Bab Bab 3 · THE ELOQUENCE OF M. DE VILMORIN

. THE ELOQUENCE OF M. DE VILMORIN

As they walked down the hill together, it was now M. de Vilmorin who

was silent and preoccupied, Andre-Louis who was talkative. He had

chosen Woman as a subject for his present discourse. He claimed--quite

unjustifiably--to have discovered Woman that morning; and the things he

had to say of the sex were unflattering, and occasionally almost gross.

M. de Vilmorin, having ascertained the subject, did not listen. Singular

though it may seem in a young French abbe of his day, M. de Vilmorin was

not interested in Woman. Poor Philippe was in several ways exceptional.

Opposite the Breton arme--the inn and posting-house at the entrance of

the village of Gavrillac--M. de Vilmorin interrupted his companion just

as he was soaring to the dizziest heights of caustic invective, and

Andre-Louis, restored thereby to actualities, observed the carriage of

M. de La Tour d’Azyr standing before the door of the hostelry.

“I don’t believe you’ve been listening to me,” said he.

“Had you been less interested in what you were saying, you might have

observed it sooner and spared your breath. The fact is, you disappoint

me, Andre. You seem to have forgotten what we went for. I have an

appointment here with M. le Marquis. He desires to hear me further in

the matter. Up there at Gavrillac I could accomplish nothing. The time

was ill-chosen as it happened. But I have hopes of M. le Marquis.”

“Hopes of what?”

“That he will make what reparation lies in his power. Provide for the

widow and the orphans. Why else should he desire to hear me further?”

“Unusual condescension,” said Andre-Louis, and quoted “Timeo Danaos et

dona ferentes.”

“Why?” asked Philippe.

“Let us go and discover--unless you consider that I shall be in the way.”

Into a room on the right, rendered private to M. le Marquis for so long

as he should elect to honour it, the young men were ushered by the host.

A fire of logs was burning brightly at the room’s far end, and by

this sat now M. de La Tour d’Azyr and his cousin, the Chevalier de

Chabrillane. Both rose as M. de Vilmorin came in. Andre-Louis following,

paused to close the door.

“You oblige me by your prompt courtesy, M. de Vilmorin,” said the

Marquis, but in a tone so cold as to belie the politeness of his words.

“A chair, I beg. Ah, Moreau?” The note was frigidly interrogative. “He

accompanies you, monsieur?” he asked.

“If you please, M. le Marquis.”

“Why not? Find yourself a seat, Moreau.” He spoke over his shoulder as

to a lackey.

“It is good of you, monsieur,” said Philippe, “to have offered me this

opportunity of continuing the subject that took me so fruitlessly, as it

happens, to Gavrillac.”

The Marquis crossed his legs, and held one of his fine hands to the

blaze. He replied, without troubling to turn to the young man, who was

slightly behind him.

“The goodness of my request we will leave out of question for the

moment,” said he, darkly, and M. de Chabrillane laughed. Andre-Louis

thought him easily moved to mirth, and almost envied him the faculty.

“But I am grateful,” Philippe insisted, “that you should condescend to

hear me plead their cause.”

The Marquis stared at him over his shoulder. “Whose cause?” quoth he.

“Why, the cause of the widow and orphans of this unfortunate Mabey.”

The Marquis looked from Vilmorin to the Chevalier, and again the

Chevalier laughed, slapping his leg this time.

“I think,” said M. de La Tour d’Azyr, slowly, “that we are at

cross-purposes. I asked you to come here because the Chateau de

Gavrillac was hardly a suitable place in which to carry our discussion

further, and because I hesitated to incommode you by suggesting that you

should come all the way to Azyr. But my object is connected with certain

expressions that you let fall up there. It is on the subject of those

expressions, monsieur, that I would hear you further--if you will honour

me.”

Andre-Louis began to apprehend that there was something sinister in the

air. He was a man of quick intuitions, quicker far than those of M. de

Vilmorin, who evinced no more than a mild surprise.

“I am at a loss, monsieur,” said he. “To what expressions does monsieur

allude?”

“It seems, monsieur, that I must refresh your memory.” The Marquis

crossed his legs, and swung sideways on his chair, so that at last he

directly faced M. de Vilmorin. “You spoke, monsieur--and however mistaken

you may have been, you spoke very eloquently, too eloquently almost, it

seemed to me--of the infamy of such a deed as the act of summary justice

upon this thieving fellow Mabey, or whatever his name may be. Infamy was

the precise word you used. You did not retract that word when I had the

honour to inform you that it was by my orders that my gamekeeper Benet

proceeded as he did.”

“If,” said M. de Vilmorin, “the deed was infamous, its infamy is not

modified by the rank, however exalted, of the person responsible. Rather

is it aggravated.”

“Ah!” said M. le Marquis, and drew a gold snuffbox from his pocket. “You

say, ‘if the deed was infamous,’ monsieur. Am I to understand that you

are no longer as convinced as you appeared to be of its infamy?”

M. de Vilmorin’s fine face wore a look of perplexity. He did not

understand the drift of this.

“It occurs to me, M. le Marquis, in view of your readiness to assume

responsibility, that you must believe justification for the deed which

is not apparent to myself.”

“That is better. That is distinctly better.” The Marquis took snuff

delicately, dusting the fragments from the fine lace at his throat. “You

realize that with an imperfect understanding of these matters, not being

yourself a landowner, you may have rushed to unjustifiable conclusions.

That is indeed the case. May it be a warning to you, monsieur. When

I tell you that for months past I have been annoyed by similar

depredations, you will perhaps understand that it had become necessary

to employ a deterrent sufficiently strong to put an end to them. Now

that the risk is known, I do not think there will be any more prowling

in my coverts. And there is more in it than that, M. de Vilmorin. It is

not the poaching that annoys me so much as the contempt for my absolute

and inviolable rights. There is, monsieur, as you cannot fail to have

observed, an evil spirit of insubordination in the air, and there is

one only way in which to meet it. To tolerate it, in however slight

a degree, to show leniency, however leniently disposed, would entail

having recourse to still harsher measures to-morrow. You understand me,

I am sure, and you will also, I am sure, appreciate the condescension

of what amounts to an explanation from me where I cannot admit that any

explanations were due. If anything in what I have said is still obscure

to you, I refer you to the game laws, which your lawyer friend there

will expound for you at need.”

With that the gentleman swung round again to face the fire. It appeared

to convey the intimation that the interview was at an end. And yet this

was not by any means the intimation that it conveyed to the watchful,

puzzled, vaguely uneasy Andre-Louis. It was, thought he, a very curious,

a very suspicious oration. It affected to explain, with a politeness of

terms and a calculated insolence of tone; whilst in fact it could only

serve to stimulate and goad a man of M. de Vilmorin’s opinions. And that

is precisely what it did. He rose.

“Are there in the world no laws but game laws?” he demanded, angrily.

“Have you never by any chance heard of the laws of humanity?”

The Marquis sighed wearily. “What have I to do with the laws of

humanity?” he wondered.

M. de Vilmorin looked at him a moment in speechless amazement.

“Nothing, M. le Marquis. That is--alas!--too obvious. I hope you will

remember it in the hour when you may wish to appeal to those laws which

you now deride.”

M. de La Tour d’Azyr threw back his head sharply, his high-bred face

imperious.

“Now what precisely shall that mean? It is not the first time to-day

that you have made use of dark sayings that I could almost believe to

veil the presumption of a threat.”

“Not a threat, M. le Marquis--a warning. A warning that such deeds as

these against God’s creatures... Oh, you may sneer, monsieur, but they

are God’s creatures, even as you or I--neither more nor less, deeply

though the reflection may wound your pride. In His eyes...”

“Of your charity, spare me a sermon, M. l’abbe!”

“You mock, monsieur. You laugh. Will you laugh, I wonder, when God

presents His reckoning to you for the blood and plunder with which your

hands are full?”

“Monsieur!” The word, sharp as the crack of a whip, was from M.

de Chabrillane, who bounded to his feet. But instantly the Marquis

repressed him.

“Sit down, Chevalier. You are interrupting M. l’abbe, and I should like

to hear him further. He interests me profoundly.”

In the background Andre-Louis, too, had risen, brought to his feet by

alarm, by the evil that he saw written on the handsome face of M. de La

Tour d’Azyr. He approached, and touched his friend upon the arm.

“Better be going, Philippe,” said he.

But M. de Vilmorin, caught in the relentless grip of passions long

repressed, was being hurried by them recklessly along.

“Oh, monsieur,” said he, “consider what you are and what you will be.

Consider how you and your kind live by abuses, and consider the harvest

that abuses must ultimately bring.”

“Revolutionist!” said M. le Marquis, contemptuously. “You have the

effrontery to stand before my face and offer me this stinking cant of

your modern so-called intellectuals!”

“Is it cant, monsieur? Do you think--do you believe in your soul--that

it is cant? Is it cant that the feudal grip is on all things that live,

crushing them like grapes in the press, to its own profit? Does it not

exercise its rights upon the waters of the river, the fire that bakes

the poor man’s bread of grass and barley, on the wind that turns the

mill? The peasant cannot take a step upon the road, cross a crazy bridge

over a river, buy an ell of cloth in the village market, without meeting

feudal rapacity, without being taxed in feudal dues. Is not that enough,

M. le Marquis? Must you also demand his wretched life in payment for the

least infringement of your sacred privileges, careless of what widows

or orphans you dedicate to woe? Will naught content you but that your

shadow must lie like a curse upon the land? And do you think in your

pride that France, this Job among the nations, will suffer it forever?”

He paused as if for a reply. But none came. The Marquis considered him,

strangely silent, a half smile of disdain at the corners of his lips, an

ominous hardness in his eyes.

Again Andre-Louis tugged at his friend’s sleeve.

“Philippe.”

Philippe shook him off, and plunged on, fanatically.

“Do you see nothing of the gathering clouds that herald the coming of

the storm? You imagine, perhaps, that these States General summoned

by M. Necker, and promised for next year, are to do nothing but devise

fresh means of extortion to liquidate the bankruptcy of the State?

You delude yourselves, as you shall find. The Third Estate, which you

despise, will prove itself the preponderating force, and it will find

a way to make an end of this canker of privilege that is devouring the

vitals of this unfortunate country.”

M. le Marquis shifted in his chair, and spoke at last.

“You have, monsieur,” said he, “a very dangerous gift of eloquence. And

it is of yourself rather than of your subject. For after all, what

do you offer me? A rechauffe of the dishes served to out-at-elbow

enthusiasts in the provincial literary chambers, compounded of the

effusions of your Voltaires and Jean-Jacques and such dirty-fingered

scribblers. You have not among all your philosophers one with the wit to

understand that we are an order consecrated by antiquity, that for our

rights and privileges we have behind us the authority of centuries.”

“Humanity, monsieur,” Philippe replied, “is more ancient than nobility.

Human rights are contemporary with man.”

The Marquis laughed and shrugged.

“That is the answer I might have expected. It has the right note of cant

that distinguishes the philosophers.”

And then M. de Chabrillane spoke.

“You go a long way round,” he criticized his cousin, on a note of

impatience.

“But I am getting there,” he was answered. “I desired to make quite

certain first.”

“Faith, you should have no doubt by now.”

“I have none.” The Marquis rose, and turned again to M. de Vilmorin, who

had understood nothing of that brief exchange. “M. l’abbe,” said he once

more, “you have a very dangerous gift of eloquence. I can conceive of

men being swayed by it. Had you been born a gentleman, you would not so

easily have acquired these false views that you express.”

M. de Vilmorin stared blankly, uncomprehending.

“Had I been born a gentleman, do you say?” quoth he, in a slow,

bewildered voice. “But I was born a gentleman. My race is as old, my

blood as good as yours, monsieur.”

From M. le Marquis there was a slight play of eyebrows, a vague,

indulgent smile. His dark, liquid eyes looked squarely into the face of

M. de Vilmorin.

“You have been deceived in that, I fear.”

“Deceived?”

“Your sentiments betray the indiscretion of which madame your mother

must have been guilty.”

The brutally affronting words were sped beyond recall, and the lips that

had uttered them, coldly, as if they had been the merest commonplace,

remained calm and faintly sneering.

A dead silence followed. Andre-Louis’ wits were numbed. He stood aghast,

all thought suspended in him, what time M. de Vilmorin’s eyes continued

fixed upon M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s, as if searching there for a meaning

that eluded him. Quite suddenly he understood the vile affront. The

blood leapt to his face, fire blazed in his gentle eyes. A convulsive

quiver shook him. Then, with an inarticulate cry, he leaned forward, and

with his open hand struck M. le Marquis full and hard upon his sneering

face.

In a flash M. de Chabrillane was on his feet, between the two men.

Too late Andre-Louis had seen the trap. La Tour d’Azyr’s words were but

as a move in a game of chess, calculated to exasperate his opponent into

some such counter-move as this--a counter-move that left him entirely at

the other’s mercy.

M. le Marquis looked on, very white save where M. de Vilmorin’s

finger-prints began slowly to colour his face; but he said nothing more.

Instead, it was M. de Chabrillane who now did the talking, taking up his

preconcerted part in this vile game.

“You realize, monsieur, what you have done,” said he, coldly, to

Philippe. “And you realize, of course, what must inevitably follow.”

M. de Vilmorin had realized nothing. The poor young man had acted upon

impulse, upon the instinct of decency and honour, never counting the

consequences. But he realized them now at the sinister invitation of M.

de Chabrillane, and if he desired to avoid these consequences, it was

out of respect for his priestly vocation, which strictly forbade such

adjustments of disputes as M. de Chabrillane was clearly thrusting upon

him.

He drew back. “Let one affront wipe out the other,” said he, in a dull

voice. “The balance is still in M. le Marquis’s favour. Let that content

him.”

“Impossible.” The Chevalier’s lips came together tightly. Thereafter he

was suavity itself, but very firm. “A blow has been struck, monsieur. I

think I am correct in saying that such a thing has never happened before

to M. le Marquis in all his life. If you felt yourself affronted, you

had but to ask the satisfaction due from one gentleman to another. Your

action would seem to confirm the assumption that you found so

offensive. But it does not on that account render you immune from the

consequences.”

It was, you see, M. de Chabrillane’s part to heap coals upon this fire,

to make quite sure that their victim should not escape them.

“I desire no immunity,” flashed back the young seminarist, stung by

this fresh goad. After all, he was nobly born, and the traditions of his

class were strong upon him--stronger far than the seminarist schooling in

humility. He owed it to himself, to his honour, to be killed rather than

avoid the consequences of the thing he had done.

“But he does not wear a sword, messieurs!” cried Andre Louis, aghast.

“That is easily amended. He may have the loan of mine.”

“I mean, messieurs,” Andre-Louis insisted, between fear for his friend

and indignation, “that it is not his habit to wear a sword, that he has

never worn one, that he is untutored in its uses. He is a seminarist--a

postulant for holy orders, already half a priest, and so forbidden from

such an engagement as you propose.”

“All that he should have remembered before he struck a blow,” said M. de

Chabrillane, politely.

“The blow was deliberately provoked,” raged Andre-Louis. Then he

recovered himself, though the other’s haughty stare had no part in

that recovery. “O my God, I talk in vain! How is one to argue against a

purpose formed! Come away, Philippe. Don’t you see the trap...”

M. de Vilmorin cut him short, and flung him off. “Be quiet, Andre. M. le

Marquis is entirely in the right.”

“M. le Marquis is in the right?” Andre-Louis let his arms fall

helplessly. This man he loved above all other living men was caught in

the snare of the world’s insanity. He was baring his breast to the knife

for the sake of a vague, distorted sense of the honour due to himself.

It was not that he did not see the trap. It was that his honour

compelled him to disdain consideration of it. To Andre-Louis in that

moment he seemed a singularly tragic figure. Noble, perhaps, but very

pitiful.