The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini
warning, sir . . . ” he was beginning.
“Act upon it, my friend. The gardes-champetres of M. d’Azyr have orders to fire on trespassers. Imitate me, and decamp.”
They followed him upon the instant through that gap in the hedge to the encampment on the common. There Andre–Louis took his leave of them. But as he was turning away he perceived a young man of the company performing his morning toilet at a bucket placed upon one of the wooden steps at the tail of the house on wheels. A moment he hesitated, then he turned frankly to M. Pantaloon, who was still at his elbow.
“If it were not unconscionable to encroach so far upon your hospitality, monsieur,” said he, “I would beg leave to imitate that very excellent young gentleman before I leave you.”
“But, my dear sir!” Good-nature oozed out of every pore of the fat body of the master player. “It is nothing at all. But, by all means. Rhodomont will provide what you require. He is the dandy of the company in real life, though a fire-eater on the stage. Hi, Rhodomont!”
The young ablutionist straightened his long body from the right angle in which it had been bent over the bucket, and looked out through a foam of soapsuds. Pantaloon issued an order, and Rhodomont, who was indeed as gentle and amiable off the stage as he was formidable and terrible upon it, made the stranger free of the bucket in the friendliest manner.
So Andre–Louis once more removed his neckcloth and his coat, and rolled up the sleeves of his fine shirt, whilst Rhodomont procured him soap, a towel, and presently a broken comb, and even a greasy hair-ribbon, in case the gentleman should have lost his own. This last Andre–Louis declined, but the comb he gratefully accepted, and having presently washed himself clean, stood, with the towel flung over his left shoulder, restoring order to his dishevelled locks before a broken piece of mirror affixed to the door of the travelling house.
He was standing thus, the gentle Rhodomont babbled aimlessly at his side, when his ears caught the sound of hooves. He looked over his shoulder carelessly, and then stood frozen, with uplifted comb and loosened mouth. Away across the common, on the road that bordered it, he beheld a party of seven horsemen in the blue coats with red facings of the marechaussee.
Not for a moment did he doubt what was the quarry of this prowling gendarmerie. It was as if the chill shadow of the gallows had fallen suddenly upon him.
And then the troop halted, abreast with them, and the sergeant leading it sent his bawling voice across the common.
“Hi, there! Hi!” His tone rang with menace.
Every member of the company — and there were some twelve in all — stood at gaze. Pantaloon advanced a step or two, stalking, his head thrown back, his manner that of a King’s Lieutenant.
“Now, what the devil’s this?” quoth he, but whether of Fate or Heaven or the sergeant, was not clear.
There was a brief colloquy among the horsemen, then they came trotting across the common straight towards the players’ encampment.
Andre–Louis had remained standing at the tail of the travelling house. He was still passing the comb through his straggling hair, but mechanically and unconsciously. His mind was all intent upon the advancing troop, his wits alert and gathered together for a leap in whatever direction should be indicated.
Still in the distance, but evidently impatient, the sergeant bawled a question.
“Who gave you leave to encamp here?”
It was a question that reassured Andre–Louis not at all. He was not deceived by it into supposing or even hoping that the business of these men was merely to round up vagrants and trespassers. That was no part of their real duty; it was something done in passing — done, perhaps, in the hope of levying a tax of their own. It was very long odds that they were from Rennes, and that their real business was the hunting down of a young lawyer charged with sedition. Meanwhile Pantaloon was shouting back.
“Who gave us leave, do you say? What leave? This is communal land, free to all.”
The sergeant laughed unpleasantly, and came on, his troop following.
“There is,” said a voice at Pantaloon’s elbow, “no such thing as communal land in the proper sense in all M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s vast domain. This is a terre censive, and his bailiffs collect his dues from all who send their beasts to graze here.”
Pantaloon turned to behold at his side Andre–Louis in his shirt-sleeves, and without a neckcloth, the towel still trailing over his left shoulder, a comb in his hand, his hair half dressed.
“God of God!” swore Pantaloon. “But it is an ogre, this Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr!”
“I have told you already what I think of him,” said Andre–Louis. “As for these fellows you had better let me deal with them. I have experience of their kind.” And without waiting for Pantaloon’s consent, Andre–Louis stepped forward to meet the advancing men of the marechaussee. He had realized that here boldness alone could save him.
When a moment later the sergeant pulled up his horse alongside of this half-dressed young man, Andre–Louis combed his hair what time he looked up with a half smile, intended to be friendly, ingenuous, and disarming.
In spite of it the sergeant hailed him gruffly: “Are you the leader of this troop of vagabonds?”
“Yes . . . that is to say, my father, there, is really the leader.” And he jerked a thumb in the direction of M. Pantaloon, who stood at gaze out of earshot in the background. “What is your pleasure, captain?”
“My pleasure is to tell you that you are very likely to be gaoled for this, all the pack of you.” His voice was loud and bullying. It carried across the common to the ears of every member of the company, and brought them all to stricken attention where they stood. The lot of strolling players was hard enough without the addition of gaolings.
“But how so, my captain? This is communal land free to all.”
“It is nothing of the kind.”
“Where are the fences?” quoth Andre–Louis, waving the hand that held the comb, as if to indicate the openness of the place.
“Fences!” snorted the sergeant. “What have fences to do with the matter? This is terre censive. There is no grazing here save by payment of dues to the Marquis de La Tour d’Azyr.”
“But we are not grazing,” quoth the innocent Andre–Louis.
“To the devil with you, zany! You are not grazing! But your beasts are grazing!”
“They eat so little,” Andre–Louis apologized, and again essayed his ingratiating smile.
The sergeant grew more terrible than ever. “That is not the point. The point is that you are committing what amounts to a theft, and there’s the gaol for thieves.”
“Technically, I suppose you are right,” sighed Andre–Louis, and fell to combing his hair again, still looking up into the sergeant’s face. “But we have sinned in ignorance. We are grateful to you for the warning.” He passed the comb into his left hand, and with his right fumbled in his breeches’ pocket, whence there came a faint jingle of coins. “We are desolated to have brought you out of your way. Perhaps for their trouble your men would honour us by stopping at the next inn to drink the health of . . . of this M. de La Tour d’ Azyr, or any other health that they think proper.”
Some of the clouds lifted from the sergeant’s brow. But not yet all.
“Well, well,” said he, gruffly. “But you must decamp, you understand.” He leaned from the saddle to bring his recipient hand to a convenient distance. Andre–Louis placed in it a three-livre piece.
“In half an hour,” said Andre–Louis.
“Why in half an hour? Why not at once?”
“Oh, but time to break our fast.”
They looked at each other. The