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It was while the excitement of André
Vallon's homecoming was at its height, and the imagination of
the countryside stirred by his account of the heroism and endurance
of the national army, that Hector Talon took the opportunity of
recruiting half a dozen ruffians to fulfill that act of madness
ordered by Monseigneur by way of reprisals for the burning of
his granaries and his mill.
With ferocious spite he had already selected the cottage of Marianne
Vallon for the dastardly deed and chosen the day when André
himself was absent from Val-le-Roi, having gone to Nevers on business
of his own. He also selected another cottage close by, which was
the property of the widow Louvet, who had four children and a
small competence left to her by her husband, at one time a prosperous
farmer who, some time before his death, had fallen on lean days
and been forced, like so many others, to sell most of his land.
Those two cottages, then, isolated from the rest of the village,
had been marked by Talon for destruction. The six ruffians, whom
he had recruited in absolute secrecy and for a small sum from
one of the distant villages, arrived in the early morning armed
with sabres and bayonets, clad in cloth coat and breeches, and
wearing red caps on their heads. They proceeded first to one cottage
and then to the other, and summoned the women to clear out of
them at once. As they refused to move, the ruffians seized them
and the Louvet children and forcibly ejected them from their homes,
after which act of brutality, they set fire to the cottages. When
these were well ablaze they incontinently took to their hells,
and no one had set eyes on them since.
The news of the outrage spread like wildfire, and soon the entire
population of three villages flocked to the scene of the disaster.
Strange how rumour does travel in these lonely districts! The
firing of shops or stores, of granaries or timber sheds, were
of frequent occurrence these days, and usually the crowds that
gathered round the conflagrations were made up, in addition to
the ruffianly incendiaries, of a few young rapscallions intent
on mischief and some poor half-starved vagabonds - men and women
- who hoped to pick up something out of the wreckage. There were
also those who came to shout, "Vive la liberté!"
at the instigation of the professional tub thumpers, who took
the opportunity of egging the crowd to worse mischief still.
But in this case it was different. People came from Le Borne
and Vanzy, from Auberterre and Barbuise; for hours the road, the
lanes, the towpaths were dotted with dark figures hurrying to
the scene. Men in ragged shirts and shoeless; women in tattered
kirtles; children, half naked, clinging to their mother's hand;
but there were also the farmers from Aubeterre or Vanzy, who came
driving in their carts, and there was the lawyer from Le Creusot
in his carriole, and the leech from Barbuise, who was on his rounds.
For an hour or more the cottages were ablaze. They were stone-built,
with heavy wooden rafters and age-old beams, which were a ready
prey for the flames. There was very little wind, and the sky was
leaden. Great storm clouds, tinged now with crimson, came rolling
in from the west. Huge columns of smoke rose, writhing and twisting,
to the sky mingled with showers of spluttering, hissing sparks.
The men worked wonders, some of them risking their lives in a
heroic endeavour to save the women's goods. There had been a prolonged
drought since June and very little water in the wells, but many
men defied the flames while they dragged poor bits of furniture,
bedding, or clothing out of the blazing buildings. The women stood
round, staring wide eyed at this disaster which they could not
comprehend. It was so ununderstandable, meaningless, wanton. The
destruction of bourgeois or aristo property, yes! they
understood that well enough, because those that were well-to-do
were the enemies of the starving people of France - at least,
so the great orators up in Paris were never tired of dinning into
the ears of all and sundry. But cottages! the dwellings of the
poor, the home of a widow and of a mother of children! That was
beyond human comprehension.
The widow Louvet, with her children gathered about her knees,
was squatting by the side of the road up against the hedge with
a crowd of sympathizers all round her. She mostly had her apron
over her face, feeling, she said, quite unable to bear the sight
of that awful conflagration. She seemed quite incapable of lending
a helping hand, even in the simple effort of dragging her goods
out of the way of the crowd. When her apron was not over her face
she just stared in front of her, or else at her children, and
through quivering lips murmured agonizing, "Mon Dieu!"'s
and "Sainte Vierge!"'s. "What will become
of us now?"
But Marianne Vallon neither cried nor prayed. In her own quiet,
stolid way she did her share in endeavouring to rescue her goods.
She worked like a man: and when all her little bits of furniture
were in safety, she went over the Louvets' cottage and helped
in the work of salvage there.
"Voyons, Citoyenne Vallon," one of the men said
to her when she attempted to go too near the blazing building.
"Keep your distance. The place is dangerous."
She said nothing, only shook the men off who tried to restrain
her. There were the children's paillasses to get out of the way,
and their few bits of clothing. The men had gotten these out of
the cottage, but they were too near the fire still, and flying
sparks might set them alight.
"Take care, Citizeness Vallon!" the women shouted to
her. "Let the men do what they can."
Marianne was stooping at the moment. She had hold of a bundle
of bedding with both hands and was dragging it out of the way.
Her bulky shoulders were bent to the task: the scanty gray hairs
clung to her streaming face. The bedding was heavy and awkward
to handle, but so precious; so very precious, with all those poor
sickly children wanting to sleep comfortably o' nights.
"Take care, Citizeness Vallon!" the women screamed.
"It isn't safe!"
"Let the things be!"
"Take care!"
And the men all at once gave a terrific shout, "Out of the
way!"
One of them tried to get a hold of Marianne to drag her to safety,
but she was large and heavy and bulky, and she was bending to
her task, not seeing what was going on and heedless of the shouts
of warning.
And suddenly a sheet of fire came bursting from the cottage:
it was followed by a thunderous crash as the roof fell in, scattering
bits of wood, stones, and tiles in all directions.
A cry of horror rose from every throat, drowning the roar of
the flames, the hissing of sparks, the din of falling timber and
crumbling stones. Beneath a huge smouldering beam Marianne Vallon
lay, huddled up and lifeless, still clasping the bundle of bedding
in her arms.
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