"Here comes Citizen Vallon."

"No."

"I tell you 'yes.'"

"And he's driving like the devil!"

Instinctively the crowd had closed up right across the road, barring the way to the smouldering cottage and standing in a dense mass round the recumbent figure over which someone had reverently laid an old tattered shawl. The men had succeeded in moving away the beam and the bundle of bedding, and Marianne Vallon now lay on one of the paillasses which she had rescued from the flames: her hands had been folded across her ample bosom, and the thin gray hair smoothed away from the marble-like, wide forehead.

There was no other feeling in the heart of anyone there at this moment but intense pity for the bereaved son and an awed wonder as to what would happen next. Even such men as Tarbot, the ex-butcher of Vanzy, and Molé, the wheelwright, two of the most desperate ruffians the Revolution had engendered in any village, were silent and uncertain, and determined to delay as long as possible the terrible revelation that would bring such overwhelming grief to a devoted son. So they all stood like a solid phalanx, shoulder to shoulder, around that still and inert mass, while a carriole came rattling down the road, and a miserable nag, all skin and bones, thick with dust and lather, charged straight into them. It is very difficult to stand up to a charging horse and vehicle, even though the horse is but skin and bones: the crowd gave way, and André jumped down from the carriole. The men tried to restrain him, but with his one arm he shook them off and forged his way to where his mother law, with eyes closed, her hands folded across her bosom, her body covered with a shawl.

He was in the midst of a crowd, and he would not let them see what he felt. Not a word came through his lips, and the cry that had risen to his throat was smothered and deadened with a mighty effort of will. He knelt down beside his mother and, with his hand on her ice-cold forehead, he looked down on her face and listened. No need for the others to tell him. Death was all too plainly writ on those beloved features, so stark and set, and the slightly parted lips through which so many words of quiet philosophy had often passed in order to comfort and to calm him. The eyes were closed, and André bent down and kissed each rigid lid; the hands were folded as they had so often been in prayer when she had knelt beside his bed. Her heart was still - that great, big heart of hers in which there had never been room for hatred and bitterness.

Oh, no! There was no need for others to tell him. He knew the moment that the crowd parted and he saw her lying there with the tattered shawl over her that she was dead. A slight noise among the crowd, a sigh, no doubt, or a smothered sob, recalled him to the fact that there were others there. Very gently he drew the old shawl right over his mother's face, and then he rose to his feet. There was not a drop of blood in his cheeks: his face looked as pale as that of the dead woman at his feet, but in his eyes now there were smouldering flames of fury that would not be quenched save in revenge.

"What has happened?" he asked curtly.

A dozen voices were raised at once. Floods of eloquence so long held in check poured into his ears in full.

"The two cottages were fired."

"Six ruffians laid hands on the women."

"The widow Louvet and her four children are homeless."

"Your mother was killed in an endeavour to save some of the children's belongings."

"The roof fell in. A heavy beam knocked her down."

"She must have died instantly."

"Hold on!" André shouted, drowning the tumult with his stentorian voice. "Who fired the cottages?"

"Six ruffians there were-"

"In cloth coats and breeches-"

"And with shoes on their feet."

"Who saw them?"

The widow Louvet - she with the four children - had given up crying and moaning and staring into vacancy. The far greater tragedy of Marianne Vallon's death had put her own misfortune in the shade. Thus directly appealed to, she was ready to come forward with her tale. She had seen the six ruffians, of course: had they not turned her out, her and the children, out of her home, and at the point of their bayonets? She couldn't resist. What could she do? They had turned her out, and she was afraid the children would be hurt. Then the ruffians had set fire to her cottage. They had piled up straw in the middle of the kitchen floor and set it alight. Some of them stood by to see that the straw had caught on properly; the others went on to the house of Citizeness Vallon.

"Was no one about, then, to stop them?"

Apparently not. They all shook their heads. It had all been done so quickly.

"After that the reprobates took to their heels."

"And no one after them?"

Again they all shook their heads.

"Your mother tried to save the children's bedding-" the widow Louvet began dolefully, and suddenly paused, for the look in André's face was so terrifying that it froze the words on her lips.

"And I am not here," he murmured, "to tear their entrails out of their filthy bodies..." And suddenly he threw back his head and his glowing eyes searched the faces in the crowd.

"Can any of you guess," he asked quite quietly, "who is at the bottom of this?"

Not only had they guessed, but they knew. Had not Hector Talon - that double-faced hypocrite - had he not thrown out hints that more than a week ago that Marigny, up at the château, had threatened - nay, commanded - reprisals for the firing of his granaries? Some of them murmured the name of Talon, but André gave a harsh, scornful laugh.

"Talon?" he said. "Yes! We'll deal with Talon presently, for of a certainty he is in this villainy up to the neck. But," he went on more slowly, so that every word told and struck the ears of the crowd like the knell of an inevitable doom, "it is that devil up there who must account for to-day's infamy."

He paused a moment and then added:

"I am going up there, anyway, in order to make sure. Who comes with me?"

The response was unanimous. Indeed, it seemed as if a great sigh of relief went through the assembled crowd. Not only the men, but also the women. The sense of awe engendered by the magnitude of the catastrophe and the death of Marianne Vallon was beginning to wear away. There were men here who had begun to think of reprisals and who read in André's white, set face, in the almost tigerish fury in his glowing eyes, that passionate desire for revenge for which they themselves had so often thirsted. Men like Tarbot, the ex-butcher, and Molé, the wheelwright, had also brooded over the wrongs of their caste until they hungered for an opportunity to bring aristos to shame, or, better still, to the guillotine. They had seen around them such scenes of misery, humiliation, starvation, and tyranny that their hatred of tyrants and oppressors had turned to savage lust for the sight of blood.

There was no question here of philosophy or moderation.
How are you going to preach forgiveness and moderation to a starving crowd? There is no tongue sufficiently eloquent to find words that will pour the soothing oil of forbearance on a raging sea of rebellion. One Voice alone could do that, and did it nigh two thousand years ago, but to-day that Voice is still: It only speaks mutely from the Cross.

"Citizen Vallon," one of the men said decisively, "we will help you in your revenge."

André nodded in silence. He could not trust himself to say much. Not yet. There was always the fear of breaking down, of showing weakness which he was far from feeling. He hardly dared look on that so still form beneath the ragged shawl: the folded hands showed all too plainly, and the swell of the ample bosom against which he had so often as a child cried himself to sleep. No, indeed, he dared not look, for sobs threatened to choke him, and he might cry out his agony of grief. But he still had a task to accomplish, a duty to fulfill.

"A few sticks to make a stretcher," he said curtly.

"Where'll you take her, André?" one of the women asked.

"Back home."

"It is burnt to the ground."

"I know that."

They asked no further questions, for already André was busy breaking down branches of trees. The men helped: some of them had tools, others went to fetch what they could. A stretcher was soon improvised, and they lifted the dead woman on it. André and Tarbot, the ex-butcher, carried her to her ruined cottage, most of the others following.

Tarbot, looking down on the dead woman, asked:

"Where shall we put her?"

"In there," André replied.

They put the stretcher down, and André went deliberately up to the cottage door and started clearing away the charred débris which encumbered it. The other men lent a hand, and when the entrance had been cleared André and Tarbot went back to get the stretcher. They had just stooped to lift it when the Abbé Rosemonde was seen hurrying down the road. He had heard the news and came panting along as fast as his shaking limbs would carry him. He had tucked his soutane up round his waist: he was hatless, and his gray hair clung to his streaming forehead.

"I don't want to see him," André said abruptly. "Keep him away."

But the Curé forged his way resolutely through the crowd.

"André, my child," he cried panting, "I only just heard the news. I came as fast as I could."

André paid no attention to him. In silence, with the aid of Tarbot, he carried his burden into the ruined cottage.

"We'll lay her down here," he said, "until such time as-"

"André!" the old priest called.

"Go home, Citizen Curé," Tarbot said roughly. "Can't you see that you are not wanted here?"

He and André had taken the dead woman to the centre of what had once been her parlour. The floor was littered with rubbish. They cleared a place on which to deposit the stretcher. Above, through a wide, yawning gap in the roof, there was a vista of a leaden sky of gray clouds which hung, low and heavy, presaging the coming storm.

André collected what there was left of charred wood and spread it around the stretcher.

"Straw would be better," he muttered.

"What are you going to do, Citizen Vallon?" Tarbot asked.

The others had come to a halt all about the doorway. Behind them the old priest was still striving to elbow his way through the crowd. André drew his flint and steel out of his pocket and used them vigorously, trying to draw a spark. The men understood.

"Straw would be better," one of them said. Another added: "I know where to get some," and turned toward the road. This made a gap through the crowd, and the old priest pushed his way in.

"André!" he cried once more. "Your mother...!"

André paid no attention to him. He was busy with his flint and steel, trying to get little bits of wood alight. But the fire had done its work, the charred wood fell into ashes and would not burn.

"Young Legendre has gone to get straw," said one of the men.

"This is sacrilege," the old priest protested loudly. "André, in your dead mother's name..."

At this André looked up. "My mother is dead," he said roughly; "she doesn't want you."

"You may not want me, my child," the old priest retorted firmly, "but she would."

Then, as André said nothing more, only went on stolidly striking flint against steel, the Curé said forcefully:

"Remember, my son, that from above she can still see you; how think you she would view this awful sacrilege? Voyons! voyons, André," he went on more gently, "do not harden your heart in rebellion against the will of God. Let me come near the dear old soul, and we'll pray together that she may have eternal rest. She would have wished it, you know."

And though resentment and bitterness were tearing at André's heart, he knew that the priest was right. Old Marianne, could she have said the word, would have rebelled against this desecration of her body: she would have wished for Christian burial, to the accompaniment of prayer and the ministrations of the Church. To the end of her hard life she had remained a professing Christian, clinging to the simple beliefs of her youth, weeping over the godlessness of this new regime, over the spirit of rebellion which it had fostered in her André's heart, abhorring the tyranny of man which had brought so much misery on the poor people, yet bowing with quiet philosophy to the inscrutable will of God.

André knew all that. "She would have wished it, you know." The priest's words found an echo in his aching heart. For a few seconds still did he hesitate, did his pride war with his love for the dead. The others watched him in silence while the women wept. Here was something that was past their comprehension, something that awed and silenced them and for the time being made them forget their passions and their hatred. Then André, without another word, put his flint back into his pocket and rose to his feet. He stood aside, and when the priest knelt down beside the dead and began murmuring his prayers, he watched him silently for awhile and then walked quietly out of the cottage.