trouble and several bloody battles. How much more trouble, how many more insurrections Louis XVI would cause—even if he did not encourage counterrevolution, which was scarcely believable—was obvious. There would be no peace in France until Louis was either dead or restored.
“You look troubled, monsieur,” one of the men who frequented the inn remarked. “Do you pity the king?”
“I pity myself,” Roger said quickly, annoyed with himself for betraying more of his thoughts than he intended. “I am afraid there will be more violence and that it will spread to the countryside. I am an artisan, not an adventurer. I do not wish to be involved in these things.”
As he spoke, Roger suddenly realized that his involuntary expression of distress and the excuse he used to cover it had been most fortunate. He began to express himself more and more freely on his disapprobation of violence. He had left Cambrai, he complained, because of the threat of war. Yes, business was good for a gunsmith so close to the Belgian border, but dead men could not enjoy profits. Then he began to wonder aloud whether there was any place in France that would be safe.
“If you are so frightened,” the man who had asked why he was troubled remarked disdainfully, “perhaps you had better go back to England.”
Roger first looked at him as if he had turned green, then slowly, he allowed his expression to change. “I had never thought of it,” he exclaimed. “What a fool a man can be! One grows into a habit, a certain way of thinking, and it takes someone outside oneself to point out the obvious. Monsieur, you have done me a great service. Let me buy you a drink. Indeed, you are right! That is just what I will do. I will go back to England where I will be safe.”
The result of this announcement was really comical. Roger had considerable difficulty in keeping himself from laughing, instead painting an expression of uncomprehending hurt on his face. The man to whom he had offered the drink refused it curtly. The rest of the company withdrew from him. Even the innkeeper, who had been very pleasant to so well paying and uncomplaining a customer, grew very cold. Roger made one or two feeble attempts to rejoin the company, who now combined to shun a self-confessed “coward” and then he began to show signs of growing angry. At last, after seeming to seek to buy his way back into favor by offering to treat the whole group and being refused, Roger stalked stormily over to the innkeeper.
“It seems that my custom is not appreciated here anymore,” he said angrily. “Very well. I can take a hint.” He drew forth his purse. “I would leave tonight, only that I was fool enough to lend my horse and carnage to one of your fellow townsmen. Tell me what I owe I will not trouble you even for breakfast.”
In private the innkeeper would probably have changed his tune and tried to pacify so good a customer, but the eyes of the rest of the group were on him. He comforted himself with the consideration that Roger was about to move into a shop of his own in a few days anyway, and he coldly stated the charge. Roger paid and stamped angrily out, smothering his laughter until he was safely in his own room. Even there he laughed softly. It would not do to have the company guess how they had been used.
Perhaps the, device would not save Roger from being associated with the raid on the Hôtel de Ville, but it might. After the sentiments he had announced that evening, no one would be in the least surprised at his disappearance after a mob attack on the center of town government. Since he had paid his bill, the innkeeper would not complain or seek for him. It might even be possible, if it was necessary, for Roger to return openly to Saulieu. He need only avoid the inn and its environs. That is, Roger amended his thoughts with a new spurt of excitement, it would be possible if no one noticed him among the “mob”.
The next few hours were a terrible strain on
“You look troubled, monsieur,” one of the men who frequented the inn remarked. “Do you pity the king?”
“I pity myself,” Roger said quickly, annoyed with himself for betraying more of his thoughts than he intended. “I am afraid there will be more violence and that it will spread to the countryside. I am an artisan, not an adventurer. I do not wish to be involved in these things.”
As he spoke, Roger suddenly realized that his involuntary expression of distress and the excuse he used to cover it had been most fortunate. He began to express himself more and more freely on his disapprobation of violence. He had left Cambrai, he complained, because of the threat of war. Yes, business was good for a gunsmith so close to the Belgian border, but dead men could not enjoy profits. Then he began to wonder aloud whether there was any place in France that would be safe.
“If you are so frightened,” the man who had asked why he was troubled remarked disdainfully, “perhaps you had better go back to England.”
Roger first looked at him as if he had turned green, then slowly, he allowed his expression to change. “I had never thought of it,” he exclaimed. “What a fool a man can be! One grows into a habit, a certain way of thinking, and it takes someone outside oneself to point out the obvious. Monsieur, you have done me a great service. Let me buy you a drink. Indeed, you are right! That is just what I will do. I will go back to England where I will be safe.”
The result of this announcement was really comical. Roger had considerable difficulty in keeping himself from laughing, instead painting an expression of uncomprehending hurt on his face. The man to whom he had offered the drink refused it curtly. The rest of the company withdrew from him. Even the innkeeper, who had been very pleasant to so well paying and uncomplaining a customer, grew very cold. Roger made one or two feeble attempts to rejoin the company, who now combined to shun a self-confessed “coward” and then he began to show signs of growing angry. At last, after seeming to seek to buy his way back into favor by offering to treat the whole group and being refused, Roger stalked stormily over to the innkeeper.
“It seems that my custom is not appreciated here anymore,” he said angrily. “Very well. I can take a hint.” He drew forth his purse. “I would leave tonight, only that I was fool enough to lend my horse and carnage to one of your fellow townsmen. Tell me what I owe I will not trouble you even for breakfast.”
In private the innkeeper would probably have changed his tune and tried to pacify so good a customer, but the eyes of the rest of the group were on him. He comforted himself with the consideration that Roger was about to move into a shop of his own in a few days anyway, and he coldly stated the charge. Roger paid and stamped angrily out, smothering his laughter until he was safely in his own room. Even there he laughed softly. It would not do to have the company guess how they had been used.
Perhaps the, device would not save Roger from being associated with the raid on the Hôtel de Ville, but it might. After the sentiments he had announced that evening, no one would be in the least surprised at his disappearance after a mob attack on the center of town government. Since he had paid his bill, the innkeeper would not complain or seek for him. It might even be possible, if it was necessary, for Roger to return openly to Saulieu. He need only avoid the inn and its environs. That is, Roger amended his thoughts with a new spurt of excitement, it would be possible if no one noticed him among the “mob”.
The next few hours were a terrible strain on
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