“Abbé, are you aware of the new order of the Minister of War?”
“I am not.”
“Be pleased to read this.”
As he read it, he grew pale. “Well?” said he.
“Well, the gendarmes of Haramont expect you to surrender your arms.”
The abbé sprang forward as if he would devour the National Guard.
Pitou, thinking it time to show himself, followed by his lieutenant and his sergeant, approached the abbé.
“Here are the gentlemen,” said the maire.
The abbé’s face was flushed.
“What! these vagabonds!”
The maire was a good-natured man, and as yet had no decided political opinions. He had no disposition to quarrel either with the Church or the National Guard.
The words of the abbé excited a loud laugh, and the maire said to Pitou:—
“Do you hear how he speaks of your command?”
“Because the abbé knew us when children, he fancies we can never grow old.”
“The children, however, have now grown men,” said Maniquet, reaching forth his mutilated hand towards the abbé.
“And these men are serpents,” cried the enraged abbé.
“Who will bite if they be trampled on,” said Sergeant Claude.
In these threats the maire saw all the future Revolution; and the abbé martyrdom.
“Some of your arms are needed,” said the maire, who sought to effect a reconciliation.
“They are not mine,” said the abbé. “Whose are they?”
“The Duke of Orléans’.”
“Well, that matters not,” said Pitou. “How so?” said the abbé.
“We desire you to deliver them up to us, all the same.”
“I will write to the duke,” said the abbé, majestically.
“The abbé forgets,” said the maire, in a low tone, “that if the duke were written to, he would reply that not only the muskets of his English enemies, but the artillery of his grandfather, Louis XIV. must be surrendered to patriots.”
The abbé knew that this was true.
“Circumdedisti me hostibus meis.”
“True, Abbé! but by your political enemies only. We hate in you only the bad patriot.”
“Fool!” said Fortier, with an excitement which inspired him with a certain kind of eloquence,—” fool, and dangerous tool! which is the patriot,—I, who would keep these arms for the peace of the country, or you, who would use them in rapine and civil war? Which is the better son,—I, who cultivate the olive of peace, or you, who would lacerate the bosom of France, our common mother, with war?”
The maire sought to conceal his emotion, and nodded to the abbé, as if to say:—
“Good!”
The adjunct, like Tarquin, cut down flowers with his cane.
Pitou was silenced.
The two subalterns saw it, and were surprised.
Sebastien, the young Spartan, alone was cool.]
He approached Pitou and said:—
“What is the matter, Pitou?”
Pitou told him in a few words.
“Is the order signed?” asked Sebastien.
“The order is signed,” answered Pitou, and he showed the minister’s, his father’s, and Lafayette’s signatures.
“Why, then, do you hesitate?”
Sebastien’s flashing eye, his erect form, showed clearly the two indomitable races from which he sprang.
The abbé heard his words, shuddered, and said:—
“Three generations oppose me!”
“Abbé,” said the maire, “the order must be obeyed.”
The abbé put his hand on the keys which were in the girdle that from monastic habit he yet wore, and said:
“Never! they are not mine, and I will not surrender them till my master orders me.”
“Abbé, Abbé!” said the maire, who felt compelled to disapprove.
“This is rebellion,” said Sebastien to the abbé. “Master, be careful!”
“Tu quoque,” said the abbé, like Cæsar folding his robe over his bosom.
“Be at ease, abbé,” said Pitou; “these arms will be in good hands for France.”
“Hush, Judas, you have betrayed your old master! Why will you not betray your country?”
Pitou felt his conscience prick him. What he had done was not at the instinct of a noble heart, though he had acted bravely.
He looked around, and saw his two subalterns apparently ashamed of his weakness.
Pitou felt that he was in danger of losing his influence.
Pride came to the assistance of this champion of the Revolution.
He looked up and said:—
“Abbé, submissive as I am to my old master, not unreplied to shall such comments be made.”