The Rainbow Bridge Read Free Page B

in the square. Mass was over, and both the villagers and visitors to the Summer Festival were milling about, wondering how to fill the time before the musicians would mount the stand below the statue and the dancing and revelries begin. A man detached himself from the crowd and climbed on to the platform. On his head was a bright red floppy cap, the bonnet rouge of the Revolution. He had a waist-length jacket of coarse blue material that opened in front to show a striped cotton waistcoat. Below this were trousers, rather than the stockings and breeches – or culottes – favoured by the aristocracy. This outfit had become the symbol of the Revolution, the dress of the common man in revolt against the aristocracy, and the wearers were known as sans-culottes.

    Down by the river, unaware of the growing excitement in the square, Jean Brouchard, the miller, stood on the bridge over the millrace, resting his large and comfortable frame against the rail, watching the water hurrying beneath him. Because it was Sunday, the mill was silent. Inside, the huge millstones rested on beds of corn that had been carefullyrun in just before the stones were stopped the night before. Tomorrow they would start again, with hardly a rumble, rolling easily on the hard grains. But the water in the millrace still flowed, and the huge waterwheel dipped and turned silently on its greased axle, bright curtains of water dropping from its paddles. Today Jean’s beard was black. On weekdays it was frosted grey with flour, and his upward curving eyebrows would support little drifts of white. He was slightly deaf from the continuous sounds of the mill, so he didn’t hear Lucien, his labourer from the mill, approach at a run.
    ‘Monsieur Brouchard … Monsieur Brouchard!’ The miller turned in surprise; Lucien rarely came near the mill on a Sunday. As an employee, Lucien was a mixed blessing. He was as strong as a horse, but he also had the inclinations of a colt, and was the heart-throb of all the village maidens. As a result, his mind was seldom where it should be – listening to the minute variations of sound that told how the stones were grinding. Jean raised his eyebrows. Lucien went on: ‘There is a Jacobin, an agent provocateur, addressing the people outside the church. You must come quickly!’
    Despite his relaxed appearance, Jean Brouchard was alert. A year and a half ago he had, with some reluctance, agreed to serve as the leader of the village Revolutionary Committee. It was his firm conviction that the Revolution was there to serve the people, rather than the people serving the Revolution, so he had called some meetings to resolve disputes and had spoken loudly and well for liberty, equality and fraternity, and had left it at that. He was, however, well informed. Carters and traders passed through the mill every day. He would sit them on the high stool in his tiny office, where the floor shook and the dust motes danced in the light from cobwebbed windows, and pretendto write in his ledger. As no one could overhear them here, his visitors talked freely. In this way Jean kept abreast of the news that circulated through the network of carters that stretched to the four corners of France.
    ‘Why do you call him an agent provocateur?’ he asked.
    ‘Because provoking is what he is doing. He’s working the people up and trying to get them to start a riot. He knows that the Count is to visit the winery today. He’s saying it’s a disgrace that the vineyard should be in the hands of one man, an aristocrat and a traitor. He says it should belong to us – the citizens – and that we must confront the Count and demand that the slopes be divided among us.’
    ‘And is anyone listening to him?’
    ‘The village people are laughing behind their hands. They know that there’s more to making wine than squeezing grapes into their mouths. But the visitors who have come in for the Summer Festival, and the migrant workers, they are