmill against which he  had flung himself in vain. But that, as
he straightforwardly revealed it, was no part of his intent.
     "Ah, wait!"  he bade  them. "Is this miserable  instrument of a corrupt
system worth the attention of your noble indignation?"
     He hoped his words would be reported to M.  de Lesdiguieres. He thought
it  would  be good for the soul of  M. de Lesdiguieres to hear the undiluted
truth about himself for once.
     "It  is the  system itself you  must attack  and overthrow; not a  mere
instrument - a  miserable painted  lath such  as this. And precipitancy will
spoil everything. Above all, my children, no violence!"
     My children! Could his godfather have heard him!
     "You have seen often already the result of premature violence elsewhere
in Brittany, and you have heard of it elsewhere  in France. Violence on your
part  will call  for  violence  on theirs.  They will welcome the  chance to
assert their mastery by a firmer grip than heretofore. The military will  be
sent for. You will be faced by the bayonets of  mercenaries.  Do not provoke
that, I implore you. Do not put it into their power, do not afford  them the
pretext they  would  welcome to crush  you down  into  the  mud  of your own
blood."
     Out of the silence into which they had fallen anew broke now the cry of
     "What else, then? What else?"
     "I  will  tell  you,"  he answered them. "The  wealth and  strength  of
Brittany  lies in  Nantes - a bourgeois city, one of the  most prosperous in
this realm, rendered so by the energy of the bourgeoisie and the toil of the
people.  It was in Nantes  that this movement had  its  beginning,  and as a
result  of  it  the  King issued his  order  dissolving  the  States as  now
constituted  - an order which  those who  base  their power on Privilege and
Abuse do  not hesitate  to thwart.  Let Nantes  be informed  of the  precise
situation, and let nothing be done here until Nantes shall have given us the
lead. She  has the  power - which  we in Rennes have not - to make her  will
prevail, as  we  have seen already. Let her exert that  power once more, and
until she does so do  you keep the peace in Rennes. Thus shall  you triumph.
Thus shall the outrages that are being perpetrated under  your eyes be fully
and finally avenged."
     As  abruptly as he had leapt upon the plinth  did he now leap down from
it. He  had finished. He had said  all - perhaps more than  all - that could
have been said by the dead friend with  whose voice he spoke. But it was not
their will that  he should  thus  extinguish  himself.  The thunder of their
acclamations  rose  deafeningly  upon the  air.  He  had played  upon  their
emotions - each in turn - as a skilful harpist plays upon the strings of his
instrument. And they  were vibrant with the passions he had aroused, and the
high note of hope on which he had brought his symphony to a close.
     A dozen students  caught  him as he leapt down, and  swung him to their
shoulders, where again he came within view of all the acclaiming crowd.
     The delicate  Le Chapelier pressed alongside of  him  with flushed face
and shining eyes.
     "My lad,"  he  said to him, "you  have kindled a fire to-day  that will
sweep the face of France in a blaze of liberty." And then to the students he
issued a sharp command. "To  the  Literary Chamber -at once. We must concert
measures  upon  the  instant,  a  delegate  must  be  dispatched  to  Nantes
forthwith,  to  convey  to  our friends  there the message of the  people of
Rennes."
     The crowd fell back, opening a lane through which the students bore the
hero of the hour. Waving his hands to them, he called  upon them to disperse
to their homes, and await there in patience what must follow very soon.
     "You have  endured for centuries with a fortitude that is a  pattern to
the  world,"  he flattered them.  "Endure a  little longer  yet. The end, my
friends, is well in sight at last."
     They carried him out  of the  square and  up the  Rue Royale to  an old
house, one of the few old houses surviving in that city that had risen  from
its  ashes, where  in  an  upper chamber lighted by diamond-shaped panes  of
yellow glass the Literary Chamber usually held its meetings. Thither  in his
wake the members  of that chamber came hurrying,  summoned  by the  messages
that Le Chapelier had issued during their progress.
     Behind  closed doors a flushed and excited group of some fifty men, the
majority of whom were young, ardent, and afire with the illusion of liberty,
hailed Andre-Louis  as the strayed sheep who had  returned  to the fold, and
smothered him in congratulations and thanks.
     Then they settled down to  deliberate  upon immediate  measures, whilst
the doors below were kept by a  guard  of  honour that had improvised itself
from the masses. And very necessary was this. For no sooner  had the Chamber
assembled  than  the  house  was  assailed  by  the  gendarmerie  of  M.  de
Lesdiguieres, dispatched in haste to arrest  the  firebrand who was inciting
the people of Rennes to sedition.  The  force  consisted of fifty men.  Five
hundred would have been too few. The mob broke their carbines, broke some of
their heads, and would indeed have torn them into pieces had they not beaten
a timely and well-advised retreat before  a form of horseplay  to which they
were not at all accustomed.
     And whilst that was  taking  place in  the  street  below, in  the room
abovestairs the eloquent Le  Chapelier was addressing his  colleagues of the
Literary  Chamber.  Here, with no bullets to fear, and no one to  report his
words  to the  authorities, Le  Chapelier could  permit his  oratory a full,
unintimidated flow. And  that considerable oratory  was as direct and brutal
as the man himself was delicate and elegant.
     He praised the vigour and the greatness of the  speech  they  had heard
from their colleague Moreau. Above all he praised its wisdom. Moreau's words
had  come as a surprise to them. Hitherto they had  never known him as other
than a bitter critic of their projects of reform and regeneration; and quite
lately they  had  heard,  not  without  misgivings,  of  his  appointment as
delegate for  a  nobleman  in the  States of  Brittany.  But  they held  the
explanation  of his conversion. The murder of their dear  colleague Vilmorin
had  produced this change. In that brutal deed Moreau had beheld at  last in
true proportions the workings of that evil spirit  which they were  vowed to
exorcise from France. And to-day he  had proven himself the stoutest apostle
among them  of the new faith. He  had pointed out to them  the only sane and
useful course.  The  illustration he had borrowed  from  natural history was
most  apt. Above  all,  let  them pack like the wolves,  and  to ensure this
uniformity of action in the people  of all Brittany, let a  delegate at once
be sent  to  Nantes,  which  had  already proved  itself  the  real seat  of
Brittany's power. It but remained to appoint that delegate, and Le Chapelier
invited them to elect him.
     Andre-Louis, on a bench near the window, a  prey now to some measure of
reaction, listened in bewilderment to that flood of eloquence.
     As the applause died down, he heard a voice exclaiming:
     "I propose to you that we appoint our leader here, Le Chapelier, to  be
that delegate."
     Le Chapelier reared his elegantly dressed head, which had been bowed in
thought,  and  it was seen that  his  countenance  was  pale.  Nervously  he
fingered a gold spy-glass.
     "My friends," he said, slowly, "I am deeply sensible of the honour that
you do  me. But in accepting it I should  be usurping an honour that rightly
belongs elsewhere.  Who  could represent us better, who more deserving to be
our  representative, to speak to  our  friends  of Nantes with  the voice of
Rennes, than the champion who once already to-day has  so incomparably given
utterance to the voice of this  great city? Confer this honour of being your
spokesman where it belongs - upon Andre-Louis Moreau."
     Rising in response to the storm of applause  that greeted the proposal,
Andre-Louis bowed and forthwith yielded. "Be it so," he said, simply. "It is
perhaps fitting that I should carry out what I have  begun, though I  too am
of the  opinion that Le Chapelier would have been a worthier representative.
I will set out to-night."
     "You will set out at once, my lad," Le Chapelier informed him,  and now
revealed what  an uncharitable  mind might  account the true source  of  his
generosity. "It is not safe  after  what has  happened  for you to linger an
hour in Rennes.  And you must go secretly. Let none  of you  allow it to  be
known that  he has gone.  I  would  not  have  you come  to harm over  this,
Andre-Louis. But you must see the risks you run, and if you are to be spared
to help in this  work of salvation of our afflicted motherland, you must use
caution, move secretly, veil your identity even. Or else M.  de Lesdiguieres
will have you laid by the heels, and it will be good-night for you."

        CHAPTER VII. OMNES OMNIBUSIII


     Andre-Louis rode forth from Rennes committed to a deeper adventure than
he  had dreamed of  when he left the  sleepy village of Gavrillac. Lying the
night at  a roadside inn, and setting  out  again early  in the  morning, he
reached Nantes soon after noon of the following day.
     Through  that long and lonely ride through the dull plains of Brittany,
now at their dreariest in  their winter garb, he  had ample leisure in which
to  review his actions and his  position. From one who had  taken hitherto a
purely academic and by no means friendly interest in the new philosophies of
social life, exercising  his  wits upon  these  new ideas merely as a fencer
exercises his eye and  wrist with the foils, without  ever suffering himself
to be deluded into supposing the issue a real one, he found himself suddenly
converted  into a revolutionary firebrand, commit