France -- History -- Revolution, 1789-1799 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
"Then that settles the matter," the Committee-man answered, with a
grim smile; and his little court smiled too. "After that, we certainly
cannot lose sight of M. le Vicomte."
And so well did he keep his word, that when, to avoid the cold that
began to pierce me, I went into the wretched inn, and sat down on the
hearth to think over the position, two of the yokels accompanied me;
and when I went out again, and stood looking distrustfully up and down
the road, two more were at my elbow, as by magic. Whether I turned
this way or that, one was sure to spring up, and, if I walked too far
from the house, would touch me on the arm, and gruffly order me back.
Mont Aigoual itself, lifting its crest, bleak, and stern, and cold,
above the valley, was not more sure than their attendance, or more
immovable.
This added to my irritation, and for a time I was like a madman.
Deluded by Madame St. Alais, and robbed by Froment--who, I felt sure,
had taken my place, and was now rolling at his ease through Suméne and
Ganges with my commission in his pocket--I strode up and down the
road, the road that was my prison, in a fever of rage and chagrin.
Madame's ingratitude, my own easiness, the villagers' stupidity, I
execrated all in turn; but most, perhaps, the inaction to which they
condemned me. I had escaped with my life, and for that should have
been thankful; but no man cares to be duped. And one day, two days,
three days passed; it froze and thawed, snowed and was fine; still,
while the carriage bowled along the road to Nîmes, and carried my
mistress farther and farther from me, I lay a prisoner in this
wretched hamlet. I grew to loathe the squalid inn, in which I kicked
my heels through the cold hours, the muddy road that ran by it, the
mean row of hovels they called the village. All day, and whenever I
went abroad, the clowns dogged and flouted me, thinking it sport; each
evening the Committee came to stare and question. A house this way, a
house that way, were my boundaries, while the world moved beyond the
mountains, and France throbbed; and I knew not what might be in hand
to separate Denise from me. No wonder that I almost chafed myself into
madness.
I had left my horse at Milhau, whence the landlord had undertaken to
forward it to Ganges within a couple of days, by the hand of an
acquaintance who would be going that way. I expected it every hour,
therefore, and my only hope was that its conductor might be able to
identify me, since half a hundred at Milhau had seen my commission, or
heard it read. But the horse did not arrive, nor any one from Milhau,
and fearing that the release of the two ladies had caused trouble
there, my heart sank still lower. I could not easily communicate with
Cahors, and the Committee, with rustic independence and obstinacy,
would neither let me go nor send me to Nîmes, where I could be
identified. It was in vain I pressed them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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