The Rainbow Bridge Read Online Free PDF

overlord like this. If the Count had difficulty in swallowing his pride, he didn’t show it. On cue, he took a step forward and threw up his arms. He had a deep voice, a strong voice, and he knew how to use it. He also had centuries of authority behind him, just as the listeners, many of them his tenants and labourers, had centuries of subservience. As he spoke, his voice swelled and what he had to say quelled their clamour. He told them about the Prussian invasion that, at that very moment, was taking place on French soil.
    ‘And you,’ he said, ‘you have the audacity to stand therecalling for wine!’ He turned to Gaston, who handed him the glass and then filled it to the brim. The Count raised the glass high in front of him. The mob stared up at him, mouths open, as if anticipating some pagan sacrifice.
    ‘This, my comrades, is the blood of Frenchmen. This is the blood of France that at this very minute is being spilled for you and for your country.’ He tipped the glass and after the first splash, let a slow thin stream of wine, red as blood, curve from the rim to spatter on the stone steps at his feet. ‘And what are you doing for France, what are you doing for the Revolution at this time of danger? I tell you, you are clamouring for wine so that you can wallow in it like pigs until you are insensible.’ With that, the Count dashed the last of the wine at their feet. He handed the empty glass to Gaston who stepped to one side and put it and the bottle down.
    Exposed by Gaston’s sudden move, Colette found herself looking out over the mob, her eyes blurred in denial. The mass swayed like headland corn in a breeze, a motley of fuzzy colours. Here and there were bright splashes of poppy red, the bonnets rouges, the caps worn by the Jacobins. Instinct told her that the day still hung in the balance. This was no benign field of corn she was seeing, it was a mob; at a nod it could advance and sweep them all off the steps. She could sense their energy building again, like a dammed stream ready to break its banks. Poor Father, she thought. Is this how he had felt? She wanted to close her eyes, but now Gaston had stepped forward. She stretched out feebly to stop him. He had been so proud of his new cadet’s uniform, and now it and he were going to be torn apart.
    Brouchard’s deep voice rang out again. ‘Come on, Toy Soldier. Tell us who you will be fighting for.’
    Colette’s eyes were riveted on Gaston. The shout was all the encouragement he needed. His head came up, he forced his shoulders back, and the boy became a man. He swept his arms wide, as if he wanted to gather the whole company together as one.
    ‘Allons, enfants de la Patrie! Come, children of the Nation.’ He shouted. ‘I will tell you who I will fight for!’ A tingle of excitement ran down Colette’s spine. She could feel the fine hairs on the outside of her arms beginning to rise. Then Gaston began to sing, and she heard for the first time the words of the tune he had been trying to remember all morning. His was a young voice, strong and true, and there was a passion behind it that moved them all.
    ‘Allons, enfants de la Patrie! Le jour de gloire est arrivé …’
    Gaston, head back, called on the children of the nation, telling them that their day of glory had arrived, and Colette’s heart swelled till it nearly burst.
    Her fears dissolved and she dared to look down at the mob … but where was the mob? The amorphous, threatening mass had dissolved. These were just ordinary country folk. Among the upturned faces she saw villagers that she knew by sight. Each and every one of them seemed to be reaching up to draw the song down into themselves. There was Nicole from the Boulangerie, and Jean and Luc, two friends who were employed in the winery. That red flag was none other than George Chélon, the blacksmith, delightedly waving his bonnet rouge on the end of a pike – the only weapon in sight. Now the tune was changing to the last glorious