LA VENDÉE. 

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

THE POITEVINS

The history of France in 1792 has been too fully written, and toogenerally read to leave the novelist any excuse for describing the stateof Paris at the close of the summer of that year. It is known to everyone that the palace of Louis XVI was sacked on the 10th of August. Thathe himself with his family took refuge in the National Assembly, andthat he was taken thence to the prison of the Temple. 

The doings on the fatal 10th of August, and the few following days had, however, various effects in Paris, all of which we do not clearly tracein history. We well know how the Mountain became powerful from that day;that from that day Marat ceased to shun the light, and Danton to curbthe licence of his tongue that then, patriotism in France began tototter, and that, from that time, Paris ceased to be a fitting abode foraught that was virtuous, innocent, or high-minded; but the steady marchof history cannot stop to let us see the various lights in which theinhabitants of Paris regarded the loss of a King, and the commencementof the first French Republic. 

The Assembly, though it had not contemplated the dethronement of theKing, acquiesced in it; and acted as it would have done, had theestablishment of a republic been decreed by a majority of its members. The municipality had determined that the King should fall, and, ofcourse, rejoiced in the success of its work; and history plainly markingthe acquiescence of the Assembly, and the activity of the city powers, naturally passes over the various feelings excited in different circlesin Paris, by the overthrow of the monarchy. 

Up to that period there was still in Paris much that was high, noble, and delightful. The haute noblesse had generally left the country; butthe haute noblesse did not comprise the better educated, or most socialfamilies in Paris. Never had there been more talent, more wit, or morebeauty in Paris than at the commencement of 1792; never had literaryacquirement been more fully appreciated in society, more absolutelynecessary in those who were ambitious of social popularity. 

There were many of this class in Paris who had hitherto watched theprogress of the Revolution with a full reliance in the panacea it wasto afford for human woes; many who had sympathized with the earlydemands of the Tiers État; who had rapturously applauded the TennisCourt oath; who had taken an enthusiastic part in the fête of the Champde Mars; men who had taught themselves to believe that sin, and avarice, and selfishness were about to be banished from the world by the lightsof philosophy; but whom the rancour of the Jacobins, and the furiouslicence of the city authorities had now robbed of their golden hopes. The dethronement of the King, totally severed many such from therevolutionary party. They found that their high aspirations had been invain; that their trust in reason had been misplaced, and that theexperiment to which they had committed themselves had failed; disgusted, broken-spirited, and betrayed they left the city in crowds, and with fewexceptions, the intellectual circles were broken up. 

A few of the immediate friends of the King, a few ladies and gentlemen, warmly devoted to the family of Louis XVI, remained in Paris. At thetime when the King was first subjected to actual personal restraint, afew young noblemen and gentlemen had formed themselves into a privateclub, and held their sittings in the Rue Vivienne. Their object was toassist the King in the difficulties with which he was surrounded, andtheir immediate aim was to withdraw him from the metropolis; Louis' ownoft-repeated indecision alone prevented them from being successful. These royalists were chiefly from the province of Poitou, and as theirmeetings gradually became known and talked of in Paris, they were calledthe Poitevins. 

They had among them one or two members of the Assembly, but the clubchiefly consisted of young noblemen attached to the Court, or ofofficers in the body-guard of the King; their object, at first, had beento maintain, undiminished, the power of the throne; but they had longsince forgotten their solicitude for the King's power, in their anxietyfor his safety and personal freedom. 

The storming of the Tuilleries, and the imprisonment of Louis, completely destroyed their body as a club; but the energy of eachseparate member was raised to the highest pitch. The Poitevins no longermet in the Rue Vivienne, but they separated with a determination on thepart of each individual royalist to use every effort to replace theKing. 

There were three young men in this club, who were destined to play aconspicuous part in the great effort about to be made, in a portion ofFrance, for the restitution of the monarchy; their fathers had livedwithin a few miles of each other, and though of different ages, and verydifferent dispositions, they had come to Paris together since thecommencement of the revolution. 

M. De Lescure was a married man, about twenty-seven years of age, ofgrave and studious habits, but nevertheless of an active temperament. He was humane, charitable, and benevolent: his strongest passion was thelove of his fellow-creatures; his pure heart had glowed, at an earlyage, with unutterable longings for the benefits promised to the humanrace by the school of philosophy from which the revolution originated. Liberty and fraternity had been with him principles, to have realizedwhich he would willingly have sacrificed his all; but at thecommencement of the revolution he had seen with horror the successiveencroachments of the lower classes, and from conscience had attachedhimself to the Crown. Hitherto he had been without opportunity ofshowing the courage for which he was afterwards so conspicuous; he didnot even himself know that he was a brave man; before, however, hiscareer was ended, he had displayed the chivalry of a Bayard, andperformed the feats of a Duguescin. A perfect man, we are told, wouldbe a monster; and a certain dry obstinacy of manner, rather than ofpurpose, preserved de Lescure from the monstrosity of perfection. Circumstances decreed that the latter years of his life should be spentamong scenes of bloodshed; that he should be concerned in all thehorrors of civil war; that instruments of death should be familiar tohis hands, and the groans of the dying continually in his ears. Butthough the horrors of war were awfully familiar to him, the harshnessof war never became so; he spilt no blood that he could spare, he tookno life that he could save. The cruelty of his enemies was unable tostifle the humanity of his heart; even a soldier and a servant of therepublic became his friend as soon as he was vanquished. 

Two young friends had followed M. De Lescure to Paris--Henri deLarochejaquelin and Adolphe Denot. The former was the son of the Marquisde Larochejaquelin, and the heir of an extensive property in Poitou; M. De Lescure and he were cousins, and the strictest friendship had longexisted between the families. Young Larochejaquelin was of a temperamentvery different from that of his friend: he was eager, impetuous, warm-tempered, and fond of society; but he had formed his principles onthose of M. De Lescure. The love of his fellow-creatures was not withhim the leading passion of his heart, as it was with the other; buthumanity had early been instilled into him as the virtue most necessaryto cultivate, and he consequently fully appreciated and endeavoured toimitate the philanthropy of his friend. 

At the time alluded to, Henri de Larochejaquelin was not quite twentyyears of age. He was a lieutenant in the body-guard immediately attachedto the King's person, and called the "Garde du Roi. " At any otherperiod, he would hardly yet have finished his education, but therevolution gave a precocious manhood to the rising generation. Henri'sfather, moreover, was very old; he had not married till late in life;and the young Marquis, when he was only seventeen, had to take onhimself the guardianship of his sister Agatha, and the management of thepaternal property. The old man was unable to leave his chair, and thoughhe still retained his senses, was well pleased to give up to the son ofhis old age the rights and privileges which in the course of naturewould descend to him. 

Without being absolutely handsome, young Larochejaquelin was of a veryprepossessing appearance. He was tall and robust, well made, and active. Though he had not attained that breadth of shoulder, and expansion ofchest, which a few years would probably have given him, he had theperfect use of his limbs, and was full of health and youthful energy;his eyes were bright, and of a clear blue colour; his hair was light, and his upper lip could already boast that ornament which the then age, and his own position made allowable. He was a favourite with all whoknew him--more so even than his friend de Lescure; and it is saying muchin his favour to declare that a year's residence amongst all that wasbeautiful and charming in Paris, had hitherto done but little to spoilhim. 

Adolphe Denot was an orphan, but also possessed of a fair property inthe province of Poitou. He had, when very young, been left to theguardianship of the Marquis de La Rochejaquelin, and had at intervals, during his holidays, and after he had left school, spent much of histime at Durbellière, the family residence of the La Rochejaquelins. Henri had of course contracted a close friendship with him; but thisarose more from the position in which they were placed together, thana similarity of disposition. They were, indeed, very unlike; Adolphe wassomewhat older than the other, but he had neither his manliness ofmanner nor strength of character; he was more ambitious to be popular, without the same capacity of making himself so: he had as much romanticlove of poetical generosity, without the same forgetfulness of self toenable him to emulate in practice the characters, which he admired indescription; he had much veneration for poetic virtue, though but littlestrength to accomplish practical excellence. He had, on leaving school, proclaimed himself to be an ardent admirer of Rousseau; he had been awarm partizan of the revolution, and had displayed a most devotedenthusiasm to his country at the fête of the Champ de Mars. Latterly, however, the circles which he mostly frequented in Paris had votedstrong revolutionary ardour to be mauvais ton; a kind of modulatedroyalism, or rather Louis Seizeism, had become fashionable; and AdolpheDenot was not the man to remain wilfully out of the fashion. On the 10thof August, he was a staunch supporter of the monarchy. 

Adolphe Denot was a much handsomer man than his friend; his featureswere better formed, and more regular; he had beautifully white teeth, an almost feminine mouth, a straight Grecian nose, and delicately smallhands and feet; but he was vain of his person, and ostentatious; fondof dress and of jewellery. He was, moreover, suspicious of neglect, andvindictive when neglected; querulous of others, and intolerant ofreproof himself; exigeant among men, and more than politely flatteringamong women. He was not, however, without talent, and a kind of poeticfecundity of language, which occasionally made him brilliant in society;it was, however, generally speaking, those who knew him least who likedhim best. 

Larochejaquelin, however, was always true to him; he knew that he wasan orphan, without brother, sister, or relatives, and with the devotionof a real friend, he overlooked all his faults, and greatly magnifiedhis talents. For Henri's sake, M. De Lescure tolerated him, and thethree were therefore much together; they came from the same country;they belonged to the same club; they had the same political sympathies;and were looked upon as dear and stedfast friends. 

On the 10th of August, the King left the Tuilleries, and took refuge inthe National Assembly; during the greater part of the night he remainedthere with his family. Early on the following morning, he was removed, under a guard, to the Feuillants; and on the 12th it was decided thathe should be confined in the prison of the Temple. 

It was on the morning of the 12th, that the last meeting of the littleclub of the Poitevins took place. 

They met with throbbing hearts and blank faces; they all felt that evildays had come that the Revolution which had been so petted and caressedby the best and fairest in France, had become a beast of prey, and thatwar, anarchy, and misrule were at hand. 

They sat waiting on the morning of the 12th, till they should learn thedecision of the Assembly with regard to the King. De Lescure was therecalm and grave, but with much melancholy in his countenance. 

Larochejaquelin was there. Hot and eager, whispering plans for rescuingthe King, to which the less resolute hardly dared to listen. Charette, the Prince de Talmont, d'Autachamps, Fleuriot, and others, all of whomnow detested the Revolution, though they could not but feel the dangerof proclaiming themselves royalists. 

"Denot will be here directly, " said La Rochejaquelin; "he is at theAssembly--they are not apt to be very tedious in their decisions. "

"Danton has openly declared, " said Fleuriot, "that the armed sectionsshall remain in revolt, unless the Assembly decree the abolition of themonarchy. "

"Lafayette, " said the Prince, "is the only man now who could save thecountry--if Lafayette will move, he might still save the throne. "

"He could do nothing, " said d'Autachamps, "but add himself to theruins--the regiments, to a man, would side with the populace. "

"I don't know, " said Larochejaquelin, "I don't think so. See how ourSwiss fought--could any men be more true to their officers or theircolours? and do you think there are not thousands in the French army astrue, as brave as they? If Lafayette would raise his hand, I for onewould join him. "

"Wait, Henri, wait, " said de Lescure, "wait till you know whetherLafayette and the army will really be wanting to save the King. IfRoland be still firm, and Vergniaud true to his principles, they maystill quell the fury of the Jacobins----the moderate party has still alarge majority in the Assembly. "

"Roland and Vergniaud are both true, " said Fleuriot, "but you will find, de Lescure, that they can do nothing but yield or go--they must vanishout of the Assembly and become nothing--or else they must go with thepeople. "

"The people! How I hate that phrase, in the sense in which it is nowused, " said Larochejaquelin. "A mob of blood-thirsty ruffians wishes tooverturn the throne--but what evidence have we that the people wish it. "

"The people, Henri, have been taught to wish it, " said de Lescure. 

"No, Charles, the people of France have not been taught to wish it--withall the teaching they have had, they do not wish it--have they shewn anyfavour to the new priests whom the Revolution has sent to them; do theylove much the Commissioners, who from time to time, come among them withthe orders of the Assembly. Do the people in the Bocage wish it?--dothey wish it in the Marais, Charette?--do they wish it in Anjou andBrittany? Danton, Robespierre, and Tallien wish it--the mob of Pariswishes it--but the people of France does not wish to depose their King. "

"But unfortunately, " said d'Autachamps, "it is Danton, Robespierre, andthe mob of Paris who have now the supreme power, and for a time willhave their way--they who are wise will lie by till the storm has blownover. "

"And are we to remain quiet while we are robbed of every thing which weesteem as holy?" said Larochejaquelin; "are we all to acquiesce in thebrutality of such men as Danton, for fear the mob of Paris should be toostrong for us?"

"I for one, will not!" said Charette. 

"Nor I, " said Larochejaquelin--not while I have a sword to draw, and anarm to use it. You are silent, Charles--is a Republic so much to yourmind, that you have not a word, or even a wish for your King?"

"You are too talkative, Henri, " replied the other; "will it not be wellto think a little first before we proclaim definitively what we mean todo? We do not even know as yet in what position Louis XVI. May findhimself tomorrow--he may be more firmly seated on his throne than he hasbeen at any time since the Three Estates first met at Versailles. "

As he ceased speaking, the door opened, and Adolphe Denot entered, hotwith walking fast, and with his whole dress disordered by pushingthrough the dense masses of the crowd. 

"Speak, Adolphe, " said Henri, "have they decreed--has it come to thevote?"

"Are they still sitting?" said Fleuriot; "Danton, I am sure would nothave yielded so soon as this:--if the chamber be closed, he must havebeen victorious. "

"The King, " said Denot, pausing for breath, "the King is to be taken tothe Temple!"

There was a momentary silence among them all--their worst fears had beenrealized--the brute force of Paris had been triumphant. The firmness ofRoland, the eloquence of Vergniaud, the patriotism of Guadet had beenof no avail. The King of France--the heir of so long a line ofroyalty--the King, who had discarded the vices of his predecessors, andproved himself the friend of. The people, was to be incarcerated in theworst prison in Paris by the vote of that very Assembly which he hadhimself called into existence. 

"He is to be confined in the Temple, " continued Denot, "with the Queenand the two children. The populace are mad; they would kill him, if theycould lay their hands on him. "

"Where are your hopes now, Charles?" said Larochejaquelin. "Is it yettime for us to proclaim what we are--is it yet time for us to move? orare we to set still, until Danton enrolls us in his list of suspectedpersons?"

No one immediately answered the appeal of the hot young loyalist, andafter a moment or two de Lescure spoke. 

"Adolphe, did you hear the words of the decree?"

"Again and again, " said Denot. "I was at the door of the Assembly, andthe decree was known to the crowd the moment the votes had been taken. "

"But did you hear the exact words?"

"That Louis and his family should be imprisoned in the Temple, " answeredDenot. 

"Did they say the King, or did they call him by his name?" asked deLescure again. "Did they decree that the King should be imprisoned, orLouis Capet?"

As he spoke, the door again opened, and another member, who had beenamong the crowd, entered the room. 

"Gentlemen, " said he, "allow me the honour to congratulate you. Yon donot know your own happiness. You are no longer the burdened slaves ofan effete monarchy; you are now the vigorous children of a youngRepublic. "

"Vive le Roi, quand même, " said Larochejaquelin, standing up in themiddle of the room. "I am glad they have so plainly declared themselves;we are driven now to do the same. Prince, now is the time to stand byour King. Charette, your hand; our dreams must now be accomplished. Youwill doubt no longer, Charles. Prudence herself would now feel that wehave no longer aught to wait for. "

"No--we must delay no longer, " said Adolphe Denot. "A King is to besaved; every hour of delay is an hour of treason, while the King is inthe hands of his enemies. "

"A fine sentiment, Denot, " said d'Autachamps; "but how will you avoidthe treason?--how do you purpose to rescue his Majesty?"

"With my sword, " said Adolphe, turning round shortly. "Do you doubt mywill?"

"We only doubt your power, Adolphe, " said de Lescure. "We only fear youmay not be able to raise the standard of revolt against the armedsections of all Paris, backed by a decree of the Assembly. "

"I can at any rate die in the attempt, " replied Denot. "I cannot drawthe breath of life from the atmosphere of a Republic! I will not liveby the permission of Messieurs Danton and Robespierre. "

"Whatever we do, " said Fleuriot, "the club must be given up. We areknown to be friendly to the King, and we are too weak to stand ourground; indeed, we should only incur useless danger by meeting here"

"And waste the time which we may well employ in the provinces, " saidCharette. 

"You are right, Charette, " said Rochejaquelin, whom the wildness of hisfriend Denot had a little sobered. "You are quite right--Paris is nolonger a place for us. I will go back to the Bocage; there, at least, I may own among my neighbours that I am not a republican; there, perhaps, I may make some effort for my King--here I can make none. Youwill not stay in Paris, Charles, to hear unwashed revolutionists clatterof Louis Capet?"

"No, Henri, I also will return home. Charette is right. We should butwaste our time in Paris, and be in danger. We shall probably be insafety in Poitou. "

"Perhaps not in safety, " said Henri. "We may, I trust, soon be inaction. "

"How in action?" said Fleuriot. "What do you intend to do?"

"To follow any one who will lead me to assist in restoring the King tohis throne, " replied Henri. "Let us, at any rate, retire to ourprovinces; and be assured that the National Assembly will soon hear ofus. "

The club was broken up; the young friends met no more in the RueVivienne. Within a week from the 10th of August, the denizens of themunicipality had searched the rooms for any relics which might bediscovered there indicatory of a feeling inimical to the Republic; theirresidences also were searched, and there were orders at the barriersthat they should not pass out; but the future Vendean leaders had tooquickly appreciated the signs of the time; they had gone before therevolutionary tribunal had had time to form itself. They were gone, andtheir names for a season were forgotten in Paris; but HenriRochejaquelin was right--before long, the National Assembly did hear ofthem; before twelve months had passed, they were more feared by theRepublic, than the allied forces of England, Austria, and Prussia. 

CHAPTER II

ST. FLORENT

Nothing occurred in the provinces, subsequently called La Vendée, duringthe autumn or winter of 1792 of sufficient notice to claim a place inhistory, but during that time the feelings which afterwards occasionedthe revolt in that country, were every day becoming more ardent. Thepeople obstinately refused to attend the churches to which theconstitutional clergy had been appointed; indeed, these pastors hadfound it all but impossible to live in the parishes assigned to them;no one would take them as tenants; no servants would live with them; thebakers and grocers would not deal with them; the tailors would not maketheir clothes for them, nor the shoemakers shoes. During the week theywere debarred from all worldly commerce, and on Sundays they performedtheir religious ceremonies between empty walls. 

The banished priests, on the other hand, who were strictly forbidden toperform any of the sacerdotal duties, continued among the trees androcks to collect their own congregations undiminished in number, andmuch more than ordinarily zealous, in their religious duties; and withthe licence which such sylvan chapels were found to foster, denunciations against the Republic, and prayers for the speedyrestoration of the monarchy, were mingled with the sacred observances. 

The execution of Louis, in January, 1793, greatly increased theattachment which was now felt in this locality to his family. In Nantesand Angers, in Saumur, Thouars, and other towns in which the presenceof Republican forces commanded the adhesion of the inhabitants thisevent was commemorated by illuminations, but this very show of joy atso cruel a murder, more than the murder itself, acerbated the feelingsboth of the gentry and the peasants. They were given to understand thatthose who wished well to their country were now expected to show somesign of gratitude for what the blessed revolution had done forthem--that those who desired to stand well with the Republic shouldrejoice openly at their deliverance from thraldom. In fact, those wholived in large towns, and who would not illuminate, were to be markedmen--marked as secret friends to the monarchy--as inveterate foes to theRepublic--and they were told that they were to be treated accordingly. Men then began to congregate in numbers round the churches, and in thevillage squares, and to ask each other whether they had better not actas enemies, if they were to be considered as enemies; to complain oftheir increasing poverty and diminished comfort; and to long for thecoming time, when the King should enjoy his own again. 

The feeling with the country gentry was very generally the same as withthe peasantry, though hitherto they had openly expressed no oppositionto the ruling Government. They had, however, been always elected tothose situations which the leaders of the revolution had wished thepeople to fill exclusively with persons from their own ranks. They werechosen as mayors in the small towns, and were always requested to actas officers in the corps of the National Guards, which were formed inthis, as in every other district of France. On this account the peculiarill-will of the Republican Government was directed against them. InFrance, at that time, political inactivity was an impossibility. Revoltagainst the Republic, or active participation in its measures, was theonly choice left to those who did not choose to fly their country, andmany of the seigneurs of Anjou and Poitou would not adopt the latteralternative. 

In March, the Commissaries of the Republic entered these provinces tocollect from that district, its portion towards the levy of threehundred thousand men which had been ordered by the Convention. This wasan intolerable grievance--it was not to be borne, that so many of theiryouths should be forcibly dragged away to fight the battles of theRepublic--battles in which they would rather that the Republic shouldbe worsted. Besides, every one would lose a relative, a friend, or alover; the decree affected every individual in the district. Thepeasants declared that they would not obey the orders of theConvention--that they would not fight the battles of the Republic. 

This was the commencement of the revolt. The troops of the Republicwere, of course, put in motion to assist the officers who were entrustedwith the carrying out of the conscription. There were garrisons inNantes, in Anjou, and in Saumur; and detachments from these places weresent into the smaller towns and villages, into every mayoralty, toenforce the collection of the levy, and to take off with them thevictims of the conscription. Among other places, an attempt was made tocarry out the new law at St. Florent, and at this place was made thefirst successful resistance, by an armed force, to the troops of theConvention. 

St. Florent is a small town on the south bank of the Loire, in theprovince of Anjou, and at the northern extremity of that district, nowso well known by the name of La Vendée. It boasted of a weekly market, a few granaries for the storing of corn, and four yearly fairs for thesale of cattle. Its population and trade, at the commencement of thewar, was hardly sufficient to entitle it to the name of a town; but ithad early acquired some celebrity as a place in which the Republic wasknown to be very unpopular, and in which the attachment of the peopleto the throne was peculiarly warm. 

Here the work of the conscription was commenced in silence. The listswere filled, and the names were drawn. No opposition was shown to theemployé's in this portion of their unpopular work. Indeed, it appearsthat no organized system of opposition had been planned; but the firstattempt that was made to collect the unfortunate recruits upon whom thelots had fallen, was the signal for a general revolt. The first name onthe list was that of Peter Berrier; and had Peter Berrier intended toprove himself a good citizen and a willing soldier, he should, withoutfurther call, have attended that day at the temporary barracks which hadbeen established in St. Florent. But he had not done so, and there wasnothing wonderful or unusual in this; for on all occasions of the kindmany of the conscripts had to be sought out, and brought forth from thebosoms of their families, to which they retired, with a bashfuldiffidence as to their own peculiar fitness for martial glory. But inthis instance not one of the chosen warriors obeyed the summons of theConvention, by attending at the barracks of St. Florent. Not one of thethree hundred thousand men was there; and it was soon apparent to thecolonel in command of the detachment, that he had before him theunpleasant duty of collecting one by one, from their differenthiding-places, the whole contingent which the town of St. Florent wasbound to supply. 

Peter Berrier was the first on the list, and as it was well known thathe was an ostler at a little auberge in the middle of the square, acorporal and a couple of soldiers was despatched to the house ofentertainment to capture him; and the trio soon found that they wouldnot have far to search, for Peter was standing at the gate of the innyard, and with him three or four of his acquaintance--men equallywell-known in St. Florent. 

There was a sturdy farmer there of the better sort--a man who not onlyheld a farm near the town, but had a small shop within it, for the saleof seeds and tools for planting--his name was Foret--and it was saidthat no man in St. Florent was more anxious for the restoration of theKing. There was the keeper of the auberge himself, who seemed but littleinclined to find fault with his servant, for the contumacious manner inwhich he treated the commands of the Convention; and there was thewell-known postillion of St. Florent, the crack of whose whip was sowelcome from Angers to Nantes, the sound of whose cheery voice was sowarmly greeted at every hostelrie between those towns. The name ofCathelineau was not then so well known as it was some six monthsafterwards, but even then Cathelineau, the postillion, was the mostpopular man in St. Florent. He was the merriest among the mirthful, thefriend of every child, the playmate of every lass in the town; but hewas the comforter of those poorer than himself, and the solace of theaged and afflicted. He was the friend of the banished priest, and thetrusted messenger of the royalist seigneur; all classes adored him, savethose who sided with the Republic, and by them he had long been lookedon as an open and declared enemy. St. Florent was justly proud of itspostillion; and now that evil days were come upon the little town, thattheir priests were banished, and these young men called for to swell thearmies of the hated Convention, many flocked to Cathelineau to ask fromwhence he expected deliverance from all their troubles. 

It was well known that Peter Berrier was the first whom the Colonel'smyrmidons would be sent to seize, and many eyes were resting on thegroup collected at the gateway of the auberge, as the corporal and thetwo soldiers, without their muskets, but with pistols at their belts, marched across from the little barracks to the spot where they werestanding. At any rate, Cathelineau had not advised a retreat, for therestood Peter Berrier--prominent in the front of the group--a little paleto be sure, and perhaps rather uneasy in his attitude; but stillevidently prepared to bear the brunt of that day's proceeding. He wasnot going to run away, or he would long since have started. He was notgoing to obey the orders of the Convention, or he would not have stoodthere so openly and firmly, waiting the approach of the corporal and thetwo soldiers. It was very evident that there was to be a row in St. Florent that day, and that the postillion approved of it. 

As the military party drew near to the gate of the inn yard, thecorporal opened a small roll of paper, which he held in his hand, andstanding still about six paces distant from the spot where Peter wasmaintaining his ground, read or pretended to read, the following wordsfrom the piece of paper which he held in his hands:

"In the name of the French Republic, and by command of the Convention, you, Peter Berrier, having been duly, legally, and specially drawn, chosen, and selected by lot, to serve in the armies of the Republic forone year, from the date of your first bearing arms, or for so long asyour services may be necessary to the security of the Republic, arehereby required and desired to join the detachment of the Republicanarmy at present serving in St. Florent, without let, delay, orhindrance, and thereby show yourself a friend to your country, and agood citizen of the Republic. "

The corporal pronounced this form of invitation in that tone of voice, which proved that it was very familiar to him, and that he was much inthe habit of requesting good citizens to join the armies of the Republicfor such time as their services might be necessary; and, having finishedit, he rolled up the piece of paper, stuck it into his belt, as he mightsoon require the use of his hands, and, walking quite close up to thegroup, said--

"Come, Peter Berrier, you are not such a fool, I hope, as to intendgiving us any trouble. Come along. "

Peter looked first into the farmer's face; then to his master's; and, lastly, to the postillion's; and, seeing that they were all evidentlyfirm in their resolve, he plucked up spirit, and replied. --"Why, MrCorporal, I have no inclination just at present to go to fight for theRepublic. You see I have no quarrel yet with my master here, M. Debedin, and he cannot well spare me. I am afraid, Mr Corporal, I must decline. "

"That's nonsense, you know, " growled the corporal; "you must come, youknow; and as well first as last. I don't want to be uncivil to acomrade, and I'd be sorry to have to lay a hand on you. "

"Then you'd better keep your hands off, " said Cathelineau, "we quietpeople in St. Florent don't bear handling well. "

The corporal looked up at the postillion, but he soon saw that he wasn'tjoking. 

"Take my word for it, my friend, " continued Cathelineau, "Peter Berrierdoes not wish to be a soldier, and, if you force him to become one, itis not on the side of the Republic that he will be found fighting. "

"We'll take chances for that, " replied the corporal, not exactlyunderstanding what the other meant; "at any rate, back without him wewon't go; and if you're determined for a riot, Messieurs, why I'm sorry;but I can't help it, " and, appealing to Peter as a last hope, he said, "Come, Berrier, will you come with us quietly, or must we three drag youacross the square to the barracks. "

"At any rate, Mr Corporal, " said Peter, "I will not go with you quietly;as to the being dragged, I can say nothing about that yet. "

The corporal looked round towards the barracks, as he felt that it waspossible that he might want more assistance, and he saw that a body ofmen under arms was standing immediately in front of the building, andthat a couple of the officers were with them. The corporal saw at aglance that they were ready for immediate action, if their servicesshould be requisite. In fact, the colonel of the detachment well knewthe feeling in the place with reference to the levies of theconscription. He was sure, from the fact of not a single man havingattended at the barracks, as directed, that there existed some generaldetermination to resist the demands of the Convention, and he hadconsequently closely watched the proceedings of the corporal. 

"Take your answer, Mr Corporal, " said Cathelineau: "had Peter Berrierintended to have joined you. He would not have troubled you to comeacross the square to fetch him. In one word, he will not go with you;if as you say, you intend to drag him across the market-place, you willfind that you have enough to do. Peter Berrier has many friends in St. Florent. "

The corporal again looked round, and he saw that the men under arms nowstretched from the front of the barracks, nearly into the square; buthe also saw that the inhabitants of the town were standing clusteringat all the doors, and that men were crowding towards the square from thedifferent inlets. Four or five of the more respectable inhabitants hadalso joined the group in the gateway, from the hands of one of whom thepostillion quietly took a stout ash stick. The corporal, however, wasnot a coward, and he saw that, if he intended to return with PeterBerrier, he should not delay his work with any further parley, so hetook his pistol from his belt and cocked it, and, stepping quite closeto Berrier, said, "Come men--forward, and bring him off; one man to each shoulder, " andhe himself seized hold of the breast of Peter's coat with his left handand pulled him forward a step or two. 

Peter was a little afraid of the pistol, but still he resisted manfully:from the corporal's position, Cathelineau was unable to reach with hisstick the arm which had laid hold of Berrier, but it descended heavilyon the first soldier, who came to the corporal's assistance. The blowfell directly across the man's wrist, and his arm dropt powerless to hisside. The corporal immediately released his hold of Peter's coat, andturning on Cathelineau raised his pistol and fired; the shot missed thepostillion, but it struck M. Debedin, the keeper of the auberge, andwounded him severely in the jaw. He was taken at once into the house, and the report was instantaneously spread through the town, that M. Debedin had been shot dead by the soldiery. 

The ash stick of the postillion was again raised, and this time thecorporal's head was the sufferer; the man's shako protected his skull, which, if uncovered, would have probably been fractured; but he washalf-stunned, at any rate stupified by the blow, and was pulled aboutand pushed from one to another by the crowd who had now collected in thearchway, without making any further attempt to carry off his prisoner. 

The other soldier, when he saw his two comrades struck, fired his pistolalso, and wounded some other person in the crowd. He then attempted tomake his escape back towards the barracks, but he was tripped upviolently as he attempted to run, and fell on his face on the pavement. The unfortunate trio were finally made prisoners of; they were disarmed, their hands bound together, and then left under a strong guard in thecow-house attached to the auberge. 

This skirmish, in which Berrier was so successfully rescued, occurredwith greater rapidity than it has been recounted; for, as soon as thecolonel heard the first shot fired, he ordered his men to advance in atrot across the square. It took some little time for him to give hisorders to the lieutenants, and for the lieutenants to put the men intomotion; but within five minutes from the time that the first shot wasfired, about forty men had been commanded to halt in front of the hotel;they all had their muskets in their hands and their bayonets fixed, andas soon as they halted a portion of them were wheeled round, so that thewhole body formed a square. By this time, however, the corporal and thetwo soldiers were out of sight, and so was also Peter Berrier, forCathelineau considered that now as the man had withstood the firstshock, and had resolutely and manfully refused to comply with the orderof the Convention, it was better that he should be out of the way, andthat the brunt of the battle should be borne by his friends. Peter wasconsequently placed in the cow-house with the captives, and had thegratification of acting as guard over the three first prisoners takenin the Vendean war. 

Cathelineau and Foret, however, stood out prominently before the men whowere collected before the auberge, and had already taken on themselvesthe dangerous honour of leading the revolt. 

"Men of St. Florent, " said the colonel addressing the crowd, "I am mostreluctant to order the soldiers to fire upon the inhabitants of thetown; but unless you at once restore the three men who were sent overhere on duty, and give up the man, Peter Berrier, who has been drawn asa conscript, I will do so at once. "

"Peter Berrier is a free man, " said Foret, "and declines going with you;and as for your three soldiers, they have fired at and killed or woundedtwo inhabitants of the town--they at any rate shall be brought beforethe mayor, before they are given up. "

"Sergeant, " said the colonel, "take out six men and make prisoner thatman; if a rescue be attempted, the soldiers shall at once fire on thepeople, and on your own heads be your own blood. "

The sergeant and the six men instantly stepped out, but Foret wassurrounded by a dense crowd of friends, and the soldiers found itutterly impossible to lay hold of him. 

"Your pistols, sergeant; use your pistols, " roared the colonel, as hehimself drew one of his own from his holsters, and at the same time gaveorders to the men in the ranks to present their pieces. 

The sergeant followed by his six men, made a desperate dash into thecrowd with the object of getting hold of Foret; but in spite of thebutt-end of their pistols, with which the soldiers laid about them, theyfound themselves overpowered, and were barely able to make good theirretreat to the main body of the detachment; at the same time, a volleyof stones, brickbats and rough missiles of all kinds, descended on thesoldiers from every side, for they were now nearly surrounded; a stonestruck the Colonel's horse and made him rear: immediately afterwards, another stone struck himself on the side of the face, and nearlydismounted him. 

"Fire, " roared the Colonel, and the whole detachment fired at the samemoment; the soldiers fronting the auberge could not fire into the mobdirectly before them, or they would have run the risk of killing theirown comrades, who were still struggling there with the townspeople; andin this way, Cathelineau and Foret were saved, but the carnage allaround them was horrid; the soldiers had fired point blank into thedense crowd, and not a bullet had fallen idle to the ground. A terriblescream followed the discharge of musketry; the dying and the woundedliterally covered the space round the soldiers, but they were quicklydragged into the back ground, and their places filled by men who wereevidently determined that they would not easily be conquered. 

Another volley of stones was soon showered on the soldiers, and this waskept up with wonderful activity--the women and children supplied the menwith the materials--the stones in the streets were at once pickedup--old walls were pulled down--every article that would answer for amissile was brought into use; an iron pot, which had been flung withimmense violence by the handle, struck the second officer in command inthe face, and dashed his brains out. Immediately that either part of thesquare battalion was in any confusion, the people dashed in, andattempted to force the muskets from the hands of the soldiers; in somecases they were successful, and before the body had commenced a retreat, Foret and Cathelineau were both armed with a musket and bayonet. 

The colonel now saw that he could not maintain his position where hewas; he had not brought out with him the whole force of the garrison, though in all he had not above seventy or eighty men; but he had behindthe barrack a gun of very large calibre, properly mounted, with all thenecessary equipments and ready for service. Such a piece of artilleryaccompanied every detachment, and was kept in preparation for immediateuse at every military station; it had already been ascertained that thisafforded the readiest means of putting down revolt. He resolved, therefore, on retreating while he had the power for doing so, and gavethe necessary orders to the men. 

With great difficulty, but slowly and steadily, his men executed them:amidst showers of stones, and the now determined attack of the peoplethe soldiers returned to the barracks, leaving one of their officers, and one other man dead in the crowd; many of them were severely wounded;few, if any, had escaped some bruise or cut. The people now conceivedthat they were going to take refuge in the barrack, and determined todrive them utterly out of the town; but, as soon as the soldiers hadfiled into the barrack yard, another murderous fire was discharged bythose who had been left at the station. Then Cathelineau, who was stillin front of the crowd, and who was now armed with the bayonet, which hehad taken from the point of the musket, remembered the cannon, and hebecame for a moment pale as he thought of the dreadful slaughter whichwould take place, if the colonel were able to effect his purpose ofplaying it upon the town. 

"The cannon!" whispered he to Foret, who was still at his side; "theywill fall like leaves in autumn, if we don't prevent it. "

"Have they it ready?" said Foret. 

"Always, " said the other, "they have nothing to do but wheel it into thestreet; and they are at it, you hear the noise of the wheels thismoment. We must bear one discharge from it, and the next, if there bea second, shall fall upon the soldiers. "

Others, beside Cathelineau, recognized the sound of the movingwheels--and, the cannon, the cannon, they will fire the cannon on us, "was heard from side to side among the crowd; but none attempted to run, not one of the whole mass attempted to fly, and when the barrack gatesflew open, and the deadly mouth of the huge instrument was close uponthem, they rushed upon it, determined at any rate, to preserve theirhouses, their wives, and their children from the awful destruction ofa prolonged firing. 

"They must have one shot at us, " said a man in a trembling whisper tohis neighbour. "God send it were over!" replied the other, as the gatesof the barrack-yard were thrown back. 

The greater number of the soldiers and the two officers who had returnedwith them, made good their retreat into the barracks, under the fire oftheir comrades, who had been left there. Some three or four had beenpulled and hustled into the crowd, and their arms were quickly takenfrom them and they were sent back to the auberge as prisoners. Thecolonel, as soon as he found himself in his own quarters, gave immediateorders that the gun should be wheeled round to the barrack-yard gate, which had hitherto been kept closed, and that the moment the gates couldbe got open it should be fired on the crowd. These gates faced directlyinto the square, and the destruction caused by one shot would have beentremendous. The colonel, moreover, calculated that in the confusion hewould have been able to reload. The gun, in its original position, waspointed on the town, but it was immediately seen, that without movingit, it could not be brought to bear upon the crowd congregated round thebarracks. 

The first attack of the crowd had been at the barrack door, throughwhich the soldiers had retreated; but this was soon changed to the yardgates. The people, however, were unable to knock them down before thewheels of the cannon were heard, as they had been considerably checkedby the fire of the reserved party. Both soldiers and towns-people werenow anxious to face each other, and the gates soon fell inwards towardsthe military. Had the men at the gun had their wits about them theywould have fired through the gates; but they did not, they waited tillthey fell inwards across the cannon's mouth, and in his confusion theartillery-sergeant even then hesitated before he put the light to thetouch-hole. 

He had never time to do more than hesitate. Cathelineau had been closeup to the wooden gates, against which he was so closely pressed that hewas hardly able to change his bayonet from his right to his left-hand, and to cock the pistol which he had taken from the corporal, who hadcommenced the day's work. However, he contrived to do so, and when thewood-work fell, he sprang forward, and though he stumbled over thefragments of the timber, he fired as he did so, and the artillerysergeant fell dead beside the cannon; the unextinguished light wasimmediately seized by his comrade, but he had not time to use it; it wasknocked from his hand before it was well raised from the ground, and theharmless piece of cannon was soon entirely surrounded by crowds of thetownspeople. They were not content with spiking it in such a way as tomake it utterly impossible that it should be discharged; but theysucceeded in turning it entirely round, so that the back of the carriagefaced towards the town. 

The soldiers still continued the fight within the barrack-yard, and fromthe barrack windows; but they were so completely mixed with thetownspeople, that the officers were afraid to order the men to fire fromthe windows, least they should kill their own comrades. At last thecolonel himself was taken prisoner; he was literally dragged out of oneof the windows by the people, and soon afterwards the remainder of thetroops gave up. One of the three officers and six men were killed; therest were nearly all more or less wounded, and were all, withoutexception, made prisoners of war. 

Cathelineau and Foret had been in front of the battle all through; butneither of them were wounded. It was to Foret that the colonel had givenup his sword, after he had been dragged headforemost through a window, had had his head cut open with a brick-bat, and his sheath andsword-belt literally torn from his side. He had certainly notcapitulated before he was obliged to do, and the people did not like himthe worse for it. 

And now the unarmed soldiery, maimed and lame, with broken heads andbloody faces, were led down in triumph into the square; and after themwas brought the great trophy of the day, the cannon, with its awfulmouth still turned away from the town. Cathelineau and Foret led theprocession, the former still carrying his bayonet, for he had given upboth the musket and pistols to some one else, and Foret armed with theColonel's sword: they were fully recognized as the victorious leadersof the day. 

At the bottom of the square they met a whole concourse of women, thewives and sisters of the champions--among whom the sister and sweetheartof Peter Berrier were conspicuous; they had come out to thank thetownspeople for what they had done for them. With the women were two ofthe old curés of that and a neighbouring parish--pastors whom the decreeof the Convention had banished from their own churches, but whom all thepowers of the Convention had been unable to silence. To them this day'sbattle was a most acceptable sign of better days coming; they foresawa succession of future victories on behalf of the people, which wouldsurely end in the restoration of the Bourbons to the throne, and of theclergy to their churches. The curés shook hands warmly with those in thefront ranks of the people, gave their blessing to Cathelineau and Foret, and then invited the people, with one accord, to give thanks to God forthe great success which He had given them. 

In one moment the whole crowd were on their knees in the market-place, while the two priests stood among them with their arms raised, utteringthanksgiving to the Lord for his mercy, and praying for the eternalwelfare of those who had fallen in the affray. The soldiers of therepublic found themselves standing alone as prisoners in the midst ofthe kneeling crowd; they looked awkward and confused enough, but theycould not help themselves; they could not have escaped, even if they hadbeen unanimous in attempting to do so; for they were unarmed, and thepeople knelt so closely round them, that they could hardly move. It wasout of the question that they should also kneel, and join in thethanksgiving for having been so utterly beaten; so there they stood, their wounds stiffening and their blood running, till the priests hadfinished, and the people had risen. 

And then another ceremony was performed; the priests were besought tocome and bless the cannon, the first great trophy of the Royalistinsurrection; and they did so. The cannon was a lucky cannon, a kindcannon, and a good cannon--a bon enfant, and worthy to be blessed; ithad refused to pour forth its murderous fire against the inhabitants ofa town that was so friendly to the King. It was decidedly a royalistcannon; it had very plainly declared the side it meant to take; nothingbut miraculous interference on its own part could have prevented itshaving been discharged on he people, when it stood ready pointed on thetown, with the torch absolutely glimmering at the touch-hole. It hadbeen brought to St. Florent by republican soldiers, dragged byrepublican horses, and loaded with republican gunpowder; but it shouldnever be used except in the service of the King, and against the enemiesof the throne. 

And so the priests blessed the cannon, and the people baptized it, andcalled it Marie-Jeanne, and the women brought out their little children, and sat them straddle-legged across it, whole rows of them at the sametime, till the cannon looked like a huge bunch of grapes on which thefruit clustered thickly. By this time it was dark, and the peoplelighted huge bonfires through the town, and the children remained up, and as many as could cling on it still sat upon the cannon, and ropeswere got and fastened to it, and all the girls of St. Florent draggedMarie-Jeanne round the town, and at last she was dragged into the yardof the auberge, in front of which the fight had commenced, and there shewas left for the night, under a strong guard. 

While these rejoicings were going on out of doors, Cathelineau andForte, the two priests, and a few others--the wise men of the town--werecollected together within the auberge, and were consulting as to theirfuture proceedings. 

"We have done much, " said Cathelineau, "and I rejoice at it. Too much, a great deal, for us now to remain idle. We cannot go back. We are nowthe enemies of the Republic, and we must attack our enemies elsewhere, or they will attack and overwhelm us in our little town. "

They then determined that Cathelineau, on the next morning, shouldaddress the people from the window of the market-place, and thatafterwards he and Forte should go through the neighbouring country andimplore the assistance of the people, of the gentry, the priests, thefarmers, and the peasants, in opposing the hated levy of the Republicanforces; but first they would go to the gentry, and the names of manywere mentioned whom it was thought would be sure to join them. The firstwas that of Henri de Larochejaquelin, and the next that of his friendM. De Lescure. Who loved the people so well as they, and whom did thepeople love so truly? Yes, they would call on young Larochejaquelin andhis friend to be their leaders. 

Early on the morrow, the postillion addressed the people from themarket-place. He did not seek to himself the honour of doing so, nor, when he was asked to come forward as the leader of the people, did herefuse to do so. He was not covetous of the honour, but he would notrefuse the danger. During the whole of the combat every one had lookedto him as to the leader. He had not constituted himself the people'sgeneral, he had not for a moment thought of assuming the position; buthe as little thought of refusing the danger or the responsibility, whenthe duties of a general seemed, by the will of all, to fall to his lot. 

"Friends, " said he, addressing them from the market-house, "we havesaved ourselves for a while from the grasp of the Republic. But for thebattle of yesterday, every one here would have a brother, a son, or acousin, now enrolled as a conscript in the army of the Convention. Manyof yourselves would have been conscripts, and would have this morningwaked to the loss of your liberty. We did much yesterday when we boundthe hands of the soldiers; but we have much more to do than we have yetdone. Already in Nantes and in Angers are they talking of what weyesterday performed. We shall doubtless have many friends in Nantes andAngers, but the Republic also has many friends in those towns, and thesoldiers of the Republic are strong there. It will not be long beforethey hurry to St. Florent to avenge the disgrace of their comrades; andbitter will be their revenge if they take you unprepared. You havedeclared war against the Republic, and you must be prepared to fight itout to the end. "

"We will, we will, " shouted the people. "Down with the Republic--downwith the Convention. Long live the King--our own King once again. "

"Very well, my friends, " continued Cathelineau, "so be it. We will fightit out then. We will combat with the Republic, sooner than be carriedaway from our wives, our children, and our sweethearts. We will fightfor our own curés and our own churches; but our battle will be noholiday-work, it will be a different affair from that of yesterday. Wemust learn to carry arms, and to stand under them. You showed yesterdaythat you had courage--you must now show that you can join patience andperseverance to your courage. "

"We will, Cathelineau, we will, " shouted they "Tell us what we must do, Cathelineau, and we will do it. 

"We must see, " continued he, "who will be our friends and our allies. St. Florent cannot fight single-handed against the Republic. There areothers in Anjou, and Poitou also, besides ourselves, who do not wish toleave their homes and their fields. There are noblemen and gentlemen, our friends and masters, who will lead you better than I can. "

"No, no, Cathelineau is our general; we will follow no one butCathelineau. "

"You will, my friends, you will; but we need not quarrel about that. Forte and I, with Peter Berrier, will visit those who we think will joinus; but you must at once prepare yourselves. You must arm yourselves. We will distribute the muskets of the soldiers as far as they will go. You must prepare yourselves. If we do not at once attack the Republicanselsewhere, they will soon overwhelm us in St. Florent. We will go toCholet--the men of Cholet will surely second us--they are as fond oftheir sons and their brethren as we are. Cholet will join us, andBeaupréau, and Coron, and Torfou. We will go and ask them whether theyprefer the Republic to their homes--whether the leaders of theConvention are dearer to them than their own lords--whether their newpriests love them, as the old ones did? And I know what will be theiranswer. "

He ceased speaking, and his audience crowded around him to shake handswith him, and to bless him; and before the sun was in the middle of thesky he had left St. Florent on his mission, in company with Forte andPeter Berrier. 

CHAPTER III

DURBELLIERE. 

The château of Durbellière, the family seat of the Larochejacquelins, was situated in the very centre of the Bocage, between the small townsof Chatillon and Vihiers--in the province of Poitou, and about twelveleagues from St. Florent. 

It was a large mansion, surrounded by extensive gardens, and aconsiderable domain. There were few residences of more importance asbetokening greater wealth in the province of Poitou; but it was neithermagnificent nor picturesque. The landlords of the country were not menof extensive property or expensive habits--they built no costly castles, and gave no sumptuous banquets; but they lived at home, on theirincomes, and had always something to spare for the poorer of theirneighbours. Farming was their business--the chase theiramusement--loyalty their strongest passion, and the prosperity of theirtenantry their chief ambition. 

The château of Durbellière was a large square building, three storieshigh, with seven front windows to each of the upper stories, and threeon each side of the large door on the ground floor. Eight stone stepsof great width led up to the front door; but between the top step andthe door there was a square flagged area of considerable space; and onthe right hand, and on the left, two large whitewashed lions reclinedon brick and mortar pedestals. An enormous range of kitchens, officesand cellars, ran under the whole house; the windows opened into a lowarea, or rather trench, which ran along the front and back of the house, and to which there were no rails or palings of any kind. The servants'door was at the side of the house, and the servants and people comingto them, to save themselves the trouble of walking round to this door, were in the habit of jumping into the area and entering the kitchen bythe window. Doubtless some lady of the house, when the mansion was firstbuilt, had protested strongly against this unsightly practice; but habithad now accustomed the family to this mode of ingress and egress, andthe servants of Durbèlliere consequently never used any other. 

The back of the château was just the same as the front, the samewindows, the same broad steps, the same pedestals and the samewhitewashed lions, only the steps, instead of leading on to a largegravelled square, led into a trim garden. There were no windows, whatsoever, on one side of the house, and on the other only thosenecessary to light the huge staircase of the mansion. 

The rooms were square, very large, and extremely lofty; the salon alonewas carpetted, and none of them were papered, the drawing-room, thedining-room and the grand salon were ornamented with painted panels, which displayed light-coloured shepherds and shepherdesses in almostevery possible attitude. In these rooms, also, there were highlyornamented stoves, which stood out about four feet from the wall, toppedwith marble slabs, on which were sculptured all the gods and demi-godsof the heathen mythology--that in the drawing-room exhibited Vulcancatching Mars and Venus in his marble net; and the unhappy position ofthe god of war was certainly calculated to read a useful lesson to anyParisian rover, who might attempt to disturb the domestic felicity ofany family in the Bocage. 

The house was not above a hundred yards from the high road, from whichthere were two entrances about two hundred yards apart. There were largewooden, gates at each, which were usually left open, but each of whichwas guarded by two white-washed lions--not quite so much at ease asthose on the pedestals, for they were fixed a-top of pillars hardlybroad enough to support them. But this doubtless only increased theirwatchfulness. 

But the glory of the château was the large garden behind the house. Itwas completely enclosed by a very high wall, and, like the house, wasnearly square in its proportions. It contained miles of walks, and eachwalk so like the others, that a stranger might wander there for a weekwithout knowing that he had retraversed the same ground, were it notthat he could not fail to recognize the quaint groups of figures whichmet him at every turn. A few of these were of stone, rudely sculptured, but by far the greater number were of painted wood, and, like theshepherds and shepherdesses in the drawing-room, displayed every actionof rural life. You would suddenly come upon a rosy-coloured gentleman, with a gun to his shoulder, in the act of shooting game--then a girlwith a basket of huge cabbages--an old man in a fit of the cholic; thesame rosy gentleman violently kissing a violet-coloured young lady; and, at the next turn, you would find the violet-coloured young lady fastasleep upon a bank. You would meet a fat curé a dozen times inhalf-an-hour, and always well employed. He would be saying hisprayers--drinking beer--blessing a young maiden, and cudgelling a mulethat wouldn't stir a step for him, till the large yellow drops of sweatwere falling from his face. It was inconceivable how so many paintedfigures, in such a variety of attitudes, could have been designed andexecuted; but there they were, the great glory of the old gardener, andthe endless amusement of the peasants of the neighbourhood, who wereallowed to walk there on the summer Sunday evenings. 

The gardens of Durbellière were also wonderful in another respect. Itwas supposed to be impossible to consume, or even to gather, all thecherries which they produced in the early summer. The trees between thewalks were all cherry-trees--old standard trees of a variety of sorts;but they all bore fruit of some description or another, some sweet andsome bitter; some large, some small, and some perfectly diminutive; someblack, some red, and some white. Every species of known cherry was inthat garden in abundance; but even the gardener himself did not know theextent of the produce. Birds of all kinds flocked there in enormousnumbers, and banqueted gloriously during the summer. No one disturbedthem except the painted sportsman; and the song of the linnet and thethrush was heard all day, and that of the nightingale during the night. 

The old Marquis de Larochejaquelin had been crossed in love early inlife, and he had not recovered from his sorrow till he was above fifty, when he married, and outlived his young wife, who left him differentchildren. Henri and Agatha were the only two now living with him. As hasalready been said, the old man was very infirm, and had lost the use ofhis limbs. 

When the weather was cold or wet, he sat with his daughter, Agatha, nearhis bright wood fire, and watched her needle, or listened to her songs;but, if the sun appeared at all, he was dragged out in his garden chairamong the birds and the painted figures, and was happy in spite of hisinfirmities. 

He was most affectionate to his children, and indulgent to a fault. Hewas kind to every one, and, unless the birds were disturbed, thecherry-trees injured, or the figures upset, he was never angry even witha servant. Everybody loved and venerated the old Marquis, and even inhis foibles, he was thoroughly respected. He had a vast collection ofstuffed birds of every description, and the peasants round him were soanxious to gratify him by adding to his stock, that there began to bea doubt whether room in the château could be found for the presentswhich were continually brought. The upper story of the house had neverbeen required by the family, and the rooms had not even been roofed orplastered. One great partition wall ran across the space, and the onlyceiling was the bare high-pointed roof of the house. This place wascalled the granary, and was used for a drying ground. And here thesuperfluous birds were brought, much to the old man's grief, for he knewthat he should never see them again; but he could not refuse them whenthey were given to him, and the room which he inhabited wouldconveniently hold no more. 

The happiness of the last years of the old man's life was much disturbedby the events of the French revolution. He had been very anxious whenhe saw his young son join a club, which was sure to incur the ill-willof the ruling power in Paris; and yet he could not dissuade him fromdoing so; and, though he had rejoiced when his son returned to Poitoustill safe, the imprisonment of the King had woefully afflicted him, andhis death had nearly killed him. He had now expressed his opposition tothe levies of a conscription with a degree of energy which hadastonished his family. He knew the names and persons of every man andwoman living on his estate, indeed, of every child above the age of ten;and, when he was told the names of those who were drawn as conscripts, he desired that they might all be told in his name that he hoped theywould not obey. 

Henri de Larochejacquelin has already been introduced to the reader. Hereturned to Poitou as soon as the Republic was proclaimed, together withde Lescure and Adolphe Denot. Adolphe had been staying a great portionof the winter at Durbellière, but he had since gone to his own place, and was now at Clisson, the seat of M. De Lescure. 

Marie de Lescure, the sister of Henri's friend, was staying atDurbellière with Agatha Larochejaquelin; and her visit, which had beenprolonged from before Christmas, had certainly not been made lessagreeable by the fact of Henri's having been at home the whole time. Sheand Agatha were both pretty, but they were very different. Marie haddark hair, nearly black, very dark eyes, and a beautiful richcomplexion; her skin was dark, but never sallow; her colour was notbright, but always clear and transparent; her hair curled naturallyround her head, and the heavy curls fell upon her neck and shoulders;she was rather under the middle height, but the symmetry of her figurewas so perfect, that no one would have called her too short. She hadhigh animal spirits, and was always happy and good humoured; was veryfond of amusement of every kind, and able to extract amusement out ofeverything. She was the great favourite of the old Marquis, not that heloved her so well as his own daughter, but her habits and manners suitedhim better than Agatha's; she could better sympathize with the old man'swishes and fancies; she would smooth the plumage of his birds for him;arrange and re-arrange his shells; feed his cats, his dogs, his tamedeer, and his white peacock--for the old Marquis had live pets as wellas dead favourites. Then she would sing merry little songs to him, andlaugh at him, and quiz his painted figures, and help to wheel his chair, or pretend to do so. 

She did all these things more readily than Agatha did, for her spiritswere lighter. Not that Agatha was unhappy, or inattentive to her father;but she was quieter than Marie and of a more contemplative mood. Shealso had dark hair, but it was a dark brown, and she wore it braidedclose to her forehead. Her complexion was clear and bright, her foreheadwas white, and the colour in her cheeks, when she had colour there, wasthat of the clearest carnation. She was considerably taller than Marie, but her figure was exquisitely perfect, and her gait was that of aqueen. She was the Rose of Poitou, the beauty and queen of the wholedistrict. She was all but worshipped by the peasantry around her; ifthey admired her beauty much, they much more strongly appreciated hervirtues, her charity, her considerate kindness, her want of selfishness, her devotion to her friends and neighbours, and lastly, her strongfeeling of loyalty, her love for the king while he lived, and herpassionate regret for him since he had perished on the scaffold. In thisshe inherited all the feelings of her father, and it was greatly herattachment to the throne and to the name of the King, which led to sohigh a pitch the enthusiasm of the peasantry in behalf of the royalists. 

Many wishes, surmises and anticipations had arisen as to who was tocarry off this rich prize; who should be the happy husband of AgathaLarochejaquelin; but her friends had hitherto been anxious in vain; shestill went "in maiden meditation fancy free. " Not that she was withoutprofessed admirers; but they had none of them yet touched her heart. Many thought that she would be the bride of her brother's friend, Adolphe Denot; for he was more at the château than any one else, wasvery handsome, and had a good property. Adolphe was moreover seen to bevery attentive to Mademoiselle Agatha; and thrown so much with her ashe was, how could he fail of being in love with her. 

This belief much disturbed the comfort of Agatha's humble friends, forAdolphe Denot was not popular among them: there was a haughtiness in hismanner to the poor, to which their own lords and masters had neveraccustomed them. He was supercilious and proud in his bearing towardsthem, and had none of the cheering, frank look and tone of their owndear young M. Henri. They need not, however, have been alarmed, forAgatha Larochejaquelin was not at all disposed to take Adolphe Denot asher lord; she was passionately attached to her brother, and for his sakeshe had been kind, attentive, nay, almost affectionate to his friend;she and Adolphe had been much together since they were children. He hadbeen absent from Durbellière for about a year, during which time, he hadceased to be a boy, and on his return to the château had taken onhimself the airs, if not the manners of a man. Agatha's manner to himwas not altered, it was still friendly and affectionate, and Adolphe, with his usual vanity, misinterpreted it; he flattered himself that thebeautiful girl loved him, and he soon persuaded himself that he wasdevotedly attached to her. 

He had not yet positively declared his love, but Agatha felt from hismanner that she had to expect a declaration, and she consequentlyaltered her own; she became less familiar with him, she avoided allopportunities of being alone with him; she still called him by hisChristian name, for she had always done so; she was still kind andattentive to him, for he was a guest in her father's house; but Adolphefelt that she was altered, and he became angry and moody; he thoughtthat she was coquetting and that he was slighted; and without muchnotice to any one, he left the house. 

Agatha was glad that he was gone; she wished to spare him thehumiliation of a refusal; she understood his character well, and feltthat the wound inflicted on his self-love, by being rejected, would bemore painful to him than his actual disappointment; she knew thatAdolphe would not die for love, but she also knew that he would notquietly bear the fancied slight of unreturned affection. If, by herconduct, she could induce him to change his own, to drop the lover, andbe to her again simply her brother's friend, all might yet be well; butif he persevered and declared his love, she felt that there would be aquarrel, not only between him and her, but between him and Henri. 

To tell the truth, Henri had rather fostered his friend's passion forAgatha. He had wished to see them married; and, though he had notexactly told his friend as much, he had said so much that both Agathaand Denot knew what his wishes were. This, of course, gave greatencouragement to the lover, but it greatly grieved poor Agatha; and nowthat Adolphe was gone, she made up her mind to open her heart to herbrother. 

A day or two before the revolt of St. Florent, they were sittingtogether in the drawing-room; it was late in the evening, the oldMarquis had retired for the night, and Marie de Lescure was engagedelsewhere, so that Agatha and her brother were left alone together. Hewas reading, but she was sitting gazing at the fire. She could hardlysummon up courage to say, even to her dear brother, what she wished tosay. 

"Henri, " she said at last, "does Adolphe return here from Fleury?"(Fleury was the name of Denot's house). 

"I hope he will, " said Henri; "but what makes you ask? the place is dullwithout him, isn't it?"

"Dull! you don't find Marie dull, do you, Henri?"

"Oh, Marie!" said he, laughing, "Marie amuses our father, and she charmsme; but. You might find the house dull, in spite of Marie--eh, Agatha?"

"Indeed no, Henri; the house was not dull even when you were in Paris, and Marie was at Clisson, and papa and I were alone together here; itwas not my being dull made me ask whether Adolphe was to return. "

"But you wouldn't be sorry that he should come back, Agatha? You don'twant to banish poor Adolphe from Durbellière, I hope?"

"No, " said Agatha, doubtfully, "no, I don't want to banish him--ofcourse, Henri, I can't want to banish your friend from the house; but--"

"But what?" said Henri, now perceiving that his sister had something onher mind--something that she wished to say to him; "but what, dearestAgatha?"

"I don't want to banish him from the house, Henri; but I wish he wouldnot return just at present; but you haven't answered my question--youhaven't told me whether you expect him. "

"I think he will return; but he did not himself say exactly when. I amsorry to hear what you say, Agatha--very sorry--I thought you andAdolphe were great friends. I was even a little jealous, " added he, laughing, "at the close alliance between you, and I thought of gettingup a little separate party of my own with Marie. "

"Don't separate yourself from me, Henri!" said she; "don't let us beseparated in anything, even in thought; not but that I should bedelighted to see a dearer friendship between you and Marie, even thanthat between Marie and myself; but don't plan any separate alliance forme. I hope you have not been doing so--tell me, Henri, that you havenot. " And then she added, blushing deeply up to her pale forehead, "Youhave not proposed to Adolphe that I should be his wife?"

"No, Agatha, I have not proposed it to him; I should not have dreamt ofdoing so, without knowing that it would not be disagreeable to you. "

"There's my own dear brother! My own Henri!" said she, going over tohim, caressing him, and kissing his forehead. 

"I will never make an offer of your hand to any one Agatha; you shallchoose for yourself; I will never cause you sorrow in that way: but Iwill own, dearest, that I have wished you should marry Adolphe, and Ihave also fancied that you loved him. "

"No, Henri, no, I do not love him--I can never love him--that is, as myhusband. I do love him as your friend. I will continue to love him assuch, as long as he remains your friend. "

"I fancied also, " continued he; "nay, I did more than fancy--I am surehe loves you--is it not so?"

"He has never told me so, " said she, again blushing; "it is that he maynot tell me so, that I now say that I hope he is not returning. Oh, Henri, my own dearest brother, do not let him come to Durbellière;prevent him in some way; go to him for a while; make some plan with him;and give me warning when he is coming, and I will be at Clisson withMarie. "

"Will it not be better for both of you, Agatha, that you shouldunderstand each other? I know he loves you, though he has not told meso. You must tell him, kindly, that you cannot return his affection: youcannot always run away from him. "

"He will forget me soon. He will, at any rate, forget his love, when hefinds that I avoid his company; but, Henri, if he formally asks my hand, and is refused, that he will neither forget nor forgive. "

"He must take his chance, dearest, like other men. "

"But he isn't like other men, Henri. You know he is--he is ratherimpatient of refusal; he could not bear as well as some men anymortification to his pride. "

"I trust he has too much real pride to feel himself disgraced, becausehe is not loved. I grieve for him, for I love him myself; and I know hisaffections are strong; but I think it is better he should know the truthat once, and it must be from your own lips. I cannot tell him you willnot accept him before he himself makes the offer. "

Agatha did not reply; she could not explain even to her brother all thatshe felt. She could not point out to him how very weak--how selfish hisfriend was. She could not tell him that his bosom friend would sufferten times more from the wound to his pride in being rejected, than fromthe effects of disappointed love; but she rightly judged her lover'scharacter. Adolphe Denot loved her as warmly as he was capable of lovingought but himself; but were she to die, his grief would be very shortlived; he would not, however, endure to see that she preferred any oneto himself. 

"I am sorry for this, Agatha--very sorry, " continued her brother; "I hadfondly hoped to see you Adolphe's wife, but it is over now. I will neverpress you against your will. "

"My own Henri--how good you are to your Agatha. I knew you would nottorture me with a request that I should marry a man I did not love. Igrieve that I interfere with your plans; but I will live with you, andbe your old maid sister, and nurse and love your children, and theyshall love their old maid aunt. "

"There are other men, Agatha, besides Adolphe. Perhaps your next requestwill be a very different one; perhaps, then, you will be singing thepraises of some admirer, and asking me to give him a brother's place inmy heart. "

"And when I ask it, you will do so; but Henri, " and she put her handsupon his shoulder, as she stood close to his chair, "don't let Adolphecome here immediately. "

"He must do so, dearest, now I think of it: we have other things tothink of besides ladies' hearts, and other matters to plan besideswedding favours; the troops will be in Clisson on Monday next, tocollect the conscripts. I have promised to be with de Lescure, andAdolphe is to meet me there; they are both then to come here. Not a manshall be taken who does not choose to go; and there are not many whowish to go from choice. There will be warm work in Poitou next week, Agatha; few of us then can think of love or marriage. You and Marie willbe making sword-knots and embroidering flags; that will be your work. A harder task will soon follow it--that of dressing wounds andstaunching blood. We shall have hot work, and more than plenty of it. May God send us well through it. "

"Amen; with all my heart I say, amen, " said Agatha; "but will these poormen resist the soldiers, Henri?"

"Indeed they will, Agatha. "

"But can they? They have not arms, nor practice in the way offighting--they have no leaders. "

"We will take arms from our enemies. We will be apt scholars in fightingfor our wives, and our sisters, and our houses. As for leaders, the manwho is most fit shall lead the others. "

"And you, Henri--merciful Heaven! what are you about to do--will youtake up arms against the whole republic?"

"With God's blessing I will--against the whole republic. "

"May the Lord, in his mercy, look on you and give you his assistance;and as your cause is just and holy, He will do so. Whatever women cando, we will do; you shall have our prayers for your success our tearsfor your reverses, and our praises for your courage; and when yourequire it, as some of you will too soon, our tenderest care in yoursufferings. " At this moment Marie de Lescure entered the room. "Marie, "continued Agatha, you will help to succour those who are wounded infighting for their King?"

"Indeed, and indeed I will, " said the bright-eyed girl, eagerly, andregret only that I cannot do more; that I cannot myself be in thebattle. But, M. Larochejaquelin, will the people rise? will there reallybe fighting? will Charles be there?"

"Indeed he will, Marie; the first among the foremost. Agatha asked mebut now, who would be our leaders? Is there a man in the Bocage--aye, in all Poitou, who will not follow Charles de Lescure?"

"May the blessed Saviour watch over him and protect him, " said Marie, shuddering. 

"But tell me, Henri;" said Agatha, "where will it commence--where willthey first resist the troops?"

"I cannot say exactly, " said he, "in many places at once I hope. In St. Florent, they say, not a man will join; in Clisson and Torfou they beginon Monday. Charles, and I, and Adolphe will be in Clisson. Father Jeromehas the whole lists; he says that in St. Laud's, in Echanbroignes, andClisson, they are ready, to a man, to oppose the troops: he will go withme to Clisson on Sunday afternoon; on Monday, with God's will, we willbe in the thick of it"

"And will Father Jerome be there, among the soldiers "said Marie. 

"Why not, " said Henri, "will the peasants fight worse when they seetheir priest before them?"

"And if he should fall?"

"He will fail in the service of his God and his King; Father Jerome willbe here himself tomorrow. "

"The Curé of St Laud's, " said Agatha, "is not the man to sit idle, whengood work is to be done, but, oh! what awful times are these, when thepriests themselves have to go out to fight for their altars and theircrucifix. "

"I will return home with you, M Larochejaquelin, when you go toClisson, " said Marie. 

"And leave Agatha alone?" said Henri

"Don't mind me, Henri, " said Agatha, "I shall be well here. Marie cannotleave Madame de Lescure alone, when her husband is, away and in suchdanger. "

"You will soon have company here enough, " said Henri. "De Lescure, andI, and Adolphe, and Heaven knows whom besides. Charette will be in arms, and d'Autachamps, the Prince de Talmont, and M. Bonchamps. At presenttheir business is at a distance from us; but we shall probably be allbrought together sooner or later, and they will all be welcome atDurbellière. "

"They shall be welcome if they are friends of yours, and friends of theKing; but come, Marie, it is late, let us go to bed; next week, perhaps, we shall be wanting rest, and unable to take it. "

They met the next morning at breakfast, and the old Marquis was therealso, and the priest, to whom they had alluded in their conversation onthe preceding evening--Father Jerome, the Curé of St. Laud's--such atleast had he been, and so was he still called, though his parish hadbeen taken away from him, and his place filled by a constitutionalpastor; that is, by a priest who had taken the oath to the Constitution, required by the National Assembly Father Jerome was banished from hischurch, and deprived of the small emoluments of his office; but he wasnot silenced, for he still continued to perform the ceremonies of hisreligion, sometimes in some gentleman's drawing-room, sometimes in afarmer's house, or a peasant's cottage, but oftener out in the open air, under the shadow of a spreading beech, on a rude altar hastily built forhim with rocks and stones. 

The church of St Laud's was perfectly deserted--not a single personwould attend there to hear mass said by the strange priest--the peasantswould as soon have been present at some infernal rite, avowedlycelebrated in honour of the devil--and yet the Curé newly sent there wasnot a bad man But he was a constitutional priest, and that was enoughto recommend him to the ill-will of the peasantry In peaceable and happytimes, prior to the revolution, the Curé of St Laud's had been aremarkable person, he was a man of more activity, both of mind and body, than his brethren, he was more intimate with the gentry than thegenerality of clergymen in the neighbourhood, and at the same time moreactively engaged in promoting the welfare of the poor. The country curesgenerally were men who knew little of the world and its ways--who wereuneducated, save as regards their own profession--who had few ideasbeyond their own duties and station, This was not so with Father Jerome;he had travelled and heard the ways of men in other countries; he hadnot read much but he had seen a good deal, and he was a man of quickapprehension--and above all a man of much energy. He had expressed greathostility to the revolution since its commencement; at a time when sofew were hostile to it, he had foreseen that it would destroy thereligion and the religious feeling of the country, and he had constantlybesought his flock to remain true to their old customs. He was certainlya devout man in his own way, though he was somewhat unscrupulous in hisdevotions; the people were as superstitious as they were faithful, andhe never hesitated in using their superstition to forward his own views. His whole anxiety was for their welfare; but he cherished their veryfaults, their ignorance and their follies, to enable himself to servethem in his own manner. He was unwilling that they should receive othereducation than that which they now had--he was jealous of any one'sinterfering with them but their landlord and himself. He would not ownthat any change: could better their condition, or that anything more wasdesirable for them than that they should live contented and obedient, and die faithful in hope. 

Durbellière had not been in his parish, but he had always beenpeculiarly intimate with the family of the Larochejaquelins, and hadwarmly welcomed the return of Henri to the Bocage, at a time when somany of the nobility were leaving the country. They were now about tojoin hand and heart in saving the people from the horrors of theconscription, and though the Curé's nominal mission was to be purelyspiritual, he was quite prepared to give temporal aid to his allies, should it at any time appear expedient to himself to do so. 

Father Jerome was a tall, well-made, brawny man; his face was notexactly handsome, but it was bold and intellectual; his eye was brightand clear, and his forehead high and open--he was a man of immensemuscular power and capable of great physical exertion--he was aboveforty-five years of age but still apparently in the prime of hisstrength. He wore a long rusty black, or rather grey curé's frock, whichfell from his shoulders down to his heels, and was fastened round hisbody with a black belt--this garment was much the worse for wear, forFather Jerome had now been deprived of his income for some twelvemonths; but he was no whit ashamed of his threadbare coat, he rathergloried in it, and could not be induced by the liberal offers of hismore wealthy friends to lay it aside. 

Father Jerome greeted them all as he entered the breakfast-room. He wasreceived with great kindness by the old Marquis, who pressed his handand made him sit beside himself; he blessed the two young girlsfervently, and nodded affectionately to Henri, whom he had seen on thepreceding day. It was evident that the Curé of St. Laud's was quite athome at Durbellière. 

"We have awful times coming on us now, Father Jerome, " said Agatha. 

"Not so, Mademoiselle, " said the priest, "we have good times coming, wewill have a King and our Church again, we poor cure will have our homesand our altars again; our own parishes and our old flocks. "

"Come what, come may, " said Henri, "we cannot be worse than theConvention would make us. "

"But we firmly trust that by God's will and with God's aid, we will soonbe rid of all our troubles, " said the priest. "M le Marquis, we haveyour best wishes, I know; and your full approval. I hope we shall soonbe able to lay our trophies at your feet. "

"The approval of an old man like me is but of little avail; but youshall have my prayers. I would, however, that God had spared me fromthese days; it is grievous for me to see my son going out to fightagainst his own countrymen, at his own door-sill; it would be moregrievous still, where he now to hesitate in doing so. "

"No true son of Poitou hesitates now, " said the enthusiastic priest. "I yesterday saw every conscript in the parish of St. Laud's, and nota single man hesitated--not one dreams of joining the republicans; and, moreover, there is not an able-bodied man who will not come forward toassist the conscripts in withstanding the soldiers; the women, too, Mademoiselle, are equally eager. Barère will find it difficult, I think, to raise a troop from Poitou. "

"Will the conscripts from hence be required to join at Chatillon or atCholet?" said the old man. 

"Those from St. Laud's, at Chatillon, " said Henri; "but the men will notleave their homes, they will know how to receive the soldiers if theycome amongst them. "

So saying, he got up and went out, and the priest followed him; they hadmuch to do, and many things to arrange; to distribute arms andgunpowder, and make the most of their little means. It was not theirpresent intention to lead the men from their homes, but they wished toprepare them to receive the republican troops, when they came into thecountry to enforce the collection of the republican levy. 

CHAPTER IV

CATHELINEAU

The revolt of St. Florent took place on the day after that on which thepriest had breakfasted at Durbellière, and the rumours of it wentquickly through the country. As Cathelineau had said, the news was soonknown in Nantes and Angers, and the commander of the republican troopsdetermined most thoroughly to avenge the insolence and rebellion of thevain people of St. Florent. He was not, however, able to accomplish histhreat on the instant, for he also was collecting conscripts in theneighbourhood of Nantes, and the peasantry had heard of the doings ofSt. Florent as well as the soldiers, and the men of Brittany seemedinclined to follow the example of the men of Anjou. 

He had, therefore, for a time enough to occupy his own troops, withoutdestroying the rebels of St. Florent--and it was well for St. Florentthat it was so. Had he at once marched five hundred men, with fourpieces of cannon against the town, he might have reduced the place toashes, and taken a bloody revenge for their victory The men of StFlorent would have had no means of opposing such a force, and thepeasantry generally were not armed, the tactics of the royalists werenot settled, and the revolt through the province was not general. Thedestruction of St Florent was postponed for a month, and at theexpiration of that time, the troops of the republic had too much to do, to return to the little town where the war had commenced. 

The rumour of what had been done at St. Florent, was also soon known inCoron, in Torfou, and in Clisson. The battle was fought on Thursday, andearly on Saturday morning, M. De Lescure had heard some indistinctrumour of the occurrence; indistinct at least it seemed to him, for hecould not believe that the success of the townspeople was so complete, as it was represented to him to be; he heard at the same time that therevolt had been headed by Cathelineau and Foret, and that as soon as thebattle was over, they had started for Durbellière to engage theassistance of Henri Larochejaquelin. De Lescure, therefore, determinedto go at once to Durbellière; and Adolphe Denot, who was with him, accompanied him. 

They found Henri in the midst of his preparations, weighing outgunpowder with the assistance of the priest and the two girls. There wasa large quarry on the Marquis' estate, and a considerable supply ofgunpowder for blasting had been lately brought to Durbellière fromNantes, as it could not be purchased in the neighbouring towns. As thepriest remarked, blasting powder was not the best, but it was goodenough to treat republicans with--at any rate they could get no better, and it was lucky that they chanced to have that. 

Charles de Lescure shuddered, as he. Saw the dangerous employment onwhich his sister was engaged; but Henri's sister was doing the samething, and he knew that dangerous times for all of them were coming. Adolphe was disgusted that Agatha's white hands should be employed inso vile a service, but he thought ittle of the danger to which she wasexposed. 

"You are well employed, ladies, " said de Lescure, "but not an hour toosoon. I am rejoiced to see you so well supplied, Henri; this is indeeda Godsend. Father Jerome, is this strictly canonical; gunpowder I fearis altogether a temporal affair". 

"But rebellion and hell-fire are synonomous, " said the priest, "andloyalty is the road to Paradise. I am strictly within my calling, M. DeLescure. Mademoiselle, these packets are too large. You are giving toogood measure. Remember how many are the claimants for our bounty. "

"You have, of course, all heard what occurred at St. Florent the daybefore yesterday, " said de Lescure. 

"Not a word, " said Henri. "What happened there? we hear nothing heretill a week after it is known in the towns. "

They all left off what they were doing, and listened anxiously for M. De Lescure's tidings. "Good news, I trust, " said the Curé, whose faceshowed a fearful degree of anxiety. "Good news, I trust in God; the menof St. Florent, I am sure, have not disgraced themselves. "

"Indeed, they have not, Father Jerome. If. The half of what I hear betrue, they have already played a grand part. What I hear is this--nota conscript was to be seen at the barracks when they were summoned. Three or four soldiers were sent to commence the collection in the town, and they were at once taken prisoners by a party headed by Cathelineau, the postillion. The Colonel then turned out, and fired on the crowd; buthe could not stand his ground before the people, who drove him back tothe barracks; half his men were killed in retreating. The people thenattacked the barracks, and regularly carried them by storm; took thecannon which was with the detachment, and made prisoners of everysoldier that was not killed in the fray. If the half of it be true, St. Florent has made a fine beginning for us. "

"Glorious fellows!" said Adolphe. "What would I not give to have beenwith them?"

"You will have plenty of opportunity, M. Denot, " said the priest, whoheld Adolphe in great aversion. 

"But, Charles, the carnage of the people must have been dreadful, " saidHenri; "they had nothing but their hands and nails to fight with, against the muskets and bayonets of the soldiers--against artilleryeven. "

"The Lord supplied them with weapons, my son, " said the priest, solemnly. "Cannot He, who has given them courage and good hearts tostand against the enemies of their country, also give them weapons tofight his battles?"

"They say, too, that by some miracle the cannon could not be got to fireon the town. They say it was loaded and ready, but that the powderwould not ignite when the torch was put to it, " said de Lescure. 

"They say, " added Denot, "that the Colonel himself repeatedly tried tofire it, but could not; and that when he found that Providence, interfered for the people, he laid down his sword, and gave himself up. "

"The man who came to me from the town, " continued de Lescure, "had athousand wonderful stories. He says, that twenty times in the dayCathelineau stood, unharmed before the bayonets of the soldiers; thattwenty times he was shot at, but it was impossible to wound him. Theysay that God has interfered for the protection of St. Florent. "

"Most probable, " said the priest, "most probable; for who, my children, shall attempt to judge the ways of God? Why should He not put out hisright hand to assist his own?"

"And were there not many of the townspeople killed?" asked Agatha. 

"We did not hear, " replied de Lescure; "but the news of their triumphwould travel faster than the account of their misfortunes; there couldnot but have been much bloodshed. "

"After all, " said Henri, "we do not know how much of this is true. Wemust not believe it all; it is too glorious to be true. "

"Do not say so, M. Larochejaquelin, " said the priest, "do not say so;we will do greater things than that with the assistance of God and theblessed Virgin; but we will not envy the men of St. Florent the honourthey have won. "

"You believe it all, then, Father Jerome, " said Marie. "You believe thatthe republicans have been beaten. "

"Every word, Mademoiselle, every word religiously. I should be a heathenelse, or worse than that, a republican. "

The group who were discussing the probability of the victory said tohave been gained at St. Florent, were standing at the window of one ofthe front rooms of the château, which looked immediately on one of thewhitewashed recumbent lions, and from it they could see the woodengates, the lodge, and the paved road which ran from Chatillon to Vihiersin front of the château. As the priest finished speaking, three men rodethrough the gates, into the avenue, directly up to the house-door: onewas tolerably well mounted on a large horse, the second was on a shaggypony, and the third, who was rather behind the others, was seated on amule of most unprepossessing appearance, whose sides he did not for amoment cease to lacerate with his heels, to enable himself to keep upwith his companions. 

"That is Foret, from St. Florent himself!" shouted the priest, rushingout towards the door, as soon as he saw the first horseman turn in atthe gate; "a good man, and true as any living, and one who hates askulking republican as he does the devil. "

"And that is the postillion himself, on the pony!" shouted Henri, running after him. "I could swear to him, by his hat, among a thousand. "

"Who is the man on the mule, Adolphe?" said de Lescure, remaining at thewindow. "By the bye, " he added, turning to the two girls who remainedwith him, and who were trembling in every joint, at they knew not what, "I forgot, in my hurry, or rather I hadn't time as yet to tell Henrithat I had heard that these men were coming here. "

"Are those the very men who gained the victory at St. Florent?" askedMarie. 

"So we heard, " replied de Lescure, "and now, and not till now, I believeit; their coming here is strong confirmation; the Curé is right, itseems. "

"And is that man the good postillion of whom the people talk?"

"He is--at least he is no longer a postillion. He will cease to be apostillion now; from henceforth he will be only a soldier. "

The Curé and Larochejaquelin had rushed down the steps, and seized thehands of Foret and Cathelineau, as they got off their horses. It wassoon evident to them that the noise of their deeds had gone before them. Foret at once returned the greeting of Father Jerome, for they had longknown each other, and the difference between their stations was not sovery great; but Cathelineau hardly knew how to accept, or how to refuse, the unwonted mark of friendship shewn him by a wealthy seigneur; it hadnot been his lot to shake hands with gentlemen, and he had no wish tostep beyond his proper sphere, because he had been put prominentlyforward in the affair of St. Florent; but he had no help for it; beforehe knew where he was, Larochejaquelin had got him by the hand, and wasdragging him into the salon of Durbellière. It appeared to thepostillion that the room was full; there were ladies there too--young, beautiful, and modest--such as he was in the habit of seeing through thewindows of the carriages which he drove; the old Marquis was there toonow; the butler had just wheeled in his chair, and Cathelineau perceivedthat he was expected to join the group at once. A vista was opened forhim up to the old man's chair; his eyes swam, and he hardly recollectedthe faces of the different people round him. He wished that he hadwaited at the gate, and sent in for M. Henri; he could have talked tohim alone. Why had he ridden up so boldly to the château gate? He hadnever trembled, for a moment, during the hot work at St. Florent, butnow he felt that circumstances could almost make him a coward. 

On a sudden he remembered that his hat was still on his head, and hesnatched his hand out of Henri's to remove it, and then, when it wasoff, he wanted to go back to the hall to put it down. 

Henri saw his confusion, and, taking it from him, put it on a chair, andthen they all shook hands with him. He first found his hand in that ofthe Marquis, and heard the old man bless him, and then the Priestblessed him, and then he felt the soft, sweet hands of those brightangels within his own horny palm; he heard them speaking to him, thoughhe knew not what they said; and then he could restrain himself nolonger, for tears forced themselves into his eyes, and, in the midst ofthem all, he cried like a child. 

There was infection in his tears, for Agatha and Marie, when they sawthem, cried too, and the eyes of some of the men also were not dry; theyall knew what the feelings of the man were, and they fully sympathisedwith him. It was strange how little they said about St. Florent atfirst; the moment the men had been seen, they were most anxious for thetidings of what had been done; but now they all seemed satisfied as tothe truth of what they had heard--there was no longer any doubt. Theheroes of St. Florent were there, and, though neither of them had yetspoken a word about the battle which had been fought, the presence ofthe victors was sufficient evidence of the victory. 

The Curé, however, and M. De Lescure soon took Foret apart, and learntfrom him the details of what had been done, while the father and son, and the two girls, endeavoured to put the postillion at his ease in hisnew position. 

Cathelineau was a very good-looking man, about thirty-five years of age;his hair was very dark, and curled in short, thick clusters; hiswhiskers were large and bushy, and met beneath his face; his upper lipwas short, his mouth was beautifully formed, and there was a deep dimpleon his chin; but the charm of his face was in the soft benignantexpression of his eyes; he looked as though he loved hisfellow-creatures--he looked as though he could not hear, unmoved, a taleof woe or oppression--of injuries inflicted on the weak, or of unfairadvantages assumed by the strong. It was this which had made him so muchbeloved; and it was not only the expression of his countenance, but ofhis heart also. 

"And were you not wounded, Cathelineau?" asked the old gentleman. 

"No, M. Le Marquis, thank God! I was not. "

"Nor Foret?"

"No, M. Le Marquis. "

"But were there many wounded?" said Agatha. 

"Ah! Mademoiselle, there were--many, very many!"

"I knew there must have been, " said Marie, shuddering. 

"We cannot have war without the horrors of war, " said Henri. "It isbetter, is it not, Cathelineau, that some of us should fall, than thatall of us should be slaves?"

"A thousand times, M. Larochejaquelin ten thousand times!" said he, witha return of that determined vigour with which he had addressed hisfellow-townsmen the day before. 

"Yes, you are right, ten thousand times better! and, Marie, you wouldnot be your brother's sister if you did not think so, " said Henri; "butyou do think so, and so does Agatha, though she cries so fast. "

"I am not crying, Henri, " said Agatha, removing her handkerchief fromher eyes, which belied her assertion; "but one cannot but think of allthe misery which is coming on us: were there--were there any womenwounded in the battle?"

There were, Mademoiselle; but those who were so, never complained; andthose who were killed will never have need to complain again. "

"Were there women killed?"

"There were two, Mademoiselle; one a young girl; the other has leftchildren to avenge her death. "

"That is the worst of all, " said Henri, shuddering. "Cathelineau, wemust keep the women in the houses; our men will not fight if they seetheir wives and sweethearts bleeding beside them; such a sight wouldmake me throw my sword away myself. "

"It would make you throw away the scabbard, M. Larochejaquelin; but Ifear we shall see enough of such sights, " and then he blushed deeply, as he reflected that what he had said would frighten the fair girlssitting near him; "but I beg pardon, ladies--I--"

"Don't mind us, Cathelineau, " said Agatha; "you will not frighten us;our brothers will fight by your side; and you will find that we areworthy of our brothers. Marie and I will take our chance withoutrepining. "

"And what is to come next, Cathelineau?" said Henri; "we have throwndown the gauntlet now, and we must be ready for all the consequences. You see, we were preparing for the same work, " and he pointed to theopen packets of gunpowder which were lying scattered on the table. "Whatare we to do now? we shall soon have swarms of republican soldiers uponus, and it will be well to be prepared. We look to you for counsel now, you know. "

"Not so, M. Larochejaquelin; it was to seek council that I and Foretcame hither; it was to throw ourselves at the feet of my Lord theMarquis, and at yours, and at those of M. De Lescure; and to implore youto join us, to fight with us, and to save us; to lead us against therepublicans, and to help us to save our homes. "

"They will, Cathelineau; they will, my excellent friend, " said the oldman. "Henri shall fight with you--he would not be my son else; andCharles de Lescure there will fight with you for his King as long as thebreath is in his body. The Curé there--Father Jerome--will pray for you, and bless your arms; and I believe you'll find he'll fight for you too;the whole country are your friends. "

"Yes, " said Henri. "The whole province, down to the sea, will be withus. Charette is in the Marais ready to take up arms, the moment thecollection of the conscripts is commenced, or before, if it benecessary. M. Bonchamps, who is now at Angers, will join us at once, andgive us what we so much want--military skill. The Prince de Talmont iswith us, M. Fleuriot, and M. D'Autachamps, every gentleman of standingin the country will help the good cause; my friend here, Adolphe Denot, will fight for us to the last drop of his blood. "

Cathelineau bowed graciously, as he was in this way introduced byLarochejaquelin to his friend. Denot also bowed, but he did it anythingbut graciously: two things were disagreeable to him, he felt himself atthe present moment to be in the back-ground, and the hero of the day, the fêted person, was no better than a postillion. When the rest of theparty had all given their hands to Cathelineau he had remained behind, he did not like to put himself on an equality with such a person; hefancied even then his dignity was hurt by having to remain in hiscompany. 

"And what step shall we first take, M. Larochejaquelin?" saidCathelineau. 

"What do you propose yourself?" said Henri. 

"I think we should not wait for them to punish us for our first success. I think we should follow up our little victory, and attack therepublicans, at Beauprieu, perhaps, or at Cholet; we should so teach ourmen to fight, teach them to garrison and protect their own towns, andthen, perhaps, before very long, we might fly at higher game; we mightendeavour to drive these wolves from their own strong places; fromAngers perhaps, or Nantes, or better still, from Saumur. "

"Why Saumur, especially, " said Henri; "surely Nantes would be a bettermark than Saumur; besides Saumur is a perfect fortress, walled on allsides, almost impregnable; whereas Nantes is not fortified at all. Saumur is reckoned the strongest town in the south of France; it is theonly fortified town in Anjou, Poitou, Tourraine or Southern Britanny. "

"That is just the reason, my friend, " said Cathelineau, now reassuredby his own enthusiasm, and by his intense anxiety on the subject, "thatis the very reason why Saumur should be our aim. The republicans nowfear nothing from us, and will take no more than ordinary precautions;if we should now attack other places, and commence our proceedings withsome success, they would make Saumur utterly impregnable; and what couldwe do with such a place as that opposed to us on the borders of ourcountry, and on the very road to Paris. But think what it would be inour favour; it commands the Loire, it commands the road from Paris, besides, it contains what we so much want, arms, ammunition, andartillery; it is from Saumur that the republican troops are suppliedwith gunpowder; believe me, Saumur should be our mark. I know it isdifficult, there will be danger and difficulties enough, I know; but itis not impossible, and I believe it may be done, " and then he lookedround, and saw where he was, and that every one in the room waslistening to him, and he added, "but I am too bold to say so much beforemy Lord the Marquis, and M. Larochejaquelin, and M. De Lescure, and theother gentlemen, whose opinions are so much better than my own. "

"He is right, Henri, " said de Lescure; "take my word, he is right. Wewill do it, my friend, " and he put his hand on the postillion'sshoulder. "We will be masters of Saumur, and you shall lead us there;we will help you to plant the King's standard on the citadel of thetown. "

Cathelineau was still sitting, and he looked up into de Lescure's facewith thankful admiration. "Ah! M. De Lescure, with such guides as you, with such a heart, such courage as yours, no walls shall hinder us, noenemies prevent us. "

"You shall have many such friends, Cathelineau, " said he; "many aseager, and very many more useful. "

"None more useful, " said the postillion; "none could be more useful. "

"No; none more useful, " said the Marquis; "may you have many friends asgood, and then you will succeed. "

"Saumur let it be, then, " said Henri. "I have no doubt you are right;and indeed I do not claim to be great in council; I only hope I may notbe found backward in action. "

"That you never, never will, " said Agatha. "That he never will, Mademoiselle: a Larochejaquelin was never backward in the hour of need, "said Cathelineau. 

"They know how to flatter in St. Florent, my friend, " said she smiling. 

"If that be flattery, all the country flatters. I only speak as I hearothers speaking; they say that beauty and courage were always to befound at Durbellière. "

"Nay, Agatha; but is he not Bayard complete?" said Marie laughing. "Iam sure we should be obliged; it is an age since we received acompliment here in the Bocage. "

"The ladies are laughing at me, " said Cathelineau, rising, "and it istime that I and my friend should cease to trouble you. "

"But where would you go, Cathelineau?" said Henri. 

"Back to St. Florent; we have gained our object; we can tell ourtownsmen that the gentlemen of Poitou will fight on their side. "

"We will tell them so together, tomorrow by sunset, " said Henri; "it isnow late, you and Foret stay here tonight; not a word either of you, foryour life. I command this garrison; do not you, Cathelineau, be thefirst to shew an example of disobedience. Father Jerome, lay hands onForet, lest he fly. Why, my friend, have we so much time to spare, thatwe can afford to lose it in foolish ceremony? Have we not a thousandplans to mature--a thousand things to settle, which we must settle, andnone but we, and which we must discuss together? Are there not herefour, six of us, brothers in arms together? I count you one, FatherJerome; and are we not here with the benefit of our father's advice?When shall we all meet again, or when could we meet that our meetingwould be more desirable? Well, go if you will, Cathelineau, " added he, seeing that the postillion hesitated; "but every one here will tell youthat you are wrong to do so. "

"Stay, my friend, " said the Marquis, who understood well the differentfeelings which perplexed the mind of the postillion; "stay, my friend, and take your supper with us; you have undertaken a great work, and haveshewn yourself fit for it, do not let little things embarrass you. Agatha, darling, see that beds be got ready for our friends. FatherJerome also will remain here tonight, and Charles, and Adolphe; we maynot have many merry suppers more, we will at any rate enjoy tonight. "

"And Cathelineau, " said Henri, "you will not, I trust, be less welcomein St. Florent tomorrow because I accompany you. "

It was then decided that they should all remain there that night, thatde Lescure and Adolphe should return with Marie to Clisson on thefollowing morning, and that Henri and the priest should accompany Foretand the postillion to St. Florent, there to make the best arrangementwithin their power for the immediate protection of the place. 

They were not very merry that evening, but they were by no meansunhappy; as Henri had said they had much to talk of, and they spent ananxious evening, but each satisfied the other. Cathelineau felt himselfto be in a new world, sitting down at table to eat with such companionsas those around him. The sweet, kind face of Agatha disturbed him most. It almost unmanned him; he thought that it would be happiness enough fora life to be allowed to remain unseen where he might gaze on her. Hefelt that such beauty, such ineffable loveliness as hers could almostmake him forget his country and his countrymen; and then he shudderedand turned his eyes away from her. But there she sat close to him: andshe would speak to him, and ask him questions; she asked after hisfriends in St. Florent, after the women who were wounded, and she gavehim money for the children who were made orphans; and then her handtouched his again, and he thought that he was asleep and dreaming. 

Much of importance to their future plans was arranged that night, andsuch a council of war was probably never before assembled. The old manjoined in their contemplated designs with as much energy as the youngestamong them; the words rash and imprudent never once crossed his lips;nothing seemed rash to him that was to be undertaken for the restorationof the King. The priest took a very prominent part in it, and his wordwas certainly not for peace; he was the most urgent of the party fordecided measures. De Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Denot, argued, debated, and considered, as though war had always been their profession;but they all submitted, or were willing to submit, to Cathelineau; hehad already commenced the war, and had been successful; he had alreadyshewn the ready wit to contrive, and the bold hand to execute; hisfitness to lead was acknowledged, and though two days since he was onlya postillion, he was tacitly acknowledged by this little band ofroyalists, to be their leader. 

And there too among these confederates sat Agatha and Marie, if nottalking themselves, yet listening with almost breathless attention tothe plans of the party; sharing their anxiety, promising their women'said, enchanting them with their smiles, or encouraging them with theirtears. Cathelineau had heard how knights of old, famed in song, hadspent their lives among scenes of battle and danger, and all for thesmiles of the lady of their love; and now he thought he understood it. He could do the same to be greeted with the smiles of AgathaLarochejaquelin, and he would not dream of any richer reward. She wasas an angel to him, who had left her own bright place in heaven toilluminate the holy cause in which he had now engaged himself; undersuch protection he could not be other than successful. 

When Foret and Cathelineau dismounted, and were taken into the house byHenri and the Curé, they left their steeds in the care of Peter Berrier;but Peter has not been left ever since leading them up and down in sightof the white-washed lions. The revolt of St. Florent had been heard ofin the servants' hall as well as in the salon upstairs, and it was soonknown that the heroes of the revolt were in the house, and that theirhorses were before the door. A couple of men and two or three boys soonhurried round, and Peter was relieved from his charge, and courteouslyled into the servants' hall by Momont, the grey-headed old butler andfavourite servant of the Marquis, and Jacques Chapeau, the valet, groom, and confidential factotum of Larochejaquelin. Peter was soon encouragedto tell his tale, and to explain the mission which had brought him andhis two companions to Durbellière, and under ordinary circumstances thehaving to tell so good a tale would have been a great joy to him; butat the present moment Peter was not quite satisfied with his ownposition; why was the postillion in the salon while he was in thekitchen? Peter usually was a modest man enough, and respectful to hissuperiors; the kitchen table in a nobleman's house would generally bean elysium to him; he had no idea that he was good enough to consortwith Marquises and their daughters; but he did think himself equal toCathelineau, the postillion, and as Cathelineau was in the salon, whyshould he be in the kitchen? He quite understood that Cathelineau wasthus welcomed, thus raised from his ordinary position in consequence ofwhat he had done at St. Florent, but why shouldn't he, Berrier, bewelcomed, and raised also? He couldn't see that Cathelineau had donemore than he had himself. He was the first man to resist; he had beenthe first hero, and yet he was left for half an hour to lead about ahorse, an ass, and an old mule, as though he were still the ostler atan auberge, and then he was merely taken into the servants' hall, andasked to eat cold meat, while Cathelineau was brought into a grand roomupstairs to talk to lords and ladies; this made Peter fidgety anduncomfortable; and when he heard, moreover, that Cathelineau was to supupstairs at the same table with the Marquis and the ladies, all hispleasure in the revolt was destroyed, he had no taste for the winebefore him, and he wished in his heart that he had joined the troops, and become a good republican. He could not bear the aristocratic fopperyof that Cathelineau. 

"And were you a conscript yourself, Peter Berrier?" said JacquesChapeau. 

"Of course I was, " said Peter. "Why, haven't you heard what the revoltof St. Florent was about?"

"Well; we have heard something about it, " said Momont; "but we didn'texactly hear your name mentioned. "

"You couldn't have heard much of the truth then, " said Berrier. 

"We heard, " said Chapeau, "how good Cathelineau began by taking threesoldiers prisoners. "

"I had twice more to do with those three prisoners than ever he had, "said Peter. 

"Well; we never heard that, " said Momont. 

"But we heard, " said Chapeau, "how Cathelineau led a few of the townsmenagainst a whole regiment of soldiers, and scattered them through thetown like chaff. "

"Scattered them like chaff!" said Peter. 

"And we heard, " said Momont, "how he stormed the barracks, slaughteredall the soldiers, and dragged the Colonel with his own hand through thebarrack window. "

"Through the barrack window!" repeated Peter, with an air intended tothrow discredit on the whole story. 

"And we heard, " said Gather's confidential maid, "how he laid his handupon the cannon and charmed it, so that it would not go off, though thefiery torch was absolutely laid upon the gunpowder. "

"That the cannon wouldn't go off though the torch was laid upon thegunpowder!" said Peter. 

"And we heard, " said the cook, "how all the girls in the town came andcrowned him with bay leaves; and how the priest blessed him. "

"And how the young made him their captain and their general, " said thehousekeeper. 

"And how they christened him the Saviour of St. Florent, " said thelaundress. 

"And gave him all the money in the town, and the biggest sword theycould find, " said the page. 

"You heard all this, did you?" said Peter Berrier. 

"Indeed we did" said Jacques Chapeau, "and a great deal more from M. DeLescure's own man, who went back to Clisson only an hour since, and whohad it all from one who came direct from St. Florent. "

"And you heard not a word of Peter Berrier?"

"Not a word, not a word, " said they all at once. 

"Then, friends, let me tell you, you have not heard much of the truth, although M. De Lescure's own man did see the man who came direct fromSt. Florent; I think I may say, without boasting, and I believe Monsieurthe postillion upstairs will not be inclined to contradict me, thatwithout me, there would have been no revolt. 

"No revolt without you? No revolt without Peter Berrier? No revoltwithout M. Debedin's ostler?" said they one after another. 

"No--no revolt without M. Debedin's ostler, Madame. " The last questionhad been asked by the cook. "M. Debedin's ostler is as good, I suppose, as M. Gaspardieu's postillion. "

"What, as good as Cathelineau?" asked Momont. 

"As good as our good postillion!" shouted Chapeau. 

"As good as the holy man who charmed the cannon!" said the confidentialmaid in a tone of angry amazement. 

"Would all the girls in St. Florent crown you with bay leaves!" jeeredthe cook. 

"Will they ever make you a great captain!" screamed the housekeeper. 

"Or call you the Saviour of St. Florent!" added the laundress. 

"Or trust you with all the money, I'd like to know!" suggested the page. 

Peter Berrier felt that he was ill-used after all that he had gonethrough for his King and his country; he sat apart for the rest of theevening, and meditated whether he would go over to the republicans, andbring an army down upon Durbellière, or whether he would more noblyrevenge himself by turning out a more enterprising royalist than eventhe postillion himself. 

CHAPTER V

DE LESCURE. 

De Lescure with his sister returned on the following morning to Clisson;for so was his château called. Clisson is about two leagues south of thetown of Brassiere, in the province of Poitou, and is situated in thesouthern part of the Bocage. M. De Lescure owned the château and aconsiderable territory around it. He was a man of large property in thatcountry where the properties were all comparatively small, and was inother respects also by far the most influential person in theneighbourhood. He had married a lady with a large fortune, which gavehim more means of assisting the poor than most of the gentlemen residentin the Bocage possessed. He took a deep interest in the welfare of thosearound him; he shared their joys, and sympathized with their grief, andhe was consequently beloved, and almost adored. 

He had now undertaken to join with his whole heart the insurgentsagainst the Republic, and he was fully determined to do so; he had madeup his mind that it was his duty to oppose measures which he thoughtdestructive to the happiness of his countrymen, and to make an effortto re-establish the throne; but he did not bring to the work thesanguine hope of success, the absolute pleasure in the task whichanimated Larochejaquelin; nor yet the sacred enthusiastic chivalry ofCathelineau, who was firmly convinced of the truth of his cause, andbelieved that the justice of God would not allow the murderers of aKing, and the blasphemers of his name to prevail against the arms ofpeople who were both loyal and faithful. 

De Lescure had studied and thought much; he was older thanLarochejaquelin, much better educated than Cathelineau. He was as ardentin the cause as they were; why else had he undertaken it? but heunderstood better than they did the fearful chances which were againstthem: the odds against which they had to fight, the almost insuperabledifficulties in their way. He knew that the peasantry around them wouldbe brave and enthusiastic followers, but he also knew that it would belong before they were disciplined soldiers. He was sure that they wouldfight stoutly round their homes and their families; but he felt that itwould be almost impossible to lead any body of them to a distance fromtheir own fields. He foresaw also all the horrors into which they wereabout to plunge; horrors, of which an honourable death on the field ofbattle would be the least. The Republic had already shown the bitternessof their malice towards those who opposed them, and de Lescure knew whatmercy it would shew to those of his party who fell into its power. 

Besides, how could they hope for success against the arms of a wholenation supported by a despotic government. His friends talked sanguinelyof aid from England, from Austria, and from Prussia; but he feared thatthat aid would come too late, after their houses were burnt, and theirfields destroyed; after the best among them had fallen; after theirchildren had been murdered; when the country should be depopulated, andnothing but the name of La Vendee left. 

With all these fears around his heart, and yet with a firm determinationto give himself entirely to the cause in which he was embarked, deLescure rode home to tell his young wife, to whom he was but barely twoyears married, that he must not only leave her, and give up the life socongenial to both their tastes, which they had lately led; but that hewas going to place himself in constant danger, and leave her and all heloved in danger also. 

"You must be very good to Victoriana, " he said to his sister; "you mustbe very good to each other, Marie, for you will both have much to bear. "

"We will, we will, " said Marie; "but you, Charles, you will be with us;at any rate not far from us. "

"I may be near you, and yet not with you; or I may soon be placed beyondall human troubles. I would have you prepare yourself; of all the curseswhich can fall on a country, a civil war is the most cruel. "

Madame de Lescure was the daughter of a nobleman of high rank; she hadbeen celebrated as a beauty, and known to possess a great fortune; shehad been feted and caressed in the world, but she had not been spoiled;she was possessed of much quiet sense; and though she was a woman ofstrong passions, she kept them under control. When her husband told her, therefore, that the quiet morning of their life was over, that they hadnow to wade through contest, bloodshed, and civil war, and that probablyall their earthly bliss would be brought to a violent end before thecountry was again quiet, she neither screamed nor fainted; but she felt, what he intended that she should feel that she must, now, more entirelythan ever, look for her happiness in some world beyond the present one. 

"I know, Victorine, " said he, when they were alone together in theevening, when not even his own dear sister Marie was there to mar thesacred sweetness of their conference, "I know that I am doing right, andthat gives me strength to leave you, and our darling child. I know thatI am about to do my duty; and you would not wish that I should remainhere in safety, when my King and my country require my services. "

"No, Charles; I would never wish that you should be disgraced in yourown estimation. I could perfectly disregard what all others said of you, as long as you were satisfied with your own conduct; but I would not forany worldly happiness, that you should live a coward in your ownesteem. "

"My own, own Victorine, " said he, "how right you are! What truehappiness could we have ever had, if we attempted to enjoy it at theexpense of our countrymen! Every man owes his life to his country; inhappy, quiet times, that debt is best paid by the performance of homelyquiet duties; but our great Father has not intended that lot for us. "

"His will be done. He may yet turn away from us this misery. We may yetlive, Charles, to look on these things as our dearest reminiscences. "

"We may; but it is not the chance for which we should be best prepared. We are not to expect that God will raise his arm especially to vindicateour injuries; it would be all but blasphemous to ask Him to do so. Weare but a link in the chain of events which His wisdom has designed. Should we wish that that chain should be broken for our purposes?"

"Surely not. I would not be so presumptuous as to name my own wishes inmy prayers to the Creator. "

"No; leave it to His wisdom to arrange our weal or woe in this world;satisfied with this, that He has promised us happiness in the worldwhich is to come. "

"I must leave you on Monday, dearest, " continued he, after a pause, during which he sat with his wife's hand within his own. 

"So soon, Charles!"

"Yes, dearest, on Monday. Henri, and Adolphe, and others, will be hereon Sunday; and our different duties will commence immediately. "

"And will yours keep you altogether away from Clisson?"

"Very nearly so; at any rate, I could not name the day or the week, whenI might be with you. You and Marie will be all in all to each other now;do not let her droop and grow sad, Victorine. "

"Nay, Charles, it is she should comfort me; she loves no dear husband. Marie dotes on you; but she can never feel for a brother, as I must feelfor you. "

"She is younger than you, Victorine, and has not your strength of mind. "

"She has fewer cares to trouble her; but we will help each other; itwill be much to me to have her with me in your absence. I know she isgiving up much in returning to Clisson, and she does it solely for mysake. "

"How! what is she giving up? Will she not be better in her own home thanelsewhere in such times as these. "

"She might choose to change her home, Charles; I had a happy, happyhome, but I should not have been contented to remain there till now. Ifound that something more than my own old home was necessary to myhappiness. "

"You have made but a sad exchange, my love. "

"Would I for all the world recall what I have done? Have I everrepented? Shall I ever repent? No; not though your body were broughtbreathless to your own hall door, would I exchange my right to mournover it, for the lot of the happiest bride just stepping from the altarin all the pride of loveliness and rank?"

"My own true love. But tell me, what is this you mean about Marie. Surely she is not betrothed without my knowledge. "

"Betrothed! Oh, no! Nor won, nor wooed, as far as I believe; but wewomen, Charles, see through each other's little secrets. I think she isnot indifferent to Henri Larochejaquelin; and how should she be! How fewshe sees from whom to choose; and if all France were before her feet, how could she make a better choice than him. "

"Poor Marie, from my heart I pity her; in any other times than these, how I would have gloried to have given Henri my sister; but now, theseare no times to marry, or to give in marriage. Henri has stern, hardwork to do, and he is bent on doing it; ay, and he will do it. No onewill carry the standard of his King further into the ranks of therepublicans than Henri Larochejaquelin. "

"I know one, Charles, who will, at any rate, be beside him. "

"But he is so full of glorious confidence--so certain of success. Hewill go to battle with the assured hope of victory. I shall fightexpecting nothing but defeat. "

"You are melancholy, tonight, my love: something ails you beyond yourdread of the coming struggle. "

"Can I be other than melancholy? I have no hope. "

"No hope, Charles. Oh! do not say you have no hope. "

"None in this world, Victorine. The Indian widow, when she throwsherself on the burning pile, with a noble courage does what she has beentaught to look upon as a sacred duty, but she cannot but dread the firewhich is to consume her. "

"You would not liken yourself to her?"

"Through the mercy of our blessed Saviour I am not so mistaken in mycreed; but I am hardly less calamitous in my fate: but it is not theprospect of my own sufferings which disturb me; I at any rate may beassured of an honourable, even an enviable death. It is my anxiety foryou--for our little one--and for dear Marie, which makes my spirit sad. "

"God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb, " said Madame de Lescure. "Our trials will not be harder than we can bear. "

"God bless you for those words, dearest: there is comfort in them--real, true comfort. But remember them yourself Victorine; remember them whenyou will most want them. When great sorrow comes home to your bosom, asit will do; when affliction is heavy on you, when worldly comforts areleaving you, when enemies are around you, when the voices of cruel menare in your ears, and their cruel deeds before your eyes, then remember, my love, that God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. "

"I will, my own Charles, I will, " said she, now kneeling at his feet, and burying her face in her hands upon his knees; "if I am called uponto bear these miseries, I will remember it. "

"And look up, Victorine; look up, dearest. I would have you prepared forthe worst. Listen to me now calmly, love, and then I need not harrow youwith these thoughts again. It may be God's pleasure that I shouldoutlive this war; but as, with His will, I am determined that I willnever lay down my sword till the soldiers of the Republic are drivenfrom the province, it is most improbable that I should do so. You mustteach yourself, Victorine, to look for my death, as an event certain tooccur, which any day may bring forth; and when the heavy news is broughtto you, bear it as a Christian woman should bear the afflictions ofthis, world. I do not ask you not to weep for me, for that would beputting too violent a constraint upon your nature, but do not weep overmuch. Above all, Victorine, do not allow your sorrow to paralyse youractions. You will have to act then, not only for yourself, but for yourchild--for my daughter; and if you then give way to the violence ofsorrow, who shall think and care for her?"

She laid her beautiful head upon his bosom, and wept, and promised, andprayed for him. And when he had finished what he felt he had to say, what he wished to say once, and but once, before he left her, he becamemore cheerful, and seemed to have more spirit for his work than he hadhitherto shewn. 

"And so, " he said, after a while, "poor Marie is in love. "

"Nay; I did not say she was in love-not in the deep depth of absolutelove--but I think she is not indifferent to Henri: were she truly andearnestly in love, she would have told me so. "

"Not indifferent to him, and yet not in love. Faith, Victorine, I knownot the difference; but you women are such adepts in the science, thatyou have your degrees of comparison in it. "

"Marie, then, has not yet reached the first degree, for hers is not evendownright positive love; but I am sure she is fond of Henri's society;and now, poor girl, she must give it up--and probably for ever. "

"As you said a while since, Victorine, how should she not like hissociety? I can fancy no man more fit to be the cynosure of a woman's eyethan Larochejaquelin. He has that beauty which women love to look on:the bold bright eye, the open forehead, the frank, easy smile, and hisface is only a faithful index to his heart; he is as frank as brave, andyet as tender-hearted as he looks to be; he is specially formed to loveand to be loved. "

"Poor Marie! I grieve that you brought her from Durbellière. "

"Not so, Victorine; this is the place for Marie now; indeed, dear girl, she knew that well herself. The Marquis pressed her hard to stay, andI said nothing; but Marie insisted on coming home. I thought Henrilooked somewhat more sombre than is his wont, as he was leading her downthe steps: but he cannot, must not, think of love now, Victorine. LaVendée now wants all his energies. "

"But you would not forbid him to love her, Charles?"

"I could forbid him nothing, for I love him as Joseph loved his youngerbrother Benjamin. "

"And he will be here now backwards and forwards, will he not?"

"Probably he will--that is as circumstances may arise--he is, at anyrate, as likely to be at Clisson as Durbellière. "

"He will be more likely, Charles, take my word for it; you cannotprevent their meeting; you cannot hinder them from loving each other. "

"Were the King upon his throne, it would be my greatest joy to give mysister to my friend, but now--it is the same for all of us--we must takethe chance of these horrid times; and could they be taught to quench thewarm feelings of their young hearts, it were well for both of them. Thecold, callous disposition would escape much misery, which will weighdown to the grave the loving and the generous. "

On the next morning, Madame de Lescure spoke to her sister-in-law on thesame subject. She could not bring herself to look on things around herquite so darkly as her husband did. She could not think that there wasno longer any hope in their once happy country for the young and thegenerous, the beautiful and the brave; of herself and her own lot, herthoughts were sombre enough. De Lescure had imbued her with thatpresentiment, which he himself felt so strongly, that he should perishin the conflict in which he was about to engage; but all would notsurely be doomed to share her cup of sorrow. She loved Marie dearly, andshe loved Henri, not only from what her husband so often said of him, but from what she knew of him herself; and she longed in her woman'sheart that they should be happy together. 

It was still March, but it was on a bright warm spring morning, thatMadame de Lescure was walking with her sister-in-law in the gardens atClisson. Marie was talking of her brother--of the part he was to takein the war--of the gallant Cathelineau, and of the events which were soquickly coming on them; but Madame de Lescure by degrees weaned her fromthe subject and brought her to that on which she wished to speak. 

"M. Larochejaquelin will be much here as long as this fighting lasts andM. Denot: we shall have plenty of brave knights coming to and fro to laytheir trophies at your feet. "

"Poor M. Denot--his trophies if he gets any will be taken toDurbellière; and I fear me, when he offers them, they will not bewelcomed. Agatha loves him not; she thinks he shares his adoration tooequally between her and his looking-glass. "

"I do not wonder at it; no one can deny that M. Denot is attractive, buthe attracts without retaining; were I ever so much in want of lovers, I could not endure M. Denot's attentions for more than one evening atthe utmost; but our other knight--our other preux chevalier, sans peuret sans reproche--at whose feet will he lay his trophies, Marie? who isto wreath a crown of bay leaves for his brow?"

"His countrywomen should all unite to do it, Victorine--for he is goingout to battle for them all--every village girl, whose lover is stillleft to walk with her on the Sabbath evening--every young wife, who canstill lay her baby in her husband's arms--every mother, who stillrejoices in the smile of her stalwart son; they should all unite towreath a crown for the brow of Henri Larochejaquelin. "

"And so they shall, Marie; but there will be others also, whose valourwill claim a token of admiration from the gratitude of theircountrywomen; we will all do this for Henri and our other bravedefenders; but if I know his character, the gratitude of many will notmake him happy without the favour of one, and she will be the lady ofhis love; the remembrance of whose smiles will bear him scathelessthrough the din of the battle. "

"I should be vain, Victorine, if I pretended to misunderstand yourquestions, " said Marie; "but why you should mix my name with that of M. Larochejaquelin, without vanity I do not know. "

"It does not offend you, Marie?"

"Offend me, dearest Victorine! how should I be offended with anythingyou could say?"

"But would it offend you to see Henri Larochejaquelin at your feet. "

"Is there any girl in France who would have a right to be offended atseeing him there, if he came with a tale of true love?"

"You may be sure at least that Henri will never sully his lips withfalse vows, " said Madame de Lescure. 

"He has at any rate made no vows to me, Victorine, nor given me causeto suppose he ever will. "

"But should he do so, Marie?"

"Now you ask me questions which you know it only becomes me to answerin one way. "

"Why, Marie, I declare you and I have changed characters this morning. You are all sobriety when I make a poor attempt at joking with you. WereI, as usual, talking of my sober cares, you would be as giddy as a girlof fifteen, and talk to me of twenty lovers that you have. "

"It is very different talking of twenty lovers, and of one. "

"Then you own there is one lover in the ease--eh, Marie?"

"Now you are crafty, Victorine, and try to trap me into confessions. Youknow I have no confession to make, or I should have made it long ago toyou. "

"I know, Marie, that Larochejaquelin is sad when you are not by, andthat he has a word for no one else when you are present; but I know notwhether that means love. I know also that your bright eyes brighten whenthey rest on him, and that your heart beats somewhat faster at themention of his name; but I know not whether that means love. "

"Victorine, " said Marie, turning round upon her companion her beautifulface, on which two lustrous tears were shining, "Victorine, you aretreating your poor sister unfairly. I know not that my eyes are turnedoftener on him than on others; and when my heart would play the rebelwithin me, I always try to check it. "

"Nay, Marie, dear Marie, I did but joke! You do not think I would accuseyou of an unmaidenly partiality; if it grieves you we will not mentionHenri's name again, though I remember when you did not spare me soeasily; when Charles' name was always in my ear, when you swore thatevery dress I wore was his choice, that every flower I plucked was forhis eye; and there had been no more then between Charles and me, thanthere has now between you and Henri; and yet you see what has become ofit. You thought yourself wonderfully clever then, Marie; you were quitea prophetess then. Why should not I now foresee a little. Why should notI also be clever?"

"Well, Victorine, time will shew, " said Marie, smiling through hertears; "but do not teach me to love him too dearly, till I know whetherhe will value my love. If he would prize it, I fear he might have it forthe asking for; but I will not throw it at his feet, that he should keepit loosely for awhile, and then scorn it, and lay it by. "

CHAPTER VI

RECRUITING. 

On the Monday following the meeting at Durbellière, Larochejaquelin, Denot, the Curé of St. Laud, Foret and Cathelineau joined M. De Lescureat Clisson, and on the day afterwards, the soldiers of the Republic, when attempting to collect the conscripts at a small town near Clisson, were resisted and treated as they had been at St. Florent. There was notquite so much of a battle, for the officer in command knew what waslikely to occur, and not having received any reinforcement of troops, thought it advisable to give in early in the day, and capitulate withthe honours of war. He was allowed to march his men out of the town, each man having stipulated that he would not again serve in anydetachment sent into La Vendée for the collection of conscripts; butthey were not allowed to take their arms with them, muskets, bayonets, and gunpowder being too valuable to the insurgents to be disregarded. So the soldiers marched unarmed to Nantes, and from thence returned, before two months were over, in spite of the promises they had given, and requited the mercy of the Vendeans with the most horrid cruelties. 

The people were equally triumphant in many other towns. In Beauprieu, Coron, Châtillon, and other places, the collection of conscripts wasopposed successfully, and generally speaking, without much bloodshed. In Coron, the military fired on the people, and killed three or four ofthem, but were ultimately driven out, In Beauprieu, they gave up theirarms at once, and marched out of the place. In Châtillon, they attemptedto defend the barracks, but they found, when too late, that they had nota single day's provisions; and as the townspeople also knew this, theywere at no pains to besiege the stronghold of the soldiers. They knewthat twenty-four hours would starve them out. As it was, the lieutenantin command gave up, half an hour after his usual dinner time. 

These things all occurred within a week of the revolt at St. Florent. Beauprieu and Châtillon were carried on the Wednesday. Coron wasvictorious on the Thursday; and on the Friday following, a strongdetachment of soldiers marched out of Cholet, of their own accord, without attempting to collect their portion of the levy, and crossed theriver Loire, at the Pont de Cé, thus retreating from La Vendée. 

These triumphs inspired the insurgents with high hopes of futurevictories; they gave them the prestige of success, made them confidentin the hour of battle, and taught them by degrees to bear, undaunted, the fire of their enemies. The officers of the Republic were mostinjudicious in allowing their enemies to gather head as they did; hadthey brought a really formidable force of men, in one body, into theprovince of Anjou, immediately upon the revolt of St. Florent, theymight doubtless have driven the Vendeans, who were then unarmed andundisciplined, back to their farms; but they affected to despise them, they neglected to take vigorous measures, till the whole country was inarms; and they then found that all the available force which they wereenabled to collect, was insufficient to quell the spirit, or daunt thepatriotism of the revolted provinces. 

Towards the end of April, the first attempt was made by the Vendeanchiefs to collect a body of men under arms, and to put them into motion, for the purpose of performing service at a distance from their ownhomes; and though considerable difficulty was felt in inducing them tofollow the standards, their first attempts were successful. In the earlypart of May, they altogether succeeded in driving the soldiers out ofThouars. A few days later, they did the same at Fontenay, though herethey met with a violent opposition, and much blood was shed. At thesetwo latter places, the cannon which Cathelineau had taken in so gallanta manner at St. Florent, was brought into action, and quite supportedits character as a staunch royalist. At Fontenay, with its aid, theytook three or four other pieces of cannon, but none which they prizedas they did Marie Jeanne. It was universally credited among thepeasantry, that at Cathelineau's touch, this remarkable piece ofartillery had positively refused to discharge itself against theVendeans; and their leaders certainly were at no pains to disabuse themof a belief which contributed so strongly to their enthusiasm. 

Some of the more astute among the people had certainly thought for awhile that the cannon was a humbug, that it was useless either toroyalist or to republican, in fact, that it would never go off at all. But these sceptics were cured of their infidelity at Thouars, when theysaw the soldiers as well as the republicans of the town fall in heapsbeneath the thunders of Marie Jeanne. 

During April and the three weeks of May, Larochejaquelin and de Lescure, together with Cathelineau, Denot, and M. Bonchamps, were activelyengaged in collecting and exhorting the people, planning what theyshould do, and preparing themselves to bear that burst of republicanfury which they knew would, sooner or later, fall upon them. 

Much of this time was spent at Clisson, as that place was centricallysituated for their different manoeuvres; and there certainly appearedreason to suppose that Madame de Lescure was not altogether wrong in hersurmises respecting Marie. Here also, at Clisson, Cathelinean frequentlyjoined the party, and though he shewed by his language and demeanourthat he had not forgotten that he was a postillion, he graduallyacquired a confidence and ease of manner among his new associates, anddisplayed a mixture of intelligence and enthusiasm, which induced hisconfederates gene. Rally to acknowledge his voice as the first in theircouncils. 

They were occasionally at Durbellière; but there Cathelineau was againabashed and confused. He could not calmly endure the quiet lovelinessof Agatha's face, or the sweet music of her voice. He himself felt thathis brain was not cool when there; that his mind was gradually teachingitself to dwell on subjects, which in his position would be awfullydangerous to him. He never owned to himself that he was in love with thefair angel, whom he considered as much above him as the skies are abovethe earth; but he would walk for hours through those eternal paths inthe château garden, regardless of the figures, regardless of the variousturns and twists he took, dreaming of the bliss of being beloved by sucha woman as Agatha Larochejaquelin. He built for himself splendid castlesin the air, in which he revelled day after day; and in these dreams healways endowed himself with that one gift which no talents, no courage, no success could give him--high birth and noble blood, for he stronglyfelt that without these, no one might look up to the goddess of hisidolatry; it was his delight to imagine to himself with what ecstasy hewould receive from her lips the only adequate reward of his patriotism;he would quicken his pace with joy as he dreamt that he heard her sweetvoice bidding him to persevere, and then he would return to her afterhard fighting, long doubtful but victorious battles, and lay at her feethonours worthy of her acceptance. 

It can hardly be said that he himself was the hero of his own reveries;he was assured beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the proud happinesswhich he pictured to his imagination was as much beyond his own reach, as though his thoughts were turned on some celestial being. No, it wasa creation of his brain, in which he dwelt awhile, till his own stronggood sense reminded him that he had other work before him than theindulgence in such dreams, and he determined that he would be atDurbellière as little as was possible. 

It was singular though, that he contrived, while his imagination wasthus rambling, to mingle in his thoughts the actual and the ideal. Therevolt of La Vendée, the struggle of his brother royalists for therestoration of their King; the annihilation of republicanism, andre-establishment of the old clergy, were still the subjects of hismeditations; and the bold plans which his mind then suggested to him, were those which were afterwards put into effect. 

He still insisted on attacking the strongly fortified citadel of Saumur, and after their success at Fontenay, the chiefs agreed at once to makearrangements for that great undertaking. The tenth of June was settledon as the day on which the attack should be commenced, and their utmostefforts in the mean time were to be employed in raising recruits, armingand drilling them, and collecting ammunition and stores of warsufficient for so serious an operation. 

For this purpose Cathelineau returned for a while to St. Florent. M. Charette was requested to bring up all the men he could collect from theMarais, a part of La Vendée which lies close upon the sea. M. Bonchampswas invited to join them from Angers. De Lescure returned to Fontenay, to ask the assistance of those who had been so successful there againstthe republicans; while Henri Larochejaquelin, was left at home in theBocage, to secure the services of every available man from everyvillage. 

He had two comrades with him in his recruiting party; and though theywere of very different characters, they were almost equally serviceable. One was his friend and priest, the Curé of St. Laud, and the other washis servant, Jacques Chapeau. The Curé had no scrupulous compunction inusing his sacerdotal authority as a priest, when the temporal influenceof Larochejaquelin, as landlord, was insufficient to induce a countrymanto leave his wife and home to seek honour under the walls of Saumur. Thepeasants were all willing to oppose the republican troops, should theycome into their own neighbourhood to collect conscripts; they were readyto attack any town where republican soldiers were quartered, providingthey were not required to go above a day's march from their own homes;but many objected to enrol themselves for any length of time, to bindthemselves as it were to a soldier's trade, and to march under arms toperform service at a distance from their farms, which to them seemedconsiderable. With such men as these, and with their wives and sisters, Henri argued, and used his blandest eloquence, and was usuallysuccessful; but when he failed, the Curé was not slow in having recourseto the irresistable thunders of the church. 

No one could have been fitter for the duties of a recruiting-sergeantthan Jacques Chapeau; and to his great natural talents in that line, headded a patriotic zeal, which he copied from his master. No one couldbe more zealous in the service of the King, and for the glory of LaVendée, than was Jacques Chapeau. Jacques had been in Paris with hismaster, and finding that all his fellow-servants in the metropolis wereadmirers of the revolution, he had himself acquired a strongrevolutionary tendency. His party in Paris had been the extremeUltra-Democrats: he had been five or six times at the Jacobins, threeor four times at the Cordeliers; he had learnt to look on a lamp-ropeas the proper destination of an aristocrat, and considered himself equalto anybody, bu his master, and his master's friends. On Henri's returnto La Vendée, he had imbued himself with a high tone of loyalty, withoutany difficulty or constraint on his feelings; indeed, he was probablyunaware that he had changed his party: he had an appetite for strongpolitics, was devotedly attached to his master, and had no prudentialmisgivings whatsoever. He had already been present at one or two affairsin which his party had been victorious, and war seemed to him twice moreexciting, twice more delightful than the French Opera, or even theJacobin Clubs. 

Jacques Chapeau was about five years older than his master, and was asactive and well made a little Frenchman, as ever danced all night at aball outside the barriers of Paris. He was a light-hearted andkind-hearted creature, although he always considered it necessary tohave mortal enemies--horrid, blasphemous, blood-thirsty fellows, mendevoid of feeling, without faith, hope, or charity, who would willinglyslaughter women and children for the mere pleasure of doing so. Such, in Chapeau's imagination, were all his enemies--such had been thearistocrats during the time of his revolutionary fervour--such now werethe republicans. Chapeau loved his own side truly and faithfully, without any admixture of self in his calculations, but I certainlycannot say for him that he was a good Christian, for all the clergymenin Anjou could not have taught him to love his enemies. 

On a beautiful summer's morning, on the 2nd of June, this remarkablerecruiting party rode from Durbellière to the little village ofEchanbroignes; the distance was about four leagues, and their road lay, the whole way, through the sweet green leafy lanes of the Bocage. Theaspect of this province is very singular, and in summer most refreshing. The country is divided into small farms, which are almost entirelyoccupied with pasture; the farms are again divided into small fields, and each field is surrounded by a belt of trees, growing out of high, green, flowering hedges. The face of the country is like a thicklywooded demesne, divided and subdivided into an infinity of littlepaddocks. The narrow lanes of the country, which are barely broad enoughfor the wheels of a carriage, and are seldom visited by such a vehicle, lie between thick, high hedges, which completely overshadow them; thewayfarer, therefore, never has before him that long, straight, tedious, unsightly line of road, which adds so greatly to the fatigue oftravelling in an open country, and is so painful to the eye. 

Through such a lane as this our party rode quickly and cheerily;quickly, for they had much work before them for that day; and cheerily, for they knew that the people among whom they were going would join themwith enthusiasm. They were all well mounted, for they rode the besthorses from the stables of Durbellière: the old Marquis would haveblushed to have given less than the best to the service of his King. 

Chapeau was peculiarly elated at the prospect of his day's work; but hisjoy was not wholly professional; for Jacques now accounted himself asoldier by profession. He had another reason for the more than ordinarygaiety with which he trotted on towards Echanbroignes. There was therea certain smith, named Michael Stein, who had two stalwart sons, whomJacques burnt to enrol in his loyal band of warriors; this smith hadalso one daughter, Annot Stein, who, in the eyes of Jacques Chapeau, combined every female charm; she was young and rosy; she had soft hairand bright eyes; she could dance all night, and was known to possess inher on right some mysterious little fortune, left to her by nobody knewwhat grandfather or grandmother, and amounting, so said report, to thecomfortable sum of five hundred francs. When Chapeau had risen to somehigh military position, a field-marshal's baton, or the gold-laced capof a serjeant-major, with whom could he share his honours better thanwith his dear little friend, Annot Stein? Jacques wanted her advice uponthis subject, and he therefore rejoiced greatly that the path of dutywas leading him this morning to Echanbroignes. 

"We may be sure, Father Jerome, " said Henri, "of those men from St. Michael?"

"Of every man. You will find there will not be a defaulter. "

"God send it; one traitor makes many, as sheep follow each other througha hedge row. "

"Do not fear them, my son. Father Francois has the list of them; he willhave every man collected by daylight on the 7th, and he will come onwith them himself as far as the cross-roads; they will there meet my ownchildren from St. Laud. "

"There were to be one hundred and seventy-five from St. Michael. "

"Yes; and one hundred and forty from St. Laud; and thirty will havejoined us from Petit Ange de Poitou before we reach the turn from St. Michael. "

"And have you positively determined you will start with them from St. Laud's yourself, Father Jerome. "

"With God's will, my son, I most assuredly shall do so; and from thatto the walls of Saumur, they shall see before them my tattered Curé'sfrock, and the blessed symbol of their hope. I will carry the crossbefore them from the porch of the little church which shall once morebe my own, till I plant it on the citadel of Saumur beside the standardof the King. "

"Oh! if we had a few more Father Jeromes!" said Henri. 

"There might perhaps be more soldiers in La Vendée than at present; butperhaps also there would be fewer Christians, " said the priest. "May Godforgive me if, in my zeal for my King, I am too remiss in His service. "

They rode on a little way in silence, for Father Jerome felt a slightqualm of conscience at his warlike proceedings, and Henri did not liketo interrupt his meditations; but the Curé soon recovered himself. 

"I shall have a goodly assemblage of followers, " said he, "before Ireach Coron. Those from Echanbroignes will join us half-a-mile from thetown. There will be above two hundred from Echanbroignes. "

"Will there? So many as that, think you?"

"They will muster certainly not short of two hundred. Near seven hundredmen will follow me into Coron on the evening of the 7th. "

"They will find provisions there in plenty--meat, bread, and wine. Theyare not used to lie soft; they will not grumble at having clean strawto sleep on. "

"They shall grumble at nothing, my friend; if your care can supply themwith food, well; if not, we will find bread enough among the townsfolk. There is not a housewife in Coron, who would refuse me the contents ofher larder. "

"The bullocks are ready for the butcher's axe in the stalls atDurbellière, please your reverence, " said Chapeau, who rode near enoughto his master to take a part in the conversation as occasion offered. "And the stone wine-jars are ready corked. Momont saw to the latter parthimself. May the saints direct that the drinking have not the sameeffect upon our friends that the corking had on Momont, or there willbe many sick head-aches in Coron on the next morning. "

"There will be too many of us for that, Jacques. Five hundred throatswill dispose of much good wine, so as to do but little injury. "

"That would be true, your reverence, were not some throats so much widerthan others. You will always see that one porker half empties the troughbefore others have moistened their snouts in the mess. "

"We will see to that, Jacques. We will appoint some temperate fellowbutler, or rather some strong-fisted fellow, whose thick head much winewill not hurt; though he may swill himself he will not let others doso. "

"If it were not displeasing to yourself and to M. Henri, I wouldundertake all that myself. Each man of the five hundred should have hisown share of meat and drink at Coron, and the same again at Doué. "

"Will not Jacques be with you?" said the priest, turning round to Henri. "What should bring him to Coron among my men?"

"He says he has friends here in Echanbroignes, and he has begged thathe may be here with them on the evening of the 6th, so as to accompanythem into Coron on the 7th. We shall all meet at Doué on the 8th. "

"I was thinking, your reverence, if any here were loiterers, as theremay be some, I fear; or if there should be any ill inclined to leavetheir homes, my example might encourage them. I have a liking for thevillage, and I should feel disgraced were a single able-bodied man tobe found near it after the morning of the 7th. "

"I trust they will not need any one to remind them of their promise, when they have once pledged themselves to the service of their King, "said the priest. "However, you will be, doubtless, useful to me atCoron. But, Henri, what will you do without him?"

"Adolphe and I will be together, and will do well. We shall have anabsolute barrack at Durbellière. We shall have above one hundred men inthe house. Agatha and the women are at work night and day. "

"You have the worst part of the whole affair--the ammunition. "

"It is all packed and ready for the carts; a few days since the cellarswere half-full of the lead and iron, which we have been casting; theyare now, I trust, half-way to Saumur, under Foret's care. "

"How many men has he with him?" asked the priest. 

"He has all the men from Clisson, from St. Paul's and St. Briulph's--except a few of Charles' own tenants, who went on forward to join him atDoué, and who have our supply of flags with them, made in the château atClisson. Madame de Lescure and poor Marie have worked their fingers tothe bone. "

"God bless them! God will bless them, for they are working in the spiritwhich he loves. "

"Agatha and Annette, between them, have packed nearly every ounce ofgunpowder, " said Henri, who could not help boasting of his sister. "Night and day they have been handling it without regarding for a momentthe destruction which the slightest accident might bring upon them. "

"It is that spirit, my son, which will enable us to beat twice our ownstrength in numbers, and ten times our own strength in arms anddiscipline How many men has Foret with him?"

"Above six hundred. I do not know his exact numbers, " said Henri. 

"And you, yourself?"

"I shall muster a thousand strong, that is for a certainty; I believeI shall be nearer twelve thousand. "

"Let me see--that will be, say two thousand five hundred from theBocage. "

"Oh! more than that your reverence, " said Chapeau, "you are not countingM. De Lescure's men, who have gone on with the flags--or the men fromBeauprieu who will follow M. D'Elbée, or the men from St. Florent, whowill come down with Cathelineau. "

"I don't count Beauprieu, or Cholet or St. Florent; there will be twothousand five hundred from our own country, out of three thousand threehundred male adults, that is three men, Henry, out of every four--theycannot at any rate say that the spirit of the people is not with us. "

As the priest spoke, they rode into the street of the little village ofEchanbroignes, and having stopped at the door of the Mayor's house, Henri and the Curé dismounted, and giving their horses up to Jacques, warmly greeted that worthy civic authority, who came out to meet them. 

The appointment of a mayor in every village in France, had been enjoinedat an early time in the revolution, and after the death of the King, these functionaries were, generally speaking, strong republicans; butthe Vendeans in opposition to the spirit of the revolution, hadpersisted in electing the Seigneurs, wherever they could get a Seigneurto act as mayor; and, where this was not the case, some person in theimmediate employment of the landlord was chosen. This was the case atEchanbroignes, where the agent or intendant of the proprietor was mayor. He expected the visit which was now paid to him, and having twenty timesexpressed his delight at the honour which was done him, he got his hatand accompanied his visitors to the door of the church, where with hisown hands he commenced a violent assault on the bell-rope, which hungdown in the middle of the porch. 

He was ringing the tocsin, which was to call together the people of thevillage. They also very generally knew who was coming among them on thatday, and the purpose for which they were corning; and at the first soundof the bell, all such as intended to shew themselves, came crowding onto the little space before the church; it was but few who remained athome, and they were mostly those to whom home at the present moment waspeculiarly sweet; one or two swains newly married, or just about to bemarried; one or two fathers, who could hardly bring themselves in thesedangerous times to leave their little prattling children, and one or twowho were averse to lose the profits of their trade. 

In spite of the speedy appearance of his townspeople, the Mayorpersisted in his operations on the bell-rope until the perspiration randown his face. He was sounding the tocsin, and he felt the importanceof what he was doing. Every one knew that a tocsin bell to be duly rung, should be rung long and loud--not with a little merry jingle, such asbefitted the announcement of a wedding, but in a manner to strikeastonishment, if not alarm, into its hearers; and on this occasion greatjustice was done to the tocsin. 

"That will do, M. Mayor; that will do, I think!" said the Curé, "itlooks to me as though our friends were all here. "

The Mayor gave an awful pull, the bell leapt wildly up, gave one loudconcluding flourish, and then was quiet. 

"Now, M. Mayor, " said the Curé, "you have by heart the few words I gaveyou, have you not?"

"Indeed, Father Jerome, I have, " said the Mayor, "and am not likely toforget them. Let me see--let me see. Now, my friends, will you be quieta moment while I speak to you. Ambrose Corvelin, will you hold yournoisy tongue awhile--perhaps M. De Larochejaquelin, I had better get upon the wall, they will hear me better?"

"Do, M. Mayor, do, " said Henri; and the Mayor was lifted on to the lowwall which ran round the churchyard, and roared out the following words, at the top of his voice:

"In the holy name of God, and by command of the King, this parish ofEchanbroignes is invited to send as many men as possible to Saumur, tobe there, or at any other such place in the neighbourhood as may beappointed, at three o'clock on the afternoon of the 9th of June. And mayGod defend the right. Amen!" And having said this, the Mayor jumped offthe wall, and the crowd commenced shouting and cheering. 

"Wait one moment, and hear me say a few words, my friends, " said Henri, springing to the place which the Mayor had just left. "Most of you, Ibelieve, know who I am. "

"We do, M Henri, " said they. "We do, M. Larochejaquelin. We all know whoyou are. We know that you are our friend. "

"I am very glad you think so, " continued he; "for you will know, thatif I am your friend, I shall not deceive you. I have come here to askyou to share with me the honour and the danger of restoring his father'skingdom and his father's throne to the son of your murdered King. I havecome here to ask you also to assist me and others, who are your friends, in protecting yourselves, your pastors, your houses, your wives anddaughters, from the tyranny and cruelty of the republicans. "

"We will!" shouted the crowd. "We will go at once. We will be at Saumuron Wednesday. We will follow M. Larochejaquelin wherever he would leadus. "

"You all know Cathelineau, " continued Henri; "you all know the goodpostillion of St. Florent?"

"We do, God bless him! we do. We all know the Saint of Anjou. "

"Come and meet him, my friends, under the walls of Saumur; or rather, I should say, come and meet him within the walls of Saumur. Come andgreet the noble fellows of St. Florent, who have set us so loyal anexample. Come and meet the brave men of Fontenay, who trampled on thedirty tricolour, and drove out General Coustard from his covert, likea hunted fox. He is now at Saumur; we will turn him out from thence. "

"We will! we will! We will hang up Coustard by the heels. "

"We will strip him rather of his spurs and his epaulettes, of his swordand blue coat, and send him back to the Convention, that they may seewhat will become of the heroes, whom they send to seek for glory in LaVendée. Thanks, my friends; thanks for your kindness. I will lead youto no dangers which I will not share with you. You shall suffer nohardship of which I will not partake. I will look for no glory in whichyou shall not be my partners. "

During the time that the Mayor had been giving his invitation to thepeople, and Henri had been speaking to them, Father Jerome had beenbusily employed with Jacques Chapeau over six or seven little listswhich he held in his hand. These were lists of the names of able-bodiedmen, which had been drawn out by the Curé of the parish, and Jacques hadalready marked those of one or two whom he had found to be absent, andamong them the names of Michael Stems' two stalwart sons. Father Jeromeagain handed the lists to Jacques, and as Henri descended from the wall, amid the greeting of the populace, he ascended it, and gave them alittle clerical admonition. 

"My children, " said he, "it delights my heart to find that so few of youare absent from us this morning--from the whole parish there are butfive, I believe, who have not readily come forward to proclaim theirzeal for their God, their King, and their Church: those five, I doubtnot, will be here when we proceed to check the names. Let it not be saidthat there was one recreant in Echanbroignes--one man afraid to answerwhen called for by his country. Is there danger in the bloody battle wehave before us?--let us all share it, and it will be lighter. Is it agrievous thing for you to leave your wives and your children?--let noman presume to think that he will be happier than his neighbours, forthat man shall assuredly be the most miserable. It is possible that someof you may leave your bodies beneath the walls of Saumur, be it so; willyou complain because the Creator may require from some of you the lifewhich he has given? Is it not enough for you to know, that he who fallsfighting with this blessed symbol before his eyes, shall that night restamong the angels of Heaven?" and the Curé held up on high, above thepeople, a huge cross, which he bad had brought to him out of the church. "God has blessed you, my children, in giving you the sacred privilegeof fighting in His cause. You would indeed be weak--senseless as thebrutes--unfeeling as the rocks--aye, impious as the republicans, had younot replied to the summons as you have done; but you have shown that youknow your duty. I see, my children, that you are true Vendeans. I blessyou now, and on tomorrow week, I will be among you before the walls ofSaumur. "

Having finished speaking, the priest also jumped off the wall, and againthe people shouted and cheered. And now they went to work with thelists: Henri, the Mayor, and the Curé each took a pencil, and called thenames of the different men, as they were written down. There was ofcourse much delay in getting the men as they were called; but Chapeauhad sworn in three or four assistants, and he and they dived in amongthe crowd, hurried this way and that, and shouted, screamed, andscreeched with great effect. The lists were made out with some regardto the localities; the men from the lower end of the village were to goto Henri's side; those from the northern part to Father Jerome's table;and the inhabitants of the intermediate village were checked off by theMayor. Chapeau and his friends were most diligent in marshalling them;to be sure, Jacques knew the names of but few of them; but he made themtell him whether they were villagers, northerns, or lower-end men; andthough the men in many instances couldn't answer this themselves, thedivisions were effected, the names of all were called over, those whowere there were checked off and informed what was expected of them, andwhere and by whom arms would be supplied to them: and those who were notthere became the unhappy victims of a black list. 

Father Jerome, when he said that there were only five absent, wassomething but not much out in his reckoning: his object, however, hadbeen to make the people think that he knew exactly who was there, andwho was not there; and in this he was successful. During the calling ofthe lists, one or two stragglers dropped in who hoped to escapedetection: respecting a few others, some good ground of excuse wasalleged; but on this head the Curé was most severe: he would accept noplea but that of absolute downright sickness, and of this he requiredto have most ample testimony--even Henri sometimes pleaded for thepeople, but unsuccessfully. The Republic by their proscription wouldhave decimated the men; the Curé of St. Laud insisted on taking themall. 

The houses of those who had not presented themselves were to be visited, and the two first on the list were Jean and Peter Stein. 

"Jean and Peter Stein, " said Henri. "Why, Jacques, are they not friendsof yours? are they not sons of Michael Stein, the smith?"

"Quiet, M. Henri; pray be quiet for a moment, and I will explain. "

"Are they not strong, active lads, " said the Curé, turning somewhatangrily on Chapeau, as though he were responsible for the principles ofhis friends. 

"They are, they are, your reverence, fine strong active lads as you everlaid your eyes on. "

"And they are afraid to carry a musket for their king?"

"Not a bit, Father Jerome, not a bit afraid; nor yet unwilling, M. Henri. I will explain it all; only let us be a little by ourselves. "

"There is a mystery, Father Jerome, " said Henri, "and Chapeau must havehis own way in explaining it. "

"Exactly, M. Henri; I will explain all. " By this time he had got thepriest and his master somewhat out of the crowd. "You see, M. Henri, there are not two young men in the Bocage more determined to fight forthe good cause this moment, than Jean and Peter Stein. "

"Why, Jacques, I do not see it yet, certainly. "

"Oh! Sir, it's a fact; they are dying to have a musket in their hands. I pledge for them my word of honour, " and Jacques laid his hand upon hisheart. "You will find they are with me, your reverence, when I meet youat the cross-roads, within half a mile of Coron, on Monday morning. But, M. Henri, they have a father. "

"Have a father!" said the Curé, "of course they have. "

"You don't mean to tell me that Michael Stein, the smith, is arepublican?"

"A republican!" said Jaques. "Oh! no, the heavens preserve us, he'snothing so bad as that, or his own son wouldn't remain under his roofanother night, or his daughter either. No; Annot wouldn't remain withhim another hour, were he twenty times her father, if he turnedrepublican. "

"Why does he prevent his sons joining the muster, then?" said Henri. 

"He is very fond of money, M. Henri. Old Michael Stein is very fond ofmoney; and every one in the country who owns a franc at all, is buyingan old sword or a gun, or turning a reaping-hook into a sabre, orgetting a long pike made with an axe at the end of it; so MichaelStein's smithy is turned into a perfect armoury, and he and his two sonsare at work at the anvil morning, noon, and night: they made Annot blowthe bellows this morning, till she looks for all the world like atinker's wife. "

"That alters the case, " said Father Jerome; "they are doing goodservice, if they are making arms for our men; they are better employedthan though they joined us themselves. "

"Don't say so, Father Jerome, " said Jacques, "pray don't say so, Jeanand Peter would die were they not to be of the party at Saumur; butMichael is so passionate and so headstrong, and he swears they shall notgo. Now go they will, and therefore I supplicate that my word may betaken, and that I may be saved the dishonour of hearing the names of myfriends read out aloud with those of men who will disgrace their parishand their country. "

The request of Jacques was granted, and the names of Jean and PeterStein were erased from the top of the black list. 

It was eight in the evening before the recruiting party had finishedtheir work, and it was not yet noon when they rode into the littlevillage. Henri and the Curé got their supper and slept at the Mayor'shouse, and even there they were not allowed to be quiet; some of thosewho were to be at Saumur, were continually calling for new instructions;one wanted to know what arms he was to carry, another what provisionshe was to bring, a third was anxious to be a corporal, and a fourth andfifth begged that they might not be separated, as one was going to marrythe sister of the other. None of these were turned away unanswered; thedoor of the Mayor's house was not closed for a moment, and Henri, to beenabled to eat his supper at all, was obliged to give his last militaryorders with a crust of bread in his hand, and his mouth full of meat. 

As might be supposed, Jacques spent the evening with Annot Stein, atleast it was his intention to have done so; but he had been so leadinga person in the day's transactions that he also was besieged by thevillagers, and was hardly able to whisper a word into his sweetheart'sear. There he sat, however, very busy and supremely happy in the smith'skitchen, with a pipe in his mouth and a bottle of wine before him. Theold smith sat opposite to him, while the two young men stood among a lotof others round the little table, and Annot bustled in and out of theroom, now going close enough up to her lover to enable him. To pinch herelbow unseen by her father, and then leaning against the dresser, andlistening to his military eloquence. 

"And so, my friend, " said Chapeau, "Jean and Peter are not to go toSaumur?"

"Not a foot, Chapeau, " said the old man, "not a foot, Chapeau; let yefight, we will make swords for you: is not that fair, neighbour?"

"I have nothing to say against it, M. Stein, not a word; only suchfellows as they, they would surely get promoted. "

"Oh, ay; you will all be sergeants, no doubt. I have nothing to sayagainst that; only none of mine shall go waging wars in distant lands. "

"Distant lands, say you! is not Saumur in Anjou? and is not Anjou withinthree miles of you, here where you are sitting?"

"May be so, M. Chapeau; but still, with your leave, I say Saumur isdistant. Can you get there in one day from here?"

"Why no, not in one day. "

"Nor in two?"

"Why, no again; though they might do it in two. They'll start from hereMonday morning with light, and they'll reach Saumur on Wednesday in timeto look about them, and learn what they have to do the next morning. "

"That's three day's going, and three coming, and heaven only knows howmany days there; and you don't call that distant! Who's to feed them allI'd like to know?"

"Feed them!" said Chapeau. "I wish you could see all the bullocks andthe wine at Durbellière; they'll have rations like fighting-cocks. Ionly pray that too much good living make them not lazy. "

"Were I a man, " said Annot, as she put on the table a fresh bottle ofwine, which she had just brought in from the little inn, "were I a man, as I would I were, I would go, whether or no. "

"Would you, minx, " said the father; "it's well for you that yourpetticoats keep you at home. "

"Don't be too sure of her, Michael Stein, " said Paul Rouel, the keeperof the inn; "she'll marry a soldier yet before the wars are over. "

"Let her do as her mother did before her, and marry an honest tradesman;that is, if she can find one to take her. "

"Find one!" said Annot, "if I can't get a husband without finding one, indeed, I'm sure I'll not fash myself with seeking: let him find me thatwants me. "

"And it wont be the first that finds you either, that'll be allowed totake to you, will it Annot?" said the innkeeper. 

"That's as may be, Master Rouel, " said Annot. "Those who ask noquestions are seldom told many lies. "

"I know Annot Stein loves a soldier in her heart, " said another old man, who was sitting inside the large open chimney. "The girls think thereis no trade like soldiering. I went for a soldier when I was young, andit was all to oblige Lolotte Gobelin; and what think ye, when I wasgone, she got married to Jean Geldert, down at Petit Ange. There'snothing for the girls like soldiering. "

"You give us great encouragement truly, " said Jacques. "I hope oursweethearts will not all do as Lolotte did. You would not serve yourlover so, when he was fighting for his King and country--would you, Annot?"

"I might, then, if I didn't like him, " said she. 

"She's no better than her neighbours, M. Chapeau, " said one of herbrothers. "There was young Boullin, the baker, at St. Paul's. Till weheard of these wars, Annot was as fond of him as could be. It was nonebut he then; but now, she will not as much as turn her head if she seeshis white jacket. "

"Hold thine unmannerly, loutish, stupid tongue, wilt thou, thou dolt, "said Annot, deeply offended. "Boullin indeed! I danced with him lastharvest-home; I know not why, unless for sheer good-nature; and now, forsooth, I am to have Boullin for ever thrust in my teeth. Bah! I hatea baker. I would as lieve take a butcher at once. "

Jacques Chapean also was offended. 

"I wonder, Jean Stein, " said he, "that you know not better than to likenyour sister to such as young Boullin--a very good young man in his way, I have no doubt. You should remember there is a difference in thesethings. "

"I don't know, " said Jean, "why a smith's daughter should not marry abaker's son; but I did not mean to vex Annot, and will say no more abouthim; only good bread is a very good thing to have in one's house. "

"And a butcher is a good trade too, " said the old man inside thechimney. "Jean Geldert, he that Lolotte Gobelin ran off with, he was abutcher. "

CHAPTER VII

SUNDAY IN THE BOCAGE. 

The remainder of that week was spent by Henri and the Curé as activelyand as successfully as the day in which they visited Echanbroignes. Thenumbers they enrolled exceeded their hopes, and they found among thepeople many more arms than they expected, though mostly of a very rudekind. The party separated on the Saturday night, with the understandingthat they were to meet together at Done on the Tuesday evening, toproceed from thence to the attack of Saumur. Henri Larochejaquelinreturned to Durbellière. The Curé of St. Laud went to his own parish, to perform mass among his own people on the following morning, andJacques Chapeau, according to agreement, took up his quarters at thesmith's house in Echanbroignes. 

On the following morning, he and Annot, and most of the young men andwomen of the village walked over to St. Laud's to receive mass fromFather Jerome, and to hear the discourse which he had promised to giverespecting the duties of the people in the coming times. 

The people, as in olden days, were crowded round the church abouthalf-past ten o'clock; but the doors of the church were closed. Therevolt in La Vendée had already gone far enough to prevent thepossibility of the constitutional priests officiating in the churchesto which they had been appointed by the National Assembly; but it hadnot yet gone far enough to enable the old nonjuring Cures to resumegenerally their own places in their own churches: the people, however, now crowded round the church of St. Laud's, till they should learn whereon that day Father Jerome would perform mass. 

The church of St. Laud's did not stand in any village, nor was itsurrounded even by a cluster of cottages. It stood by itself on the sideof a narrow little road, and was so completely surrounded by beech andflowering ash trees, that a stranger would not know that he was in theneighbourhood of a place of worship till it was immediately in front ofhim. Opposite to the door of the church and on the other side of theroad, was a cross erected on a little mound; and at its foot a Capuchinmonk in his arse brown frock, with his hood thrown back, and his eyesturned to heaven, was always kneeling: the effigy at least of one wasdoing so, for it was a painted wooden monk that was so perpetually athis prayers. 

The church itself was small, but it boasted of a pretty grey tower; andon each side of the door of the church were two works of art, muchcelebrated in the neighbourhood. On the left side, beneath the window, a large niche was grated in with thick, rusty iron bars. It occupied thewhole extent from the portico to the corner of the church, and from theground to the window; and, within the bars, six monster demons--spiritsof the unrepentent dead, the forms of wretches who had died withoutowning the name of their Saviour, were withering in the torments ofhell-fire; awful indeed was the appearance of these figures; they werelarger than human, and twisted into every variety of contortion whichit was conceived possible that agony could assume. Their eyes were madeto protrude from their faces, their fiery tongues were hanging fromtheir scorched lips; the hairs of each demon stood on end and lookedlike agonized snakes; they were of various hideous colours; one was adingy blue; another a horrid dirty yellow, as though perpetual jaundicewere his punishment; another was a foul unhealthy green; a fourth wasof a brick-dust colour; a fifth was fiery red, and he was leaping highas though to escape the flame; but in vain, for a huge blue flake offire had caught him by the leg, and bound him fast; his fiery red handswere closed upon the bars, his tortured face was pressed against them, and his screeching mouth was stretched wide open so as to display twoawful rows of red-hot teeth; the sixth a jet black devil, cowered in acorner and grinned, as though even there he had some pleasure in themisery of his companions. 

The space occupied on the other side was much larger, for it was carriedup so far as to darken a great portion of the window. That on the leftrepresented the misery of hell--torment without hope. That on the rightcontained two tableaus: the lower one was purgatory, here four recumbentfigures lay in the four corners, uncomfortably enough; for the bed ofeach figure was six sharp spikes, each of which perforated the occupierof it. But yet these dead men were not horrible to look at as those sixother wretches; their eyes were turned on a round aperture above, theedge of which was all gilt and shining, for the glory of heaven shoneinto it. This aperture entered into paradise. Through the aperture theimaginative artist had made a spirit to be passing---his head andshoulders were in paradise; these were also gilt and glorious, and onhis shoulders two little seraphims were fixing wings; his nether partsbelow the aperture, were still brown and dingy, as were the fourrecumbent spirits who rested on their gridirons till the time shouldcome that they also should be passed through. 

Above the aperture was to be seen paradise in all its blazon of glory, numberless little golden-headen cherubims encircled a throne, on whichwas seated the beneficent majesty of Heaven. From the towers and roofsprojected numerous brazen-mouthed instruments, which welcomed intoeverlasting joy the purified spirit which was ascending from purgatory. 

Thus were paradise, purgatory and pandemonium represented at St. Laud's, and abominable as such representations now appear to be, they had, toa certain extent, a salutary effect with the people who were in thehabit of looking at them. That they were absolute accuraterepresentations of the places represented, they never for a momentpresumed to doubt; and if the joys of heaven, as displayed there, werenot of much avail in adding to the zeal of the faithful, the horrors ofhell were certainly most efficacious in frightening the people intocompliance with the rules laid down for them, and in preventing themfrom neglecting their priests and religious duties. 

The people were crowded round the church; some were kneeling with thewooden monk at the foot of the cross, and some round the bars ofpurgatory. Others were prostrated before the six condemned demons, andsome sat by the road-side, on the roots of the trees, telling theirbeads. Many men were talking of the state of the times, and of the warsto come; some were foretelling misery and desolation, and others werespeaking of the happy days about to return, when their King and theirpriests should have their own, and La Vendée should be the most honouredprovince in France. 

They made a pretty scene, waiting there beneath the shade till theirpriest should come to lead them to some rural chapel. The bright coloursworn by the women in their Sunday clothes, and the picturesque forms ofthe men, in their huge broad-brimmed flapping hats, harmonized well withthe thick green foliage around them. They shewed no sign of impatience, they were quite content to wait there, and pray, or gossip, or make loveto each other, till such time as Father Jerome should please to come;they had no idea that their time was badly spent in waiting for so gooda man. 

At any rate he came before they were tired, and with him came a man whowas a stranger to them all, except to Jacques Chapeau. This man was butlittle, if anything, better dressed than themselves; he looked like oneof their own farmers of the better days; certainly from his dress andmanner he had no pretensions to be called a gentleman, and yet he walkedand talked with Father Jerome as though he were his equal. 

"God bless you, my children, God bless you, " said the Curé, in answerto the various greetings he received from his flock. "Follow me, mychildren, and we will worship God beneath the canopy of his holythrone, " and then turning to the stranger, he added: "the next time youvisit me at St. Laud's, M. D'Elbée, we shall, I doubt not, have ourchurch again. I could now desire the people to force the doors for me, and no one would dare to hinder them; but I have been thrust from myaltar and pulpit by a self-constituted vain authority--but yet byauthority; and I will not resume them till I do so by the order of theKing or of his servants. "

"I reverence the house of God, " replied M. D'Elbée, "because his spirithas sanctified it; but walls and pillars are not necessary to myworship; a cross beneath a rock is as perfect a church to them who havethe will to worship, as though they had above them the towers of NotreDame, or the dome of St. Peter's. "

"You are right, my son; it is the heart that God regards; and where thatis in earnest, his mercy will dispense with the outward symbols of ourreligion; but still it is our especial duty to preserve to his useeverything which the piety of former ages has sanctified; to partwillingly with nothing which appertains in any. Way to His church. Thebest we have is too little for His glory. It should be our greatesthonour to give to Him; it is through His great mercy that He receivesour unworthy offerings. Come, my children, follow me; our altar isprepared above. "

The priest led the way through a little shaded path at the back of thechurch; behind a farmhouse and up a slight acclivity, on the side ofwhich the rocks in different places appeared through the green turf, andthe crowd followed him at a respectful distance. 

"And who is that with Father Jerome--who is the stranger, M. Chapeau?"said one and another of them, crowding round Jacques--for it soon gotabroad among them, that Jacques Chapeau had seen the stranger in someof his former military movements in La Vendée. Chapeau was walkingbeside his mistress, and was not at all sorry of the opportunity ofshewing off. 

"Who is he, indeed?" said Jacques. "Can it be that none of you know M. D'Elbée?"

"D'Elbée!--d'Elbée!--indeed; no, then, I never heard the name till thismoment, " said one. 

"Nor I, " said another; "but he must be a good man, or Father Jeromewould not walk with him just before performing mass. "

"You are right there, Jean, " said Jacques, "M. D'Elbée is a good man;he has as much religion as though he were a priest himself. "

"And he must be a thorough royalist, " said another, "or Father Jeromewouldn't walk with him at all. "

"You are right, too, my friend; M. D'Elbée is a great royalist. He isthe especial friend of our good Cathelineau. "

"The friend of Cathelineau and of Father Jerome, " said a fourth, "thenI am sure M. D'Elbée must be something out of the common way. "

"You are right again, he is very much out of the common way, he is oneof our great generals, " said Chapeau. 

"One of our great generals, is he, " said two or three at once. "I knewhe was going to Saumur, " said Jean, "or Father Jerome wouldn't havewalked so peaceable with him, great as he may be. "

"But if he is a great general, " said Annot, "why has he no lace upon hiscoat; why doesn't he wear a sword and look smart like M. Larochejaquelin? At any rate he is a very shabby general. "

"He has a terrible long nose too, " said another girl. "And he has nota morsel of starch in his shirt ruffles, I declare, " said a third, whoofficiated as laundress to the Mayor of Echanbroignes. 

"I'm sure the republicans will never be afraid of such a general as heis. You are joking with us now, Jacques. I am sure he is not a general;he is more like a grocer from Nantes. "

"And is not Cathelineau like a postilion?" said Jacques, "and I hope youwill allow he is a great soldier. You know nothing of these things yet, Annot. M. Larochejaquelin is so smart because he is a young nobleman;not because he is a general. "

"And is not M. D'Elbée a nobleman?" said one of the girls. 

"Not a bit of it, " said Chapeau. 

"Well, I think the generals should all be noblemen; I declare, " said thelaundress, "M. Larochejaquelin did look so nice last Wednesday, when hewas getting off his horse. "

"That is all; but Cathelineau, " said Annot, "he is the finest fellow ofthem all. I'd sooner have Cathelinean for my lover, than the Duc deChartres, and he's the king's cousin. "

"You are a foolish girl, Annot, " said Chapeau. "You might as well wantthe picture of St. John out of the church window down yonder, and takethat for your lover, as Cathelineau. Don't you know he's the Saint ofAnjou?"

"He might marry a wife, and have a house full of children, for all that;that's the difference between being a saint and a priest; there's noharm in being in love with a saint, and I am very much in love withCathelineau. "

"Why, you little ninny, you never saw him, " said Chapean. 

"No matter, " said Annot; "ninny, or no ninny, I'll go where I'm like tosee him; and I'm sure I'll never bear the sight of another manafterwards; the dear, good, sweet Cathelineau, with his curly hair, andfine whiskers, and black bright eyes; he's better than all the noblemen:I declare I dreamed of him these last two nights. "

Chapeau left the side of his mistress, muttering something about stupidfoolish chits of girls, and continued his description of M. D'Elbée tothe men. 

"Indeed he is a very great general. I don't know very well where he camefrom, but I believe somewhere down in the Marais, from his being sucha friend of M. Charette; but he has been fighting against therepublicans this long time, even before Cathelineau began, I believe, though I don't exactly know where. I know he was made a prisoner inParis, and nearly killed there by some of those bloody-minded rebels;then he escaped, and he was at the siege of Machecoult, and gothonourably wounded, and was left for dead: and then he was atThouars--no, not at Thouars; we heard he was coming, but he didn't come;but he was at Fontenay, and that's where I first saw him. M. Bonchampsbrought him in and introduced him to M. De Lescure, and our M. Larochejaquelin, and I was astonished to see how much they made of him, for he was dressed just as he is now, and had no sword or anything. Well, as soon as he came in they all went to work talking, and settlinghow Fontenay was to be attacked, for though its a little place, and notwalled and fortified like Saumur, we had a deal of trouble with it; butbefore a word was spoken, M. D'Elbée stood up and said, 'Brethren, ' saidhe, 'let us ask the assistance of our Saviour:' so down they went ontheir knees, and he said an awful long prayer, for all the world likea priest. And then again before we fired a shot, he bade all thesoldiers kneel down, and down we went, the republicans firing at us allthe time. The soldiers call him Old Providence, for they say he talksa deal about Providence when he is fighting. "

"You may be sure that's what makes Father Jerome so fond of him, " saidJean. "I knew he was a good man. "

"And he was a desperate fellow to fight afterwards, " continued Chapeau. "But he walked into the thick of the fighting just as he is now. "

"But he had a sword, or a gun, or a spear?" said Jean. 

"Neither the one or the other; he was just as he is this minute, givingorders, and directing some of the men there who knew him well. Presently, he said to a young gentleman who was near him: 'Lend me thatsword a moment, will you?' and he took it out of his hands, and made arush through the gate of Fontenay, and I saw no more of him that day. "

"Why did you not rush after him, then, M. Chapeau?"

"Rush after him! Why, you simpleton; do you think in wars like thatevery man is to rush just where he pleases; you'll soon be taught thedifference. M. D'Elbée was a general, and might go where he liked; butI was a corporal under M. Henri, with ten men under me. We had to remainwhere we were, and cut off the republicans, if they showed their nosesat a point in the street which we covered; it's only the generals thatgo rushing about in that way. But here we are at Father Jerome's altar. Well; I'm very hot. I'm sure its nearly half a league up here from thechurch. "

They had now come to a rude altar, constructed on a piece of rock, infront of which was a small space of green turf: the whole spot wasclosely surrounded by beech and ash-trees; so closely, indeed, that thesun hardly made its way into it, and the rocks around it rising upthrough the grass afforded ample accommodation for the people. In amoment, they were on their knees on the grass; some almost immediatelybefore the altar; others kneeling against the rocks; others again withtheir heads and hands resting against the trunk of a huge beech-tree. 

Hither had been brought the necessary appurtenances for the performanceof mass. A small, but beautifully white cloth was spread upon a flatportion of the rock; bread was there, and a small quantum of wine; alittle patina and a humble chalice. M. D'Elbée took his place among thecrowd before the altar, and Father Jerome, having dressed himself in hisrobes, performed, with a fine, full, sonorous voice, the morning serviceof his church. When so occupied, he had no longer the look of thebanished priest: his sacred vestments had not shared the decay which hadfallen on his ordinary clothes. No bishop rising from his throne tobless the congregation assembled in his cathedral, could assume moredignity, or inspire more solemnity than the Curé of St. Laud, as heperformed mass at his sylvan altar in La Vendée. 

After mass was finished, the priest gave them an extempore discourse onthe necessity of their absolutely submitting themselves to theirteachers, spiritual masters, and pastors; and before he had finished, he turned their attention to the especial necessity of their obeying theleaders, now among them, in carrying on the war against the Republic, and as he concluded, he said:

"I rejoice at all times, my children, that you are an obedient and adocile people, content to accept the word of God from those whom he hassent to teach it to you--that you are not a stiff-necked generation, prone to follow your own vain conceits, or foolish enough to conceivethat your little earthly knowledge can be superior to the wisdom whichcomes from above, as others are. I have always rejoiced at this, mychildren, for in it I have seen hope for you, when I could see none forothers; but now also I rejoice greatly to see that you unite the courageof men to the docility of babes. Hitherto your lot has been that ofpeace, and if you have not enjoyed riches, you have at any rate beencontented: another destiny is before you now--peace and content haveleft the country, and have been followed by robbery, confusion, and war. My children, you must, for a while, give over your accustomed peacefulduties; your hands--your hearts--all your energy, and all your courage, are required by God for his own purposes--yes, required by that Creatorwho gave you strength and energy--who gave you the power and the willto do great deeds for His holy name. 

"His enemies are in the land: impious wretches--who do not hesitate towage war against His throne--are endeavouring to destroy all that isgood, and all that is holy in France. Do you not know, my children, thatthey have murdered your King?--and that they have imprisoned your Queen, and her son, who is now your King? Would you be content to remain quietin your homes, while your King is lying in a prison, in hourly dangerof death? They have excluded you from your churches, they have causedGod's holy houses to be closed; they have sent among you teachers whocan only lead you astray--whose teaching can only bring you to the gatesof hell. The enemies of the Lord are around you; and you are nowrequired to take arms in your hands, to go out against them, and ifneeds be to give your blood--nay your life for your country, your King, and your Church. 

"I greatly rejoice, my children, that you are an obedient people; I knowthat you will now do your utmost, and I know that you will succeed. TheLord will not desert His people when they combat for His glory, whenthey faithfully turn to Him for victory. You have been taught how Hechose the Israelites as an especial people--how He loved and favouredthem: as long as they were faithful and obedient He never deserted them. They conquered hosts ten times their numbers--they were victoriousagainst armed warriors, and mighty giants. The Lord blinded theirenemies so that they saw not; He blunted their weapons; He paralyzedtheir courage; chariots and horses did not avail them; nor strong walls, nor mighty men of battle. The Lord loved the Israelites, and as long asthey were faithful and obedient, they prevailed against all theirenemies. 

"You, my children, are now God's people; if you are truly faithful, youshall assuredly prevail; if you go out to battle firmly, absolutely, entirely trusting in the strength of His right hand--that right hand, that Almighty arm shall be on your side. And who then shall standagainst you?--though tens, and hundreds of thousands swarm around you, they shall yield before you--they shall fall before you as the giantGoliath fell before the shepherd David. 

"Be not afraid, therefore, my children: we will go together; we willremember that every man who falls on our side in this holy war, fallsas he is doing Christ's service, and that his death is to be envied, forit is a passport into Heaven. We will remember this in the hour ofbattle, when our enemies are before us, when death is staring us in theface, and remembering it, we shall not be afraid. If we die fightingtruly in this cause, our immortal souls will be wafted off to paradise--to everlasting joy: if we live, it will be to receive, here in our owndear fields, the thanks of a grateful King, to feel that we have doneour duty as Christians and as men, and to hear our children bless thedays, when the courage of La Vendée restored the honour of France. "

Father Jerome's exhortation had a strong effect upon the people; he knewand calculated their strength and their weakness--they were brave andcredulous, and when he finished speaking, there was hardly one there whoin the least doubted that the event of the war would be entirelysuccessful: they felt that they were a chosen people, set apart for agood work--that glory and victory awaited them in the contest, andespecially that they were about to fight under the immediate protectionof the Almighty. 

As soon as the service was over, they all left the little sylvan chapelby different paths, and in different directions; some went back to thechurch, some went off across the fields, some took a short cut to theroad, but they all returned home without delay. Every man was to set outearly on the morrow for the rendezvous, and the women were preparing toshed their tears and say their last farewell to their lovers, brothers, and husbands, before they started on so great an enterprise. They hadall been gay enough during the morning--they became a little melancholyon their return home, but before the evening was far advanced, nothingwas to be heard but sobs and vows, kisses and blessings. 

Jacques Chapeau returned to Echanbroignes with the party of villagerswho had gone from thence to hear Father Jerome, but he did not attachhimself expressly to Annot, indeed he said not a word to her on the way, but addressed the benefit of his conversation to his male friendsgenerally; to tell the truth, he was something offended at the warmadmiration which his sweetheart had expressed for Cathelineau. He wasn'texactly jealous of the postillion, for Annot had never seen him, andcouldn't, therefore, really love him; but he felt that she ought not tohave talked about another man's eyes and whiskers, even though thatother man was a saint and a general. It was heartless, too, of Annot tosay such things at such a time, just as he was going to leave her, onthe eve of battle, and when he had left his own master, and all theglorious confusion and good living in--at Durbellière, merely that hemight spend his last quiet day in her company. 

It was base of her to say that she had dreamed twice of Cathelineau; andshe was punished for it, for she had to walk home almost unnoticed. Atfirst she was very angry, and kicked up the dust with her Sunday shoesin fine style; but before long her heart softened, and she watchedanxiously for some word or look from Jacques on which she might base anattempt at a reconciliation. Jacques knew what she was about, and wouldnot even look at her: he went on talking with Jean and Peter and theothers, about the wars, and republicans and royalists, as though poorAnnot Stein had not been there at all. From the chapel of St. Laud tothe village of Echanbroignes, he did not speak a word to her, and whenthe four entered the old smith's house, poor Annot was bursting withanger, and melting with love; she could not settle with herself whetherhe hated Chapeau or loved him most; she felt that she would have likedto poison him, only she knew that she could not live without him. 

She hurried into her little sleeping place, and had a long debate withherself whether she should instantly go to bed and pray that Jacquesmight be killed at Saumur, or whether she should array herself in allher charms, and literally dazzle her lover into fondness and obedienceby her beauty and graces--after many tears the latter alternative wasdecided on. 

It was a lovely summer evening, and at about eight o'clock hardly aperson in the whole village was to be found within doors; the elderlywere sitting smoking at their doors, husbands were saying a thousandlast words to their weeping wives, young men were sharpening theirswords, and preparing their little kit for the morrow's march, and thegirls were helping them; but everything was done in the open air. Jeanand Peter Stein were secretly preparing for a stolen march to Saumur;for their father was still inexorable, and they were determined not tobe left behind when all the world was fighting for glory. Old Michaelwas smoking at his ease, and Jacques was standing talking to him, wondering in his heart whether Annot could be really angry with him, when that young lady reappeared in the kitchen. 

"Where have you been, Annot?" said Michael Stein, "you didn't get yoursupper, yet child. "

"I was sick with the heat, father; walking home from St. Laud's. "

"I would not have you sick tonight, Annot, and our friends leaving usbefore sun-rise tomorrow. Here is M. Chapeau complaining you are a badhostess. "

"M. Chapeau has enough to think of tonight, without my teasing him, "said Annot; "great soldiers like him have not time to talk to sillygirls. I will walk across the green to Dame Rouel's, father; I shall beback before sunset. "

And Annot went out across the green, at the corner of which stood thesmith's forge. Jacques Chapeau was not slow to follow her, and DameRouel did not see much of either of them that evening. 

"Annot, " said Jacques, calling to his sweetheart, who perseveringlylooked straight before her, determined not to know that she wasfollowed. "Annot, stop awhile. You are not in such a hurry, are you, tosee Dame Rouel?"

"Ah, M. Chapeau, is that you?--in a hurry to see Dame Rouel. No--I'm inno particular hurry. "

"Will you take a turn down to the mill, then, Annot? Heaven knows whenyou and I may walk to the old mill again; it may be long enough beforeI see Echanbroignes again. "

Annot made no answer, but she turned into the little path which ledthrough the fields to the mill. 

"I suppose it may, " said she, determined, if possible, that the amendeshould be made by Jacques and not by herself. 

"I see you are indifferent about that, " said Jacques, with a soft andsentimental look, which nearly melted Annot; "well, when you hear of mydeath, you will sometimes think of me, will you not?"

"Oh, I will, M. Chapeau! Of course I'll think of you, and of all myfriends. "

Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off the headsof the blue-bells with his little cane. "I am not different to you thenfrom any one else, eh, Annot?" said he. 

"How different, M. Chapeau?"

"You will think as much of young Boullin, the baker?"

"I don't like young Boullin, the baker, and I don't thank you formentioning his name one bit. "

"Well! people say you are very partial to young Boullin. "

"People lie--they always do; everybody tries to tease and plague me now. You and Jean, and father, and that old fool, Rouel, are all alike, " andAnnot gave symptoms of hysterical tears. 

Jacques was again silent for awhile, but he had commenced walking verynear to his companion, and she did not appear to resent it. After awhile he said: "You are not glad that I'm going, Annot?"

"You would not have me sorry that you are going to fight with all theother brave men, would you?"

"Is that all I am to get from you, after all? is that all the regard youhave for me? very well, Annot--it is well at any rate we shouldunderstand each other. They were right, I find, when they told me thatyou were such a coquette, you would have a dozen lovers at the sametime. "

"And they were right, I find, when they told me you were too fond ofyourself ever to love any girl truly. "

"Oh, Annot! and is it come to this? I'm sorry I ever came toEchanbroignes. I'm sorry I ever saw you. "

"And if you are, M. Chapeau, I'm sure I'm sorry enough I ever saw you;"and Annot again increased the distance between her and her lover. 

They walked on from hence in silence till they came to the little mill, and each stood gazing on the stream, which ran gurgling down beneath theash and willow-trees, which dipped their boughs in its waters. 

"How kind you were, the last time we were here together, " said Jacques;"how kind and generous you were then; you are very different now. "

"And you are very different, too, M. Chapeau; much more different thanI am; it's all your own fault; you choose to give yourself airs, and Iwon't put up with it, and I believe we may as well part. "

"Give myself airs! No; but it's you give yourself airs, and say thingswhich cut me to the heart--things which I can't bear; and, therefore, perhaps, we may as well part :" and Jacques assumed a most melancholyaspect, as he added, "So, good bye, Annot; there's my hand. I wouldn't, at any rate, part anything but friends after all. "

"Good bye, " said poor Annot, putting out her hand to her lover, andsobbing violently. "Good bye; I'm sure I never thought it would come tothis. I'm sure I gave up everybody and everything for your sake. "

"Well; and didn't I give up everybody, too. Haven't I come all the wayover here week after week, when people wondered what made me leaveDurbellière so much; and wasn't it all for love of you? Oh, Annot!Annot!" and even the manly dignity of M. Chapeau succumbed to tears. 

"It's no good talking, " said she, greatly softened; "for you can't haveloved me, and treated me as you did this day, letting me walk all alonefrom St. Laud, without so much as a word or a look; and that before allthe people: and I that went merely to walk back with you. Oh! I couldhave died on the roadside to find myself treated in such a way. "

"And what must I have felt to hear you talking as you did before themall? Do you think I felt nothing?"

"Talking, Jacques; what talk?"

"Why; saying that you loved Cathelineau better than any one. That he wasthe only man you admired; that you dreamed of him always, and I don'tknow how much more about his eyes and whiskers. "

"Why now, Jacques; you don't mean to be jealous?"

"Jealous; no I'm not jealous. "

"Jealous of a man you know I never saw, " said Annot, smiling through hertears. 

"Jealous. No, I tell you I'm not jealous; but still, one doesn't liketo hear one's mistress talking of another man's eyes, and whiskers, andthose sort of things; no man would like it, Annot; though I care aboutit as little myself as any man. "

"But don't you know Cathelineau is a saint, Jacques?"

"Oh! but you said saints might marry, and have a lot of children, andso they may. "

"But I never saw Cathelineau, Jacques, " and she put her hand upon hisarm. 

And you are not in love with him, Annot?"

"How can I be in love with a man I never put eyes on?"

"And you won't say again, that you'd like to have him for a lover?"

"That was only my little joke, Jacques. Surely, a girl may jokesometimes. "

"And you do love me, don't you?" and Jacques now got very close to hismistress. 

"Ah! but why did you let me walk home all the way by myself? You knowI love you dearly; but you must beg my pardon for that, before I'll evertell you so again. "

And Jacques did beg her pardon in a manner of his own twenty times, sitting by the gurgling mill-stream, and to tell the truth Annot seemedwell pleased with the way in which he did it; and then when the fountainof her love was opened, and the sluice gate of her displeasure removed, she told him how she would pray for him till he came back safe from thewars; how she would never speak a word to mortal man in the way ofcourting, till he came back to make her his wife; how she would grieve, should he be wounded; how she would die, should he be killed in battle:and then she gave him a little charm, which she had worked for him, andput it round his neck, and told him she had taken it with her to St. Laud, to give it him there beneath the cross, only he had gone away fromher, so that she couldn't do so: and then Jacques begged pardon againand again in his own queer way; and then, having sat there by themill-stream till the last red streak of sunlight was gone, they returnedhome to the village, and Annot told her father that Dame Rouel had beenso very pressing, she had made them stay there to eat bread and cheese. And so Annot, at last, went to bed without her supper, and dreamed notof Cathelineau, but of her own lover, Jacques Chapeau. 

CHAPTER VIII

AGATHA LAROCHEJAQUELIN. 

As Chapeau had said, great preparations were made at Durbellière for thecoming campaign. The old Marquis had joined with his son in furnishingeverything which their limited means would admit of, for the wants ofthe royalists. Durbellière had become quite a depôt; the large granariesat the top of the house were no longer empty; they were stored withsacks of meal, with pikes and muskets, and with shoes for the soldiers. Agatha's own room looked like an apartment in a hospital; it was filledwith lint, salves, and ointments, to give ease to those whom the warsshould send home wounded; all the contents of the cellars weresacrificed; wine, beer, and brandy, were alike given up to aid thespirits of the combatants; the cattle were drawn in from the farms, andkept round the house in out-houses and barns, ready to be slaughtered, as occasion might require, an abattoir was formed in the stable yard, and a butcher kept in regular employment; a huge oven was built in anouthouse attached to the stables, and here bakers, from neighbouringparishes, were continually kept at work: they neither expected, orreceived wages; they, and all the others employed got their meals in thelarge kitchen of the château, and were content to give their work to thecause without fee or reward. Provisions, cattle, and implements, werealso sent from M. De Lescure's house to Durbellière, as it wasconsidered to be more central, and as it was supposed that there werestill some republicans in the neighbourhood of Bressuire, whereas, itwas well known that there were none in the rural districts; the morerespectable of the farmers also, and other country gentlemen sentsomething; and oxen, sheep, and loads of meal; jars of oil, and casksof wine were coming in during the whole week before the siege of Saumur, and the same horses took them out again in the shape of bread, meat, andrations, to the different points where they would be required. 

As soon as M. De Lescure had left home, on his recruiting service in thesouth of La Vendée, the ladies of his house went over to Durbellière, to remain there till Henri Larochejaquelin should start for Saumur, andgive their aid to Agatha in all her work. Adolphe Denot was also there:he, too, had been diligently employed in collecting the different sinewsof wars; and as far as his own means went had certainly not begrudgedthem. There was still an unhappy air of dissatisfaction about him, whichwas not to be observed with any one else: his position did not contenthis vanity; the people did not talk of him as they did of Cathelineau, and Henri Larochejaquelin; he heard nothing of La Vendée relying on hisefforts; the nanes of various men were mentioned as trustworthy leaders, but his own was never among them. De Lescure, Charette, d'Elbée, Stofflet, were all talked of; and what had they done more than he had;or what, indeed, so much: the two latter were men of low origin, who hadmerely shown courage in the time of need: indeed, what more hadCathelineau done; whereas, he had never failed in courage, and hadgiven, moreover, his money, and his property; yet he felt that he waslooked on as a nobody. Jacques Chapeau was almost of more importance. 

And then, again, his love for Agatha tormented him. He had thought topique her by a show of indifference himself, but he found that this plandid not answer: it was evident, even to him, that Agatha was not vexedby his silence, his altered demeanour, and sudden departure. He hadmiscalculated her character, and now found that he must use other meansto rouse the affection in her heart, without which he felt, at present, that he could not live happily. He thought that she could not have seenwith indifference the efforts he was making in the cause which she lovedso well; and he determined to throw himself at her feet before hestarted for Saumur, and implore her to give him a place in heraffections, while her heart was softened by the emotions, which thedeparture of so many of her friends, on the eve of battle, wouldoccasion. 

Agatha had had but little conversation with him since his last arrivalat Durbellière, but still she felt that he was about to propose to her. She shunned him as much as she could; she scrupulously avoided theopportunity which he anxiously sought; she never allowed herself to bealone with him; but she was nevertheless sure the evil hour would come;she saw it in his eye as they sat together at their meals--she heard itin the tones of his voice every time he spoke. She knew from his mannerthat he was preparing himself for the interview, and she also knew thathe would not submit tamely to the only answer she could bring herselfto give him. 

"Marie, " said she to her cousin, on the Saturday evening, "I am in thegreatest distress, pray help me, dearest. I am sure you know what ailsme. "

"In distress, Agatha, and wanting help from me!--you that are wont tohelp all the world yourself! But I know, from your face, you are onlyhalf in earnest. "

"Indeed, and indeed, I never was much more so. I never was more trulyin want of council. Can you not guess what my sorrow is?"

"Not unless it is, that you have a lover too much?--or perhaps you findthe baker's yeast runs short?"

"Ah, Marie, will you always joke when I am serious!"

"Well then, Agatha, now I am serious--is it that you have a lover toomuch?"

"Can any trouble be more grievous?"

"Oh, dear, yes! ten times worse. My case is ten times worse: and alas, alas! there is no cure for that. "

"Your case, Marie?"

"Yes, my case, Agatha--a lover too few!"

"Ah, Marie, do not joke with me tonight. I want your common sense, andnot your wit, just now. Be a good, dear girl, and tell me what I shallsay to him. I know he will not go to Saumur before--before he hasproposed to me. "

"Then, in the name of common sense, dear Agatha, tell him the truth, whatever it may be. "

"You know I do not--cannot love him. "

"Nay, I know nothing. You have not said yet who 'him' is--but I own Ican give a guess. I suppose poor Adolphe Denot is the man you cannotlove? Poor Adolphe! he must be told so, that is all. "

"But how shall I tell him, Marie? He is so unlike other men. Henri ishis friend, and yet he has never spoken to him about me, nor to myfather. If he would ask my hand from Henri, as another would, Henriwould talk to him, and explain to him that it could not be-that my heartis too much occupied with other cares, to care for loving or beingloved. "

"That means, Agatha, till the right lover comes. "

"No, Marie; but till these wars are over. Not that I could ever loveAdolphe Denot; but now, at present, methinks love should be banishedfrom the country, and not allowed to return till the King is on histhrone again. "

"Well, Agatha, I don't know. That would be somewhat hard upon us poorgirls, whose lovers are more to our taste, than M. Denot is to yours. I know not that our knights will fight the worse for a few stray smiles, though the times be so frightful. "

"Do you smile on yours then, Marie; and I will smile to see you happy. But tell me, dearest, what shall I say to Adolphe? You would not haveme give him hope, when I feel I can never love him?"

"God forbid!--why should you? But has he never spoken to Henri on thesubject, or to the Marquis?"

"Never a word. I'm sure he never spoke of it to my father, and Henritold me that he had never said a word to him. "

"Then you have spoken to your brother on the subject? And what did hesay?"

"He said just what a dear, good brother should have said. He said he wassorry for his friend, but that on no account whatever would he sacrificehis sister's happiness. "

"M. Larochejaquelin always does just what he ought to do. He is as goodand kind to you as Charles is to me. "

"Henri and I are so nearly of an age; we were always companionstogether. I do not think any lover will be agreeable to me as long ashe is with me. "

"But if he should take a love of his own, Agatha? It wont do, you know, for sisters to monopolize their brothers; or what shall we spinters do?"

"He shall bring his love here, and she shall be my own sister. If hemakes the choice I think he will, I shall not have to open a new placein my heart for her, shall I, Marie?"

"Nay, I know not. Now it is you that wander from the subject. "

"And it is cruel in you to bring me back to it. If he proposes to metomorrow, Marie, what shall I say to him?"

"Keep out of his way tomorrow. He goes on Monday morning. "

"It is very well to say, 'Keep out of his way;' but if he formallydemands an interview, I cannot refuse it. "

"If he formally desires an interview, do you give him a formalreception: if he formally offers you his hand, do you formally declinethe honour. "

"I would it were you, Marie, that he loved. "

"A thousand thanks to you, Mademoiselle Larochejaquelin. I appreciateyour generosity, but really I have no vacancy for M. Denot, just atpresent. "

"Ah! but you would reject him with so much more ease, than I can do it. "

"Practice, my dear, is everything: this time you may feel a littleawkward, but you will find you will dispose of your second lover withoutmuch difficulty, and you will give his congé to your third with as muchease, as though you were merely dismissing a disobedient kitchen-maid. "

"I cannot bear to give pain; and Adolphe will be pained; his self-lovewill be wounded at the idea of being rejected. "

"Then spare his self-love, and accept him. "

"No; that I will not do. "

"Then wound his self-love, and reject him. "

"Would I could do the one without the other; would I could persuade himI was not worthy of him. "

"Nay, do not attempt that; that will be direct encouragement. "

"I will tell him that I am averse to marriage; in truth, that will beno falsehood. I do not think that my heart is capable of more love thanit feels at present. "

"That may be true now, Agatha; but suppose your heart should enlargebefore the autumn, at the touch of some gallant wizard--take my advice, dear girl, make no rash promises. "

"I will tell him that I cannot think of love till the King is on thethrone once more. "

"If you say so, he will promise valiantly to restore His Majesty, andthen to return to you to look for his reward. Shall I tell you, Agatha, what I should say?"

"Do, dearest Marie: tell me in sober earnest; and if there be ought ofsobriety mixed with your wit, I will take your advice. "

"I would say to him thus: 'M. Denot, ' or 'Adolphe, ' just as your customis to address him--but mind, mark you, make him speak out firmly andformally first, that your answer may be equally firm and formal. 'M. Denot, you have paid me the greatest honour which a gentleman can paya lady, and I am most grateful for the good opinion which you haveexpressed. I should be ungrateful were I to leave you for one moment indoubt as to my real sentiments: I cannot love you as I ought to love myhusband. I hope you will never doubt my true friendship for you; butmore than sincere friendship I cannot give you. ' There, Agatha, not aword more, nor a word less than that; sit quite straight on your chair, as though you were nailed to it; do not look to the right or to theleft; do not frown or smile. "

"There will not be the least danger of my smiling, Marie. "

"But do not frown neither; fancy that you are the district judge, givingsentence on a knotty piece of law; show neither sentiment, pride, noranger. Be quite cold, inflexible and determined; and, above all things, do not move from your seat; and I think you will find your lover willtake his answer: but if he do not--repeat it all over again, with alittle more emphasis, and rather slower than before. If it be necessary, you may repeat it a third time, or indeed till he goes away, but nevervary the words. He must be a most determined man if he requires thethird dose. I never heard of but one who wasn't satisfied with thesecond, and he was an Irishman. "

"If I could only insist on his sitting still and silent to hear me makemy formidable speech, your advice might be very good. "

"That, my dear, is your own strong point: if he attempts to interruptyou, hear what he says, and then begin again. By the time you have gotto your 'real sentiments, ' I doubt not he will be in his tantrums: butdo you not get into tantrums too, or else you are as good as lost; letnothing tempt you to put in an unpremeditated word; one word might befatal; but, above all, do not move; nothing but an awful degree of calmon your part will frighten him into quiescence: if you once but move, you will find M. Denot at your feet, and your hand pressed to his lips. You might as well have surrendered at once, if anything like thatoccur. "

"Well, Marie, let what will happen, at any rate I will not surrender, as you call it. As to sitting like the district judge, and pronouncingsentence on my lover as you advise--I fear I lack the nerve for it. "

Agatha was quite right in her forebodings. Adolphe Denot had firmly madeup his mind to learn his fate before he started for Saumur, andimmediately on rising from breakfast, he whispered to Agatha that hewished to speak to her alone for a moment. In her despair she proposedthat he should wait till after mass, and Adolphe consented; but duringthe whole morning she felt how weak she had been in postponing the evilhour; she had a thousand last things to do for her brother, a thousandlast words to say to him; but she was fit neither to do nor to sayanything; even her prayers were disturbed; in spite of herself herthoughts clung to the interview which she had to go through. 

Since the constitutional priests had been sent into the country, and theold Curés silenced, a little temporary chapel had been fitted up in thechâteau at Durbellière, and here the former parish priest officiatedevery Sunday; the peasants of the parish of St. Aubin were allowed tocome to this little chapel; at first a few only had attended, but thenumber had increased by degrees, and at the time when the revoltcommenced, the greater portion of the pastor's old flock crowded intoor round the château every Sunday; so that the Sabbath morning atDurbellière was rather a noisy time. This was especially the case on the6th of June, as the people had so much to talk about, and most of themen wished to see either the old or the young master, and most of thewomen wanted to speak to one of the ladies; by degrees, however, thechâteau was cleared, and Agatha with a trembling heart retreated to herown little sitting-room upstairs to keep her appointment with AdolpheDenot. 

She had not been long there, when Adolphe knocked at the door: he hadbeen there scores of times before, and had never knocked; but, althoughhe was going to propose to make Agatha his wife, he felt that he couldno longer treat her, with his accustomed familiarity. 

He entered the room and found Agatha seated; so far she had taken herfriend's advice; she was very pale, but still she looked calm anddignified, and was certainly much less confused than her lover. 

"Agatha, " said he, having walked up to the fire-place, and leaning withhis arm upon the mantle-piece, "Agatha, tomorrow I start for Saumur. "

He was dressed very point-de-vice; the frills of his shirt were mostaccurately starched; his long black hair was most scrupulously brushed;his hands were most delicately white; his boots most brilliantlypolished; he appeared more fit to adorn the salon of an ambassador, thanto take a place as a warrior beneath the walls of a besieged town. Adolphe was always particular in his dress, but he now exceeded himself;and he appeared to be the more singular in this respect at Durbellièrejust at present, as the whole of the party except himself womenincluded, had forgotten or laid aside, as unimportant, the usual caresof the toilet. 

"You, at any rate, go in good company, Adolphe, " said Agatha, attemptingto smile. "May you all be successful, and return as heroes--heroes, indeed, you are already; but may you gather fresh laurels at Saumur. Iam sure you will. I, for one, am not in the least despondent. "

"Yes, Agatha, I shall go to Saumur, determined at any rate not to losethere any little honour I may yet have won. If I cannot place the whiteflag of La Vendée on the citadel of Saumur, I will at any rate fall inattempting it. "

"I am very sure, that if you fail, it will not be for lack of courage, or of resolution. You and Henri, and M. De Lescure and our good friendCathelineau, have taught us to expect victory as the sure result of yourattempts. "

"Ah! Agatha, one word from your lips, such as I long to hear, would makeme feel that I could chain victory to my sword, and rush into the midstof battle panoplied against every harm. "

"Your duty to your King should be your best assurance of victory; yourtrust in your Saviour, your panoply against harm; if these did not availyou, as I know they do, the vain word of a woman would be of littleservice. "

"You speak coldly, Agatha, and you look coldly on me. I trust yourfeelings are not cold also. "

"I should have hoped that many years of very intimate acquaintancebetween us, of friendship commenced in childhood, and now cemented bycommon sympathies and common dangers, would have made you aware that myfeelings are not cold towards you. "

"Oh no! not cold in the ordinary sense. You wish me well, I doubt not, and your kind heart would grieve, if you heard that I had fallen beneaththe swords of the republicans; but you would do the same for Cathelineauor M. De Bonchamps. If I cannot wake a warmer interest in your heartthan that, I should prefer that you should forget me altogether. "

Agatha began to fear that at this rate the interview would have no end. If Adolphe remained with his arm on the marble slab, and his head on oneside, making sentimental speeches, till she should give himencouragement to fall at her feet, it certainly would not be ended bybed-time. She, therefore, summoned all her courage, and said, "When you asked me to meet you here, your purpose was not to reproachme with coldness--was it Adolphe? Perhaps it will be better for both ofus that this interview should terminate now. We shall part friends, dearfriends; and I will rejoice at your triumphs, when you are victorious;and will lament at your reverses, should you be unlucky. I shall do thesame for my own dear Henri, and I know that you two will not beseparated. There is my hand, " she added, thinking that he appeared tohesitate; "and now let us go down to our friends, who are expecting us. "

"Are you so soon weary of hearing the few words I wish to say to you?"said Adolphe, who had taken her hand, and who seemed inclined to keepit. 

"No, I am not weary. I will hear anything you wish to say. " And Agathahaving withdrawn her hand, sat down, and again found herself in aposition to take advantage of Marie's good advice. 

Adolphe remained silent for a minute or two, with his head supported onhis hand, and gazing on the lady of his love with a look that wasintended to fascinate her. Agatha sat perfectly still; she was evidentlymindful of the lesson she had received: at last, Adolphe started up fromhis position, walked a step or two into the middle of the room, thrusthis right hand into his bosom; and said abruptly, "Agatha, this ischild's play; we are deceiving each other; we are deceiving ourselves;we would appear to be calm when there is no calm within us. "

"Do not say we. I am not deceiving myself; I trust I am not deceivingyou. "

"And is your heart really so tranquil?" said he. "Does that fair bosomcontrol no emotion? Is that lovely face, so exquisitely pale, a trueindex of the spirit within? Oh! Agatha! it cannot be; while my own heartis so torn with love; while I feel my own pulses beat so strongly; whilemy own brain burns so fiercely, I cannot believe that your bosom is astranger to all emotion! Some passion akin to humanity must make youfeel that you are not all divine! Speak, Agatha; if that lovely form haswithin it ought that partakes of the weakness of a woman, tell me, thatat some future time you will accept the love I offer you; tell me, thatI may live in hope. Oh, Agatha! bid me not despair, " and M. Denot inbodily reality fell prostrate at her feet. 

When Agatha had gone up to her room, she had prepared herself for a mostdisagreeable interview, but she had not expected anything so reallydreadful as this. Adolphe had not contented himself with kneeling at herfeet on one knee, and keeping his head erect in the method usual in suchcases; but he had gone down upon both knees, had thrown his head uponher feet, and was now embracing her shoes and stockings in a veryvehement manner; her legs were literally caught in a trap; she couldn'tmove them; and Adolphe was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult tomake him hear anything. 

"Adolphe, Adolphe, get up!" she almost screamed, "this is ridiculous inthe extreme; if you will not get up, I must really call for some one. Icannot allow you to remain there!"

"Oh, Agatha, Agatha!" sobbed Adolphe. 

"Nonsense, Adolphe, " said Agatha. "Are you a man, to lie grovelling onthe floor like that? Rise up, or you will lose my esteem for ever, ifthat be of any value to you. "

"Give me one gleam of hope, and I will rise, " said he, still remainingon his knees, but now looking up into her face; "tell me not to despair, and I will then accomplish any feat of manhood. Give me one look ofcomfort, and I will again be the warrior ready for the battle; it is youonly who can give me back my courage; it is you only who can restore tome the privilege of standing erect before all mankind. "

"I can tell you nothing, Adolphe, but this--that, if you continue onyour knees, I shall despise you; if you will rise, I will give you atany rate a reasonable answer. "

"Despise me, Agatha! no, you cannot despise me; the unutterable burninglove of a true heart is not despicable; the character which I bearbefore mankind is not despicable. Man is not despicable when he kneelsbefore the object which he worships; and, Agatha, with all my heart, Iworship you!"

"Now you are profane as well as contemptible, and I shall leave you, "and she walked towards the door. 

"Stay then, " said he, "stay, and I will rise, " and, suiting the actionto the. Word, he got up. "Now speak to me in earnest, Agatha; and, sinceyou will have it so, I also, if possible, will be calm. Speak to me;but, unless you would have the misery of a disturbed spirit on yourconscience, bid me not despair!"

"Is that your calmness, Adolphe?"

"Can a man, rushing towards the brink of a precipice, be calm? Can a manbe calm on the verge of the grave? I love you, Agatha, with a true andholy love; but still with a love fierce and untameable. You reviled mewhen I said I worshipped you, but I adore the ground you tread on, andthe air you breathe. I would shed my last drop of blood to bring youease; but I could not live and see you give that fair hand to another. My joy would be to remain ever as your slave; but then the heart thatbeats beneath your bosom must be my own. Agatha, I await your answer;one word from your lips can transport me to paradise!"

"If I am to understand that you are asking me for love--for a warmerlove than that which always accompanies true friendship--I am obligedto say that I cannot give it you. " Adolphe remained standing in themiddle of the room, with his hand still fixed in his bosom, and with alook intended to represent both thunder and lightning. He had reallythought that the little scene which he had gone through, very much tohis own satisfaction, would have a strong effect on Agatha, and he wassomewhat staggered by the cool and positive tone of her reply. "Itgrieves me that I should give you pain, " she continued, "if my answerdoes pain you; but I should never forgive myself, were I not to speakthe truth to you plainly, and at once. "

"And do you mean that for your final, and only answer to me?"

"Certainly, my only answer; for I can give you no other. I know you willbe too kind, too sensible, to make it necessary that I should repeatit. "

"This is dreadful, " said Denot, putting his hand to his brow, "this isvery dreadful!" and he commenced pacing up and down the room. 

"Come, " said she, good naturedly, "let us go down--let us forget thislittle episode--you have so much of happiness, and of glory before you, that I should grieve to see you mar your career by a hopeless passion. Take the true advice of a devoted friend, " and she put her hand kindlyon his arm, "let us both forget this morning's scene--let us onlyremember our childhood's friendship; think, Adolphe, how much you haveto do for your King and your country, and do hot damp your gloriousexertion by fostering a silly passion. Am not I the same to you as asister? Wait till these wars are over, and then I will gather flowersfor you to present to some mistress who shall truly love you. "

"No, Agatha, the flowers you gather for me shall never leave my ownbosom. If it be the myrtle, I will wear it with joy to my dying day, next my heart: if it is to be a cyprus branch, it shall soon be laidwith me in the tomb. "

"You will think less sadly in a short time, " said Agatha; "your spiritswill recover their proper tone amid the excitement of battle. We hadbetter part now, Adolphe;" and she essayed to leave the room, but he wasnow leaning against the door, and did not seem inclined to let herdepart so easily. 

"You will not, I hope, begrudge me a few moments, " said he, speakingbetween his teeth. 

"You may reject me with scorn, but you can hardly refuse me the courtesywhich any gentleman would have a right to expect from your hands. "

"You know that I will refuse you nothing which, either in courtesy orkindness, I can do for you, " said she, again sitting down. He, however, seeing her once more seated, did not appear much inclined to concludewhat he had to say to her, for he continued walking up and down theroom, in a rather disturbed manner; "but you should remember, " sheadded, "how soon Henri is going to leave me, and how much we have allto think and to talk of. "

"I see my presence is unwelcome, and it shall not trouble you long. Iwould soon rid your eyes of my hated form, but I must first say a fewwords, though my throat be choked with speaking them. My passion for youis no idle boyish love; it has grown with my growth, and matured itselfwith my manhood. I cannot now say to myself that it shall cease to be. I cannot restore calmness to my heart or rest to my bosom. My love isa fire which cannot now be quenched; it must be nourished, or it willdestroy the heart which is unable to restrain it. Think, Agatha, of allthe misery you are inflicting; think also of the celestial joy one wordof yours is capable of giving. "

"I have said before that I grieve to pain you; but I cannot speak afalsehood. Were it to save us both from instant death, I could not saythat I love you in the sense you mean. "

"Oh, Agatha! I do not ask you to love me--that is not to love me now;if you will only say that your heart is not for ever closed against myprayers, I will leave you contented. "

"I can say nothing which would give you any hope of that which can neverhappen. "

"And that is all I am to expect from you in return for as true a loveas man ever bore to woman?"

"I cannot make you the return you wish. I can give you no other answer. "

"Well, Agatha, so be it. You shall find now that I can be calm, when myunalterable resolve requires it. You shall find that I am a man; at anyrate, you shall not again have to tell me that I am despicable, " and hecurled his upper lip, and showed his teeth in a very ferocious manner. "You shall never repeat that word in regard to Adolphe Denot. Shouldkind fortune favour my now dearest wish, you will soon hear that mybones are whitening under the walls of Saumur. You will hear that yourdes-pi-ca-ble lover, " and he hissed out the offending word, syllable bysyllable, between his closed teeth, "has perished in his attempt to bethe first to place the white flag of La Vendée above the tri-colour. Ifsome friendly bullet will send me to my quiet home, Adolphe Denot shalltrouble you no longer, " and as he spoke the last few words, he softenedhis voice, and re-assumed his sentimental look; but he did not remainlong in his quiet mood, for he again became furious, as he added: "Butif fortune should deny me this boon, if I cannot find the death I go toseek, I swear by your own surpassing beauty, by your glorious unequalledform, that I will not live without you. Death shall be welcome to me, "and he raised his hands to heaven, and then dashed them against hisbreast. "Oh! how dearly welcome! Yes, heroic death upon the battlefieldshall calm this beating heart--shall quell these agonized pangs. Yes, Agatha, if fortune be but kind, death, cold death, shall soon relieveus both; shall leave you free to bestow upon a colder suitor the prizeyou have refused to my hot, impatient love; but if, " (and here heglanced very wildly round him), "my prayers are not heard, if afterSaumur's field, life be still left within my body's sanctuary, I willreturn to seize you as my own, though hosts in armour try to stop myway. I will not live without you. I will not endure to see another manaspire to the hand which has been refused to me. Adieu, Agatha, adieu!I trust we shall meet no more; in thinking of me, at any rate, yourmemory shall not call me despicable, " and he rushed out of the door anddown stairs, without waiting to hear whether Agatha intended making anyanswer to this poetical expression of his fixed resolution. 

In the commencement of his final harangue, Agatha had determined to hearhim quietly to the end; but she had not expected anything so very madas the exhibition he made. However, she sat quietly through the wholeof it, and was glad that she was spared the necessity of a reply. 

Nothing more was seen of Adolphe Denot that night. Henri asked hissister whether she had seen him, and she told him that he had made adeclaration of love to her, and had expressed himself ill-satisfied withthe only answer she had been able to give him. She did not tell herbrother how like a demoniac his friend had behaved. To Marie she wasmore explicit; to her she repeated as nearly as possible the whole sceneas it had occurred; and although Agatha was almost weeping with sorrow, there was so much that was ludicrous in the affair, that Marie could notkeep herself from laughing. 

"He will trouble you no more, " said she. "You will find that he will notreturn to Durbellière to carry you off through the armed hosts. He willgo to England or emigrate; and in a few years' time, when you meet himagain, you will find him settled down, and as quiet as his neighbours. He is like new-made wine, my dear--he only wants age. "

On the following morning, by break of day, the party left Durbellière, and Adolphe Denot joined his friend on the gravelled ring before thehouse; and Agatha, who had been with her brother in his room, lookingfrom the widow saw her unmanageable lover mount his horse in a quiet, decent way, like the rest of the party. 

CHAPTER IX

LE MOUCHOIR ROUGE. 

Nothing interfered to oppose the advance of the royalist troops towardsSaumur. At Coron, as had been proposed, Larochejaquelin and Denot joinedFather Jerome; and Cathelineau also, and M. D'Elbée joined them there. Every house in the town was open to them, and the provisions, which bythe care of M. De Larochejaquelin had been sent there, were almostunneeded. If there was any remnant of republican feeling in Coron, atany rate it did not dare to shew itself. The road which the royalistsintended to take ran from Cholet, through Coron, Vihiers, and Doué, toSaumur. The republicans, who were now in great force at Saumur, underGenerals Coustard and Quetineau, had sent small parties of soldiers intothe town of Vihiers and Doué, the inhabitants of which were mostlyrepublican. Before the arrival of M. De Larochejaquelin, the blues, asthe republican troops were called by the Vendeans, had been driven outof Vihiers by a party of royalists under the direction of Stofflet, whohad raised himself to distinction soon after the commencement of therevolt. This man was a gamekeeper in the employment of an emigrantnobleman, and though he was a rough, harsh, uneducated, quarrelsome man, nevertheless, by his zeal and courage, he had acquired great influenceamong the people, and was now at the head of a numerous, and, for LaVendée, well-armed body of men. 

Our friends accordingly found the road open for them as far as Doué. After their junction with Stofflet, their army amounted to about 7, 500men; and at Done they were to meet M. Bonchamps and M. De Lescure, who, it was supposed, would bring with them as many more. They marched outof Vihiers early on the Tuesday morning, having remained there onlyabout a couple of hours, and before nightfall they saw the spire of Douéchurch. They then rested, intending to force their way into the townearly on the following morning; but they had barely commenced theirpreparations for the evening, when a party of royalists came out to themfrom the town, inviting them in. M. De Lescure and M. Bonchamps werealready there. The republican soldiers had been attacked and utterlyrouted; most of them were now prisoners in the town; those who hadescaped had retreated to Saumur, and even they had left their armsbehind them. 

All this good fortune greatly inspirited the Vendeans. The men talkedwith the utmost certainty of what they would do when they were mastersof Saumur. Cathelineau had brought with him the celebrated cannon of St. Florent, 'Marie Jeanne, ' and she now stood in the market place of Done, covered with ribbons and flowers. Many of the men had never hithertoseen this wonderful piece of artillery, and they hastened to look at it. 'Marie Jeanne' that night was patted, kissed, and caressed by thousands. Cathelineau was equally the object of their admiration; every peasantwho had not yet seen him, hurried to gaze on him; and after his arrivalin Doué, he was two hours employed in a military operation, hithertoundertaken, I believe, by no other general: he was endeavouring to shakehands with every man in the army. Chapeau here was again of great use, for he stood at Cathelineau's elbow, and hurried the men away as soonas they touched his hand. But for this precaution, the work could neverhave been done; and as it was, some of the men were discontented, anddeclared their intention of returning home, for Cathelineau was calledaway before he had completed his task: he was obliged to go the TownHall to attend a council that was held there of the different Vendeanchiefs. 

The arms which they had taken in Vihiers and Doué, were of the greatestuse to them; in both places they had found a cannon; they had taken nineor ten from Fontenay, and others from Thouars. Most of the men amongthem now had muskets, and they were able to take to Saumur with themtwenty-four pieces of heavy artillery. What could the infamous bluesexpect to do against a force so numerous, so well armed, and so wellofficered!

That evening a council of war was held by the different chiefs of theVendeans in the Town Hall of Doué. Lescure, Larochejaquelin, Cathelineau, d'Elbée, and Stofflet were there. M. Bonchamps, who hadbeen very severely wounded at Fontenay, but who had insisted on beingcarried along with his own men, was brought in on a litter. FatherJerome was there, and another priest who had come with M. Bonchamps. There were a couple of old royalist noblemen, not sufficiently active totake a part in the actual fighting, but sufficiently zealous in thecause to leave their homes for the purpose of giving the youngcommanders the benefit of their experience. Foret also, Cathelineau'sfriend, was present, and Adolphe Denot: indeed many others, from time totime, crowded into the room, for the door was not well kept, nor werethe councils of the generals in any way a secret. Jacques Chapeau, as amatter of course, managed to make his way into the room, and took uponhimself the duties of doorkeeper. 

The Mayor's arm-chair stood at the head of the table, as the leadersdropped into the room one after another, but no one appeared willing tooccupy it. Hitherto there had been no chief among the Vendeans; this wasthe first meeting which had been held with anything approaching to thesolemnity of a general assembly, and it occurred to each of them thatwhoever should then seat himself in the Mayor's chair, would be assumingthat he was the chief leader of the revolt. 

"Come, M. De Lescure, " said Stofflet, "we have much to do, and butlittle time; let us make the most of it: do you take the President'sseat. Gentlemen, I am sure we could have no better President than M. DeLescure?"

They all agreed, with the exception of the chosen leader. "By no means, "said he. "I was the last here who joined the cause, and I certainly willnot place myself first among those who have led the way in the work wehave taken up. No; here is the man who shall be our President. " And ashe spoke he caught hold of Cathelineau, who was immediately behind him, and absolutely forced him into the chair. 

"Indeed, indeed, M. De Lescure--" said Cathelineau, endeavouring toextricate himself from the seat; but both his voice and his exertionswere stopped, for three or four of them united to hold him where he was, and declared that he should be the President for the evening. 

"Indeed, and indeed you will not stir, " said Henri, who stood behind hischair, and placed his hands heavily on the postillion's shoulders. 

"It was you that brought us here, " said de Lescure, "and you must notnow avoid the responsibility. "

"Ah! M. De Lescure, " said he, "there are so many more fitting than me. "

"Not one in all La Vendée, " said M. Bonchamps: "sit where you are, Cathelineau. "

"You must do it, Cathelineau;" whispered his friend Foret; "the peasantswould not endure to see any man put above you. "

"Cathelineau will not shrink from the burden which the Lord has calledupon him to bear, " said Father Jerome. 

"Providence, " said d'Elbée, "has summoned the good Cathelineau to thishigh duty; he will not, I am sure, oppose its decrees. "

And thus Cathelineau found himself seated in the Mayor's chair at thehead of the table, whilst the highest noblemen and gentry of the countrytook their places around it, and from that moment Cathelineau became theGeneral-in-Chief of the Vendeans. 

Each leader then gave in the numbers of the men who had come with him, and it was found that the army consisted of above fifteen thousand men. Lists were then made out of the arms and accoutrements which theypossessed, and the men in a rude way were drafted into regiments underthe command of the leaders who had brought them. There was a small bodyof cavalry equipped in most various manners, and mounted on horses, which resembled anything rather than a regular squadron of troopers:these were under the immediate command of Henri Larochejaquelin. 

"Gentlemen, " said Cathelineau, "we have, you know, three differentattacks to make, three positions to carry, before we can be masters ofSaumur. "

"Yes, " said Bonchamps, "there in the camp at Varin on the right, and theredoubts of Bournan on the left; the fortifications of the town itselflie between them, and a little to the rear of both. "

"Exactly, M. Bonchamps; the town itself, I take, is the easiest task ofthe three; but as we are situated it must be the last. "

"I think you will find that Varin is their strongest point, " said deLescure. 

"M. De Lescure is right, " said Cathelineau. "We shall find them verystrong in their camp. I had with me, yesterday, two men from Saumur;they knew nothing of General Quetineau's intentions, but they had seendetachments of men constantly going to and fro between Saumur and thecamp; they calculate that we shall think that the weaker side. "

"Bournan is right on our way, " said Bonchamps; "but the ground lies soadvantageously for them, that they will cut us to pieces if we attemptto push our way up the hill against the heavy artillery they will havethere. "

"M. Bonchamps is quite right there, " said Cathelineau. "I think weshould not attack Bournan, till we can do so from the side of the town. I think Bournan should not be our first object; but nevertheless, wemust be prepared to meet at Varin the great body of the army; we mustdrive them from thence back into the town. "

"Yes, " said Henri, "and follow them in, as we are driving them. Thesight of their comrades in disorder will itself conquer the men in thecitadel; it is always so with the blues. "

"We must remember, Henri, " said de Lescure, "these are not conscripts, nor yet merely the Marsellaise, we have to deal with: the men who foughtat Jemappes and at Valmy are here; the old cuirassiers of the Frencharmy. "

"They are cowards, Charles, " said Henri, "or they would not havedeserted their King. "

"They are good soldiers, nevertheless, " said Bonchamps. "I have foughtamong them, and know it. "

"They are the better worth our fighting then, " said Henri. 

"Providence can give us the victory over tried veterans as well as overuntried conscripts; it were a sin to doubt it, " said M. D'Elbée. 

"That would be a good subject for a sermon to the soldiers, but a badargument in a council chamber, " said Bonchamps. "We shall find thecuirassiers tough fellows to deal with. "

"We must take our enemies as we find them, " said Cathelineau; "but ifyou will allow me, gentlemen, and as you have placed me here, I willtell you what I would propose?'

"Do, Cathelineau, do!" said Henri; "let us have one plan, and then makethe best we can of it; we can at any rate do our duty like men. "

"I think we should leave this early tomorrow morning, and move acrossthe country as though we were going to Montreuil; we shall so come onthe Montreuil road about a league from Saumur, and not very far, thatis about half a league, from the camp at Varin. "

"And then, Cathelineau, will you attack the camp tomorrow evening?" saidde Lescure. 

"I think not, M. De Lescure; but I would make a feint to do so, and Iwould thus keep the republicans on the alert all night; a small body ofour men may, I think, in that way fatigue the masses of the republicansin the camp--we might harass them the whole night, which will be darkfrom eleven till near three; and then with the earliest sunrise our realattack should be made. "

"Bravo, Cathelineau!" said Henri; "and then fall on them when they arein want of sleep. "

"Yes, " said de Lescure, "and they will have learnt to think that ourattacks in that quarter are only feints. "

"Such may be our good luck, M. De Lescure; at any rate, if you think ofnothing better, we may try it. "

It was thus decided, and arranged that Larochejquelin should, on thefollowing evening, leave the main body of the army with all the mountedmen belonging to it, and advance near enough to the camp at Varin toallow of his being seen and heard by the republicans, and that he shouldalmost immediately retreat: that a body of infantry should then move on, and take up a position near to the camp, which should also return aftera while, and that as soon as darkness had come on, a third advanceshould be made by a larger body of men, who should, if possible, approach within musket shot o the trenches, and endeavour to throw therepublicans into disorder. At four o'clock in the morning, the realattack was to be made by the combined Vendean forces, of whichCathelineau was to lead the centre, de Lescure the left, consisting ofthe men brought by himself and Larochejaquelin from the centre of theBocage; and d'Elbée the right, which was formed of men chiefly broughtby M. Bonchamps from the province of Anjou. M. Bonchamps was himself tooill from the effects of his wounds to accompany the army beyond Doué. 

Early on the following morning the whole army, with the exception of themen left with Foret, defiled out of Doué, and crossed over to theMontreuil road, dragging with them their cannons, baggage-waggons, andammunition; their movements were not made with very great order, norwith much celerity; but, about six o'clock in the evening, on the 10thof June, Cathelineau took up his position about a league from Saumur. They got possession of one or two farm-houses, and were not long inmaking their arrangements for the night; the men were accustomed tosleep out in the open air since the war commenced, and were well contentto remain in clusters round the cannons and the waggons. 

At eight o'clock, Larochejaquelin had his little troop of cavalry readymounted, and started with them for the camp of Varin. As he and hiscompanions dashed along through the waggons and by the cannons thepeasants who were preparing to lay down for the night, and who knewnothing of the plans of their Generals, rose up one after anotherwondering. 

"There goes 'le Mouchoir Rouge, '" said one, alluding to Henri's costume;for when in action he always wore a red handkerchief round his waist, and another round his neck. 

"Yes; that is 'le Mouchoir Rouge, '" said another, "he is off for Saumur;the horsemen are already starting for Saumur. "

"Come, then; they shall not go alone, " said another. "We will start forSaumur. We will not lie here while others are in the battle. "

These were men from the neighbourhood of Durbellière, who were nowplaced under the orders of M. De Lescure; but who conceived that, astheir lord and master was gone before them, it must be their duty tofollow. The word was passed from one to another, and the whole body ofthem was soon in motion. It must be remembered that they were, in norespect, similar to disciplined troops; they had received no militaryinstruction, and did not therefore, know, that they were doing wrong infollowing their own master; they were in receipt of no pay; amenable tono authority, and consequently afraid of no penalties; their only ideawas to do the best they could for the cause, to fight with courage andperseverance, and to trust to God for the result: it was not, therefore, wondering that, in the present instance, they so completely mistooktheir duty. 

Cathelineau's men, who were intended to form the centre of the attackon the next morning, were placed just to the right of the road, buttheir baggage and cannons had not been moved from it; in fact, they werenearly mixed with M. De Lescure's men; whereas M. D'Elbée's portion ofthe army was removed a good deal further to the right, and was placedimmediately on the banks of the river Thoué. The camp at Varin, whichwas to be attacked, was situated between the river and the road toSaumur. In Cathelineau's division there were some few who understood theplan which had been decided on, and some others who knew that theyshould not move without orders, and they did what they could to preventtheir companions from joining the rush made by M. De Lescure's party;but their efforts were nearly in vain. Every man learnt in the confusionthat the attack was to be made on Saumur that night, and no man wishedto be left behind. 

"Come friends, let us follow 'le Mouchoir Rouge;' he never meant, I amsure, to leave us here, " said the spokesman of one party. 

"The Saint of Angers is on before us, " said the others; "he would letno man see the enemy before himself. The good Cathelineau is gone toSaumur, let us follow him!"

In this way they soon learnt to believe that both Cathelineau andLarochejaquelin were on before them, and they were not long in hurryingafter them. Within twenty minutes, about six thousand men started offwithout a leader or any defined object, to besiege the walls of Saumur;they did not even know that a vast entrenched encampment of the enemy'stroops lay directly in their way. The men had, most of them, musketswith three or four rounds of powder and ball each; many of them also hadbayonets. They were better armed than they had hitherto ever been, andthey consequently conceived themselves invincible. Cathelineau's men, however, would not stir without 'Marie Jeanne, ' and that devoted, hard-worked cannon was seized by scores, and hurried off with themtowards Saumur. 

De Lescure and Cathelineau were together in a farm-house, within fivehundred yards of the place where the baggage had been left, and withinhalf a mile of the most distant of the men who had thus taken uponthemselves to march, or rather to rush, away without orders; and someof those who still had their senses about them, soon let their Generalsknow what was going forward. 

They were seated together, planning the attack for the next morning. Denot was with Larochejaquelin, and d'Elbée and Stofflet were togetherwith the detachment on the banks of the river: they were, therefore, alone when Father Jerome rushed into the room. 

"The men are off, M. De Lescure, " said he: "do you not hear them? ForHeaven's sake go down to them, Cathelineau; some one has told them thatyou and Larochejaquelin were gone to Saumur; and they are all preparingto follow you. "

"Heaven and earth I" said de Lescure, "they will be destroyed. "

"Unless you stop them they will, " said Father Jerome, "they will allfall upon the camp just as the republicans are under arms, and preparedto receive them. Hurry, Cathelineau; you alone can stop them. "

Cathelineau without uttering a word, seized his sword, and rushed outof the room without his cap; and followed by M. De Lescure, hurriedthrough the farm-yard, leapt a little gate, and got upon the road a fewyards from the place where the waggons had been left. The whole placewas in the utmost confusion: the men were hurrying to and fro, hardlyknowing what they were doing or going to do: the most ardent of themwere already a quarter of a mile advanced on the road to Saumur; otherswere still following them; those who knew that they should have stayedquiet during the night, were in the utmost distress; they did not knowwhether to support their comrades, or to remain where they were. 

"'What ails them, Peter?" said Cathelineau, catching hold of the arm ofa man who had followed him from St. Florent, "if they advance they willbe destroyed at Varin;" and as he spoke, he leapt upon the top of oneof the waggons laden with provisions, which had come from Durbellière. 

It was a beautiful warm evening in June, and the air was heavy with thesweet scent of the flowering hedges; it was now nearly nine o'clock, andthe sun had set; but the whole western horizon was gorgeous with thecrimson streaks which accompanied its setting. Standing in the waggon, Cathelineau could see the crowds of hurrying royalists rushing along theroad, wherever the thick foliage of trees was sufficiently broken toleave any portion of it visible, and he could hear the eager hum oftheir voices both near him and at a distance. 

"No power on earth could bring them back, " said he. "Now, Peter, run tothe stable for your life; my horse is there and M. De Lescure's--bringthem both. They are both saddled. Run my friend; a moment lost now willcost a hundred lives. "

It was Peter Berrier to whom he spoke, and in spite of his eviltreatment at Durbellière, Peter ran for the horses, as though he wasrunning for the King's crown. 

"It is impossible to stop them, " said Cathelineau, still standing on thewaggon, and speaking to de Lescure, whom he had outran. "All La Vendéecould not stop them; but we may head them, M. De Lescure, and lead themon; we must attack the camp tonight. "

"Our loss will be terrible if we do, " said de Lescure. 

"It will, it will be terrible, and we shall be repulsed; but that willbe better than letting them rush into positive destruction. In an hour'stime they will be between the camp, the town, and the heights ofBournan, and nothing then could save them. "

"Let us go, then, " said de Lescure; "but will you not send to d'Elbée?"

"Yes; but do not desire him to follow us. In two hours time he will haveenough to do to cover our retreat. "

"We shall, at any rate, have the darkness in our favour, " said deLescure. 

"We shall; but we have two dreadful hours of light before that timecomes: here are our horses--let us mount; there is nothing for us nowbut a hard ride, a good drubbing--and then, the best face we can putupon it tomorrow. "

Orders were then given to Peter Berrier to make the best of his wayacross to M. D'Elbée, and to explain to him what had occurred, and bidhim keep his men in reserve under arms, and as near to the waggons ashe could. "And be sure, " said Catheineau, "be sure, Peter, to make himunderstand, that he is at once to leave the river and come across to theroad, to keep his men, you know, immediately close to the waggons. "

"I understand, " said Peter, "I understand, " and he at once started offon his important errand. 

"It is a bad messenger, I fear, " said Cathelineau; "but we have nobetter; indeed we are lucky even to find him. "

"I wonder, " said Peter Berrier to himself, as he ran across the fields, "I wonder whether they'll make nothing of this job, too, as they did ofthat day at St. Florent. I suppose they will; some men haven't the luckever to be thought much of. "

Notwithstanding his gloomy presentiments, Peter made the best of his wayto M. D'Elbée, and having found him, told him how the men had startedby themselves for Saumur; how de Lescure and Cathelineau had followedthem; how they intended to attack the camp at Varin that night, and heended by saying, "And you, M. D'Elbe--"

"Of course we must follow them, " said d'Elbée. 

"Not a foot, " said Peter; "that is just why they sent me, instead of anycommon messenger; that I might explain it all to you properly. You arenot to stir a foot after them; but are to remain here, just where youare, till they return. "

"That is impossible, " said d'Elbée. "What good on earth can I do, remaining here?"

"Why, Cathelineau will know where to find you, when he wants you. "

"You are mistaken, Peter Berrier, " said d'Elbée. "You must be mistaken. Perhaps he meant that I should go over to the road, to cover theirretreat. God knows they will want some one to do so. "

"That is just it, " said Peter. "They mean to retreat down the river, andyou are to remain just where you are. "

As might be expected, M. D'Elbée was completely puzzled, and he sent offthree or four men, to endeavour to get fresh orders, either fromCathelineau or from de Lescure; and while waiting to receive them, hekept his useless position by the river side. 

In the mean time, Cathelineau and de Lescure had hurried off, at the topof their horses' speed, to endeavour to head the column of madmen whowere rushing towards almost certain destruction. They will, at any rate, meet Larochejaquelin on his return, and he will stop them. This thoughtoccurred to both of them, but neither of them spoke; indeed, they weremoving too quickly, and with too much trouble to be able to speak. Thereobject now was not to stop the men who thronged the roads; they onlywanted to head them before they came to the portion of the road whichpassed close by the trenches of the camp at Varin. 

They were so far successful, that they found themselves nearly at thehead of the column by the time they came within sight of the great bankswhich the royalists had thrown up. It was still light enough for themto see the arms of the republican troops, and they were near enough tothe camp to hear the movements of the men within it, in spite of theincreasing noise of their own troops. 

"They are ready to receive us, " said de Lescure to himself, "and a warmreception they are likely to give us. "

He now separated himself from Cathelineau, and galloped before thetrenches to an open space where Larochejaquelin had stationed himselfwith the cavalry. Henri had completely surprised the sentinels on dutyin the camps; he and about twenty others had dismounted, had shot fouror five sentries at their post, and had again retreated to their horsesbefore the republicans were able to return his fire. But what was hissurprise on preparing to remount his horse, to hear the rush of his ownmen coming along the road, and to see the cloud of dust which envelopedthem. Henri tried to speak to them, and to learn what new plan broughtthem there; but the foremost men were too much out of breath to speakto him: however, they shouted and hurraed at seeing him, and slackenedtheir pace a little. They were then almost within musket shot of therepublicans, and the balls from the trenches began to drop very nearthem. Henri was still in an agony of suspense, not knowing what to door to propose, when de Lescure emerged from out of the cloud of dust, and galloped up to him. 

"What on earth has brought you here, Charles?" said Henri. "Why have themen come on in this way? Every man within the camp will have a musketin his hand in five minutes time. "

"It is too late now to help it, " said de Lescure; "if we both live overthis night, I will explain it to you. Cathelineau is behind there; wemust lead the men to the attack; he will be in the trenchesimmediately. "

"Lead on, " said Henri, jumping off his horse, "or rather I will gofirst; but stop, the men must have five minutes to get their breath;they are all choked with running. Come, my men, " said he, turning to thecrowds who were clustering round them, "we will disturb the dreams ofthese republicans; the blues are not fond of fighting by night, but ifthey are asleep I think we will soon wake them, " and accompanied by hisfriend, he rushed down into the trenches, and the men followed him byhundreds, covered with dust, choked with thirst, breathless with theirlong run, and utterly ignorant what they were going to do, or how theywere to for an entrance into the camp. 

At the same moment, Cathelineau leapt into the trench at the pointnearest to the road by which he had come, and his men followed himenthusiastically, shouting at the top of their voices "Vive le roi!" "Abas la république. " Hitherto they had been successful in every effortthey had made. The republican troops had fled from every point which hadbeen attacked; the Vendeans had, as yet, met no disasters, and theythought themselves, by the special favour of the Almighty, invinciblewhen fighting against the enemies of the King. 

The camp at Varin was not a regularly fortified position; but it wassurrounded by a deep trench, with steep earth-works thrown up inside it. These were high enough to afford great protection to those within, andsteep enough to offer a considerable obstacle to any attacking party:but the earth was still soft, and the foremost among the Vendeans werenot long in finding themselves within the entrenchment; but when therethey met a terribly hot reception. 

The feigned attack made by Larochejaquelin had just served to warn therepublicans, and by the time the real attack was made, every man wasunder arms. As de Lescure had said, the old soldiers of Valmy and ofJemappes were there. Men accustomed to arms, who well knew the smell ofpowder, and who were prepared to contest every inch of ground beforethey gave it up. These men, too, wore defensive armour, and theVendeans, unaccustomed to meet enemies so well prepared, were dismayed, when they perceived that their enemies did not as usual give way beforethem. 

The slaughter in the trenches was tremendous: the first attack had beenmade with great spirit, and about four hundred of the Vendeans were inthe camp before the murderous fire of the republicans commenced, amongthese were de Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Cathelineau; and they madetheir way even to the centre of the camp; but those who had not made aportion of the first assault, fell back by twenties and thirties underthe fire of the republicans; twice Larochejaquelin returned and nearlycleared the top of the trenches, in order to make way for the men belowto come up; but they were frightened and intimidated; their powder wasall gone, and they perceived that their first attempt had failed; theirfriends and comrades were falling on every side of them; and, after awhile, they retreated from the trenches beyond reach of musket shot. Cathelineau had expected that this would be the case, and though he hadbeen one of the first within the camp, he was prepared to leave it againas soon as he could make the men, who were with him, understand that itwas necessary they should do so. It was now dusk, and the uncertainlight favoured his intention. 

"'Where is your master?" said he to Jacques, whom he chanced to findclose to him; "tell him to lead his men down the trenches again, backto the road, at once, at once; beg him to be the first to leap downhimself; they will not go unless he leads them. "

Jacques did as he was bid, and Larochejaquelin led the men back to thetrenches. 

"Come, my friends, " said he, "we have given them enough for tonight--wehave broken their sleep; come, we will visit them again tomorrow. " Andhe dashed through a body of republicans who were now firing from thetrenches, and about one hundred of his own men followed him. 

The republicans had stuck huge pine-wood torches into the green sodsa-top of the trenches, which gave a ghastly glaring light immediatelyin their own vicinity, though they did not relieve the darkness at a fewpaces distant. As Henri rushed through them, some of the soldiersobserved his peculiar costume and hallaoed out, "fire upon the redscarf, " (tirez sur le mouchoir rouge, ) but the confusion was too greatto allow of this friendly piece of advice being followed, or else themusketeers were bad marksmen, for Henri went safely through the trench, though many of his men were wounded in following him. . 

Cathelineau's men soon followed, as did also Cathelineau himself; thelast man who leapt into the trenches was de Lescure; but he also gotsafely through them--not above twenty-five or thirty of those who hadforced their way into the camp, fell; but above three hundred of thosewho had only attempted it, were left dead or wounded in the trenches. And now the retreat commenced, and Cathelineau found it impossible toaccomplish it with anything like order; the three leaders endeavouredto make the men conceive that they had been entirely successful in allwhich it had been thought desirable to accomplish, but they had seen toomuch bloodshed to be deceived--they were completely dismayed anddisheartened, and returned back towards Montreuil, almost quicker thanthey had come. 

The men had brought 'Marie Jeanne' with them; but in the species ofattack which they had made, the cannon was not of the slightest use; ithad not been once discharged. A great effort was now made to take itback with them, but the attempt was unsuccessful: they had not draggedit above five hundred yards, when they heard that the republicans werefollowing them; and then, as every man was obliged to think of himself, poor 'Marie Jeanne' was left to her fate. 

It was soon evident to Cathelineau and de Lescure, that they werepursued; but the night was dark, and they calculated that M. D'Elbée'smen would be drawn up at the waggons; it was more than probable thatthey would then be able, not only to stop the pursuit, but to avengethemselves on their pursuers. What then was their surprise on reachingthe waggons, to find them utterly deserted--there was not a single manwith them. 

This was a great aggravation to the misery of their predicament. Theyhad no resource but to fly on to Montreuil, which was still above twoleagues distant from them; and should the republican troops perseverein the pursuit, their loss upon the road would be terrific. The darknesswas their only friend, and on they went towards Montreuil. 

The republican soldiers were stopped by the waggons and cannons; it wasthen as dark as a night in June ever is; it was well known also that theRepublic had no friends in Montreull; the troops had been driven fromthe place by M. De Lescure, on his road to Doué, and the royalists wouldbe able to make a very strong stand in the streets of the town; thepursuit was, therefore, given up, and the blues returned to the camp atVarin, with all the artillery and the baggage belonging to theroyalists. 

M. D'Elbée remained all the while in his position by the river; he heardthe firing--he also heard the confused noise of the retreat, but he feltthat it was impossible for him, at that hour of night, to take any stepswithout knowing what had been done, or what he had better do: at aboutfour in the morning, he learnt exactly what had occurred, and then herejoined Cathelineau at Montreuil. 

The Vendeans, during the night, lost every cannon they possessed; alltheir baggage, consisting of provisions, wearing apparel, andammunition; they lost also about five hundred men, in killed, woundedand prisoners; but all this was not of so much injury as the loss of theprestige of victory. The peasants had conceived themselves invincible, and they were struck with consternation to find they were liable torepulse and defeat. Early on the following morning, another council ofwar was held, but the spirits and hopes of the Generals had been greatlydamped. 

CHAPTER IX

THE BISHOP OF AGRA. 

On this occasion the meeting of the leaders was kept strictly secret;none were admitted but those who were known to be the chosen chiefs ofthe Vendeans; it consisted of Cathelineau, de Lescure, Larochejaquelin, d'Elbée, Stofflet, and Father Jerome. They had been closeted togetherabout an hour and a half, when Father Jerome left the room, and rode offtowards Thouars, on the best horse which could be found for him; no oneseemed to know where or for what he was going, though much anxiety wasexpressed on the subject. Those who knew him, were well aware that hewas not about to desert the cause in its first reverse. In the meantime, the Generals tried to reassure the men. Cathelineau explained to themthat they had brought on themselves the evils which they now sufferedby their absurd attempt to act without orders; and de Lescure andLarochejaquelin endeavoured to rouse their energies by pointing out tothem the necessity of recovering their favourite cannon. 

"Ah! M. Henri, " said one of the men from Durbellière, "how can we gether again when we have lost our guns, and have got no powder?"

"How!" said Henri, "with your sticks and your hands, my friends--as yourneighbours in St. Florent took her, at first, from the blues; we allthink much of the men of St. Florent, because it was they first took'Marie Jeanne;' let us be the men who rescue her from these traitors, and these people will think much of us. "

About two o'clock in the day a closed carriage was driven into Montreuilvery fast, by the road from Thouars; the blinds were kept so completelydown, that no one could see who was within it; it was driven up to thedoor of the house in which the council had been held; the doors of thecarriage and of the house were opened, and two persons alighted and raninto the house so quickly that their persons could hardly be recognized, even by those who were looking at them. 

"That last is Father Jerome, at any rate, " said a townsman. 

"Who on earth had he with him?" said another; "he must be some giant, "said a third, "did you see how he stooped going into the door. "

"A giant, stupid;" said a fourth, "how could a giant get out of such acarriage as that; besides, where could Father Jerome find giants inthese days. "

"Well, I don't know, " said the other, "but I am sure he was eight feethigh; didn't you see his back as he ran into the house. "

Soon after the mysterious entry into the house, Henri left it, and wentout to the fields beyond the town, where most of the men were stillresting after the long fatigue of the night; much discontentment hadbeen expressed by them, and many had already declared their intentionof returning home. Every measure had been taken to comfort them; theyhad been supplied with provisions and tobacco from the town, and everyeffort had been used to renew their hopes and courage. Cathelineau hadpassed the greater portion of the morning among them, going from onequarter to another, assuring the men that their loss was most trifling, that their future victory was certain--it was nearly in vain; theydeclared that they could do nothing without 'Marie Jeanne. '

Henri now went among them, and as he did so, Jacques Chapeau proceededthrough the town, imploring all the men who were in it, to go out andjoin the rest of the army, as a holy man had been sent direct from Romeby the Pope, to tell the people of La Vendée what it was their duty todo. 

Henri did not say quite so much as this, but he told the men that afriend of theirs--a bishop of the Church--one especially appointed bythe King before he died, to provide for the spiritual comfort of hispoor people in the west of France, was now among them, and would soonaddress them. He directed them to stay where they were till this man ofGod should be among them, and he besought them strictly to follow anyadvice which he might give them. 

Every one in the town flocked out to the army--men, women and childrenwere soon in the fields, and the report was spread abroad through themall, that the mysterious carriage which had rattled through the streetsof Montreuil, had brought to that favoured town a holy bishop, sentexpressly by their father the Pope to give good advice to his dearchildren in La Vendée. 

About four o'clock in the afternoon the stranger walked among them. Father Jerome walked on his right hand, and Cathelineau on his left. M. De Lescure followed immediately behind them. He was a very tallman--nearly seven feet high; and his peculiar costume added inappearance to his real height--he was dressed in the gorgeous robes ofa bishop of the Church of Rome as he would appear at the altar of hiscathedral when about to celebrate high mass; he had his mitre on hishead and his crozier in his hand; and as he walked through the crowd, the men and women everywhere kneeled down and bowed their heads to theearth; the people were delighted to have so holy a man among them--tosee a bishop in La Vendée. The bells were all rung, and every sign ofjoy was shewn; the peasants were already beginning to forget theirdefeat of the previous night. 

As he walked through the kneeling crowd, he stood still a moment or two, from time to time, and blessed the people; his voice was full and deep, but very musical; his face was supremely handsome, but devoid of alltraces of passion. As he lifted his hands to heaven, and implored theAlmighty to protect the righteous arms of his poor children in LaVendée, he certainly looked every inch a bishop; the peasantscongregated round him, and kissed his garments--if they could even touchthe shoes on his feet, they thought themselves happy. 

It took the little procession two hours to move in this way through thewhole of the army, during which time the bishop's companions did notspeak a word; they merely moved on, with their eyes turned towards theground. At length they reached a temporary altar, standing on a platformraised five steps above the ground, which had been erected under thecare of M. D'Elbe since the arrival of the bishop in Montreuil. Herewere collected M. D'Elbée, Stofflet, Larochejaquelin, Adolphe Denot, andthe other principal leaders of the army, and as the little processiondrew near, they knelt upon the top step of the platform, andCathelineau, de Lescure and Father Jerome knelt with them. The bishopthen blessed them each separately, commencing with Cathelineau; heplaced his crozier on the altar, and putting both his hands on the headof the kneeling General, he said in a loud and solemn voice:

"May the Lord bless you, my son! may he enable you to direct the armsof his faithful people, so as to show forth His glory, and magnify Hisname; may he help your endeavours to restore to a suffering people theirChurch and their King; may His dear Son preserve you in danger, comfortyou in affliction, be near you in the hour of death, and reward you inheaven. " He then went round to them all, and blessed them each, thoughin a somewhat shorter form; and, at last, standing on the top step, inthe front of the whole army, so that every one could see him, he uttereda general benediction on the people, and a prayer for their success; andwhile he did so, boys dressed in surplices made their way through thecrowd, swinging censers filled with burning frankincense, and loadingthe air with that peculiar scent, which always fills the mind withdevotional ideas. 

As soon as this was over, and the people had risen from their knees, Cathelineau spoke to them, and told them that the Bishop of Agra hadbeen especially appointed by their King to watch over and protect theirspiritual interest; that Monseigneur had heard with great grief of themisfortune which had happened to them the preceding evening, and thathe would now tell them how, with God's assistance, they might hope infuture to avoid such calamities. 

The bishop then addressed them, and said:

"My children, I rejoice that Providence has given me the privilege ofseeing so many of you collected here today. You have been broughttogether for a great and holy purpose; the enemies of the Almighty Godare in your country--enemies who can never prevail to the breath of onehair against His omnipotence; but who may, and who will prevail to thedestruction of your families here, and the perdition of your soulshereafter, if you fail in performing the duties which are before you. You are now called, my children--called especially from on high, todeliver your land from these enemies; to go out to the battle, and tofight in God's name, till you have restored the King to his throne, andyour pastors to their churches; and I rejoice to learn that you have soreadily undertaken the task which is before you. Till yesterday yoursuccess was most wonderful; your career has been glorious. Youunhesitatingly obeyed the leaders who commanded you, and they led youfrom one victory to another: but yesterday you were beatenback--yesterday evening, for the first time, you found your enemy toostrong for you; they did not fall beneath your bullets; they did notfeel your swords! Why was this, my children? Why was it that onyesterday evening the protecting hand of heaven was withdrawn from you?"Here the bishop paused in his address, as though expecting a reply, andthen, after waiting a minute, during which the whole army remained inmost perfect quiet, answered the question himself "Because, my children, you yesterday followed no accustomed leader; you obeyed no order; youwent out to the battle with self-proud hearts, and a vain confidence inyourselves, rather than in the Almighty. It is not by such efforts asthat, that the chosen soldiers of La Vendée can expect to conquer theenemies of France. You were vain in your own conceits; you trusted inyour own strength; you were puffed up with worldly glory: and yourstrength has proved weakness, and your glory has been turned todisgrace. I trust, my children, you will not require another such alesson; I trust you will not again forget your God and your Saviour, asyou did on yesterday evening. Tomorrow morning the General, under whomthe hand of Providence has placed you, the good Cathelineau, shall againlead you against your enemies; and, if you confidently trust in God forthe result, he shall assuredly lead you to victory. "

The bishop then again blessed the army, and walked off the field, surrounded by the different leaders of the army, and left the townwithout being again seen by the multitude. 

The effect which this singular visit had upon the people was almostmiraculous. Their faith was so perfect, that it never occurred to themto doubt the truth of anything which fell from consecrated lips. Theword of a priest with them was never doubted, but the promises of abishop were assurances direct from heaven: they would consider it grossimpiety to have any doubt of victory, when victory had been promisedthem by so holy a man as he who had just addressed them. After theBishop of Agra had left the town, Larochejaquelin and de Lescure wentthrough the army, talking to the men, and they found them eager to renewthe attack on the camp of Varin. Though Varin was nearly three leaguesfrom them, and though they had been up nearly the whole previous night, they would willingly have returned to the attack that evening, had theybeen allowed to do so. 

This was not considered expedient: but it was resolved that the attackon the camp should be renewed as early as possible on the followingmorning, as it was considered that the republicans would not expect soquick a return of an army which had been completely routed; and might, therefore, to a certain extent, be taken by surprise. 

"We must run fast, friends, " said Chapeau to his allies from Durbellièreand Echanbroignes, "for the first men who reach Varin, will retake'Marie Jeanne;' we will have a share in her, as well as the men of St. Florent. "

With sunrise the next morning, the army was again on the move towardsSaumur: it was arranged that Cathelineau, de Lescure, Denot, andLarochejaquelin should lead the men through the trenches and into thecamp; and that d'Elbe should remain on the road, prepared, if necessary, to second the attack, but ready should the first attempt be successful, to fall on the republicans as they retreated from the camp to the town, and, if possible, to follow them within the walls. Stofflet was to leada division of fifteen hundred men past the camp, between the heights ofBournan and the town, so as to intercept the republicans, should theyattempt from that position, to relieve their comrades when retreatingfrom the camp. There was a bridge over the Thoué, close to the town ofSaumur, called the bridge of Fouchard. This bridge was between Bournanand the town, as also between the camp and the town, and the possessionof this bridge would be of great advantage to the royalist army. Stofflet was charged to obtain this advantage, if he did not find thatthe cannons from the town prevented him. 

About four o'clock the army was on the move from Montreuil, and by eightthey were again in front of the camp at Varin; the portion of the roadwhich they had passed in such confusion the night but one before, andwhere they had left their cannon and their waggons, was now stripped ofall signs of the encampment, which had been made there, nothing but thedeep ruts, made by the cannon wheels, were to be seen; everything whichthey had brought with them, the trophies of all their victories, thewhite flags which the ladies of La Vende had worked for them; theprovisions, the wine and meat, which the kindness of their landlords hadsent with them, were all gone--were in the hands of the republicans;these reflections served to rouse the anger of the peasants, and madethem determined to get back what they had lost, though they pulled downthe walls of Saumur with their nails. 

At a few moments after eight, the attack commenced; the first assaultwas headed by Cathelineau, who rushed into the trenches, accompanied bythe Curé of St. Laud. Father Jerome held a large crucifix in his hands, and as he followed Cathelineau, he lifted it high above his head, toencourage the men who were about to make the assault; hundreds of themwere on the verge of the trench as he did so; others were following themclosely; they were already within fire of the republican batteries, theballs from which were falling among them; but, regardless of the firing, they all fell on their knees, with their faces towards the earth, assoon as they saw the crucifix in the hands of their priest; and there, on the very field of battle, offered up a prayer that they might thatday be victorious. 

"They will be cut down like grass, simpletons that they are, " saidStofflet; "besides, the first moment is everything; two hundred shouldby this time have been within the camp. "

"Let them alone, " said M. D'Elbée, "they are quite right as they are;they will not fight the worse for saying their prayers. "

As he finished speaking, the men rose again, and rushed against theearth-work. 

Their attempt of the preceding evening had had one good effect--it hadtaught the peasants that those who hesitated were in five times moreimminent danger than those who at once got into the trench; and that themen climbing up the embankment, or at the top of it, were not nearly soliable to be struck, as the men at the bottom of the trench, or as thosebeyond it; they therefore eagerly stuck their hands and feet into theearth, and made the best of their way into the encampment. 

It had been expected by the republicans that the next attack of theroyalists would probably be made at Bournan, and they had consequentlymoved most of the cuirassiers from Varin to strengthen that importantplace; the men left in the encampment, consisted chiefly of those tribesof republicans who were enrolled into the French army under the name ofMarseillaise--men who were as ferocious in the hour of victory, as theywere prone to fly at the first suspicion of defeat--men who delightedin bloodshed, but who preferred finding their victims ready bound forthe slaughter. It was the abject cowardice of these troops, which gaveso wonderful a career of success to the Vendeans; it was theirdiabolical cruelty which has made the sufferings of the royalists morenotorious even than their bravery. 

De Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Adolphe Denot led their men furtheralong the road to the point at which Henri had been standing when hefirst saw the crowd of royalists coming towards him on the formerevening, and from thence they also got into the encampment. As has beensaid, they had no powder; the men who commenced the assault were armedwith muskets and bayonets, but the greater number of the assailants hadno bayonets at all, and many of them nothing but sticks; still theyforced their way into the centre of the camp; here a very strongopposition was made to them; the republicans were so well armed, thatthe royalists were unable to disperse them when any number of them madea stand together; when they moved from their ground, however, theVendeans uniformly succeeded in driving them before them. 

Cathelineau's men also made their way through the camp, and thereCathelineau and Larochejaquelin met each other. 

"Well done, my friend; well done, " said Henri, seizing the postillionby the hand, "this is a glorious meeting; the blues are beaten; we haveonly now to drive them into the river. "

"Or into the road, " said Jacques, who as usual was close to his master, "when once there, M. D'Elbée will not be long in handing them over toprovidence. "

"Once more, my children, once more said the priest, "drive them out, drive them out, vive le roi quand même!" and as he spoke, he brandishedthe crucifix over his head like a tomahawk; the sacred symbol wascovered with gore, which appeared to have come from the head of someunfortunate republican. 

"Ah, my friends!" hallaoed Cathelineau, advancing on before the others, "look--look there; there is our 'Marie Jeanne;' hurry then, hurry;" andthere, immediately before them, was their own sacred trophy; theirfavourite cannon: they wanted no further incentive; the men who hadfollowed Larochejaquelin, and the men of St. Florent who had come withCathelineau, saw it at the same time, and vieing with each other, rushedonwards to gain the prize. 

The republicans were amazed at the impetuosity of their enemies, and atlast fled before them; when once these newly-levied troops were turned, their officers found it impossible to recover them; it was then sauvequi peut, and the devil take the hindmost. The passage from the camptowards the town was still open; no attack having been made from thatquarter; and through the wooden gate, which had been erected there, thevaliant Marseillaise rushed out as quick as their legs could carry them;the officers of the Vendeans offered quarter to all who would throw downtheir arms, and many of them did so, but most of them attempted to gainthe town; they knew that if once they could cross the bridge at Fouchardthey would be within the protection afforded by the castle guns--but notone of them reached the bridge. 

M. D'Elbée had found that he could not himself take the position whichhad been pointed out to him, as, had he done so, his men would have beencut to pieces by the cannons from the castle, but he effectuallyprevented any one else from doing so; not thirty men from the wholeencampment got into the town of Saumur, and those who did so, made theirway through the river Thoué. 

The success of the Vendeans, as far as it went, was most complete; theyrecovered their baggage and their cannons--above all, their favourite'Marie Jeanne;' they took more prisoners than they knew how to keep;they armed themselves again, and again acquired unmeasured confidencein their own invincibility; they wanted immediately to be led out toattack the walls of Saumur, but Cathelineau and de Lescure knew thatthis would be running into useless danger. They had now once more plentyof ammunition; they had artillery, and were in a position to bombard thetown; they would at any rate make a breech in the walls before theyattempted to enter the streets; it was therefore decided that they wouldthat evening remain where they were, and commence the attack on thecitadel itself with daylight on the following morning. 

"It grieved me to think, " said Jacques Chapeau, as he pulled the hugebaskets down from the carts, from which the republicans had not yet hadtime to move them, "it grieved my very heart to think, M. Henri, thatthis good wine from the cellars of Durbellière should have gone downrepublican throats; the thoughts of it lay heavy on my heart last night, so that I could not sleep. Thank heaven, I am spared that disgrace. "

It was with the utmost difficulty that Cathelineau and de Lescure wereable to get sentries to remain at the necessary positions during thenight; the peasants had gained the battle, and were determined to enjoythemselves that evening; they would be ready they said to fight again, when the sun rose the next morning. The officers themselves had to actas sentinels; and after having been the first during the day to rushinto every danger, and after having led the attack and the pursuit, andhaving then arranged the operations for the morrow, they had to remainon the watch during the night, lest the camp should be sacrificed by anattack from the republican forces, stationed at Bournan, or in thetown--such is the lot of those who take upon themselves the managementof men, without any power to ensure obedience to their orders. 

VOLUME II

CHAPTER I

SAUMUR

In the next three days the Vendeans bombarded the town, and during thattime fired against it everything they could cram into their cannons, inthe shape of warlike missiles; and they did not do so in vain, for thewalls, in portions, began to give way and to crumble into the moat, which ran round the town, and communicated with the river Loire on eachside of it. The town is built on the Loire, and between the Loire andthe Thoué. After passing over the latter river at the bridge ofFouchard, the road in a few yards came to the draw-bridge over the moat;and from the close vicinity of the two rivers, no difficulty was foundin keeping the moat supplied with water in the driest weather. About amile below the town, the Thoue runs into the Loire. 

Cathelineau found the men very impatient during the bombardment; theydid not now dream of going home till the work was over, and Saumurtaken; but they were very anxious to make a dash at the walls of thetown; they could not understand why they should not clamber into thecitadel, as they had done, over the green sods into the camp at Varin. On the fourth morning they were destined to have their wish. A temporarybridge over the Thoué had been made near Varin, over which a greatportion of the cannon had been taken to a point near the Loire, fromwhich the royalists had been able to do great damage to the walls; theyhad succeeded in making a complete breach of some yards, through whichan easy entrance might be made, were it not for the moat; much of therubbish from the walls had fallen into it, so as considerably to lessenthe breadth; but there was still about twenty feet of water to bepassed, and it was impossible, under the immediate guns of the castle, to contrive anything in the shape of a bridge. 

Notwithstanding the difficulties of the place, it was decided thatLarochejaquelin should take two hundred of his men and endeavour to makehis way through the water, and while he was doing this, de Lescure wasto force his passage over the bridge at Fouchard, and if possible, carrythe gate of the town; in doing this he would pass under the heights ofBournan, and to this point M. D'Elbée was to accompany him with thegreat bulk of the army, so as to secure his flank from any attack fromthe republican force, which still retained their position there, andwhich had hitherto kept up an intercourse with the town across thebridge of Fouchard. 

At five o'clock the greater portion of the army left the camp withd'Elbée and de Lescure. When they came within two furlongs of thebridge, the army separated, the chief body remaining with M. D'Elbée andthe remainder going on with M. De Lescure towards the town. . The roadturns a little before it reaches the bridge over the Thoué, and up tothis point, the Vendeans, in their progress, were tolerably protectedfrom the guns of the town; but immediately they turned upon the bridge, they became exposed to a tremendous fire. The men at once perceived thisand hesitated to cross the river; two of the foremost of their men fellas they put their feet upon the bridge. 

De Lescure had marched from the camp at the head of his men. FatherJerome was on his right hand, and Stofflet and Adolphe Denot at hisleft. Henri had asked his friend to accompany him in the attack whichhe was to make near the river, but Adolphe had excused himself, allegingthat he had a great dislike to the water, and that he would inpreference accompany Charles de Lescure. Henri had not thought muchabout it, and certainly had imputed no blame to his friend, as therewould be full as much scope for gallantry with his cousin as withhimself. When de Lescure saw that his men hesitated, he said, "Come mymen, forward with 'Marie Jeanne, ' we will soon pick their locks forthem, " and rushed on the bridge alone; seeing that no one followed himhe returned, and said to Denot:

"We must shew them an example, Adolphe; we will run to the other sideof the bridge and return; after that, they will follow us. "

De Lescure did not in the least doubt the courage of his friend, andagain ran on to the bridge. Stofflet and Father Jerome immediatelyfollowed him, but Adolphe Denot did not stir. He was armed with a heavysabre, and when de Lescure spoke to him, he raised his arm as thoughattempting to follow him, but the effort was too much for him, his wholebody shook, his face turned crimson, and he remained standing where hewas. As soon as de Lescure found that Adolphe did not follow him, heimmediately came back, and taking him by the arm, shook him slightly, and whispered in his ear:

"Adolphe, what ails you? remember yourself, this is not the time to beasleep, " but still Denot did not follow him; he again raised his arm, he put out his foot to spring forward, but he found he could not do it;he slunk back, and leant against the wall at the corner of the bridge, as though he were fainting. 

De Lescure could not wait a moment longer. He would have risked anythingbut his own reputation to save that of his friend; but his bravecompanions were still on the bridge, and there he returned for the thirdtime; his cap was shot away, his boot was cut, his clothes were piercedin different places, but still he was not himself wounded. 

"See, my friends, " said he aloud to the men behind him, "the blues donot know how to fire, " and he pointed to his shoulder, from which, ashe spoke, a ball had cut the epaulette. 

He then crossed completely over the bridge, together with Stofflet andthe priest; the people with one tremendous rush followed him, andAdolphe Denot was carried along with the crowd. 

As soon as they found themselves immediately beneath the walls of thetown, they were not exposed to so murderous a fire as they had been onthe bridge itself, but still the work was hot enough. 'Marie Jeanne' hadbeen carried across with them, and was soon brought into play; they hadstill enough ammunition left to enable their favourite to show herpuissance in battering against the chief gates of Saumur. The men madevarious attempts to get into the town, but they were not successful, though the gates were shattered to pieces, and the passage was almostfree; the republican troops within were too strong, and their firing toohot. At last the blues made a sortie from the town, and drove theVendeans back towards the bridge; M. De Lescure still kept his place inthe front, and was endeavouring to encourage his men to recover theirposition, when a ball struck his arm and broke it, and he fell with hisknee upon the ground. As soon as the peasants saw him fall, and foundthat he was wounded, they wanted to take him in their arms, and carryhim at once back across the bridge, but he would not allow them. 

"What ails you, friends?" said he; "did you never never see a manstumble before? Come, the passage is free; now at length we will quenchour thirst in Saumur, " and taking his sword in his left hand, he againattempted to make good his ground. 

M. D'Elbée had seen the Vendeans retreating back towards the bridge, andknowing that victory with them must be now or never (for it would havebeen impossible to have induced the peasants to remain longer from theirhomes, had they been repulsed), he determined to quit his post and tosecond de Lescure at the bridge. The firing from the town had ceased, for the republicans and royalists were so mixed together, that the menon the walls would have been as likely to kill their friends as theirenemies; and as the first company, fatigued, discouraged andoverpowered, were beginning to give way, d'Elbée, with about twothousand men, pushed across the bridge, and the whole mass of thecontending forces, blues and Vendeans together, were hurried backthrough the gateway into the town; and de Lescure, as he entered it, found that it was already in the hands of his own party--the white flagwas at that moment rising above the tricolour on the ramparts. 

Adolphe Denot was one of the first of the Vendeans who entered the townthrough the gate. This shewed no great merit in him, for, as has beensaid, the men who had made the first attack, and the republicans whoopposed it, were carried into the town by the impulse of the men behindthem; but still he had endeavoured to do what he could to efface theineffable disgrace which he felt must now attach to him in the opinionof M. De Lescure. As they were making their way up the principal street, still striking down the republicans wherever they continued to makeresistance, but more often giving quarter, and promising protection, deLescure with a pistol held by the barrel in his left hand, and with hisright arm hastily tied up in the red handkerchief taken from a peasant'sneck, said to the man who was next to him, but whom he did not at themoment perceive to be Denot:

"Look at Larochejaquelin, the gallant fellow; look at the red scarf onthe castle wall. I could swear to him among a thousand. "

"Yes, " said Adolphe, unwilling not to reply when spoken to, and yetashamed to speak to de Lescure, "yes, that is Henri. I wish I were withhim. "

"Oh, that is you, is it?" said de Lescure, just turning to look at him, and then hurrying away. But before he had moved on five paces, hereturned, and putting his pistol into his girdle, gave Adolphe his lefthand, and whispered to him:

"No one shall ever hear of it, Adolphe, " said he, "and I will forget it. Think of your Saviour in such moments, Adolphe, and your heart will notfail you again. "

The tears came into Denot's eyes as de Lescure left him. He felt thathe must be despised; he felt grateful for the promise which had beengiven him, and yet he felt a kind of hatred for the man to whom he hadafforded an opportunity of forgiving him. He felt that he never couldlike de Lescure again, never be happy in his company; he knew that deLescure would religiously keep his word, that he would never mention tohuman being that horrid passage at the bridge; but he knew also that itcould never be forgotten. Adolphe Denot was not absolutely a coward; hehad not bragged that he would do anything which he knew it was contraryto his nature to do, when he told Agatha that he would be the first toplace the white flag on the citadel of Saumur: he felt then all theaspirations of a brave man; he felt a desire even to hurry into thethick of the battle; but he had not the assured, sustained courage tosupport him in the moment of extreme danger. As de Lescure said, hisheart failed him. 

We must now return to Henri Larochejaquelin. He had taken with him twohundred of the best men from the parishes of St. Aubin, St. Laud andEchanbroignes; four or five officers accompanied him, among whom was ayoung lad, just fourteen years of age; his name was Arthur Mondyon, andhe was a cadet from a noble family in Poitou; in the army he had atfirst been always called Le Petit Chevalier. His family had allemigrated, and he had been left at school in Paris; but on the breakingout of the wars he had run away from school, had forged himself a falsepassport into La Vendée, and declared his determination of fighting forhis King. De Lescure had tried much to persuade him to stay at Clisson, but in vain; he had afterwards been attached to a garrison that was keptin the town of Chatillon, as he would then be in comparative safety; butthe little Chevalier had a will of his own; he would not remain withinwalls while fighting was going on, and he had insisted on accompanyingLarochejaquelin to Saumur. He was now installed as Henri's aide-de-camp. 

Jacques Chapeau also accompanied the party who were to make their wayinto the town through the water. The men were all armed with muskets andbayonets, but their muskets were not loaded, nor did they carry anypowder with them; it would have been useless in the attack they wereabout to make, and was much wanted elsewhere. 

Henri was at his post about the time at which de Lescure was preparingto cross the bridge at Fouchard. It was an awful looking place at whichha had to make his entrance there was certainly a considerable breachin the wall, and the fragments of it had fallen into the fosse, so asto lessen its width; but, nevertheless, there was full twenty feet ofrunning water to cross, which had more the appearance of a branch of theriver Loire, than of a moat round a town. 

Henri saw that his men looked a little alarmed at what they had to gothrough; he had a light straw hat on his head, and taking it off, hethrew it into the water, a little above the point he had to pass, andas the running water carried it down he said:

"Whoever gives me that on the other side will be my friend for life. "And as he spoke he himself leapt into the water, and swam across. 

Jacques made a plunge for the hat: had it been in the middle of theLoire he would have gone after it under similar circumstances, thoughhe couldn't swim a stroke; he did not go near the hat however, but wenthead over heels into the water; the impetus carried him through, and hewas the second to scramble upon the broken mortar on the other side. TheChevalier was more active; he leapt in and seized the hat as it wasgoing down the stream, and swimming like a young duck, brought it backto its owner. 

"Ah! Chevalier, " said Henri, reproaching him playfully, and helping himup out of the water, "you have robbed some poor fellow of a chance; you, you know, cannot be more my friend, than you already are. "

The men quickly followed: they all got a ducking; some few lost theirarms, one or two were slightly wounded by their comrades, but none ofthem were drowned. Henri soon made his way over the ruins into the town, and carried everything before him. The greater part of the garrison ofthe town were endeavouring to repulse the attack made by de Lescure;others had retired into the castle, in which the republican Generalthought that he might still hold out against the Vendeans. Many werealready escaping out of the town by the bridge over the Loire, andthrowing down their arms, were hurrying along the road to Tours. 

It was in this manner, and almost without opposition, thatLarochejaquelin found himself, together with his brave followers, in themiddle of Saumur; their own success astonished them; hardly a shot wasfired at them in their passage; they went through the town withoutlosing a man; the republican soldiers whom they did see threw down theirarms and fled; the very sight of the Vendeans in the centre of the townoverwhelmed them with panic. The appearance of Henri's troop was verysingular; every man wore round his neck and round his waist a red cottonhandkerchief; this costume had been adopted to preserve Larochejaquelinfrom the especial danger of being made the butt of republican marksmen. There was now no especial mouchoir rouge among them. They certainly hada frightful appearance, as they hurried through the streets with theirbayonets fixed, dripping with mud and water, and conspicuous with theirred necks and red waists; at least so thought the republicans, for theyoffered very little opposition to them. 

Henri had just time to see that his friends had entered the town by thegate on the Doué road, but he did not wait to speak to them. Therepublican soldiers were escaping from the town in the oppositedirection, and he could not resist the temptation of following them. Hewas at the head of his men, just passing over the Loire by a woodenbridge, called the bridge of the Green Cross, and having possessedhimself of a sword in his passage through the town, was making good useof it, when a dragoon turned suddenly round, and fired a pistol almostin his face: near as the man was to him, in his hurry he missed him, andthe bullet merely grazed Henri's cheek, without even raising the skin. "Ah, bungler, " said Henri, raising his sword, "you are no good foreither King or nation, " and he struck the unfortunate man dead at hisfeet. 

Not only the soldiers, but the inhabitants of the town were escaping byhundreds over the bridge, and Henri saw that if he pursued them farther, he must, sooner or later, find himself surrounded and overpowered bynumbers; he returned, therefore, and destroyed the bridge, so as toprevent the return of the soldiers who had fled in their first panic, and also to prevent any more of the inhabitants from leaving theirhomes. 

"God has certainly fought on our side today, " said he to one of hisMends: "with barely two hundred men, all dripping like drowned rats, wehave made our way, almost without opposition, through the town, andthousands of soldiers are even yet flying before us. "

"Ah! M. Henri, " said the little Chevalier, "it is a great honour tofight for one's King; one fears nothing then: a single royalist shouldalways drive before him ten republicans. "

Henri now returned and joined de Lescure, who was in possession of thetown, though the citadel was still in the hands of General Quetineau, who held the command of the garrison. It was not till the cousins hadembraced each other, that Henri saw that de Lescure was wounded. 

"Yes, " said de Lescure, "I have at length acquired the privilege ofshedding my blood in the cause; but it is only a broken arm; Victorinewill have a little trouble with me when I return to Clisson. "

"And Adolphe, my brave Adolphe, you are wounded, too?" said Henri. 

Denot muttered something, and turned away; he did not dare to look hisfriends in the face. 

"He envies me my honour, " said de Lescure; "but it might have been hischance as well as mine, for he was not two feet from me when I waswounded. " This was true, for de Lescure had been struck after Denot hadcrossed the bridge with the other men. 

A flag of truce was now sent out by General Quetineau to the royalists, with a proposal that he would give up the castle, and lay down his arms, on being allowed to march out with all his men, and take the road toAngers; but this proposition was not acceded to. 

"No!" said de Lescure to the General's messenger: "tell M. Quetineauthat the Vendeans cannot accede to those terms--we cannot allow hissoldiers to march to Angers, and to return within a week to inflict newcruelties on our poor peasants. M. Quetineau must surrender without anyterms: the practices of our army must be his only guarantee, that hismen will not be massacred in cold blood, as the unfortunate royalistsare massacred when they fall into the hands of the republicans. "

The republicans were not in a condition to insist upon anything; as M. De Lescure had said, the practices of the Vendeans were a guarantee thatno blood would be unnecessarily shed, and relying on this assurancealone, M. Quetineau surrendered the castle and gave up his sword. DeLescure took possession of it till he should be able to hand it over tohis General, and the Vendeans found themselves complete masters ofSaumur. 

There was, however, still a very strong detachment of republican troopson the heights of Bournan, who were watched on one side by Foret and hisdetachment, and on the other by a portion of M. D'Elbée's army. Thesemen had done some execution, as they covered with their cannon a portionof the road over which the Vendeans had passed, but they had taken noactive part whatever in the engagement. What made this the moresingular, was that the garrison at Bournan was composed of the very bestsoldiers of the French republican army. They were under the command ofGeneral Coustard, who kept his position during the whole attack, inactive and unmolested; had he attacked M. D'Elbée's army in the rear, when that officer advanced to support de Lescure's division, theVendeans would probably have been destroyed between the two republicanarmies. Whether the two Generals of the Convention misunderstood eachother, or whether the soldiers at Bournan were unwilling to rout theroyalists, it is impossible to say; but they remained at Bournan tillthe night, and then leaving their post during the darkness, made goodtheir retreat to Angers. 

As soon as the white flag was seen on the walls of Saumur, Cathelineauleft the position which he had held, and entered the town. It wasgreatly in opposition to his own wishes that he had been induced toremain at a distance from the absolute attack, and now he felt almostashamed of himself as the officers and men crowded round him tocongratulate him on the victory which he had gained. 

"No, M. De Lescure, " he said, as that officer tendered him GeneralQuetineau's sword, "no, I will never take it from him who has won itwith so much constancy and valour. I must own I envy you your goodfortune, but I will not rob you of the fruits of your exertions. "

"But Cathelineau, " said the other, "you are our General, the customs ofwar require--"

"The customs of war are all changed, " replied Cathelineau, "when suchas you and M. De Larochejaquelin make yourselves second to a poorpostillion; at any rate, " he added, pressing between his own, the lefthand of M. De Lescure, which still held the sword, "if I am to be thecommander, I must be obeyed. M. De Lescure will not set a bad examplewhen I tell him to keep General Quetineau's sword. "

"And you, General Quetineau, " said Cathelineau, "what are yourwishes--your own personal wishes I mean? I have not forgotten that youalone of the republican leaders have shewn mercy to the poor royalists, when they were in your power; you at any rate shall not say that theVendean brigands do not know how to requite kind services. " Cathelineaualluded to the name which the republicans had given to the royalists atthe commencement of the war. 

"It little matters to me, " said Quetineau, "what becomes of me; were youto give me unconditional liberty, I should go to Paris--and theConvention would accuse me of betraying my trust, and I should becomeanother victim of the guillotine. "

"Of the guillotine!" said Henri; "why, what bloody monsters are thoseyou serve they send you soldiers who know nothing but how to run; dothey expect that with such troops as these you should be victorious, when opposed to men who are individually striving for everything thatis dear to them?"

"The Convention, " said Quetineau, "would ensure success by punishingdefeat. You will find in the end that they are politic; there will, however, be many victims, and I am fated to be one of them. "

"Stay with us, General Quetineau, " said de Lescure, "join our forces, and here you will find that honesty and courage are respected. Youcannot, you do not approve of the tyranny of the Convention. We knoweach other of old, and I know that in joining the army, you neverintended to serve under a Republic. You cannot say that in your heartyou are a repubhican. "

"Did I wish to shew myself a royalist, it would not now become me toproclaim myself one, " answered Quetineau. "I entered the army of theKing, but I have chosen to remain a soldier of the Republic. Whatevermay be my feelings, adversity shall not make me false to the colours Ihave carried; besides, gentlemen, if I escaped the anger of theConvention myself, I have a wife in Paris, whose life would be made tosatisfy it; under such circumstances, I presume you would not counselme to become a royalist. "

This was an argument which it was impossible to answer. GeneralQuetineau accepted the present of his liberty, and soon as he was free, he returned to Paris; he was immediately sent to the revolutionarytribunal and tried for his life; and as he himself had predicted, wasguillotined by the Convention for the cowardice of the troops, whom hehad been called upon to take under his command. In the old days ofGreece, when the Kings sinned, the people suffered for it: this law wasreversed under the first French Republic; when the soldiers ran away, the Generals were beheaded. 

The joy of the Vendeans, when they found themselves masters of Saumur, knew no bounds, but they were grotesque rather than unruly in theirdemonstrations; they plundered nothing from the poor people, or evenfrom the shopkeepers; the money that was found in the republican chestwas divided among them, but as this consisted almost entirely ofassignats, it was of but little value. The shopkeepers were surprisedat the liberality of their enemies and conquerors, who were willing todispose of these assignats for anything they would fetch--a little wine, or a few ounces of tobacco; whereas, their own friends, the republicans, had insisted that they should be taken at their nominal value as money, for all goods exposed for sale. 

An enormous poplar had been planted by the towns-people in the centreof the marketplace, which they called the tree of liberty. This was nowa doomed tree. On the evening of the day in which they took the town, the royalist peasants went in procession, and with many cheers hewed itto the ground; it was then treated with every possible contumely--it waschopped, and hacked, and barked; it was kicked, and cuffed, and spatupon; the branches were cut off, and on the bare top was placed a largetattered cap of liberty; the Vendean marksmen then turned out, and firedat the cap till it was cut to pieces; after that, all the papers andbooks, which had belonged to the municipality, every document whichcould be found in the Town-hall, were brought into the square, and piledaround the roots of the tree; and then the whole was set on fire--andtree, papers, and cap of liberty, were consumed together. 

On the next morning, considerable difficulty was experienced indisposing of the prisoners there were about two thousand in the town, and the Vendeans knew that they had no means of keeping them, nor didthey wish to be at the great expense of feeding them; it was contraryto their inclination, their practice, and their consciences, to killthem in cold blood: and they knew from experience, that if they gavethem their liberty, the same men would return within a fortnight, newly-armed, to carry on the war against their liberators, in spite ofany oaths they might take to the contrary. 

"I'll tell you what we will do, M. Henri, " said Chapeau, speaking to hismaster, "we will put a mark upon them, so that if we catch them again, we may know them; and then I do think it would be all right to hangthem; or perhaps for the second time we might cut off their ears, andhang them the third time. "

"But how would you mark them, Jacques; men are not like cattle that youcan brand them. "

"I will tell you what, " said the little Chevalier, "shave them all likepigs; they cannot all buy wigs, and we shall know them by their baldsconces. "

"That is the very thing, M. Arthur, " said Chapeau delighted, "we willshave their heads as clear as the palm of my hand. I am an excellentbarber myself; and I will even get a dozen or two assistants; hair shallbe cheap in Saumur tomorrow; though I fear soap and razors will bescarce. "

Chapeau was so delighted with the proposal that he at once hurried awayto carry it into execution; and Arthur, though he felt that his dignityas an officer would be somewhat compromised, could not resist the boyishtemptation to follow him and see the fun. 

He and Chapeau were not long in raising an efficient corps of barbersand assistant barbers; and few of the shopkeepers, when called upon, thought it advisable to refuse the loan of a razor and a shaving dish. They established themselves in the large room of the Town-hall, and hadthe prisoners brought in by a score at a time; vehemently did the menplead for their hair, and loud did they swear that if allowed to escapefree, they would never again carry arms against the Vendeans; butneither their oaths or their prayers were of any avail, nor yet thebribes which were offered by those who had ought to give; the order tosit down was given imperatively, and if not immediately obeyed, thecommand was somewhat roughly enforced. 

They were shaved by twenty at a time, and while one lot was beingoperated on, another twenty, who were next destined to fill the chairs, were kept standing against the wall. The long hair was first cut offwith scissors, and then the head and whiskers were closely shaved. Thefirst candidates for the soap-dish were very unruly under the operation, but they only got their ears snipped and their skin chipped, and had toreturn to their prisons with their polls all bloody as well as bald. Those who looked on, took a lesson from the folly of their comrades, andmost of them remained quiet. The manoeuvres of the men however were verydifferent during the process; some took it with good humour, andendeavoured to laugh as their locks were falling; some sat still asdeath; others looked fierce and warlike; some were even moved to tears;some fought, and kicked and scratched, and at last had to be corded totheir seats. One unfortunate went down upon his knees, and imploredChapeau by the memory of his mistress, if ever he had been in love, byhis regard for his wife, if he chanced to be married, not to shave hishead. He was engaged to be married, he said, to a young girl at Angers, who had many lovers; she had preferred him for the beauty of his hair:if he returned back bald, he knew that he would be rejected. Chapeau fora time was moved, but the patriot and the royalist triumphed over theman, and Jacques, turning away his face on which a tear was gleaming, with a wave of his hand motioned the young man to the chair. 

Insult was added to injury, for the Chevalier stood at the door with abrush, and a large jar of red paint, and as each man went out of theroom, Arthur made a huge cross upon his bare pate. The poor wretches intheir attempt to rub it off, merely converted the cross into a redpatch, and as they were made to walk across the market-place with theirbald red heads, they gave rise to shouts of laughter, not only from theroyalists, but from the inhabitants of the town. 

For three days the shaving went on, and as the men became experiencedfrom practice, it was conducted with wonderful rapidity. At last, theprisoners were all deprived of their hair, and set at liberty--atemporary bridge was thrown across the Loire, near the Green Cross, andthe men were allowed to march over. As soon as they found themselves onthe other side of the Loire, they were free. 

"Come, my bald pates, come my knights of the ruddy scalp, " said Jacques, standing at the corner of the bridge as they passed over, "away with youto the Convention; and if your friends like your appearance, send themto Saumur, and they shall be shaved close, and the barber shall ask forno fee; but remember, if you return again yourselves, your ears will bethe next sacrifice you will be called on to make for your country. "

CHAPTER II

COUNCIL OF WAR

The taking of the fortified town of Saumur, and the total dispersion ofthe large army which had been collected there by the Republic, was anenterprise of much greater magnitude than anything which had previouslybeen undertaken by the Vendeans: it gave them great advantages, itsupplied them plentifully with arms, ammunition and clothes for theirsoldiers, and greatly inspirited the peasants; but it made theConvention feel that it had no contemptible enemy to deal with in LaVendée, and that the best soldiers of France would be required to crushthe loyalty which inspired the peasants of Anjou and Poitou. 

The Vendean leaders felt that their responsibilities were greatlyincreased, and that very much depended on the decision to which theymight now come as regarded their further operations. A general councilof war was accordingly held in Saumur, at which the matter was debatedamong them. Twelve of the Vendeans were admitted to this consultation, and all others were strictly excluded; they were Cathelineau, Bonchamps, who though badly wounded, had caused himself to be brought thither fromDoué, de Lescure, who had remained in action for eight hours after hisarm was broken, and had consequently suffered much from it, Larochejaquein, d'Elbée, Stofflet, Adolphe Denot, Father Jerome, Foret, M. Donnessan, Lescure's father-in-law, Marigny, and the Prince deTalmont. 

The first question was the selection of a chief officer. Cathelineau hadbeen named before the battle of Saumur; but, as he himself alleged, hiscommand was to last only during that siege; he had been, he said, selected for a special purpose, which purpose, by the grace of God, wasaccomplished, and he was now ready to resign his commission into thehands of those who had given it to him. 

"I am not so foolish, " said he, "as to suppose that I am qualified totake the command in the war which we have now to carry on. No; oneprivilege I beg to exercise on retiring from my command. I will name asuccessor; let any one who pleases name another; we will then put it tothe vote, and let him who has most votes be our General. "

"So be it, " said Henri. "Nothing can be better. "

"I name M. De Lescure, " said Cathelineau. "Some of us are beloved by thepeople, but are not educated; others are highly educated, but are notyet known to the peasants. We are all, I am sure, brave men: but M. DeLescure is beloved by all; his knowledge fits him for his high position, and his cool, constant, determined courage, no man who has seen him inthe hour of battle will doubt. I name M. De Lescure. "

De Lescure was about to rise, when Henri put his hand upon his friendsarm, and said:

"Let me speak, Charles. We all know that what Cathelineau has said ofmy cousin is no more than the truth. Be still, Charles: when I havespoken you can then say what you please, but I am sure you will agreewith me. Nevertheless, I will not give my vote that he be our chiefGeneral. Cathelineau has desired that any one differing from him shouldname another, and that the question should then be put to the vote. Idiffer from him, and, therefore, I name another. I name the goodCathelineau, the Saint of Anjou. "

"Now let us vote, " said the Prince de Talmont. "Come, Bonchamps, do youbegin. "

"I never heard of deposing a Commander-in-Chief in consequence of acomplete victory, " said Bonchamps. "The Convention murders theirGenerals when they are defeated, but even the Convention rewards themfor victory. I vote for Cathelineau. "

"And you, Foret, " said the Prince. 

"I say Cathelineau, " said Foret: "the peasants generally would bedisappointed to see any put above him. "

"I certainly vote for Cathelineau, " said Father Jerome, who came next. 

"We should be offending our Creator, " said M. D'Elbée, "were we toreject the great and good Commander, whom His gracious providence hassent us. I vote for Cathelineau. "

"And you, M. Denot, " said the Prince. Adolphe Denot especially dislikedCathelineau: he was jealous of his reputation and popularity: he couldnot bear to feel himself in any way under the control of a man so muchhis inferior in rank; he fancied, moreover, that Cathelineau regardedAgatha Larochejaquelin; he had been quick enough to perceive that theineffable grace and beauty of his mistress had filled the heart of thepoor postillion with admiration, and he feared that his own rejectionhad been caused by some mutual feeling in Agatha's breast, which futureevents might warm into love. Adolphe, therefore, hated Cathelineau, andwould have delighted, had he dared to do so, to express hisdisapprobation of the choice; but, after pausing for a few moments, hefound that he did not dare; so he merely said:

"Oh, Cathelineau, of course. When you are all resolved, what's the useof voting about it?"

"To show that we all are resolved, " said de Lescure; "to makeCathelineau understand that it is positively his duty to take theposition we wish him to fill. "

And so, one after another, they all recorded their votes thatCathelineau should be the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean army; andthey all declared that they would, without reserve, obey any militaryorders, which he might give them. 

"Well, gentlemen, " said he, again seating himself at the head of thetable, "I should pay but a bad compliment to your understanding, wereI any further to insist on my own unworthiness. I will not, at any rate, be wanting in zeal for the good cause, and I will trust to Him whodirects us all, for assistance in the difficult duties which you haveimposed on me. "

They then debated on the all-important question of what should be theirnext movement, and on this subject there was much difference of opinion. Bonchamps was again asked to speak first, and he advised that theyshould at once proceed to Paris. 

"We can do nothing, " said he, "while the present Convention sits inParis; it has but one head, but it has ten thousand bloody hands. Therecan be no peace, no rest in France, while Danton, Robespierre andBarrère are omnipotent. Let us at once start for Paris: Brittany willjoin us, and parts of Normandy; the Southerns will follow us; the menof Bordeaux and of the Gironde: have not their own orators, the leadersof the Revolution, been murdered in their seats, because they were notwilling that all France should become one Golgotha? Lyons, even, andMarseilles, are now sick of the monsters who have crawled forth from thehaunts of the Jacobins to depopulate the country, and annihilatehumanity. There is now but a small faction, even in Paris, to whom therestoration of order would not be acceptable. . The intensity of theircruelty is the only strength of the governing faction; the extent oftheir abominations alone makes them terrible. Hundreds will fly from oneIndian snake, so potent is its venom, so sure to inflict death: but letone brave man set his heel upon its head, and the noxious animal isdestroyed for ever: so it is with the party who now rules theConvention. Now that we have with us the all-powerful prestige ofvictory, let us march at once to Paris; hundreds will join us on theway, and what force can at the moment be collected to stop us? Let usproceed at once to Paris, and proclaim at the door of the Convention, in the gardens of the Tuilleries, in the Place Louis Quinze, where oursainted monarch so nobly shed his blood, that France again submitsherself to her King. "

"Would that we could!" said de Lescure; "would that the spirit ofrevolution was yet sufficiently quenched in France to allow us to followyour advice; but there is much, very much to be done before a royalistarmy can march from La Vendée to Paris; unthought of sufferings to beendured, the blood of thousands to be sacrificed, before France will ownthat she has been wrong in the experiment she has made. We must fightour battles by inches, and be satisfied, if, when dying, we can thinkthat we have left to our children a probability of final victory. Normandy and the Gironde may be unwilling to submit to the Jacobinleaders, but they are as yet as warmly attached to the Republic as Parisitself. And, Bonchamps, you little know the dispositions and characterof the men, who at our bidding have left their homes and come to Saumur, if you think that at our bidding they will march to Paris; they are evennow burning to return home, to recount to their wives and children whatthey have done. 

"Not half the number that came to Saumur would leave the town with us onthe road to Paris; and before we could reach Tours, the army would havemelted away from us like snow from a mountain top, when the sun beginsto shine. It is here, in our own locality, that we should endeavour toextend our influence. In Southern Brittany the people, I believe, arewith us, but the towns are full of the troops of the Republic. Let usdrive them out of Angers, Ancenis, and Nantes, as we have driven themfrom Saumur. Let us force them from the banks of the Loire, and becomemasters of the coast of Southern Brittany. Then we may expect men andmoney from England. Then we may fairly hope for such foreign aid as mayenable us to face the Republic; but at present, if we march to Paris, we march to certain destruction. "

"M. De Lescure is right, " said Stofflet, "our men would not go far fromtheir homes; we must remember that they are not paid, nor have we themeans of paying them; if we had English gold, we might perhaps make ourway to Paris. "

"Our men are not so mercenary, Stofflet, " said Bonchamps, "I do notthink they have shewn any great desire for plunder. "

"No, " said Stofflet, "but they must live; if they are to have neitherpay nor plunder, how are they to get to Paris?"

"I agree with you, Bonchamps, " said Henri, "come what, come may, I wouldmake a dash at Paris; we shall be cut to pieces here, while we arewaiting for English aid; some of the men would follow us--most of themI believe; where we meet with friends, they will give us provisions;where we find enemies, we will take them, and pay the owners inrepublican assignats; they would get no other payment in themarket-towns. I am sorry to disagree with you, Charles, but my voice isfor Paris. "

"And mine also, certainly, " said Adolphe, "let our career be short, atany rate let it be glorious; let us march to Paris and strike terrorinto the tyrants of the Convention. "

"It is difficult to strike terror into tyrants, " said de Lescurequickly, "when the number of their supporters is ten times greater thanthat of their opponents. "

"Well, Cathelineau, " said Bonchamps, "what do you say? it is for you tosettle the question between us; are we to go forward to Paris, or marchback to Nantes?"

"I would wish to hear what others say; for myself, I fear that M. DeLescure is right. I fear the peasants would not follow us so far fromtheir own homes. What does the Prince de Talmont say?"

"I will have no voice in the matter, " said the Prince. "I have joinedyou but lately, and as yet am only fit to follow where others lead. "

"And you, M. D'Elbée?" said Cathelineau. 

"I hardly know how to speak, " said d'Elbée, "where the subject is soimportant. "

"M. D'Elbée is not wont to be so modest, " said Stofflet; "does he nottrust that Providence will inspire him with wisdom, when he opens hismouth to give his opinion?"

"Certainly, Stofflet; I trust in that all-seeing eye, at which you areso willing to scoff; but I do not expect that I am to be allowed to seefurther into futurity than another; however, if I am to express anopinion, I think we should endeavour to march on Paris; if we find thatthe men desert us, and that others do not join our standards, we mustreturn. "

"And how are we to return, " said de Lescure, "and to whom? think youthat we can collect another army in La Vendée, when one has deserted uson the road? will the peasants again trust in us, after they have onceleft us? Never If the army dissolves itself in despair, you will neverbe able to establish it again. "

"Who talks of despair, Charles?" said Henri, "you did not despair whenyou were thundering against the gates of Saumur with four republicansto one royalist opposed to you; why should you despair now; or whyshould the army despair; I believe they would go anywhere at the commandof their priests, and with the hope of restoring the King to histhrone. "

The question was then put to the vote. De Lescure and four others, votedfor attacking Nantes. Bonchamps, and five others, declared forproceeding at once to Paris, with the view of arresting the presentleaders of the Convention. Cathelineau was then called on to express hisopinion, which would of course be decisive. 

"I think M. De Lescure is right, " said he, "I think we are not in aposition to advance to Paris. I have not the heart to ask the men tofollow me into a strange country, so far from their own homes. "

The numbers were now equally divided, but as Cathelineau was theCommander-in-Chief, his voice turned the scale; and the expedition toParis was postponed. 

"So be it, " said Bonchamps; "let us prepare then for Nantes; it is notfortified like Saumur, but the troops there are very numerous. "

It was then decided that Cathelineau should name six lieutenants underhim, to take command of the different districts from which the army wascollected, and to which the men would be sure to return; and alsoappoint an officer in command of the artillery, and another in commandof the cavalry. Cathelineau would have willingly dispensed with the taskof selecting his officers--a work in which he could hardly fail to giveoffence to some, and in which he might probably give entire satisfactionto none; but it was to be done, and he felt that it was useless for himto shrink from it. 

"M. Bonchamps, " said he, "will of course take the command of the men ofAnjou, and M. De Lescure of those from the southern parts of the Bocage, and they will assist me, I hope, in selecting the others. It is verydifficult to select, where so many are fit. "

"Rather say, " said Henri, laughing, "where so many are equally unfit. Why, Bonchamps and Marigny are the only soldiers by profession we haveamong us. "

"You'll all be soldiers shortly, " said Father Jerome. "You are at anyrate going the right way to learn the trade. "

"Marigny of course will take the artillery, " said Bonchamps. "We arevery lucky in having so good an artillery officer among us. "

"There is no one, at any rate, to dispute your claim, Marigny, " said deLescure. 

"So he's president over 'Marie Jeanne' and the gunpowder, " said Henri;"that's settled, isn't it Cathelineau?"

"Unless M. Marigny refuses, " said Cathelineau. 

"I am not modest enough for that, General, " said Marigny. "Do youfurnish me with guns, and I'll fight them. Do you collect the gunpowder, and I'll consume it. "

"And the Prince de Talmont will take the cavalry?" said Cathelineau. 

"No, indeed, " said the Prince. "I will not interfere with HenriLarochejaquelin. "

"Henri Larochejaquelin is much obliged to you, Prince, " said Henri, "buthe is not ambitious of making a fool of himself; nor does he wish to bemade a fool of. Moreover, Henri Larochejaquelin does not wish to quarrelwith an old friend like you, Prince; but he might be tempted to do so, if you take any liberties with his name. "

"But, Cathelineau, " said the Prince, "Henri has been at the head of thecavalry all through. "

"Don't set a bad example, Prince, " said de Lescure. "Let every mancoincide with Cathelineau's directions without a word; so shall we bespared the ill effects of over modesty, and of too much assurance. "

"Besides, " said Cathelineau, "M. Larochejaquelin will be much wantedelsewhere. As a matter of course, he will be the leader of all theparishes round Chatillon; I doubt if the men would follow any one else. "

"Dear Cathelineau, " said Henri, "if you will take my advice, you willnot make leaders of us youngsters at all. Adolphe and I will be wellcontented to be hussars for awhile. Let these grey-headed seniors beour leaders, " and he pointed to d'Elbée whose hair was grizzled. 

Henri had seen that the spirit of jealousy was already rising in AdolpheDenot's face. No allusion had been made to his services; his advice hadnever been asked in the council; there was no probability that he wouldbe named as one of the leaders; he had hardly spoken a word since theyhad assembled in the council-room. Henri, though his own heart was astranger to the jealousy and dread of neglect which tormented Adolphe, sympathised with, and felt for his friend; and he thought that if theywere both together excluded from command at his request, the blow wouldbe less keenly felt. They were the two youngest in the room, and theiryouth was a good reason why they should not be named; but Henri was theyounger of the two, and he knew that if he were selected as one of thechiefs, Adolphe would be miserable at finding himself left out. 

De Lescure, however, would not allow of this. He had promised that hewould not disgrace Denot, by telling of the cowardice he had shewn atthe Bridge of Fouchard, and he was determined to keep his word; but hewould not allow his cousin, his pupil, his bosom friend, the man whomhe loved with the affection of a brother and a father, to sink himselfto the same level as a coward. 

"How absurd is this!" said he, angrily. "I wonder, Henri, that youshould be the first to create such foolish difficulties, when our veryexistence depends on perfect unanimity. In proportion as our means ofenforcing obedience is slender, should our resolution be firm, implicitly to obey the directions of those who are selected as ourleaders. We have made Cathelineau our General, and desired him to selecthis officers, and when he selects you as one, you object. If you objectfrom a proper modesty, it argues that those who accept, shew an improperdegree of assurance. You should think of these things, Henri. "

"I resign myself to my dignity, and am dumb, " said Henri laughing. "Goon, Cathelineau, and if the men you name, say but one word, one syllableagainst your choice--I'll slay them. "

Cathelineau knew that all his difficulty still lay before him; thosewhom he had already chosen would as a matter of course be among thenumber; but who were to be the other three?

"M. Donnissan, " said be, in a whisper to de Lescure, who was sittingnext to him. "I do not know what his wishes might be. "

"My father-in-law feels himself too old, " answered de Lescure; "d'Elbéewould be a much fitter person; he is thought so much of at Beauprieu. "

"And the other two?" asked Cathelineau. 

"Name one yourself, and ask Bonchamps to name the other. "

"M. D'Elbée, " said Cathelineau, aloud, "you will not, I am sure, refuseto take your portion of our labours. "

"You will find, " whispered Stofflet to his neighbour, "that asProvidence has called upon him, he will be willing enough. "

"I will do my best, " said d'Elbée "as I am called upon; and may the Lorddirect me, that I may fight His battle so as to do honour to His name. "

"I think I will name Stofflet, " said Cathelineau, consulting withBonchamps and de Lescure; "he is a brave man, and though rude in hismanner, he will make perhaps the best soldier among us; already the menobey him almost more implicitly than any one. "

"Do--do!" said Bonchamps; "you cannot do better. "

"I think you will be right to do so, " said de Lescure, "though I do notlike the man; but the peasants know him, and he is one of themselves. Yesterday morning I had ample proof of his courage. As you say, he isa brave man and a good soldier. "

Stofflet was then informed that he had been named, and though hemuttered some expressions as to his own want of the necessaryqualifications, he was evidently well pleased that the choice had fallenon him. 

And now the last of the lot was to be chosen. As the two last names hadbeen mentioned, Denot's brow had grown blacker and blacker. HenriLarochejaquelin, during the whole proceeding, had been walking about theroom, sitting now in one place, and now in another. At the presentmoment, he was sitting next to Adolphe, who, when Stofflet's name wasmentioned, whispered to him, but almost audibly:

"Gracious heaven! Stofflet!--the whole affair is becoming discreditable. How can any gentleman serve under such a man as that?"

"You think too much of rank, Adolphe, " said Henri; "we should entirelyforget all distinctions of person now; unless we do so we can neversucceed. "

"But do you think we are more likely to set the King upon his throne, by making such a brute as that a General? I wonder whom ourCommander-in-Chief will choose next--Foret, I suppose. "

After having again consulted for some time, Bonchamps said toCathelineau: "I do not think you can do better than name Adolphe Denot. "

This was said in a low voice, but Adolphe's ears were not slow to catchhis own name, and he was once more happy. Though he was named last, hewould be equal with the others. 

"Not so, " said de Lescure, who had no idea that Denot had overheard themention of his name, "Adolphe is not yet sufficiently known to thepeople; besides we have hitherto forgotten one, who though absent, wemust not forget--one who was the first in the field against theRepublic, who is already at the head of an army, and who has on variousoccasions shown himself capable to lead an army. We must not forgetCharette. "

The last words were spoken out loud, and though they were eagerlyresponded to by every one else, they fell with a heavy sound on AdolpheDenot's ear. To know that he was excluded after he had been named, tofeel that he had been proposed merely to be rejected; it was more thanhe could bear; and as soon as Cathelineau had formally announced thename of M. Charette as one of their leaders, he started abruptly fromhis chair and said:

"Oh, of course, gentlemen, if you prefer Charette, so be it! He, doubtless will be better able to assist your endeavours than I should;but you might have spared me the mortification of putting my name onyour list of officers, merely to scratch it off again. "

"What matters it, Adolphe, " said Larochejaquelin, blushing for hisfriend, "will you not share my command? Will not your word be asinfluential in the parishes of Chatillon as my own?"

"I sincerely beg your pardon, M. Denot, " said Cathelineau, "if I havehurt your feelings, but you are as much aware as we are that we shouldbe very wrong to neglect the merits of M. Charette; his achievementsclaim from us this distinction, and his power and influence wouldprobably be lost to La Vendée, if we did not now incorporate his armywith ours. "

"I have nothing further to say, " said Denot. I must own I do notaltogether admire the selection which has been made; but I have nothingfurther to say on the subject. "

"I am sorry, Adolphe, that you have said so much, " said de Lescure. 

"You would have been apt to say more yourself if you had been passedover, " said Adolphe, forgetting in his passion how he had disgracedhimself before de Lescure at the bridge of Fouchard. 

"I fear you misunderstand the purpose, which has collected here inSaumur so many men in arms, " said he. "I fear that you think thepeasants of our country have turned themselves into soldiers, that wemight become generals, and play at being great men. Indeed, such is notthe case; if personal ambition has brought you here, you had betterleave us. We have come here to fight, and very probably to die for ourKing and our religion; and, being called upon to act as leaders, we mustbear a heavier share of the burden, and undergo greater perils thanothers; but we seek no especial dignity, we look for no otherpre-eminence, than that of suffering more than others. I fear these arenot the feelings that influence you. "

"My feelings, Sir, are as pure as your own!" said Denot. 

"If so, " said Father Jerome, "you had better teach us all to think so, by taking care that your conduct is also as pure as M. De Lescure's. "

"Oh, Father Jerome, do not anger him, " said Henri. "Come with me, Adolphe, and we will quietly talk over this; they don't exactlyunderstand what you mean yet. "

"But they shall understand what I mean, " said Denot, whose anger was nowbeyond control, "and they shall know that I will not remain here to berebuked by a priest, who has thrust himself into affairs with which hehas no concern; or to make myself subservient to men who are not fit tobe my equals. I will not deign to be a common soldier, when such a manas Stofflet is made an officer. "

And he got up from the chair in which he had again seated himself, andstalked out of the room. 

"He has at any rate proved to us, " said Bonchamps, "that I was wrong tonominate him, and that you were right not to accept the nomination. "

"I grieve that he should be vexed with me, " said Stofflet; "but I didnot seek to put myself above him. "

"Time and experience will make him wise, " said de Lescure: "let us pityhis folly and forgive it. "

The council was then broken up, and the different officers went each toperform his own duties. When Denot left the room, Henri immediatelyfollowed him. 

"Adolphe, " said he, as he overtook him in the market-place, "Adolphe, indeed you are wrong, no one meant to show you any indignity. "

"And have you also followed me to tell me I am wrong--of course I amwrong--I am wrong because I will not submit, as you and Charles do, toignorant boors like Stofflet and Cathelineau, because--"

"Like Cathelineau! why, Adolphe, you are mad, " said Henri, "why youyourself voted that Cathelineau should be our General. "

"Voted! Why, Henri, what a child you are! Do you call that voting whenall was arranged beforehand? You are blind, I tell you. You will votenext, I suppose, that your great General's valour shall de rewarded withyour sister's hand!"

"My sister's hand! what is it you are speaking of?"

"Yes, Agatha's hand! think you that when you make a General of such ashim, that his ambition will rest there? if you are content to belieutenant to a postillion, I presume you will feel yourself honouredby a nearer connexion with him. "

"Denot, you are raving mad! Cathelineau looking for my sister's hand?"

"Yes, Agatha's hand, the postillion looking for your sister's hand; and, Sir, you will find that I am not mad. Before long, Cathelineau will lookfor Agatha's hand: her heart he has already, " and without waiting forany further answer, he hurried away. 

"He must be raving mad, " said Henri, "unlucky in love, and thwarted inambition, he is unable to bear his griefs like a man. What a phantasyhas jealousy created in his brain But Agatha was right; a man who couldspeak of her, even in his madness, as he has now spoken, was not worthyof her. Cathelineau! were he ten times lower than a postillion by birth, he would still be twenty times made noble by achievements and bycharacter, and yet I would not wish--but nonsense! he thinks no more ofwedding Agatha than I of Diana. "

CHAPTER III

RETURN TO DURBELLIERE

When Adolphe Denot left his friend Henri in the street of Saumur, andran off from him, Henri was so completely astonished by his partingwords, so utterly dumb-founded by what he said respecting Agatha, thathe made no attempt to follow him, but returned after awhile to thehouse, in which he, Charles and Adolphe were lodging, and as he walkedslowly through the streets, he continued saying to himself, "Poorfellow, he is mad! he is certainly raving mad!"

From that time, no tidings whatsoever were heard of Denot. He had neverreturned to his lodging, nor been seen anywhere, except in the stable, in which his horse had been put to stand--he had himself saddled hishorse, and taken him from the stall, and from that moment nothingfurther could be learnt of him in Saumur. De Lescure and Henri made themost minute inquiries--but in vain; had he destroyed himself, or hidhimself in the town, his horse would certainly have been found; it wassurmised that he had started for Paris on some mad speculation; andthough his friends deeply grieved at his misconduct, his absence, whenthey had so much to do and to think of was in itself, felt as a relief. 

After remaining about a week in Saumur, the army was disbanded--orrather disbanded itself, for every effort was made, to keep together asgreat a body of men as possible. An attempt was made to garrison thetown; and for this purpose, the leaders undertook to pay about onethousand men, at a certain rate per day, for their services, while theyremained under arms in Saumur, but the idea, after a very short time, was abandoned; the men would not stay away from their homes, and inspite of the comforts which were procured for them, and the pay whichwas promised, the garrison very quickly dissolved. 

Cathelineau succeeded in taking back with him to St. Florent, nearly allthe men who had accompanied him; his next object was the attack ofNantes, and as St. Florent is between Saumur and that town, his men wereable to return to their homes, without going much out of their directway. He marched through the town of Angers on his return, and tookpossession of the stores which he found there, the republican garrisonhaving fled as soon as they heard of his approach; many of Bonchamps'men accompanied him, and some of those who had come to Saumur with deLescure and Henri Larochejaquelin, young men who had no wives orfamilies, and who literally preferred the excitement of the campaign, to their ordinary home employments; all such men joined Cathelineau'sarmy, but by far the greater number of the peasants of the Bocagereturned with de Lescure and Larochejaquelin. 

Charette had been invited to assist Cathelineau in his attack on Nantes, and he had promised to do so; de Lescure found it absolutely necessaryto go home, on account of his wound, and Larochejaquelin went with him. They had already heard that the Convention had determined to invade LaVendée on every side with an overwhelming force, and it was necessaryto protect the Southern portion of the province; this duty was allottedto our two friends, and they therefore returned home from Saumur, without expecting to enjoy for any length of time the fruits of theirrecent victory. 

A litter was formed for de Lescure, for at present he found itimpossible to bear the motion of riding, and Henri, the littleChevalier, Father Jerome and Chapeau, accompanied him on horseback. Manyof the peasants had started from Saumur, before their party, and thewhole road from that town through Dou and Vihiers to Durbellière, wasthronged with crowds of these successful warriors, returning to theirfamilies, anxious to tell to their wives and sweethearts the feats theyhad accomplished. 

They were within a league of Durbellière, and had reached a point wherea cross-road led from the one they were on to the village ofEchanbroignes, and at this place many of the cortege, which was nowpretty numerous, turned off towards their own homes. 

"M. Henri, " said Chapeau, riding up to his master, from among two orthree peasants, who had been walking for some time by hi horse's side, and anxiously talking to him, "M. Henri?"

"Well, Jacques; what is it now?" said Henri. 

"I have a favour to ask of Monsieur. "

"A favour, Chapeau; I suppose you want to go to Echanbroignes already, to tell Michael Stein's pretty daughter, of all the gallant things youdid at Saumur. "

"Not till I have waited on you and M. De Lescure to the château. Momontwould be dying if he had not some one to give him a true account of whathas been done, and I do not know that any one could give him a muchbetter history of it, than myself--of course not meaning such as you andM. De Lescure, who saw more of the fighting than any one else; but thenyou know, M. Henri, you will have too much to do, and too much to sayto the Marquis, and to Mademoiselle, to be talking to an old man likeMomont. "

"Never fear, Chapeau. You shall have Momont's ears all to yourself; butwhat is it you do want?"

"Why, nothing myself exactly, M. Henri; but there are two men fromEchanbroignes here, who wish you to allow them to go on to Durbellière, and stay a day or two there: they are two of our men, M. Henri; two ofthe red scarfs. "

"Two of the red scarfs!" said Henri. 

"Yes, M. Henri, two of the men who went through the water, and took thetown; we call ourselves red scarfs, just to distinguish ourselves fromthe rest of the army: your honour is a red scarf that is the chief ofthe red scarfs; and we expect to be especially under your honour'sprotection. "

"I am a red scarf, Henri;" said the little Chevalier. "There are justtwo hundred of us, and we mean to be the most dare-devil set in thewhole army; won't we make the cowardly blues afraid of the Durbellièrered scarfs!"

"And who are the two men, Jacques?" said Henri. 

"Jean and Peter Stein, " said Jacques: "you see, M. Henri, they ran awayto the battle, just in direct opposition to old Michael's positiveorders. You and the Curé must remember how I pledged my honour that theyshould be at Saumur, and so they were: but Michael Stein is an awfulblack man to deal with when his back is up: he thinks no more of givinga clout with his hammer, than another man does of a rap with his fiveknuckles. "

"But his sons are brave fellows, " said the little Chevalier, "and dashedinto the water among the very first. Michael Stein can't but be proudthat his two sons should be both red scarfs: if so, he must be arepublican. "

"He is no republican, Chevalier, " said Chapeau, "that's quite certain, nor yet any of the family; but he is a very black man, and when onceangered, not easy to be smoothed down again; and if M. Henri will allowJean and Peter to come on to Durbellière, I can, perhaps, manage to goback with them on Sunday, and Michael Stein will mind me more than hewill them: I can knock into his thick head better than they can do, thehigh honour which has befallen the lads, in their chancing to have beenamong the red scarfs. "

"Well, Chapeau, let them come, " said Henri. "No man that followed megallantly into Saumur, shall be refused admittance when he wishes tofollow me into Durbellière. "

"We were cool enough, weren't we, Henri, when we marched into the town?"said the Chevalier. 

"We'll have a more comfortable reception at the old château, " saidHenri; "at any rate, we'll have no more cold water. I must say, Arthur, I thought the water of that moat had a peculiarly nasty taste. "

They were not long in reaching the château, and Henri soon found himselfin his sister's arms. A confused account, first of the utter defeat ofthe Vendeans at Varin, and then of their complete victory at Saumur, hadreached Durbellière; and though the former account had made them asmiserable, as the latter had made them happy, neither one nor the otherwas entirely believed. De Lescure had sent an express to Clissonimmediately after the taking of the town, and Madame de Lescure had sentfrom Clisson to Durbellière; but still it was delightful to have thegood news corroborated by the conquerors themselves, and Agatha wassupremely happy. 

"My own dear, darling Henri, " she said, clinging round his neck, "my ownbrave, gallant brother, and were you not wounded at all--are you sureyou are not wounded?"

"Not a touch, not a scratch, Agatha, as deep as you might give me withyour bodkin. "

"Thank God! I thank Him with all my heart and soul: and I know you werethe first everywhere. Charles wrote but a word or too to Victorine, buthe said you were the very first to set your foot in Saumur. "

"A mere accident, Agatha; while Charles had all the fighting--the realhard, up hill, hand to 'hand work--I and a few others walked intoSaumur, or rather we swam in, and took possession of the town. TheChevalier here was beside me, and was over the breach as soon as I was. "

"My brave young Arthur!" said Agatha, in her enthusiasm, kissing theforehead of the blushing Chevalier, "you have won your spurs like aknight and a hero; you shall be my knight and my hero. And I will giveyou my glove to wear in your cap. But, tell me Arthur, why have you andHenri, those red handkerchiets tied round your waist? Chapeau has onetoo, and those other men, below there. "

"That's our uniform, " said Arthur. "We are all red scarfs; all the menwho clambered into Saumur through the water, are to wear red scarfs tillthe war is over; and they are to be seen in the front, at every battle, seige and skirmish. Mind, Agatha, when you see a red scarf, that he isone of Henri Larochejaquelin's own body-guard; and when you see a baldpate, it belongs to a skulking republican. "

"Are the republicans all bald then?" said Agatha. 

"We shaved all we caught at Saumur, at any rate. We did not leave a hairupon one of them, " said Arthur, rejoicing. "The red scarfs are finebarbers, when a republican wants shaving. "

"Is Charles badly wounded?" asked Agatha. 

"His arm is broken, and he remained in action for eight hours afterreceiving the wound, so that it was difficult to set; but now it isdoing well, " said Henri. 

"I should have offered him my services before this: at any rate I willdo so now; but Henri I have a thousand things to say to you; do notexpect to go to bed tonight, till you have told me everything just asit happened, " and Agatha hurried away, to give her sweet woman's aid toher wounded cousin, while Henri went into his father's room. 

"Welcome, my hero! welcome, my gallant boy!" said the old man, almostrising from his chair, cripple as he was, in his anxiety to seize thehand of his beloved son. 

"I have come home, safe, father, " said Henri, "to lay my sword at yourfeet. "

"You must not leave it there long, Henri, I fear, you must not leave itthere long; these traitors are going to devour us alive; to surround uswith their troops and burn us out of house and home; they willannihilate the people they say, destroy the towns, and root out the verytrees and hedges. We shall see, Henri--we shall see. So they made a badfight of it at Saumur?"

"They had two men to one against us, besides the advantage of position, discipline and arms, and yet they marched the best part of their troopsoff in the night without striking a blow. "

"Thanks be to the Lord, we will have our King again; we will have ourdear King once more, thanks be to the Almighty, " said the old man, eagerwith joy. "And they fled, did they, without striking a blow!"

"Some of them did, father; but some fought well enough; it was desperatesharp work when poor Charles was wounded. "

"God bless him! God bless him! I didn't doubt it was sharp work; buteven with valour, or without valour, what could sedition and perjuryavail against truth and loyalty! they were two to one; they had stonewalls and deep rivers to protect them; they had arms and powder, andsteel cuirasses; they had disciplined troops and all the appanages ofwar, and yet they were scattered like chaff; driven from their highwalls and deep moats, by a few half-armed peasants; and why? why haveour batons been more deadly than their swords? because we have had truthand loyalty on our side. Why have our stuff jackets prevailed againsttheir steel armour; because they covered honest hearts that werefighting honestly for their King. His Majesty shall enjoy his own again, my boy. Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi!"

"I trust he may, father; but, as you say, we shall have some hard workto do first. Cathelineau and Charette will be before Nantes in a week'stime. I should have been with them had we not heard that a strong bodyof republican troops is to be stationed at Parthenay. They say thatSanterre is to command a party of Marseillaise, commissioned toexterminate the Vendeans. "

"What, Santerre, the brewer of the Faubourgs?"

"The same, Danton's friend, he who used to be so loud at the Cordeliers;and Westerman is to assist him, " said Henri. 

"Worse again, Henri, worse again; was it not he who headed the rebelson the tenth of August, when our sainted King was driven from his home?"

"Yes, the same Westerman is now to drive us from our homes; or ratherto burn us, our homes, and all together--such at least is the taskallotted to him. "

"God help our babes and our women!" said the old Marquis shuddering, "ifthey fall into the clutches of Santerre, and that other still blackerdemon!"

"Do not fear, father; have we not shewn that we are men? Santerre willfind that he has better soldiers to meet than any he brings with him. "

"Fear, Henri! no, for myself I fear nothing. What injury can they do toan old man like me? I do not even fear for my own children; if theirlives are required in the King's service, they know how to part withthem in perfect confidence of eternal happiness hereafter; but, Henri, I do feel for our poor people; they are now full of joy and enthusiasm, for they are warm from victory, and the grief of the few, who areweeping for their relatives, is lost in the joy of the multitude. Butthis cannot always be so, we cannot expect continual victory, and evenvictory itself, when so often repeated, will bring death and desolationinto every parish and into every family. "

"I trust, father, the war will not be prolonged so distantly as you seemto think; the forces of Austria, England and Prussia already surroundthe frontiers of France; and we have every reason to hope that friendlytroops from Britain will soon land on our own coast. I trust the autumnwill find La Vendée crowned with glory, but once more at peace. "

"God send it, my son!" said the Marquis. 

"I do not doubt the glory--but I do doubt the peace. "

"We cannot go back now, father, " said Henri. 

"Nor would I have you do so; we have a duty to do, and though it bepainful we must do it. 'God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb, ' andgive us strength to bear our sufferings; but my heart shudders, when Iam told that the Republic has let loose those wolves of Paris to shedthe blood of our poor people. "

The prospect of a prolonged civil war, of continued strife, andincreased bloodshed, somewhat damped the joy with which the victory atSaumur was discussed in the aristocratic portion of the château; but nosuch gloomy notions were allowed to interfere with the triumph whichreigned in the kitchen. Here victory was clothed in robes all couleurde rose, and it appeared that La Vendée, so happy in many otherrespects, was chiefly blessed in being surrounded by republicans whomshe could conquer, and in having enemies who gave her the means ofacquiring glory. 

"And our own young master was the first royalist who put his foot inSaumur?" asked Momont, who had already received the information herequired four or five times, and on each occasion had drunk Henri'shealth in about half-a-pint of wine. 

"Indeed he was, " said Chapeau, "the very first. You don't think he'dhave let any one go before him. "

"Here's his health then, and God bless him!" said Momont. "It was Ifirst showed him how to fire a pistol; and very keen he was at takingto gunpowder. "

"Indeed, and indeed he was, " said the housekeeper. "When he was no morethan twelve years old, not nigh as big as the little Chevalier, he letoff the big blunderbuss in my bed-room, and I on my knees at prayers thewhile. God bless his sweet face, I always knew he'd make a greatsoldier. "

"And don't you remember, " said the laundress, "how he blew upMademoiselle Agatha, making her sit on a milk-pan turned over, with awhole heap of gunpowder stuffed underneath, and she only six or sevenyears old?"

"Did he though, " said the page, "blow up Mademoiselle Agatha?"

"Indeed he did, and blew every scrap of hair off her head and eyebrows. It's no wonder he's such a great general. "

"And the Chevalier was second, wasn't he?" said the cook. 

"Dear little darling fellow!" said the confidential maid; "and to thinkof him going to the wars with guns and swords and pistols! If anythinghad happened to him I should have cried my eyes out. "

"And was the Chevalier the first to follow M. Henri into the town?"asked the page, who was a year older than Arthur Mondyon, andconsequently felt himself somewhat disgraced at not having been atSaumur. 

"Why, " said Jacques, with a look which was intended to shew howunwilling he was to speak of himself, "I can't exactly say the Chevalierwas the first to follow M. Henri, but if he wasn't the second, he wascertainly the third who entered Saumur. "

"Who then was the second?" said one or two at the same time. 

"Why, I shouldn't have said anything about it, only you ask me so veryparticularly, " said Jacques, "but I believe I was second myself; butJean Stein can tell you everything; you weren't backward yourself Jean, there were not more than three or four of them before you and Peter. "

"I don't know about that, " said Jean, "but we all did the best we could, I believe. "

"And was Chapeau really second?" said Momont, who was becoming jealousof the distinction likely to be paid to his junior fellow-servant. "Youdon't mean to say he went in before all the other gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen, indeed!" said Chapeau. "What an idea you have of taking atown by storm, if you think men are to stand back to make room forgentlemen, as though a party were going into dinner. "

"But tell us now, Jean Stein, " continued Momont, "was Chapeau reallysecond?"

"Well then, " said Jean, "he was certainly second into the water, but hewas so long under it, I doubt whether he was second out--he certainlydid get a regular good ducking did Chapeau. Why, you came out feetuppermost, Chapeau. "

"Feet uppermost!" shouted Momont, "and is that your idea of storming atown, to go into it feet uppermost?"

"But do you really mean to say that you were absolutely wet through whenyou took Saumur?" said the laundress. 

"Indeed we were, " answered Chapeau, "wringing wet, every man of us. "

"Lawks! how uncomfortable, " said the cook. "And M. Henri, was he wettoo?"

"Wet, to be sure he was wet as water could make him. "

"And the little Chevalier, did he get himself wet?" said theconfidential maid, "poor little fellow! it was like to give him hisdeath of cold. "

"But, Chapeau, tell me truly now: did you kill any of those bloodyrepublicans with your own hand?" asked the housekeeper. 

"Kill them, " said Chapeau, "to be sure, I killed them when we werefighting. "

"And how many, Chapeau; how many did you positively kill dead, youknow?" said the confidential maid. 

"What nonsense you do talk!" answered he, with a great air of militaryknowledge, "as if a man in battle knows when he kills and when hedoesn't. You're not able to look about you in that sort of way in themiddle of the smoke and noise and confusion. "

"You don't mean to tell me you ever kill a man without knowing it!" saidthe housekeeper. 

"You don't understand what a battle is at all, " answered Chapeau, determined to communicate a little of his experience on the matter. "Onehasn't time to look about one to see anything. Now supposing you hadbeen with us at the taking of Saumur. "

"Oh, the Lord forbid!" said the housekeeper. "I'd sooner be in my graveany day, than go to one of those horrid bloody battles. "

"Or you, Momont; supposing you'd been there?"

"Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I look, " replied thebutler. 

"I'm sure you'd have done well, Momont. I'm sure you'd have done verywell, " endeavouring to conciliate him into listening; "but supposing youhad been there, or at the camp of Varin--we'll say Varin, for afterall, we had more fighting there than at Saumur. Supposing you were oneof the attacking party; you find yourself close wedged in between yourtwo comrades right opposite the trenches; you have a loaded musket inyour hand, with a bayonet fixed to it, and you have five or six roundsof cartridges in your belt; you know that you are to do your best, orrather your worst with what you've got. Well, your commander gives theword of attack. We'll suppose it's the good Cathelineau. 'Friends, ' hewill say; 'dear friends; now is the time to prove ourselves men; now isthe moment to prove that we love our King; we will soon shew therepublicans that a few sods of turf are no obstacles in the way ofVendean royalists, ' and then the gallant fellow rushes into thetrenches; two thousand brave men follow him, shouting 'Vive le Roi!' andyou, Momont, are one of the first. All of a sudden, as you are just inmotion, prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush of airpasses close to your face, and nearly blinds you; you feel that you canhardly breathe, but you hear a groan, and a stumble; your next neighbourand three men behind him have been sent into eternity by a cannon-ballfrom the enemy. Do you think then that the man who fired the cannonknows, or cares who he has killed? Well, on you go; had you not been ina crowd, the enemy's fire, maybe, might have frightened you; but goodcompany makes men brave: on you go, and throw yourself into the trench. You find a more active man than yourself just above you; he is alreadynearly at the top of the bank, his feet are stuck in the sods above yourhead; he is about to spring upon the rampart, when the bayonet of arepublican passes through his breast, and he falls at your feet, orperhaps upon your head. You feel your heart shudder, and your blood runscold, but it is no time for pausing now; you could not return if youwould, neither can you remain where you are: up you go, grasping yourmusket in one hand and digging the other into the loose sods. Your eyesand mouth are crammed with dust, your face is bespattered with yourcomrade's blood, your ears are full of strange noises; your very naturechanges within you; the smell of gunpowder and of carnage makes you feellike a beast of prey. You do not think any longer of the friends whohave fallen beside you; you only long to grapple with the enemy who arebefore you. "

"Oh, mercy me! how very shocking!" said the housekeeper. "Pray don'tgo on Chapeau; pray don't, or I shall have such horrid dreams. "

"Oh! but you must go on, Chapeau, " said the confidential maid, "I couldnever bear that you should leave off; it is very horrid, surely; but asMademoiselle says, we must learn to look at blood and wounds now, andhear of them, too. "

"Do pray tell us the rest, " said the page, who sat listening intentlywith his mouth wide open. "I do so like it; pray tell us what Momont didafter he became a beast of prey?"

Chapeau was supremely happy; he felt that his military experience andhis descriptive talents were duly appreciated, and he continued:

"Well, you are now in the camp, on the enemy's ground, and you have tofight every inch, till you drive them out of it; six or seven of yourcomrades are close to you, and you all press on, still grasping yourmuskets and pushing your bayonets before you: the enemy make a rush todrive you back again; on they come against you, by twenties and bythirties; those who are behind, push forward those who are in front, andsuddenly you find a heavy dragging weight upon your hands, and again youhear the moans of a dying man close to you--almost in your arms. Arepublican soldier has fallen on your bayonet. The struggles of thewounded man nearly overpower you; you twist and turn and wrench, anddrag your musket to and fro, but it is no use; the weapon is jammedbetween his ribs; you have not space nor time to extricate it; you areobliged to leave it, and on you go unarmed, stumbling over the body ofyour fallen enemy. Whether the man dies or lives, whether his wound bemortal or no, you will never hear. And so you advance, till graduallyyou begin to feel, rather than to see, that the blues are retreatingfrom you. You hear unarmed men asking for quarter, begging for theirlives, and the sound of entreaty again softens your heart; you think ofsparing life, instead of taking it; you embrace your friends as you meetthem here and there; you laugh and sing as you feel that you have doneyour best and have conquered; and when you once more become sufficientlycalm to be aware what you are yourself doing, you find that you have asword in your hand, or a huge pistol; you know not from whom you tookthem, or where you got them, or in what manner you have used them. Howcan a man say then, whom he has killed in battle, or whether he haskilled any man? I do not recollect that I ever fired a shot at Varinmyself, and yet my musket was discharged and the pan was up. I will notsay that I ever killed a man; but I will say that I never struck a manwho asked for mercy, or fired a shot even on a republican, who hadthrown down his arms. "

Henri's voice was now heard in the hall, loudly calling for Jacques, andaway he ran to join his master, as he finished his history. 

"It makes my blood run cold, " said the housekeeper, "to think of suchhorrid things. "

"Chapeau describes it very well, though, " said the confidential maid;"I'm sure he has seen it all himself. I'm sure he's a brave fellow. "

"It's not always those who talk the most that are the bravest, " saidMomont. 

Henri and his sister sat talking that night for a long time, after theother inhabitants of the château were in bed, and though they had somany subjects of interest to discuss, their conversation was chieflyrespecting Adolphe Denot. 

"I cannot guess what has become of him, " said Henri; "I made everypossible inquiry, short of that which might seem to compromise hischaracter. I do not think he can have returned to the Bocage, or weshould have heard of him. "

"He must have gone to Fleury, " said Agatha. "I am sure you will not findthat he is at his own house. "

"Impossible, my love; we must have heard of him on the way; had he goneround by Montrenil, he must still have passed over the bridge ofFouchard, and we should have heard of him there. "

"He must have ridden over in the night; you see he so evidently wantedto conceal from you where he was going. "

"My own impression is, that he is gone to Paris, " said Henri; "but lethim have gone where he may, of one thing I am sure; he was not in hisright senses when he left the council-room, nor yet when he was speakingto me in the street; poor Adolphe! I pity him with all my heart. I canfeel how miserable he must be. "

"Why should he be miserable, Henri? The truth is, you mistake hischaracter. I do not wish to make you think ill of your friend; butAdolphe is one of those men whom adversity will improve. You and ourfather have rather spoilt him between you; he is too proud, too apt tothink that everything should bend to his wishes: he has yet to learnthat in this world he must endure to have his dearest wishes thwarted;and till adversity has taught him that, his feelings will not be manly, nor his conduct sensible. "

"Poor fellow!" said Henri, "if adversity will teach him, he is likelyto get his lesson now. Did he part quietly with you, Agatha, on the daybefore we started to Saumur?"

"Anything but quietly, " said she. "I would not tell you all he said, foron the eve of a battle in which you were to fight side by side, I didnot wish to make you angry with your friend and companion: but had araging madman, just escaped from his keepers, come to offer me his hand, his conduct could not have been worse than Adolphe Denot's. "

"Was he violent with you, Agatha?"

"He did not offer to strike me, nor yet to touch me, if you mean that:but he threatened me; and that in such awful sounding, and yetridiculous language, that you would hardly know whether to laugh or tobe angry if I could repeat it. "

"What did he say, Agatha?"

"Say! it would be impossible for me to tell you; he swung his arms likea country actor in a village barn, and declared that if he were notkilled at Saumur, he would carry me away in spite of all that my friendscould do to hinder him. "

"Poor fellow! poor Adolphe!" said Henri. 

"You are not sorry I refused him? You would, indeed, have had to say, poor Agatha! had I done otherwise. "

"I am not sorry that you refused him, but I am sorry you could not lovehim. "

"Why you say yourself he is mad: would you wish me to love a madman?"

"It is love that has made him mad. Adolphe is not like other men; hispassions are stronger; his feelings more acute; his regrets morepoignant. "

"He should control his passions as other men must do, " said Agatha: "allmen who do not, are madmen. " She remained silent for a few moments, andthen added, "you are right in saying that love has made him mad; but itis the meanest of all love that has done so--it is self-love. "

"I think you are too hard upon him, Agatha; but it is over now, andcannot be helped. "

"What did he say to you, Henri, when he left you in Saurnur?"

"His name had been mentioned you know in the council as one of theleaders: Bonchamps, I believe, proposed it; but Charles objected, andnamed Charette in his place, and Cathelineau and the rest agreed to it. This angered Adolphe, and no wonder, for he is ambitious, and impatientof neglect. I wish they would have let him been named instead of me, butthey would not, and when the list was finished, he was not on it. He gotup and said something; I hardly know what, but he complained of Stoffletbeing one of the Generals; and then Charles rebuked him, and Adolphe ina passion left the room. "

"And you followed him?" asked Agatha. 

"Yes, I followed him; but he was like a raging madman. I don't know howit was; but instead of complaining about the Generals, he begancomplaining about you. I don't know exactly whether I ought to tell youwhat he said--indeed I had not intended to have done so. "

"Nay, Henri; now you have raised my woman's curiosity, and youpositively must tell me. "

"I hardly know how to tell you, " said Henri, "for I really forget howhe said it. I don't know on earth how he introduced your name at all;but he ended in accusing you of having a more favoured lover. "

Agatha blushed slightly as she answered:

"He has no right whatever to ask the question; nor if I have a favouredlover, should it be any ground of complaint to him. But to you, Henri, if you wish a promise from me on the subject, I will readily andwillingly promise, that I will receive no man's love, and, far as I canmaster my own heart, I will myself entertain no passion without yoursanction: and you, dear brother, you shall make me a return for myconfidence; you shall ask me to marry no man whom I cannot love. "

"Don't for a moment think, dearest, that what he said, made me uneasyas regarded you: but whom do you think he selected for you--of whom doyou think he is jealous?"

"I cannot attempt to guess a madman's thoughts, Henri. "

"I will tell you then, " said he; "but you will be shocked as well assurprized. He is jealous of Cathelineau!"

"Cathelineau?" said Agatha, blushing now much more deeply than she haddone before. 

"Yes, Cathelineau, the postillion. "

"No, not Cathelineau the postillion; but Cathelineau the Saint of Anjou, and the hero of St. Florent, and of Saumur. He at any rate has linkedmy name with that of a man worthy of a woman's love. "

"Worthy, Agatha, had his birth and early years been different from whatthey were. "

"Worthy as he is of any woman's love, " said Agatha. "Great deeds andnoble conduct make birth of no avail, to give either honour ordisgrace. "

"But, Agatha, surely you would not wed Cathelineau, were he to ask you?"

"Why should you ask that question, Henri?" said she: "are the wordswhich Adolphe Denot has uttered in his wild insanity of such weight, asto make you regard as possible such an event? Have I not told you Iwould wed no one without your sanction? Do you not know that Cathelineauhas never spoken to me but the coldest words of most distant respect?Do you not know that his heart and soul are intent on other things thanwoman's love? I, too, feel that this is not the time for love. While Ilive in continual dread that those I most value may fall in battle;while I fear that every messenger who comes to me in your absence, mayhave some fatal news to tell, I do not wish to take upon me a freshburden of affection. Am I not best as I am, Henri, at present?" And sheput her arm affectionately through his. "When the wars are over, and theKing is on his throne, you shall bring me home a lover; some bravefriend of your's who has proved himself a gallant knight. "

"I would have him be a gallant knight, certainly, " said Henri, "but heshould also be a worthy gentleman. "

"And is not Cathelineau a worthy gentleman?" forgetting in herenthusiasm that she was taking the cause of one who was being spoken ofas her lover. "Oh, indeed he is; if valour, honesty, and honour, iftrust in God, and forgetfulness of self, if humanity and generosityconstitute a gentleman, then is Cathelineau the prince of gentlemen: butdo not, pray do not mistake me, Henri: a lover of scenery admires thetops of distant mountains, and gazes on their snowy peaks with apleasure almost amounting to awe; but no one seeks to build his houseon the summit: so do I admire the virtues, the devotion, the courage ofCathelineau; but my admiration is mixed with no love which would makeme wish to join my lot with his. I only say, that despite his birth andformer low condition, he is worthy of any woman's love. "

Henri did not quite like his sister's enthusiasm, though he hardly knewwhy it displeased him. He had thought of Cathelineau only as a soldierand a General, and had found nothing in him that he did not approve of;but he felt that be could not welcome him as his darling sister'shusband; "if Adolphe should have prophesied rightly, " said he, tohimself as he went from his sister's room to his own chamber, "but no!whatever her feelings may be, she is too good to do anything that woulddisplease me. "

CHAPTER IV

MICHAEL STEIN

On the Sunday morning, after Henri's return to Durbellière, JacquesChapeau, with Jean and Peter Stein, left the château very early, andstarted for Echanbroignes. Word had been sent to the old smith by someof the neighbours, who had been at Saumur, that his two sons were safeand sound, and that they had behaved well at the siege, and a messageat the same time reached Annot, informing her that Jacques meant tospend his next Sunday at the village; the party was therefore expected, and great preparations were made for a fête at Echanbroignes. The heroesof that place considered that they had somewhat celebrated themselves;in the first place, on final inquiry, it appeared, that not one personfrom the village, who was at all able to go to Saumur, had neglected todo so. In the next place, many of the villagers were among the numberof the red scarfs, and they claimed to themselves the privilege of beingconsidered peculiarly valiant and particularly loyal; and lastly, thoughmany of them had gone to Saumur, without arms, every man on his returnhad a musket with him, which the old men and women regarded as absolutetrophies, taken by each man individually from some awful rebel whom hehad slain in single combat. There were to be great rejoicings, therefore, at Echanbroignes, which were postponed for the arrival ofChapeau and the two Stems. 

The old smith was very angry at his sons' behaviour. As Chapeau hadsaid, he was a very black man, and when he was angered, it wasn't easyto smooth him; the operation, however, was attempted by some of hisneighbours, and though they were not altogether successful, theysucceeded in making the old man a little proud of his family. 

"Yes, Paul Rouel;" he said to the village innkeeper, who was an ancientcrony of his, "it's very well to talk of King and Church; but if Kingand Church are to teach sons to fly against their fathers, we may, Ithink, have a little too much of them; didn't I again and again tell theboys not to go?"

"But, Michael Stein, how could you expect them to stay here, with ascore of old men like us, and a number of women and girls, when everyyoung fellow in the parish had gone to the wars? besides, they say, theydid gallantly at the wars, and gained great honour and glory. "

"Gained a great fiddle-stick, " said the smith. 

"But, Michael Stein, " said another old friend, named Gobelin, "youwouldn't have your children disgraced, would you? think how sheepishthey would have looked, hiding themselves in the smithy here, when allthe other young men were parading round the green with the guns andswords they have taken from the rebels, and the women and girls alladmiring them. Why, neighbour, not a girl in the parish would havespoken to them. "

"Girls spoken to them, indeed! I tell you, Gobelin, in the times nowcoming, any girl will be ready enough to speak to a young man that hasa house over his head, and a five-franc piece in his pocket. No, neighbour Gobelin; I gave my boys a good trade, and desired them tostick to it; they have chosen instead to go for soldiers, and forsoldiers they may go. They don't come into my smithy again, that's all. "

"You don't mean you won't speak to the lads, and after their fightingso bravely and all!" said Paul Rouel, in a voice of horror. 

"I didn't say I wouldn't speak to them, Rouel, " said the father, "I amas fond of my sons as another man; and as they were resolved to disobeymy commands, and to go fighting, why I'll not say but I'm glad theydidn't disgrace themselves. I'd have been sorry to hear that they'd runaway, or been the last to face the enemy; but they had no right to go, when there was work for them to do at home; they are welcome now to comeand take the best I can give them, till their new trade calls them awayagain, and then they'll be welcome to go soldiering again; not a hammershall they raise on my anvil, not a blast shall they blow in my smithy, not an ounce of iron shall they turn in my furnace. "

"You'll think better of these things after a day or two, neighbour, "said Gobelin. 

"When I think once about a thing, Gobelin, I'm not much given to thinkagain. But I tell you, I wish the boys no harm; let them be soldiersnow, and I pray God they may be good soldiers; only, if I save a littlemoney by hard work, I won't have them spend it among their comrades instrong drink; it'll be all the better for Annot, when I die, that'sall. "

In this resolution he remained fixed, and in this frame of mind hereceived his truant sons on their return to Echanbroignes on the Sundaymorning. They entered the village together with Chapeau, about nine inthe morning, having been met about a mile from the town, by four or fivefriends, who escorted them back. Annot was not there, for she was verybusy at home, preparing breakfast for her brothers and lover. She at anyrate was determined that the prodigal sons should be received with afatted calf. 

Chapeau marched up through the village at the head of the littleprocession to bear the brunt of the father's anger, as his station inlife, and standing in the army made him feel superior even to the furyof old Michael Stein. As they approached the door of the smith's house, they saw him sitting in the little porch with a pipe in his mouth, forMichael was never found without one or two implements; he had alwayseither his hammer or his pipe in lull activity. 

"Welcome back to Echanbroignes, M. Chapeau, welcome back, " said the oldman. "I am heartily glad to see so brave a soldier in my poor cabin!"and he gave his hand to Jacques. 

"And here be two other brave soldiers, Michael Stein, who, I hope, arealso welcome to Echanbroignes; and this I will say, any father in Poitoumight be proud to own them for his Sons: for gallanter fellows there arenot in the whole army of La Vendée, and that is saying a long word. "

There was a little crowd round the smith's house, and in spite of hisunmilitary predilections, he could not help feeling proud at the publictestimony that was paid to his sons' merits: he showed this by the tearthat stood in his eye, as he said:

"They are welcome too, M. Chapeau; they are very welcome too. I am gladto see ye, safe and sound from the wars, lads. I am glad to see thee, Jean: I am glad to see thee, Peter, " and he gave a hand to each of thetwo young men, who were delighted with their unexpected kind reception. "And this I will say before the neighbours here, as ye would go to thewars, and make soldiers of yourselves, I am well pleased to hear yebehaved yourselves like gallant brave men should do. I'd sooner thatyour friends should have had to tell me that ye were both stiff andcold, than that ye should have returned yourselves with shamed faces toown that ye had disgraced the trade ye have chosen to take up with. "

"Bravo! Bravo!" said Chapeau, "I am glad in my heart, Michael Stein, tohear you speak so kindly to the lads; and so will M. Henri be glad tohear it, for they are two of his own especial troop--they are two of thegallant red scarfs, who swam into Saumur with their muskets tucked undertheir arms. "

"But understand me, boys, " continued the smith, still speaking so thatthe neighbours standing round could hear him. "I am right glad to seeboth of you, as I am to see M. Chapeau, or any other gallant friend whois kind enough to visit me and Annot. But mind, it is as visitors Ireceive you; in a few days, doubtless, you must go away to the warsagain; till then ye shall have the best I can give, both to eat and todrink. Ye shall have your own way, and never be asked to do a turn ofwork. Ye shall have gay holyday times, and holyday fare, and anythingthe old man can do, and anything the old man can give to make you merry, he will do, and he will give, because you have come back gallantly, andhave not brought dishonour to the roost where ye were hatched--but morethan this I will not agree to. Ye would not abide at home, as I desired, and this therefore is no longer a home for you; ye would not be contentto be forgers of weapons, but ye must e'en use them too, and ye have hadyour way. Now, lads, I must have my way; and for the rest of the timeI must have it alone. This is no longer your home, lads, and I m nolonger your master. Ye would be soldiers when I did not wish it; now letye be soldiers, and I'm the less sorry for it, as it seems like thatyou'll prove good soldiers. And now, Peter and Jean, you're welcome bothof you. Jacques Chapeau you are most heartily welcome--come Annot, letthe lads have a swinging breakfast, for I know these soldiers fight notwell unless they be fed well, " and so finishing his speech, he led theway into the cottage. 

The three men were too well pleased with their reception to grumble atthe smith's mode of expressing his feeling. Jean and Peter weredelighted to find that they were to be entertained with the best theirfather could afford, instead of with black looks and hard words, andthat the only punishment to be immediately inflicted on them, was thatthey were to do no work; the party, therefore, entered the cottagetolerably well pleased with each other. 

It is not to be supposed that Annot remained in the back-ground duringthe whole of her father's oration. She had come out of the cottage, andkissed her two brothers, and shaken hands with her lover; she thenreturned in again, and Chapeau had followed her, and as the two wereleft alone together, for a minute or two, I think it very probable thatshe kissed him also; but I cannot speak positively on this point. 

Then they all sat down to breakfast, and Paul Rouel and old Gobelin, whohad contrived to be of the party, were greatly surprised to hear and tosee how civil Michael was to his sons. He pressed them to eat of thevery best, as he did to Chapeau, and talked to them about the war, listened to all their tales, and had altogether lost the domineeringauthoritative tone of voice, with which he usually addressed his ownfamily; it was only in talking to Annot that he was the samehot-tempered old man as ever. The two young men themselves were hardlyat their ease; but they eat their breakfast, and made the best theycould of it. 

"Smothered fire burns longest, neighbour Gobelin, " said Rouel, as heleft the house. "Take my word, Michael will never forgive those two boysof his the longest day he has to live. "

After breakfast, Michael Stein and his whole party went to mass, as didall the soldier peasants, who had returned from Saumur; and the old Curéof the parish, who had now recovered possession of his own church, withmuch solemnity returned thanks to God for the great victory which theVendeans had gained, and sung a requiem for the souls of the royalistswho had fallen in the battle. When they left the church, the peasantsall formed themselves into a procession, the girls going first, and themen following them; and in this manner they paraded round the green, carrying a huge white flag, which had been embroidered in the village, and which bore in its centre, in conspicuous letters of gold, thosethree words, the loyal Shibboleth of La Vendée, "Vive le Roi!"

This flag they fixed on a pole erected in the centre of the green, andthen they set to work to amuse themselves with twenty different games. The games, however, did not flourish--the men were too eager to talk ofwhat they had done, and the girls were too willing to listen--theydivided themselves into fifty little parties, in which fifty differentaccounts were given of the taking of Saumur, and in each party three orfour different warriors were named as having been the most conspicuousheroes of the siege. Each narrator had some especially esteemed leaderor chief, who in his eyes greatly exceeded the other leaders, and theprodigious feats of valour performed by this favoured warrior was thefirst and most wonderful subject of discourse. Then, but at a modestdistance, as regards the glory of the achievements related, each peasanttold what he had done himself; two or three probably made out theirlittle history together, and told of each other's valour: that homelyand somewhat vulgar Scotch proverb, "you scratch my back, and I'llscratch yours, " was certainly unknown to them, but nevertheless theyfully recognized the wise principle of mutual accommodation which thatproverb teaches. 

"It's no use talking, but there isn't one of them able to hold a candleto our M. Henri--is there, Louis? that is, for a downright thunderingattack. "

This was said by Jean Stein to two or three of the village girls, bywhom he was looked on as a great hero, in consequence of his having goneto the war in spite of his father's commands, as well as on account ofChapeau's honourable testimony in his favour; and the man referred to, was one Louis Bourdin, who, as well as Jean, had been of the party whofollowed Henri through the moat. 

"That there is not, Jean; that is, for positive standup fighting; notone. And we ought to know, for we have seen most of 'em. There'sCathelineau is a very good man at leading on the men. "

"Oh, yes I" said Jean, "Cathelineau is a fine fellow too, and a veryholy man; but somehow I don't think he's quite so forward as M. Henri. M. Henri is always the first. "

"But doesn't he get dreadfully knocked about by the guns and bullets?"asked one of the girls. 

"He doesn't matter that a pinch of snuff, " said Louis. 

"No, not a pinch of snuff, " said Jean. "Do you mind, Louis, how he leaptoff his horse, and dashed through the trenches, that first night atVarin? wasn't it beautiful?"

"You may say that, Jean, " answered Louis; "it was beautiful. And whata night that was--you were along with him, Jean, and so was Chapeau. M. Henri was up first, I can swear to that; but it would puzzle any one tosay who was second. "

"Yourself Louis, was as quick as any one--I marked you well. Indeedthen, said I to myself, if all our men are as forward as Louis Bourdin, the village will have a great name before the war is over. "

"But tell me truly now, Louis Bourdin, " said a little girl, who waslistening intently all the time, "when you went up into that place, werethere real soldiers in armour, with guns and cannon firing at you allthe time?"

"Truly then there were, Lolotte, hundreds of them, " said Bourdin. 

"Well, that is horrible!" said the girls all at once. 

"And do you remember, Jean, " continued Bourdin, "when M. Henri dasheddown again, how the traitor rebels hallooed out, 'Fire upon the redscarf!' Well, I did think it was all up with him then. You were closeto him, Jean; nearer than I am to Lolotte now. "

"And that's quite near enough, " said Lolotte, giving him a push. 

"Why I'm sure I was doing nothing; I was only wanting to show you. JeanStein there, was, as I was saying, quite close to M. Henri; and as theyleapt out of the camp together, twenty voices roared out at once, 'Fireupon the red scarf! fire upon the red scarf!' Oh! that was a fearfulevening; it was dark then, and the light of the smoking, glaring torchesmade it five times more horrible. I thought we were as good as dead menthen. I'm sure I for one can't guess how we ever got out alive. "

"And yet, M. Henri wasn't wounded, " said Jean; "well it was wonderful. After all, General d'Elbée must be right; Providence must give a shaketo a rebel's arm, just as he's firing, so as to send his bullet anywherebut where it's meant to go. "

"Yes, " said Bourdin, "and it directs the shot of a royalist right intoa rebel's heart. "

Well, if that be so, " said Lolotte, "I'm sure I for one wouldn't liketo fight on the rebel's side. They must be wonderful brave men to holdout at all, when Providence goes against them in that way. "

"But they don't hold out, girl, " said Jean, "they always run away; howthey did run, Bourdin, when M. Henri led us into the town, through thebroken wall; well, I believe they all thought at that time, the devilhimself was coming for them out of the moat. "

"Only think, girls, three or four thousand men running away as fast astheir feet could carry them, from two hundred fellows, who hadn't acharge of dry powder among them, and who were all themselves drippingwet through; well that was fine. "

Jacques Chapeau and Annot Stein had not joined any of these parties;they had disappeared soon after mass, and were not heard of for threeor four hours afterwards; they took a long ramble by themselves, downby the mill-stream, and far beyond the mill; sitting down, every now andthen among the willows, and then getting up and strolling on a bitfurther; they did not, this day, waste their time in foolish quarrelsand fond reconciliations; but discoursed together, sundry seriousmatters of important business, as becomes people to do, when they thinkof arranging a partnership concern, from which each intends to get acomfortable means of living for the remainder of his or her life; uponthe whole, they had but very few subjects of difference, and by theirreturn to the smith's house at supper-time, they had fully agreed thatno further time ought to be lost, in establishing a firm under the nameof Jacques and Annot Chapeau and Co. The Co. Being left to comeafterwards or not, as God might please. 

After supper was over, Annot had no difficulty in inducing her brothersto leave the house, and thus the coast was left clear for Jacques to askthe father's consent to his intended marriage. Neither he nor Annotexpected much difficulty in persuading Michael to accept of so promisinga son-in-law; but they were both determined that if they could not marrywith his consent, they would do so without it. So Chapeau lighted hispipe, and sat himself down opposite the smith, and Annot retired to herown little sleeping chamber, where she might conveniently hear what herfather and lover said to each other, respecting her intended nuptials. 

"Well, Michael Stein, my old friend, " said Jacques; "these are glorioustimes, are they not? The rebels beaten hollow, till they haven't a faceto shew for themselves, and the King coming to La Vendée, to enjoy hisown again; it will be a fine thing to see the King riding into thevillage of Echanbroignes to thank the gallant peasants, with his ownmouth, for what they have done for him!"

"Yes, M. Chapeau! those will be fine times when they come; pray God you, and other young fellows like you, may live to see them; an old fellowlike me has little chance of such happiness. "

"And why not, my friend? what is to make those days so far off? I tellyou, Michael Stein, the rebels were dead beaten at Saumur; they arescattered like chaff; their very best soldiers are altogether hors decombat; the war is as good as over. We may have to make a little tripor two, just to receive the English, who are coming to help us; we mayhave to go and meet them on the coast; or perhaps to Parthenay, to askM. Santerre what he wants in that part of the world; but that is all, literally all; I tell you the rebels are clean beaten. "

"I only wonder then, M. Chapeau, why you want the English to come andhelp you, if, as you say, you have conquered all the republicansyourselves?"

"Just to pay their respects to the King, and, perhaps, to lend us a handin driving those Jacobins out of Paris--that's all. Till that's done theKing is to live at Saumur. "

"To live at Saumur, is he?"

"That's what those say who know most about it, and you know I'm in theway to know what's really going forward. He's to hold his court atSaumur, and Henri Larochejaquelin is to be commandant of the town, andhave the command of all the forces there. I tell you, Michael Stein, we, that wear the red scarfs, will not be the worse off then. "

"I hope not; in truth, M. Chapeau, I hope not; though they do say thatthey be not wise who put their trust in princes. "

"Princes!" said Jacques, "I am not talking of princes, I am talking ofthe King himself, God bless him!"

"Well, perhaps, that does make a difference; and I say, God bless himtoo, with all my heart. "

"I suppose you've heard, Michael Stein, that our young General, M. Henri, is going to be married?"

"Is he then?" said Michael. "No, truly, I did not hear a word of sucha matter; to some grand lady of the court, I suppose?"

"No, but to his own beautiful young cousin, Mademoiselle de Lescure, thesister of our other General, you know. "

"Well, may they be happy, both of them; I mind their fathers well; theold Marquis is still alive, but greatly ailing they tell me. I have muchto be thankful for, and I do thank the Lord!" and as he spoke, MichaelStein crossed himself. "Now, I'm as old in a manner as the Marquishimself and yet you see I can still make the big hammer clink on theanvil. "

"Indeed you can, Michael, and better too than many a young fellow. But, as we were saying, here is M. Henri going to be married, and his ladywill surely be wanting some nice, tidy, handy, good-looking, smart youngwoman to be about her, more as a sort of a companion, you know, than aservant; in the same way, you mind, as I am now to M. Henri: now, wouldn't that be a nice berth for your daughter, Annot Stein?"

As Chapeau described the nice, tidy, smart, pretty young woman, that thefuture Madame de Larochejaquelin would be sure to require, Annotsmoothed down her little apron with both her hands, gave a complaisantglance at her own neat little feet, and her bright holiday shoes, andthen listened eagerly for her father's answer. 

"I am sure, M. Chapeau, that Annot Stein is very thankful for your goodwishes, " said he, "and so is her father, very thankful; but she has notcourt-breeding enough for that sort of work; she has never learnt tospeak smooth, and say pretty little flattering sayings, such as ladieslike to hear. Nor when Madame would be out of sorts and ruffled, asgreat. Ladies will be sometimes, would she know how to say the rightword just at the right time; and then Annot has too much of her father'srough blood, and if Madame scolded at all, it's ten chances to one, butshe would scold again, and that, you know, wouldn't do. No, M. Chapeau, Annot had better remain as she is, and keep her father's house, till shemarries some honest tradesman, like myself, when these deadly wars beover. "

"Well, but my dear friend, " said Chapeau, "I had another littleproposition I wanted to make, which would fit in so well with what Isuggested; and I can assure you Madame Henri, that is Mademoiselle deLescure as she is now, you know, is the softest, sweetest-temperedcreature living--she wouldn't quarrel with any one, much less with sucha little angel as your daughter. "

"I'm sure, " said Michael, making a low bow to his guest, and pressingthe handle of his pipe to his breast. "I'm sure my daughter will bevery thankful for the great interest you take respecting her. "

"But as I was saying, you know, about this other little proposition ofmine?"

"Well, M. Chapeau, I'm listening with all my ears, and very thankful foryour kind friendship. "

"You see, " said Jacques, "M. Henri is going to change his condition;we've both been young fellows together; we've had our amusements and ourpleasures like other young men, and, maybe, been as fortunate as most. Well, my friend, M. Henri is going to settle down, and marry the girlof his heart, whom he loves better than all the world; and what can Ido better than follow his example? The truth is, I mean to settle downtoo, Michael Stein. "

"Well, " said Michael, scratching his head, and listening for theremainder of Chapeau's little proposition. 

"And I want to marry the girl of my heart, whom I love better than allthe world, and her name is Annot Stein, and there's an end of it; andnow you know all about it. "

Annot's heart beat quickly as she heard him make the last importantdeclaration; and beautifully she thought he made it. When Chapeau calledher a little angel, she swore to herself that he was the dearest fellowthat ever lived and when he finished by protesting that she was the girlof his heart, and that he loved her better than all the world, shelonged to run out and throw her arms about his neck. 

Michael Stein took a long pull at his pipe, and blew out a huge cloudof tobacco before he made any answer, and then he said:

"M. Chapeau, I am sensible how great an honour you propose to do me andmy poor daughter; but I am not a proud man, no one can say that MichaelStein was ever proud or ambitious; my only wish is to see my little girlmarried to a decent hard-working fellow, like her father. "

"Well, ain't I a hard-working fellow?"

"Let me look at your hands, M. Chapeau; the inside of your hands. No, you are not a hard-working fellow; your hand is as soft as a lady's. "

"What signifies my hand? I shan't make a worse husband, shall I, becausemy hand is not as horny as your own. "

"No, but a hard-fisted fellow is the only man that will suit mydaughter. "

"But, Michael Stein, she herself thinks--"

"Who ever heard of asking a girl what she thinks herself? Of courseshe'd sooner be a fine lady, and spend her time walking about a bigchateau than be milking cows and minding goats. "

"But won't she be earning her living and her wages honestly?"

"Wages! I don't like those sort of wages, M. Chapeau. I don't mean tosay auything uncivil, and I hope you won't take it amiss, but there aretwo trades I don't fancy for my children: the one is that of a soldier, the other that of a great man's servant. "

"Gracious me, Michael Stein! why I'm both, " said Chapeau, ratheroffended. 

"I beg your pardon again and again, and I really mean no offence: clownas I am, I hope I know better than to say anything to hurt my own guestin my own house. "

Chapeau assured him he was not offended, and begged to know why the oldman objected to see his children become soldiers or servants. 

"They've no liberty, " said Michael, "though they usually take a deal toomuch licence. They never are allowed to call their time their own, though they often misuse the time that ought to belong to other people. "

For a long time Chapeau combatted such arguments as these, but withoutavail; the smith declared that now, as his two sons had become soldiers, it would break his heart if his daughter also were to marry one. Heassured Jacques, with tears running down his rough cheeks, that he couldnot bring himself to give his daughter his blessing, if she left hishouse without his leave to marry a soldier. He declared that he alsoloved her better than all the world, and that he could not bear to partwith her; and his tears and kindly words had such an effect upon Annot, that she could not restrain herself: she burst into tears herself andrunning out of her little room, threw herself into her father's arms. 

"Get up, thou simpleton; get up, thou little fool, " said he. "Why, Annot, what ails thee?"

"Oh, father! dear father!" said she. 

"Get up then, Annot, and I'll speak to thee. I never saw thee in thisway before. "

"Oh, father!" she said, sobbing violently, "do you love your poordaughter so very, very much?"

"Love you, Annot! why yes, I do love you. If you'll be a good girl, thatis, I will love you. "

"I will be a good girl, dear father; indeed I'll be a good girl; at anyrate I'll try. But then--" and she stood up, and commenced wiping hereyes with her little apron. 

"Well, what then, Annot?" said the smith. 

"But then--I wouldn't anger you, father, for all the world; indeed Iwouldn't, for you always are so good to me, and I know I don't deserveit, " and poor Annot continued sobbing and rubbing her eyes with herapron. 

"Nonsense, girl, nonsense!" said Michael; "I don't find any fault withyou. Don't think of getting yourself married till these wars be over, that's all, " and he kissed her forehead, and patted her cheek as thoughall the difficulty were over. 

"But, father--?" continued Annot, with her apron still to her face. 

"Well, child, what is it? By the blessed mass, M. Chapeau, I don't knowwhat the girl's crying for. "

"Do you love your own little Annot so very, very much?" said she, andshe put her soft arm round his rough neck, and placed her cheek quiteclose to his. 

"There, Annot; why what nonsense, girl! Don't you know I love you?didn't you hear me say so this minute? Leave off, will you, you littleslut! why, what will M. Chapeau think of us? Well, I declare she'scrying still!"

"But if you really, really love me, father--"

"Bother the girl! she knows I love her better than anything else; Godforgive me. "

"If you really love me, " repeated Annot, nestling her head in herfather's bosom, "you must, you must, you must--do something that I'llask you, father. "

"And what is it, child? I doubt much it's nonsense. "

"You must love Jacques Chapeau too, father, " and having uttered theseimportant words, Annot clung fast to her father's arms, as if she fearedhe was going to throw her off, and sobbed and cried as though her heartwere breaking. 

The battle between the contending factions, namely, the father on oneside, and the daughter with her lover on the other, was prolonged fora considerable time, but the success was altogether with Annot. Chapeauwould have had no chance himself against the hard, dry, common sense ofthe smith; but Annot made her appearance just at the right moment, before the father had irrevocably pledged himself, and the old man wasobliged to succumb; he couldn't bring himself to refuse his daughterwhen she was lying on his bosom and appealing to his love; so at lasthe gave way entirely, and promised that he would love Jacques Chapeaualso; and then Chapeau, he also cried; and, I shudder as I write it, healso kissed the tough, bronzed, old wiry smith, and promised that hewould be a good husband and son-in-law. 

As soon as Annot had got her wish, and had heard Jacques received as herbetrothed husband, she also was wonderfully dutiful and affectionate. She declared that she didn't want to be married till the wars werenearly over, and the country was a little more quiet; that she wouldnever go away and leave her father altogether, and that if ever she didgo and live at Durbellière, she would certainly make an agreement withher master and mistress that she should be allowed to walk over to eather dinner with her father every Sunday. 

As soon as the smith found himself completely conquered, he resignedhimself to his fate, and became exceedingly happy and good-humoured. Heshook Chapeau's hand fifty times, till he had nearly squeezed it off. He sent to the inn for two bottles of the very best wine that was to behad; he made Annot prepare a second supper, and that not of simple breadand cheese, but of poached eggs and fried bacon, and then he did allthat he possibly could to make Chapeau tipsy, and in the attempt he gotvery drunk himself, and so the day ended happily for them all. 

CHAPTER V

THE HOSPITAL OF ST. LAURENT

De Lescure only remained three days at Durbellière, and then startedagain for his own house at Clisson, and Henri accompanied him. They hadboth been occupied during these three days in making such accommodationas was in their power for the sick and wounded, who were brought backinto the Bocage in considerable numbers from Saumur. The safe and soundand whole of limb travelled faster than those who had lost arms and legsin the trenches at Varin, or who had received cuts and slashes andbroken ribs at the bridge of Fouchard, and therefore the good news wasfirst received in the Bocage; but those miserable accompaniments ofvictory, low tumbrils, laden with groaning sufferers lying on straw, slowly moving carts, every motion of which opened anew the wounds oftheir wretched occupants, and every species of vehicle as could becollected through the country, crammed with the wounded and the dying, and some even with the dead, were not long in following the triumphalreturn of the victorious peasants. 

A kind of hospital was immediately opened at a little town called St. Laurent sur Sèvre, about two leagues from Durbellière, at which aconvent of sisters of mercy had long been established. De Lescure andLarochejaquelin between them supplied the means, and the sisters of theestablishment cheerfully gave their time, their skill, and tenderestattention to assuage the miseries of their suffering countrymen. Agathaknew the superior of the convent well, and assisted in all the necessarypreparations. She was there when the hospital was first opened, and fora long time afterwards visited it once or twice a week, on whichoccasions she stayed for the night in the convent; had it not been thatshe could not bring herself to leave her father, she would have remainedthere altogether, as long as the war continued to supply the littlewards with suffering patients. They were seldom, or rather never, emptyas long as the Vendeans kept their position in the country, the sick andthe wounded were nursed with the tenderest care at St. Laurent. Thesisters who had commenced the task never remitted their zeal, nor didAgatha Larochejaquelin. The wards were by degrees increased in number, the building was enlarged, surgical skill was procured, every necessaryfor a hospital was obtained, whatever might be the cost, and whateverthe risk; till at last, in spite of the difficulties which had to beencountered, the dangers which surrounded them, the slenderness of theirmeans, and the always increasing number of their patients, the hospitalof St. Laurent might have rivalled the cleanliness, care, and comfortof the Hotel Dieu in its present perfection. 

As soon as the first arrangements for the commencement of this hospitalhad been made, de Lescure and Henri went to Clisson. It may easily besupposed that de Lescure was anxious to see his wife, and that she wasmore than anxious to see him. Henri also was not sorry to hear thepraises of his valour sung by the sweet lips of Marie. He stayed oneshort happy week at Clisson, basking in the smiles of beauty, and theywere the last hours of tranquillity that any of the party were destinedto enjoy for many a long sad day. De Lescure's recovery was neither slownor painful, and before the week was over, he was able to sit out on thelawn before the château, with one arm in a sling, and the other roundhis wife's waist, watching the setting of the sun, and listening to thethrushes and nightingales. Every now and again he would talk of thefuture battles to be fought, and of the enemies to be conquered, and ofthe dangers to be encountered; but he did not speak so sadly of theprospects of his party as he did when he had only just determined totake up arms with the Vendeans. The taking of Thouars, and Fontenay, ofMontreuil, and Saumur, had inspirited even him, and almost taught himto believe that La Vendée would be ultimately successful inre-establishing the throne. 

De Lescure was delighted to see what he thought was a growing attachmentbetween his sister and his friend. Had he had the power of choosing ahusband for Marie out of all France, he would have chosen HenriLarochejaquelin: he loved him already as he could only love a brother, and he knew that he had all those qualities which would most tend tomake a woman happy. 

"Oh, if these wars were but over, " said he to his wife, "how I wouldrejoice to give her to him, he is such a brave and gallant fellow--butas tender-hearted and kind as he is brave!"

"These weary, weary wars!" said Madame de Lescure, with a sigh, "wouldthey were over: would, with all my heart, they had never been begun. Howwell does the devil do his work on earth, when he is able to drive thepurest, the most high-minded, the best of God's creatures to war andbloodshed as the only means of securing to themselves the liberty ofworshipping their Saviour and honouring their King!"

Henri himself, however, had not considered the propriety of waitinguntil the wars were over before he took a wife for himself, or at anyrate before he asked the consent of the lady's friends: for the daybefore he left Clisson, he determined to speak to Charles on thesubject; though he had long known Marie so well, and had now beenstaying a week in the house, he had never yet told her that he lovedher. It was the custom of the age and the country for a lover first toconsult the friends of the young lady, and though the peculiarcircumstances of his position might have emboldened Henri to dispensewith such a practice, he was the last man in the world to take advantageof his situation. 

"Charles, " said he, the evening before his departure, as he stood closeto the garden seat, on which his cousin was sitting, and amused himselfwith pitching stones into the river, which ran beneath the lawn atClisson. "Charles, I shall be off tomorrow; I almost envy you the brokenarm which keeps you here. "

"It won't keep me long now, Henri, " said he; "I shall be at Chatillonin a week's time, unless you and d'Elbée have moved to Parthenay beforethat. Cathelineau will by that time be master of Nantes, that is, if heis ever to be master of it. "

"Don't doubt it, Charles. I do not the least: think of all Charette'sarmy. I would wager my sword to a case-dagger, that Nantes is in hishands this minute. "

"We cannot always have the luck we had at Saumur, Henri?"

"No, " said Henri, "nor can we always have a de Lescure to knock down forus the gates of the republicans. "

"Nor yet a Larochejaquelin to force his way through the breach, " saidthe other. 

"Now we are even, " said Henri, laughing; "but really, without joking, I feel confident that the white flag is floating at this moment on thecastle at Nantes; but it is not of that, Charles, that I wish to speaknow. You have always been an elder brother to me. We have always beenlike brothers, have we not?"

"Thank God, we have, Henri! and I do not think it likely that we shallever be more distant to each other. "

"No, that I'm sure we never shall. You are too good either to quarrelyourself, or to let me quarrel with you; but though we never can be moredistant, we may yet be more near to each other. You know what I mean, Charles?"

"I believe I do, " said de Lescure; "but why do you not speak out? Youare not likely, I think, to say or to propose anything that we shall notapprove of--that is, Victorine and I. "

"God bless you both!" said Henri. "You are too kind to me; but can youconsent to give me your own dear favourite sister--your sweet Marie? Youknow what I mean in saying that I would be nearer to you. "

De Lescure was in the act of answering his cousin, when. The quick fallof a horse's foot was heard in the avenue close to the house, and thenthere was a sudden pause as the brute was pulled up violently in theyard of the château, and the eager voices of domestics answering therapid questions of the man who had alighted. 

Interested as the two friends were in their conversation, the times weretoo full of important matters to allow of their remaining quiet, afterhaving heard such tokens of a hurried messenger. Larochejaqnelin ran offto the yard of the château, and de Lescure followed him as quickly ashis wounded arm would allow. 

Henri had hardly got off the lawn, when he met a couple of servantscoming from the yard, and between them a man booted, spurred, and armed, covered with dust and spattered with fuam, whom he at once recognizedas Foret, the friend and townsman of Cathelineau. 

"What news, Foret, what news?" said Henri, rushing up to him, andseizing him by the hand. "Pray God you bring with you good tidings. "

"The worst news that ever weighed heavy on a poor man's tongue, M. Henri, " said Foret, sorrowfully. 

"Cathelineau is not dead?" said Henri, but the tone of his inquiryshewed plainly how much he feared what the reply would be. 

"He was not dead, " answered Foret, "when I left him five leagues on thisside Nantes, but he had not many days to live. "

The two had turned back over the lawn, and now met de Lescure, as hehastened to join them. 

"Cathelineau, " said Henri, "is mortally wounded! Victory will have beenbought too dear at such a price; but I know not yet even whether theVendeans have been victorious. "

"They have not--they have not, " said Foret. "How could they bevictorious when their great General had fallen?"

"Mortally wounded! Oh, Foret, you are indeed a messenger of evil, " saidde Lescure, giving him his hand. 

"Yes, mortally wounded, " said Foret. "I fear before this he may haveceased to breathe. I left him, gentlemen, a few leagues this sideNantes, and at his own request hurried on to tell you these sad tidings. Oh, M. De Lescure, our cause has had a heavy blow at Nantes, and yet atone time we had almost beaten them; but when the peasants sawCathelineau fall, they would fight no longer. "

"Where is he?" said Henri, "that is if he still lives. "

"I crossed the river with him, " answered Foret, "and brought him on asfar as Remouille. He wished to be carried to the hospital you haveopened at St. Laurent, and unless he has died since I left him, he isthere now. I hurried on by Montacué and Tiffauges to St. Laurent; andthere, M. Henri, I saw Mademoiselle Agatha, and told her what hadhappened. If there be an angel upon earth she is one! When I told herthat the good Cathelineau was dying, every shade of colour left herbeautiful cheek; she became as pale as marble, and crossed her handsupon her bosom; she spoke to me not a word, nor did I look for reply, for I knew that in her heart she was praying that his soul might betaken up to heaven. "

Henri at that moment remembered the enthusiastic declaration of hissister, that Cathelineau, despite his birth, was worthy of any woman'slove, and he did not begrudge her the only means which now remained toher of proving her devotion to the character she had admired. 

"I told her, " continued Foret, "that if he lived so long, Cathelineauwould reach the hospital on the following day, and then I hurried on toyou. She told me I should find you here. It was then dark, but I reachedChatillon that night, for they sent a guide with me from St. Laurent. I left Chatillon again at the break of day, and have not lost much timein arriving here. "

"No, indeed, Foret; and surely you must need rest and refreshment, " saidde Lescure. "Come into the château, and you shall have both. "

"But tell us, Foret, of this reverse at Nantes, " said Henri. "I willat once start for St. Laurent; I will, if possible, see Cathelineaubefore he dies; but let me know before I go to him how it has come topass that victory has at last escaped him. "

"Victory did not escape him, " said Foret: "he was victorious to thelast--victorious till he fell. You know, gentlemen, it had been arrangedthat Nantes should be attacked at the same moment by Charette from thesouthern banks of the Loire, and by Cathelineau from the northern, butthis we were not able to accomplish. Charette was at his post, andentered the town gallantly over the Pont Rousseau, but we were unableto be there at the appointed time. For ten hours we were detained by adetachment of the blues at the little town of Nort, and though wecarried it at last, without losing many of our men, the loss of theprecious hours was very grievous. We pushed on to Nantes, however, without losing another minute, and though we found the rebels ready toreceive us, they could not hold their ground against us at all. We drovethem from the town in every direction. We were already in the chiefsquare of Nantes, assured of our victory, and leading our men to onelast attack, when a musket ball struck Cathelineau on the arm, andpassing through the flesh entered his breast. He was on foot, in frontof the brave peasants whom he was leading, and they all saw him fall. Oh, M. De Lescure, if you had heard the groan, the long wail of grief, which his poor followers from St. Florent uttered, when they saw theirsainted leader fall before them, your ears would never forget the sound. We raised him up between us, and carried him back to a part of the townwhich was in our hands, and from thence over the Pont Rousseau toPirmil, where I left him for a while, and returned to the town, but Icould not get the peasants to follow me again--that is, his peasants;and he was too weak to speak to them himself. It was not till two hoursafter that he was able to speak a word. "

"And you lost all the advantage you had gained?" asked de Lescure. 

"We might still have been successful, for the blues would always ratherrun than fight when they have the choice, but the Prince de Talmont, inhis eagerness, headed the fugitive rebels who were making for Savenay, and drove them back into the town; when there, they had no choice butto fight; indeed, their numbers were so much greater than our own, thatthey surrounded us. Our hearts were nearly broken, and our arms wereweak; it ended in our retreating to Pirmil, and leaving the town in thehands of the republicans. "

"How truly spoke that General who said, 'build a bridge of gold for aflying enemy!'" said de Lescure. 

"And is Cathelineau's wound so surely mortal?" asked Henri. 

"The surgeon who examined him in Pirmil said so; indeed, Cathelineaunever doubted it himself. He told me, as soon as he could speak, thathe should never live to see the Republic at an end. 'But, ' added he, 'you, Foret, and others will; and it delights me to think that I havegiven my life to so good a cause. '"

Henri's horse was now ready, and he made no longer delay than to sayadieu to his hostess, and to speak one or two last words to his cousinMarie, and then he made the best of his way to Chatillon and St. Laurent, hoping once more to see Cathelineau before he died. All hisspurring and his hurrying was in vain. 

A few hours before Henri could reach the hospital, the Saint of Anjouhad breathed his last, and Agatha Larochejaquelin had soothed his dyingmoments. 

As Foret had related, Agatha, on hearing of Cathelineau's wound, hadturned deadly pale. It was not love that made her feel that the worldwas darkened by his fall; that from henceforward nothing to her couldbe bright and cheerful; at least not such love as that which usuallywarms a woman's heart, for Agatha had never hoped, or even wished to bemore to Cathelineau than an admiring friend; nor yet was it grief forthe loss of services which she knew were invaluable to the cause she hadso warmly espoused. These two feelings were blended together in herbreast. She had taught herself to look to Cathelineau as the futuresaviour of her country; she loved his virtue, his patriotism, and hisvalour; and her heart was capable of no other love while that existedin it so strongly. The idea of looking on Cathelineau as a lover, ofseeing him kneeling at her feet, or listening to him while he whisperedsweet praises of her beauty, had never occurred to her; had she dreamedit possible that he could do so, half her admiration of him would havevanished. No, there was nothing earthly, nothing mundane in Agatha'slove, for though she did love the fallen hero of La Vendée, the patriotpostillion of St. Florent, she did not shed a tear when she heard thathe was dragging his wounded body to St. Laurent, that he might have thecomfort of her tender care in his last moments; her hand did not shakeas she wrote a line to her father to say that she could not leave thehospital that evening, or probably the next; nor did she for one halfhour neglect the duties which her less distinguished patients requiredher to perform; but still she felt her heart was cold within her, andthat if God had so willed it, she could, without regret, take her placein the grave beside the stricken idol of her admiration, who had fallenat Nantes while fighting for his God and his King. 

Early on the morning after Foret's departure for Clisson, the litterwhich bore the wounded chief reached the hospital, and Agatha's armassisted him from the door-step to the death-bed, which she had preparedfor him. Agatha's feelings towards him have been imperfectly described;but what were his feelings towards her? What was the nature of themysterious love, which no kind words had ever encouraged, which no lookhad ever declared, which he had hardly dared to acknowledge to his ownheart, and which had yet induced the wounded man to make so painful ajourney, to travel over twenty long, long leagues, that he might oncemore see the glorious face which had filled his breast with such anunutterable passion? Not for a moment had he ever dreamt that Agatharegarded him differently than she did the many others who had taken uparms in the service of their country. His name he knew must be familiarto her ears, for chance had made it prominent in the struggle; butbeyond that, it had never occurred to his humble mind that AgathaLarochejaquelin had given one thought to the postillion of St. Florent. For some time, Cathelineau had been unable to define to himself thepassion which he felt, but had gradually become aware that he lovedAgatha passionately, incurably, and hopelessly. Her image had beenpresent to him continually; it had been with him in the dead of night, and in the heat of day; in the hour of battle, and at the council-table;in the agony of defeat, and in the triumph of victory. When he foundhimself falling in the square at Nantes, and all visible objects seemedto swim before his eyes, still he saw Agatha's beautiful pale face, andthen she seemed to smile kindly on him, and to bid him hope. As soon ashis senses returned to him, he was made conscious that he was dying, andthen he felt that he should die more happily if he could see once morethe fair angel, who had illuminated and yet troubled the last few daysof his existence. 

Cathelineau had heard that Agatha had taken under her own kind care thehospital at St. Laurent, but he had not expected that she would be onthe step to meet him as he was lifted out of his litter; but hers wasthe first face he saw on learning that his painful journey was at anend. His wound had been pronounced to be inevitably mortal, and he hadbeen told that he might possibly live for two or three days, but thatin all probability his sufferings would not be protracted so long. Thefatal bullet had passed through his arm into his breast, had perforatedhis lungs, and there, within the vitals of his body, the deadly missilewas still hidden. At some moments, his agony was extreme, but at others, he was nearly free from pain; and as his life grew nearer to its close, his intervals of ease became longer, and the periods of his sufferingwere shortened. He had confessed, and received absolution and thesacrament of his church at Remouille; and when he reached St. Laurent, nothing was left for him but to die. 

He tried to thank her, as Agatha assisted him to the little chamberwhich she had prepared for him; but his own feelings, and his exertionsin moving were at first too much for him. The power of speech, however, soon returned to him, and he said:

"How can I thank you, Mademoiselle, what am I to say to thank you forsuch care as this?"

"You are not to thank us at all, " said Agatha, (there was one of thesisters of mercy with her in the room). "We are only doing what littlewomen can do for the cause, for which you have done so much. "

Again he essayed to speak, but the sister stopped him with a kind yetauthoritative motion of her hand, and bade him rest tranquil a while, and so he did. Sometimes Agatha sat by the window, and watched his bed, and at others, she stole quietly out of the room to see her otherpatients, and then she would return again, and take her place by thewindow; and as long as she remained in the room, so that he could lookupon her face, Cathelineau felt that he was happy. 

He had been at St. Laurent some few hours, and was aware that hisprecious moments were fast ebbing. He hardly knew what it was that helonged to say, but yet he felt that he could not die in peace withoutexpressing to the fair creature who sat beside him the gratitude he feltfor her tender care. Poor Cathelineau! he did not dream how difficulthe would find it to limit gratitude to its proper terms, when the heartfrom which he spoke felt so much more than gratitude!

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" he began, but she interrupted him. 

"Hush, hush, Cathelineau!" she said. "Did you not hear sister Anna saythat you should not speak. "

"What avails it now for me to be silent?" said he. "I know, Mademoiselle, that I am dying, and, believe me, I do not fear to die. Your kind care can make my last few hours tranquil and easy, but itcannot much prolong them. Let me have the pleasure of telling you thatI appreciate your kindness, and that I give you in return all that adying man can give--my prayers. "

"And I will pray for you, Cathelineau, " said Agatha. "But will not everyVendean pray for the hero who first led them to victory, who firstraised his hand against the Republic?"

"How precious are the praises of such as you!" said he. "Pray for meand for your other poor countrymen who have fallen in this contest; suchprayers as yours will assuredly find entrance into heaven. "

He then again laid tranquil for a while, but his spirit was not quietwithin him; he felt that there was that which he longed to say beforehe died, and that the only moments in which the power of speaking wouldbe left to him were fast passing from him. 

"Do not bid me be silent, " he said; "did I not know that no earthlypower could prolong my life, I would do nothing to defeat the object ofmy kind nurses; but as it is, a few moments' speech are of value to me, but an extra hour or so of torpid life can avail me nothing. Ah, Mademoiselle, though I cannot but rejoice to see our cause assisted bythe nobility and excellence of the country, though I know that theangelic aid of such as thou art--"

"Stop, stop, " said Agatha, interrupting him, "if you will speak, at anyrate do not flatter; your last words are too precious to be wasted insuch idleness. "

"It does not seem to be flattery in me to praise you, Mademoiselle;heaven knows that I do not wish to flatter; but my rude tongue knows nothow to express what my heart feels. I would say, that valuable as isyour aid to our poor peasants, I almost regret to see you embarked ina cause which will bathe the country in blood, and which, unlessspeedily victorious, will bring death and desolation on the noblespirits who have given to it all their energies and all their courage. "

"Do you think so badly, Cathelineau, of the hopes of the royalists?"

"If we could make one great and glorious effort, " said he, and his eyesshone as brightly as ever while he spoke; "if we could concentrate allour forces, and fill them with the zeal which, at different times, theyall have shewn, we might still place the King upon his throne, and thewhite flag might still wave for ages from our churches, as a monumentof the courage of La Vendée. But if, as I fear, the war become one ofdetached efforts, despite the wisdom of de Lescure, the skill ofBonchamps, the piety of d'Elbée, the gallant enthusiasm ofLarochejaquelin, and the devoted courage of them all, the Republic bydegrees will devour their armies, will consume their strength, willdesolate the country, and put to the sword even their wives andchildren: neither high nobility, nor illustrious worth, nor surpassingbeauty will shield the inhabitants of this devoted country from thebrutality of the conquerors, who have abjured religion, and proclaimedthat blood alone can satisfy their appetites. "

"Surely God will not allow his enemies to prevail, " said Agatha. 

"God's ways are inscrutable, " answered Cathelineau, "and his paths arenot plain to mortal eyes; but it is not the less our duty to struggleon to do those things which appear to us to be acceptable to Him. Butshould these sad days come, should atheism and the love of blood stridewithout control through our villages; if it be doomed that our housesare to be burnt and our women to be slaughtered, why should all remainto be a prey to our enemies? Ah, Mademoiselle leave this devoted countryfor a while, take your sweet cousin with you; bid M. De Lescure sendaway his young wife: it is enough that men should have to fight withdemons; men can fight and die, and suffer comparatively but little, butfemale beauty and female worth will be made to suffer ten thousanddeaths from the ruthless atrocities of republican foes. "

Agatha shuddered at the picture which Cathelineau's words conjured up, but her undaunted courage was not shaken. 

"God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb, " said she. "Neither I, norMarie will leave our brothers, nor will Madame de Lescure leave herhusband; it is little we can do to hasten victory, but we can lessensuffering and administer comfort, when comfort is most required. Hadyou, Cathelineau, loved some woman above all others, and been loved byher; had you had with you in your struggle some dear sister, or perhapsstill dearer wife, would you have asked her to go from you, that youmight have battled on, and struggled, and at last have died alone?"

"By God's dear love, I would, " said he, raising himself, as he spoke, upon his bed. "My most earnest prayer to her should have been to leaveme. "

"And when she refused to do so; when she also swore by God's dear love, that she would stay with you till the last; as she would have done, Cathelineau, if she loved you as--as you should have been loved; wouldyou then have refused the comfort her love so longed to give you?"

"I know not then what I would have done, " said he, after lying with hiseyes closed for a few moments without answering. "I have never knownsuch love. Our women love their husbands and their brothers, but it isonly angels love with such a love as that. "

"Such is the love a man deserves who gives his all for his King and hiscountry. If our husbands, and our brothers, and our dear friends, Cathelineau, are brave and noble, we will endeavour to imitate them; aslong as there is an abiding-place for them in the country, there areduties for us. If God vouchsafed to spare you your life a while, thatyou might live to be the instrument of restoring His worship, do youthink that I would run from your bedside, because I heard that therebels were near you? Oh, Cathelineau! you do not know the passivecourage of a woman's heart. "

Cathelineau listened to her with all his ears, and gazed on her with allhis eyes, as she spoke to him. It seemed to him as though another worldhad opened to his view even before his death; as though paradise couldgive him no holier bliss than to gaze on that face, and to listen tothat voice. 

"I never knew what a woman was till now, " said he; "and how much betteris it that I should die this moment, with your image before me, thanreturn to a world, such as mine has been, where all henceforward wouldbe distasteful to me. "

"Should you live, Cathelineau, you would live to be honoured and valued. If it be God's pleasure that you should die, your memory will behonoured--and loved, " said Agatha. 

He did not answer her for a while, but lay still, with his eyes fixedupon her, as she sat with her elbow leaning on the window. Oh! what anunspeakable joy it was to him to hear such heavenly words spoken by her, whom he had almost worshipped; and yet her presence and her words turnedhis thoughts back from heaven to the earth which he had all but left. Could she really have loved him had it been his lot to survive thesewars? Could she really have descended from her high pinnacle of stateand fortune to bless so lowly a creature as him with her beauty and herexcellence? As these thoughts passed through his brain, he began for thefirst time to long for life, to think that the promised blessings ofheaven hardly compensated for those which he was forced to leave onearth; but his mind was under too strong control to be allowed to wanderlong upon such reflections. He soon recovered his wayward thoughts, andremembered that his one remaining earthly duty was to die. 

"It is God's will that I should die, " said he at last, "and I feel thatHe will soon release me from all worldly cares and sufferings; but you, Mademoiselle, have made the last moments of my life happy, " and againhe was silent for a minute or two, while he strove to find both courageand words to express that which he wished to say. "How different havebeen the last few weeks of my existence since first I was allowed tolook upon your face!" A faint blush suffused Agatha's brow asCathelineau spoke. "Yes, Mademoiselle, " he continued, " I know you willforgive, when coming from a dying man, words which would have beeninsane had they been spoken at any other time--my life has been whollydifferent since that day when your brother led me, unwilling as I was, into your presence at Durbellière. Since that time I have had no otherthought than of you; it was you who gave me courage in battle, and, morewonderful than that, enabled me to speak aloud, and with authority amongthose who were all so infinitely my superiors. It was your beauty thatsoftened my rough heart, your spirit that made me dauntless, yourinfluence that raised me up so high. I have not dared to love you aslove is usually described, for they say that love without hope makes theheart miserable, and my thoughts of you have made me more blessed thanI ever was before, and yet I hoped for nothing; but I have adored youas I hardly dared to adore anything that was only human. I hardly knowwhy I should have had myself carried hither to tell you this, but I feltthat I should die more easily, when I had confessed to you the libertywhich my thoughts had taken with your image. "

As he continued speaking, Agatha had risen from her seat, and she wasnow kneeling at the foot of his bed, hiding her face between her hands, and the tears were streaming fast down her cheeks. 

"Tell me, Mademoiselle, that you forgive me, " said he, "tell me that youpardon my love, and above all, pardon me for speaking of it. I have nowbut a few hours' breath, and in them I feel that I shall be but feeble;but tell me that you forgive me, and, though dying, I shall be happy. "

Agatha was too agitated to speak for a time, but she stretched her handout to him, and he grasped it in his own as forcibly as his strengthwould allow. 

"I know that you have pardoned my boldness, " said he. "May God blessyou, and protect you in the dangers which are coming. "

"May He bless you also, Cathelineau--dear Cathelineau, " said Agatha, still sobbing. "May He bless you, and receive you into His glory, andseat you among His angels, and make you blessed and happy in Hispresence for ever and ever through eternity. " And she drew herselfnearer to him, and kissed the hand which she still held within her own, and bathed it with her tears, and pressed it again and again to herbosom. "The memory of the words you have spoken to me shall be dearerto me than the love of man, shall be more precious to me than any homagea living prince could lay at my feet--to remember that Cathelineau hasloved me--that the sainted Cathelineau has held my image in his heart, shall be love enough for Agatha Larochejaquelin. "

Cathelineau lingered on for the whole of that day, and the greaterportion of the night. Agatha did not leave his bed-side for a moment, but sat during most of the time still holding his hand in hers. He spokeno farther respecting the singular passion he had nursed in his heart, nor did she allude to it; but when be spoke at all, he felt that he wasspeaking to a dear, and tried, and valued friend, and he spoke, therefore, without hesitation and without reserve. He desired her togive various messages from him to the Vendean chiefs, but especially tode Lescure, to whom he said he looked with most hope for a successfulissue to the struggle. He begged that they might be told that his lastbreath was spent in advising that they should make one great, combined, and final effort for the total overthrow of republicanism in France, andnot fritter away their strength in prolonged contests with an enemy soinfinitely their superior in numbers. Agatha promised faithfully to bea true messenger of these last injunctions, and then she saw the Vendeanchief expire in perfect tranquillity, happy in an assured hope ofeverlasting joy. 

He died about three in the morning, and before five, HenriLarochejaquelin arrived at St. Laurent from Clisson. He had ridden hardthrough the previous day and the entire night, with the hope of oncemore seeing the leader, whom he had followed with so much devotion, andvalued so truly; but he was too late. 

He caught his sister in his arms as he ran up the hospital stairs. "Where is he?" said he; "is he still alive? Is there any hope?"

"There is no hope for us, " answered Agatha; "but there is perfectcertainty for him. The good Cathelineau has restored his spirit to Himwho gave it to avenge His glory. "

CHAPTER VI

COMMISSIONERS OF THE REPUBLIC

The taking Saumur frightened the Convention much more than any of theprevious victories of the Vendeans. The republicans lost a vast quantityof military stores, arms, gunpowder, cannons, and soldiers' clothing;and, which was much worse than the loss itself these treasures hadfallen into the hands of an enemy, whose chief weakness consisted in thewant of such articles. The royalists since the beginning of the revolthad always shewn courage and determination in action; but they had neverbefore been collected in such numbers, or combated with forces so fullyprepared for resistance, as those whom they had so signally conqueredat Saumur. The Convention began to be aware that some strong effortwould be necessary to quell the spirit of the Vendeans. France at thetime was surrounded by hostile troops. At the moment in which therepublicans were flying from the royalists at Saumur, the soldiers ofthe Convention were marching out of Valenciennes, that fortified cityhaving been taken by the united arms of Austria and England. Condé alsohad fallen, and on the Rhine, the French troops who had occupied Mayencewith so much triumph, were again on the point of being driven from itby the Prussians. 

The Committee of Public Safety, then the repository of the supreme powerin Paris, was aware that unless the loyalty of La Vendée was utterlyexterminated, the royalists of that district would sooner or later jointhemselves to the allies, and become the nucleus of an overpoweringaristocratic party in France. There were at the time thousands, and tensand hundreds of thousands in France who would gladly have welcomed theextinction of the fearful Republic which domineered over them, had notevery man feared to express his opinion. The Republic had declared, thatopposition to its behests, in deed, or in word, or even in thought, asfar as thoughts could be surmised, should he punished with death; andby adhering to the purport of this horrid decree, the voice of a nationreturning to its senses was subdued. Men feared to rise against theincubus which oppressed them, lest others more cowardly than themselvesshould not join them; and the Committee of Public Safety felt that theirprolonged existence depended on their being able to perpetuate thisfear. It determined, therefore, to strike terror into the nation byexhibiting a fearful example in La Vendée. After full consideration, theCommittee absolutely resolved to exterminate the inhabitants of thecountry--utterly to destroy them all, men, women, and children--to burnevery town, every village, and every house--to put an end to all lifein the doomed district, and to sweep from the face of the country man, beast, and vegetable. The land was to be left without proprietors, without a population, and without produce; it was to be converted intoa huge Golgotha, a burial-place for every thing that had life within it;and then, when utterly purged by fire and massacre, it was to be givenup to new colonists, good children of the Republic, who should enjoy thefertility of a land soaked with the blood of its former inhabitants. Such was the deliberate resolution of the Committee of Public Safety, and no time was lost in commencing the work of destruction. 

Barrère, one of the members of the Committee, undertook to see the workput in a proper train, and for this purpose he left Paris for the sceneof action. Westerman and Santerre accompanied him, and to them wascommitted the task of accomplishing the wishes of the Committee. Therewas already a republican army in La Vendée, under the command of GeneralBiron, but the troops of which it was composed were chiefly raw levies, recruits lately collected by the conscription, without discipline, and, in a great degree, without courage; but the men who were now brought tocarry on the war, were the best soldiers whom France could supply. Westerman brought with him a legion of German mercenaries, on whom hecould rely for the perpetration of any atrocity, and Santerre was at thehead of the seven thousand men, whom the allied army had permitted tomarch out of Valenciennes, and to return to Paris. 

It was in the beginning of July that this worthy triumvirate met atAngers, on their road to La Vendée. Cathelineau had driven therepublican garrison out of this town immediately after the victory atSaumur, but the royalists made no attempt to keep possession of it, andthe troops who had evacuated it at their approach, returned to it almostimmediately. It was now thronged with republican soldiers of alldenominations, who exercised every species of tyranny over thetownspeople. Food, drink, forage, clothes, and even luxuries weredemanded, and taken in the name of the Convention from every shop, andthe slightest resistance to these requisitions, was punished as treasonto the Republic. The Vendeans, in possession of the same town only afortnight before, had injured no one, had taken nothing without payingfor it, aid had done everything to prevent the presence of their armybeing felt as a curse; and yet Angers was a noted republican town; ithad shown no favours to the royalists, and received with open arms themessengers of the Convention. Such was the way in which the republicansrewarded their friends, and the royalists avenged themselves on theirenemies. 

One hot July evening, five men were seated in a parlour of the Mayor'shouse in Angers, but the poor Mayor himself was not allowed, norprobably did he wish, to be one of the party. Glasses were on the tablebefore them, and the empty bottles, which were there also, showed, thathowever important the subjects might be which they were discussing, theystill considered that some degree of self-indulgence was compatible withtheir duties. The air of the room was heavy with tobacco smoke, and oneor two of the number still had cigars between their lips. They were allarmed, though two of them were not in uniform, and the manner in whichthey had their arms disposed, showed that they did not quite conceivethemselves to be in security in these their convivial moments. The menwere Barrère, Westerman, and Santerre, and two of the republicanGenerals, Chouardin and Bourbotte. 

Westerman and the two latter were in uniform, and the fact of theirhaving arms, was only in keeping with their general appearance: but theother two were in plain clothes, and their pistols, which were lyingamong the glasses on the table, and the huge swords which stood uprightagainst their chairs, gave a hideous aspect to the party, and made themlook as though they were suspicious of each other. 

Barrère alone had no sword. His hand was constantly playing with alittle double-barrelled pistol, which he continually cocked anduncocked, the fellow of which lay immediately before him. He was a tall, well built, handsome man, about thirty years of age, with straight blackhair, brushed upright from his forehead; his countenance gave the ideaof eagerness and impetuosity, rather than cruelty or brutality. He was, however, essentially egotistical and insincere; he was republican, notfrom conviction, but from prudential motives; he adhered to the thronea while, and deserted it only when he saw that it was tottering; for atime he belonged to the moderate party in the Republic, and voted withthe Girondists; he gradually joined the Jacobins, as he saw that theywere triumphing over their rivals, and afterwards was one of those whohanded over the leaders of the Reign of Terror to the guillotine, andassisted in denouncing Robespierre and St. Just. He was one of the veryfew who managed to outlive the Revolution, which he did for nearly halfa century. 

His face was hardly to be termed prepossessing, but it certainly did notdenote the ruthless ferocity which the nature of the task he hadundertaken would require, and which he exercised in its accomplishment. Nature had not formed him to be a monster gloating in blood; theRepublic had altered the disposition which nature had given him, and helearnt among those with whom he had associated, to delight in the workwhich they required at his hands. Before the Reign of Terror was over, he had become one of those who most loudly called for more blood, whileblood was running in torrents on every side; it was he who demanded themurder of the Queen, when even Robespierre was willing to save her. Itwas he who declared in the Convention that the dead were the onlyenemies who never returned; and yet this same man lived to publish apamphlet, in which he advocated the doctrine, that under nocircumstances could one human being be justified in taking the life ofanother. 

He was dressed in a blue dress-coat, which in spite of the heat of theweather, was buttoned close round his body; he was rather a dandy in hiscostume, for his tightly-fitted breeches were made to show the form ofhis well-formed leg, and his cravat was without a wrinkle. Before theRevolution, Barrère had been a wealthy aristocrat. 

Santerre, who sat next to him, was in every respect unlike the ci-devantnobleman. He was a large, rough, burly man, about forty years of age;his brown hair was long and uncombed, his face was coarse and hot, andthe perspiration was even now running down it, though drinking andsmoking was at present his hardest work; his lips were thick andsensual, and his face was surrounded by huge whiskers, which made himlook uncouth and savage; his cravat was thrown off, and his shirt wasopen at the neck, so as to show his brown throat and brawny chest; ahuge horse pistol lay before him close to his glass, and a still hugersword stood up against his chair. He was drinking hard and talkingloudly, and was evidently quite at ease with his company; he was ascompletely at home in the Mayor's parlour at Angers, as when rushinginto the Tuilleries at the head of his fellow citizens from the faubourgSt. Antoine. 

Santerre was of Flemish descent, and by trade a brewer. He was possessedof considerable wealth, which he freely spent among the poor, whilefamine pressed sore upon them; he was consequently loved, followed, andobeyed. He was the King of the Faubourgs; and though the most ruthlessin his animosity to the royalists, he was not altogether a bad man, neither was he by nature absolutely cruel. He had adopted the Revolutionfrom a belief that the great mass of the people would be better off inthe world without kings, nobility, or aristocrats; and having madehimself firm in this belief, he used to the utmost his coarse, huge, burly power in upsetting these encumbrances on the nation. His love ofliberty had become a fanaticism. He had gone with the current, and hehad no fine feelings to be distressed at the horrid work which he hadto do, no humanity to be shocked; but he was not one of those whodelighted in bloodshed and revelled in the tortures which he inflictedon others. He had been low in the world's esteem, and the Revolution hadraised him to a degree of eminence; this gratified his ambition, andmade him a ready tool in the hands of those who knew how to use hiswell-known popularity, his wealth, his coarse courage and great physicalpowers. 

Westerman sat at the window a little away from the others. He was a manof indomitable courage and undying perseverance. He was a German, whohad been banished from Prussia, and having entered the French army asa private soldier had gradually risen to be an officer. A short timebefore the storming of the Tuilleries he had foreseen that thedemocratic party was prevailing, and he had joined it. Danton andSanterre had discovered and appreciated his courage and energy, and hesoon found himself a leader of the people. It was he who directed themovements of the populace on the 10th of August, when the Tuilleries wassacked, and the Swiss guards were massacred on the steps of the King'spalace. Since that time Westerman had been a successful soldier in therepublican army, not that he was by any means a vehement democrat: hisobject had been military success, and that only. He had neitherpolitical theories or political ambition. Chance had thrown him in theway of the Republic, and he had become a republican. He was thenattached to the army of Dumourier as aide-de-camp to that General, andwas in the confidence of him and of Danton, at the moment that Dumourierwas endeavouring to hand over the armies of the Republic to the powerof Prussia and of Austria. He again, however, was wise in time. Dumourier calculated too entirely on the affection of the army tohimself and failed; but before he failed, Westerman had left him. He wasnow again a trustworthy servant of the Republic, and as such was sentto assist in the fearful work which the tyranny of the democratsrequired. 

His unnatural ruthlessness and prompt obedience were of no avail to him. Soon after his return from the western provinces he perished under theguillotine. 

"And so the good Cathelineau is dead, " said Santerre. "The invincible, the invulnerable, the saint! ha, ha! What sweet names these dear friendsof ours have given themselves. "

"Yes, " said General Bourbotte; "the messenger who told me had comedirect from their hospital; Cathelineau breathed his last the day beforeyesterday at St. Laurent. "

"Let us drink to his health, gentlemen; his spiritual health, " saidSanterre; "and to his safe journey;" and the brewer raised his glass tohis lips, and drank the toast which he had proposed. 

"Bon voyage, my dear Cathelineau, " said Bourbotte, following hisexample. 

"Cathelineau was a brave man, " said Chouardin. "I am glad he died of hiswounds; I should have been sorry that so gallant a fellow should havehad to submit his neck to the sharp embraces of MademoiselleGuillotine. "

"That is hardly a patriotic sentiment, citizen General, " said Barrère. "Gallantry on the part of an insurgent royalist is an inspiration ofthe devil, sent to induce man to perpetuate the degradation and miseryof his fellow-men. Such gallantry, or rather such frenzy, should giverise to anything but admiration in the breast of a patriot. "

"My fidelity to the Republic will not be doubted, I believe, " saidChouardin, "because, as a soldier, I admire high courage when I find itin a soldier. "

"If your fidelity be unimpeachable, your utility will be muchquestioned, if you wish to spare a royalist because he is a brave man, "said Barrère. "By the same argument, I presume, you would refrain fromknocking an adder on the head, because he rose boldly in your path. "

"Who talked of sparing?" said Chouardin. "I only said that I wouldsooner that a brave enemy should die in battle than be handled by anexecutioner. Talk as you will, you cannot disgrace such a man asCathelineau. "

"Cannot I, indeed, citizen General?" said Westerman, rising from hisseat and coming into the middle of the room. "I do then utterly despise, scorn, and abominate him, and all such as him. I can conceive nothingin human form more deplorably low, more pitiably degraded, than such apoor subservient slave as he was. "

"There, Westerman, you are grossly wrong, " said Santerre. "Your cowardlyMarquis, run-fling from the throne which he pretends to reverence, butdoes not dare to protect; whose grand robes and courtly language alonehave made him great; who has not heart enough even to love the gaypuppets who have always surrounded him, or courage enough to fight forthe unholy wealth he has amassed: this man I say is contemptible. Suchcreatures are as noxious vermin, whom one loathes, and loathing themdestroys. You no less destroy the tiger, who ravages the green fieldswhich your labour has adorned; who laps the blood of your flocks, andthreatens the life of your children and servants, but you do not despisethe tiger; you keep his hide, as a monument of your victory over a braveand powerful enemy. Cathelineau was the tiger, who was destroying, before it had ripened, the precious fruit of the Revolution. "

"The tiger is a noble beast, " said Westerman. "He is hungry, and heseeks his prey; he is satisfied, and he lays down and sleeps; butCathelineau was a mean jackal, who strove for others, not for himself. I can understand the factious enmity of the born aristocrat, who is nowcalled upon to give up the titles, dignities, and so-called honours, which, though stolen from the people, he has been taught to look uponas his right. He contends for a palpable possession which his hand hasgrasped, which he has tasted and long enjoyed. I know that he is arobber and a spoiler of the poor; I know, in short, that he is anaristocrat, and as such I would have him annihilated, abolished from theface of the earth. I would that the aristocrats of France had but oneneck, that with a grasp of my own hand, I might at once choke out theirpernicious breath, " and the republican laid upon the table his hugehand, and tightly clenched his fingers as though he held between themthe imaginary throat of the aristocracy of France; "but, " continued he, "much as I hate a gentleman, ten times more strongly do I hate, despise, and abhor the subservient crew of spiritless slaves who uphold the powerof the masters, who domineer over them, who will not accept the sweetgift of liberty, who are kicked, and trodden on, and spat upon, and willnot turn again; who will not rise against their tyrants, even when themeans of doing so are brought to their hands; who willingly, nay, enthusiastically, lay their necks in the dust, that their fellow-creatures may put their feet upon them. Of such was this Cathelineau, and of such I understand are most of those who hound on these wretchedpeasants to sure destruction. For them I have no pity, and with them Ihave no sympathy. They have not the spirit of men, and I would rejoicethat the dogs should lick their blood from off the walls, and that birdsof prey should consume their flesh. "

"Westerman is right, " said Barrère; "they are mean curs, these Vendeans, and like curs they must be destroyed; the earth must be rid of men whoknow not how to take possession of their property in that earth whichnature has given them. Believe me, citizen General, that any sympathywith such a reptile as Cathelineau is not compatible with the feelingwhich should animate the heart of a true republican, intending honestlyand zealously to do the work of the Republic. "

General Chouardin made no reply to the rebuke which these wordsconveyed; he did not dare to do so; he did not dare to repeat theopinion that there was anything admirable in the courage of a royalist. Much less than had now been said had before this been deemed sufficientto mark as a victim for the revolutionary tribunal some servant of theRepublic, and few wished to experience the tender mercies of FouquierTinville, the public accuser. Even Santerre was silenced; despite hispopularity, his well-known devotion to the cause, his hatred of thearistocrats, and his aversion to royalty, so horridly displayed at theexecution of the King, even he felt that it might not be safe for himto urge that the memory of Cathelineau was not despicable. 

"His death must have much weakened them, " said Bourbotte. "I know themwell, the miscreants! I doubt if they will follow any other leader, thatis, in great numbers. The fools looked on this man as a kind of god;they now find that their god is dead. I doubt whether there is anotherleader among them, who can induce them to leave their parishes. "

"If they won't come to us, " said Barrère, "we must go to them; they havegone too far now to recede. Whether they return to their homes, or againtake up arms, matters little; they must all be destroyed, for bloodalone can establish the Republic on a basis which can never beoverturned. "

"The name of a royalist shall be as horrible in men's ears as that ofa parricide, " said Santerre. 

"But what will you do if you find no army to oppose you?" saidBourbotte. "You cannot well fight without an enemy. "

"Never fear, " said Westerman, "your muskets shall not grow rusty forwant of use. We will go from parish to parish, and leave behind us deadcorpses, and burning houses. "

"You will not ask soldiers to do the work of executioners?" saidBourbotte. 

"I expect the soldiers to do the work of the Convention, " said Barrère;"and I also expect the officers to do the same: these are not times inwhich a man can be chary as to the work which he does. "

"We must not leave a royalist alive in the west of France, " saidWesterman. "You may be assured, Generals, that our soldiers will obeyus, however slow yours may be to obey you. "

"Perhaps so, " said Bourbotte; "my men have not yet been taught tomassacre unarmed crowds. "

"It is difficult to know what they have been taught, " said Westerman. "Whenever they have encountered a few peasants with clubs in theirhands, your doughty heroes have invariably ran away. "

Westerman as he spoke, stood leaning on the back of a chair, andBourbotte also rose as he answered him. 

"I have yet to learn, " aid he, "that you yourself ever were able to makegood soldiers out of country clowns in less than a month's time. Whenyou have done so, then you may speak to me on the subject withoutimpertinence. "

"I give you my word, citizen General, " answered Westerman, "I shall sayto you, then and now, whatever I, in the performance of my duty, maythink fits and if you deem me impertinent, you may settle that pointwith the Convention, or, if you prefer it, with myself. "

"Westerman, you are unfair to General Bourbotte, " said Santerre; "he hassaid nothing which need offend you. "

"It is the General that is offended, not I, " said Westerman; "I only begthat he may not talk mawkish nonsense, and tell us that his fellows aretoo valiant, and too noble to put to the sword unarmed royalists, wheneverybody knows they are good for nothing else, and that they would runand scatter from the fire of a few muskets, like a lot of plovers froma volley of stones. "

"I grant you, " said Bourbotte, "that my soldiers are men and notmonsters. They are, as yet, French peasants, not German cut-throats. "

"Now, by Heaven, Bourbotte, " said the Prussian, "you shall swallow thatword, " and he seized a pistol from off the table. "German cut-throat!and that from you who have no other qualities of a soldier than what areto be found in a light pair of heels. You shall, at any rate, have todeal with one German, whether he be a cut-throat or not. "

"In any way you please, " said Bourbotte, "that is, in any open or honestway. " And as he spoke, he stepped back one step, and took his sword outof the scabbard. 

The pistol which Westerman had taken from the table belonged toSanterre, and when he saw it in the hand of his friend, he leapt up andseized hold of the German's arm. 

"Are you mad Westerman, " said he; "do you wish to fight here in theMayor's house? I tell you, you were wrong, in taunting him as you did;sit quiet till I make peace between you. "

"Taunting him! now, by Heaven, that is good. I will leave it to Barrèreto say who first taunted the other. Nonsense, Santerre, leave hold ofme I say: you do not think I am going to murder the man, do you?"

General Chouardin also got up and put himself between the two armed men. "Put up your sword, Bourbotte, " whispered he, leading him off to thefurther window of the room; "you are no match for him here: if Barrèrechooses he will have you recalled to Paris, and your neck will then notbe worth a month's purchase. "

"Gentlemen, " said Barrère, "this will never do. You can neither of youserve the nation well if you persist in quarrelling between yourselves. General Bourbotte, you should apologize to our friend Westerman for theinsult which you offered to his countrymen. "

"My country is the country of my adoption, " said Westerman. "I ceasedto be a German when I took up the arms of France; but my soldiers aremy children, and an insult to them is an injury to myself. "

"If your anger can wait till the revolt in La Vendée has been quelled, "said Chouardin, "my friend Bourbotte will be ready enough to satisfyyour wishes as a citizen. Barrère truly says, this is no time forprivate quarrels. "

"So be it, " said Westerman. "Let General Bourbotte remember that he owesme an apology or redress. "

"You shall have any redress, which any arms you may be pleased to namecan give you, " said Bourbotte. 

"By my honour then, you are two fools, " said Santerre; "two egregiousfools, if you cannot at once forget the angry words which you each haveused. Have your own way, however, so long as you do not fight here. "

As the brewer was yet speaking, a servant knocked at the door, and saidthat a young man wished to say a few words to citizen Santerre onespecial business, and on the service of the Republic. 

"On the service of the Republic?" said Santerre. "Show him in here then;I have no official secrets from my colleagues. "

The servant, however, stated that the young man would not make hisappearance in the room where the party were sitting, and he declared hewould go away if he could not see Santerre alone. The republican atlength yielded, and followed the servant into a small sitting-room, where he found our friend, Adolphe Denot. 

CHAPTER VII

BATTLE OF AMAILLOU

It will be remembered that Adolphe Denot left the council-room of theroyalist leaders at Saumur in anger; and that, after a few words withHenri Larochejaquelin, departed no one knew whither, or for whatpurpose. On leaving Henri in the street, he had himself no fixed resolveas to his future conduct; he was only determined no longer to remainleagued with men, among whom he felt himself to be disgraced. De Lescurehad seen him hesitate in the hour of danger, and had encouraged him invain; he knew that after this he could never again bear to meet the calmgrey eye of his friend's cousin; he had not only been not selected asone of the Generals, but he had even been rejected, and that by the veryman who had seen his cowardice. His love, moreover, had been refused byAgatha, and he deemed this refusal an injury which demanded vengeancefrom his hands; from the moment in which he left her room inDurbellière, schemes had floated across his half-bewildered brain forthe accomplishment of his object. He still loved Agatha, though his lovewas, as it were, mingled with hatred; he still wished to possess her, but he did not care how disagreeable, how horrible to herself might bethe means by which he accomplished his object. He entertained ideas ofseizing upon her person, taking her from Durbellière, and marrying herduring the confusion which the Revolution had caused in the country. Atfirst he had no distinct idea of treachery towards the royalists withwhom he had sided; though vague thoughts of bringing the soldiers of theConvention to Durbellière, in the dead of night, had at different timesentered his mind, he had never reduced such thoughs to a palpable plan, nor had he ever endeavoured to excuse to himself the iniquity of sucha scheme, as a man does when he resolves to sacrifice his honour and hishonesty to his passions. 

It was in the council-room at Saumur that he first felt a desire tobetray the friends of his life; it was in the moment of his hot anger, after leaving it, that he determined to put into effect the plan whichhe had already conceived; it was then that insane ambition and selfishlove prompted him to forget every feeling which he had hithertorecognized as honourable, and to commit himself to a deed which wouldmake it impossible that he should ever be reconciled with the companionsof his youth. He had no presentiment that he should ever rise to honouror distinction in the army of the Republic; he never even thought ofwhat his future life would be: revenge was his object, and the sweetdelight of proving to Agatha Larochejaquelin that he was able to carryout the bold threats, which he knew that she had scorned and derided. 

It would be too much to say that Adolphe Denot was insane, for thatwould imply that he was not responsible for his own actions; but therecertainly lacked something in his brain or mind, which is necessary toperfect sanity. He was no fool; he had read, enjoyed, and perhapswritten poetry; he was, for the times, well educated; he could talkfluently, and, occasionally, even persuasively; he understood rapidly, and perceived correctly, the arguments and motives of others; but hecould not regulate his conduct, either from the lessons he had learntfrom books, or from the doings or misdoings of those around him. Hewished to be popular, powerful and distinguished, but he was utterlyignorant of the means by which men gain the affection, respect, andadmiration of their fellow-men; he possessed talent without judgment, and ambition without principle. As a precocious boy, he had been toomuch admired; he had assumed at an early age the duty of a man, and hadat once been found miserably wanting. 

On leaving Henri in the streets of Saumur, he went to his lodging, tookwith him what money he had, got upon his horse, and rode out of the townby the temporary bridge which had been put up for the transit of theshaved prisoners. He had wandered about the country for three weeks, remaining sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another, endeavouringto mature his plans; and hearing of the arrival of Santerre in Augers, had come thither to offer his services to the republicans, in theinvasion which he understood they contemplated making into the Bocage. 

His appearance was not very attractive when first he introduced himselfto the republican, for he was lean with anxiety and worn with care; hiseyes were restless and bloodshot, and his limbs trembled beneath him. Santerre was not a man who much regarded externals; but, as heafterwards said, "he did not much like the hang-dog look of the royalistcur. "

Denot, in an awkward way, got through his story; he had been one of theinsurgent Vendeans, he said, but he now wished to serve the Republic. He was intimately acquainted with the royalist leaders, especially thetwo most popular of them, de Lescure and Larochejaquelin. He knew andwas willing to betray their plans. He would accompany Santerre to theresidences of these Vendean Generals, and undertake to give them, theirfamilies, and possessions, into the power of the republicans, and forthese services he asked but one favour; that he should be present at thecontemplated burning of Durbellière, and be allowed to save the life ofone female who resided there. He represented that his animosity aroseentirely from the rejection of his love, and that his only object wasto carry off the sister of the Vendean chief from the burning ashes ofher father's château. 

"Are you aware, young man, " said Santerre, with something of generosityin the warning which he gave--a generosity probably inspired by the winehe had drunk: "are you aware, that should I agree to your proposal, every other member of her family will be put to death before your eyes--her brother, her old father, and every pestilent royalist we may findabout the place?"

"I suppose they will, " said Denot moodily. "At any rate, they deserveno protection at my hands. "

"You have probably eaten their bread and drank their wine. You say, indeed, you have lived long in this rambling château, and have foughtside by side with this hot-headed young brigand. Bethink you, my friend, you are angry now, but it may turn your stomach, when you are cool, tosee the blood of those you know so well running like water; besides, youare taking but an unlikely road to the heart of the girl you say youlove. No one has heard your plot but myself: I advise you to abandon it;if you do so, I will forget that I have heard it. You are angry now; gohome and sleep on it. "

"Sleep on it! I have slept on it these three weeks. No, I did not cometo you till I was fully resolved. As for these people, I owe themnothing; they have scorned and rejected me; and as for the girl's heart, it is not that I seek now. Let me gain her person, and her heart willfollow. A woman soon learns to love him whom she is forced to obey. "

"Well, be it as you will, " said Santerre. "It is all a matter of taste;only remember, that before I accede to your proposal, I must consultwith my colleagues in the next room, and that when once I have spokento them it will be too late for me to go back. "

Denot declared that he had formed his resolution after matureconsideration, and that he was ready and willing to carry through thework he had proposed for himself; and Santerre, without making anyfurther objection, rejoined his friends in the next room, and explainedto them the offer which had been made to him. Barrère at first opposedany treaty with Denot. He recommended that the young man should be keptas a prisoner, and at once handed over to the revolutionary tribunal. 

"What good can he do us?" said he; "we can find our way to thisDurbellière without his assistance; let him and the girl he wishes tokidnap pay the penalty of their crimes against the Republic. She is, Isuppose, one of those modern Joans of Arc, who inspire the flaggingspirits of these peasants. Should she have beauty enough to make herworth preserving, let her be the prize of some true republican. As forhim, let him stretch his neck beneath the guillotine. "

Barrère, however, was overruled. The Generals who were with him knew toowell the nature of the country they were about to invade, not toappreciate the value of such a guide as they might find in Denot: aguide, who not only knew the nature of the country they had to traverse, and the position of the places they wished to attack, but who was alsointimate with the insurgent chiefs, acquainted with their persons andtheir plans, and who would probably disclose, under proper management, every secret of the revolt. It was accordingly agreed that his offershould be accepted, and he was introduced by Santerre to his fourconfederates. 

"Sit down, my friend, " said Barrère, "sit down. Our colleague hereinforms us that you are sick of these mawkish royalists, and are willingto serve the Republic. Is it so, young man?"

"I have told M. Santerre--" said Denot. "Citizen Santerre, if youplease, " said Barrère; "or General Santerre, if you like it better. Monsieur and Monseigneur are a little out of fashion just at present onthis side of the Loire. "

"As they soon also shall be on the other, " said Westerman. 

"Well, I have told him, " and Denot pointed to Santerre, "what it is Ipropose to do for you, and the terms on which I will do it. "

"Terms indeed!" said Barrère. "The Republic is not accustomed to maketerms with her servants. Come, tell us at once: are you a republican?"

Denot hesitated; not that he was ashamed to own himself a republican, but his blood was boiling with passion at the language and tone in whichhe was addressed, and yet he did not dare to shew his anger. 

"Of course he is a republican, " said Santerre, "or why would he comehere? Take a glass of wine, friend Denot, and pluck up your courage, "and Santerre passed the wine-bottle to him. "If you are true to us, youneed not fear us. "

"He must pronounce himself a republican, " said Barrère, "or we cannotdeal with him. Come, young man, can you put your mouth to so muchinconvenience as to give us some slight inkling of your presentpolitical principles? All we know of you as yet is, that three weekssince you were a pestilent royalist, and a leader of royalists. "

"I am a republican, " said Denot. 

"The Republic is made happy by your adhesion, " said Barrère, bowing tohim with mock solemnity across the table. 

"What surety do you mean to offer us, citizen Denot, " said Westerman, "that you are acting with us in good faith?"

"Do I not give you my life?" said Denot. "What other surety can I give, or can you require? What am I, or what are the royalists to gain by myproving false?"

"You say truly, " answered Westerman; "you give us your life as a suretyfor your good faith to us. You may be assured that we will exact thepenalty, if we have the slightest suspicion of foul play. "

Denot made no answer, and he was questioned no further. The party soonafter broke up, and the young deserter was handed over to the care ofone of Santerre's sub-officers, with injunctions that he should be welland civilly treated, but that he should not be allowed to go abroad byhimself; in fact, he was to be regarded as a prisoner. 

"Do not be disheartened, " said Santerre to him. "You can understand thatunder the circumstances, such precautions must be necessary. The dayafter tomorrow we start on our march, and you shall ride close tomyself. When Clisson and Durbellière are in ashes, you shall be free totake your own course; in the meantime, no indignity shall be offered toyou. "

On the day named by Santerre, the whole republican army started fromAngers, and commenced their march towards the Bocage. They proceeded ontheir route for several days without finding any enemy to contend with. They kept on the northern shore of the Loire till they reached Saumur, where they remained a couple of days, and employed themselves inpunishing the inhabitants in whose houses the leaders of the Vendeanshad been entertained. It was in vain that these poor men pleaded thatthey had not even opened their doors to the royalists till after therepublican General had capitulated; that they had given nothing whichthey had been able to refuse, and, in fact, that they had only soldtheir goods and let their rooms to the Vendeans, when they could notpossibly have declined to do so. Their arguments were of no avail; theywere thrown into prison as criminals, and left for trial by therevolutionary tribunal. 

Although Saumur had so lately been besieged and taken by the royalists, there was hardly a vestige of the conquerors left in it. Their attemptto place a garrison in the town had proved entirely a failure; thepeasants who had undertaken the work had left the place by scores at atime, and before a fortnight was over, the commandant found himself withabout twenty-five men, and consequently he marched back into La Vendéeafter his army. The town was perfectly tranquil when the republicansentered it, but the citizens were afflicted and out of spirits; their. Shops were closed, and their goods hidden; the bakers had no bread, thebutchers no meat, and the grocers had neither oil nor sugar. They knewwell what it was to sell their merchandise to the troops of theConvention, and to be paid for them by the government in assignats. 

Many of those who had formed the former garrison of Saumur, were nowwith the army; men whom Chapeau and his assistants had shaven, men stillbald, and smarting from the indignity to which they had been subjected. They wreaked their vengeance on the scene of their disgrace, and on allthose who had in any way lent, or were suspected to have lent, their aidto its consummation. The furniture of the Town-hall was broken inpieces; the barbers' shops were ransacked, and their razors, brushes, and basins scattered through the street; nor was this the worst; onepoor wretch was recognized who had himself wielded a razor on theoccasion; he was dragged from his little shop by those on whom he hadoperated, and was swung up by his neck from a lamp-iron in the sight ofhis wife and children, who had followed his persecutors through thestreet. The poor woman pleaded on her knees for the life of her husband, as a wife can plead for the life of him whom she loves better than thewhole world. She offered all her little wealth and her prayers; shesupplicated them with tears and with blessings; she seized hold of theknees of the wretch who held the rope, and implored him by hisremembrance of his father, by his regard for his own wife, his love forhis own children, to spare to her the father of her infants; but sheasked in vain; the man, feeling that his legs were encumbered, spurnedthe woman from him with his foot, and kept his hand tight upon thelamp-rope till the dying convulsions of the poor barber had ceased. 

No notice was taken by the republican Generals of this murder; at anyrate no punishment followed it; the next morning the army resumed itsmarch, and left the town hated, cursed, feared, and yet obeyed. Thepeople were now royalists in their hearts, but they did not dare toexpress their feelings even in whispers to each other, so frightful tothem was the vengeance of the Republic. There was much policy in thefearful cruelty of the Jacobins; it was the only means by which theycould have retained their power for a month. 

The republicans marched on from Saumur to Montreuil, and from Montreuilto Thouars, and still found no one in arms to oppose them. Here theyseparated; a small party, headed by Santerre and Denot, penetrated atonce from Thouars into the Bocage, and made for the château ofDurbellière. It was believed that both de Lescure and Larochejaquelinwere there, and Santerre expected that by hurrying across the countrywith a small force, he would be able to take them both and burn thechâteau, and afterwards rejoin Westerman at Chatillon. Barrère, whoseduties were not strictly those of a soldier, had not accompanied thearmy beyond Saumur. Westerman and the main body of the army stillcontinued southward till they reached Parthenay, from which place it washis intention to proceed through the revolted district, burning everyvillage; utterly destroying the towns which had not proved themselvesdevoted to the Republic, and slaughtering the peasants, their wives, andchildren wherever he could find them. 

The Vendeans had not yet sufficiently matured their plans to enable themto encounter successfully the republican army. The death of Cathelineauhad had a great effect upon the peasants: those who were with him hadreturned home in sorrow and despair, and this feeling was general, evenamong those who had not been at Nantes. De Lescure and Henri, however, had not despaired; after having seen the body of his General consignedto the dust, Henri had returned to Clisson, and he and his cousin wereagain busy in raising recruits, or rather in collecting their men, whenthey heard that Westerman, with an enormous army, was marching intoParthenay, and that it was his intention to proceed from thence into theBocage, by way of Amaillou and Bressuire. 

They had hardly heard this report, when the little village of Amaillouwas on fire; it was the first place that was utterly burnt down, andlaid in ashes by the republicans; not a house was left standing, orhardly the ruined wall of a house. The church itself was set on fire andburnt, with its pictures, its altars, and all its sacred treasures; thepeasants ran from the ruins, carrying with them their wives andchildren, the old, the crippled, and infirm: hundreds were left dead anddying among the smoking ashes. This feat having been accomplished, Westerman continued on towards Bressuire, intending to burn the châteauat Clisson, as he passed it on his way. 

The district between Amaillou and Bressuire is thickly studded withtrees. The roads, or rather lanes, are all lined by avenues of limes andbeeches. The fields are small, and surrounded by lofty hedges, which arealso, in a great measure, composed of large trees, and the whole countryin July, when the foliage is at the thickest, has almost the aspect ofone continued forest. 

Westerman had obtained guides to show him the road to Clisson. It wasabout six o'clock in the evening when the advanced portion of his army, consisting of three thousand men, had proceeded about a league fromAmaillou. He was himself riding nearly at the front of the column, talking to his aide-de-camp and one of the guides, when he was startledby hearing a noise as of disturbed branches in the hedge, only a fewfeet in advance of the spot in which he was standing; he had not, however, time to give an order, or speak a word on the subject, beforea long sudden gleam of fire flashed before his eyes; it was so near tohim that it almost blinded him: a cannon had been fired off close to hisface, and it was easy to track the fatal course of the ball; it had beendirected right along the road, and was glutted with carnage before itsstrength was spent. 

Nor did the cannon shot come alone: a fearful fire from about fivehundred muskets was poured from the hedge on either side, directly intothe road: the assailants were within a few feet of their enemy at themoment they were firing, and every shot took effect. Out of the fourhundred men who headed the column, above half were killed, or so badlywounded as to be incapable of motion. The narrow lane, for it was nomore than a lane, was nearly blocked up with carcases. Westerman, whowas possessed of a courage that was never shaken, was nevertheless sothunderstruck, that he knew not what orders to give. The republicans atthe head of the column, who had not themselves been struck, fired theirfusils into the hedges, but their fire did no injury; it was all lostamong the leaves, for the men who had attacked them were kneeling ontheir knees or lying on their bellies, and in the confusion which theyhad occasioned, were reloading their muskets. 

The guide and the aide-de-camp to whom Westerman was speaking, had bothfallen, and the horse upon which he himself was riding was so badlywounded, as to be unmanageable. He got off, and ran along under thehedge till he met an officer. "Give me your horse, Gerard, " said he;"but no, stay where you are, gallop back, and tell Bourbotte to bringup the men. Quick, mind--so quick, that they can neither see nor hearwhat has happened. Bid him force his way through the hedge to the right, when he gets to the corner. "

The young officer turned quickly to obey the command of his General, andhad already put his spur to the horse's flank, when another broad flashof light streamed through the hedge on the left, and the horseman andhorse fell to the ground, and were mingled with a heap of wounded anddying. Young Gerard did not live long enough to be conscious of the blowwhich killed him. Another volley of musketry followed the cannon shot, and hardly left a man standing of those who had been the foremost. Theattack had taken place so quickly, that the Vendeans had not yet hadtime to load again; but one of two cannons had been kept as a reserve, and about a hundred muskets had not been fired till de Lescure gave theword of command. The first attack was made under the direction of HenriLarochejaquelin. 

Westerman was standing between the hedge and the mounted officer, whenthe latter fell with his horse, and the blood from the poor animalnearly covered him from head to foot. "Into the field, my men, " said heto those who were near enough to hear him; "follow me through thehedge, " and with a considerable effort he forced his way through theunderwood, and he was followed and accompanied by all those who werestill standing near him; but when he got there, not one of the Vendeanswas to be seen; there were traces enough of them in the grass, and amongthe broken boughs, but the men had retreated after the first fire, andwere now again lying in ambush behind the next hedge. 

In about five minutes, there were two or three hundred republicans inthe fields to the right of the road, for the army was still advancing;but they did not know where to go or what to do. They were looking aboutfor an enemy, and in dread of being fired on, not only from the hedges, but even out of the trees. Westerman, however, got the men formed intosome kind of order, and bid them advance; they did so, and on comingnear to the second hedge, received another murderous fire, for everyroyalist had now had time to reload. 

The combat continued for some time, for the republicans contrived tomake their way into the second field; but the royalists again shelteredthemselves behind the further hedge, and repeated their fire from theirlurking-place. It was in vain that the republicans fired into thehedges; their shot either passed over the heads of the Vendeans, or werelost among the roots and trunks of the trees. Every one of theroyalists, on the other hand fired, with a clear aim, and almostinvariably with deadly effect. Westerman felt that it would be uselessto pursue them; his soldiers, moreover, were already flying withoutorders. He had not the least idea what was the number of the enemy withwhom he was engaged, what was their means of carrying on the battle, oron what side of him the greater number of them were situated; hetherefore determined to retreat, and led back the whole of his army overthe still burning ashes of the miserable village which he had destroyedthat morning. The greater portion of the men were forced to go back asfar as Parthenay, but he himself remained with a small detachment in theneighbourhood of Amaillou. He was determined, if possible, to berevenged that same night for the defeat which he had experienced. 

The two cousins were at Clisson when they first heard that Westerman wasactually on his road towards Bressuire, and they had lost no time intaking the best measures in their power to stop his progress, but theyhad not even hoped that their effort would have been so successful asit proved. The tocsin had been rung in the three neighbouring parishes, and about seven hundred men had been collected. These men all possessedmuskets, but they themselves had no ammunition, and the whole supplywhich could be found in the district, including the little depot atClisson, only sufficed to give the men some three and some four roundseach. When Westerman, with his ten thousand men, retreated from aboutseven hundred, the royalists had not one charge of powder to threemuskets among them. 

About ten in the evening Henri and de Lescure returned on foot from thebattle to the château of Clisson. Henri still had the red scarf roundhis neck and waist, and stuck in the latter he had three or fourpistols, of various sizes, all of which had been used in the recentengagement. On his shoulder he held a rifle, which he carried like afowling-piece, and he walked home with the air and look of a manreturning from a day's sport, well contented with the execution he haddone. 

Not so de Lescure: he was thoughtful, if not sad; and though he wouldnot, either by a tone or a look, rebuke the gaiety of his companion, itwas very evident that he did not share it. The peasants returned alongthe road, hurrying to their homes, shouting with glee and full oftriumph. As they passed their leaders, they cheered the darling heroeswho had led them to another victory, and would, had they been allowedto do so, have carried them home upon their shoulders. They had nothoughts of any further battle, or of future bloodshed and misery. Theyhad been victorious over the blues, and that was sufficient for thepresent evening. They were able to return home and tell their wives andsweethearts of their triumph, and that without any drawback from friendslost or wounded. In all their contests, the Vendeans had never beenvictorious with so few calamities to themselves. 

"I saw Westerman himself" said Henri to his friend. "I am sure I did, and what's more I was within pistol shot of him, but I hadn't a pistolloaded at the moment, or I would have put an end to his career. I wonderhow he likes his reception in the Bocage. "

"He is not the man to be easily daunted, " said de Lescure. "You'll findit will not be long before he advances again. If he were to march toBressuire tomorrow, what is to stop him?"

"Why not stop him tomorrow as we have done today?" said Henri. 

"The men are all gone home, " said the other. 

"They will all assemble again tomorrow, " said Henri; "we have only tohave the bells rung at seven o'clock, or six, or five, or when you will, and you will find that every man will be ready for another day's work, and that without a murmur. "

"And will they bring powder with them, Henri?"

"Why, we are rather short off for powder, " said he. "Our affair tonightwas all very well, for the enemy lost an immense number, and we lostnone; but yet it was unsatisfactory, for the fellows have left nothingbehind them. I'll tell you what, Charles, we ought to follow them toParthenay. "

"Impossible, " said de Lescure. 

"Why impossible, Charles? Why is Parthenay, which is not betterfortified than Clisson, be more unassailable than Saumur, whereeverything appeared to be against us?"

"We were all together then, and now we are scattered. I'll tell youwhat, Henri, " he continued, after walking on silent for a few steps. "I'll tell you what we must do: we must leave this district altogether;we must leave it to be ravaged by fire and sword; we must leave it toWesterman, to wreak his vengeance on it, and go to Chatillon, takingwith us every armed man that will follow us. We cannot stand an invasionhere in the south. "

"Heavens, Charles! what do you mean? Will you not stay to protect thepoor wretches who are so ready to fight for us?"

"We can protect no one by staying here. We cannot hope to contendsingle-handed with such an army as that which was but just now advancingto Bressuire. We can have given them a check, but you know we cannotrepeat the effort of this evening. D'Elbée and Stofflet are atChatillon; your own followers are all in that vicinity. When there, wecan communicate with Bonchamps and Charette. We must go to Chatillon. "

"And your wife, Charles, and Marie! you will not leave them in thechâteau?"

"If your father and Agatha will receive them, they shall go toDurbellière. "

"There you are right, " said Henri. "Whatever may be the danger, let ushave them together; we shall then at any rate be able to feel that weknow the point which is to be defended most closely. "

"We will start tomorrow, Henri; tomorrow evening. May God grant thatthat may be time enough. Westerman cannot collect his men so as to forcea march as far as Clisson tomorrow; but before a week is over, I knowthat the château will be a ruin. "

"Will you leave the furniture?" said Henri. 

"Yes, " answered de Lescure; "furniture, horses, cattle, corn--everythingbut my wife and child. Let everything go: am I not giving it to myKing?"

CHAPTER VIII

CLISSON

De Lescure had calculated wrongly with regard to Westerman's return. Itwas true that he could not have again put his ten thousand men inmarching order, and have returned with his whole force the next day fromBressuire as far as Clisson, but Westerman himself did not go backbeyond Amaillou, and he detained there with him a small detachment ofmounted men, whom he had commanded at Valmy, and whom he well knew. Hekept no officers but one cornet and two sergeants, and with this smallforce he determined, if possible, to effect that night what his army often thousand men had so signally failed in accomplishing. 

About half a mile from Amaillou there was a large château, the owner ofwhich had emigrated; it had been left to the care of two or threeservants, who had deserted it on the approach of the republican army, and when Westerman and his small troop rode up to the front gate, theyfound no one either to admit them or to dispute their entrance. Here hebivouacked for an hour or two, and matured his project, which, as yet, he had communicated to no one. 

He had entrusted the retreat of the army to General Bourbotte, who, inspite of their quarrel at Angers, was serving with him; and withoutstaying even to ascertain what was the amount of loss he had sustained, or to see whether the enemy would harass the army as it retreated, hehad separated from it at Amaillou, and reached the château about teno'clock in the evening. He had with him a couple of guides, who knew thecountry well, and accompanied by these, he resolved to attack Clissonthat night, to burn the château of M. De Lescure, and, if possible, tocarry back with him to Bressuire the next morning the two Vendeanchiefs, whom he knew were staying there. 

Westerman understood enough of the tactics of the Vendeans to know thatthis was practicable, and he had the quick wit and ready hand toconceive the plan, and put it in practice: he knew that the peasantswould not remain in barracks, or even assembled together during thenight, if they were near enough to their own homes to reach them; heknew that they would spend the remainder of their long summer eveningin drinking, dancing, and rejoicing, and that they would then sleep asthough no enemy were within a hundred miles of them; he knew thatnothing could induce them to take on themselves the duties of sentinels, and that there would, in all probability, be but little to oppose himin attacking Clisson that night. 

Westerman first had the horses fed, and having then refreshed his menwith meat, wine, and brandy, he started at two o'clock. He was distantfrom Clisson about three leagues, according to the measurement of thecountry, or a little better than seven miles. There had hardly been anydarkness during the night, and as he and his troopers sallied out of thechâteau-yard, the dawn was just breaking in the East. 

"Never mind, " said he to the young cornet who rode by his side; "thelight will not hurt us, for we will make them hear us before they seeus. We will be back as far as this before thirty men in the parish areawake. It will be best for them who sleep soundest. "

"Except for those in the château, General, " said the cornet: "those whosleep there will wake to a warm breakfast. "

"They will never eat breakfast more, I believe and trust, " saidWesterman; "for I do not think that we shall be able to take thebrigands alive. Their women, however, may receive some of our roughrepublican hospitality at Bressuire. You had better prepare yourprettiest bow and your softest words, for this sister of de Lescure is, they say, a real beauty. She shall ride to Bressuire before you on yoursaddle-cloth, if you choose to load your arms with such a burden; butdon't grow too fond of her kisses, for though she were a second Venus, the guillotine must have the disposal of her. "

The cornet made no answer, but his young heart turned sick at thebrutality of his companion. His breast had glowed with republican zealat the prospect of a night attack on the two most distinguished of theroyalist chiefs. The excitement of the quick ride through the night-air, the smallness of the party, the importance of the undertaking, theprobable danger, and the uncertainty, had all seemed to him delightful;and the idea of rescuing a beautiful girl from the flames was moredelightful than all; but the coarseness and cruelty of his General haddestroyed the romance, and dissipated the illusion. He felt that hecould not offer a woman his protection, that he might carry her to ascaffold. 

At about two, Westerman started on his expedition. His men carried theirsabres, still sheathed, in their hands, to prevent the noise which theywould have made rattling against their saddles; but still their journeythrough the country was anything but quiet. They only rode two abreast, as the roads were too narrow to admit of more. Westerman himself and oneof the guides headed the column, and the young cornet and veteransergeant closed the rear. They went at a fast trot, and the noise oftheir horses' hoofs sounded loudly on the hard parched ground. In spiteof their precautions, their sabres rattled, and the curbs on theirbridles jingled; and the absence of all other noises made Westerman fearthat their approach must be audible, even through the soundness of apeasant's sleep. 

On they rode, and as they drew near to the château, Westerman put spursto his horse, and changed his trot into a gallop; his troop of coursefollowed his example, and as they. . Came to the end of their journeythey abandoned all precautions; each man dropped his scabbard to hisside, and drew the blade; each man put his hand to his holster, andtransferred his pistol to his belt, for he did not know how soon hemight have to leave his saddle; each man drew the brazen clasps of hishelmet tight beneath his chin, and prepared himself for action. 

"These are the Clisson woods, " said the guide, almost out of breath withthe quickness of his motion. 

"How infernally dark they make it, " said Westerman, speaking to himself. "We had light enough till we got here"

"And there are the gates, " said the guide. "That first entrance whichis open, goes to the back of the house; a little beyond, there isanother, which leads to the front; there you will find a gate, but itis merely closed with a latch. "

"Craucher, " said Westerman, speaking to the second sergeant, who wasriding immediately behind him, "stand at the corner, and bid the menfollow me at a quick trot--all of them, mind; tell Cornet Leroy that Ihave changed my mind, " and Westerman, followed by his troop, dashed upthe narrow avenue which led through the wood to the back of the house. 

The château of Clisson was surrounded by large woods, through whichcountless paths and little roads were made in every direction for theconvenience of the woodmen, and the small tumbrils which were used forbringing out the timber and faggots. These woods came close up to thefarm-yard of the château, which was again divided from the house bylarge walled gardens, into which the back windows opened. The road upwhich Westerman had ridden led under the garden-wall to the farm-yard, but another road from the front, running along the gable-end of thehouse, communicated with it. The door used by the servants was at theside of the château, and consequently the readiest way from the publicroad to the servants' door, was that by which Westerman had, at the lastmoment, determined to force an entrance into the château. 

He trotted up till he faced the garden-wall, and then turned short roundto the house, and as he rode close up under the gable-end, he gaveSergeant Craucher directions to take three men and force the door; buthe and the sergeant soon saw that this trouble was spared them, for thedoor stood wide open before them. 

We will now go back to the inhabitants of the château. De Lescure andHenri had returned thither about eleven o'clock, and although their safereturn, and account of the evening's victorious engagement for a whilequieted the anxious fears of Marie and Madame de Lescure, those ladiesby no means felt inclined to rest quietly as though all danger wereremoved from their pillows. They were in a dreadful alarm at thenearness of the republicans; they knew well that their ruthless enemiesspared none that fell into their hands. I should belie these heroinesif I said that they feared more for themselves than for those they lovedso dearly, but they were not accustomed yet to the close vicinity ofdanger; and when they learned that a battle had been lost and won thatevening, within a mile or two, in the very next parish to that in whichthey lived, they looked at each other, and trembling asked what next wasto be done. 

"You must not leave us, Charles, you must not leave us again, " saidMadame de Lescure to her husband; "indeed you must not leave us here. "She paused a moment, and then added, with an accent of horror which shecould not control, "What would become of us if these men came upon uswhen you were away?"

"Wherever you go, let us go with you, " said Marie, forgetting in herexcitement her usual maidenly reserve, and laying her little hand as shespoke upon her lover's arm; then blushing, she withdrew it, and turnedto her brother. 

"Do not turn from him, Marie, " said her sister-in-law. "You will soonwant his strong arm, and his kind, loving heart. "

"Charles will not desert me, Victorine, " said Marie, blushing now morebeautifully than ever, for though she knew that Henri loved her, he hadnever absolutely told her so. "Though you are his dearest care, he willalways have a hand to stretch to his poor Marie. "

Before she had finished speaking, Henri held her close in his embrace. It was perhaps hardly a fitting time for him to make an avowal of hislove; but lovers cannot always choose the most proper season for theirconfessions. He was still hot from the battle which he had fought; hishands were still black with powder; the well-known red scarf was stilltwisted round his belt, and held within its folds his armament ofpistols. His fair, long hair was uncombed, and even entangled with hisexertions. His large boots were covered with dust, and all his clotheswere stained and soiled with the grass and weeds through which he hadthat night dragged himself more than once, in order to place himselfwithin pistol-shot of his enemies; and yet, soiled and hot as he was, fatigued with one battle, and meditating preparations for another, there, in the presence of de Lescure and his wife, he clasped Marie tohis manly heart, and swore to her that his chief anxiety as long as thewar lasted, should be to screen her from all harm, and that his fondestcare through his whole life should be to protect her and make her happy. 

Unusual circumstances and extraordinary excitement often cause thecustomary rules and practices of life to be abandoned; and so it wasnow. Marie received the love that was offered her, frankly, affectionately, and with her whole heart. She owned to her lover howwell and truly she had loved him, and there, before her brother and hiswife, plighted to him her troth, and promised to him then the obedienceand love, which she soon hoped to owe him as his wife. Such declarationsare usually made in private, but the friends now assembled had nosecrets from each other, and they all felt that strange times madestrange scenes necessary. 

They then arranged their plans for the morrow. The day had already beenan eventful one, but they little dreamed how much more was to be donebefore the morrow's sun was in the heavens; and yet even then they didnot separate for the night: luckily for them all, they determined thattoo much was to be done to allow them yet to retire to rest. 

It was resolved that on the following day they should leave Clisson forDurbellière, and hand over the château and all it contained--the farmand all its well-filled granaries, the cattle and agricultural wealthof the estate, to the fire and plunder of the republicans. The plate, however, they thought they could save, as well as the ladies' jewels andclothes, and other precious things which might be quickly packed andeasily moved. They went to work at once to fill their trunks andbaskets; and as the means of conveyance were then slow, de Lescure wentout into the stables, and had the waggon prepared at once, and orderedthat the oxen which were to draw it should be ready to start at threeo'clock, in order that the load, if possible, might reach Durbellièrethe same night. 

Master and mistress, servants and guests, worked hard, and at about twoo'clock, the hour at which Westerman and his troop were starting fortheir quick ride, they had completed their task. 

"You have killed yourself, dearest love, " said Henri, pressing his armround Marie's waist. 

"Oh, no!" said she, smiling, but still so weary that she could hardlyhave stood unless he had held her; "I have not fought and conquered tenthousand republicans; but I don't know how you must feel. "

Henri, however, insisted that she should go to bed and she, delightedto show her first act of obedience to his will, did as he desired her. She was soon undressed; she offered her prayers to heaven for herbrother and sister-in-law, but with a stronger fervour for the dearcompanion and protector to whom she had sworn to devote her life, andthen she laid her head upon her pillow, intending to think over herhappiness; a few moments, however, were sufficient to change her halffearful thoughts of love and danger into blessed dreams of love andhappiness. Poor girl! she did not long enjoy her happy rest. 

De Lescure and Henri determined to remain up till the departure of thewaggon. Madame de Lescure went up to. Her room, and the two gentlemenwent down towards the farmyard. The waggon stood at the kitchen-dooralready packed, and the two servants were bringing the oxen down theroad to yoke them to it. 

"Go out at the front gate, François, and by the church at Terves; it isthe better road. You will remain a couple of hours in Bressuire. Weshall overtake you before you reach Beaulieu. "

The servant acknowledged his master's commands, and fastened the lastrope which bound the oxen to their burden. He spoke to his beasts, andaccompanied his word with a goad from a pointed stick he held in hishand, when his farther progress was stopped by Henri's calling from alittle distance down the road. 

"Stop, François, stop!" said he. "Charles, come here; some one is cominghither at the top of his speed. Don't you hear the noise of hoofs uponthe road?"

De Lescure ran to him, and kneeling down, put his ear to the ground. "It's a donkey or a mule, " said he; "it is not a horse's foot. "

"Come down the avenue, " said Henri, "and let us see who it is. Whethermule or horse, the beast is going at his full speed. "

"Better stay where we are, " said de Lescure. "If he be coming to us, hisnews will reach the house quicker than by our going to meet him. "

The rider grew nearer and nearer, and in a few moments turned up theroad leading to the back of the house. The steps of the tired brutebecame slower as he trotted up the avenue, although the sound of acudgel on his ribs were plainly audible. Henri and de Lescure werestanding under the garden wall, and as the animal drew near them, theysaw it was a jaded donkey, ridden by a peasant girl. 

"Fly, for the sake of God!" said the girl, even before she dismountedfrom the donkey; "fly for the sake of the blessed Virgin. Take theladies from the château, or they will be burnt--be burnt--be burnt!"

As she screamed the last words she slipped from the donkey, and almostfainted with the exertion she had undergone. She was the daughter of oneof M. De Lescure's servants, and had been sent from Clisson into serviceat the château, from whence Westerman started on his expedition. Whenthe republicans made their appearance there, she had fled with the otherservants, but she had hung about the house, and about an hour and a halfbefore Westerman left the place she learnt, through some of thesoldiers, his intention of attacking Clisson that night. 

"Who is coming to burn us, Marian?" said de Lescure, endeavouring by hisown assumed coolness to enable her to collect her thoughts and power ofspeech. 

"The blues--the blues!" screamed the girl. "They had all but overtakenme when I got to the short cut through the wood. There they are, therethey are, " and the noise of the advancing troop was distinctly audiblethrough the stillness of the night. 

The poor girl was quite exhausted, and fell to the ground fainting. DeLescure and Henri had both stood still for a moment, after having beenmade to comprehend that an immediate attack was about to be made on thechâteau, but it was only for a moment. 

"We must carry them through the wood, Charles, " said Henri, whispering. "It is our only chance. "

"True--true, " said de Lescure. "Turn the oxen, Francois, turn them backthrough the yard into the farm-road, and then keep to the left into thewood. We will meet you at the seven limes. "

"Take Victorine out through the garden, " said Henri to his cousin, whowas now hurrying into the house, "and through the iron gate. I saw theother day that the key was in it, and we can turn it. I tried it myself. I will bring Marie after you. "

Henri stayed a moment to assist in turning the cumbrous waggon, and ranback to open the farm gates. 

"Close the gates after you, Francois, " said he, "and put the tresselsclose against them. If you lose a minute in doing it, you will gain fivein delaying these devils. If you hear them following you in thewood-road, draw the waggon across the track and leave it. "

He was only delayed two minutes by going back to the yard gates, butthose two minutes were nearly fatal to him and Marie. Marian alsodelayed him again as he returned to the house. 

"Where am I to go, M. Henri, " said she; "what am I to do? they will besure to kill me, for they saw me at Amaillou, and will know that I gavethe warning. "

"Hide yourself, my girl, " said Henri: "hide yourself, but not in thehouse, for that will soon be a mass of ruins. Hide yourself in thewoods; there cannot be many of these devils here, and they will notremain long. "

He hurried into the house as he ceased speaking, and at the moment hedid so Westerman and his thirty men turned the corner of the avenue. Herushed from the back door through the passages of the château into thehall, where he seized hold of a large cloak belonging to de Lescure, which he threw over his shoulder as he ran up stairs. On the stairs hemet his cousin, with Madame de Lescure and the nurse and child. 

"Haste, Henri, for God's sake, haste, " said she; "I heard the tramp oftheir horses through my open window. "

De Lescure had opened the summer door leading into the garden as he cameup stairs, to have it ready for his exit, and he, and those under hiscare, escaped through it into the garden. 

"Shut the garden door, " roared Henri to him from the top of thestaircase. "Shut the door, whatever you do. " De Lescure could notunderstand his object, but he trusted his cousin, and closed the dooras he passed through it. Henri had perceived that it would be impossiblefor him to regain the hall, and had resolved to jump from the window ofthe staircase into the garden, with his precious burden in his arms. Heforesaw that if the door were left open, pursuit through it would beboth inevitable and fatal. 

Marie's room was close to the top of the stairs, and her lover did notuse much ceremony in opening the door. In going to and from his wife'schamber, de Lescure had not passed it, and therefore the innocent girlslept soundly till Henri's sudden entrance roused her from her dreams. 

"Who's that--who's that, " said she, raising her head upon her pillow. The window curtains of the room were hardly closed, and she recognisedimmediately Henri's tall figure, and singular costume. "Oh! Henri, whathas happened? what brings you here?"

"Rise, dearest, we must fly, " said he: "we have not a moment--we fearthe blues are coming. " He dreaded that she would have lost all power ofmotion, had he told her that they were already beneath the windows. 

"Haven't I time to dress?" said she; "I won't be a moment--not oneminute. "

"No, darling, " answered he, raising her from the bed, as though she werean infant, and folding her in her brother's cloak. "We haven't oneinstant to throw away. Remember who has you in his arms: remember thatit is I, your own Henri, who am pressing you to my heart. " He took herup from the bed in his left arm, and with his right hand arraigned thecloak around her person, and carrying her out into the passage, hurriedto the window which he had left open. 

This window looked from the opposite end of the house to that at whichWesterman found the open door. It was on the first landing of thestaircase, and was therefore distant from the ground but little morethan half the height of the ground floor, but a hard gravel path ranimmediately under it; and though the leap was one which few young menmight much hesitate to take with empty arms, it was perilous with sucha burden as Henri had to carry. He however did not think twice about it, and would have considered himself and his charge nearly safe could hehave reached the window unmolested, but that he was not allowed to do. 

As he began to descend the stairs the loud noise of the troopers' boots, and the quick voice of Westerman giving his commands in the hall, toldhim at once that the house was already occupied by the blues. Even then, at that awful moment, he rejoiced at his precaution in having desiredde Lescure to close the garden door. He took a large horse pistol fromhis belt, and holding it by the barrel, jumped down three stairs at atime, and already had his foot on the sill of the open window, whenserjeant Craucher, who had been the first of the blues to enter thehouse, rushing up the stairs, succeeded in getting hold of the cloakwhich covered Marie. He pulled it from off her neck and shoulders, andher beautiful dark clustering curls fell down over Henri's shoulder. Herpale face, and white neck and bosom were exposed: her eyes were fastclosed, as though she expected instant death, but both her arms weretightly fastened round her lover. 

Craucher stumbled in his hurry in rushing up the stairs, but he stillheld fast to the collar of the cloak. 

"I must stop your further journey, my pretty dear, " said he: "the nightair is not good for you--by heavens it's the red--"

He never finished his speech, or attempted to make another. On enteringthe back door he had struck his brazen head-piece against the lintel;the shock had broken the clasp, and his head was consequently bare. Ashe pulled at the cloak, Henri raised his right arm powerfully, and drovethe butt-end of the pistol which he held, right through his skull, andscattered his brains upon the staircase. The grasp of the dying man wasso firm that he could not extricate the cloak from his fingers. He sawthat his only chance of escape was to relinquish it; he did so, and ashe leapt from the window to the ground, poor Marie had nothing round herbut her slight night dress. 

Henri stumbled as he came to the hard gravel, but still he allowed noportion of Marie's body to touch the ground. He recovered himself in amoment, and made for the iron gate leading from the garden to the wood, through which de Lescure and his wife had escaped. 

As Henri leapt from the window Westerman's eye had caught sight of thered scarf, and he knew that it was Larochejaquelin who was escaping. Herushed himself to the window, though, had he known it, he might havegone into the garden through the door, which was close at his hand. Heleapt on the path, and was immediately on Henri's track. It was aboutthree hundred yards from the house to the iron gate, and when Westermanwas again on his feet, Henri had covered two thirds of the distance. 

Run now, Henri, run your best, for the load you carry is heavy, and theGerman is strong and light of foot; his pistols, too, are loaded, andhe well knows how to use them; but yours are empty, and you will notfind another bare skull opposed to your heavy right hand; run, dearfriend, and loving cousin; run faster with that precious tremblingburden of yours, or all you have yet done, will have been done in vain. 

But what avails his running: he did run fast and well, laden as he was, and fatigued with no ordinary day's work: he gained the gate, while asyet his pursuer was above a hundred yards behind him; but of what availwould that be, if he were obliged to leave the passage free for hisenemy: it was impossible that he should continue to hold his ground, while he carried the fainting girl in his arms. It was then that thatwonderful presence of mind, in the midst of the most urgent danger, ofwhich Henri Larochejaquelin showed so many instances during war, stoodhim in stead, and saved two lives, when salvation seemed impossible. 

In wandering about the place some days before, he had passed throughthis gate, and observing that the key stood in the lock, he had idlyturned it backwards and forwards, locking and relocking the gate withoutan object; he had then observed that though the key worked easily, therewas something wrong about the wards which prevented him from drawing itout after the lock was turned. The gate was made of iron bars, whichwere far enough asunder to allow of his hand and arm being passedthrough, so that when outside the gate he could then turn the key whichwas on the inside. 

All these particulars he remembered in that moment of agony, andresolved what he would do to overcome the difficulties which they threwin his way. Having passed through the gate, he dropped his now senselesscompanion beneath the shelter of the wall, and passing his hands throughthe bars, turned the key and locked it. He then took out a shorthunting-knife which he wore, and passing that also through the bars ofthe gate, he inserted it in the handle of the key, and then wrenchingit round with all his force, broke the key in the wards: all the smithsin Poitou could not have locked the gate closer, or made it moreimpossible to open it. 

Though the feat is tedious to explain, it did not take half a minute inperformance; but still it allowed Westerman to come within pistol shotof him before he could get beneath the shelter of the wall. The German, however, in his anxiety to get through the gate, omitted to fire, thoughhe had the pistol in his hand; he seized hold of the iron bars and shookthem impotently: strong as he was, the gate was much too firm to bemoved by his strength; the wall was twelve feet high, and utterly beyondhis power to scale without a ladder. 

He felt that he was foiled, and returned to the château to wreak hisvengeance upon the inhabitants who might be left there, and on thefurniture and walls of the house itself. 

Henri pursued his way unopposed, and at the appointed spot, a littlegreensward surrounded by seven lime trees, he found his cousin and therest of the party waiting for him, as well as François with the waggon. 

"Is she safe--is she alive?" asked Madame de Lescure, almost franticwith grief and fear. 

"She is alive, and I believe unhurt, " said Henri; "but I fear she issenseless. She is quite undressed, too, as I was obliged to leave thecloak in which I had covered her, in the dying grasp of a trooper whomI killed. " He gently laid her down, with her head in the lap of her kindsister, and then turned his back upon the party, that he might not gazeon the fair bosom, which was all exposed, and the naked limbs, which herdishevelled night dress did not suffice to cover. 

Madame de Lescure and her nurse hastened to strip themselves of aportion of their clothes; it had been lucky that neither of them wereundressed at the time of the attack, and though they were ill-preparedfor a long journey, having neither caps nor strong shoes, nor shawls ofany kind, yet they contrived between them to dress poor Marie decently. The nurse gave her shoes and stockings, declaring that going barefootwould not trouble her the least, and before many minutes had beenwasted, they were again ready to proceed. 

De Lescure and Henri had not lost these precious moments: the waggon wasagain put into motion: the three men carefully armed themselves: theyloaded their pistols, for among the goods they were taking away, was thelittle remnant of gunpowder which was left among them: they decided thaton hearing the first sound of pursuit, they would leave the waggon, andbetake themselves to the thickest part of the woods; but both de Lescureand Henri were of opinion that they would not be followed. 

"There cannot be many of them, " said Henri, "and what there are, are allmounted. They are the German hussars; I know them by their brazenhelmets. They won't attempt to follow us through the woods. "

"They would have been after us before now had they intended doing so, "said de Lescure. "The way was clear for them through the farm-yard, François, was it not?"

"No, Monseigneur, " said François. "It was anything but clear. I turnedthe big bull out of his stall into the yard as I came out, and closedthe gate behind me: he would gore a dozen of them before they could maketheir way through. "

Whether the pursuit was arrested by the bull, or prevented by any othercause, the fugitives were not interrupted. They walked wearily andpainfully, but yet patiently, and without a complaint above a league, before the women ventured to get upon the waggon. They then got out uponthe road to Bressuire, at no great distance from that town, and onreaching Bressuire they got refreshment and proper clothes, and hireda voiture for the remainder of their journey. 

Marie had hardly spoken from the moment when Henri dragged her from herbed, to that in which he helped her in the waggon; but after she hadbeen sitting for a while, she indulged in a flood of tears, which shehad restrained as long as she felt that her life depended on herexertions, and then calling Henri to her side, she thanked him, as sheso well knew how to do, for all he had done for her. 

"You have saved my life, dearest, now, " said she, "and ten times morethan my life; but I will not say that I love you better than I didbefore. Had I not known that it was your arms which were around me, Imust have died when that horrid countenance glared over me on thestairs. Have I dreamt since, or was I really looking upon that face, when the agony of death came across it?" And as she asked the question, she closed her eyes, and her whole body trembled violently. 

"I will tell you all that happened another time, love, " said he; "wewill not talk of these things now. A day or two at Durbellière willrestore you to your spirits, and then we will rejoice over our escape. "

They got into a voiture at Bressuire, and from thence continued theirjourney in something more like comfort, while Francois with the waggonfollowed them; but the two ladies were not destined to reach Durbellièrethat night. When they were about half-way between Bressuire and thechâteau, they were met by a man on horseback, who was already on his wayto Clisson. It was Jean Stein, who was hurrying as fast as his beastcould carry him from Durbellière to M. Larochejaquelin; but instead ofexplaining now what was the purport of his errand, we will return toClisson, and see how Westerman finished there the task he hadundertaken. 

When he found himself foiled at the gate, he returned as quickly aspossible to the house. His men had already ransacked every room, and intheir anxiety to find the more distinguished inhabitants of the château, allowed the domestics to escape; but few of them had been in bed, andeven they were overlooked in the anxiety of the troopers to find M. DeLescure. They did not dream that any warning could have been given tothe château, nor could they conceive it possible that at three o'clockin the morning the royalists should have been up, and ready for instantflight. It was not till nearly five that they satisfied themselves thatneither de Lescure nor his wife, nor any of his family were in thehouse; and then, at the command of their General, they commenced thework of destruction. 

The troopers got hay and straw from the farm-yard (not without someopposition from the loose bull, ) and piled them in every room in thechâteau; they then took the furniture, beds, curtains, wearing apparel, and every article of value they could find, and placed them in heaps, in such a way as to render them an immediate prey to the flames. Theydid the same to the barns and granaries, in which there were largestores of corn, and also to the stables, in which stood the horses andcattle; the bull, which François had loosened, was the only animal aboutthe place that did not perish. Having systematically prepared thechâteau and out-houses for a huge bonfire, they put a light to the strawin various places, and re-mounting their horses, stood around it tillthey saw that no efforts which the peasants might use could extinguishthe flames. Westerman then gave the word of command for their return;they started at a sharp trot, and he did not allow them to slacken theirpace till he had again passed the ruins of the little village ofAmaillou. 

While the troopers were thus preparing to set the château in a blaze, the General himself was not idle; he seated himself in the salon, andhaving had pen, ink, and paper brought to him, he wrote the followingdespatch to the President of the Convention, in which, it will beobserved, he studiously omitted all mention of the defeat which he hadincurred between Amaillou and Clisson, and the retreat which his armyhad been forced to make. The date is given in the denomination whichwill be intelligible to the reader, as the Fructidors and the Messidors, Brumaires and Nivoses, which had then been adopted by the republicans, now convey no very defined idea to people, who have not yet scrupled tocall the months by their old aristocratic names, or to count the yearfrom their Saviour's birth. 

"Château of Clisson, July 1798. 

Citizen President, I have the honour to acquaint you that I have already succeeded incarrying the arms of the Convention as far as the residence of the mostpowerful of the rebel leaders. As I am writing, my men are preparing toset fire to this den of aristocratic infamy, and within an hour thestronghold of the redoubted de Lescure will be level with the ground. 

This wretched country is so crowded with ravines and rocks, and theroads are so narrow, so deep, and so bad, that I have been forced tomake my way hither with a small detachment of thirty men only, but Ihave found that sufficient to drive the tiger from his lair. He, and theother rebel leader, Larochejaquelin, have fled into the woods, withouteither money, arms, or even clothing; and I doubt not soon to be ableto inform the Convention that, at any rate, they can never again putthemselves at the head of a rebellious army. 

Citizen President, deign to receive from my hands the only trophieswhich I have deemed myself justified in rescuing from the flames whichare about to consume this accursed château. I enclose the will and aminiature portrait of the aristocrat, de Lescure. 

I pray you to receive, and to make acceptable to the Convention, themost distinguished, &c. &c. &c. 

WESTERMAN. "

CHAPTER IX

SANTERRE

Santerre and Adolphe Denot left the main army at Thouars, and made theirway to Argenton with about four thousand men. From thence, Durbellièrewas distant about four leagues; and Santerre lost no time in making hispreparations for destroying that château, as Westerman was at the samemoment doing at Clisson. Generally speaking, the people of the towns, even in La Vendée sided with the republicans; but the people of Argentonwere supposed to be royalists, and Santerre therefore gave positiveorders that every house in it should be destroyed. He did not, however, himself want to see the horrid work done, but hurried on to Durbellière, that he might, if possible, surprise the Vendean chiefs, whom hebelieved to be staying there. About one hundred and fifty men followedhim, and the remainder of the army was to march on to Bressuire, as soonas Argenton was in ashes. 

Santerre, since he had left the company of the other Generals atThouars, had become more familiar and confidential with Denot, and rodeside by side with him from Argenton, talking freely about the mannersof the country, and the hopes of the royalists, till he succeeded ingetting the traitor into good humour, and obtaining from him somethinglike a correct idea of the state of the country. 

"And this is the parish of St. Aubin?" said Santerre, as they drew nearto Durbellière. 

"Yes, " said Denot, "this is the parish of St. Aubin; and the estate ofthe Larochejaquelins. "

"And they are popular with the people?" said Santerre. "They must havebeen well loved, or they would not have been so truly followed. "

Denot blushed at the heavy accusation against himself which these wordsconveyed; but he made no answer. 

"And this old man, my friend?" said Santerre, "this ancient cripple thatyou tell me of? he is too old, too infirm, I suppose, to care much aboutthis revolt?"

"Not at all, " said Denot; "no one in the country is more anxious forsuccess than the old Marquis. "

"There you are again, friend, " said Santerre, "I know you'll get yourneck into danger. Have I not told you that the Republic knows nothingof Marquises?"

"I only called him by the name he goes by, as you'd call a man Peter, if his name were Peter. I didn't mean to say he was a Marquis, " saidDenot, excusing himself. 

"But you mustn't say so at all, unless you speak of him as a criminal, as you would speak of a perjurer, or a parricide. But as to this foolishold man; is he not doting? If I thought that, I might perhaps he excusedin sparing him. "

"Doting!" said Denot; "not at all; he has all his faculties as much asyou or I. "

Santerre gave a look of disgust at the wretch, who would not even followhis hint by giving such an account as might spare the life of the oldman, who had been his host, his guardian, and his friend. He saidnothing further, however, but trotted on quickly, till the cherry grovesof Durbellière were in sight, and then he halted to give his finalorders to his men, and make arrangements that the house should besurrounded. 

"You remember our bargain, citizen General?" said Denot. 

"What bargain?" asked the brewer. 

"Why, about the young lady; the girl, you know, " replied the other. "Noone is to interfere between me and Agatha Larochejaquelin. She is to bemy prize and my reward. "

"I will be as good as my word, " said Santerre, "as long as you are trueto yours; but I own I pity the young lady the treatment she is likelyto receive from her lover, " and as he spoke, he rode up to the frontdoor of the house, accompanied by Denot and a company of men onhorseback. 

The immediate arrival of republican soldiers in the neighbourhood ofDurbellière was neither expected, or even feared by the inhabitants ofthe château, or it would not have been left by Henri, as it had been, perfectly undefended. The truth was this: the royalists had hithertobeen so very generally successful against the republicans; and that, when every odds of number, arms, and position had been in favour oftheir enemies, that they had learnt to look with contempt upon theblues, as they called them. Hitherto the royalists had always been theattacking party; the republicans had contented themselves withendeavouring to keep their position within the towns; and when drivenfrom thence, had retreated altogether out of the revolted district. Except lately at Nantes, the Vendeans had as yet incurred no greatreverse; they had not, therefore, learnt to fear that their houses wouldbe attacked and burnt; their corn and cattle destroyed; and even theirwives and children massacred. The troops which had now been dispatchedby the Convention for the subjection of the country, were of a verydifferent character from those with whom the Vendeans had as yetcontended, and the royalists were not long before they experienced allthe horrors of a civil war, in which quarter was refused them by theirenemies, and mercy even to children was considered as a crime. 

When Santerre rode up to the door of the château, ten men might havetaken possession of Durbellière. It was a fine July evening, about seveno'clock. The old Marquis had been wheeled in his easy chair out of thehouse, to the top of the broad steps which led from the back of thechâteau into the garden. Agatha was sitting at his feet on the top step, reading to him, and the little Chevalier Mondyon, who retained nosemblance of the soldier about his person, except the red scarf roundhis waist, was seated straddle-legged atop of one of the huge whitelions which guarded the entrance. 

"Agatha, I hear horsemen, " said the boy, jumping off his seat. "There--there---quite plain!"

"It is Henri and Charles coming from Clisson, " said Agatha. 

"If it be, they have a troop of cavalry with them, " said the Chevalier. "Perhaps it's the Prince de Talmont, for I think they have not so manyhorsemen with them in the south, " and the little Chevalier ran out togreet, as he thought, his gallant friends. 

"Whoever they be, Agatha, " said the old Marquis, "give them a warmwelcome if they come in the King's name. They will know that I cannotrise to meet them, but make them welcome to everything in and about thechâteau. "

Agatha had closed her book, and was rising to execute her father'swishes, when Momont, the grey-haired butler, hurrying round from thekitchen-door as fast his old legs would carry him, screamed out: "Theblues! the blues!"

Agatha, who was in the act of entering the house as she heard thefearful cry, turned instantly back to her father's side. She was deadlypale, but she spoke not a word. She grasped her father's hand, and fixedherself close to his chair, determined in that position to await theworst that her enemies could do her. 

"Run, Agatha, run, " said the Marquis, "into the garden, my dear love. The gate will be open at the back. Run, Agatha, for your life!" Agatha, however, did not stir. 

"Do you hear me, Agatha?" continued the old man, wildly supplicating herto go from him. "Do you hear me, my daughter? If you would have myblessing before I die, do as I bid you now. What are my grey hairs toyour young life, that you should sacrifice yourself for me?"

It was of no avail, for the daughter stood fast by her disabled father'sside, grasping his right hand so that nothing should tear her from him, and turning her beautiful face towards the house, watching for theapproach of her enemies. Nor had she to watch long; before the Chevalierhad been gone five minutes, Santerre, with his sword drawn, trampedheavily through the house, followed by Denot, and a score of his men. The door from the salon to the garden steps was open, and withoutwaiting a moment in the house, he marched through and confronted Agathaand her father. 

"Here is your damsel safe, at any rate, friend Denot, " said Santerre, "and a pretty girl she is too, but a bitter royalist, no doubt, by theproud turn of her white neck. "

Denot did not immediately follow Santerre on to the steps. He had firmlyresolved to thrust himself upon Agatha as a conqueror; to rush upon heras an eagle upon its prey, and to carry her off with a strong hand, disregarding her cries, as the eagle disregards the bleating of thelamb; but the first glance he had got of his victim somehow startled hisresolve, and scared the blood from his cheek, and almost from his heart. When Santerre, however, called to him, he was obliged to follow; andthen, making fearful grimaces with his lips, and scowling with his eyes, he stalked out before the astonished father and daughter. 

"Yes, Agatha, " he said, looking full upon her, but not daring to turnan eye upon the countenance of her much more indignant father, "yes, Agatha, I have come, as I told you I would come--I have come to claimyou, and no power shall now gainsay me. I have come to seize you as myown; to take you with a strong hand, and an out-stretched arm. Myprayers were of no avail; you shall find that my sword is more powerful. When last I sought you, it was as a suppliant, I now come for you as aconqueror. Come, Agatha, you are now mine. All the powers of earth shallnot rescue you from my arms. "

"You appear to me, Sir, to come as a traitor, " said Agatha. 

"A good republican, my dear, " said Santerre: "he comes as a goodrepublican. "

Agatha did not deign to make any further reply, but as Santerre and themen had now left the steps and gone into the house, Denot put his handon her arm to lead her away from her father's side. 

"Leave her alone, " shouted the old man, now speaking for the first timesince his eyes had rested on the republican soldiers. "Leave her alone, thou false wretch, thou basest of all miscreants. Touch her not, or--or--, " and the poor Marquis strove in vain to rise from his chairto his daughter's help. "Momont, Chapeau, Arthur--Arthur, " he halloed. "My daughter--my daughter, oh! my daughter!"

No one, however, came to his aid, and Agatha, finding resistance to bein vain, suffered Denot to lead her into the house, without utteringanother word. 

Not the slightest resistance was made to Santerre and his men; he tookpossession of the château without a word even being said to stop him. The servant girls hid themselves in the garrets, but were soon broughtdown again, and bade to set quiet in the hall, till their fate shouldhave been decided on. Momont attempted to conceal himself in the garden, but he was soon found and brought back again, and stationed among thewomen. Chapeau was not seen at all, and even the little Chevalier wasmissing for a time, though he returned of his own accord before Santerrehad been long in possession of the place. 

Santerre seated himself with two of his officers in the largest of thesalons, and ordered that the old Marquis should be brought before him. He was rather perplexed as to what he should next do; his orders wereto destroy everything--houses, property, and life; to spare neither age, sex, nor imbecility; and Santerre, undertaking the commission, hadthought, in his republican zeal, that he would find no weakness inhimself to militate against the execution of such orders. He wasmistaken in himself, however. He had led the fierce mobs of Paris toacts of bloodshed and violence, but in doing so he had only assistedwith an eager hand in the overthrow of those who he thought weretyrannizing over the people. He had stood by at the execution of a King, and ordered the drums to beat to drown the last words of the dyingmonarch; but the King had been condemned by those whom Santerre lookedon as the wisest and best of the nation; and in acting as he had done, he had been carried on as well by ideas of duty as excitement. He foundhis present a much more difficult task. Indeed, after sitting still forsome few minutes in that easy chair, meditating what he would do next, he found that the work which he had undertaken was one which heliterally could not go through with. 

"Is the old gentleman there?" said he; and as he asked, the Marquis, with his eyes closed, and his hands crossed on his breast, was wheeledinto the room. Agatha was seated, or rather was crouching, on a sofa inthe corner, for Adolphe Denot was standing over her uttering threats andwords of love alternately, the latter of which, however, sounded by farthe most horrible in poor Agatha's ears. 

"Give me a pen and paper, " said Santerre, and having got them, hecontinued writing for a minute or two. "Now, my old friend, " said he, addressing the Marquis, "I am given to understand that you yourself, personally, have never lent a hand to this iniquitous revolt. Is it so?"

"I am too old and too infirm to carry a sword, " said the Marquis, "butwhat little I could do for my King, I--. "

"Exactly--exactly, " said Santerre, interrupting him, "you are a crippleI see. There is no evidence wanting to show that you haven't taken uparms. It is this pestilent son of yours has brought you into trouble. "

"He would have been no son of mine had he not acted as he has done, "said the old man indignantly. 

"Will you hold your silly tongue, my friend, " said Santerre. "He isdoting, quite doting, I see, " and he turned round to his brotherofficers, as though appealing to them to corroborate his opinion. 

"Either that, or else he must be very fond of Mademoiselle Guillotine, "said one of them. 

"Well, now, old gentleman, answer me this question, " said Santerre, "doyou want to die this evening?"

"If I could but think that my daughter was safe, and out of the powerof that viper, whom I have warmed in my bosom, death would not beunwelcome to me. "

"Viper!" said Denot, curling his lips, and speaking through his closedteeth. "Warmed in your bosom! I have yet to learn, old man, that I oweyou ought; but if it be a comfort to you to know it, know that no worseevil awaits your daughter than to become the wife of a true Frenchman. "

"True!" said the Marquis. "Yes, as true as the Prince of Darkness. "

"Come, old man, " said Santerre, " we know nothing about Princes, nor yetabout Marquises. You must be content now to call the devil by his plainname, though I rather believe it has already been decided in Paris, thatthe gentleman is nothing but a foul fiction of the aristocrats. Come, if you wish to save your neck, put your signature to this littledocument. "

"I will sign nothing that is put before me in such a manner, " said theMarquis. 

"Why you have not even read it. Take the pen in your hand, I tell you;it is only a proclamation of the truth, that you have not taken up armsagainst the republic. "

Agatha understood the object of the republican General, though herfather did not. She sprang from the corner in which Denot had placedher, and coming close to her father, whispered to him. 

"The gentleman means well to you, father, though his words are rough. He wishes to save us. He will save both of us, father, if he can. Readthe paper, and if there be nothing absolutely untrue in it, put yourname to it. "

"Read it yourself, Agatha, " said he, "and if you then tell me to signit, I will do so. "

Agatha took up the paper which Santerre had written, and read, but notaloud, the following words:

"I hereby proclaim myself a true son of the Republic, and a citizenbrother of all free Frenchmen. I declare that I have never carried armsagainst the Convention myself, and demand that I may not be accountedresponsible for any misguided members of my family, who may have doneso. "

Twice Agatha read the words, and as she did so, her father's eyes restedanxiously on her face. "Well, my child, " said he, "your father's honouris in your hands; tell me what I am to do, " and he mechanically held thepen within his fingers, which Santerre had thrust into his hand. 

"We will die, father, " said she, "if these men please it, " and she putdown the document on the table on which it had been written. "I cannotask you to denounce our dear, our gallant Henri. I cannot bid you todeny your King. Death at any rate will not dishonour us. We will onlybeg of this gentleman that in his mercy he will not separate us, " andputting her arm round her father's neck, she fastened her hand upon thefolds of his coat, as though determined that nothing should againseparate her from his side. 

"Denounce Henri!" said the old man; "denounce my own dear, gallant son, the most loyal of those who love their King--the bravest of the brave!No, Sir! I give you no thanks for your mercy, if you intended any. I, and my daughter, Sir, cannot bear arms for our King; she by reason ofher sex, and I from my infirmities; but, Sir, we can die for him; we candie for him as readily as the bravest who falls in the first ranks ofthe battle. Had I still so much power in my own house as to command acup of wine, I would drink my last pledge to my royal master--but itmatters not; the heart and the will are still the same, " and taking offthe tasselled velvet cap which he wore, he waved it above his head, exclaiming, "Vive le Roi! vive le Roi!"

"The accursed, pestilent old fanatic!" said Santerre, spurning the tableas he rose in his passion, and upsetting it into the middle of the room;and then he walked up and down the salon with rapid strides, trying toinduce himself to give orders for the immediate execution of the staunchold royalist. 

"What is to be done next, General?" said one of his officers, who didnot quite admire the evident clemency of the brewer. 

"The accursed, pestilent old fanatic!" he repeated between his teeth;and then he said, after drawing a long breath: "they must go to Paris, and let Fouquier Tinville deal with them. There may be secrets that Iknow not of. I think it better that they should go to Paris. " And hefelt relieved of a heavy load in having devised a scheme by which hecould avoid having himself to give the order for the execution. "Let himbe locked up, and well treated, mind you. He shall go to Saumur in hisown carriage, and Barrère may send him to Paris how he pleases, or tothe devil if he chooses. "

"And the servants, General?"

"Oh! ah, yes, the servants!" said Santerre, walking out into the hallto inspect them; "women, an't they? What, five, six, seven, nine women, one old man, and a boy; well, I suppose we must have them out in a row, and shoot them. "

Down on their knees went the nine women and the boy, imploring thattheir innocent lives might be spared to them. Momont, like his master, had still some spirit in his bosom, and kept his seat, saying tohimself, but out loud, "I told him so--I told him so. I told him thatwe who remained here needed as much courage as those who went to thewars; but now, he that talked so much, he's the only one to run away. "The poor butler alluded to Chapeau, who had certainly been in the housea few minutes before the arrival of the republicans, and who ascertainly had not been seen since. 

"I suppose we must have them out before the house, and fire upon them?"

And he turned to the officer who was next to him, as though asking hisadvice. 

"If you ask my advice, General, I would make no difference between thelot; ten minutes should see the last of the whole set of them--the oldman, his daughter, and the rest. If we are to send every master of afamily with his children up to Paris, or even to Saumur, the tribunalscan never do their work, nor can the guillotines fall half fast enoughfor them. "

"When I ask your advice on one subject, Captain, I do not expect you togive it me on another, " said Santerre. "Sergeant, take those women out, and the old man, and the boy, stand them in a line upon the gravel plotthere, and bring a file of musketeers. " And the republican General againbegan pacing up and down the room, as though he did not at all like theposition in which his patriotic zeal had placed him. 

The poor women were dragged by their limbs out before the door, screeching as they went, and filling the air with their loud, agonizingcries. Momont walked after them, with his head hanging down, his kneesshaking, and his back bent double; but still he was walking himself; hewas still able to save himself the disgrace of being dragged out likethe women. When he got to the front door, he attempted to totter back, but a republican soldier stopped him. 

"My master! my dear master!" said Momont, "let me but kiss his hand, andI will come back. "

The soldier let him pass in, and the old man in a moment was at hismaster's feet. "God bless you, Monseigneur!" said he, "God bless you!Say one word of kindness to your servant, before he is shot for lovinghis master and his King. "

The Marquis put his hand on the grey hairs of the old butler, and movedhis lips, but he said nothing: the power of speech for the time failedhim; the energy he had displayed, and the excitement he had felt, hadbeen too much for him, and he was unable to reply aloud to the blessingof his faithful servant. 

"God bless you, Momont" said Agatha, calmly, as she stood close to herfather, still holding to his coat, and supporting his head against herbody. "Let your last thoughts be of the Saviour who died for you, andso shall your death be only the end of all your troubles. "

He was not allowed to remain longer on his knees, but was hurried backto the spot where the women were awaiting their doom. The soldiers couldnot get them to stand; they were crouching down on the ground in allpositions, one or two with their heads almost buried in the earth, oneor two kneeling, and still screaming for mercy. The old housekeeper hadfallen on her haunches, and was looking up to heaven, while she wildlystruck the ground with her hands; the poor page had made a last, butfutile effort to escape with the aid of his heels, but he had been atonce caught, and was now bound by his waist to a tree, which grew closeto the road on which the wretched party were huddled; the poor boy hadquite forgotten his attempt at manhood and mingled his loud screams withthose of the women. 

"General, " said the sergeant, stepping up to him, "the men are ready;will you give the word to fire?"

Two salons, one looking to the front of the house, and the other to theback, communicated with each other by folding-doors, which were now wideopen. Santerre, the Marquis, Denot, Agatha, and the other republicanofficer, were in the back room; the unfortunate wretches doomed to diewere collected on the gravel before the windows of the front room; thecarabineers who were to fire on them stood in a double file on the broadarea before the front door, and above the steps. Santerre, on beingaddressed by the sergeant, stalked into the front room to give theorder; his altered face plainly shewed the strong passion which was atwork within his heart. As he passed from one room to the other, he threwhis cap upon the ground, and trampled on it; then clenched his fist, andbit his lip till the blood ran. The fatal word "Fire" was on his tongue;but, without intending it, he looked through the window, and his eyesfell on the wretched creatures who were expecting death, and he wasunable to give the command. He sank back upon a chair, and hiding hisface in both his hands, he said to the sergeant, in a low voice:

"They must get some one else for this work, I am not the man I thoughtI was. " He then rose and said, in a voice he vainly attempted shouldappear calm and dignified, "Sergeant, keep the prisoners in custody thisnight: I have changed my mind. Be ready to march at four tomorrowmorning. We will have a bonfire to light us on our journey: see thatthere are plenty of faggots ready before you let the men sleep. "

The poor women were unable to raise themselves and walk away, when theywere made to understand that they were not to die that night. Someprayed, others screamed almost louder than before: one or two of themfainted, and continued fainting the greater part of the night: they wereall of them taken into the house, and kept together in the kitchensurrounded by a guard. 

"Citizen General!" said Denot to Santerre, stepping up to him after thisscene was over; "I have performed my part of my engagement I believe. "

"Well, man, supposing you have; what do you want? Are you going togrumble because I have not slaughtered the wretches you have betrayedto me?"

"Not at all, General; you know your own duty, doubtless. I am going toreturn to Saumur, to which place I desire an escort for myself and thisyoung lady. "

"By heaven I pity her!" said Santerre. "I don't know what has come tome tonight, that I should trouble myself with the cares of a swarm ofaristocrats. " And then he said, addressing Agatha, "Are you ready andwilling, young woman, for a midnight ride with this hot young lover, whoseems so fond of you?"

"She must be ready, General Santerre, " said Denot, taking hold ofAgatha's hand: "it is now my turn to command her: she must be ready, whether she be willing or no. "

"You will not force me to leave my father?" said Agatha, appealing toSanterre. "You will not deliver a poor unprotected girl into the handsof such a maniac as that. "

"Maniac!" said Denot. "But I care not; your words are to me like theempty wind: the time had gone by for words between you and me, when yourefused to listen to those I addressed to you upon my knees. Come, Agatha, come; my heart's treasure--for still you are so; come, my love, my captive, and my bride!" And Denot essayed to go, as though heexpected Agatha to follow him through the world like a tame dog. 

"Oh, Sir, protect me from him!" said Agatha, still appealing toSanterre. "He is mad--you see and hear he is mad! I have not asked youfor my life, nor do I so now; but I pray you, I beseech you, by theremembrance of the females who are dear to yourself save me from thepower of that frantic man. Had he not been mad, had he not utterly losthis senses, he would have been the last to have brought you hither. "

"I have thought something like that myself pretty one, " said Santerre. "Come, Denot, you shall talk to the lady tomorrow; we will leave herwith her father tonight. " "Your word, General!" said Denot, assuming hisfurious look, "your plighted word and honour. Was she not to be myprize, my captive, my reward. You dare not go back from the promise youhave made me. "

"Nonsense, man alive, " said Santerre. "You can't carry her off tonight. I believe in my heart she's right, and that you're as mad a man as everroared in a hospital. Let go her arm, I tell you; you shall not drag herabout in that way. "

The Marquis, during this scene, was endeavouring to throw his arms roundhis daughter, so as to protect her; but his efforts were but of littleavail. Agatha herself still held to her father by one hand, but theother she was unable to extricate from her persecutor's grasp. She didnot scream or cry, for there was something within her--a memory ofCathelineau's last moments, of her brother's gallantry, and her father'sloyalty, which strongly urged her to repress her tears before arepublican; but her strength was almost gone, her nerves were all butover strung, when she heard a sudden noise behind her of some onerushing into the room, and Adolphe Denot quickly dropped her hand, andgave a yell of pain. He had received a sharp blow of a cherry switchacross his face, and the blood was running from both his cheeks. 

Santerre, and the other republican officers in the room, put their handsto their pistols, and prepared to defend themselves, but the only personwho appeared was a young boy: to be sure he had the dreadful red scarfround his waist; but he had no weapon but his cherry stick, after havinggiven Denot the blow across his face, he made no farther use of that. It was the little Chevalier who had arrived so opportunely; he tookAgatha's hand in his, and pressed it closely, and took his place besideher without speaking a word. 

"And who the deuce is this young bantam cock?" said Santerre. 

"I am the little Chevalier Mondyon, " said Arthur; "a true royalist, andsworn knight to Agatha Larochejaquelin. And that man there is a traitorand a false knave; he is not fit to be punished with a sword like agentleman. "

"Well crowed, my bantam, " said Santerre; "and be good enough to tell mewhere you come from. No, friend Denot, no, we'll have no dagger workjust at present. " And putting his huge hand on the other's shoulder, hedragged him back as he was about to plunge his knife into the littleChevalier. 

"I came from the cherry wood there, " said Arthur. "Maybe you think Iought not to have run away, and deserted my lady love. Maybe I'm ratherashamed of my own self, but at any rate when you speak of it, say thatI came back of my own accord. I'm not a bit afraid to die now, " and ashe spoke he squeezed Agatha's hand. His heart was full of apprehension, lest she should suspect for a moment that he had really fled from herthrough fear, but Agatha understood well his ready wit, and appreciatedhis more than boyish courage. 

Santerre now made his arrangements for the night. All the inhabitantsof the château were kept under strict surveillance. The Marquis, hisdaughter, and the Chevalier were allowed to remain together, and Denotwas prevented from annoying them. At day-break the following morningDurbellière was to be burnt, and Santerre, with his prisoners, wouldthen proceed to join Westerman at Bressuire. 

"Let him slaughter them, if he likes, " said he to himself, "I don't carewhat he says of me. I am at any rate too well known to be suspected. Idon't know what came over me today, but had the Republic depended on it, I could not have done it, " and he flung himself down on one of Agatha'ssofas, and slept not the less soundly for having began his career ofextermination in so vacillating a manner. 

CHAPTER X

THE RESCUE

The little Chevalier had no intention of saving himself, and desertinghis friends, when, on Santerre's approach, he ran off, leaving Agathaand the Marquis at the garden door of the château. He knew that Chapeauwas at the smith's forge, with his own pony. He had himself sent himthere; and as soon as he perceived, on running round the side of thehouse, that the whole front was occupied by the blues, his first ideawas to go after his pony, and ride as fast as the animal could carry himto Echanbroignes, and bring the royalists from thence to the rescue oftheir friends at Durbellière. With this object he clambered over thegarden-wall, and well knowing every foot of the ground, reached theforge in a few minutes. Chapeau and the smith were there, as was alsothe pony, and a breathless countryman was already telling them that thechâteau was surrounded by the whole army of blues. 

"Here's the Chevalier, " said Chapeau, stopping the peasant in his story. "In the name of Heaven, M. Arthur, what is all this?"

"That traitor, Denot, has brought a parcel of blues down upon thechâteau, " said the Chevalier. "The Marquis and Mademoiselle Agatha arealready in their hands; they will be murdered before morning. What isto be done? Oh! Chapeau, what are we to do to save them?"

"M. Denot!" said Chapeau. "You don't mean to say M. Denot has turnedblue--"

"I saw him with my own eyes, " said the boy; "he was one of the officerscommanding the men; but there was another over him, a big, clumsy, noisyman; he it was I saw first of all, and Denot was behind him; and thenthere was a crowd of horsemen following them. Both drawing-rooms werefull before we knew they were in the house at all. "

"And how did you get through them, M. Arthur?" said Chapeau. 

"I got over the wall behind the stables. I never went into the house atall. But what on earth are we to do, Chapeau? Can't we get the men fromEchanbroignes to come to the rescue?"

The matter was then discussed between them, and it was decided thatChapeau should take the pony, and collect the men at Echanbroignes andon the road thither, and that he should return with them, if possible, during the night; that the smith should go off to St. Laud, and getFather Jerome to bring with him the men from thence, and that Arthurshould return to the château. 

"No, " said he, when Chapeau pressed him to undertake the mission toEchanbroignes, "I will not leave Mademoiselle Agatha and the Marquis anylonger. They will think I have run away. Besides, maybe, I can be ofsome service to them there. At any rate, I will go and see what is goingon; but, Chapeau, our lives depend on you. Don't lose one single minutenow, even though you should ride poor Bayard to death, " and he put hishand on the neck of the pony, whom he had named after the flower ofchivalry. 

Chapeau and the smith started on their important missions, and theChevalier slowly, but manfully, walked back to the château. No onestopped him as he walked through the open gates, and in at the backdoor. On getting into the hall, he heard the sound of the Marquis'svoice, as he was praying Santerre to preserve his daughter from Denot, and then, hurrying into the room, he made use of the little cherry stickwhich he carried, in the manner which has been described. 

None of the inhabitants of the château went to bed that night; indeed, the beds were all occupied by the troopers, who threw themselves downto sleep, without taking off their boots, wherever they could find anyconvenient place to lie down. To do Santerre justice, he repeatedlypressed the Marquis to go to his own room, assuring him that he shouldnot be further disturbed than by the presence of a sentinel; but the oldman insisted on remaining in the salon, and Agatha and the Chevalier satwith him. Santerre, and Denot, and a cavalry sergeant, remained in thesame room, and a couple of sentinels were stationed on the top of thesteps at the back of the house, and four at the front. None of the partyin the salon slept, excepting Santerre; but they all sat silent; neitherArthur nor Agatha dared to speak to each other on the subject which atthat time filled their thoughts. The night seemed dreadfully long toArthur, and yet hardly long enough. He discovered soon after his return, that it was Santerre's purpose to burn the château early in the morning, and then to take the inhabitants away with him as prisoners; and hegreatly feared that Chapeau would not be able to return in time toprevent the conflagration. He anxiously watched the first break of day, and listened intently, but for a long time in vain, for the noise ofcoming feet. About half-past two, a soldier came and whispered to thesergeant, who then woke Santerre, and whispered to him, but the Generalwas sleepy, and did not wish his dreams should be disturbed. He mutteredsomething to the sergeant, who again left him, and resumed the seat inwhich he had sat since he first entered the room. Denot had risen twoor three times during the night, and paced rapidly and uneasily about. Whenever he had done so, Agatha had firmly grasped both her father'schair and the Chevalier's hand, as though she feared he was about torenew his attempts to drag her away, but he did not either touch her orspeak to her. He was probably aware that the sergeant, who sat therewithout once closing his eyes through the long hours, had orders toprevent him from doing so. 

The Chevalier had no watch, and could not see how the hours were going, but it seemed to him as though it were broad day. He thought it must befive, six, nay seven o'clock; and he could not understand why the lazyrepublicans remained so passive and so quiet, nor could he imagine whyChapeau was so long in coming. The whole affair seemed to him so strangethat he could hardly help fancying that he was dreaming. There sat closeto him his dear friend Agatha, with her eyes wide open, fixed on Denot, and she had been gazing in this way for hours after hours, withoutspeaking a word. There was the Marquis close to her, equally silent, butalso wide awake, though his eyes were closed. Arthur was sure that hewas awake. There was Denot marching to and fro. Adolphe Denot, who butthe other day was in the house, not only as a friend, but as a comrade, eager in the cause in which they were all embarked, as much at home inthe château as Henri Larochejaquelin himself: and now he was the worstof traitors, and the most cruel of enemies--there was the sergeant ofthe republican army, sitting as quiet and composed as though he weremerely idling his time away in his own barracks; and there wasSanterre--the much talked of republican brewer and General; thesanguinary, remorseless, fanatic democrat; the sworn enemy of all thatwas noble, loyal and gentle, the dreaded Santerre; for the Chevalier hadnow learned the name of the big, clumsy, noisy man, whom he had seenleading his troops into the salon where he was now sleeping--there hewas, sleeping fast: while care, anxiety, or a sense of duty banishedsleep from all the others, he, who had so much more need than others tobe watchful, was snoring loud, and dreaming of the denizens of thefaubourgs, who used to love him so well. All this seemed to Arthur likea dream from which he could not awake--there were his enemies, hisdeadly enemies, before and around him. He knew that it was the practiceof the republican soldiers to massacre all whom they took bearing armsagainst the Republic he had even heard that it was now their horridpurpose to go further than this, and to slaughter the inhabitants of thewhole district which had revolted; at any rate his own doom would bedeath; he was certain that he had not many days, probably many hours, to live, unless Chapeau should arrive in time, and with sufficientforce, to rescue the whole party. Yet he felt no fear; he could notsufficiently realize the position in which he found himself, to feel thefull effects of its danger. The republican sergeant sat immediately infront of him, and each kept his eye fixed on the other's face; not thateither of them had any object in doing so, any particular motive forwatching the other's countenance, but soon after day-break the gaze ofeach had become fixed, and it seemed as though neither of them were ableto turn away his eyes. 

Arthur occupied his mind in speculating on the character of the soldier, in trying to guess from his features whether he were a cruel or akind-hearted man; whether he were a ferocious democrat, eager for theblood of all who had been born in a rank above him, or merely a well-trained soldier, obeying the behests of those under whose orders it washis duty to act. The Chevalier had no idea that his own or his friends'fate depended in any way on the man's disposition; but such thoughtscame across his brain unwittingly, and he could not restrain them. Atlast, he felt that he had a kind of intimacy with the sergeant; that ifhe should chance to meet him after three or four years had passed, heshould greet him as an old acquaintance, whom he had well known, and hewas sure that the sergeant had the same feeling respecting him. 

The day dawned soon after two o'clock, and as by degrees the clearsun-light streamed in at the uncurtained windows, Arthur, in hisimpatience, thought that the day was advancing; but in reality it wasnot yet five o'clock, when Santerre, waking with a tremendous yawn, stretched his huge limbs, and then jumped up from the sofa on which hehad been lying. 

"Now for a bonfire, " said he, "and then for breakfast; or perhaps we hadbetter get our breakfast first, and have our bonfire afterwards. Oldgentleman, I have no doubt my men took strange liberties with yourcellar and larder last night. I hope they have left enough about theplace to furnish you with the last meal you will ever eat in thischâteau. "

"I know, Sir, what soldiers are in a house, " said the old man. "I willnot say that your men are welcome here, for that would be falsehood; butI begrudge them nothing that they eat and drink"

"Well, that's kind of you; but, considering that all which is not noweaten and drunk, will be immediately wasted and spoilt, you wouldcertainly be foolish to allow the consumption of your provisions to makeyou uneasy. Here, sergeant, " and then Santerre spoke aside to thesergeant, and gave him various orders, which the man departed to obey. 

"And now, General Santerre, " said Denot, marching close up to him, "areyou prepared to make good your promise to me? Are you prepared to giveme an escort for myself and this lady, and to allow us to commence ourjourney from hence to Saumur?"

Denot's personal appearance had not been at all improved by the blowwhich Arthur had given him across his face. Both his cheeks were muchswollen immediately beneath the eyes, and one of them was severely cut. He felt that his looks were against him, and he endeavoured to make upfor the injury his countenance had sustained by the sternness of hisvoice, and the determined rigour of his eye. "I presume, " GeneralSanterre, " added he, "that your plighted word is sufficient warrant tome for your good faith. "

"There is the lady, " said Santerre, pointing to Agatha. "I did notundertake to protect you from the wrath of any rivals you might have inher affections. It seems to me that at present she prefers that youngdare-devil slip of aristocracy to your patriotic ardour. If she won'tgo to Saumur with you, I can't make her. "

"By all the powers of heaven and hell, she shall go with me!" saidDenot, advancing towards her. 

"Beware the switch--beware the switch again, thou false knave!" said thelittle Chevalier, jumping up, and standing immediately before Agatha, with his cherry stick in his hand. Denot had no other arms about him buthis dagger, and that he drew, as he advanced towards the boy. 

"No daggers--I will have no daggers, " shouted Santerre. "Sergeant, takethe dagger from him, unless he puts it up. "

"Beware the switch, thou traitor! beware the switch, thou knave!"continued the Chevalier, shaking the stick at Denot, upon whose arm thestrong hand of the sergeant, who had returned to the room, was now laidheavily. 

"I will choke the brat as I would an adder, " said Denot, attempting toshake off the sergeant's hand. "There, take the dagger, " and he droppedit on the ground, and rushing at the boy, got inside the swing of hisstick, and made a grasp at his throat. Arthur, however, was too quickfor him, and pushing away his hand, fastened his own arms round hisadversary. They were now close locked in each other's embrace, andkicking, plunging, and striving, each did his best to throw the otherto the ground. 

"Oh! Sir, kind Sir, for mercy's sake separate them!" said Agatha, appealing to Santerre; "he is but a boy, a child, and that wretched manis mad. He'll murder the boy before your eyes, if you do not separatethem. "

"He won't find it so easy though, " said the Chevalier, panting, and outof breath; but still holding his own, and, indeed, more than his own;for he had fixed his left hand in Denot's hair, and was pulling his headbackwards with such force, that he nearly broke his neck. 

"I think the young one has the best of it, " said Santerre; "but come, citizen Denot, your loves and your quarrels are troublesome to us; wehave other work to attend to. Get up, man, get up, I tell you. "

Denot, by his superior weight and strength, had succeeded in getting theChevalier to the ground, but Arthur still kept his hold in his hair, andthough Adolphe was on the top of his foe, he did not find it very easyto get up. 

"Get up, I say, " said Santerre. "You'll gain nothing by wrestling withthat fellow; he's more than a match for you. Well, Captain, what's thematter?"

The room in which the party had passed the night looked out into thegarden at the back of the house. The front room communicated with thisby folding-doors, which during the night had been closed. These doorswere now violently thrown open, and one of the officers, followed byabout a dozen men, rushed into the room. 

"The road is crowded with men, " said the officer; "thousands of thesebrigands are on us. The château will be surrounded in five minutes. "

"H--and the d--, " said Santerre between his teeth. "This comes ofplaying the fool here, " and he hurried out of the room in company withthe officer. 

"Hurrah!" said the Chevalier, jumping to his feet. "I knew they'd behere soon--I knew they'd be here soon, " and running to Agatha's side hecaught hold of her hand, and covered it with kisses. 

Denot also arose. He had also heard the officer say that the peasantswere coming on them, and he felt that if he were taken, he could expectno mercy from those who had so lately been his friends. He did not, however, attempt to fly, but he stood still on the spot where he got up, and after wiping his hot brow with his handkerchief, he said slowly andmournfully--"Agatha Larochejaquelin, you now see to what your conducthas reduced me; and with my last breath I tell you that I owe mydisgrace, my misery, and my death--ay, and the loss of my eternal soul, to you, and to you only. Ay, shudder and shake, thou lovely monster ofcruelty. Shake and grieve with remorse and fear. You may well do so. Myliving form shall trouble you no more, but dead and dying I will be withyou till the last trump sounds on the fearful day of judgment. "

Agatha did not answer him. She felt assured that he was mad, and sheonly pitied him. She had now too reason to hope that she and her father, and their whole household, would be relieved from their horribleposition, and she no longer felt anything like anger against theunfortunate wretch whom uncontrolled passions had absolutely maddened. Arthur, in his anxiety to see what was going forward, was about to leavethe room, but Agatha laid her hand upon his arm to detain him, merelylooking towards Denot as she did so. 

"And do you think, " said Denot, "that puny boy could really stop my way, if I chose to put out my right hand against him. Boy, I despise anddisregard you! would before I die that it might be allowed me to measurearms with any man, who would dare to say that he would advocate yourcause!"

"Beware the switch, traitor--beware the switch!" repeated the Chevalier. 

"Be quiet, Arthur, do not anger him, " whispered Agatha. "It is notgenerous, you know, to insult a fallen foe. "

"There are no terms to be kept with a traitor, Agatha. If we get thebetter of this, Santerre, as I am sure we shall now, you shall see thatI know how to treat a generous foe generously. "

When Santerre reached the front of the house, he at once saw that anyattempt on his part to oppose the crowd of armed peasants who were nowclose upon him, would be futile. The only mode of escape which appearedto him at all practicable, was to attempt to ride through them. He gavethe command "to horse, " and got so far himself as to mount into hissaddle; but it was of no use, he was surrounded by a crowd of peasantsbefore he got to the gate, and he soon found himself on foot again, andunarmed. Some ten or twenty of his men, who were ready to jump into thesaddle at the moment when they were first aware of the approach of theroyalists, escaped, but the remainder in a few minutes found themselvesprisoners in the château. 

The peasants were headed by Father Jerome, the priest of St. Laud, andit was he who first mounted the steps leading up to the front door ofthe house. "Thank God, " said he, speaking more to himself than to thosearound him. "Thank God!" and he stood up against the pedestal of one ofthe lions, the heavy wooden crucifix which he had carried in his handas he marched, or rather ran, to the succour of his friends atDurbellière; and then he took off his cap, and with the sleeve of hisdusty grey coat he wiped the perspiration from off his brow. "And theMarquis and Mademoiselle are unhurt? Thank God--thank God! we were justin time, but we had a smart run for it. "

Chapeau had already dived into the kitchen through the window, and hadlearnt that at any rate the republicans had as yet shed no blood. 

"And how did the Marquis bear it, Momont?" said he. "It was enough tokill the old gentleman. "

"'Why, yes, " said Momont. "We had to bear a good deal, but we did bearit manfully and well. We were all led out to be shot, you know. "

"What, the Marquis and Mademoiselle and all?" said Chapeau. 

"No, not the Marquis and Mademoiselle; they were to be beheaded afterus, but the rest of us were all taken out--the muskets loaded--the mento shoot us all in a line. "

"Oh! Chapeau, it was so awfully dreadful, " said the cook. "If I live athousand years I shall never get over this night, "

"Oh, yes! most dreadfully awful, " said the laundress. "I was carried infrom the spot, and have not been able to move a limb since. I doubt Inever shall put a foot to the ground again. "

"The muskets were to their shoulders, " continued Momont. "We heard themcocked: each man took deliberate aim; the women here were screeching andscreaming. "

"Of course we were, " said the confidential maid. "Hadn't we good causeto scream, waiting to be killed every minute. I'm sure I wonder I evercame to my senses again. I declare when they came to pick me up, Ithought it was all over, and that I'd been shot already. "

"Well, I don't think anybody heard me scream, " said Momont: "but there'sa difference I know between a man and a woman. 'It's all for my King andmy master, ' said I to myself. Besides a man can die but once, and it'sa great thing to die honourably. " The old man turned round to receivethe approbation, which he considered was due to the sentiment he hadexpressed, and found that Chapeau was gone. The kitchen, however, wasfilled with peasants, and in them Momont found ready listeners and warmadmirers. 

Both Chapeau and the priest had spent the greater portion of the nightin collecting what they considered would be a sufficient number of mento enable them to attack, with any chance of success, the republicansoldiers who had taken possession of Durbellière. They had neither ofthem the slightest idea what amount of force had been brought againstthe château, and, consequently, wasted much time in procuring many moremen than were necessary for the purpose. The three hundred, who wereimmediately got together on the sounding of the tocsin in the villageof Echanbroignes, would have been sufficient to have done the workwithout further assistance, for they were all well armed, and, by thistime, tolerably well trained in the use of their arms. 

There was ten times more confusion now in the château, than there hadbeen during the night: every room and passage was crowded with peasants, who took up their positions there under the plea of guarding theirprisoners, and with the girls and women of the neighbourhood who flockedto that place, as soon as they heard that the horrible blues were allprisoners, and that the Marquis and Mademoiselle were once more atliberty. Agatha's troubles were by no means ended. Provisions of somekind were to be procured for the friends who had come so far and doneso much to relieve them; and she had no one on whom she could depend toassist her in procuring them: the servants all considered themselvesutterly unfitted for anything, except talking of the events of theevening; and though every one was burning with affection and zeal forMonseigneur and Mademoiselle, no one appeared willing to make himselfuseful. 

The reaction on his feelings was too much for the poor Marquis. Duringthe long evening and night, in which he had been a prisoner and lookingforward to nothing but death; in which he had sat beside hisfondly-loved daughter, whose fate he feared would be so much morehorrible than death itself, he had patiently and manfully born hissufferings; he had even displayed a spirit for which few gave himcredit, who were accustomed to his gentle temper and mild manners; butthe unexpected recovery of his own and his daughter's liberty upset himentirely. As soon as he had pressed Father Jerome's hand, and thankedChapeau fur what he had done, he begged that he might be carried off tohis bed, and left there quietly till the return of his son, for whom, he was told, a messenger had been sent. 

Santerre and Denot were both kept under a strong guard in the saloon inwhich they had passed the night; and there the priest, Chapeau, and theyoung Chevalier passed the greater part of the day, anxiously waitingthe arrival of Henri Larochejaquelin. 

"I never liked that man, " said the priest, whispering to Arthur andChapeau, for the latter, from his exertion and zeal was looked uponrather as an officer in the royalist army, than as a servant. "I neverliked Adolphe Denot, but I could never say why. The tone of his voicewas disagreeable to me, and the expression of his features aroused inme both dislike and distrust. It is not long since M. Henri rebuked mefor being hard on him, and judging him harshly; and I was angry withmyself for having done so. I knew, however, there was something wrongwithin him. He has turned out to be as base a creature as ever trod theearth. "

"It will be a desperate blow to M. Henri, " said Chapeau, "for he lovedhim as though he were his brother. "

"I will be his brother now, " said Arthur; "he shall love me in hisplace. "

"Ah! M. Arthur, " said Chapeau, "his heart is large enough to love usboth; but when he hears how nobly you behaved last night, how you stoodby Mademoiselle Agatha, and protected her, you will be his real brotherindeed. "

The little Chevalier's heart rose high within him, as he attempted tospeak slightingly of his own services. "Oh!" said he, "I couldn't domuch, you know, for I had only a stick; but of course we red scarfs willalways stick to each other. Denot, you know, never was a red scarf Well, thank heaven for that; but I tell you what, Father Jerome, that Santerreis not such a bad fellow; and so I shall tell Henri; he is not a badfellow at all, and he scorns Denot as he deserves to be scorned. "

CHAPTER XI

ANNOT STEIN. 

It will be remembered that the party escaping from the Château ofClisson met Jean Stein, when they had come within four or five leaguesof Durbellière. He had been sent from Echanbroignes, by Chapeau, to tellHenri what had happened, to assure him that every possible effort wouldbe made to rescue his father and sister from the republicans, and ifpossible to save the château, and to beg him to return home as speedilyas he possibly could. Jean was spared the greatest portion of hisjourney, and having told his tale, added that perhaps "Messieurs wouldnot think it prudent to take the ladies with them to Durbellière justat present. "

"Oh heavens! what are we to do?" said Madame de Lescure; "we are runningfrom one hostile army into the middle of another. Poor Agatha! my poorAgatha! what will become of her?"

"Had we not better send them to Chatillon?" said Henri, speaking to deLescure. "They will, at any rate, be safe there for a time. "

"We won't be sent any where--indeed we won't--will we, Marie?" saidMadame de Lescure. "Pray, Charles, pray do not send us away. Let us gowhere you go. It cannot be worse for us than it is for you. "

"You cannot go to the château, dearest, when we have every reason tosuppose it is in the hands of the republicans, and more than probablyburnt to the ground by this time. "

"Oh! don't send me back to Chatillon, " said Marie; "it would be hoursand hours before we should hear what happens to you, and what hashappened to Agatha. "

"If the ladies wouldn't think ill of going to Echanbroignes, " said JeanStein, "they would be safe there, and near at hand to learn all as itgoes on at Durbellière. I am sure father and Annot would do their bestto make the ladies comfortable, as long as they might be pleased to staythere. "

After considerable discussion this plan was adopted. The party travelledon together, till the roads to Durbellière and Echanbroignes separated;and then, with many charges, the two ladies were entrusted to the careof the smith's son. 

"We will come to you, or send to you the moment we are able, " said deLescure, " whether our news be good or bad. I trust we shall find themsafe, and that we shall all be together tomorrow at Durbellière. "

Marie and Madame de Lescure reached the village safely late in theevening, and found no one in the smith's house but Annot. Even MichaelStein himself had been moved by hearing that the republicans wereabsolutely in possession of the château, and, old as he was, he had madehis way over to Durbellière, and had not yet returned. Annot, however, received them with good news; she had heard different messages from thechâteau during the day, and was able to tell them not only that theMarquis, Agatha, and the house were safe, but that the republicansoldiers were all prisoners, and that Santerre--that object of horrorto many Vendean royalists, had himself been captured by the strong handand bold heart of Jacques Chapeau. 

Neither of the ladies knew Annot Stein, or had even heard of her; butAnnot, though at present she was rather doleful, was not long in makingherself known to them, and explaining to them her own particularconnexion with the château. 

She made up her own bed for one of them, and her father's for the other. They were not, she said, such as ladies like them were accustomed tosleep on, but the sheets were clean, and perhaps for one night theywould excuse the want of better accommodation. Madame de Lescure andMarie declared that they were only too happy in being able to restquietly, with the knowledge that their friends were in safety. Poorladies! they were destined before long to encounter worse hardships thanAnnot Stein's little bed, and frugal supper. 

"But, Madame, " said Annot, as she sat demurely on the corner of herchair, "this Santerre is not the sort of man at all we all took him tobe. Peter was over here, though he has gone back again now, and Petersays he is quite a good fellow in his way. "

"What, Santerre!" said Marie, shuddering. "Oh! he is a most horridmonster! It was he that led out our dear sainted King to be murdered;it was he that urged on the furious mob to spill so much blood. They saythat in all Paris there is not a greater wretch than this Santerre. "

"I don't know, Mademoiselle, " said Annot, "but he certainly wasn't sobad last night, for he might have killed them all had he chosen: andinstead of that he didn't kill any one, or let any of his party killthem either, only he frightened poor old Momont nearly to death. "

"God may have softened his heart, " said Madame de Lescure; "if he hasreally spared our friends, we will not speak ill of him. "

"If he has done so, " said Marie, "he will have his reward; for I am sureCharles and Henri will spare him now that he is in their power. "

"That's just what the people say, " said Annot; "they say that it's M. Henri's turn to be generous now, and that they're sure he won't hurt ahair of this Santerre. Only they're determined on one thing--and it wasall Chapeau and Father Jerome could do to stop them till M. Henri camehome--they are determined to hang that horrid wretch Denot, themonster! I shouldn't wonder if he were swinging by this time. "

"And is it really true, " said Madame de Lescure, "that it was M. Denotwho led the republicans to Durbellière?"

"Oh! that's a positive fact, " said Annot, "there's no doubt on earthabout that; and behaved most brutally to Mademoiselle Agatha. He wouldhave killed her with his own hand, before her father, only M. Santerrewouldn't let him. He had his dagger out and all, and M. Santerre tookit from him with his own hand, and wouldn't let him speak another word. Oh! indeed, ladies, M. Santerre is not half so bad as he looks to be. "

"People say that the father of evil himself is painted blacker than hereally is, " said Marie. 

"I don't know about that, Mademoiselle, and I didn't hear that thisSanterre was painted black at all; and if he were so, I think Peterwould have told me. But then, ladies, the little Chevalier Mondyon camein in the middle. It was he that sent Chapeau over here to bring the redscarfs to the rescue. He is a little darling, is the Chevalier. Isuppose you know him, Mademoiselle?"

"Indeed I do, Annot, and love him dearly; he is an old sweetheart ofmine. "

"He's too young to have a sweetheart yet, Mademoiselle; but you'll seesome of the ladies will be quarrelling for him yet, when he's a year ortwo older. Well, after sending Jacques over here, he went back as boldas possible into the middle of the republicans, before Santerre and all. M. Denot was at his worst then. He had hold of Mademoiselle Agatha, andwas dragging her away from the Marquis, in spite of Santerre and thewhole of them, when the Chevalier raises his stick, and strikes himacross the face. I warrant you he let go Mademoiselle's hand when hefelt the sharp stick come across his eyes. "

"It must have been a horrid sight for Agatha, " said Madame de Lescure. 

"Oh! indeed it was, Madame. Only fancy that traitor Denot going on inthat way, right before her eyes all night, and no one to protect her butthe little Chevalier; for when it got late M. Santerre threw himself onthe floor, and slept and snored like a hog. They say it was all forlove, Mademoiselle. They say this Denot was greatly in love withMademoiselle Agatha, and that she wouldn't look at him. Is it true, shewas so very scornful to him?"

"She was never scornful to any one, " said Marie; "but if he ever askedher for her love, I have no doubt she told him that she could not giveit to him. "

"That's just what they say; and that then he asked her more and more, and went down on his knees to her, and prayed her just as much as tolook at him; and kissed her feet, and cried dreadfully; and that all shedid was to turn aside her face, and bid him rise and leave her. "

"What would you nave had her say, Annot, if she felt that she could notlove him?"

"Oh! I'm not presuming to find fault with her, Mademoiselle; heavenforbid! Of course, if she couldn't love him, she could do nothing butrefuse him. But, heigho! it's a very dreadful thing to think of that anice young man like him--for I'm told that this Denot was a very niceyoung man--should be so bewildered by love as he has been. "

"Love couldn't make a man a traitor, " said Marie, "nor yet a coward. "

"I don't know, Mademoiselle, love is a very fearful thing when itdoesn't go right. Perhaps love never made you feel so angry that you'dlike to eat your lover's heart?"

"Gracious goodness, no, " said Marie; "why, Annot, where did you get sucha horrid idea as that?"

"Ah! Mademoiselle, your lover's one in a hundred! So handsome, so noble, so good, so grand, so amiable, so everything that a young lady couldwish to dream about: one, too, that never has vagaries and jealousies, and nasty little aggravating ways. Oh! Mademoiselle, I look upon you asthe happiest young lady in the world. 

"What on earth, Annot, do you know about my lover, or how on earth canyou know that I have a lover at all? Why, child, I and my cousin Agathaare both going to be nuns at St. Laurent. "

"The blessed Virgin forbid it, " said Annot. "Not but what MademoiselleAgatha would look beautiful as a nun. She has the pale face, and thelong straight nose, and the calm melancholy eyes, just as a nun oughtto have; but then she should join the Carmelite ladies at the richconvent of our Blessed Lady at St. Maxent, where they all wear beautifulwhite dresses and white hoods, and have borders to their veils, and lookso beautiful that there need hardly be any change in them when they goto heaven; and not become one of those dusty-musty black sisters ofmercy at St. Laurent. "

"That's your idea of a nun, is it?" said Madame de Lescure. 

"I'm sure, Madame, I don't know why any girl should try to make herselflook ugly, if God has made her as beautiful as Mademoiselle Agatha. "

"And you think then Mademoiselle de Lescure is not fit for a nun atall?"

"Oh, Madame, we all know she is going to be married immediately to thefinest, handsomest, most noble young nobleman in all Poitou. Oh! I'dgive all the world to have such a lover as M. Henri just for tenminutes, to see him once kneeling at my feet. "

"For ten minutes, " said Marie. "What good would that do you? that wouldonly make you unhappy when the ten minutes were gone and past. "

"Besides, what would you say to him in that short time?" said Madame deLescure. 

"Say to him! I don't know what I'd say to him. I don't think I'd say oneword, but I'd give him such a look, so full of affection and gratitude, and admiration, and--and--and downright real true love; that, if he hadany heart in him at all, I don't think he'd be so base as to go awayfrom me when the ten minutes were over. "

"That's what you call borrowing a lover for ten minutes, is it?" saidMarie; "and if, as you say, this young gentleman is my property, whatam I to do for a lover the while?"

"I was only wishing, Mademoiselle, and you know there's no harm inwishing. Besides, the finest lady in the world couldn't rob you of yourlover, let alone a poor girl like me. He is so true, and so noble, andso good. "

"And have not you a lover of your own, Annot?"

"Oh, indeed I have, and a very good one. For all my talking in that way, I was never badly off for lovers, and now I've chosen one for good andall; and I love him dearly, Madame; dote on him, and so does he on me, but for all that there was a time when I really would have eaten hisheart, if I could have got at it. "

"But that was before you had accepted each other. "

"Not at all, Mademoiselle; not long since. I loved then as dearly as Ido now, but he let me walk home by myself three long leagues withoutspeaking a word to me, and all because I said that a man in a picturehad fine whiskers. "

"A man in a picture! why this lover of yours must be a very jealous man, or else he must be very badly off for whiskers himself?"

"No he's not, Mademoiselle; he's as nice a pair as you'd wish to see;that is, begging your pardon, as nice a pair as I'd wish to see; andhe's not a jealous man either about other things. "

"And when do you mean to marry him, Annot?"

"Oh, Mademoiselle, we are only waiting for you. "

"Waiting for me, child! What on earth do you mean? who told you I wasgoing to be married at all?"

It was no wonder that Marie should be astonished at finding her weddingso confidently spoken of by a stranger in Echanbroignes, consideringthat it was not yet twenty-four hours since Henri had declared his lovefor her at Clisson. 

"But you are going to be married to M. Henri, are you not, Mademoiselle?"

"Who told you all this? how is it you come to know so much about thisyoung lady and M. Henri?" said Madame de Lescure. 

"Why, Jacques Chapeau told me. My own husband, that is, as is to be. "

"Oh! that explains the mystery, " said Marie; "and so Chapeau is yourlover is he? Chapeau is the man who couldn't bear the mention of thefine pair of whiskers you saw in the picture? and did he tell you thathis master was going to be married immediately?" and Marie blushed asshe asked the question. 

"Indeed he did, Mademoiselle, and he said besides--"

"Well, what did he say besides?"

"Why, I hardly like to say now, Mademoiselle; it will look like askinga favour when I thought you could not well refuse it; and perhapsJacques was wrong to say anything at all about it. "

Marie, however, was not long in inducing Annot to reveal to herChapeau's little plan of taking his own wife over to Durbellière to waitupon his master's wife, and she, moreover, promised that, as far as sheherself was concerned, she would consent to the arrangement, if, whichshe expressly inserted, she should ever marry M. Larochejaquelin. 

"But an't you engaged to him, Mademoiselle?"

"Well, Annot, " answered she, "as you have told me so much, I don't mindtelling you that I am. But it will be long, probably, before I ammarried, if ever I am. Men have other things to think of now thanmarriage, and, alas! women too. We must wait till the wars are over, Annot. "

"But I thought the wars were over now, Mademoiselle. Haven't they gotthat Santerre prisoner up at Durbellière?"

"There's much, very much, I fear to do yet, and to suffer, before thewars will be really over, " said Madame de Lescure. "Heaven help us, andguide us, and protect us! Come, Marie, let us go to rest, for I trustCharles will send for us early in the morning. "

Annot gave such assistance to her two guests as they required, and waswithin her power, and then seating herself in her father's large armchair in the kitchen, pondered over the misery of living in times whenmen were so busy fighting with their enemies, that they had not evenleisure to get married. 

"And what, after all, is the use of these wars?" said she to herself"What do they get by taking so many towns, and getting so many guns, andkilling so many men? I don't know who's the better for it, but I knowvery well who's the worse. Why can't they let the blues alone; and theblues let them alone? I worked my poor fingers to the bone making awhite flag before they went to Saumur, and all they did was to leave itin the streets of Nantes. There's not so much as a bottle of beer, andhardly a bushel of flour left in Echanbroignes. There's the poor dearlovely Cathelineau dead and gone. There's M. Henri engaged to the girlof his heart, and he can't so much as stay a day from fighting to gethimself married; and there's Jacques just as bad. If Jacques cares a bitfor me, he must take himself off, and me with him, to some place wherethere's not quite so much fighting, or else I'll be quit of him and gowithout him. I've no idea of living in a place where girls are not, tobe married till the wars are over. Wars, wars, wars; I'm sick of thewars with all my heart. "

CHAPTER XII

SENTENCE OF DEATH. 

After parting with their companion, de Lescure and Henri were not longin reaching Durbellière; and on the road thither they also learnt thatSanterre, and upwards of a hundred blue horsemen, were prisoners in thechâteau, or in the barns, out-houses, or stables belonging to it; andthat the whole place was crowded with peasants, guarding their captives. As they entered the château gates, they met Chapeau, who was at thebottom of the steps, waiting for them; and Henri immediately asked afterhis father. 

"Monseigneur is much fatigued, " said Chapeau, "but apparently well; heis, however, still in bed. "

"And my sister?" said Henri. 

"Mademoiselle has of course been much fatigued, but she is well; she iswith your father, M. Henri. "

"And tell me, Chapeau, is it true, is it really true that M. Denotbrought the blues here, and that since he has been here he has treatedmy sister in the manner they describe?"

"It is true as gospel, M. Henri. I knew that this would be the worst ofthe whole affair to you. I knew you would sooner the château should havebeen burnt than have heard this. We are only waiting for you and M. DeLescure, to hang him as a traitor from the big chestnut out on the road-side. You might have seen as you came in, that they have the ropes andeverything ready. "

Henri shuddered as he followed his cousin into the house. The steps werecrowded with his own followers, who warmly welcomed him, andcongratulated him on the safety of his father, his sister, and hisproperty; but he said very little to them; he was thinking of the friendwhom he had loved so well, who had so vilely disgraced himself, andwhose life he now feared he should be unable to save. 

"Where is he?" said he to Chapeau. 

"Who--Monseigneur?"

"No--M. Denot. "

"He is in the great salon, with Santerre, and Father Jerome, and theChevalier, and three or four of the lads from Echanbroignes. "

"Charles, " said he, as he reached the door of the salon, "do you go in. You are better able to say what should be said, and to do what must bedone, than I am. I will go up to my father. But, Charles, " and he spokeinto his ear, so that no one else should hear him, "save his life--formy sake, save his life. He is mad, and does not know what he has beendoing. " De Lescure pressed his cousin's hand, and as Henri ran up stairsto his father, he entered the room, where the party abovementioned weresitting. 

The occupants of the room certainly formed a very remarkable group. Thefirst person whom de Lescure saw was Adolphe Denot; he was seated in alarge arm-chair, placed against the wall immediately opposite the door, and between the stove and the folding-doors which opened into the otherroom. His legs were stretched out to their full length before him hishands were clasped together between his legs; his head was bent down, so that his chin rested on his breast; he was scowling awfully, hiseyebrows nearly met above his eyes, and he continued constantly curlingand twisting his lips, sometimes shewing his teeth, and sometimescompletely covering his under with his upper lip. He had sat twelvehours, since Agatha had left the room in the morning, without speakinga word, or once changing his position. He had refused food when it hadbeen brought to him, with an indignant shake of the head; and whenSanterre had once half jocularly told him to keep up his spirits, andprove himself a man, he had uttered a horrible sound, which he had meantfor a laugh of derision, such as is sometimes heard to proceed fromdark-haired, diabolical, provincial tragedians. 

There were three men from Echanbroignes in the room, distinguished bythe notable red scarf, acting as guards, to prevent the escape of theprisoners; but as the two objects of their care during the whole day hadmade no attempt at escaping, the guards had by degrees laid aside theeager watchfulness with which they had at first expressed theirreadiness to pounce upon their captives, should they by any motion havebetrayed an intention to leave their seats, and were now resting onthree chairs in a row, each man having his musket between his legs, andlooking as though they were peculiarly tired of their long inactiveservices. Santerre and Father Jerome were seated together on a sofa, andthe Chevalier occupied a chair on the other side of a table on which theprisoner and the priest were leaning. When Santerre found that he andhis men were in the hands of the royalist peasants, he at first ratherlost both his temper and his presence of mind. He saw at once thatresistance was out of the question, and that there was very littlechance that he would be able to escape; he began to accuse himself ofrashness in having accepted from the Convention the very disagreeablecommission which had brought him into his present plight, and to wishthat he was once more among his legitimate adherents in the Quartier St. Antoine. He soon, however, regained his equanimity. Those whom he hadin his rough manner treated well, returned the compliment; and heperceived that, though he would probably be kept a prisoner, his lifewould not be in danger, and that the royalists were not inclined totreat him either with insult or severity. 

He by degrees got into conversation with the Chevalier; and before theday was over, even Father Jerome, much as he abhorred a republican, andespecially a leader of republicans, and an infidel, as he presumedSanterre to be, forgot his disgust, and chatted freely with the captiveCommissioner. The three dined together in the afternoon, and when deLescure entered the room, wine and glasses were still on the table. Acrowd of the royalist peasants followed de Lescure to the door of thesalon, and would have entered it with him, had not Chapeau, with muchdifficulty, restrained them. They were most anxious to hear sentencepronounced on the traitor, who had betrayed their cause, and insultedthe sister of their favourite leader; and could not understand why thepunishment, which he had so richly merited, should be delayed. All thatChapeau and Father Jerome had ventured to ask of them was to wait tillHenri himself should arrive; and now, that he had come, they conceivedthat judgment should at once be passed, and sentence of deathimmediately executed. 

When de Lescure entered the room, they all, except Denot, rose fromtheir chairs; the three guards stood up, and shouldered their muskets, the Chevalier ran up to him to shake hands with him, and Father Jeromealso came out into the middle of the room to meet him. He looked firstat Denot, who kept his eyes steadily fixed on the ground; and then atSanterre, whom he had never, to his knowledge, seen before. Santerre, however, knew him, for he immediately called him by his name. 

"My soldiers have met with a reverse, General de Lescure, " said he, "which has thrown me and them into the power of your friends. I take theearliest opportunity of thanking you for the kind treatment we havereceived. "

"If, at some future time, when our soldiers may be in your power, youwill remember it; the Marquis de Larochejaquelin will feel himself amplyrepaid for such attention as he has been able to shew you, " said deLescure. 

"You know we were in General Santerre's power last night, " said theChevalier; "and he could have shot us all had he pleased it; indeed weall expected it, when the blues came upon us. "

"They shall not find that we will be less merciful, Arthur, " said deLescure. "General Santerre knows that the Vendean royalists have neverdisgraced themselves by shedding the blood of the prisoners whom thechance of war may have thrown into their hands. He knows that they canbe brave without being cruel. I grieve to say that the republicans havehitherto not often allowed us to repay mercy with mercy. We shall nowbe glad to take advantage of the opportunity of doing so. "

"What will you do with him, M. De Lescure, " said Father Jerome in awhisper, pointing to Denot. "I never before saw the people greedy forblood; but now they declare that no mercy should be shown to a traitor. "

"We must teach them, Father Jerome, that it is God's will that those whowish to be pardoned themselves must pardon others. You have taught themlessons more difficult to learn than this; and I do not doubt that inthis, as in other things, they will obey their priest. " And as he spokede Lescure laid his hand on the Curé's shoulder. 

"You won't hang him then?" whispered the Chevalier. 

"You wouldn't have me do so, would you, Arthur?"

"Who--I?" said the boy. "No--that is, I don't know. I wouldn't like tohave to say that anybody should be hung; but if anybody ever did deserveit, he does. "

"And you, Father Jerome?" said de Lescure, "you agree with me? You wouldnot have us sully our pure cause with a cold-blooded execution?"

The three were now standing at an open window, looking into the garden. Their backs were turned to Santerre and Denot, and they were speakingin low whispers; but nevertheless Denot either guessed or overheard thathe was the subject of their conversation. The priest did not immediatelyanswer de Lescure's appeal. In his heart he thought that thecircumstances not only justified, but demanded the traitor's death; but, remembering his profession, and the lessons of mercy it was his chiefbusiness to teach, he hesitated to be the first to say that he thoughtthe young man should be doomed. 

"Well, Father Jerome, " said de Lescure, looking into the priest's face, "surely you have no difficulty in answering me?"

The Curé was saved the necessity of answering the appeal; for while hewas still balancing between what he thought to be his duty, and thatwhich was certainly his inclination, Denot himself interrupted thewhisperers. 

"M. De Lescure, " said he, in the deep, hoarse, would-be solemn voice, which he now always affected to use. De Lescure turned quickly round, and so did his companions. The words of a man who thinks that he isalmost immediately about to die are always interesting. 

"If you are talking about me, " said the unfortunate wretch, "pray spareyourself the trouble. I neither ask, nor wish for any mercy at yourhands. I am ready to die. "

As de Lescure looked at him, and observed the alteration which a fewweeks had made in his appearance--his sunken, sallow cheeks; his wildand bloodshot eyes; his ragged, uncombed hair, and soiled garments--ashe thought of his own recent intimacy with him--as he remembered howoften he had played with him as a child, and associated with him as aman--that till a few days since he had been the bosom friend of his ownmore than brother, Henri Larochejaquelin, the tears rushed to his eyesand down his cheeks. In that moment the scene in the council-room atSaumur came to his mind, and he remembered that there he had rebukedAdolphe Denot for his false ambition, and had probably been the meansof driving him to the horrid crime which he had committed. Though heknew that the traitor's iniquity admitted of no excuse, he sympathizedwith the sufferings which had brought him to his present condition. Heturned away his head, as the tears rolled down his cheeks, and felt thathe was unable to speak to the miserable man. 

Had de Lescure upbraided him, Denot's spirit, affected and unreal as itwas, would have enabled him to endure it without flinching. He wouldhave answered the anger of his former friend with bombast, and mightvery probably have mustered courage enough to support the same charactertill they led him out to death. But de Lescure's tears affected him. Hefelt that he was pitied; and though his pride revolted against thecommiseration of those whom he had injured, his heart was touched, andhis voice faltered, as he again declared that he desired no mercy, andthat he was ready to die. 

"Ready to die!" said the Curé, "and with such a weight of sin upon yourconscience; ready to be hurried before the eternal judgment seat, without having acknowledged, even in your own heart, the iniquity ofyour transgressions!"

"That, Sir, is my concern, " said Denot. "I knew the dangers of the taskbefore I undertook it, and I can bear the penalties of failure withoutflinching. I fear them not, either in this world or in any other worldto come. "

De Lescure, overcome with distress, paced up and down the room tifiChapeau entered it, and whispered to him, that the peasants outside wereanxious to know what next they were to do, and that they were clamorousfor Denot's execution. "They are determined to hang him, " continuedChapeau, who had induced de Lescure to leave the room, and was nowspeaking to him in the hall. "They say that you and M. Henri may do whatyou please about Santerre and the soldiers, but that Adolphe Denot hasbetrayed the cause, insulted Mademoiselle, and proved himself unfit tolive; and that they will not leave the château as long as a breath oflife remains in his body. "

"And you, Chapeau, what did you say to them in reply?"

"Oh, M. De Lescure, of course I said that that must be as you and M. Henri pleased. "

"Well, Chapeau, now go and tell them this, " said de Lescure: "tell themthat we will not consent that this poor wretch shall be killed, and thathis miserable life has already been granted to him. Tell them also, thatif they choose to forget their duty, their obedience, and their oaths, and attempt to seize Denot's person, neither I nor M. Henri will everagain accompany them to battle, and that they shall not lay a hand uponhim till they have passed over our bodies. Do you understand?"

Chapeau said that he did understand, and with a somewhat melancholyface, he returned to the noisy crowd, who were waiting for their victimin the front of the house. "Well, Jacques, " said one of them, an elderlyman, who had for the time taken upon himself the duties of a leaderamong them, and who was most loud in demanding that sentence should bepassed upon Denot. "We are ready, and the rope is ready, and the gallowsis ready, and we are only waiting for the traitor. We don't want tohurry M. Henri or M. De Lescure, but we hope they will not keep uswaiting much longer. "

"You need not wait any longer, " said Chapeau, "for Adolphe Denot is notto be hung at all. M. De Lescure has pardoned him. Yes, my friends, youwill be spared an unpleasant job, and the rope and the tree will not becontaminated. "

"Pardoned him--pardoned Adolphe Denot--pardoned the traitor who broughtSanterre and the republicans to Durbellière--pardoned the wretch who sogrossly insulted Mademoiselle Agatha, and nearly killed M. Le Marquis, "cried one after another immediately round the door. "If we pardon him, there will be an end of honesty and good faith. We will pardon ourenemies, because M. De Lescure asks us. We will willingly pardon thisSanterre and all his men. We will pardon everything and anybody, if M. Henri or M de Lescure asks it, except treason, and except a traitor. Goin, Jacques, and say that we will never consent to forgive the wretchwho insulted Mademoiselle Larochejaquelin. By all that is sacred we willhang him!"

"If you do, my friends, " answered Chapeau, "you must kill M. De Lescurefirst, for he will defend him with his own body and his own sword. "

Chapeau again returned to the house, and left the peasants outside, loudly murmuring. Hitherto they had passively obeyed their leaders. Theyhad gone from one scene of action to another. They had taken towns andconquered armies, and abstained not only from slaughter, but even fromplunder, at the mere request of those whom they had selected as theirown Generals; now, for the first time they shewed a determination todisobey. The offence of which their victim had been guilty, was in theireyes unpardonable. They were freely giving all---their little property, their children, their blood, for their church and King. They knew thatthey were themselves faithful and obedient to their leaders, and theycould not bring themselves to forgive one whom they had trusted, and whohad deceived them. Chapeau returned to the house, but he did not go back to M. De Lescure. He went upstairs to his master, and found him alone with his sister, andexplained to them what was going on before the front-door. 

"They will never go away, Mademoiselle, as long as the breath is in theman's body. They are angry now, and they care for no one, not even forM. Henri himself; and it's no wonder for them to be angry. He that wasso trusted, and so loved; one of the family as much as yourself, M. Henri. Why, if I were to turn traitor, and go over to the republicans, it could hardly be worse. If ever I did, I should expect them to pinchme to pieces with hot tweezers, let alone hanging. "

"I will go down to them, " said M. Henri. 

"It will be no use, " said Chapeau, "they will not listen to you. "

"I will try them at any rate, for they have never yet disobeyed me. Iknow they love me, and I will ask for Adolphe's life as a favour tomyself: if they persist in their cruelty, if they do kill him, I willlay down my sword, and never again raise it in La Vendée. "

"If it were put off for a week, or a day, M. Henri, so that they couldget cool; if you could just consent to his being hung, but say that hewas to have four-and-twenty hours to prepare himself, and then at theend of that time they wouldn't care about it: mightn't that do? Wouldn'tthat be the best plan, Mademoiselle?"

"No, " said Henri. "I will not stoop to tell them a falsehood; nor if Idid so, would they ever believe me again. " And he walked towards thepassage, intending to go down to the front-door. 

"Stop, Henri, stop a moment!" said Agatha, "I will go down to them. Iwill speak to them. They are not accustomed to hear me speak to them innumbers, as they are to you, and that of itself will make them inclinedto listen to me. I will beg them to spare the unfortunate man, and Ithink they will not refuse me. "

She got up and walked to the door, and her brother did not attempt tostop her. 

"Let me go alone, Henri, " said she. "You may, at any rate, be sure thatthey will not hurt me. " And, without waiting for his reply, shedescended the stairs, and walked into the hall. When Chapeau left them, the crowd were collected immediately in the front of the house and onthe steps, but none of them had yet forced their way into the château;since he had gone upstairs, however, they had pushed open the door, andnow filled the hall; although their accustomed respect for the personsand property of those above them, had still kept them from breaking intothe room, in which they knew were M. De Lescure and Adolphe Denot. Theforemost of them drew back when they saw Agatha come among them, and asshe made her way to the front-door, they retreated before her, till shefound herself standing on the top of the steps, and surrounded by whatseemed to her a countless crowd of heads. There was a buzz of manyvoices among them, and she stood there silent before them a moment ortwo, till there should be such silence as would enable them to hear her. 

Agatha Larochejaquelin had never looked more beautiful than she did atthis time. Her face was more than ordinarily pale, for her life hadlately been one of constant watching and deep anxiety; but hers was acountenance which looked even more lovely without than with its usualslight tinge of colour. Her beautiful dark-brown hair was braided closeto her face, and fastened in a knot behind her head. She was dressed ina long white morning wrapper, which fell quite down over her feet, andadded in appearance to her natural high stature. She seemed to the noisypeasants, as she stood there before them, sad-looking and sorrowful, butso supremely beautiful, to be like some goddess who had come direct fromheaven to give them warning. And encouragement. The hum of their voicessoon dropped, and they stood as silent before her, as though no strongpassion, no revenge and thirst for blood had induced them, but a momentbefore, all but to mutiny against the leaders who had led them so truly, and loved them so well. 

"Friends, dear friends, " she began in her sweet voice, low, but yetplainly audible to those whom she addressed; and then she paused amoment to think of the words she would use to them, and as she did sothey cheered her loudly, and blessed her, and assured her, in theirrough way, how delighted they were to have saved her and the Marquisfrom their enemies. 

"Dear friends, " she continued, "I have come to thank you for thereadiness and kindness with which you have hurried to my protection--totell you how grateful I and mine are for your affection, and at the sametime to ask a favour from your hands. "

"God bless you, Mademoiselle. We will do anything for MademoiselleAgatha. We all know that Mademoiselle is an angel. We will do anythingfor her, " said different voices in the crowd. "Anything but pardon thetraitor who has insulted her, " said the man who had been most prominentin demanding Denot's death. "Anything at all--anything, withoutexception. We will do anything we are asked, whatever it is, forMademoiselle Agatha, " said some of the younger men among the crowd, whomher beauty made more than ordinarily enthusiastic in her favour. "Mademoiselle will not sully her beautiful lips to ask the life of atraitor, " said another. "We will do anything else; but Denot must die. ""Yes, Denot must die, " exclaimed others. "He shall die; he is not fitto live. When the traitor is hung, we will do anything, go anywhere, forMademoiselle. "

"Ah! friends, " said she, "the favour I would ask of you is to spare thelife of this miserable young man. Hear me, at any rate, " she continued, for there was a murmur among the more resolute of Denot's enemies. "Youwill not refuse to hear what I say to you. You demand vengeance, yousay, because he has betrayed your cause, and insulted me. If I canforgive the insult, if my brother can, surely you should do so too. Think, dear friends, what my misery must be, if on my account you shedthe blood of this poor creature. You say he has betrayed the cause forwhich you are fighting. It is true, he has done so; but it is not onlyyour cause which he has betrayed. Is it not my cause also? Is it not mybrother's? Is it not M. De Lescure's? And if we can forgive him, shouldnot you also do so too? He has lived in this house as though he were achild of my father's. You know that my brother has treated him as abrother. Supposing that you, any of you, had had a brother who has doneas he has done, would you not still pray, in spite of his crimes, thathe might be forgiven? I know you all love my brother. He deserves fromyou that you should love him well, for he has proved to you that heloves you. He--Henri Larochejaquelin--your own leader, begs you toforgive the crime of his adopted brother. Have we not sufficient weightwith you--are we not near enough to your hearts, to obtain from you thisboon?"

"We will, we will, " shouted they; "we will forgive--no, we won't forgivehim, but we'll let him go; only, Mademoiselle, let him go from this--lethim not show himself here any more. There, lads, there's an end of it. Give Momont back the rope. We will do nothing to displease M. Henri andMademoiselle Agatha, " and then they gave three cheers for theinhabitants of Durbellière; and Agatha, after thanking them for theirkindness and their courtesy, returned into the house. 

For some days after the attack and rescue, there was great confusion inthe château of Durbellière. The peasants by degrees returned to theirown homes, or went to Chatillon, at which place it was now intended tomuster the whole armed royalist force which could be collected in LaVendée. Chatillon was in the very centre of the revolted district, andnot above three leagues from Durbellière; and at this place the Vendeanleaders had now determined to assemble, that they might come to somefixed plan, and organize their resistance to the Convention. 

De Lescure and Henri together agreed to give Santerre his unconditionalliberty. In the first place, they conceived it to be good policy toabandon the custody of a man whom, if kept a prisoner, they were surethe Republic would make a great effort to liberate; and who, if he everagain served against them at all, would, as they thought, be lessinclined to exercise barbarity than any other man whom the Conventionwould be likely to send on the duty. Besides, Agatha and the Marquisreally felt grateful to Santerre, for having shown a want of thatdemoniac cruelty with which they supposed him to have been imbued; andit was, therefore, resolved to escort him personally to the northernfrontier of La Vendée, and there set him at liberty, but to detain hissoldiers prisoners at Chatillon; and this was accordingly done. 

They had much more difficulty in disposing of Denot. Had he been turnedloose from the château, to go where he pleased, and do what he pleased, he would to a certainty have been killed by the peasantry. De Lescureasked Santerre to take charge of him, but this he refused to do, sayingthat he considered the young man was a disgrace to any party, or anyperson, who had aught to do with him, and that he would not undertaketo be responsible for his safety. 

Denot himself would neither say or do anything. Henri never saw him; butde Lescure had different interviews with him, and did all in his powerto rouse him to some feeling as to the future; but all in vain. Heusually refused to make any answer whatever, and when he did speak, hemerely persisted in his declaration that he was willing to die, and thatif he were left alive, he had no wish at all as to what should becomeof him. It was at last decided to send him to his own house at Fleury, with a strong caution to the servants there that their master wastemporarily insane; and there to leave him to his chance. "When he findshimself alone, and disregarded, " said de Lescure, "he will come to hissenses, and probably emigrate: it is impossible for us now to do morefor him. May God send that he may live to repent the great crime whichhe has attempted. "

Now again everything was bustle and confusion at Durbellière. Arms andgunpowder were again collected. The men again used all their efforts inassembling the royalist troops, the women in preparing the differentnecessaries for the army. The united families were at Durbellière, andthere was no longer any danger of their separation, for at Clisson notone stone was left standing upon another. 

VOLUME III

CHAPTER I

ROBESPIERRE'S CHARACTER. 

We will now jump over a space of nearly three months, and leaving thechâteaux of royalist La Vendée, plunge for a short while into the heartof republican Paris. In the Rue St. Honoré lived a cabinet-maker, namedDuplay, and in his house lodged Maximilian Robespierre, the leadingspirit in the latter and more terrible days of the Revolution. The timenow spoken of was the beginning of October, 1793; and at no period didthe popularity and power of that remarkable man stand higher. 

The whole government was then vested in the Committee of PublicSafety--a committee consisting of twelve persons, members of theConvention, all of course ultra-democrats, over the majority of whomRobespierre exercised a direct control. No despot ever endured ruledwith so absolute and stringent a dominion as that under which this bodyof men held the French nation. The revolutionary tribunal was nowestablished in all its horror and all its force. A law was passed by theConvention, in September, which decreed that all suspected people shouldbe arrested and brought before this tribunal; that nobles, lawyers, bankers, priests, men of property, and strangers in the land, should besuspected unless known to be acting friends and adherents of theultra-revolutionary party; that the punishment of such persons shouldbe death; and that the members of any revolutionary tribunal which hadomitted to condemn any suspected person, should themselves be tried, andpunished by death. Such was the law by which the Reign of Terror wasorganized and rendered possible. 

At this time the Girondists were lying in prison, awaiting their trialand their certain doom. Marie Antoinette had been removed from theTemple to the Conciergerie, and her trial was in a day or two about tocommence. Her fate was already fixed, and had only to be pronounced. Danton had retired from Paris to his own province, sick with theshedding of so much blood, jealous of the pre-eminence which Robespierrehad assumed; watching his opportunity to return, that he might sell therepublic to the royalists; equally eager, let us believe, to save hiscountry as to make his fortune, but destined to return, only that healso might bend his neck beneath the monster guillotine. Marat, thefoulest birth of the revolution, whose licentious heat generated venomand rascality, as a dunghill out of its own filth produces adders'eggs--Marat was no more. Carnot, whose genius for war enabled the Frenchnation, amidst all its poverty and intestine contests, even in the pangsand throes of that labour in which it strove to bring forth aconstitution, to repulse the forces of the allied nations, and preparethe way for future conquests, was a member of the all-powerfulCommittee, and we cannot suppose that he acted under the dictation ofRobespierre; but if he did not do so, at any rate he did not interferewith him. The operations of a campaign, in which the untaught andill-fed army of republican France had to meet the troops of England, Flanders, Prussia, Austria, Sardinia, and Spain, besides those ofroyalist France, were sufficient to occupy even the energies of Carnot. 

Robespierre, in the Convention and in the Committee, was omnipotent; buthe also had his master, and he knew it. He knew that he could only act, command, and be obeyed, in union with, and dependence on, the will ofthe populace of Paris; and the higher he rose in that path of life whichhe marked out for himself with so much precision, and followed with semuch constancy, the more bitterly his spirit chafed at the dependence. He knew it was of no avail to complain of the people to the people, andhe seldom ventured to risk his position by opposing the wishes of thefearful masters whom he served, but at length he was driven to do so, and at length he fell. 

Half a century has passed since Robespierre died, and history has becomepeculiarly conversant with his name. Is there any one whose charactersuffers under a more wide-spread infamy? The abomination of whose deedshas become more notorious? The tale of whose death has been oftenertold; whose end, horrid, fearful, agonized, as was that of this man, hasmet with less sympathy? For fifty years the world has talked of, condemned, and executed Robespierre. Men and women, who have barelyheard the names of Pitt and Fox, who know not whether Metternich is aman or a river, or one of the United States, speak of Robespierre as ofa thing accursed. They know, at any rate, what he was--the demon of therevolution; the source of the fountain of blood with which Paris wasdeluged; the murderer of the thousands whose bodies choked the courseof the Loire and the Rhone. Who knows not enough of Robespierre tocondemn him? Who abstains from adding another malediction to those whichalready load the name of the King of the Reign of Terror. 

Yet it is not impossible that some apologist may be found for the bloodwhich this man shed; that some quaint historian, delighting to show theworld how wrong has been its most assured opinions, may attempt tovindicate the fame of Robespierre, and strive to wash the blackamoorwhite. Are not our old historical assurances everywhere asserted? Hasit not been proved to us that crooked-backed Richard was a good andpolitic King; and that the iniquities of Henry VIII are fabulous?whereas the agreeable predilections of our early youth are disturbed byour hearing that glorious Queen Bess, and learned King James, were mean, bloodthirsty, and selfish. 

I am not the bold man who will dare to face the opinion of the world, and attempt to prove that Robespierre has become infamous throughprejudice. He must be held responsible for the effects of the wordswhich he spoke, and the things which he did, as other men are. He madehimself a scourge and a pestilence to his country; therefore, beyond allother men, he has become odious, and therefore, historian afterhistorian, as they mention his name, hardly dare, in the service oftruth, to say one word to lessen his infamy. 

Yet Robespierre began his public life with aspirations of humanity, which never deserted him; and resolutions as to conduct, to which headhered with a constancy never surpassed. What shall we say are thequalifications for a great and good man?--Honesty. In spite of hisinfamy, Robespierre's honesty has become proverbial. Moral conduct--thelife he led even during the zenith of his power, and at a time whenlicentiousness was general, and morality ridiculous, was characterizedby the simplicity of the early Quakers. Industry--without payment fromthe State, beyond that which he received as a member of the Convention, and which was hardly sufficient for the wants of his simple existence, he worked nearly night and day in the service of the State. Constancyof purpose--from the commencement of his career, in opposition at firstto ridicule and obscurity, then to public opinion, and lastly to thecombined efforts of the greatest of his countrymen, he pursued one onlyidea; convinced of its truth, sure of its progress, and longing for itssuccess. Temperance in power--though in reality governing all France, Robespierre assumed to himself none of the attributes or privileges ofpolitical power. He took to himself no high place, no public situationof profit or grandeur. He was neither haughty in his language, norimperious in his demeanour. Love of country--who ever showed a moredevoted love? For his country he laboured, and suffered a life whichsurely in itself could have had nothing attractive; the hope of thefuture felicity of France alone fed his energies, and sustained hiscourage. His only selfish ambition was to be able to retire into privatelife and contemplate from thence the general happiness which he hadgiven to his country. Courage--those who have carefully studied hisprivate life, and have learnt what he endured, and dared to do inovercoming the enemies Of his system, can hardly doubt his courage. Calumny or error has thrown an unmerited disgrace over his last wretcheddays. He has been supposed to have wounded himself in an impotentattempt to put an end to his life. It has been ascertained that such wasnot the fact, the pistol by which he was wounded having been fired byone of the soldiers by whom he was arrested. He is stated also to havewanted that firmness in death which so many of his victims displayed. They triumphed even in their death. Louis and Vergniaud, MarieAntoinette, and Madame Roland, felt that they were stepping from lifeinto glory, and their step was light and elastic. Robespierre wassinking from existence into infamy. During those fearful hours, in whichnothing in life was left him but to suffer, how wretched must have beenthe reminiscences of his career! He, who had so constantly pursued oneidea, must then have felt that that idea had been an error; that he hadall in all been wrong; that he had waded through the blood of hiscountrymen to reach a goal, which, bright and luminous as it hadappeared, he now found to be an ignis fatuus. Nothing was then left tohim. His life had been a failure, and for the future he had no hope. Hisbody was wounded and in tortures; his spirit was dismayed by the insultsof those around him, and his soul had owned no haven to which deathwould give it an escape. Could his eye have been lit with animation ashe ascended the scaffold! Could his foot have then stepped withconfidence! Could he have gloried in his death! Poor mutilated worm, agonised in body and in soul. Can it be ascribed to want of courage inhim, that his last moments were passed in silent agony and despair?

Honesty, moral conduct, industry, constancy of purpose, temperance inpower, courage, and love of country: these virtues all belonged toRobespierre; history confesses it, and to what favoured hero doeshistory assign a fairer catalogue? Whose name does a brighter galaxyadorn? With such qualities, such attributes, why was he not theWashington of France? Why, instead of the Messiah of freedom, which hebelieved himself to be, has his name become a bye-word, a reproach, andan enormity? Because he wanted faith! He believed in nothing buthimself, and the reasoning faculty with which he felt himself to beendowed. He thought himself perfect in his own human nature, and wishingto make others perfect as he was, he fell into the lowest abyss of crimeand misery in which a poor human creature ever wallowed. He seems almostto have been sent into the world to prove the inefficacy of human reasonto effect human happiness. He was gifted with a power over commontemptation, which belongs to but few. His blood was cool and temperate, and yet his heart was open to all the softer emotions. He had noappetite for luxury; no desire for pomp; no craving for wealth. Amongthousands who were revelling in sensuality, he kept himself pure andimmaculate. If any man could have said, I will be virtuous; I, ofmyself, unaided, trusting to my own power, guarding myself by the lightof my own reason; I will walk uprightly through the world, and will shedlight from my path upon my brethren, he might have said so. He attemptedit, and history shows us the result. He attempted, unassisted, to beperfect among men, and his memory is regarded as that of a loathsomeplague, defiling even the unclean age in which he lived. 

At about five o'clock in the afternoon on an October day, in 1793, Robespierre was sitting alone in a small room in the house of hisfriend, Simon Duplay, the cabinet-maker. This room, which was thebed-chamber, reception-room, and study of the arbitrary Dictator, wasa garret in the roof of Duplay's humble dwelling. One small window, opening upon the tiles, looked into the court-yard in which were storedthe planks or blocks necessary to the cabinet-maker's trade. A smallwooden bedstead, a long deal table, and four or five rush-bottomedchairs, constituted the whole furniture of the apartment. 

A deal shelf ran along the wail beneath the slanting roof, and held hissmall treasure of books; and more than half of this humble row weremanuscripts of his own, which he had numbered, arranged, and bound withthat methodical exactness, which was a part of his strange character. He was sitting at a table covered with papers, on which he had now beenlaboriously preparing instructions for those who, under him, carried onthe rule of terror; and arranging the measured words with which, at theJacobins, he was to encourage his allies to uphold him in the bloodydespotism which he had seized. 

The weight upon his mind must have been immense, for Robespierre was nota thoughtless, wild fanatic, carried by the multitude whether theypleased: he led the people of Paris, and led them with a fixed object. He was progressing by one measure deeply calculated to the age ofreason, which he was assured was coming; and that one measure was theextermination of all who would be likely to oppose him. The extent ofhis power, the multiplicity of his cares, the importance of his everyword and act, and the personal danger in which he lived, might haveruffled the equanimity of a higher-spirited man than he is supposed tohave been; but yet, to judge from his countenance, his mind was calm;the traces of thought were plain on his brow, but there was none of theimpatience of a tyrant about his mouth, nor of the cruelty of anhabitual blood-shedder in his eyes. His forehead showed symptoms ofdeep thought, and partially redeemed the somewhat mean effect of hisother features. The sharp nose, the thin lips, the cold grey eyes, thesallow sunken cheeks, were those of a precise, passionless, self-confident man, little likely to be led into any excess of love orhatred, but little likely also to be shaken in his resolve either forgood or evil. His face probably was a true index to his character. Robespierre was not a cruel man; but he had none of that humanity, whichmakes the shedding of blood abominable to mankind, and which, had hepossessed it, would have made his career impossible. 

His hair was close curled in rolls upon his temples, and elaboratelypowdered. The front and cuffs of his shirt were not only scrupulouslyclean, but starched and ironed with the most exact care. He wore a bluecoat, a white waistcoat, and knee-breeches. His stockings, like hisshirt, were snow-white, and the silver buckles shone brightly in hisshoes. No one could have looked less like a French republican of 1793than did Robespierre. 

He had just completed a letter addressed jointly to Thurreau andLechelle, the commissioners whom he had newly appointed to the horridtask of exterminating the royalists of La Vendée. Santerre hadundertaken this work, and had failed in it, and it was now said that hewas a friend and creature of Danton's; that he was not to be trusted asa republican; that he had a royalist bias; that it would be a good thingthat his head should roll, as the heads of so many false men had rolled, under the avenging guillotine. Poor Santerre, who, in the service of theRepublic, had not shunned the infamy of presiding at the death of Louis. He, however, contrived to keep his burly head on his strong shoulders, and to brew beer for the Directory, the Consulate, and the Empire. 

Thurreau and Lechelle, it was correctly thought, would be surer handsat performing the work to be done. They had accepted the commission withalacrity, and were now on the road to commence their duties. That dutywas to leave neither life nor property in the proscribed district. "LetLa Vendée become a wilderness, and we will re-populate it with patriots, to whom the fertility of fields, rich with the blood of traitors, shallbe a deserved reward. " Thus had Robespierre now written; and as hecalmly read over, and slowly copied, his own despatch, he saw nothingin it of which he could disapprove, as a reasoning being animated witha true love of his country. "Experience has too clearly proved to usthat the offspring of slaves, who willingly kiss the rod of tyrants, will have no higher aspiration than their parents. In allowing them toescape, we should only create difficulties for our own patriot children. Hitherto the servants of the Convention have scotched the snake, buthave not killed it; and the wounded viper has thus become more furiouslyvenomous than before. It is for you, citizens, to strike a death-blowto the infamy of La Vendée. It will be your glory to assure theConvention that no royalist remains in the western provinces to disturbthe equanimity of the Republic. " Such were the sentiments he had justexpressed, such the instructions he had given, calmly meditating on hisduty as a ruler of his country; and when he had finished his task, andseen that no expression had escaped him of which reason or patriotismcould disapprove, he again placed the paper before him, to write wordsof affection to the brother of his heart. 

Robespierre's brother was much younger than himself; but there was noone whom he more thoroughly trusted with State secrets, and Stateservices of importance; and no one who regarded him with so entire adevotion. Robespierre the elder believed only in himself; Robespierrethe younger believed in his brother, and his belief was fervid andassured, as is always that of an enthusiast. To him, Maximilian appearedto be the personification of every virtue necessary to mankind. Couldhe have been made to understand the opinion which the world would formof his brother's character, he would have thought that it was about tobe smitten with a curse of general insanity. Robespierre's vanity wasflattered by the adoration of his brother, and he loved his worshippersincerely. The young man was now at Lyons, propagating the doctrines ofhis party; and in his letters to him, Robespierre mingled theconfidential greetings of an affectionate brother with those furiousdemands for republican energy, which flooded the streets of the townsof France with blood, and choked the rivers of France with the bodiesof the French. 

"I still hope, " he wrote, slowly considering the words as they fell fromhis pen, "for the day when this work will have been done--for the happyday when we shall feel that we have prevailed not only against ourenemies, but over our own vices; but my heart nearly fails me, when Ithink how little we have yet effected. I feel that among the friendswhom we most trust, those who are actuated by patriotism alone arelukewarm. Lust, avarice, plunder, and personal revenge, are the motivesof those who are really energetic . . . It is very difficult for me toknow my friends; this also preys heavily on my spirits. The gold of theroyalists is as plentiful as when the wretched woman, who is now aboutto die, was revelling in her voluptuous pride at Versailles. I know thatthe hands of many, who call themselves patriots, are even now graspingat the wages for which they are to betray the people. A day of reckoningshall come for all of them, though the list of their names is a longone. Were I to write the names of those whom I know to be true, I shouldbe unable to insert in it above five or six. . . . I look for yourreturn to Paris with more than my usual impatience. Eleanor's quietzeal, and propriety of demeanour, is a great comfort to me; but evenwith her, I feel that I have some reserve. I blame myself that it is so, for she is most trustworthy; but, as yet, I cannot throw it off. Withyou alone I have none. Do not, however, leave the work undone; rememberthat those who will not toil for us, will assuredly toil against us. There can be none neutral in the battle we are now waging. A man canhave committed no greater crime against the Republic than having donenothing to add to its strength. I know your tender heart grieves at thedeath of every traitor, though your patriotism owns the necessity of hisfall. Remember that the prosperity of every aristocrat has beenpurchased by the infamy of above a hundred slaves! How much better isit that one man should die, than that a hundred men should suffer worsethan death!"

When he had finished his letter, he read it accurately over, and thenhaving carefully wiped his pen, and laid it near his inkstand, he leantback in his chair, and with his hand resting on the table, turned overin his mind the names and deeds of those who were accounted as hisfriends, but whom he suspected to be his enemies. He had close to hishand slips of paper, on which were written notes of the most trivialdoings of those by whom he was generally surrounded; and the very spieswho gave him the information were themselves the unfortunate subjectsof similar notices from others. The wretched man was tortured bydistrust; as he had told his brother, there were not among the wholebody of those associates, by whose aid he had made himself the rulingpower in France, half-a-dozen whom he did not believe to be eager forhis downfall and his death. Thrice, whilst thus meditating, he stopped, and with his pencil put a dot against the name of a republican. Unfortunate men! their patriotism did not avail them; within a fewweeks, the three had been added to the list of victims who perishedunder the judicial proceedings of Fouquier Tinville. 

It had now become nearly dark, and Robespierre was unable longer to readthe unfriendly notices which lay beneath his hand, and he therefore gavehimself up entirely to reflection. He began to dream of noblersubjects--to look forward to happier days, when torrents of blood wouldbe no longer necessary, when traitors should no longer find a market fortheir treason, when the age of reason should have prevailed, and France, happy, free, illustrious, and intellectual, should universally own howmuch she owed to her one incorruptible patriot. He thought to himselfof living on his small paternal domain in Artois, receiving nothing fromthe country he had blessed but adoration; triumphant in the success ofhis theory; honoured as more than mortal; evincing the grandeur of hissoul by rejecting those worldly rewards, which to his dispositionoffered no temptation. But before he had long indulged in this happytrain of thought, he was called back to the realities of his troubledlife by a low knock at his door, and on his answering it, a young woman, decently, but very plainly dressed, entered the garret with a candle inher hand; this was Eleanor Duplay; and when Robespierre allowed himselfto dream of a future home, she was the wife of his bosom, and the motherof his children. 

CHAPTER II

ROBESPIERRE'S LOVE. 

Eleanor Duplay was not a beautiful young woman, nor was there anythingabout her which marked her as being superior to those of her own stationof life; but her countenance was modest and intelligent, and her heartwas sincere; such as she was she had won the affection of him, who was, certainly, at this time the most powerful man in France. She was aboutfive-and-twenty years of age; was the eldest of four sisters, and hadpassed her quiet existence in assisting her mother in her household, andin doing for her father so much of his work as was fitting for a woman'shand. Till Robespierre had become an inmate of her father's house, shehad not paid more than ordinary attention to the politics of thetroubled days in which she lived; but she had caught the infection fromhim, as the whole family had done. She had listened to his words asthough they fell from inspired lips: the pseudo-philosophical dogmas, which are to us both repulsive and ridiculous, were to her invaluabletruths, begotten by reason, and capable of regenerating herfellow-creatures. Robespierre was to her, what her Saviour should havebeen; and he rewarded her devotion, by choosing her as the partner ofhis greatness. 

Robespierre's affection was not that of an impassioned lover; he did notshow it by warm caresses or fervid vows; but yet he made her, whom hehad chosen, understand that she was to him dearer than any other woman;and Eleanor was prouder of her affianced husband, than though thehandsomest youth of Paris was at her feet. 

As she entered his chamber, he was thinking partly of her, and he wasnot sorry to be thus interrupted. She carried a candle in one hand, andin the other a bouquet of fresh flowers, which she quietly laid amonghis papers. Robespierre either had, or affected a taste for flowers, and, as long as they were to be gotten, he was seldom seen without them, either in his hand or on his coat. 

"I thought you would want a light, M. Robespierre, " said she, for thoughshe hoped to be closely connected with him, she seldom ventured on thefamiliarity of calling him by his Christian name. Had she been a man, her democratic principle would have taught her to discontinue thearistocratic Monsieur; but, even in 1793, the accustomed courtesy ofthat obnoxious word was allowed to woman's lips. "I thought you wouldwant a light, or I would not have interrupted you at your work. "

"Thanks, Eleanor: I was not at work, though; my brain, my eyes, andhands were all tired. I have been sitting idle for, I believe, this halfhour. "

"Your eyes and hands may have been at rest, " said she, sitting down atthe end of the table, "but it is seldom that your thoughts are not atwork. "

"It is one of the high privileges of man, that though his body needsrepose, the faculties of his mind need never be entirely dormant. I knowthat I have reasoned in my sleep as lucidly as I have ever done awake;and though, when awake, I have forgotten what has passed through mymind, the work of my brain has not been lost: the same ideas haverecurred to me again, and though in the recurrence, I cannot rememberwhen I have before employed myself with arranging them, still they cometo me as old friends, with whom I am well acquainted. The mind willseldom complain of too much labour, if the body be not injured byindulgence or disease. "

"But too much labour will bring on disease, " said Eleanor, in a tonewhich plainly showed the sincerity of the anxiety which she expressed. "We never get a walk with you now; do you know that it is months sincewe were in the Champs Elysées together; it was in May, and this isOctober now. "

"Affairs must be greatly altered, Eleanor; many things which are nowundone must be completed, before we walk again for our pleasure: a truepatriot can no longer walk the streets of Paris in safety, whiletraitors can come and go in security, with their treason blazoned ontheir foreheads. "

"And yet do not many traitors expiate their crimes daily?"

"Many are condemned and die; but I fear not always those who have mostdeserved death. Much blood has been shed, and it has partly been incompliance with my counsel. I would that the vengeance of the Republicmight now stay its hand, if it could be so, with safety to the people. I am sick of the unchanging sentences of the judges, and the verdictsof juries who are determined to convict. I doubt not that those who arebrought before them are traitors or aristocrats--at any rate, they arenot at heart republicans, and if so, they have deserved death; but Ishould be better pleased, if now and then a victim was spared. " Hepaused for a while, and then added, "The blood of traitors is verysickening; but there are those Eleanor, in whose nostrils it has a sweetsavour: there are butchers of the human kind, who revel in the horridshambles, in which they are of necessity employed. Such men are to meaccursed--their breath reeks of human blood. "

Eleanor shuddered as she listened to him: but it was not the thought ofall the blood, which he whom she loved had shed, which made her shudder:she had no idea that Robespierre was a sanguinary man: she sympathizedwith the weakness of humanity which he confessed, and loved him for thekindness of his heart--and he was not a hypocrite in his protestation;he believed that there was nothing in common between himself and thewretches who crowded round the last sufferings of the victims whom hehad caused to ascend the scaffold. He little thought that, in a fewyears, he would be looked upon as the sole author of the barbarities ofwhich he now complained. 

It was seldom that Robespierre had spoken so openly to Eleanor Duplayof his inmost thoughts. She was flattered and gratified to think he hadthought her worthy of his confidence, that he had chosen her to listento the secrets of his heart, and she felt that, if she had influencewith him, it would become her as a woman to use it on behalf of thosewhom it might be in his power to save from a fearful death. 

"And are there many more who must die?" said she. "When I hear thewheels of that horrid cart, as it carries the poor creatures who havebeen condemned, on their last journey, my heart, too, sickens within me. Will these horrid executions go on much longer?"

"There are still thousands upon thousands of men in France, who wouldsooner be the slaves of a King, than draw the breath of liberty, "answered he. 

"But they can be taught the duties and feelings of men, cannot they?They think, and feel now only as they have been brought up to think andfeel. "

"Had they not been too stubborn to learn, they have had a lesson writtenin letters of blood, which would have long since convinced them--if itbe necessary, it must be repeated I for one will not shrink from myduty. No though I should sink beneath the horrid task which it imposeson me. "

They both then sat silent for a while; though Robespierre had venturedto express to the girl, whom he knew to be so entirely devoted to him, a feeling somewhat akin to that of pity for his victims, he could notbear that even she should appear to throw a shadow of an imputation onthe propriety and justness of his measures, although she only did so byrepeating and appealing to the kindly expressions which had fallen fromhimself. He had become so used to the unmeasured praise of those amongwhom he lived, so painfully suspicious of those who, in the remotestdegree, disapproved of any of his words or deeds, so confident ofhimself, so distrustful of all others, that even what she had said waspainful to him, and though he himself hardly knew why, yet he felt thathe was displeased with her. Eleanor, however, was altogether unconsciousof having irritated his sore feelings; and relying on the kind tone ofwhat he had said, and the confident manner in which he had spoken toher, she determined to obey the dictates of her heart, and intercede formercy for her fellow-creatures. Poor girl! she did not know the dangerof coming near the lion's prey. 

She had heard much of the Vendeans, and though those who had spoken inher hearing of the doings of the royalist rebels were not likely to saymuch to excite sympathy on their behalf still she had learnt that theywere true to each other, faithful to their leaders, generous to theirenemies, and brave in battle. The awful punishment to be inflicted onthe doomed district had also been partially discussed in her hearing;and though the Republic had no more enthusiastic daughter than herself, her woman's heart could not endure the idea that even the innocentchildren of a large province should be condemned to slaughter for theirfathers' want of patriotism. What work so fitting for the woman whom aruler of the people had chosen for a wife, as to implore the sternmagistrate to temper justice with mercy? In what way could she use herinfluence so sweetly as to ask for the lives of women and children?

And yet she felt afraid to make her innocent request. Robespierre hadnever yet been offended with her. Though he had given her counsel onalmost every subject, he had never yet spoken to her one word ofdisapprobation still she knew that he had inspired her with fear. Shemade some attempts to begin the subject, which he did not notice, forhe was still brooding over the unpleasant sensation which her words hadoccasioned; but at last she gathered courage, and said:

"The soldiers of the Republic have at last overcome the rebels of LaVendée--have they not, M. Robespierre?"

"It is not enough to conquer traitors, " answered he, "they must becrushed, before the country can be safe from their treachery. "

"Their treason must be crushed, I know. "

"Crimes between man and man can be atoned for by minor punishments:crimes between citizens and their country can only be properly avengedby death. You may teach the murderer or the thief the iniquity of hisfault; and when he has learnt to hate the deed he has committed, he maybe pardoned. It is not so with traitors. Though the truest child ofFrance should spend his life in the attempt, he would not be able toinspire one aristocrat with a spark of patriotism. "

"Must every royalist in La Vendée perish then?" said Eleanor. 

Robespierre did not answer her immediately, but leaning his elbow on thetable, he rested his forehead on his hand, so as nearly to conceal hisface. Eleanor thought that he was meditating on her question; andremembering that he had declared that he should be pleased if now andthen a victim might be spared, again commenced her difficult task ofurging him to mercy. 

"They talk of shedding the blood of innocent children--of destroyingpeasant women, who can only think and feel as their husbands bid them. You will not allow that this should be done, will you?"

"Is the life of a woman more precious to her than that of a man? It isa false sentiment which teaches us to spare the iniquities of womenbecause of their sex. Their weakness entitles them to our protection, their beauty begets our love; but neither their weakness or their beautyshould be accepted as an excuse for their crimes. "

"But poor innocent babes--it is not possible that they should havecommitted crimes. "

"In the religion of Christ it is declared, that the sins of the fathersshall be visited on the children, to the third and fourth generation. The priests who made these laws, and handed them down to their flocks, as the very words of their God, had closely studied human nature. I donot believe that an Almighty Creator condescended to engrave on stone, with his own finger, these words, as they would feign that he did do;but the law is not the less true; the children must expatiate, to thethird and fourth generation, the sins of their fathers. Nature, whichis all benignant, wills that it should be so. "

"If this be so, will not nature work out her own law. Will it not bepunishment enough that so many women should lose their husbands; so manychildren their fathers? You, I know, are averse to shedding blood; youwould spare life whenever your sense of duty would allow you to do so. Try what clemency will do in La Vendée. Try whether kindness will notput a stop to the bitterness of their enmity. Do, dearest, for my sake. "

It is possible that Eleanor had never before spoken to her lover inlanguage so tender; it is also probable that she had never before askedof him any request, in which ought of a political nature was concerned. Be that as it may, as soon as she had finished speaking, her face becamesuffused with scarlet, as though she had said something of which she wasashamed. One would think that there was nothing in the term ofendearment which she had used which could have displeased a betrothedhusband; nothing in the petition she, had made which could have angereda political friend. Robespierre, however, soon showed that he wasdispleased and angered; nay, worse still, that his black, unmanlysuspicion was aroused. To his disordered brain it seemed that Eleanorwas practising on him her woman's wiles for some unworthy purpose, andthat treason lurked in her show of humanity and affection. He believedthat she, who had always believed in him, loved him, almost worshippedhim, had become in an instant false and designing. 

He looked her steadily in the face a moment or two before he answered, and she did not bear calmly the fierce glance of his eye; she saw atonce that she had angered him, and, in spite of her love, she could notbut know how dark and terrible was his anger. 

"Who has set you on to talk to me of this?" he said slowly, stillkeeping his eyes fixed on hers. 

"Set me on, M. Robespierre! what do you mean? Who should have set meon?"

"There are hundreds, I grieve to say, ready to do so. Some of them aredaily near you. I should have thought, though, that with you I mighthave been safe. "

"Safe with me! And do you doubt it now--do you doubt that you are safewith me?" and as she spoke, she laid her hand upon his arm, andattempted to appeal to his affection. He gently withdrew his arm fromher grasp, and again concealed his face with his hand. "As I stand herealive before you, " continued she, speaking with a more assured voicethan she had hitherto used, "I have not whispered a word to man or womanupon this subject, but yourself. "

Eleanor had risen from her chair when her companion first expressed hissuspicion, and she was now standing; but Robespierre remained seated, still shading his eyes with his hand, as though he had nothing furtherto say to her, and would wish to be alone. She, however, felt that shecould not leave him without some further explanation on her part, someretraction on his; but she knew not how to set about it. The mosteloquent men in France had found it difficult to explain anything toRobespierre's satisfaction. No one had yet been able to make him retractthe word which he had spoken. 

"Say that you believe me, M. Robespierre, " said she; "for mercy's sake, say that you do not doubt me! Do you not know that I would always obeyyou, that your words are always to me the words of truth? I have donewrong, I doubt not, in speaking to you of public matters. I beg yourpardon, and promise that I will not so transgress again; but before Ileave you, tell me that you do not distrust my fidelity. "

"I would still wish to hope, Eleanor, that you are truly anxious for thewelfare of your country, and the safety of your friend, " said he, still, however, without looking up. 

"Indeed I am, most anxious; anxious above all things for your welfareand safety. I should think little of my life, could I give it to promotethe one, or secure the other. "

"Tell me then, I conjure you, who are they who have desired you to begfor the lives of these Vendean rebels, " and as he spoke, he leapt fromhis chair, and putting his hand upon her shoulder, looked sternly intoher face. 

"As God is my judge--"

"Bah! if neither love of your country or of me, nor yet fear of thepunishment due to traitors, will keep you true, " (and he slightly shookher with his hand, as he slowly uttered the last fearful words), "thejudgment of God will not have much effect upon you. "

"True!" said the poor girl, almost confounded with her horror at thecharge against her, amid the violence of the man. "True! Oh! Sir, formercy's sake, tell me what it is of which you accuse me--tell me whatit is that I have done. No man has spoken of you behind your back wordswhich you might not yourself have heard. No man has desired me to askyou to spare the rebels. No man has even dared to hint to me, that Ishould do or say ought in opposition to you. "

"Some woman has done it then, " said he. 

"My God! that you should think so foully of me! No, Sir, neither man, nor woman, nor child. You said that, were it possible, you would wishthat the hand of the executioner might be stayed. It was your own wordsthat set me on to say what I did. I did not dream that I shoulddisplease you. Tell me, M. Robespierre, tell me that you are not angrywith me, and I will forget it all. "

"Forget it all. Yes, things trivial and of no concern are longremembered, but matters on which depend the life and death of those weought to love, are soon forgotten if they are unpleasant. No, Eleanor, do not forget it all. Do not forget this--remember that I never have, and never will, allow my feelings as a private man to influence myconduct as a public functionary. I have many duties to perform; dutieswhich are arduous, disagreeable, and dangerous, but difficult as theyare, I believe that I am able to perform them. I do not wish for advice, and I will not permit interference. Now go down, Eleanor; our friendsare below, I heard their steps a while since, as they came in. I havebut a few words to write, and I will join you. "

"But you will tell me before I go that we are friends again, " said thepoor girl, now weeping. "You will say that you do not distrust me. "

"I do not believe that you meant evil to me, but you were indiscreet. Let that be sufficient now, and bear this in mind, Eleanor--you know theplace you hold in my affections, but were you still nearer to me thanyou are; were you already my wife, and the mother of my children, Iwould not stand between you and the punishment you would deserve, if youwere untrue to your country. "

After hearing this energetic warning, Eleanor Duplay left her lover'sroom, firmly believing that she had greatly sinned in speaking as shehad done, but conscious, at any rate, of having intended no evil, eitherto him or to the unfortunate country respecting which he expressed soconstant a solicitude. 

As soon as she was gone, he again took up the papers which he hadwritten, and re-read them with great care. In the letter to the twoCommissioners he underscored the passages which most forcibly urged themto energy in their work of destruction, and added a word here and therewhich showed more clearly his intention that mercy should be shown tonone. He then turned to his letter to his brother. In that he said thatEleanor's conduct had been a source of great comfort to him, and thathe blamed himself for still feeling any reserve with her. He now erasedthe passage, and wrote in its stead, "even with Eleanor Duplay I havesome reserve, and I feel that I cannot throw it off with safety!" andhaving done this, he, laboriously copied, for the second time, the longletter which he had written. 

When he had finished his task, he left his own chamber, and went downinto a room below, in which the family were in the habit of assemblingin the evening, and meeting such of Robespierre's friends as he wishedto have admitted. The cabinet-maker, and his wife and daughters, together with his son and nephew, who assisted him in his workshop, werealways there; and few evenings passed without the attendance of some ofhis more intimate friends. They were, at first, merely in the habit ofreturning with him from the Jacobins' club, but after a while theirprivate meetings became so necessary to them, that they assembled atDuplay's on those nights also on which the Jacobins did not meet. 

When Robespierre entered the humble salon, Lebas, St. Just, and Couthonwere there; three men who were constant to him to the last, and diedwith him when he died. As far as we can judge of their characters, theywere none of them naturally bad men. They were not men prone to lust orplunder; they betrayed no friends; they sought in their political viewsno private ends; they even frequently used the power with which theywere invested to save the lives of multitudes for whose blood theinfuriate mob were eager. Lebas and St. Just were constant to the girlsthey loved, and Couthon, who was an object of pity as a cripple, washappy in the affection of a young wife whom he adored; and yet thesewere the men who assisted Robespierre in organizing the Reign of Terror, and with him share the infamy of the deeds which were then committed. They were all of them young when they died. They were men of education, and a certain elevation, of spirit. Men who were able to sacrifice thepleasures of youth to the hard work of high political duties. Bloodcould not have been, was not, acceptable to them; yet under how greata load of infamy do their names now lie buried!

"We thought you were going to seclude yourself tonight, " said Lebas, "and we were regretting it. "

"What have you done with Eleanor, " said Madame Duplay, "that she doesnot come down to us?"

"I thought to have found her here, " answered he; "she left me someminutes since. She was not in good spirits, and has probably retired forthe night. Tell me, St. Just, do they talk much of tomorrow's trial?"

Robespierre alluded to the trial of Marie Antoinette, as the cruelfarce, which was so called, was then to commence. The people were nowthirsty after her blood, and thought themselves wronged in that she hadbeen so long held back from their wrath. 

"They speak of her execution as of a thing of course, " said St. Just;"and they are right; her sand has well nigh run itself out. I wish shewere now at her nephew's court. "

"Wish rather that she had never come from thence, " said Couthon. "Shehas brought great misfortunes on France. Could she die a thousanddeaths, she could not atone for what she has done. Not that I would haveher die, if it were possible that she could be allowed to live. "

"It is not possible, " said Robespierre. "To have been Queen of France, is in itself a crime which it would have been necessary that she shouldexpiate, even had she shown herself mistress of all the virtues whichcould adorn a woman. "

"And she is not possessed of one, " said Lebas. "She was beautiful, buther beauty was a stain upon her, for she was voluptuous. She wastalented, but her talents were all turned to evil, for they only enabledher to intrigue against her adopted country. She had the disposal ofwealth, with which she might have commanded the blessings of the poor, and she wasted it in vain frivolities. She was gracious in demeanour, but she kept her smiles for those only who deserved her frowns. She hadunbounded influence over her husband, and she persuaded him tofalsehood, dishonesty, and treachery. "

"Do not deny that she has courage, " said St. Just. "She has borne heradversity well, though she could not bear her prosperity. "

"She has courage, " said Lebas, "and how has she used it? in fighting anineffectual battle against the country who had received her with openarms. We must all be judged by posterity, but no historian will dare tosay that Marie Antoinette did not deserve the doom which now awaitsher. "

How little are men able to conceive what award posterity will make injudging of their actions, even when they act with pure motives, and onwhat they consider to be high principles; and posterity is often as muchin error in its indiscriminate condemnation of actions, as are theactors in presuming themselves entitled to its praise. 

When years have rolled by, and passions have cooled, the differentmotives and feelings of the persons concerned become known to all, andmankind is enabled to look upon public acts from every side. Not so theactors; they are not only in ignorance of facts, the knowledge of whichis necessary to their judging rightly, but falsehoods dressed . In thegarb of facts are studiously brought forward to deceive them, and menthus groping in darkness are forced to form opinions, and to act uponthem. 

Public men are like soldiers fighting in a narrow valley: they seenothing but what is close around them, and that imperfectly, aseverything is in motion. The historian is as the general, who standselevated on the high ground, and, with telescope in hand, sees plainlyall the different movements of the troops. He would be an inconsiderategeneral, who would expect that his officers in action should have hadas clear an idea of what was going on, as he himself had been able toobtain. 

There was no murder perpetrated during the French Revolution, under thepretext of a judicial sentence, which has created more general disgustthan has that of Marie Antoinette. She came as a stranger to thecountry, which on that account owed to her its special protection. Shehad been called to France to be a Queen, and her greatest crime was thatshe would not give up the high station she had been invited to fill. Shehad been a faithful wife to a husband who did not love her till he knewher well, and who was slow in learning anything. She had been a goodmother to the children, who were born, as she believed, to rule thedestinies of France. 

She had clung to a falling cause, with a sense of duty which was asadmirable as her courage, and at last she died with the devoted heroismwhich so well became her mother's daughter. But what we now look on asvirtues, were vices in the eyes of the republicans, who were her judges. Her constancy was stubbornness, and her courage was insolence. Herinnocent mirth was called licentiousness, and the royal splendour whichshe had been taught to maintain, was looked upon as iniquitousextravagance. Nor was this, even in those bloody days, enough to condemnher. Lies of the basest kind were, with care and difficulty, contrivedto debase her character--lies which have now been proved to be so, butwhich were then not only credible, but sure to receive credit from thosewho already believed that all royal blood was, from its nature, capableof every abomination. 

When Lebas so confidently predicated the sentence which posterity wouldpass on the fall of Marie Antoinette, none of his auditors doubted thecorrectness of his prophecy. Posterity, however, more partial to thefrivolities of courts than to the fury of revolutions, has acquitted theQueen, and passed, perhaps, too heavy a sentence on the judges whocondemned her. Till the power of Satan over the world has beendestroyed, and man is able to walk uprightly before his Maker, thevirtues of one generation will be the vices of another. 

CHAPTER III

THE LAST DAY AT DURBELLIÈRE

After the re-capture of Durbellière, and the liberation of Santerre, theVendeans again assembled in arms in different portions of the revolteddistrict, and fought their battles always with valour, and notunfrequently with success. They did not, however, again form themselvesinto one body, till the beginning of October, when news having reachedthem that a large army, under fiercer leaders, was to be sent by theRepublic for their extermination, it became necessary to take somedecided step for their own protection. The Vendean Generals then decidedto call together all the men they could collect at Chatillon, a town inthe very centre of their country, and there also to prepare such aquantity of military stores and ammunition, as would make the place auseful and secure basis for their movements. 

Some jealousy had arisen among the Generals; and on the death ofCathelineau, d'Elbée had been chosen Commander-in-Chief, through theinfluence of those who were envious of the popularity of M. De Lescure. On the latter, however, the management of the war depended; and thoughhis exertions were greatly impeded by the factious spirit whichunfortunately prevailed among the royalists, he nevertheless succeededin collecting, equipping, and maintaining a considerable army. Therepublican troops of Lechelle and Thurreau were not long in making theirway to the devoted district, and tidings soon reached Chatillon thatthey were devastating the country round Doué and Vihiers, and thatparties of them had advanced to the neighbourhood of Cholet. 

It was then determined at Chatillon that the royalist army shouldadvance towards the republicans: that they should fight them on thefirst field of battle on which they could meet them, and that if beaten, they should cross the Loire into Britanny, and make their way to thecoast, to meet the succour which had been promised them from England. Every day that the battle was delayed, hundreds of children and womenperished in cold blood, numberless humble dwellings were reduced toashes. The commands of Robespierre were being executed; the land wasbeing saturated with the blood of its inhabitants. 

De Lescure and Larochejaquelin were both staying at Chatillon. ButChatillon is but a league or two from Durbellière, and one or the otherof them was almost daily at the château. They had many cares upon thembesides those of the army; cares which, though not productive of so muchactual labour, sat, if possible, heavier on their hearts. What were theyto do with those dear but weak friends who were still at the château?three loving and beloved women, and an infirm old man, more helplesseven than the women! They could not be left at Durbellière, for thechâteau would doubtless, before long, be again taken by some maraudingparty of their enemies, and any death would be preferable to the fatewhich would there await them. 

Henri now felt the weight of those miseries which his father hadforetold; when he, flushed with the victory at Saumur, returned homeafter the campaign in which he had first drawn his sword so gloriously. He felt that he had done his duty, and therefore he regretted nothing;but he also felt that he might probably soon be without the power ofprotecting those who were so much dearer to him than his life, and thesuffering arising from such thoughts was almost more than he could bear. 

It was at last determined that the whole party should leave the château, and go over to Chatillon--there would be at any rate a better chanceof security there than at Durbellière, and also better means of escape, should the town fall into the hands of their enemies. 

It was a grievous thing to tell that old man that he must leave thehouse, where he had spent his quiet life, and go to strange places, tofinish the short remainder of his days amid the turmoil of battles, andthe continual troubles and dangers of a moving army. Nevertheless hebore it well. At first he beseeched them to leave him and old Momont, among his birds and cherry trees, declaring that nothing that the bluescould do to him would be to him so calamitous as his removal from thespot in which he had so long taken root. But his children soon made himunderstand that it was impossible that they could abandon him, a crippleas he was, unattended, and exposed to the certain fury of therepublicans. He yielded, therefore, and when the sad day came, he blamedno one, as they lifted him into the huge carriage, in which he wasremoved to Chatillon. To the last he was proudly loyal to the King; and, as he was carried over the threshold of his door, he said, that if Godwould grant him another favour in this world, it would be, that he mightreturn once more to his own home, to welcome there some scion of hisroyal master's house. 

Henri, de Lescure, and the little Chevalier, all came over to spend thelast day at Durbellière, and a melancholy day it was. Madame de Lescure, Marie, and Agatha were also there, and all the servants, most of whomhad been born in the family, and all of whom, excepting Chapeau and onemaid, were now to be sent abroad to look for their living in a countryin which the life itself of every native was in hourly danger. Hard theybegged to be allowed to link their fate to that of their young mistress, declaring that they would never more complain, even though they wereagain called out to die, as they had been on that fearful evening whenSanterre had found himself unable to give the fatal order. It wasimpossible--the safety of four women, who would probably have to becarried backwards and forwards through a country bristling with hostiletroops, was a fearful burden to the young leaders; it would have beenmadness for them to increase it. The wretched girls, therefore, preparedto make their way to the homes of their relatives, knowing that thosehomes would soon be turned into heaps of ashes. It was a bright warmautumn day this, the last which the Larochejaquelins were to passtogether in the mansion in which they had all been born. The men cameover early, and breakfasted at the château, and both Henri and Arthurworked hard to relieve the sadness of the party with some sparks oftheir accustomed gaiety; the attempt, however, was futile; they eachfelt that their hours of gaiety were gone by, and before the meal wasover, they had both resolved that any attempt at mirth that day, wouldbe a stretch of hypocrisy beyond their power. 

When breakfast was over, the Marquis begged that, for the last time, hemight be wheeled round the garden-walks, which he loved so well, andaccordingly he was put into his chair, and, accompanied by his childrenand friends, was dragged through every alley, and every littlemeandering path. He would not spare himself a single turn--he had a tearto give to every well-known tree, an adieu to make to every paintedfigure. To de Lescure and the others, the comic attitudes of theseuncouth ornaments was, at the present moment, any thing but interesting;but to the Marquis, each of them was an old and well-loved friend, whomeven in his extremity he could hardly bring himself to desert. On theirreturn into the house from the garden, they began to employ themselveswith arranging and packing the little articles which they intended totake with them. They had all counted on having much to do during theshort hours of this one last day; on being hurried and pressed, so asto be hardly able to get through their task; but instead of this theirwork was soon done, and the minutes hung heavy on their hands. Theywould not talk of the things which were near their hearts, for theyfeared to add to each other's misery; they strove therefore to talk onindifferent subjects, and soon broke down in every attempt they made atconversation. 

Agatha never left her father's side for a moment, and though she seldomspoke to him, she did a thousand little acts of sedulous attention, which showed him that she was near to him. Her gentle touch was almostas precious to him as her voice. De Lescure sat near his wife the wholeday, speaking to her from time to time in a whisper, and feeling theweight upon his spirits so great that even with her he could hardly talkfreely. He was already without a roof which he could call his own, andhe was aware his friends would soon be equally desolate; such hithertohad been the result of their gallant enterprise. 

Henri had much to say--much that he had made up his mind to say to Mariebefore he left Durbellière, but he put off the moment of saying it fromhour to hour, and it was not till near midnight that it was said. Marieherself, bore herself more manfully, if I may say so, than any of them;she really employed herself, and thought of a thousand things conduciveto their future comfort, which would have been forgotten or neglectedhad she not been there. The little Chevalier tried hard to assist her, but the pale sad face of Agatha, and the silent tears which from timeto time moistened the cheeks of the Marquis, and told how acute were thesufferings which he tried in vain to hide, were too much for the poorboy; he soon betook himself alone into the cherry grove, where hewandered about unseen, and if the truth must be told, more than oncethrew himself on the ground, and wept bitterly and aloud. 

They sat down to dinner about three o'clock; but their dinner was, ifpossible, a worse affair than their breakfast. They were not only sad, but worn out and jaded with sorrow. The very servants, as they moved thedishes, sobbed aloud; and at last, Momont, who had vainly attempted tocarry himself with propriety before the others, utterly gave way, andthrowing himself on to a chair in the salon, declared that nothing butviolence should separate him from his master. 

"It is five-and-fifty years, " said he, sobbing, "since I first waitedon Monseigneur. We were boys then, and now we are old men together Itis not natural that we should part. Where he goes, I will go. I willcling to his carriage, unless they cut me down with swords. "

No one could rebuke the old man--certainly not the master whom he lovedso well; and though they knew that it would be impossible to provide forhim, none of them at the moment had the heart to tell him so. 

By degrees the daylight faded away, and for the last time, they watchedthe sun sink down among the cherry trees of Durbellière, and theMarquis, seated by the window, gazed into the West till not a streak oflight was any longer visible; then he felt that the sun of this worldhad set for him for good and all. Even though he might live out a fewmore weary years, even though the cause to which he was attached shouldbe victorious, yet he knew that Durbellière would be destroyed, and itnever could be anything to him how the sun set or rose in any otherplace. His warm heart yearned towards his house; the very chair on whichhe sat, the stool on which rested his crippled legs, were objects of anaffection which he had before felt, but never till now acknowledged. Every object on which his eye rested gave him a new pang; every articlewithin his reach was a dear friend, whom he had long loved, and was nowto leave for ever. 

Still he did not utter one word of complaint; he did not once murmur athis fate; he never reminded his son that he had, by his impetuosity, hurried on his old father to destruction. He never repined at thesacrifice he had made--I will not say for his King, for King at presenthe had none; the throne had been laid low, and the precious blood of himwho should have filled it had been shed. No; his sacrifices had been toan abstract feeling of loyalty, which made fealty to the Crown, whetherworn or in abeyance, only second in his bosom to obedience to his God. 

The day faded away, and they still sat together in the room in whichthey had dined, each wrapped in his own thoughts, till the darkness ofnight was upon them, and still no one felt inclined to rise and ask forcandles. 

After a long pause, Arthur made a bold attempt to break through theheaviness of the evening. "We are not so badly off, at any rate, " saidhe, "as we were on that night when Santerre and his men were here; arewe, Agatha?"

"We are not badly off at all, " said Henri. "We have now what we neverhad before--a fine army collected together in one spot, a promise ofsuccour from faithful England, and a strong probability of ultimatesuccess. After all, what are we giving up but an old barrack? Let therascal blues burn it; cannot we build a better Durbellière when the Kingshall have his own again?"

"Ah, Henri!" said the Marquis. It was the only reproach he uttered, though the words of his son, intended as they were to excite hope, andto give comfort, had been to him most distasteful. 

Henri was in a moment at his father's feet. "Pardon me, father!" saidhe; "you know that I did not mean to give you pain. We all love the oldhouse--none of us so well as you perhaps; but we all love it; yet whatcan we do? Were we to remain here, we should only be smothered beneathits ashes. "

"God's will be done, my son. He knows that I do not begrudge my housein his service, and in that of my royal master. It is not likely thatI should do so, when I have not begrudged the blood of my children. "

They were all to start on the following morning by break of day, and, therefore, the necessity of early rising gave them an excuse desired byall, for retiring early for the night. They could not talk together, forevery word that was spoken begot fresh sources of sorrow; they could notemploy themselves, for their minds were unhinged and unfitted foremployment; so they agreed that they would go to bed, and before nineo'clock, the family separated for the night. 

They did not, however, all go to rest. Henri, as he handed a light tohis cousin, told her that he wanted to speak two words to her in hissister's room, and as she did not dissent, he followed the two girlsthither. Two words! It took nearly the whole long night to say those twowords. 

Henri Larochejaquelin had thought long and deeply on the position inwhich he and his betrothed were now placed, before he made the requestto which he asked her to listen that night, and it was from no selfishpassion that he made it. In the presence of his sister, he asked her tomarry him as soon as they reached Chatillon, so that when next the armyseparated, he might deem himself her natural protector. He had alreadyasked and obtained de Lescure's permission. The brother gave it, notabsolutely unwillingly, but with strong advice to Henri to take no newcares upon himself during the present crisis, and declaring that hewould use no influence with his sister, either one way or the other. 

Marie, with a woman's instinct, anticipated the nature of Henri's twowords, and in a moment resolved on the answer she would give him: if herlover was generous, so would she be; she would never consent to linkherself to him at a moment when the union could only be to him a sourceof additional cares and new sorrow. 

Henri soon made his request: he did not do it, as he would have done inhappier times; kneeling at her feet, and looking into her eyes for thatlove, which he might well know he should find there: he had not come totalk of the pleasures and endearments of affection, and to ask for herhand as the accomplishment of all his wishes; but he spoke of theirmarriage as a providential measure, called for by the calamitousnecessities of the moment, and in every argument which he used, heappealed to Agatha to support him. 

"No, Henri, " said Marie, after she had already answered him with afaint, but what she intended to be a firm denial. "No, it must not, cannot, ought not be so. I am, I know, somewhat de trop in this tragedywe are playing. There are you and Charles, two good knights and true, and each of you has a lady whom it is his duty to protect. I am a poorforlorn young damsel, and though both of you are so gallant as to offerme a hand to help me over the perilous path we are treading, I know thatI am grievously in the way. "

"You are joking now, love, " said Henri, "and I am not only speaking, butthinking, in most true and sober earnest. "

"No, Henri, I am not joking; am I, Agatha? One need not be jokingbecause one does not use harsh, grim words. What I say is true. I mustbe an additional burden either to you or Charles. You are already theheaviest laden, for you have your father to care for. Besides, I havea claim upon Charles; I have for eighteen years been to him an obedientsister. "

"And have you no claim on me, Marie?"

"A slight one, as a cousin; but only in default of Charles. Don't lookso unhappy, " and she held out her little hand to him as she spoke. "Theday may come when I shall have a still stronger claim upon you; when Ihave been to you for eighteen years an obedient wife. "

"These are times when stern truths must be spoken, " said Henri. "Thelives of us all must now be in constant jeopardy--that is, of us whomust go out to battle. "

"Ay, and of us women too. Don't be afraid of our lacking courage. Do notbe afraid that the truth will frighten us. Agatha, and Victorine, andI, have schooled ourselves to think of death without flinching. "

"To think without flinching of the death of others, is the difficulty, "said Agatha. "I fear we have none of us as yet brought ourselves tothat. "

"But we must think of the death of others, " said Henri. "Should deLescure fall--"

"May God Almighty in His mercy protect and guard him!" said the sister. 

"But should he fall--and in battle there is none, I will not say sorash, but so forward as him--should he fall, will it not be a comfortto him to know that his sister has a husband to protect her; that hiswidow has a brother to whom she can turn. Should I fall, will it not bebetter for Agatha that you should be more closely knit together eventhan you are?"

"That can never be, can it, Agatha? We can never be more entirelysisters than we are. "

"You talk like a child, Marie. You perhaps may never have a warmer lovefor each other than you now have, but that is not the question. You mustsee how great would be the advantage to us all of our union being atonce completed You should not now allow a phantasy of misplacedgenerosity to stand in the way of an arrangement which is sodesirable. "

"Nay, Henri, now you are neither fair nor courteous. You are presuminga little on the affection which I have owned in arguing that I amprevented only by what you call generosity from so immediate a marriage;that is as much as to say, that if I consulted my own wishes only, Ishould marry you at once. "

"It is you that are now unfair, " said Agatha. "You know that he did notmean to draw such a conclusion. You almost tempt me to say that he mightdo so, without being far wrong. You are flirting now, Marie. "

"Heaven help me then; but if so, I have committed that sin mostunconsciously, and, I believe, for the first time in my life. I have hadbut one lover, and I accepted him, the very moment that he spoke to me. I can, at any rate, have but little flirtation to answer for. "

"Alas! dearest love, " said Henri, "we are both driven to think and talkof these things in a different tone from that which is usual in theworld. If I was merely seeking to transplant you in days of peace fromyour own comfortable home, to be the pride and ornament of mine, I wouldnot curtail by one iota the privilege of your sex. I wouldn't presumeto think that you could wish yourself to give up your girlish liberty. If you allowed me any hope, I would ascribe it all to the kindness ofyour disposition; your word should be my law, and though I might prayfor mercy, I would submissively take my fate from your lips. I wouldwrite odes to you, if I were able, and would swear in every town inPoitou that you were the prettiest girl, and sweetest angel in allFrance, Italy, or Spain. "

"Thanks, Henri, thanks; but now you have too much to do to troubleyourself with such tedious gallantries. Is not that to be the end ofyour fine speech?"

"Trouble myself, Marie!"

"Yes, trouble yourself, Henri, and it would trouble me too. It is notthat I regret such nonsense. I accept your manly love as it has beenoffered, and tell you that you have my whole heart. It is from nogirlish squeamishness, from no wish to exercise my short-lived power, that I refuse to do what you now ask me. I would marry you tomorrow, were you to ask me, did I not think that I should be wrong to do so. AmI now not frank and honest?"

Henri put his arms round her waist, and clasped her to his bosom beforehe answered her:

"You are, you are, my own, own love. You were always true, and honest, and reasonable--so reasonable that--"

"Ah! now you are going to encroach. "

"I am going to ask you once again to think of what I have said. It isnot to your love, but to your reason, that I now appeal. "

"Well, Henri, we will leave love aside, and both of us appeal to reason. Here she sits, always calm, passionless, and wise, " and Marie put herhand upon Agatha's arm. "We will appeal to Reason personified, and ifReason says that, were she situated as I am, she would do as you nowwish me to do, I will be guided by Reason, and comply. " Henri now turnedround to his sister, but Marie stopped him from speaking, and continued:"I have pledged myself, and do you do likewise. If Reason gives herjudgment against you, you will yield without a word. "

"Well, I will do so, " said Henri. "I'm sure, however, she will not;Agatha must see the importance of our being joined as closely togetheras is possible. "

"You are attempting to influence Dame Reason, but it will be useless. And now, Reason, you are to remember, as of course you do, for Reasonforgets nothing, that you are to think neither of brothers or ofsisters. You are entirely to drop your feelings as Agatha, and to bepure Reason undefiled by mortal taint. You are to say, whether, wereyou, Reason, placed as I am now, you would marry this unreasonable youngman as soon as he gets to Chatillon, which means tomorrow, or the dayafter, or the day after that at the very latest. Now, Reason, speak, andspeak wisely. "

"You have given me a thankless task between you. I cannot decide withoutgiving pain to one of you. "

"Reason always has a thankless task, " said Marie. "Reason is her ownreward--and a very unpleasant reward she usually has. "

"Do you think, " said Henri, "it will give so much pain to Marie to betold that she is to marry the man whom she owns she loves?"

"Ah, Henri, " said Agatha, "you are prejudiced. I do not mean as toMarie's love, but as to my award. I might, perhaps, not pain her so muchby advising her to marry you at once, as I fear I shall pain you bytelling her, that in her place, I should not do so. "

They both sat in breathless silence to hear their fate from Agatha'slips. Though Marie had appealed to her with a degree of playfulness, which gave to her an air of indifference on the subject, she wasanything but indifferent; and yet it would have been difficult toanalyse her wishes; she was quite decided that it was becoming in herto refuse Henri's prayer, nay, that it would be selfish in her to grantit; and yet, though she appealed to Reason so confidently to confirm herrefusal, there was a wish, almost a hope, near her heart, that Agathamight take her brother's part. They were, neither of them, perhaps, gratified by the decision. 

"Reason has said it, " said Marie, after a short pause, "and Reason shallbe rewarded with a kiss;" and she put her arms round her cousin's neckand kissed her. 

"But why, Agatha, tell me why?" said Henri. He, at any rate, was notashamed to show that he was disappointed. 

"Do not be so inconsiderate as to ask Reason for reasons, " said Marie. 

"I will tell you why, Henri. I would never consent to make myself aburden to a man at a moment when I could not make myself a comfort tohim; besides, the time of marriage should be a time of joy, and this isno time for joy. Again, there is a stronger and sadder reason still. Didyou ever see a young widow, who had not reached her twentieth year? ifso, did you ever see a sadder sight? Would you unnecessarily doom ourdear Marie to that fate! I know you so well, my dear brother, that I donot fear to speak to you of the too probable lot of a brave soldier!"

"That is enough!" said Henri, "I am convinced. "

"Do not say that, Agatha, do not say that, " said Marie, springing up andthrowing herself into her lover's arms. "Indeed, indeed, it was not ofthat I thought. Though we should never marry, yet were you to fall, yourmemory should be the same to me as that of a husband. I could neverforget your love--your disinterested love--there is no treasure on thisside the grave which I so value. It is the pride of my solitary hours, and the happiness of the few happy thoughts I have. The world would benothing to me without you. When you are away, I pray to God to bring youback to me. When you are with us I am dreading the moment that you willgo. Oh, Agatha, Agatha! why did you say those last fearful words!"

"You asked me for the truth, Marie, and it was right that I should tellit you; it was on my tongue to say the same to Henri, before youappealed to me at all. "

"You were right, dearest Agatha, " said Henri; "and now, God bless you, Marie. I value such love as yours highly as it is worth. I trust the daymay come when I can again ask you for your hand. "

"I will never refuse it again. You shall have it now, tomorrow, nextday, any day that you will ask it. Oh, Agatha! my brain is so turned bywhat you have said, that I could almost go on my knees to beg him toaccept it. "

"Come, Henri, leave us, " said Agatha, "and prevent such a scandal asthat would be; there are but a few hours for us to be in bed. "

Henri kissed his sister, and when he gave his hand to Marie, she did notturn her lips away from him; and as he threw himself on his bed, hehardly knew whether, if he could have his own way, he would marry herat once or not. 

CHAPTER IV

THE CHAPEL OF GENET

About ten days after the departure of the Larochejaquelins fromDurbellière, three persons were making the best of their way, onhorseback, through one of the deepest and dirtiest of the byeways, whichin those days, served the inhabitants of Poitou for roads, and alongwhich the farmers of the country contrived with infinite pains anddelay, to drag the produce of their fields to the market towns. Thelane, through which they were endeavouring to hurry the jaded animalson which they were mounted, did not lead from one town to another, andwas not therefore paved; it was merely a narrow track between continualrows of high trees, and appeared to wind hither and thither almost incircles, and the mud at every step covered the fetlocks of the threehorses. The party consisted of two ladies and a man, who, though he roderather in advance of, than behind his companions, and spoke to them fromtime to time, was their servant: a boy travelled on foot to show themthe different turns which their road made necessary to them; and though, when chosen for the duty, he had received numerous injunctions as to thespeed with which he should travel, the urchin on foot had hitherto foundno difficulty in keeping up with the equestrians. The two ladies wereMadame de Lescure and her sister-in-law, and the servant was our trustyfriend Chapeau. And we must go back a little to recount as quickly aswe can, the misfortunes which brought them into their present situation. 

No rest was allowed to the Vendean chiefs after reaching Chatillon fromDurbellière. The rapid advance of the republican troops made them thinkit expedient to try the chance of battle with them at once. They hadconsequently led out their patriot bands as far as Cholet, and hadthere, after a murderous conflict, been grievously worsted. No men couldhave fought better than did the Vendean peasants, for now they hadjoined some degree of discipline and method to their accustomed valour;but the number of their enemies was too great for them, and theyconsisted of the best soldiers of whom France could boast. The Vendeans, moreover, could not choose their own battle-field. They could not fightas they had been accustomed to do, from behind hedges, and with everyadvantage of locality on their side. They had thrown themselves on theveteran troops, who had signalized themselves at Valmy and Mayence, witha courage that amounted to desperation, but which, as it had notpurchased victory, exposed them to fearful carnage. D'Elbe, who actedas Commander-in-Chief, fell early in the day. Bonchamps, whose militaryskill was superior to that of any of the Vendeans; was mortally wounded, and before the battle was lost, de Lescure--the brave de Lescure, whomthey all so loved, so nearly worshipped--was struck down and carriedfrom the field. 

There was an immense degree of superstition mixed up with the religiousfervour of the singular people who were now fighting for their liberty;and many of them sincerely believed that de Lescure was invulnerable, and that they were secure from any fatal reverse as long as he was withthem. This faith was now destroyed; and when the rumour spread alongtheir lines that he had been killed, they threw down their arms, andrefused to return to the charge. It was in vain that HenriLarochejaquelin and the young Chevalier tried to encourage them; thatthey assured them that de Lescure was still living, and exposed theirown persons in the thickest of the enemy's fire. It was soon too evidentthat the battle was lost, and that all that valour and skill could do, was to change the flight into a retreat. 

Many personal reasons would have made Henri prefer returning towardsChatillon, but it had been decided that, in the event of such a disasteras that which had now befallen them, the cause in which they wereengaged would be best furthered by a general retreat of all the troopsacross the Loire into Brittany; and consequently Henri, collectingtogether what he could of his shattered army, made the best of his wayto St. Florent. The men did not now hurry to their homes, as they didafter every battle, when the war first began; but their constancy totheir arms arose neither from increased courage nor better discipline. They knew that their homes were now, or would soon be, but heaps ofruins, and that their only hope of safety consisted in their remainingwith the army. This feeling, which prevented the dispersion of the men, had another effect, which added greatly to the difficulty of theofficers. The wives, children, and sisters of the Vendean peasants, alsoflocked to the army in such numbers, that by the time the disorderedmultitude reached St. Florent, Henri found himself surrounded by 80, 000human, creatures, flying from the wrath of the blues, though not abovea quarter of that number were men capable of bearing arms. 

De Lescure, in a litter, accompanied them to St. Florent, and Chapeauwas sent back to Chatillon to bid the ladies and the old Marquis jointhe army at that place. Chapeau was sent direct from the field of battlebefore it was known whether or no M. De Lescure's wound was mortal, andat a moment when Henri could give him nothing but a general directionas to the route which the army was about to take. Chapeau reachedChatillon without accident; but having reached it, he found that hisdifficulties were only about to commence. What was he to tell Madame deLescure of her husband? How was he to convey the three ladies and theMarquis from Chatillon to St. Florent, through a country, the greaterportion of which would then be in the hands of the blues?

Make the best he could of it, the news was fearfully bad. He told Madamede Lescure that her husband was certainly wounded, but that as certainlyhe was not killed; and that he had every reason, though he could not saywhat reason, to believe that the wound was not likely to be fatal. Thedoubt conveyed in these tidings was, if possible, more fearful than anycertainty; added to this was the great probability that Chatillon would, in a day or two, be in the hands of the republicans. They decided, orrather Chapeau decided for them, that they should start immediately forSt. Florent; and that, instead of attempting to go by the direct road, they should make their way thither by bye-lanes, and through smallvillages, in which they possibly might escape the ferocity of theirenemies. 

A huge waggon was procured, and in it a bed was laid, on which theunfortunate old man could sit, and with the two horses which they hadbrought with them from Durbellière, they started on their journey. Theyrested the first night at St. Laurent, the place where Agatha hadestablished an hospital, and where Cathelineau had died. The Sisters ofMercy who had tended it were still there, but the wards were nowdeserted. Not that the wars afforded no occupants for them, but theapproach of the republicans had frightened away even the maimed andsick. On the following morning Madame de Lescure declared that she couldno longer endure the slow progress of the waggon, and consequently, Chapeau having with difficulty succeeded in procuring three horses, shestarted, accompanied by him and her sister-in-law, to make her way asbest she could to her husband, while the Marquis and his daughter, witha guide, followed in the cumbrous waggon. 

On the second day the equestrians crossed the Sevre, at Mortaigne, andreached Torfou in safety. On the third day they passed Montfaucon, andwere struggling to get on to a village called Chaudron, not far from St. Florent, when we overtook them at the beginning of the chapter. 

They had already, however, began to doubt that they could possiblysucceed in doing so. The shades of evening were coming on them. The poorbrutes which carried them were barely able to lift their legs, and, Madame de Lescure was so overpowered with fatigue and anxiety, that shecould hardly sustain herself in the pillion on which she sat. 

The peasants whom they met from time to time asked them hundreds ofquestions about the war. Many of the men of the district were alreadygone, and their wives and children were anxious to follow them, but thepoor creatures did not know which way to turn. They did not know wherethe army was, or in what quarter they would be most secure. They had anundefined fear that the blues were coming upon them with fire andslaughter, and that they would be no longer safe, even in their ownhumble cottages. 

One person told them that Chaudron was distant only two leagues, andhearing this they plucked up their courage, and made an effort to rousethat of their steeds. Another, however, soon assured them that it wasat the very least a long five leagues to Chaudron, and again theirspirits sank in despair. A third had never heard the name of the place, and at last a fourth informed them, that whatever the distance might be, they were increasing it every moment, and that their horses' heads wereturned exactly in the wrong direction. Then at length their young guideconfessed that he must have lost his way, and excused himself bydeclaring that the turnings were so like one another that it wasimpossible for any one in that country really to remember his way at adistance of more than two leagues from his own home. 

"And what village are we nearest to, my friend?" said Chapeau, inquiringof the man who had given the above unwelcome information. 

"Why the chapel of Genet, " said he, "is but a short quarter of a leaguefrom you, and the Curé's house is close by, but the village and thechâteau are a long way beyond that, and not on the straight roadeither. "

"Ask him the Curé's name, Chapeau, " said Marie: "we will go there andtell him, who we are. '

"If he lives in his own house quietly now, Mademoiselle, " answeredChapeau, "it would be dangerous to do so; he must be one of theconstitutional priests. " He asked the man, however, what was the nameof the Curé. 

"Why the regular old Curé went away long since, and another was here awhile in his place--"

"Well, and he has gone away now, I suppose?" said Chapeau. 

"Why, yes; he went away too a while since, when Cathelineau turned thesoldiers out of St. Florent. "

"God bless him, " said Chapeau, meaning Cathelineau, and not the priest. "And is there no one in the house now, my friend? for you see these twoladies are unable to travel further. If there be a friend living there, I am sure he will procure them some accommodation. "

"And where did the ladies come from?" asked the man. 

"You need not be afraid, " replied Chapeau, "they, and all belonging tothem, are friends to the good cause;" and then, after considering withinhimself for a while, he added, "I will tell you who they are, they arethe wife and sister of M. De Lescure. "

Had he told the man that they were angels from heaven, and had the manbelieved him, he could neither have been more surprised, or expresseda stronger feeling of adoration. 

The poor man implored a multitude of blessings on the two ladies, whosenames were so dear to every peasant of La Vendée, and then told themthat after the new priest had ran away, the old Curé had come back tohis own house again, but that Father Bernard was a very old man, hardlystrong enough even to perform mass, though, as there was no one else toit, he did go through it every Sabbath morning; that for these two dayspast there had been another priest staying with Father Bernard; he didnot, however, know what his name was, but he knew that he had been withthe army, and that no priest through all La Vendée had been more activethan he had been to encourage the royalists. The man then offered toshow them to the Curé's house, and they all turned thither together. 

The little chapel was on one side of the road, and the humble house ofthe parish priest was immediately opposite to it, ensconced among a fewtrees, at a little distance from the road. The door of the chapel wasopen, and the murmuring sound of low voices within told the party thatvespers were being sung. Madame de Lescure did not like calling at thepriest's house without being announced, and she therefore desiredChapeau to go down and explain who she was, and the circumstances underwhich she begged for the Curé's hospitality, and proposed that she andMarie should get off their horses, and remain in the chapel till Chapeaureturned. 

They entered the little chapel, and found in it about a dozen peasantson their knees, while a priest was chaunting the vespers from a smallside altar, built in a niche in the wall. It was now late, and thelight, which even abroad was growing dimmer every moment, was still lessstrong within the building. They could not, therefore, see the face ofthe priest as he knelt at the side of the altar, but the voice seemedfamiliar to both of them. 

Madame de Lescure, perhaps as much from fatigue as from devotion, sankdown at once upon her knees against a little stone seat which projectedfrom the wall near the door, but Marie remained standing, straining hereyes to try to catch the features of the Curé. After a moment or two shealso knelt down, and said in a whisper to her sister, "It is the Curéof St. Laud--it is our own Father Jerome. "

They had hardly been a minute or two in their position near the door, when the service for the evening was over, and the priest, rising fromthe altar, gave his blessing to the little congregation. Some of themrose from their knees and left the chapel, but a portion of them stillremained kneeling, with their heads in their hands, trying to make up, by the length and perseverance of their devotion, for any deficiencythere might be in its fervour. The two ladies also rose, and though theydoubted for a moment what to do, they both advanced to the rude stepsof the little altar, at which Father Jerome was again kneeling. He hadnot seen them as yet, nor had he noticed the entrance of any one, butthe ordinary congregation of the chapel; and so absorbed was he, eitherin his thoughts or his devotions, that he did not even observe them tillthey were standing close to his elbow. 

"Father Jerome, " said Madame de Lescure in a low voice, laying her handon the threadbare sleeve of the old grey coat, which he still wore. "Ifyou could guess the comfort I have in finding you here!"

The priest sprang from his knees at hearing her voice, and gazed at heras though she had been a ghost. 

"Is it possible, " said he, "Madame de Lescure and Mademoiselle here inthe chapel of Genet!" and then turning to the gaping peasants, he said, "go home, my children, go home! I have business to speak of to theseladies. "

"Oh, Father Jerome, " said Madame de Lescure, as soon as they were alone, "for heaven's sake tell me something of M. De Lescure. You have heardof what happened at Cholet?"

"Yes, Madame, I was there, " said the priest. 

"You were there! then you can tell me of my husband. For God's sake, speak, Father Jerome! Tell me the worst at once. I can bear it, for itcan't be worse than I expect. Is he--is he alive?"

Father Jerome had been in the midst of the hottest part of the battleat Cholet, sometimes encouraging the troops by his words, and at othersleading them on by his example, charging at their head, with his hugecrucifix lifted high in the air. He had been close to de Lescure whenhe fell, and had seen him in his litter after he was carried from thefield of battle. He could, therefore, have said at once that he had seenhim alive after the battle was over, but he had no wish to deceiveMadame de Lescure; and at the moment of which we are speaking, he mostundoubtedly believed that the wound had been fatal, and that her husbandwas no more. 

A musket-ball had entered just below the eye, and making its waydownwards, had lodged itself in the back of his neck. A surgeon hadexamined the wound before Father Jerome left the army; and though he hadnot positively said that it would prove mortal, he had spoken sounfavourably of the case, as to make all those who heard him believethat it would be so. 

Had Father Jerome expected to see the two nearest and dearest relationsof the man whom he thought to be now no more, he would have preparedhimself for the difficult task which he would have had to undertake, andno one would have been better able to go through it with feeling, delicacy, and firmness; but such was not the case. The sudden apparitionof the wife and sister of his friend seemed to him to be supernatural;and though he at once made up his mind to give no false hope, he couldnot so quickly decide in what way he should impart the sad news whichhe had to tell. 

Madame de Lescure was trembling so violently as she asked the question, on the answer to which her fate depended, that the priest observed it, and he turned to the altar at the end of the chapel, to fetch a rudechair which stood there for the use of the officiating clergyman, andwhich was the only moveable seat in the chapel; and whilst doing so, hewas enabled to collect his thoughts, so as to answer not quite so muchat random as he otherwise must have done. 

"Sit down, Madame de Lescure, " said he, "sit down, Mademoiselle, " andhe made the latter sit down on the altar step. "You are fatigued, andyou have agitated yourself too intensely. "

"Why don't you speak, Father Jerome? Why don't you tell me at once--ishe alive?" And then she added, almost screaming in her agitation, "ForGod's sake, Sir, don't keep a wretched, miserable woman in suspense!"

The priest gazed for a moment at the unfortunate lady. She had, at hisbidding sunk upon the chair, but she could hardly be said to be seated, as, with her knees bent under her, and her hands clasped, she gazed upinto his face. She felt that her husband was dead but still, till thefatal word was spoken, there was hope enough within her heart to feedthe agony of doubt which was tormenting her. Marie had hitherto saidnothing; she had made her own grief subservient to that of her brother'swife, and, though hardly less anxious, she was less agitated than theother. 

"I cannot tell you anything with certainty, Madame, " said the priest atlast. "I cannot--"

"Then you do not know that he is dead! Then there is, at any rate, someroom for hope!" said she, not allowing him to finish what he was aboutto say; and she sank back in the chair, and relieved her overwroughtmind with a flood of tears. 

The priest was firmly convinced that de Lescure was at this momentnumbered among the dead, and his conscience forbad him to relievehimself of his dreadful task, by allowing her to entertain a false hope;he had still, therefore, to say the words which he found it so difficultto utter. 

He sat down beside Marie on the low step of the altar, immediatelyopposite to Madame de Lescure; he still had on him the vestments of hisholy office, though they were much worn, shabby, and soiled, and thecap, which formed a part of the priest's dress when officiating, was onhis head; his shoes were so worn and tattered, that they were nearlyfalling from his feet, and the stockings, which displayed the shape ofhis huge legs, were so patched and darned with worsteds of differentcolours, as to have made them more fitting for a mountebank than a. Priest. At the present moment, there was no one likely to notice hiscostume; but had there been an observer there, it would have told hima tale, easy to be read, of the sufferings which had been endured bythis brave and faithful servant of the King. 

"When God, Madame de Lescure, " said he, speaking in a kind, peculiarlysolemn tone of voice, "when God called upon you to be the wife of himwho has been to you so affectionate a husband, He vouchsafed to youhigher blessings, but at the same time imposed on you sterner dutiesthan those which women in general are called upon to bear. You haveenjoyed the blessings, and if I know your character, you will not shrinkfrom the duties. "

"I will shrink from nothing, Father Jerome, " said she. "God's will bedone! I will endeavour to bear the burden which His Providence lays onme; but I have all a woman's weakness, and all a woman's fears. "

"He who has given strength and courage to so many of His people in theseafflicted days, will also give it to you; He will enable you to bear theweight of His hand, which in chastising, blesses us, which in punishingus here, will render us fit for unutterable joys hereafter. " He pauseda moment; but as neither of the women could now speak through theirtears, he went on: "I was close to your husband when he fell, and as hiseyes closed on the battlefield, they rested on the blessed emblem of hisredemption. "

"He is dead then!" said she, jumping from her chair, and struggling withthe sobs which nearly choked her. "Oh Sir, if you have the mercy whicha man should feel for a wretched woman, tell me at least the truth, " andas she spoke, she threw herself on her knees before him. 

Father Jerome certainly lacked no mercy, and usually speaking, he lackedno firmness; but now he nearly felt himself overcome. "You must composeyourself before I can speak calmly to you, my daughter--before you caneven understand what I shall say to you. I will not even speak to youtill you are again seated, and then I will tell you everything. There--remember now, I will tell you everything as it happened, and, asfar as I know, all that did happen. You must summon up your courage, mychildren, and show yourself worthy to have been the wife and sister ofthat great man whom you loved so well. "

"He is dead!" said Marie, speaking for the first time, and almost in awhisper. "I know now that it is so, " and she threw herself into hersister's lap, and embraced her knees. 

The priest did not contradict her, but commenced a narrative, which heintended to convey to his listeners exactly the same impressions whichwere on his own mind. In this, however, he failed. He told them that deLescure had been carried senseless from the field, and had been takenby Henri in a litter on the road towards St. Florent; that he himselfhad been present when the surgeon expressed an almost fatal opinionrespecting the wound, but that the wounded man was still alive when helast saw him, and that, since then, he had heard no certain newsrespecting him. Even this statement, which the priest was unable to makewithout many interruptions, acted rather as a relief than otherwise toMadame de Lescure. She might, at any rate, see her husband again; andit was still possible that both the surgeon and Father Jerome might bewrong. As soon as he had told his tale, she, forgetting her fatigue, andthe difficulties which surrounded her, wanted immediately to resume herjourney, and Father Jerome was equally anxious to learn how she andMarie had come so far, and how they intended to proceed. 

Chapeau had in the mean time called on the old priest, and though he hadfound it almost impossible to make him understand what he wanted, or whothe ladies were of whom he spoke, he had learnt that Father Jerome wasin the chapel, and was as much gratified as he was surprised to hear it. He had then hurried back, and though he had not put himself forwardduring the scene which has been just described, he had heard what hadpassed. 

He now explained to Father Jerome the way in which they had leftChatillon, and journeyed on horseback from St. Laurent, and declared, at the same time with much truth, that it was quite impossible for themto proceed farther on their way that night. 

"The poor brutes are dead beat, " said he. "All the spurs in Poitouwouldn't get them on a league. The night will be pitch dark, too, and, above all, Madame and Mademoiselle would be killed. They have alreadybeen on horseback all day--and so they were yesterday: it is quite clearthey must rest here tonight. "

Chapeau's arguments against their farther progress were conclusive, andas there was no better shelter to which to take them, Father Jerome ledthem into the little glebe. "There is but one bed left in the place, "said he, as he entered the gate, "but you will be very welcome to that;you will find it poor enough; Father Bernard has shared it with me forthe last two nights. We poor Curés have not many luxuries to offer toour friends now. "

Madame de Lescure tried to utter some kind of protest that she would notturn the poor old man out of his only bed, but she succeeded badly inthe attempt, for her heart was sad within her, and she hardly knew whatshe was saying. They all followed Father Jerome out of the chapel, ofwhich he locked the door, and putting the key into his pocket, strodeinto the humble dwelling opposite. 

They found Father Bernard seated over a low wood fire, in a smallsitting-room, in which the smell arising from the burning of damp stickswas very prevalent. There was one small rickety table in the middle ofthe room, and one other chair besides that occupied by the host, andwith these articles alone the room was furnished. That there was nocarpet in a clergyman's house in Poitou was not remarkable; indeed itwould have been very remarkable if there had been one; but the totalwant of any of the usual comforts of civilized life struck even Madamede Lescure, unsuited as she was at the present moment to take notice ofsuch things. 

The old man did not rise, but stared at them somewhat wildly: he wasnearly doting from age; and fear, poverty, and sorrow, added to his manyyears, had now weighed him down almost to idiotcy. Father Jerome did thehonours of the house; he made Madame de Lescure sit down on the chair, and then bustling into the kitchen, brought out a three legged stool, which he wiped with the sleeve of his coat, and offered to Marie. Thenhe took Chapeau to the door, and whispered to him some secretcommunication with reference to supper; in fact, he had to confess thatthere was nothing in the house but bread, and but little of that. Thatneither he or Father Bernard had a sou piece between them, and thatunless Chapeau had money, and could go as far as the village andpurchase eggs, they would all have to go supperless to bed. Chapeauluckily was provided, and started at once to forage for the party, andFather Jerome returned into the room relieved from a heavy weight. 

"My dear old friend here, " said he, laying his hand on the old man'sarm, "has not much to offer you; but I am sure you are welcome to what-he has. There is not a heart in all La Vendée beats truer to hissovereign than his. Old age, misfortune, and persecution, have lain aheavy hand on him lately, but his heart still warms to the cause. Doesit not my old friend?" And Father Jerome looked kindly into his face, striving to encourage him into some little share of interest in what wasgoing on. 

"I don't think I'll ever be warm again, " said the old man, drawing hischair still nearer to the dull smoky fire, and shivering as he did so. "Everything is cold now. I don't understand why these ladies are comehere, or what they're to do; but they're very welcome, Jerome, verywelcome. A strange man came in just now, and said they must have mybed. "

"Oh no, Sir, " said Madame de Lescure, inexpressibly shocked at thedreadful misery of the poor old man; "indeed, indeed, we will not. Itis only for one night, and we shall do very well. Indeed, we would notturn you out of your bed. "

"You are welcome, Madame, welcome to it all--welcome as the flowers inMay. I know who you are, though I forget your name; it is a name dearto all La Vendée. Your husband is a great and good man; indeed, youshall have my bed, though you'll find it very cold. Your husband--but, oh dear! I beg your pardon, Madame, I forgot. "

I need not say that the evening which they spent at Genet, wasmelancholy enough, and the privations which they suffered were dreadful. During the early part of the night both Madame de Lescure and Marie laydown for a few hours, but nothing, which could be said, would inducethem to keep the old priest longer from his bed. About midnight they gotup and spent the remainder of the night seated on the two chairs nearthe fire, while Father Jerome squatted on the stool, and with his elbowson his knees, and his face upon his hands, sat out the long night, meditating upon the fortunes of La Vendée. 

They started early on the next morning, and the priest of St. Laud'swent with them, leaving Father Bernard in perfect solitude, for he hadneither friend or relative to reside beneath his roof. 

"Some of them will come down from time to time, " said Father Jerome, "and do what little can be done for him, poor old man! His sufferings, it is to be hoped, will not last many days. "

"And will he perform mass next Sunday?" said Marie. 

"Indeed he will, if able to walk across the road into the chapel, andwill forget no word of the service, and make no blunder in the ceremony. To you he seems to be an idiot, but he is not so, though long sufferinghas made his mind to wander strangely, when he sees strange faces. Thereare many who have been called to a more active sphere of duty for theirKing and country than that poor Curé, but none who have suffered moreacutely for the cause, and have born their sufferings with greaterpatience. "

CHAPTER V

THE VENDEANS AT ST. FLORENT. 

The reader, it is hoped, will remember St. Florent; it was here that thefirst scene of this tale opened; it was here that Cathelineau firstopposed the exactions of the democratic government and that theVendeans, not then rejoicing in that now illustrious name, felt thefirst flush of victory. It was here that 'Marie Jeanne' was taken fromthe troops of the Republic by the valour of the townsmen, and, adornedwith garlands by their sisters and daughters, was dragged in triumphthrough the streets, with such bright presentiments of future successand glory. 

The men of St. Florent had ever since that day borne a prominent partin the contest; they felt that the people of Poitou had risen in a massto promote the cause, which they had been the first to take up; and theyhad considered themselves bound in honour to support the character forloyalty which they had assumed: the consequence was that many of thebravest of its sons had fallen, and that very few of its daughters hadnot to lament a lover, a husband, or a father. 

St. Florent was now a melancholy careworn place. The people no longermet together in enthusiastic groups to animate each other's courage, andto anticipate the glorious day when their sovereign should come amongthem in person, to thank them for having been the first in Poitou tounfurl the white flag. It is true that they did not go back from theirhigh resolves, or shrink from the bloody effects of their braveenterprise, but their talk now was of suffering and death; theywhispered together in twos and threes, at their own door-sills, insteadof shouting in the market-place. Cathelineau was dead, and Foret wasdead, and they were the gallantest of their townsmen. They had now alsoheard that everything had been staked on a great battle, and that thatbattle had been lost at Cholet--that Bonchamps and d'Elbée had fallen, and that de Lescure had been wounded and was like to die. They knew thatthe whole army was retreating to St. Florent, and that the Republicantroops would soon follow them, headed by Lechelle, whose name alreadydrove the colour from the cheeks of every woman in La Vendée. They knewthat a crowd of starving wretches would fall, like a swarm of locusts, on their already nearly empty granaries; and that all the horrorsattendant on a civil war were crowding round their hearths. 

It was late in the evening that the news of the battle reached the town, and early on the next morning the landlord of the auberge was standingat his door waiting the arrival of Henri Larochejaquelin and de Lescure. The town was all up and in a tumult; from time to time small parties ofmen flocked in from Cholet, some armed, and some of whom had lost theirarms; some slightly wounded, and some fainting with fatigue, as theybegged admission into the houses of the town's-people. The aubergistewas resolute in refusing admittance to all; for tidings had reached himof guests who would more than fill his house, on whom he looked asentitled to more than all he could give them. It was at his hall doorthat the first blow had been struck, it was in rescuing his servant thatthe first blood had been shed; and though the war had utterly ruinedhim, he still felt that it would ill become him to begrudge anythingthat remained to him to those who had suffered so much in the cause. 

Peter Berrier, his ostler, stood behind him, teterrima belli causa! Thisman had at different times been with the army, but had managed to bringhimself safe out of the dangers of the wars back to the little inn, andnow considered himself an hero. He looked on himself in the light inwhich classic readers look on Helen, and felt sure that the wholestruggle had been commenced, and was continued on his account. He wasamazed to find how little deference was paid to him, not only by theVendeans in general, but even by his own town's-people. 

"I shall never be made to understand this business of Cholet, " said heto his master, "never. There must have been sad want there of a goodhead; aye, and of a good heart too, I fear. Well, well, to turn and run!Vendean soldiers to turn and run before those beggarly blues!"

"You'd have been the first, Peter, to show a clean pair of heelsyourself, if you'd been there, " said the landlord. 

"Me show a clean pair of heels! I didn't run away at Saumur, nor yet atFontenay, nor yet at many another pitched battle I saw. I didn't runaway here at St. Florent, I believe, when a few of us took the barracksagainst a full regiment of soldiers. "

"You couldn't well run then, for you were tied by the leg in the stablethere. "

"No, I was not; it was only for a minute or two I was in the stable. Would Cathelineau or Foret have turned their backs, think ye? When I wasalongside of those two men, I used to feel that the three of us were amatch for the world in arms; and they had the same feeling too exactly. Well, two of the three are gone, but I would sooner have followed themthan have turned my back upon a blue. "

"You're a great warrior, Peter, and it's a pity you didn't stay with thearmy. "

"Perhaps it is, perhaps it is. Perhaps I shouldn't have left it; but Iwas driven away by little jealousies. Even great men have theirfailings. But they certainly made some queer selections when they chosethe twelve captains at Saumur. There's not one of them left with thearmy now but M. Henri, and what's he but a boy?"

"He has done a man's work at any rate!"

"He's brave, there's no denying that. He's very brave, but what then;there's that impudent puppy of a valet of his, Chapeau; he's brave too:at least they say so. But what's bravery? Can they lead an army? isthere anything of the General about them? Can they beat the blues?

"Didn't he manage to beat the blues at Amaillou and at Coron, and atDurbellière? Faith, I think he has done nothing but beat them thesethree months. "

"There's nothing of the General in him, I tell you. Haven't I seen himin battle now; he's quite at home at a charge, I grant you; and he's notbad in a breach; but Lord bless you, he can't command troops. "

The landlord and his servant were still standing at the door of the inn, when the party for whom they were waiting made its appearance in thesquare of the town. It consisted of a waggon, in which the wounded manwas lying, of three or four men on horseback, among whom were HenriLarochejaquelin and the little Chevalier, and a crowd of men on foot, soldiers of the Vendean army, who had not left the side of their Generalsince he had fallen at Cholet. 

During the latter part of his journey, de Lescure had been sensible, andhad suffered dreadfully both in mind and body. He had never felt soconfident of success as Henri and others had done, and had carried onthe war more from a sense of duty than from a hope of restoring thepower of the crown. He now gave way to that despondency which so oftenaccompanies bodily suffering. He felt certain that his own dissolutionwas near, and on that subject his only anxiety was that he might see hiswife before he died. He had, since the power of speech had been restoredto him, more than once asserted that the cause of the royalists wasdesperate, and had, by doing so, greatly added to the difficulties bywhich Henri was now surrounded. He did not, however, despair; nothingcould make him despondent, or rob him of that elastic courage which, inspite of all the sufferings he had endured, gave him a strange feelingof delight in the war which he was waging. 

An immense concourse of people gathered round the waggon, as de Lescurewas lifted from it and carried up to the bedroom, which had beenprepared for him; and they showed their grief at his sufferings, andtheir admiration of his character as a soldier, by tears and prayers forhis recovery. The extreme popularity of M. De Lescure through the wholewar, and the love which was felt for him by all the peasants concernedin it, proved their just appreciation of real merit; for he had notthose qualities which most tend to ingratiate an officer with his men. He could not unbend among them, and talk to them familiarly of theirprowess, and of the good cause, as Henri did. He had the manners of anaustere, sombre man; and though always most anxious for the security andgood treatment of the prisoners, had more than once severely punishedmen among his own followers for some breach of discipline. He had, onone occasion, threatened to leave the army entirely if he was not obeyedwith the same exactness, as though he actually bore the King'scommission; and the general feeling that he would most certainly keephis word, and that the army could not succeed without him, had greatlytended to repress any inclination towards mutiny. 

"God bless him, and preserve him, and restore him to us all!" said awoman who had pushed her way through the crowd, so as to catch a glanceat his pale wasted face, one side of which was swathed in bandages, which greatly added to the ghastliness of his appearance. "We have lostour husbands, and our sons, and our sweethearts; but what matters, wedo not begrudge them to our King. The life of Monseigneur is moreprecious than them all. La Vendée cannot afford to lose her greatGeneral. "

De Lescure heard and understood, but could not acknowledge, the sympathyof the people; but Henri, as he tenderly raised his cousin's head, andbore him in his arms from the waggon, spoke a word or two to the crowdwhich satisfied them; and Arthur Mondyon remained among them a while totell them how bravely their countrymen had fought at Cholet, againstnumbers more than double their own, before they would consent to ownthemselves beaten. 

There was an immense deal for Henri Larochejaquelin to do. In the firstplace he had to collect together the fragments of the disbanded army;to separate the men who were armed from those who had lost their arms, and to divide the comparatively speaking small number of the former, into such bands or regiments as would make them serviceable in case ofneed. 

De Lescure was unable to give him any actual assistance in his work; buthis thoughtful brain, reflecting on all the difficulties of Henri'ssituation, conceived how much they would be increased by the want of anyabsolute title to authority; he therefore determined, ill as he was, toinvest him with the command-in-chief of the shattered army. 

Early on the morning after their arrival he begged that all such men ashad acted as chief officers among the Vendeans, and who were now in St. Florent, would form themselves into a council in his room, and that itmight be proclaimed to the army that they were about to nominate aGeneral-in-Chief. The council was not so numerously attended as thatwhich on a former occasion was held at Saumur. As Peter Berrier hadsaid, most of those who then sat around that council table were nowdead, or were, at any rate, hors-de-combat. Only four of the number werenow present. De Lescure was lying on his bed, and was a spectacledreadful to look upon. The hair had been all cut from his head. His facewas not only pale, but livid. The greater portion of it had beenenveloped in bandages, which he had partly removed with his own hand, that his mouth might be free, so that he could use his weak voice toaddress his comrades, perhaps for the last time. He uttered neithercomplaint or groan, but the compressed lips, careworn cheeks, and sunkeneyes, gave too certain signs of the agony which he suffered. Henri wasthere, but he knew the proposal which his cousin was about to make, andhe felt, not only that he was unequal to the heavy task which was aboutto be put on his shoulders, but also that there were still some amongtheir number who were superior to him in skill, rank, and age, and whowere to be excluded from the dangerous dignity by the partial admirationwhich was felt for himself He sat apart in a corner of the room, withhis face buried in his handkerchief; his manly heart was overcome; andwhile de Lescure named him as the only person possessed of sufficientnerve and authority to give the Vendeans a chance of an escape fromutter ruin, he was shedding tears like a child. 

D'Autachamps and the Prince de Talmont were there also; men, whothroughout the war had lent every energy to its furtherance. At anothertime, and under other circumstances, they might have expressedindignation at being called on to serve under a man so much theirjunior; but de Lescure's position checked, not only the expression ofany such feeling, but the feeling itself. They could not differ from aman who had lost so much in the cause, and vas now sealing his devotionwith his life. There were five or six others in the room; officers whowere now well known in the army, whose courage history has not forgottento record, but whose names are unnecessary to our tale. 

"Gentlemen, " said de Lescure to them, as soon as he saw them seatedround his bed, and had contrived to get himself so propped up withpillows as to be able to address them, "you all know why I have wishedto see you here; you all know the paramount importance of that dutywhich requires us to provide, as far as may be possible, for thesecurity of the unfortunate peasants who have followed us with suchcourage, who have shown so much generous loyalty, so much truepatriotism. Our first step must be to name some one whom we can allobey. We all know that the army cannot act in unison without oneabsolute Commander. He who was lately our Commander has fallen in theperformance of his duty. Our dear friend Bonchamps is no more. Had Iescaped from that awful battle unwounded, it is not improbable that youmight have chosen me to undertake the now unenviable duty of guiding abroken army. You will not accuse a dying man of vanity in saying so;but, gentlemen, you all see that such a chance is now impossible. Mywound is mortal. A few days, perhaps a few hours, and I shall be removedfrom this anxious, painful, all but hopeless conflict, in which you, myfriends, must still engage; in which some of you will probably fall. Icannot suffer with you future reverses, or lead you to future triumphs;but, if you will allow me, I will use my last breath in naming to youone, whom, I believe, every peasant in La Vendée, and every gentlemanengaged in the cause, will follow, if it be necessary, to death. HenriLarochejaquelin is the only man whom all the peasants, all the soldiers, all the officers, know intimately; and the last duty I can perform inthe service of my King is to implore you to put him at the head of yourtroops. He is young, and you will assist his youth with your counsel. He is diffident of himself, and you will encourage him with yourassurance and obedience; but he is brave, he is beloved, he is trusted;and above all, he possesses that innate aptitude for war, that power ofinfusing courage into the timid and lending strength to the weak, whichis the gift of God alone, and without which no General can command anarmy. "

Henri had promised his cousin that he would neither interrupt him, orraise any objection to the proposition about to be made. He kept hisword as long as de Lescure was speaking, but when he had finished hecould not restrain himself from expressing his own sense of hisunfitness for the duties they were calling on him to perform. He cameforward, and leaning against the head of the wounded man's bed, put hishand upon his shoulder, and speaking almost in a whisper, like a younggirl pleading for delay before her lover, he said, "Charles, youforget, I am but one-and-twenty. "

No one, however, seconded his objection. No other voice was raised tocounteract the wishes of the man who had suffered so much in the cause, and who, had he been spared, would have been at once chosen to guidetheir future movements. 

"With this exception, " said the Prince de Talmont; "your case we knowis doubtful, but should you recover, should you again be able to comeamong us before the war be over, Larochejaquelin shall then give placeto you. "

"There is little chance of that, Prince, " said de Lescure, smilingsadly; "but should it occur, there will be no quarrel between me andHenri. I will serve with him as his aide-de-camp. "

Henri Larochejaquelin now found himself General-in-Chief of the Vendeanarmy. As he himself had said, he was but one-and-twenty, and yet neverwas greater energy, firmness, and moral courage required from a General, than was required from him at this moment. Eighty thousand people wereon that day told to look to him as the man who was to save them fromfamine and from the enemy's sword, to protect their lives and the livesof all whom they loved, and eventually to turn their present uttermisery and despair into victory and triumph. 

Eighty thousand people were there collected in and around St. Florent, men, women, and children; the old and infirm, the maimed and sick, themutilated and the dying. Poor wretches who had gotten themselves draggedthither from the hospitals, in which they feared to remain, were lyingin every ditch, and under every wall, filling the air with their groans. Everything was in confusion; no staff existed competent to arrange theiraffairs, and to husband the poor means at their disposal. Food waswasted by some, while hundreds were starving. Some houses in the townwere nearly empty, while others were crowded almost to suffocation. There was very much to be done, yet every one was idle. 

The great work to be accomplished was to transport the Vendean multitudeover to the other side of the Loire. It had been at first feared by somethat the men of Brittany would be unwilling to receive the beatenroyalist army, flying from the bloody vengeance of the republicans, buttheir neighbours did not prove so unhospitable. A thousand welcomes weresent over to them, and many a happy messenger of good tidings came, assuring Henri that the people of Poitou should find arms, food, clothing, and shelter on the other side of the water. 

Henri sat himself to work in earnest. His first difficulty was to getvessels or rafts sufficient to carry the people over. All he couldobtain was seven or eight little boats, each capable of holding aboutsix persons, besides the two men who rowed. Timber there was none ofsize sufficient to make a raft; and though he sent messengers forleagues, both up and down the river, he could not get a barge. He putthe small boats to work, but the passage of the river was so tediousthat it seemed to him that it would be impossible for him to take overall those who crowded on the banks. The river is broad at St. Florent, and between the marshes which lie on the southern side and the northernbank there is a long island. Between St. Florent and the island thewater is broad and the stream slow, but between the island and the othershore the narrow river runs rapidly. Henri at first contented himselfwith sending the women and children, together with the sick and aged, into the island, thinking that there they would be at any rate for atime safe from the blues, and that some effort might probably be madefrom the other shore to convey them across the narrow passage. Gradually, however, the island became full, and he was obliged to sendhis boats round to take the people from thence to the main land. 

All day the work continued, and when the dark night came on, the boatsdid not for a moment cease to ply. Immediately after sunset, the rainbegan to fall in torrents, and as the anxious wretches did not like toleave the close vicinity of the river, which they had spent the wholeday in struggling to attain, thousands of them remained there wet andshivering until the morning. Mothers during the darkness were partedfrom their children, and wives from their husbands. Those who, worn outwith fatigue and weakness, were forced to lie down upon the ground, weretrodden upon by others, who pressed on, to reach the river. Some werepushed into the water and screamed aloud that they were about to drown, and when the dawn of the morning came, misery, wretchedness, and fearwere to be seen on every face. 

During the whole day and night, Henri was either on the bank, or passingbetween it and the town. He had, early in the day, stripped himself ofhis coat, and when the evening came, he could not find it. Wet through, in his shirt sleeves, this young generalissimo passed the first nightof his command, guarding the entrance into his little vessels;prohibiting more than eight from embarking at a time; striving to hisuttermost that none but the weak and aged should be taken over; solacingthe sufferings of those near him; bidding the wretched not to despair, and pointing to the opposite shore as the land of hope, where they wouldsoon again find plenty, comfort, and triumph. 

He was still at the same duty on the following morning, reckoning up, with something like despair, the small number of those who had as yetpassed over, and the multitude who were yet to pass, when the youngChevalier came down to him with the news that Madame de Lescure, and hersister-in-law were in St. Florent. Even the work, on which he was sointent, could not keep him from those respecting whom he was so anxious, and he hurried into town for an hour or two, leaving the Chevalier inhis place. 

CHAPTER VI

THE PASSAGE OF THE LOIRE. 

M. De Lescure had been two days in St. Florent, when his wife and sisterarrived there on horseback, attended by Chapeau. None of the party hadever been in the town before, but it was not long before they wererecognized, and the two ladies soon found themselves standing in the innyard. Madame de Lescure had as yet asked no question about her husband;indeed she had not had opportunity to do so, for she had been hurriedthrough a dense throng of people, none of whom she knew, and when shewas lifted from her horse by a strange hand, she had no idea that thewindow immediately above her head looked from the room in which herhusband lay. Chapeau, however, with considerate tact, did not lose amoment in finding the aubergiste, and learning from him enough to enablehim to whisper a word of comfort to her. 

"He is here, Madame, " said he, standing close behind her, "in the roomabove there. He is somewhat better than he has been, and as strong inhis mind as ever. He has been most anxious for your arrival, " and thenhe led the way into the hotel, pushing aside the crowd to the right andto the left; and within five minutes from the time of their entering thetown, the two ladies found themselves on the stairs immediately outsidethe chamber in which was lying the object of all their present anxiety. 

For the last four days and four nights, it had been the first and onlydesire of Madame de Lescure to be with her husband; and now that she wasso near him she dreaded to open the door. "Who is with him?" said she, speaking in a whisper, and trembling from head to foot, so that shecould hardly stand. 

"The little Chevalier is with him always, " said the aubergiste, who hadfollowed them up the stairs: "he never leaves him, now that M. Henri isobliged to be away. "

"Hadn't I better go in, perhaps, " said Chapeau, "and send the Chevalierout? I can tell M. De Lescure that Madame is here; it might be too muchfor Monsieur to see her all at once. "

Without waiting for an answer, Chapeau knocked at the door and went in, while the two ladies sat down on the nearest step, dreading almost tobreathe in their intense anxiety; in a few seconds Arthur Mondyon cameout, and taking a hand of each of his two friends, pressed them to hislips. 

"He knows you are here, " said he to Madame de Lescure, "and you are togo into him alone. Marie and I wifi go down stairs until he sends forus. Be tranquil as you can, while you are with him; you will find himas calm as ever. "

She rose, and entered the room on tiptoe, as Chapeau left it; her facewas as pale as marble, and her heart beat so violently that she feltthat she would hardly be able to reach the chair at the bed-side. DeLescure was lying on a decent but very humble bed, at the farthest endof a large room, in which there were three or four other bedsteads, andan enormous number of common deal chairs and tables piled one a-top ofanother. He was propped up in the bed on pillows, and as he turned hiseyes towards the door, the full light of the sun shone upon his face, and gave an especial ghastliness to its pallor. 

Madame de Lescure tried to control herself; but in such moments thefeelings of the heart overcome the reason, and the motions of the bodyare governed by passion alone. In an instant her face was on his bosom, and her arms were locked closely round his body. 

"Victorine--my own Victorine, " said he, "my greatest grief is over now. I feared that we were not to meet again, and that thought alone wasalmost too much for my courage. "

She was for a time unable to articulate a word. He felt her warm tearsas she convulsively pressed her cheek against his breast; he felt theviolent throbs of her loving heart, and allowed her a few minutes beforehe asked her to speak to him. She had thrown off the hat which she hadworn before entering the room, and he now gently smoothed her ruffledhair with his hand, and collected together the loose tresses which hadescaped down her neck. 

"Look up, love, " he said; "I haven't seen your face yet, or heard yourvoice. Come, Victorine, you were not used to be so weak. We must allstring our nerves now, dearest: we must all be brave now. We used topraise you for your courage; now is the time for you to show it. "

"Oh, Charles! oh, my poor stricken love!" and then she raised her faceand gazed into his, till the tears made her eyes so dim that she couldhardly see him. "I knew it would come at last, " she said; "I knew thisfearful blow would come at last. Oh, that we had gone when others went!at any rate I should not have lived to see you thus. "

"Do no say that, Victorine; do not speak so--do not allow yourself tothink so--or you will rob both of us of our dearest comfort. No, mylove; were it to do again, I again would stand by the throne, and youagain would counsel me to do so. A doubt on that point would becalamity, indeed; but, thank God, there is no doubt. "

"But the misery to see you thus--torn, and mangled, and tortured. Andfor what? What good have we done with our hot patriotism? Is the Kingnearer his throne? Are the murders of the Republic less frequent?"

"I fear you are selfish now, love. Did we not know, when we first tookup our arms, that many happy wives would be widowed--that numberlesschildren would be made fatherless--that hundreds of mothers would haveto weep for their sons. We must not ourselves complain of that fate, towhich we have knowingly, and thoughtfully, consigned so many others. "

Madame de. Lescure had no answer to make to her husband's remonstrance. She sat herself upon the bed, so that she could support his head uponher bosom; and pressing her lips to his clammy brow, she said in a lowvoice: "God's will be done, Charles: with all my heart I pity those whohave suffered as I now suffer. "

She remained sitting there in silence for a considerable time; weeping, indeed, but stifling her sobs, that the sound of her grief might notagitate him, while he enjoyed the inexpressible comfort of having herclose to him. He closed his eyes as he leant against the sweet supportwhich she afforded him, but not in sleep; he was thinking over all itmight be most necessary for him to say to her, before the power ofspeech had left him, and taking counsel with himself as to the advicewhich he would give her. 

"Victorine, " he said, and then paused a moment for a reply, but, as shedid not answer him, he went on. "Victorine, I want you to be allyourself now, while I speak to you. Can you listen to me calmly, love, while I speak to you seriously?"

She said that she would, but the tone in which she said it, hardly gaveconfirmation to her promise. 

"I hardly know what account you have yet heard of that unfortunatebattle. "

"Oh! I have heard that it was most unfortunate: unfortunate to all, butmost unfortunate to us. "

"It was unfortunate. I hope those who spoke to you of it, deceived youwith no false hopes, for that would have been mere cruelty. Give me yourhand, my love; I hope they told you the truth. You know, dearest, do younot, that--that--that my wound is mortal?"

She strove hard to control her feelings. She bit her under lip betweenher teeth; she pressed her feet against the bed, and grasped the looseclothes with the hand which was disengaged. The virtue on which herhusband most prided himself was calmness and self-possession inaffliction. She knew that he now expected that virtue from her, and thatnothing would so grieve him as to see her render herself weakly up toher sorrow, and she strove hard to control it; but all her exertion didnot enable her to answer him. It seemed almost miraculous to herselfthat she could sit there, and retain her consciousness, and hear himutter such words. Had she attempted to speak, the effort would haveovercome her. 

"For heaven's sake, Victorine, let nothing, let nobody deceive you; knowthe worst, and look to Christ for power to bear it, and you will findthe burden not too heavy to be borne. You and I, love, must part in thisworld. We have passed our lives together without one shadow to darkenthe joy of our union: we have been greatly blessed beyond others. Canwe complain because our happiness on earth is not eternal? Is it not agreat comfort that we can thus speak together before we part; that Ihave been allowed to live to see your dear face, to feel your breath onmy cheek, and to hear your voice? to tell you, with the assurance whichthe approach of death gives me, that these sorrows are but for a time, and that our future joys shall be everlasting? And I must thank you, Victorine, for your tender care, your constant love. You have made mehappy here; you have helped to fit me for happiness hereafter. It isowing to you that even this hour has but little bitterness for me. Arewe not happy, dearest; are we not happy even now in each other's love?"

Madame de Lescure had, while her husband was speaking, sunk upon herknees beside his bed, and was now bathing his hand with her tears. 

"I cannot blame you for your tears, " he said, "for human nature musthave her way; but my Victorine will remember that she must not give wayto her sorrow, as other women may do. Rise, dearest, and let me see yourface. I feel that I have strength now to tell you all that I have tosay. I may probably never have that strength again. "

She rose at his bidding, and sat upon the bed where he could look fullupon her face; and then he began to pour out to her all the wishes ofhis heart, all the thoughts which had run through his brain sinceconsciousness returned to him after his wound. After a little while sheconquered her emotion, and listened to him, and answered him withattention. He first spoke of their daughter, who was now in safety, withrelatives who had fled to England, and then of herself, and the probableresult of the Vendean war. He told her that he would not say a word todiscourage Henri: that had his life been spared, he should haveconsidered it his own most paramount and sacred duty to further the warwith every energy which he possessed; but that he did not expect thatit would ever terminate favourably to their hopes. "The King will reignagain, " he said, "in France; I do not doubt it for a moment; but yearsupon years of bloodshed will have to be borne; the blood of France willbe drained from every province, aye, from every parish, before the guiltwhich she has committed can be atoned for--before she can have expiatedthe murder of her King. " He desired her to continue with Henri till anopportunity should occur for her to cross over into England, but to letno such opportunity pass. He said that if Henri could maintain hisground for a while in Brittany--if the people would support him, and ifEnglish succour should arrive--it was still probable that they might beable to come to such terms with the republicans as would enable them tolive after their own fashion, in their own country; to keep their ownpriests among them, and to maintain their exemption from service in therepublican armies. "But should this not be so, " he said, "should all thevalour of the Vendeans not be able to secure even thus much, thenremember that God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. With a peopleas with an individual, he will not make the burden too heavy for theback which has to bear it. "

He spoke also of Marie, and declared his wish that she should not delayher marriage with Henri. He even said, that should his life be so farprolonged, as to enable him to be carried over into Brittany, and shouldthe army there find a moment's rest, he would wish to see their handsjoined together at his bed-side. 

"My poor dear Marie!" said Madame de Lescure, almost unconsciously. Shewas thinking of her sister's future fate; that she also might have soonto bewail a husband, torn from her by these savage wars. De Lescureunderstood what was passing through her mind, and said:

"I know, love, that there are reasons why they had better remain as theynow are. Why they should not indissolubly bind themselves to each otherat such a time as this; but we must choose the least of evils. You willboth now be a burden--no, I will not say a burden, but a charge--uponHenri; and he has a right to expect that a girl, who will depend foreverything on him, shall not shrink from the danger of marrying him. Shehas been happy to accept his love, and when she may be a comfort to him, she should not hesitate to give him her hand. Besides, dearest, thinkwhat a comfort it will be to me to know that they are married before Idie. "

There was one other subject on which he had made up his mind to speak, but on which even he, calm and collected as he was, found it difficultto express himself; he had, however, determined that it was his duty todo so, and though the words almost refused to come at his bidding, stillhe went through his task. 

"You will be desolate for a time, Victorine, when I shall have leftyou, " said he. 

She answered him only by a look, but that look was so full of misery--ofmisery, blended with inexpressible love--that no one seeing her, couldhave doubted that she would indeed be desolate when he was gone. 

"We have loved each other too well to part easily, " he continued, "and, for a time, the world will all be a weary blank to you. May God, whoknows how to pour a balm into every wound, which in his mercy Heinflicts, grant that that time may not be long! Listen to me patiently, love. It is a strong sense of duty which makes me pain you; my memorywill always be dear to you; but do not let a vain, a foolish, a wickedregret counteract the purpose for which God has placed you here. You arevery young, dearest, you have, probably, yet many years to live; and itwould multiply my grief at leaving you tenfold, if I thought that yourhopes of happiness in this world were to be buried in the grave with me. No, love, bear with me, " he said, for she tried to stop him. "The painwhich I give you now, may prevent much grief to you hereafter. Remember, Victorine, that should these evil days pass by--should you ever againbe restored to peace and tranquil life, my earnest, my last, my solemnprayer to you is, that my memory may not prevent your future marriage. "

She was still kneeling by his side, and with her face upturned and herhands clasped together, she now implored him to stop. She uttered nodissent, she made no protestations; but she beseeched him, by their longand tender love, by all the common ties which bound them together, tocease to speak on a subject which was so agonising. 

"I have done, love, " he said; "and I know that you will not thinklightly of a prayer which I have made to you in so serious a manner. "

De Lescure had expressed the same wish to his wife on former occasions, which, however, had, of course, been less solemn; and then his wife hadanswered him with a full, but not grieving heart. "Had our lot, " he oncesaid, "been cast in an Indian village, the prejudices of the countrywould have required you to submit to a horrid, torturing death upon mytomb. The prejudices of Christian lands, which attribute blame to thewife who does not yield herself a living sacrifice to a life ofdesolation from a false regard to her husband's memory, are, if not sohorrid, every whit as unreasonable; such a sentiment is an attempt tocounteract God's beneficence, who cures the wounds which he inflicts. "

Henri's first care, after having seen Marie and Madame de Lescure, wasto provide for their transit, and that of his wounded friend, to theother side of the water; for he felt that if the blues came upon St. Florent before that was done, nothing could prevent the three from beingmade prisoners. No tidings had yet been received of the advance of therepublicans from Cholet towards St. Florent, and the precautions whichHenri had taken were such as to ensure him some few hours' notice oftheir approach. He knew, however, that those hours would be hours ofboundless confusion; that the whole crowd of unfortunate wretches whomight then still be on the southern side of the river, would crowd intothe small boats, hurrying themselves and each other to destruction; thatdiscipline would be at an end, and that all his authority would probablybe insufficient to secure a passage for his party. About three o'clockhe sent word to Arthur to have the strongest of the boats kept inreadiness a little lower down the river than the usual point ofembarkation; so that they might, if possible, escape being carriedthrough the throng. He then procured a waggon into which de Lescure waslifted on his bed; his wife sat behind him, supporting his head on herlap, and Henri and his sister walked beside the vehicle down to thewater's edge. 

The little Chevalier was there with the boat, and he had with him twomen, neither of whom were young, and who had been at work the whole dayferrying over the Vendeans to the island. Arthur's figure was hardlythat of an aide-de-camp. His head was bare and his face begrimed withmud. He was stripped to his shirt sleeves, and they were tucked upnearly to his shoulders. He still had round his waist the red scarf, ofwhich he was so proud; but it was so soiled and dragged, as hardly tobe recognized as the badge of the honourable corps to which he belonged, for he had, constantly since the morning, been up to his breast in thewater, dragging women and children out of the river, heaving the boatsashore, or helping to push them off through the mud and rushes. 

It was settled on the bank that Arthur should go over with them intoBrittany, as Henri felt that he could not conscientiously leave the St. Florent side of the river, while so many thousands were looking to himfor directions; and, consequently, as soon as de Lescure and the twoladies had, with much labour and delay, been placed in the boat, heswung himself out of the water into the bow, and the frail bark with itsprecious load was pushed off into the stream. 

The point from which it started was somewhat lower down the stream thanthat from which the boats had been hitherto put off, and, consequently, as they got into the middle of the river, they found themselves carrieddown towards the lower part of the island, on which they had intendedto land. Had the men who were rowing worked vigorously, this would nothave occurred to any great extent; but they pulled slowly and feebly, and every foot which the boat made across, it descended as much down theriver. Arthur had been desired to land de Lescure on the island, andanother boat had been sent round to be ready to take him at once fromthence to the other shore; but when he found that they wereunintentionally so near the lower end of the island, it occurred to himthat it would save them all much pain and trouble, if he were to runround it, and land them at once on the opposite shore; they would inthis way have to make a considerably longer journey, but then de Lescurewould be spared the pain of so many different movements. 

Madame de Lescure immediately jumped at the proposal. "For heaven'ssake, Arthur, do so, if it be possible, " said she; "it will be thegreatest relief. I do not think we should ever get across to the otherboat, if we once leave this. "

Arthur was behind the two men at the oars, who had listened to what hadbeen said, without making any observation, or attempting to alter thedestination of the boat; rudder there was none, and the steering, therefore, depended entirely on the rowers. 

"Do you hear?" said Arthur, stretching forward and laying his hand onthe shoulder of the man who was in front. "Never mind the island at all;go a little more down the stream, and then we can cross over at oncewithout landing at all. Do you hear me, friend?" added he, speakingrather hastily, for the boatman took no apparent notice of hisinstructions. 

"We hear you, Monsieur, " said the man, "but it is impossible; we couldnot do it. "

"Ah, nonsense!" answered the Chevalier: "not do it--I say you must doit. I wonder you should hesitate for a moment, when you know how M. DeLescure is suffering, and how much those ladies have to go through. Turnthe boat down the stream at once, I tell you. "

"It is quite impossible, " said the old man doggedly, and still holdingon to his course; "we should only upset the boat and drown you all. Wecould never push her through the current on the other side, could weJean?"

"Quite impossible, " said the other. "We should only be carried downinto the rushes, or else be upset in the stream. "

"Nonsense!" said Arthur. "What's to upset you? At any rate you shalltry. " And he laid his hand on the oar of the man who was nearest to him, but this, instead of having the effect which he desired, turned the noseof the boat the other way. 

"For God's sake, my dear friends, do this favour for us if you can!"said Madame de Lescure. "It may save the life of my husband, and indeedwe will reward you richly for your labour. Stop, Arthur, don't useviolence; I am sure they will do this kindness for us, if they areable. "

"If they won't do it for kindness, they shall do it because they cannothelp it, " said Arthur, when he saw that the men still showed nodisposition to go down the stream; and as he spoke he pulled his pistolout of his belt, and prepared to cock it. The pistol, in truth, wasperfectly harmless, for it had been over and over again immersed in thewater, and the powder was saturated with wet; but this did not occur tothe boatmen, nor, very possibly, to Arthur either; and when he, steppingacross the thwart, on which the hinder man was sitting, held the pistolclose to the ear of the other, threatening that if he did not at oncedo as he was bid, he would blow out his brains and take his place on theseat, the poor old man dropped his oar from his hand into the water, andfalling on his knees on the bottom of the boat, implored for mercy. 

"Spare me, Monsieur! oh, spare me!" said he. "Ladies, pray speak for me:I am not used to this work--indeed I am not--and I and my comrade arenearly dead with fatigue. "

Arthur put the pistol back into his belt when the poor man begged formercy, and pulling the fallen oar out of the water, declared that hewould himself row round the island, and that the two old men might takethe other oar in turns. They agreed to this, and then he who had beenso frightened, and who was plainly the master of the two, told his taleto them, as he filled Arthur's place in the bow of the boat. 

"When they had heard, " he said, "what his former occupation had been, they would not wonder that the hard work at which they found him wasalmost too much for him. He was, " he said, "a priest, and had beenemployed above twenty years as Curé in a small parish on the river side, between St. Florent and Chaudron. The other man, who was working withhim, had been his sexton. He had, like other Curés, been turned out ofhis little house by the Republic, but had returned to his parish whenhe heard that the success of the Vendean arms seemed to promisetranquillity to the old inhabitants of the country. He had, however, soon been again disturbed. The rumour of Lechelle's army had driven himfrom his home, and he had fled with many others to St. Florent. He hadbeen advised that those who were taken in a priest's garb, would be moresubject even than others to the wrath of the republicans, and he hadtherefore disguised himself; and as from having lived so long near theriver he had become somewhat used to the management of boats, he had, for charity's sake, leant his hand to the poor Vendeans, willing, " ashe said, "to use what little skill and strength he had for those wholost their all in fighting for him, his country, and his religion. Butnow, " he added, "he found himself almost knocked up; and although, whenhe had been chosen to take over Monsieur and the two ladies, he had nothad the heart to decline, still he had found that his strength wouldfail him. He knew that he and his companion could not, unaided, reachthe opposite shore; but if the young gentleman would assist, they wouldstill do their best, and perhaps they might cross over in safety. "

This piteous tale soon turned their anger into admiration andfriendship. They thanked the kind old man for all that he had done forthem, and Arthur once, and over again, turned round to beg his pardonfor the violence he had offered him. 

"Indeed, then, I picked you out for this job, " said he, "because youalways worked so hard, and seemed so skilful and anxious, and becauseI observed that your boat always made the passage quicker than theothers. You must not be angry when I tell you that I thought you hadbeen a boatman all your life. "

He said he was not angry at all, but flattered; indeed he had spent muchof his leisure time in rowing, and was heartily glad that his littleskill was now useful to his friends. He soon offered to take his placeagain at the oar, and when neither his old servant or Arthur would allowhim to do so, he declared that he was quite himself again, and thatthose few minutes' rest had wonderfully recruited him. The ladies boththanked him kindly, but begged him to remain a while where he was, andMarie, from time to time, asked him questions about the past, and triedto hold out hopes to him for the future. The tears came into his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks, and after a while he took the sexton's oar, literally to relieve himself from having to speak. 

"It is not he work alone that has upset me, " said he after a while, "butthe poor people seem so callous. We have worked hard these two days, asthe young gentleman knows, and all for charity, and yet till this momentwe have not had a kind word. They urge us on to the work, and when weland them at the shore, they do not even thank us as they go away; thenwe turn back with a heavy heart for another load. "

They reached the shore of Brittany in safety, and when de Lescure wasplaced in the carriage which had been provided for him, he desired thatthe poor priest might be begged to accompany them on their journey. Hedeclined, however, saying that he had found a sphere in which he couldbe useful, and that he would stick to the work till it was all done, ortill his strength failed him. De Lescure pressed his hand, and beggedhis blessing, and told him that if there were many such as him in thecountry, La Vendée might still carry her head high, in spite of all thatthe Republic could do against her. This praise made the old man's heartlight once again, and he returned to his bat, and passed. Back to St. Florent with his comrade and Arthur, ready to recommence his labours. In the meantime de Lescure and his wife and sister were warmly welcomedon the Breton side of the river, and before night he, for the first timesince the battle of Cholet, found himself in comparative security andpeace. 

When Arthur got back he found that another plan had been started forcarrying over the Vendeans, which, if it did not drown them altogether, would be certainly much more expeditious than that of the boats. It hadoriginated with Chapeau, under whose guidance the operations were aboutto commence. 

He had come down to the water-side with his master, and on seeing theway in which the men were working, had calculated that it would yet takeabove a week to carry over all who remained, and as it was probable thatthey would be attacked before twenty-four hours were over, he hadobserved that they might as well give themselves up for lost if theycould devise no other scheme of passing over. 

"We will do the best we can, " said Henri. "If we can get over the women, and children, and wounded, the rest of us can fight our way to thebridge of Ancenis. "

"Why not make a raft?" said Chapeau. 

"Make one if you can, " said Henri, "but it will only go down the stream. Besides, you have neither timber nor iron ready to do it. "

Chapeau, however, determined to try, and he employed the men fromDurbellière, who knew him, and would work for him, to get together everypiece of timber they could collect. They brought down to the bank of theriver the green trunks of small trees, the bodies of old waggons, thesmall beams which they were able to pull down out of the desertedcottages near the river-side, pieces of bedsteads, and broken fragmentsof barn doors. All these Chapeau, with endless care, joined together bynumberless bits of ropes, and at last succeeded in getting afloat a rafton which some forty or fifty men might stand, but which seemed to beanything but a safe or commodious means of transit. In the first place, though it supported the men on it, it did not bear them high and dryabove the water, which came over the ankles of most of them. Then therewas no possible means of steering the unwieldy bark; and there could beno doubt that if the Argonauts did succeed in getting their vessels outinto the river, it would immediately descend the stream, and that it, and those upon it, would either be upset altogether, or taken towhichever bank and whatever part of it, the river in its caprice mightplease. 

In this dilemma a brilliant idea occurred to Chapeau. He still hadplenty of rope in his possession, and having fastened one end of a longcoil with weights and blocks on the riverside, he passed over with theother end into the island, and fastened it there. The rope, therefore, traversed the river, and by holding on to this, and passing it slowlythrough their hands, while they strained against the raft with theirfeet, the enterprising crew who had first embarked reached the islandin safety. Ten of the number had to return with the raft, but still fromthirty to forty had been taken over, and that without any great delay. 

After this first success the boats were sent round to work between theisland and the other shore, and the raft was kept passing to and froover the river the whole night. Nobody got over with dry feet, but stillno one was drowned, and upon the whole Chapeau was considered to beentitled to the thanks of the whole army for the success of hisinvention. He had certainly accelerated their passage fivefold. 

CHAPTER VII

CATHELINEAU'S MOTHER

The old motto, attributing disrespect to every prophet in his owncountry, had not been proved true with reference to Cathelineau in St. Florent. His deeds, during the short period of his triumph, had beencelebrated there with general admiration, and since his death, hismemory had been almost adored. The people of the town had had no publicmeans of showing their appreciation of his valour; they had not as yethad time to erect monuments to his honour, or to establish otherchronicles of his virtues, than those which were written in the heartsof his townsmen. He had left an aged mother behind him, who had longbeen dependent on his exertions for support, and they had endeavouredto express their feeling of his services, by offering to place herbeyond the reach of poverty; but, unaccountably enough, she was the onlyperson in St. Florent, who was dissatisfied with her son's career, andangry with the town which had induced him to adopt it. 

She still lived in a small cottage near the extremity of St. Florent, which had been the residence of Cathelineau as long as he supportedhimself by his humble calling. It was now wrecked and shattered, andshowed those certain signs of ruin which quickly fall on the dwellingsof the aged poor, who have no young relatives round them. Here she wouldsit and spin, seldom now interrupted by any; though at first herneighbours used to flock thither to celebrate the praises of her son. She had loved her son, as warmly as other mothers love their children;but she had loved him as a hard-working labourer, earning for herselfand for him their daily pittance; not as a mighty General, courted andcomplimented by the rich and great of the land. She had begged him notto go out into the town on the morning when he had been so instrumentalin saving his townsmen from the ignominy of being pressed into theservice of the Republic; and when he returned in the evening, crownedwith laurels, she had not congratulated him. She had uttered nothing butevil bodings to him on the day when he first went to Durbellière; andwhen he returned from Saumur, chief General of all the forces of thenvictorious La Vendée, she had refused to participate in the glorieswhich awaited him in his native town. On his departure to Nantes she hadprophesied to him his death, and when the tidings of his fall were firstbrought to her, she merely said that she had expected it. The whole townmourned openly for Cathelineau, except his mother. She wept for him insilence and alone; but she wept for the honest, sturdy, hard--workinglabourer whom she had reared beneath her roof, and who had been beguiledaway by vain people, to vain pursuits, which had ended in his death;while others bewailed the fall of a great captain, who had conferredhonour on their town, and who, had he been spared, might have heapedglory on his country. Since that time, she had not ceased to rail onthose who had seduced her son into celebrity and danger; and, after awhile, had been left to rail alone. 

When nearly all the inhabitants of the town flocked down to theriver-side, anxious to escape from the wrath of the republicans, sheresolutely refused to move, declaring that if it were God's will thatshe should perish under the ashes of her little cottage, she would doso, and that nothing should induce her, in her extreme old age, to leavethe spot on which she had been born, and had always lived. During thewhole confusion, attending the passage of the river, she sat thereundisturbed; and though she saw all her poor neighbours leave theirhumble dwellings, and all their little property, to look for safety inBrittany, she did not move. 

On the day after that on which de Lescure had passed over, she wassitting alone in her cabin, and the unceasing whirl of herspinning-wheel proved that the distractions of the time had not made heridle. By this time all those who had lived immediately near her, weregone. It is not to be supposed that absolutely every inhabitant of thetown left his home; there were some who had taken no prominent part inthe war, and who could not believe that the republicans would destroythose whom they found quietly living in their own houses; but all thepoorer part of the population were gone, and not a living soul butherself remained in the row of cabins, of which Cathelineau's motheroccupied one. 

Her wheel was turning fast round, obedient to the quick motion of herfoot, and her two hands were employed in preparing the flax before itwas caught by the wheel; but her mind was far away from her ordinarypursuit. She had been thinking how true were the prophetic warnings withwhich she had implored her son to submit to the republicans, and howsurely she had foreseen the desolation which his resistance had broughton all around her. And yet there was more of affection than bitternessin her thoughts of her son. She acknowledged to herself his highqualities; she knew well how good, how noble, how generous, had been hisdisposition. She was, even in her own way, proud of his fame; but shehated, with an unmixed hatred, those whom she thought had urged him onto his ruin--those friends of noble blood, who would have spurned thepostillion from their doors had he presumed to enter them in formerdays; but who had thrust him into the van of danger in the hour of need, and had persuaded him, fond and foolish as he had been, to use hiscourage, his energy, and his genius, in fighting for them a battle, inwhich he should have had no personal interest. 

As she sat there spinning, and thinking thus bitterly of the causes ofall her woe, a figure darkened the door of her cottage, and looking upshe saw a young lady dressed in black. She was tall, and of a noblemien; her face was very beautiful, but pale and sad, as were the facesof most in these sad times. Her dress was simple, and she wasunattended; but yet there was that about her, which assured the oldwoman that she was not of simple blood, and which prepared her to lookupon her as an enemy. 

It was Agatha Larochejaquelin. She and her father had, by slow stages, reached St. Florent in safety; and, after having seen him at rest, andspoken a word to her brother, her first care had been to inquire afterthe mother of Cathelineau. She had been told of her solitary state, andof her stubborn resolution to remain at St. Florent, and she determinedto offer her any aid in her power, as a duty due to the memory of him, with whom she had been, for a short time, so strangely connected. 

The old woman rose mechanically, and made a slight obeisance as she sawAgatha's commanding figure, and then reseating herself, hastilyrecommenced her work, as though she had forgotten herself, in havingbeen thus far courteous to her guest. 

"I have come to express my esteem and respect to the mother ofCathelineau, " said Agatha, as soon as she found herself inside thecottage. "I knew and valued your son, and I shall be glad to know hismother. Was not the brave Cathelineau your son, my friend?" she added, seeing that the old woman stared at her, as though she did not as yetcomprehend the object of her visit. 

"My name is Françoise Cathelineau, " said the sybil, "and JacquesCathelineau was my son. "

"And proud you may be to have been his mother. He was a great and goodman: he was trusted and loved by all La Vendée. No one was so belovedby the poor as he was; no one was so entirely trusted by the rich andgreat. "

"I wish that the rich and great had left him as they found him. It wouldbe well for him and me this morning, if he had not so entirely trustedthem. "

"His death was a noble death. He died for the throne which he honoured, and loved so loyally; and his name will be honoured in Poitou, aye, andin all France, as long as the names of the great and the good areremembered. It must be a bitter thing to lose an only son, but hisdearest friends should not regret him in such a cause. "

"Dearest friends! What do you know of his dearest friends? How can youtell what his dearest friends may feel about it?"

"I know what I feel myself. Perhaps I cannot judge of all a mother'sagony in losing her son; but I may truly say, that of those who knewCathelineau, none valued him more than I did. "

"Valued him! Yes, you valued him as you would a war-horse, or a strongtower, but you did not love him. He was not of your race, or breed. Hishands were hard with toil, his hair was rough, and his voice was harshwith the night air. The breath of the labouring poor is noisome in thenostrils of the rich. His garments smelt of industry, and his awkwardgait told tales of his humble trade. You did not love him: such as youcould not have loved a man like him. You have come here to bid me toforget my son, and you think it easy for me to do so, because you andhis noble friends have forgotten him. You are welcome, Mademoiselle, butyou might have saved yourself the trouble. "

"God forbid that I should ask you to forget him. I can never forget himmyself. "

"Would that I could--would that I could! He left me that morning whenI bade him to stay, though I went down on my knees to ask it as afavour. He was a stubborn self-willed man, and he went his own way. Henever passed another night under his mother's roof; he never again heardhis mother's blessing. I wish I could forget him. Indeed, indeed, I wishI could!" and the old woman swayed herself backwards and forwards in herchair, repeating the wish, as though she did not know that any one waswith her in the cottage. 

Agatha hardly knew what to say to the strange woman before her, or howto soften her bitterness of spirit. She had felt an unaccountableattraction to Cathelineau's mother. She had imagined that she couldspeak to her of her son with affection and warmth, though she could notdo so to any other living soul She had flattered herself that she shouldhave a melancholy pleasure in talking of his death, and in assuring hisaged mother that she had soothed her son's last hours, and given him, in his dying moments, that care which can only be given by the hands ofa woman. She now felt herself repulsed, and learnt that the short careerof glory which had united her with Cathelineau, had severed him from hismother. Nevertheless her heart yearned to the old woman; she still hopedthat, if she could touch the right cord, she might find her way to themother's heart. 

"I thought, perhaps, " she said, "you would be glad to hear some tidingsof his last moments; and as I was with him when he died, I have come totell you that his death was that of a Christian, who hoped everythingfrom the merits of his Saviour. "

"May his soul rest in peace, " said the mother, crossing herself, andmechanically putting her hands to her beads. "May his soul rest inpeace. And you were with him when he died, Mademoiselle, were you?"

"I knelt at his bed-side as the breath passed from his body. "

"It would have been better for him had one of his own degree been there:not that I doubt you did the duty of a good neighbour, as well as itmight be done by one like you. Might I ask you your name, lady?"

"My name is Agatha Larochejaquelin. "

"Larochejaquelin! I'm sorry for it. It was that name that first ledJacques into trouble: it was young Larochejaquelin that first made myson a soldier. I will not blame you, for you say you were kind to himat a time when men most want kindness; but, I wish that neither I norhe had ever heard your name. "

"You are wrong there, my friend. It was Cathelineau made a soldier ofmy brother, not my brother who made a soldier of him. HenriLarochejaquelin was only a follower of Cathelineau. "

"A Marquis obey a poor postillion! Yes, you stuffed him full with suchnonsense as that! You made him fancy himself a General! You cannot foolme so easily. My son was not a companion for noble men and noble ladies. A wise man will never consort with those who are above him in degree. "

"We all looked on Cathelineau as equal to the best among us, " answeredAgatha. "We all strove to see who should show him most honour. "

The old woman sat silent for a while, turning her wheel with greatviolence, and then she moved abruptly round, and facing Agatha, said:

"Will you answer me one question truly, Mademoiselle?"

Agatha said she would. 

"Are you betrothed as yet to your lover?"

"No, indeed, " answered she; "I am not betrothed. "

"And now answer me another question. Suppose this son of mine, who, asyou say, was as great as the greatest among you, and as noble as thenoblest; suppose he had admired your beauty, and had offered to take youhome to his mother as the wife of his bosom, how would you then haveanswered him? What would you then have thought of the postillion? Wouldhe then have been the equal of gay young counts, and high-bloodedmarquises?"

Agatha at first made no reply, and a ruby blush suffused her whole face. She was not at all unwilling that Cathelineau's mother should know thefeeling which she had entertained for her son, but the abruptness, andthe tone of the question, took her by surprise, and for a momentscattered her thoughts. 

"Now I have made you angry, Mademoiselle, " said the other, chuckling atthe success of her scheme. "Now you are wrath that I should have daredto suppose that the daughter of a Marquis could have looked, in the wayof love, on a poor labourer who had been born and bred in a hovel likethis. "

"You mistake me, my friend; I am not angry--I am anything but angry. "

"You would have scorned him as a loathsome reptile, which to touch wouldbe an abomination, " continued the old woman, not noticing, in hereagerness, Agatha's denial. "You would have run from him in disgust, andthe servants would have let loose the dogs at him, or have chained himas a madman. Yes, your delicate frame shakes with horror at the idea, that a filthy stable boy could have looked on your beauty, and havedared to wish to possess it: and yet you presume to tell me thatCathelineau was among you as an equal: he was with you as a Jew is amongChristians, as a slobbering drunkard among sober men, as one strickenwith fever among the healthy. My son should have been too proud to haveeaten bread at a table where his hand was thought unclean, or to haveaccepted favours, where he dared not look for love. "

"You are unjust to Cathelineau, " replied Agatha. "You are in every wayunjust, both to your son and to me. He accepted no favour from us, buthe did--but he did look--" and she paused, as though she still lackedcourage to speak the words which were on her tongue, but after a momentshe went on and said, "he did look for love, and he did not look invain. "

"He did love, do you say, and not in vain! He did love, and made hislove acceptable to one of those fine flaunting ladies who sit at easeall day, twirling a few bits of silk with their small white hands. Doyou say such a one as that loved Cathelineau! Who was she? What is hername? Where is she?"

"She is close to you now, " said Agatha, sitting down on a low stool atthe old woman's feet. "I told you her name a while since. It is I wholoved your son: I, Agatha Larochejaquelin. "

Françoise Cathelineau dropped from her hand the flax, which she hadhitherto employed herself in preparing for the wheel, and pushing fromher forehead her loose grey locks, and resting on her knees her twoelbows, she gazed long and intently into Agatha's face. 

"It is just the face he would have loved, " said she aloud, yet speakingto herself. "Yes, it is the face of which he used to dream andtalk--pale and sad, but very fair: and though I used to bid him mind hiswork, and bring down his heart to love some poor honest labouring girl, I did not the less often think over his strange fancies. And Jacquestold you that he loved you, did he, Mademoiselle? I wonder at that--Iwonder at that; it would have been more like himself to have carried hislove a secret to the grave. "

"He was dying when he told me that he regarded me above other women; andI am prouder of the dying hero's love, than I could have been had aPrince knelt at my feet. "

"He was dying when he confessed his love! Yes, I understand it now:death will open the lips and bring forth the truth, when the dearesthopes of life, when the sharpest pang of the heart fail to do so. Hadhe not been sure that life with him was gone, he never would have spokenof his love. He was a weak, foolish man. Very weak in spite of all hiscourage; very weak and very foolish--very weak and very foolish. "

She was talking more to herself than to Agatha, as she thus spoke of herson's character, and for a minute or two she continued in the samestrain, speaking of him in a way that showed that every little action, every wish of his, had been to her a subject of thought and anxiety; andthat she took a strange pride in those very qualities for which sheblamed him. 

"And did you come to me on purpose to tell me this, Mademoiselle?" shesaid after a while. 

"I came to talk to you about your son, and to offer you, for his sake, the affection of a daughter. "

"And when he told you that he loved you, what answer did you make him?tell me: did you comfort him; did you say one word to make him happy?I know, from your face, that you had not the heart to rebuke a dyingman. "

"Rebuke him! How could I have rebuked him? though I had never owned itto myself I now feel that I had loved him before he had ever spoken tome of love. "

"But what did you say to him? tell me what you said to him. He was myown son, my only son. He was stubborn, and self-willed, but still he wasmy son; and his words were sweeter to me than music, and his face wasbrighter to me than the light of heaven. If you made him happy beforehe died, I will kneel down and worship you, " and joining her skinnyhands together, she laid them upon Agatha's knees. "Come, sweetest, tellme what answer you made my poor boy when he told you that he loved you. "

"It is a fearful thing, you know, to speak to a dying man, " answeredAgatha. "You must not suppose that we were talking as though he werestill in the prime of health and strength--"

"But what did you say to him? you said something. You did not, at anyrate, bid him remember that he was a poor labouring man, and that youwere a lady of high rank. "

"We neither of us thought of those things then. I do not know what itwas I said, but I strove to say the truth. I strove to make himunderstand how much I valued, esteemed--and loved him. "

"You told him that you loved him; you are sure you told him that. I wishhe had lived now. I wish he had lived and won more battles, and beat theblues for good and all, and then he would have married you, and broughtyou home as his wife to St. Florent, wouldn't he, love? There would havebeen something in that. There would have been something really grand inthat. Such a beautiful bride! such a noble bride! so very, verybeautiful!" and the old woman continued gazing at the face of her whomshe was fancying to herself a daughter-in-law. "Real noble blood of thevery highest. Had he married you, he would have been a Marquis, wouldn'the? I wish he had lived now, in spite of all I said. Why did he die whenthere was such fortune before him I Why did he die when there was suchgreat fortune before him!"

"He was happy in his death, " said Agatha. "I do not think he even wishedto live. As it is, he has been spared much sorrow which we must allendure. Though I loved your son, I do not regret his death. "

"But I do--but I do, " said the old woman. "Had he only lived to call youhis wife, there would have been. Honour in that--there would have beenreal glory in that. People would then not have dared to say that afterall Cathelineau was only a postillion. "

"Do not regard what people say. Had a Princess given him her hand, hisfame could not be brighter than it was. There was no thought of marriagebetween us, since we first knew each other. There has been no time forsuch thoughts; but his memory to me is that of a dear--dear friend. "

From the time when Cathelineau first went to Durbellière, after thebattle of St. Florent, his mother had expressed the greatest dislike athis attempting to associate with those who were so much above himselfin rank; with those who would, as she said, use him and scorn him. Shehad affected to feel, or perhaps really felt, a horror of the insolenceof the great, and had quarrelled with her son for throwing himself amongthem. This feeling, however, arose, not from contempt, but fromadmiration and envy. In her secret soul the high and mighty seemed soinfinitely superior to those in her own rank, that she had felt surethat her son could not be admitted among them as an equal, and she wastoo proud to wish that he should be admitted into their company as ahumble hanger-on. What Agatha had now confessed to her had surprised anddelighted her. There could be no doubt now; there was the daughter ofone of the noblest houses in Poitou sitting at her feet in her owncabin, owning her love for the poor postillion. Agatha Larochejaquelin, young, noble, beautiful, grandly beautiful as she was, had come to herto confess that she had given her heart to her son. There was, however, much pain mixed with her gratification. Cathelineau had gone, withoutenjoying the high honours which might have been his. Had he lived, Agatha Larochejaquelin would have been her daughter-in-law; but now thesplendid vision could never be more than a vision. She could solaceherself with thinking of the high position her son had won for himself, but she could never enjoy the palpable reality of his honours. 

She sat, repeating to herself the same words, "Sad and pale, but verybeautiful--sad and pale, but very beautiful; just as he used to dream. Why did he die, when such fortune was before him! Why did he die, whensuch noble fortune was before him!"

Agatha suffered her to go on for a while before she interrupted her, andthen she came to the real purport of her visit. She offered the oldwoman her assistance and protection, and begged her to pass over withthe others into Brittany, assuring her that she should want for nothingas long as Henri or her father had the means of subsistence, and thatshe should live among them as an honoured guest, loved and revered asthe mother of Cathelineau. 

On this point, however, she remained obstinate. Whether she stillfancied that she would be despised by her new friends, or whether, asshe said, she was indifferent to life, and felt herself too old to movefrom the spot where she had passed so many years, she resolutely heldher purpose to await the coming of the republicans. "They will hardlyput forth their strength to crush such a worm as me, " she said; "andif they do, it will be for the better. "

Agatha then offered her money, but this she refused, assuring her thatshe did not want it. 

"You shall give me one thing though, if you will, sweet lady, that I maythink of you often, and have something to remind me of you; nay, youshall give me two things--one is a lock of your soft brown hair, theother is a kiss. "

Agatha undid the braid which held up her rich tresses, and severing fromher head a lock of the full length to which her hair grew, tied it ina portion of the braid, and put it into the old woman's hand; then shestooped down and kissed her skinny lips, and having blessed her, and bidher cherish the memory of her son with a holy love, as she herself didand always would, Agatha. Larochejaquelin left the cabin, and returnedto her father. 

CHAPTER VIII

"WHAT GOOD HAS THE WAR DONE?"

The raft which Chapeau had made was by degrees enlarged and improved, and the great mass of the Vendeans passed the river slowly, but safely. As soon as the bulk of the people was over, Henri Larochejaquelin leftthe southern shore, and crossed over to marshal the heterogeneous troopson their route towards Laval, leaving Chapeau and Arthur Mondyon tosuperintend and complete the transit of those who remained. 

It was a beautiful October evening, and as the sun was setting, the twowere standing close to the edge of the water, congratulating themselvesthat their dirty and disagreeable toil was well nigh over. From time totime stragglers were still coming down to the river-side, begging fora passage, and imploring that they might not be abandoned to the crueltyof the blues, and as they came they were shipped off on the raft. Therewere now, however, no more than would make one fair load, and Chapeauand Arthur were determined that it was full time for them both to leavethe Anjou side of the river, and follow the main body of the armytowards Laval. 

"We might remain here for ever, Chapeau, if we stayed for the very lastof all, " said the Chevalier, as he jumped on the raft. "Come, man, geton, we've our number now, and we couldn't take more, if they come. There's some one hallooing up there, and we'll leave the little boat forthem. Come, I want to get over and have a run on dry land, for I'm ascold as a stone. This living like a duck, half in the water and halfout, don't suit me at all. The next river we cross over, I'll make Henriget another ferryman. "

Chapeau still lingered on the shore, and putting his hand up to his ear, listened to the voice of some one who was calling from a distance. Itwas too dark for him to distinguish any one, but the voice of a womanhallooing loudly, but with difficulty, as though she were out of breathwith running, was plainly audible. 

"If you mean to wait here all night, I don't, " said the Chevalier, "sogood night to you, and if you don't get on, I'll push off without you. "

"Stop a moment, M. Arthur, there's a woman there. "

"I've no doubt there is--there are fifty women there--fifty hundredwomen, I dare say; but we can't wait while they all drop in one by one. Don't be a fool, Jacques; is not there the small boat left for them?"

Chapeau still listened. "Stop a moment, M. Arthur, for heaven's sakestop one moment, " and then jumping on to the raft, he clung hold of therope, and moored it fast to the shore. "They're friends of my own, M. Arthur; most particular friends, or I wouldn't ask to keep you. Don'tgo now; after all we've gone through together, you won't leave myfriends behind, if I go on shore, will you, M. Arthur?"

"Oh, I'm a good comrade; if they're private friends, I'll wait allnight. Only I hope there ain't a great many of them. "

"Only two; I think there are only two, " and Chapeau once more jumped onshore, and ran to meet his friends. He had not far to go, for the partywas now close to the water's edge. As he had supposed, it consisted onlyof two, an old man and a girl: Michael Stein and his daughter Annot. Annot had been running; and dragging her father by the hand, hadhallooed with all her breath, for she had heard from some of those whostill dared to trust themselves to the blues, that the last boat was onthe point of leaving the shore. The old man had disdained to halloo, andhad almost disdained to run; but he had suffered himself to be hurriedinto a shambling kind of gait, and when he was met by Chapeau, he wasalmost as much out of breath as his daughter. 

"Oh, oh! for mercy's sake--for heaven's sake--kind Sir, dear Sir, "sobbed Annot, as she saw a man approaching her; and then when he wasnear enough to her to be distinguished through the evening gloom, sheexclaimed:

"Mercy on us, mercy on us, its Jacques Chapeau!" and sank to the ground, as though she had no further power to take care of herself now that shehad found one who was bound to take care of her. 

"You're just in time, Michael Stein; thank God, you're just in time!Annot, come on, its only a dozen yards to the raft, and we'll be off atonce. Well, this is the luckiest chance: come on, before a whole crowdare down upon us, and swamp us all. "

"Oh me! oh me!" sobbed Annot, still sitting on the ground, as though shehad not the slightest intention of stirring another step that night: "tobe left and deserted in this way by one's friends--and one'sbrothers--and--and--one's--" she didn't finish the list, for she feltsure that she had said enough to cut Chapeau to the inmost heart, if hestill had a heart. 

"Come, dearest girl, come; I'll explain it all by-and-bye. We have nota moment to spare. Come, I'll lift you, " and he stooped to raise herfrom the ground. 

"Thank you, M. Chapeau, thank you, Sir; but pray leave me. I shall bebetter tomorrow morning; that is, if I'm not dead, or killed, or worse. The blues are close behind us; ain't they, father?"

"Get up, Annot; get up, thou little fool, and don't trouble the man tocarry thee, " said Michael. "If there be still a boat to take us, inGod's name let us cross the river; for the blues are truly in St. Florent, and after flying from them so far, it would be sore ill luck tobe taken now. "

Chapeau, however, would not leave her to herself, but took her up bodilyin his arms, and carrying her down to the water's edge, put her on theraft. He and Michael soon followed, and the frail vessel was hauled forthe last time over into the island. The news that the enemy was alreadyin St. Florent soon passed from month to mouth, and each wretchedemigrant congratulated himself in silence that he had so far escapedfrom republican revenge. Many of them had still to sojourn on the islandfor the night, but there they were comparatively safe; and Arthur, Chapeau, and his friends, succeeded in gaining the opposite shore. 

Poor Annot was truly in a bad state. When they heard that the ladies hadleft Chatillon, she and. Her father, and, indeed, all the inhabitantsof Echanbroignes, felt that they could no longer be safe in the village;and they had started off to follow the royalist army on foot through thecountry. From place to place they had heard tidings, sometimes of oneparty, and sometimes of another. The old man had borne the fatigue anddangers of the journey well; for, though now old, he had been ahard-working man all his life, and was tough and seasoned in his oldage; but poor Annot had suffered dreadfully. The clothes she had broughtwith her were nearly falling off her back; her feet were all but bare, and were cut and blistered with walking. Grief and despair had taken thecolour and roundness from her cheek, and she had lacked time on hermournful journey to comb the pretty locks of which she was generally soproud. 

"Oh, Jacques, Jacques, how could you leave us! how could you go away andleave us, after all that's been between us, " she said, as he bustledabout to make some kind of bed for her in the little hut, in which theywere to rest for the night. 

"Leave you, " said Chapeau, who had listened for some time in silence toher upbraidings; "leave you, how could I help leaving . You? Has noteverybody left everybody? Did not M. Henri leave his sister, and M. DeLescure leave his wife? And though they are now here all together, it'sby chance that they came here, the same as you have come yourself. Aslong as these wars last, Annot dear, no man can answer as to where hewill go, or what he will do. "

"Oh, these weary wars, these weary wars!" said she, "will they never bedone with? Will the people never be tired of killing, and slaying, andburning each other? And what is the King the better of it? Ain't theyall dead: the King, and the Queen, and the young Princes, and all ofthem?"

"You wouldn't have us give up now, Annot, would you? You wouldn't haveus lay down our arms, and call ourselves republicans, after all we havedone and suffered?"

Annot didn't answer. She wouldn't call herself a republican; but hersufferings and sorrows had greatly damped the loyal zeal she had shownwhen she worked her little fingers to the bone in embroidering a whiteflag for her native village. She was now tired and cold, wet and hungry;for Chapeau had been able to get no provisions but a few potatoes: soshe laid herself down on the hard bed which he had prepared for her; andas he spread his own coat over her shoulders, she felt that it was, atany rate, some comfort to have her own lover once more near her. 

Jacques and the old smith had no bed, so they were fain to contentthemselves with sitting opposite to each other on two low stools; thebest seats which the hut afforded. Jacques felt that it was incumbenton him to do the honours of the place, and that some apology wasnecessary for the poor accommodation which he had procured for hisfriends. 

"This is a poor place for you, Michael Stein, " he commenced, "a verypoor place for both of you, after your own warm cottage atEchanbroignes. "

"It's a poor place, truly, M. Chapeau, " said the smith, looking roundon the bare walls of the little hut. 

"Indeed it is, my friend, and sorry am I to see you and Annot so badlylodged. But what then; we shall be in Laval tomorrow, and have the bestof everything--that is, if not tomorrow, the day after. "

"I don't much care about the best of everything, M. Chapeau. I've notused myself to the best, but I would it had pleased God. To have allowedme to labour out the rest of my days in the little smithy atEchanbroignes. I never wanted more than the bread which I could earn. "

"You never did, Michael, you never did, " said Chapeau, trying to flatterthe old man; "and, like an honest man, you endure without flinching whatyou suffer for your King. Give us your hand, my friend, we've no wineto drink his health, but as long as our voices are left, let us cry:Vive le Roi!"

The old man silently rejected Chapeau's proposal that he should evincehis loyalty just at present by shouting out the Vendean war-cry. "I takeno credit, M. Chapeau, " said he, "for suffering for my King, though, while he lived, he always had my poor prayers for his safety. It wasn'tto fight the blues that I left my little home. It was because I couldn'tstay any without fearing to see that girl there in the rude hands ofLechelle's soldiers, and my own roof in a blaze. It's all gone now, forge and tools; the old woman's chair, the children's cradle; it's allgone, now and for ever. I don't wish to curse any one, M. Chapeau, butI am not in the humour to cry Vive le Roi!"

"But Michael Stein, my dear friend, " urged Chapeau, "look what othershave lost too. Have not others suffered as much? Look at the oldMarquis, turned out of his house and everything lost; and yet you won'thear a word of complaint fall from his mouth. Look at Madame de Lescure, her husband dying; her house burnt to the ground; without a bed to lieon, or a change of dress and yet she does not complain. "

"They have brought it on themselves by their own doings, " answered thesmith; "and they have brought it on me also, who have done nothing. "

"Done nothing! but, indeed, you have, Michael. Have you not made pikesfor us, and have not your sons fought for us like brave soldiers?"

"I have done the work for which I was paid, as a good smith should; andas for the boys, they took their own way. No, Jacques Chapeau, I havetaken no part in your battles. I have neither been for nor against you. As for King or Republic, it was all one to me; let them who understandsuch things settle that. For fifty years I have earned my bread, andpaid what I owed; and now I am driven out from my home like a fox fromits hole. Why should I say Vive le Roi! Look at that girl there, withher bare feet bleeding from the sharp stones, and tell me, why shouldI say Vive le Roi!"

Chapeau was flabbergasted, for all this was rank treason to him; and yethe didn't want to quarrel with the smith; so he sat still and gazed intohis face, as though he were struck dumb with astonishment. 

"I remember when you came to my cottage, " continued the old man, "andtold me that the wars were all over, that the King was coming toDurbellière, and that you would marry Annot, and make a fine lady ofher. I told you then what I thought of your soldiering, and your fineladies. I told you then what it would come to, and I told you true. Idon't throw this in your teeth to blame you, M. Chapeau, for you haveonly served those you were bound to serve; but surely they who first putguns and swords into the hands of the poor people, and bade them go outfor soldiers, will have much to answer for. All this blood will be upontheir heads. "

"You don't mean to blame M. Henri and M. De Lescure, and the goodCathelineau, for all that they've done?" said Chapeau, awe-struck at thelanguage used by his companion. 

"It's not for me to blame them; but look at that girl there, and thentell me, mustn't there be some great blame somewhere?"

Chapeau did look at the girl, and all the tenderness of his heart roseinto his eyes, as the flickering light of the fire showed him hertattered and draggled dress. 

"Thank God! the worst of it is over now, Michael. You're safe now, atany rate, from those blood-hounds; and when we reach Laval, we shall allhave plenty. "

"And where's this Laval, M. Chapeau?"

"We're close to it--it's just a league or so; or, perhaps, seven oreight leagues to the north of us. "

"And how is it, that in times like these, such a crowd of strangers willfind plenty there?"

"Why, the whole town is with us. There's a blue garrison in it; butthey're very weak, and the town itself is for the King to the backbone. They've sent a deputation to our Generals, and invited us there; andthere are gentlemen there, who have come from England, with surepromises of money and troops. The truth is, Michael, we never werereally in a position to beat the blues as they ought to be beat till we. Got to this side of the river. We never could have done anything greatin Poitou. "

"I'm sorry they ever tried, M. Chapeau; but I remember when you cameback, after taking Saumur, you told me the war was over then. You usedto think that a great thing. "

"So it was, Michael; it was well done. The taking of Saumur was verywell done; but it was only a detail. We've found out now that it won'tdo to beat them in detail; it's too slow. The Generals have a plan now, one great comprehensive plan, for finishing the war in a stroke, andthey're only waiting until they reach Laval. "

"It's a great pity they didn't hit on that plan before, " said MichaelStein. 

The two men laid themselves down on the ground before the fire, andattempted to sleep; but they had hardly composed themselves when theywere interrupted by a loud rumour, that there was a vast fire, closedown on the opposite side of the river. They both jumped up and wentout, and saw that the whole heavens were alight with the conflagrationof St. Florent--the blues had burnt the town. The northern bank of theriver was covered with the crowd of men and women, gazing at the flames, which were consuming their own houses; and yet, so rejoiced were theyto have escaped themselves from destruction, that they hardly rememberedto bewail the loss of their property. The town of St. Florent wasbetween three or four miles from the place where they were congregated, and yet they could plainly see the huge sparks as they flew upwards, andthey fancied they felt the heat of the flames on their upturned faces. 

Early on the following morning, the whole army was on its march towardsLaval. The Vendean leaders were well aware that the republicans were nowon their track, and they were truly thankful that some unaccountabledelay in the movement of the enemy, had enabled them to put a greatriver between themselves and their pursuers. The garrisons, which theConvention had thrown into the towns of Brittany, were veryinsufficient, both in numbers and spirit, and the blues abandoned oneplace after another as the Vendeans approached. They passed throughCandé, Segré, and Château-Gonthier without having to fire a shot, andthough the gates of the town of Laval were closed against them, it wasonly done to allow the republican soldiers time to escape from the otherside of the town. 

The inhabitants of Laval flocked out in numbers to meet the poorVendeans, and to offer them hospitality, and such comfort as their smalltown could afford to so huge a crowd. They begrudged them nothing thatthey possessed, and spared neither their provisions nor their houses. It seemed that Chapeau's promise was this time true; and that, at anyrate, for a time, they all found plenty in Laval. Henri established hishead-quarters in a stone house, in the centre of the town, and here alsohe got accommodation for the three ladies and M. De Lescure. Nor didChapeau forget to include Annot Stein in the same comfortableestablishment, under the pretext that her services would beindispensable. 

M. De Lescure had suffered grievously through the whole journey, but heseemed to rally when he reached Laval, and the comparative comfort ofhis quiet chamber gave him ease, and lessened his despondency. The wholeparty recovered something of their usual buoyancy, and when Henribrought in word, in the evening, that if the worst came to the worst, he could certainly hold out the town against the republican army untilassistance reached them from England, they were all willing to hope thatthe cause in which they were engaged might still prosper. 

CHAPTER IX

LA PETITE VENDÉE

For four or five days they all remained quiet in Laval, with nothing todisturb their tranquillity, but rumours of what was going on on bothsides of the river. The men, with the exception of the old Marquis andde Lescure, were hard at work from morning until night; but they hadhardly time or patience to describe accurately what was going on, tothose who were left within; and the time passed very heavily with them. Two sofas had been carried to the windows of the sitting-room which theyoccupied. These windows looked out into the main thoroughfare of thetown, and here the Marquis and the wounded man were placed, so that theymight see all that was passing in the street. Various reports reachedthem from time to time, a few of which were confirmed, many proved tobe false, and some still remained doubtful; but two facts werepositively ascertained. Firstly, that the main army of the republicanshad passed the river at Angers, and were advancing towards Laval; andsecondly, that there was a considerable number of Breton peasants, already under arms, in the country, who were harassing the blueswhenever they could meet them in small parties, and very frequentlymenacing the garrisons which they found in the small towns. 

This last circumstance created a great deal of surprise, not so muchfrom the fact of the Bretons having taken up arms against theConvention, as from a certain degree of mystery which were attached tothe men who were roving about the country. It appeared that they wereall under the control of one leader, whose name was not known in Laval, but who was supposed to have taken an active part in many of the battlesfought on the other side of the river. His tactics, however, were verydifferent from those which had been practised in La Vendée. He nevertook any prisoners, or showed any quarter; but slaughteredindiscriminately every republican soldier that fell into his hands. Heencouraged his men to pillage the towns, where the inhabitants werepresumed to be favourable to the Convention; and this licence which heallowed was the means of drawing many after him, who might not have beenvery willing to fight merely for the honour of defending the throne. After the custom of their country, which was different from that whichprevailed in Poitou and Anjou, these peasant-soldiers wore their longflaxen hair hanging down over their shoulders, and were clothed in roughdresses, made of the untanned skins of goats or sheep, with the hair onthe outside. The singularity of their appearance at first added a terrorto their arms, which was enhanced by the want of experience andcowardice of the republican troops through the country. This wild, roving band of lawless men had assumed to themselves the name of LaPetite Vendée, and certainly they did much towards assisting theVendeans; for they not only cleared the way for them, in many of thetowns of Brittany, but they prepared the people to expect them, andcreated a very general opinion that there would be more danger in sidingwith the blues than with the royal party. 

If the men of La Petite Vendée, had rendered themselves terrible, theirCaptain had made--not his name, for that was unknown--but his charactermuch more so. He was represented to be a young man, but of a fierce andhideous aspect; the under part of his face was covered with his blackbeard, and he always wore on his head a huge heavy cap, which coveredhis brows, shaded his eyes from sight, and concealed his face nearly aseffectually as a vizor. He was always on horseback, and alone; for hehad neither confidant nor friend. The peasant-soldiers believed him tobe invulnerable, for they represented him to be utterly careless as towhere he went, or what danger he encountered. The only name they knewhim by, was that of the Mad Captain; and, probably, had he been lessugly, less mysterious, and less mad, the people would not have obeyedhim so implicitly, or followed him so faithfully. 

Such were the tales that were repeated from time to time to Madame deLescure and her party by the little Chevalier and Chapeau; and accordingto their accounts, the Mad Captain was an ally who would give them mostvaluable help in their difficulties. The whole story angered de Lescure, whose temper was acerbated by his own inactivity and suffering, andwhose common sense could not endure the seeming folly of puttingconfidence in so mysterious a warrior. 

"You don't really believe the stories you hear of this man, I hope, " hesaid to his wife and sister, one morning; "he is some inhuman ruffian, who is disgracing, by his cruelty, the cause which he has joined, forthe sake of plunder and rapine. "

"At any rate, " said Marie, "he seems to have scared the blues in thiscountry; and if so, he must be a good friend to us. "

"If we cannot do well without such friends, we shall never do well withthem. Believe me, whoever he may be, this man is no soldier. "

De Lescure was, perhaps, right in the character which he attributed tothe Captain of La Petite Vendée; but the band of men which thatmysterious leader now commanded, held its ground in Brittany long afterthe Vendean armies were put down in Poitou and Anjou. They then becameknown by another name, and the Chouan bands for years carried on afearful war against the government in that part of the province whichis called the Morbihan. 

About eight o'clock in the evening, Henri and Arthur Mondyon returnedto the house, after a long day's work, and were the first to bring newtidings both of the blues and their new ally, the Mad Captain. A portionof the republican army had advanced as far as Antrâmes, within a leagueor two of Laval; and they had hardly taken up their quarters in thetown, before they were attacked, routed, and driven out of it by the menof La Petite Vendée. Many hundreds of the republicans had beenslaughtered, and those who had escaped, carried to the main army anexaggerated account of the numbers, daring, and cruelty of the Bretonrebels. 

"Whoever he is, " said Henri, in answer to a question from his sister, "he is a gallant fellow, and I shall be glad to give him my hand. Therecan be no doubt of it now, Charles, for the blues at Antrâmes certainlynumbered more than double the men he had with him; and I am told hedrove them helter-skelter out of the town, like a flock of sheep. "

"And do you mean to let him have the rest of the war all to himself?"said de Lescure, who was rather annoyed than otherwise at the successof a man whom he had stigmatized as a ruffian. 

"I am afraid we shan't find it quite so easy to get the war taken offour hands, " said Henri, laughing; "but I believe it's the part of a goodGeneral to make the most of any unexpected assistance which may come inhis way. "

"But, Henri, " said Marie, "you must have some idea who this wonderfulwild man is. Don't they say he was one of the Vendean chiefs?"

"He says so himself, " said Arthur. "He told some of the people here thathe was at Fontenay and Saumur; and he talked of knowing Cathelineau andBonchamps. I was speaking to a man who heard him say so. "

"And did the man say what he was like?" said Marie. 

"I don't think he saw him at all, " answered Arthur. "It seems that hewon't let any one see his face, if he can help it; but they all say heis quite a young man. "

Chapeau now knocked at the door, and brought farther tidings. The MadCaptain and all his troop had returned from Antrâmes to Laval, and hadjust now entered the town. 

"Our men are shaking the Bretons by the hand, " said Chapeau, "andwondering at their long hair and rough skins. Three or four days ago, I feared the Vendeans would never have faced the blues again; but nowthey are as ready to meet them as ever they were. "

"And the Captain, is he actually in Laval at present, Chapeau?"

"Indeed he is, M. Henri. I saw him riding down the street, by the Hôtelde Ville, myself, not ten minutes since. "

"Did you see his face, Chapeau?" asked Marie. 

"Did he look like any one you knew?" asked Madame de Lescure. 

"Did he ride well?" asked the little Chevalier. 

"Did he look like a soldier?" asked M. De Lescure. 

"Who do you think he is, Chapeau?" asked Henri Larochejaquelin. 

Chapeau looked from one to another, as these questions were asked him;and then selecting those of M. De Lescure and his sister, as the twoeasiest to answer, he said:

"I did not see his face, Mademoiselle. They say that he certainly is agood soldier, M. Charles, but he certainly does not look like any oneof our Vendean officers. "

"Who can it be?" said Henri. "Can it be Marigny, Charles?"

"Impossible, " said de Lescure; "Marigny is a fine, robust fellow, witha handsome open face. They say this man is just the reverse. "

"It isn't d'Elbée come to life again, is it?" said Arthur Mondyon. "He'sugly enough, and not very big. "

"Nonsense, Arthur, he's an old man; and of all men the most unlikely tocountenance such doings as those of these La Petite Vendée. I think, however, I know the man. It must be Charette. He is courageous, but yetcruel; and he has exactly that dash of mad romance in him which seemsto belong to this new hero. "

"Charette is in the island of Noirmoutier, " said de Lescure, "and by allaccounts, means to stay there. Had he been really willing to give us hisassistance, we never need have crossed the Loire. "

"Oh! it certainly was not Charette, " said Chapeau. "I saw M. Charetteon horseback once, and he carries himself as though he had swallowed apoker; and this gentleman twists himself about like--like--"

"Like a mountebank, I suppose, " said de Lescure. 

"He rides well, all the same, M. Charles, " rejoined Chapeau. 

"And who do you think he is, Chapeau?" said Henri. 

Chapeau shrugged his shoulders, as no one but a Frenchman can shrugthem, intending to signify the impossibility of giving an opinion;immediately afterwards he walked close up to his master, and whisperedsomething in his ear. Henri looked astonished, almost confounded, bywhat his servant said to him, and then replied, almost in a whisper:"Impossible, Chapeau, quite impossible. "

Immediately afterwards, Chapeau left the room, and Henri followed him;and calling him into a chamber in the lower part of the house, began tointerrogate him as to what he had whispered upstairs. 

"I did not like to speak out before them all, M. Henri, " said Jacques, "for I did not know how the ladies might take it; but as sure as we'restanding here, the man I saw on horseback just now was M. AdolpheDenot. "

"Impossible, Chapeau, quite impossible. How on earth could he have gotthe means to raise a troop of men in Brittany? Besides, he never wouldhave returned to the side he deserted. "

"It does not signify, M. Henri, whether it be likely or unlikely: thatman was Adolphe Denot; I'd wager my life on it, without the leasthesitation. Why, M. Henri, don't I know him as well as I know yourself?"

"But you didn't see his face?"

"I saw him rise in his saddle, and throw his arms up as he did so, andthat was quite enough for me; the Mad Captain of La Petite Vendée is noother than M. Adolphe Denot. "

Henri Larochejaquelin was hardly convinced, and yet he knew that Chapeauwould not express himself so confidently unless he had good grounds fordoing so. He was aware, also, that it was almost impossible for any onewho had intimately known Denot to mistake his seat on horseback; and, therefore, though not quite convinced, he was much inclined to suspectthat, in spite of improbabilities, his unfortunate friend was themysterious leader of the Breton army. He determined that he would, atany rate, seek out the man, whoever he might be; and that if he foundthat Adolphe Denot was really in Laval, he would welcome him back, withall a brother's love, to the cause from which, for so Henri had alwaysprotested, nothing but insanity had separated him. 

"At any rate, Chapeau, we must go and find the truth of all this. Moreover, whoever this man be, it is necessary that I should know him:so come along. "

They both sallied out into the street, which was quite dark, but whichwas still crowded with strangers of every description. The wine-shopswere all open, and densely filled with men who were rejoicing over thevictory which had been gained that morning; and the Breton soldiers wereboasting of what they had done, while the Vendeans talked equally loudlyof what they would do when their Generals would once more lead them outagainst the blues. 

From these little shops, and from the house-windows, an uncertainflicker of light was thrown into the street, by the aid of which Henriand Chapeau made their way to the market-place, in which there was aguard-house and small barrack, at present the position of the Vendeanmilitary head-quarters. In this spot a kind of martial discipline wasmaintained. Sentinels were regularly posted and exchanged; and some fewjunior officers remained on duty, ready for any exigence for which theymight be required. Here they learnt that the Bretons, after returningfrom Antrâmes, had dispersed themselves through the town, among thehouses of the citizens, who were willing to welcome their victoriousneighbours, but that nothing had been seen of their Captain since hedisbanded his men on the little square. They learnt, however, that hehad been observed to give his horse in charge to a man who acted as hisLieutenant, and who was known to be a journeyman baker, usually employedin Laval. 

After many inquiries, Henri learnt the name and residence of the masterbaker for whom this man worked, and thither he sent Chapeau, while hehimself remained in the guard-house, talking to two of the Bretonsoldiers, who had been induced to come in to him. 

"We none of us know his name, Monsieur, " said one of them, "and it isbecause he has no name, we call him the Mad Captain; and it is trueenough, he has many mad ways with him. "

"For all his madness though, he is a desperate fine soldier; and hecares no more for a troop of blues than I would for a flock of geese, "said the other. 

"I think its love must make him go on as he does, " continued the first. 

"There's something more besides that, " said the second, "for he's alwaysfearful that people should take him for a coward. He's always asking uswhether we ever saw him turn his back to the enemy; and bidding us besure, whenever he falls in battle, to tell the Vendeans how well hefought. That's what makes us all so sure that he came from the otherside of the water. "

"Then, when he's in the middle of the hottest of the fight, " said thefirst, "he halloos out 'Now for Saumur--here's for Saumur--now for thebridge of Saumur!' To be sure he talks a deal about Saumur, and I thinkmyself he must have been wounded there badly, somewhere near the brain. "

Though Henri did not quite understand why Denot should especially alludeto Saumur in his mad moments, yet he understood enough of what the mentold him about their Captain, to be sure that Adolphe was the man; andthough he could not but be shocked to hear him spoken of as a madman, yet he rejoiced in his heart to find that he had done something toredeem his character as a loyal soldier. He learnt that Denot had beenabove two months in Brittany; that he had first appeared in theneighbourhood of Laval with about two hundred men, who had followed himthither out of that province, and that he had there been joined by asmany more belonging to Maine, and that since that time he had beenbackwards and forwards from one town to another, chiefly in theMorbihan; and that he had succeeded in almost every case in driving therepublican garrison from the towns which he attacked. 

After Henri had remained a couple of hours in the guard-house, and whenit was near midnight, Chapeau returned. He had found out the lodgingsof the journeyman baker, had gone thither, and had learnt, after manyinquiries, which were very nearly proving ineffectual, that the MadCaptain, whoever he was, occupied a little bed-room at the top of thesame house, and that he was, at the very moment at which these inquirieswere being made, fast asleep in his bed, having given his Lieutenant, the journeyman baker, strict orders to call him at three o'clock in themorning. 

Henri and Chapeau again started on their search; and making their way, for the second time, through the dark, crowded streets, reached a smallmiserable looking house, in a narrow lane, at one of the lower windowsof which Chapeau knocked with his knuckles. 

'I told M. Plume that I should call again tonight, ' said he, "and he'llknow its me. "

"And is M. Plume the baker?" asked Henri. 

"He was a baker till two months since, " answered Chapeau, "but now he'sa soldier and an officer; and I can assure you, M. Henri, he doesn'tthink a little of himself. He's fully able to take the command-in-chiefof the Breton army, when any accident of war shall have cut off hispresent Captain; at least, so he told me. "

"You must have had a deal of conversation with him in a very short time, Chapeau. "

"Oh, he talks very quick, M. Henri; but he wouldn't let himself down tospeak a word to me till I told him I was aide-de-camp-in-chief to thegeneralissimo of the Vendean army; and then he took off the greasylittle cap he wears, told me that his name was Auguste Emile SeptimusPlume, and said he was most desirous to drink a cup of wine with me inthe next estaminet. Then I ran off to you, telling him I would returnagain as soon as I had seen that all was right at the guard-house. "

"Knock again, Chapeau, " said Henri, "for I think your military friendmust have turned in for the night. "

Chapeau did knock, and as he did so, he put his mouth close to the door, and called out "M. Plume--Captain Plume--Captain Auguste Plume, amessage--an important message from the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendeanarmy. You'll get nothing from him, M. Henri, unless you talk aboutGenerals, aide-de-camps, and despatches; advanced guards, flankmovements, and light battalions. "

M. Plume, or Captain Plume, as he preferred being called, now opened thedoor, and poking his head out, welcomed Chapeau, and assured him thatif he would step round to the wine shop he would be with him in amoment. 

"But, my dear friend Captain Plume, stop a moment, " said Chapeau, fixinghis foot in the open doorway, so as to prevent it being closed, "hereis a gentleman--one of our officers--in fact, my friend, " and hewhispered very confidentially as he gave the important information, "here is the Commander-in-Chief, and he must see your General tonight;to arrange--to arrange the tactics of the united army for tomorrow. "

Auguste Emile Septimus Plume, in spite of his own high standing, in whathe was pleased to call the army of Brittany, felt himself ratherconfused at hearing that a General-in-Chief was standing at the door ofhis humble dwelling; and, as he again took off his cap, and putting hishand to his heart made a very low bow, he hesitated much as to whatanswer he should make; for he reflected within himself that the presentquarters of his General, were hardly fitting for such an interview. 

"The General upstairs, " said he, "is snatching a short repose after thelabours of the day. Would not tomorrow morning--early tomorrowmorning--"

"No, " said Henri, advancing, and thrusting himself in at the open door, "tomorrow morning will be too late; and I am sure your General is toogood a soldier to care for having his rest broken; tell me which is hisroom, and I'll step up to him. You needn't mind introducing me. " And ashe spoke he managed to pass by the baker, and ran up a few steps of thecreaking, tottering stairs. 

The poor baker was very much annoyed at this proceeding; for, in thefirst place, he had strict orders from his Commander to let no one upinto his room; and, in the next place, his own wife and three childrenwere in the opposite garret to that occupied by the Captain, and he wasvery unwilling that their poverty should be exposed. He could not, however, turn a Commander-in-Chief out of the house, nor could hepositively refuse to give him the information required; so he hallooedout, "The top chamber to the right, General; the top chamber to theright. It's a poor place, " he added, speaking to Chapeau; "but the truthis, he don't choose to have more comforts about him than what areenjoyed by the poorest soldier in his army. "

"We won't think any the worse of him for that, " said Chapeau. "We'rebadly enough off ourselves, sometimes--besides, your Captain is a veryold friend of M. Henri. "

"An old friend of whose?" said Plume. 

"Of M. Henri Larochejaquelin--that gentleman who has now gone upstairs:they have known each other all their lives. "

Auguste Plume became the picture of astonishment. "Known each other alltheir lives!" said he; "and what's his name, then?"

"Why, I told you: M. Henri Larochejaquelin. "

"No, but the other, " and he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder upthe stairs. "My Captain, you know; if he's the friend of your Captain, I suppose you know what his name is?"

"And do you mean to say, you don't know yourself, your own Captain'sname. "

Plume felt the impropriety, in a military point of view, of the fact. He felt that, as second in command, he ought to have been madeacquainted with his General's name, and that it would have beendifficult to find, in the history of all past wars, a parallel to hisown ignorance. He also reflected, that if Chapeau knew that the twoGenerals had been friends all their lives, he must probably know boththeir names, and that therefore the information so very necessary mightnow be obtained. 

"Well then, M. Chapeau, " (he had learnt Chapeau's name), "I cannot saythat I do exactly know how he was generally called before he joined usin Brittany. You know so many people have different names for differentplaces. What used you to call him now when you knew him?"

"But you have some name for him, haven't you?" said the other, notanswering the question. 

"We call him General, or Captain, mostly, " said Plume. "Those are thesort of names which come readiest to a soldier's mouth. In the same way, they don't call me Plume, or M. Plume, or Captain Plume, but just simplyLieutenant; and, do you know, I like it better. "

The Lieutenant was a tall, lanky, bony man, from whose body the heat ofthe oven, at which he had always worked, seemed to have drawn everyounce of flesh. He was about forty, or forty-five, years of age. He wasnearly bald, but a few light, long, straggling locks of hair stood outon each side of his head. He still wore most of the dress in which hehad been accustomed to work, for proper military accoutrements had notyet come within his reach. He had, however, over his shoulder an oldbawdrick, from which usually hung a huge sabre, with which he gallantlyperformed the duties of his present profession. It cannot be said theLieutenant had none of the qualities of a soldier, for he was courageousenough; but, beyond that, his aptitude for military duties was notpre-eminent. He always marched, or rather shuffled along, with a stoopin his back, which made his shoulders as high as his head. He had notthe slightest idea of moving in time; but this was of littleconsequence, for none of his men could have moved with him if he had. When on active duty, he rushed about with the point of his drawn swordon a level with his breast, as though he were searching for "blues" inevery corner, with a fixed determination of instantly immolating anythat he might find. He had large saucer eyes, with which he glared abouthim, and which gave him a peculiar look of insane enthusiasm, veryfitted for the Lieutenant, first in command, under a mad Captain. Suchwas Auguste Plume, and such like were the men who so long held their ownground, not only against the military weakness of the Directory, buteven against the military strength of Napoleon. 

We will leave Chapeau and his new friend still standing in the passage, for Plume could not invite him in, as none of the rooms were his ownexcept the little garret upstairs; and we will follow Henri as he wentin search of the Mad Captain, merely premising that all Plume's effortsto find out the name of his superior officer were unavailing. Withoutany farther invitation, Henri hurried up the stairs, snatching as hewent a glimmering rush-light out of the çi-devant baker's hands; andwhen he got to the top he knocked boldly at the right-hand door. No oneanswered him, however, and he repeated his knocks over and over again, and even kicked and hallooed at the door, but still without effect. Hethen tried to open it, but it was fastened on the inside: and then hekicked and hallooed again. He distinctly heard the hard breathing withinof some one, as though in a heavy sleep; and be the sleeper who hemight, he was determined not to leave the stairs without waking him;and, therefore, diligently sat to work to kick again. 

"Is that you, Auguste?" said a hoarse, sickly woman's voice, proceedingfrom the door of the opposite chamber. "Why don't you bring me thecandle?"

"No, Madame, " said Henri, "the gentleman is now downstairs. He lent meyour candle for a minute or two, while I call upon my friend here. Ihope you'll excuse the noise I make, but I find it very difficult towake him. "

"And why should you want to wake him?" said the woman. "It's threenights now since he stretched himself on a bed, and he'll be up againlong before daylight. Give me the candle, and go away, and tell thatunfortunate poor man below to come to his bed. "

There was a tone of utter misery in the poor woman's voice, whichtouched Henri to the heart. She had uttered no complaint of her ownsufferings; but the few words she had spoken made him feel all thewretchedness and the desolation of homes, which he and his friends hadbrought upon the people by the war; and he almost began to doubt whethereven the cause of the King should have been supported at so terrible acost. He could not, however, now go back, nor was he willing to abandonhis present object, so he again shook and kicked the door. 

"That'll never rouse him, though you should go on all night, " said alittle urchin about twelve years old, the eldest hope of M. And MadamePlume, who rushed out on the landing in his ragged shirt. "If Monsieurwill give me a sou, I'll wake him. " Henri engaged him at the price, andthe boy, putting his mouth down to the key-hole, said, or ratherwhispered loudly, "Captain--Captain--Captain--the blues--the blues. "

This shibboleth had the desired effect, for the man within was instantlyheard to start from his bed, and to step out upon the floor. 

"Yes, yes; I'm ready, I'm up, " said he, in the confused voice of a mansuddenly awoke from a sound sleep. "Where's Plume? send Plume to me atonce. "

Henri immediately recognized the voice of Adolphe Denot, and all doubtwas at an end. Denot came to the door, and undid the wooden bolt within, to admit, as he thought, the poor zealous creature who had attachedhimself to him in his new career; and when the door opened, the friendof his youth--the man whom he had so deeply injured--stood before him. Henri, in his anxiety to find out the truth of Chapeau's surmise, hadenergetically and, as it turned out, successfully pursued the object ofhis search; but he had not for a moment turned over in his mind, whathe would say to Denot if he found him; how he would contrive to tell himthat he forgave him all his faults; how he would explain to him that hewas willing again to receive him into his arms as a friend and abrother. The moment was now come, when he must find words to say allthis; and as the awkward bolt was being drawn, Henri felt that he washardly equal to the difficulties of his position. 

If Henri found it difficult to speak, with Denot the difficulty was muchgreater. The injuries which he had inflicted on his friend, the insultswhich he had heaped on his sister, rushed to his mind. He thought of hisown deep treachery, his black ingratitude; and his disorderedimagination could only conceive that Henri had chosen the present momentto secure a bloody vengeance. He forgot that he had already beenforgiven for what he had done: that his life had been in the hands ofthose he bad injured, and had then been spared by them, when theirresentment was fresh and hot, and when he had done nothing to redeem histreason. He had, he thought, reconciled himself to the cause of LaVendée; but still he felt that he could not dare to look onLarochejaquelin as other than an enemy. 

Denot started back as he recognized his visitor, and Henri's firstobject was to close and re-bolt the door, so that their interview mightnot be interrupted. "Adolphe, " he said, in a voice intended to expressall the tenderness which he felt, "I am delighted to have found you. "

Denot had rushed to a miserable deal table which stood near his bed, andseized his sword, which stood upon it; and now stood armed and ready forassault, opposite to the man who loved him so dearly. His figure andappearance had always been singular, but now it was more so than ever. He had been sleeping in his clothes, and he had that peculiar look ofdiscomfort which always accompanies such rest. His black, elfish, uncombed locks, had not been cut since he left Durbellière, and hisbeard for many days had not been shorn. He was wretchedly thin andgaunt; indeed, his hollow, yellow cheeks, and cadaverous jaws, almosttold a tale of utter starvation. Across his face he had an uglycicatrice, not the relic of any honourable wound, but given him by theChevalier's stick, when he struck him in the parlour at Durbellière. Nothing could be more wretched than his appearance; but the mostlamentable thing of all, was the wild wandering of his eyes, which tooplainly told that the mind was not master of itself. 

Henri was awe-stricken, and cut to the heart. What was he to say to thepoor wretch, who stood there upon his guard, glaring at him with thosewild eyes from behind his sword! Besides, how was he to defend himselfif he were attacked?

"Adolphe, " he said, "why do you raise your sword against your friend?Don't you see that I have come as your friend: don't you see that I haveno sword?"

The other hesitated for a moment, with the weapon still raised as thoughfor defence; and then flinging it behind him on the floor, exclaimed:"There, there--you may kill me, if you will, " and having said so, hethrew himself on the bed, and sobbed aloud, and wailed like an infant. 

Henri knelt down on the floor, by the side of the low wooden stretcher, and putting his arm over Adolphe's shoulder, thought for a while whathe could say to comfort the crushed spirit of the poor wretch, whoseinsanity had not the usual effect of protecting him from misery. Itoccurred to him that his late achievements, as leader of the Bretonpeasants, in which, at any rate, he had been successful, would be thesubject at present most agreeable to him, and he determined, therefore, to question him as to what he had done. 

"Come, Adolphe, " he said, "get up; we have much to say to each other, my friend. I have heard much of what you have done here, in Laval andin Brittany. You have been of great service to us; but we must acttogether for the future. Of course you know that there are 80, 000Vendeans on this side of the river: men, women, and children together. "

For some minutes Denot still lay with his face buried in the bed, without answering, and Henri knelt beside him in silence, trying tocomfort him rather by the pressure of his hand, Than by the sound of hisvoice; but then he raised himself up, and sitting erect, with his faceturned away from his friend, he said:

"It's no use for you to try to speak of what I have done in Brittany, when we both know that your heart is full of what I did in Poitou. "

"By the God of heaven, from whom I hope for mercy, " said Henri, solemnly, "I have freely, entirely forgiven you all cause of anger Iever had against you. "

Denot still sat with his face averted, and he withdrew his hand fromHenri's grasp, as he muttered between his teeth: "I have not asked forforgiveness; I do not want forgiveness;" and then starting up on hisfeet, he exclaimed almost with a shriek: "How dare you to talk to me, Sir, of forgiveness? Forgiveness! I suppose you think I have nothing toforgive! I suppose you think I have no injuries which rankle in mybreast! A broken heart is nothing! Shattered ambition is nothing! Atortured, lingering, wretched life is nothing! I suppose you will offerme your pity next; but know, Sir, that I despise both your forgivenessand your pity. "

"I will offer you nothing but my friendship, Adolphe, " said Henri. "Youwill not refuse my friendship, will you? We were brothers always, youknow; at least in affection. "

"Brothers always! No, we were never brothers: we never, never can bebrothers, " screamed the poor madman through his closed teeth. "Oh! ifwe could have been brothers; if--if we could be brothers!" and the longcherished idea, which, in his frenzy, he even yet had hardly quiteabandoned, flashed across his brain, and softened his temper. 

"We can at any rate be friends, " said Henri, approaching him, and againtaking his hand. "Come, Adolphe, sit down by me, and let us talk quietlyof these things. "

"There are some things, " said he, in a more composed manner, "of whicha man can't very well talk quietly. A man can't very well talk quietlyof hell-fire, when he's in the middle of it. Now, I'm in the veryhottest of hell-fire at this moment. How do you think I can bear to lookat you, without sinking into cinders at your feet?"

Henri was again silent for a time, for he did not know what to say tocomfort the afflicted man; but, after a while, Denot himself continuedspeaking. 

"I know that I have been a traitor--a base, ignoble, wretched traitor. I know it; you know it; she knows it"; and as he confessed hiswretchedness, he put his bony hand to his forehead, and pushing back hislong matted hair, showed more clearly than he had yet done the ineffablemarks of bitter sadness, which a few months had graven on his face. "AllLa Vendée knows it, " continued he; "but no one knows the grief, thesorrow, the wretched sorrow, which drove me to madness, and made mebecome the thing I am. I know it though, and feel it here, " and he puthis hand on his heart, and looked into his companion's face with amelancholy gaze, which would have softened the anger of a sterner manthan Henri Larochejaquelin. 

"My poor, poor Adolphe, " said Henri, moving himself close to Denot'sside, and putting his arm round his neck and embracing him. "We all knowhow you have suffered. We know--we always knew, it wasn't your properself that turned against the cause you loved so well; but, Adolphe, wewon't talk of these things now. "

"You just now said we must talk of them, and you were quite right. Afterwhat has passed, you and I cannot meet without having much to say, " andagain the madman jumped to his feet; and as he paced up and down theroom, his fiercer humour again came upon him. "Henri, " he exclaimed; andas he spoke he stood still, close to the other, "Henri, why don't youavenge your sister's honour? Why don't you punish the dishonour whichI brought on your father's hoary head? Henri, I say, why don't you seizeby the throat the wretched traitor who brought desolation anddestruction into your family?" and he stretched out his long gaunt neck, as though he expected that Larochejaquelin would rise from his bed, andtake him at his word. 

Henri felt that it was useless to endeavour to reason with him, or toanswer the raving of his madness, but he still hoped, that by a mixtureof firmness and gentleness, he might yet take him away from his presentmiserable dwelling, and by degrees bring him back to a happier state ofmind. The difficulties in his way, however, were very great; for he knewhow serious would be the danger and folly of leading him again intoAgatha's presence. 

"Nonsense, Adolphe, " said he. "Why do you talk to your friend ofvengeance? Come, take up your sword, and come away. This is a cold, dampplace; and besides, we both want refreshment before our next day's work. Before six hours are gone, the republican army will be near Laval, andyou and I must be prepared to meet them, " and he picked up Denot'ssword, and handed him his cap, and took his arm within his own, asthough to lead him at once out of the room. 

"And where are you going to?" said Denot, hesitating, but not refusingto go. 

"Why, first, we'll go to the guard-house, and I'll show you a few of ourpicked men, who are there on duty; real dare-devils, who care no morefor a blue than they do for a black-beetle; and then we'll go to theAngers gate. It's there that Lechelle will show himself; and then--andthen--why, then we'll go home, and get some breakfast, for it will benearly time for us to go to horse. "

"Go home!" said Denot; "where's home?"

"Do you know the big stone house, with the square windows, near themarket-house?"

"Yes, I know it: but tell me, Henri: who are there? I mean of your ownpeople, you know--the Durbellière people?"

"Why, we're all there, Adolphe--Marie, and Victorine, and Charles, andAgatha, and my father and all. Poor Charles! You've heard of his state, Adolphe?"

"Yes, yes, I heard. I wish it had been me--I wish, with all my heart, it had been me, " and then he paused a while; and again laying down hissword and cap, he said "Henri, you're an angel; I'm sure you are anangel; but all are not like you. I will not go with you now; but ifyou'll let me, I'll fight close by your side this day. "

"You shall, Adolphe, you shall; up or down we'll not leave each otherfor a moment; but you must come with me, indeed you must. We should besure to miss each other if we parted. "

"I'll meet you at the gate, Henri, but I will not go with you. All menare not like you. Do you think that I could show myself to your father, and to de Lescure? Don't I know how their eyes would look on me? Don'tI feel it now?" and again it seemed as though he were about to relapseinto his frenzy; and then he continued speaking very gently, almost ina whisper: "Does de Lescure ever talk about the bridge of Saumur?"

Now Henri, to this day, had never heard a word of the want of couragewhich Denot had shown in the passage of the bridge of Saumur. No one butde Lescure had noticed it; and though he certainly had never forgottenit, he had been too generous to speak of it to any one. Henri merelyknew that his two friends, Charles and Adolphe, had been together at thebridge. 

He had heard from others of de Lescure's gallant conduct. It hadoftentimes been spoken of in the army, and Henri had never remarked thatan equal tribute of praise was not given to the two, for their deeds onthat occasion. He now answered quite at cross purposes, but merely withthe object of flattering the vanity of his friend:

"He will never forget it, Adolphe. No Vendean will ever forget thebridge of Saumur. We will all remember that glorious day, when we haveforgotten many things that have happened since. "

Poor Denot winced dreadfully under the blow, which Henri so innocentlyinflicted; but ho merely said "No--I will not go with you--you needn'task me, for my mind is made up. Do you know, Henri, I and de Lescurenever loved each other? never--never--never, even when we were seeminglysuch good friends, we never loved each other. He loved you so well, that, for your sake, he bore with a man he despised. Yes: he alwaysdespised me, since the time you and I came home from school together. I do not blame him, for he tried hard to conceal what he felt; and hethought that I did not know it; but from the first day that we passedtogether I found him out, and I was never happy in his company. "

All this was perfectly unintelligible to Henri, and was attributed byhim to the frenzy of madness; but, in fact, there was truth in it. Denot's irregular spirit had been cowed by de Lescure's cold reasoningpropriety, and he now felt it impossible to submit himself to the pardonof a man who, he thought, would forgive and abhor him. It was to nopurpose Henri threatened, implored, and almost strove to drag him fromthe room. Denot was obstinate in his resolve, and Henri was at lastobliged to leave him, with the agreement that they should both meet onhorseback an hour before daybreak, at the gate of the town, which ledtowards Angers. 

When Henri returned downstairs he found Chapeau still seated on thelower step, and Plume standing by, discoursing as to the tactics andprobable success of the war. 

"You found I was right, M. Henri?" said Chapeau, as he followed hismaster out into the street. 

"Yes, Chapeau, you were quite right. "

"And is he very bad, M. Henri?" said he, touching his forehead with hisfinger. "I suppose he cannot be all right there. "

"He has suffered dreadfully since we saw him, and his sufferings havecertainly told upon him; but there is every reason to hope, that, withkind treatment, he will soon be himself again; but, remember, till aftertoday we will say nothing to any of them about his being here. "

It was now three o'clock, and Henri had to be on horseback before six;he had but little time, therefore, either for rest or conversation. Henri and Chapeau hurried home, after having given orders at theguard-house that all the men on whom they could depend should be underarms before day-break; and, having done so, they laid down and slept forthe one short hour which was left to them of the night. 

CHAPTER X

LAVAL

When Henri arose from his sleep, the whole house was up and stirring, and men and women were moving about through the dark rooms with candlesin their hands. They all knew that this would be an eventful day fortheir cause; that much must depend on the success of that day's battle. If they were beaten now, their only hope would be to run farther fromtheir homes, towards the coast, from which they expected English aid;but if fortune would once more visit their arms, they might hope to holdtheir position in Laval, and in other towns in the neighbouring andfriendly province of Brittany. The gallant and cordial assistance whichthe Vendeans had received from the strangers among whom they were nowthrown, had greatly tended to give them new hopes; and the yesterday'svictory, which had been gained by the men called La Petite Vendée, overthe advanced troops of the republicans, had made the Poitevinspeculiarly anxious to exhibit their own prowess to their gallantfriends. 

Henri, Arthur, and one or two other Vendean officers, sat down to ahurried breakfast, while Marie and Agatha moved about the room, behindtheir chairs, attending to their wants. Chapeau had now too many of asoldier's duties to give his time to those of a serving-man, and thesisters and wives of the Vendean officers had long since learnt to waiton the heroes whom they loved and admired. De Lescure was already seatedon his sofa, by the window, and his wife was, as usual, close to hisside. He had wonderfully improved since he reached Laval; and though itwas the firm conviction, both of himself and of his surgeon, that hiswound must ultimately prove mortal, he was again alive to all that wasdone, and heart and soul intent on the interests of the war. 

"Oh! what would I give to be but one hour today on horseback!" said he. "To lie pinioned here, and hear the sounds of brave men fighting! Toknow that the enemy are in the very street beneath me, and yet to beunable to strike a blow! Oh! it is fearfully tormenting. "

Henri said something intended to comfort him. 

"It is well for you to talk, " continued de Lescure. "How would you haveborne it yourself? You would have fretted and fumed, and dashed yourselflike a bird against its cage, till either your senses or your breath hadleft you. Henri, " he then added, in a calmer tone, "I feel that you willbe successful today. "

"That's a most glorious omen, " said Henri, jumping up; "I look onsuccess as certain when predicted by Charles, for he is the leastsanguine among us all. "

"But, Henri, " said he, "take my advice, and don't attack them till theyare close to the town. You may be sure they will be ready enough to giveyou an opportunity. After having driven us across the Loire like wildgeese, Lechelle will not doubt his power to drive us also from thestreets of Laval. "

It was agreed among them that de Lescure's advice should be taken, andthat none of the Vendeans should advance above a league on the roadtowards Antrâmes. It was already known that General Lechelle, and hiswhole army, were in the neighbourhood of that town; and it was notlikely that, as he had pursued the Vendeans so far, he would remainthere long without giving them the opportunity they now desired, ofagain trying their strength with them. 

As Henri prepared to leave the room, the little Chevalier rose toaccompany him: "No, " said Henri, stopping him. "Do you remain withChapeau today. Wherever you are, I know you will do well, but today wemust not ride together. " As the boy looked woefully disappointed, headded, "I will explain to you why, this evening, if we both live throughthe day to meet again. "

He then kissed his sister, and Madame de Lescure and his cousin. Theyall of them knew that he was going into the midst of the hottest danger, where the visits of death would be thick and frequent; and they felt howprobable it was that, before many hours were over, he might be broughtback to them dead or dying. He either made some sign to her, or elsefrom a feeling that she was dearer than the others to him, Mariefollowed him from the room. He said but a few words to her, as he heldher in his close embrace, and she answered him with but one; but withthat one she promised him, that if he returned safe and victorious fromthis day's contest, she would no longer object to join her hand and fateto his. 

Henri immediately went to the gate, where he had promised to meetAdolphe, and there he found him on horseback, surrounded by his Bretonfollowers, on foot. He had still the same wild, gaunt look about him, which had so startled his friend when he first saw him; but there wasmore of hope and spirit in his countenance, and he spoke, if he did notlook, like a soldier. 

We will now leave the warriors of La Vendée to obtain what success theycan against the experienced troops of the republican army--the men sowell known in many a bloody battle as the soldiers of Mayence, and willreturn and stay a while with the women and wounded man, who were leftto all the horrors of a long day's suspense. 

For a considerable time they said nothing to each other as to theprobable events of the day, for they knew well that they could hear nonews for some few hours to come. By degrees the cold grey dawn of anOctober morning broke into the room, and the candles were put out. Anyordinary employment at such a time was utterly out of the question, sothey clustered together at the window and waited for such news as chancemight bring them from time to time. Annot Stein, who was now living withthem in the house, came in and joined them, and after a while the oldMarquis was brought into the room, and took his station at the oppositewindow to that occupied by de Lescure. 

The noises in the street were incessant. Soldiers on horseback and onfoot; cannons and waggons passed on without a moment's pause: the menshouted as they went by, eager for revenge against the enemy who haddriven them from their homes; and women mixed themselves in the crowd, shrieking and screaming as they parted from their husbands or theirlovers. 

The morning air was cold and chill, but still de Lescure insisted onhaving the windows open, that he might cheer with his voice the men asthey passed below him, and that he might call to those by name whom hemight chance to know. His wife was astonished to find how many heremembered, and to perceive that every soldier, as he passed, recognizedthe wan face of his General, and expressed his sincere delight at againseeing his features. 

"Well done, Forestier! well done, my gallant friend!" he exclaimed, asa tall, handsome man rode by, who, from his garb and arms, was evidentlyan officer. He had, however, like many of the officers, belonged to alowly rank, and still looked up with reverence to those of his fellow-soldiers, whose blood was more noble than his own. "You are nevermissing when strong arms are wanted. "

The man took off his cap, and bowed low to the saddle bow. Had he beenborn to the manner, he could not have done it with more grace. "Godbless you, General, " he said, "God grant that we may soon see you hereamong us again;" and a thousand loud clamorous voices echoed the wish. A tear rose to de Lescure's eye, which none but his wife could mark: heknew that his friend's kind wishes were vain; that he had now, personally, no hope except in death; and he could not entirely repressa vain regret that he might live to witness the success of his party, of which, since his sojourn in Laval, he had taught himself to besanguine. 

It was but a moment before the tear was gone, and his eyes were againon fire with enthusiasm. "Ah, de Bauge--good de Bauge!" he exclaimed, as a friend of his early youth passed by, using at the moment everyeffort to repress the wild clamouring hurry of his followers. "Godprosper thee, dear friend! Oh, that we now had but a score or two suchsoldiers as thou art!"

"We have many hundreds here as good, " said de Bauge, pausing a momentfrom his work to salute the friends whom he recognized at the window. 

"Thousands perhaps as brave, thousands as eager, if they did but knowhow to use their courage, " answered de Lescure. 

After this there was a lull for a few moments, and then a troop ofcuirassiers trotted down the street, jingling their bridles, swords, andspurs as they moved. This small body of cavalry had been, for some time, the pride and strongest hope of the Vendeans. They had been graduallyarmed, horsed, and trained during the war, by the greatest exertions ofthe wealthiest among their officers, and they had certainly proved tobe worth all the trouble they had cost. They were now, alas! reduced tohalf the number, which had ridden out of Chatillon before the battle ofCholet; but the remnant were still full of spirit, and anxious to avengetheir fallen brethren. Their bright trappings and completeaccoutrements, afforded a strange contrast to the medley appearance ofthe footmen, who retreated back to the houses, to make way for thehorses; and told more plainly than any words could do, the differencebetween an army of trained soldiers, and a band of brave, but tumultuouspeasants. 

It was now nine o'clock; and shortly after the horsemen had all passedthrough the street, the little Chevalier came in with the news, thatthey were immediately about to attack the blues; the republican armybeing already within a mile of the town; and that Henri was at thatmoment leaving the guard-house, and preparing to lead the attack; andwhen he had told so much aloud to them all, he stooped down to whisperto de Lescure, that Adolphe Denot was riding everywhere through the townat Henri's right hand, and that he was the redoubtable Mad Captain, theleader of La Petite Vendée. 

De Lescure had not time to question the Chevalier, or to express hissurprise, before Henri was seen coming down the street on horseback, almost at full gallop, and at his right hand rode a man, whom they didnot all immediately recognize. Agatha, however, knew at the first glancewho the stranger was, and with an instinctive feeling that the sight ofher would be painful to him, she retreated behind her father's couch, so that he could not well see her from the street. When Chapeau hadfirst whispered into his master's ear the name of Adolphe Denot as theleader of the Bretons, Agatha had truly guessed the purport of hiswhisper; and it cannot, therefore, be said that she was startled to seeAdolphe once more by her brother's side; but still she could not butshudder as she remembered the circumstances under which she had lastseen him, and the inhuman crime of which he had been guilty. 

Henri rode a little in advance, and as he passed, he merely turned hislaughing face towards his friends, and kissed his hand to the window. Denot, till he was nearly close to the house, had not thought of theneighbourhood he was in; nor had he the least idea that any but theusual inhabitants of the town were looking down on him, till hiswandering eyes fell full upon the faces of Marie and Madame de Lescure, who were standing close to the open window. Immediately the blood rushedto his face, and suffused it almost with a purple red: he checked hishorse suddenly, and, for a moment, looked full up at the window, wherehe met the cold gaze of de Lescure fixed full upon him. The pause wasbut for a moment; he could not bear the ordeal of that look, but fixinghis eyes to the ground, he struck his spurs into his horse, and hurriedout of the sight of those on whom he did not dare to turn his face. 

"Agatha, my love, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, who was that?" saidthe Marquis, rubbing his eyes, before which an Unearthly apparitionseemed to have appeared. "Who was that that rode by with Henri? onlythat I know it is impossible, I should have said that it was AdolpheDenot. "

"It is Adolphe, Sir, " said Arthur Mondyon; "it is he that is the MadCaptain, who has been knocking the blues about in such a wonderfulmanner. I suppose he got tired of Santerre, or Santerre of him. Ithought they wouldn't agree long together. "

"Arthur!" said Agatha, "you should speak kindly of him now; don't yousee that Henri has forgiven him; if he can forgive him, surely you oughtto do so. "

"And is it really true that Henri and Adolphe Denot are again friends?"said the Marquis, speaking rather to himself than to any one else. "Well, I should have thought that would have been impossible. If Henrican forgive him, we all ought to do so too; but--but--but I do not thinkthat I could feel at ease if he were in the room with me. "

"I do not think he will come to us, father, " said Agatha. "Did you notobserve his face as he passed? the very sight of us seemed to cut himto the heart. "

Adolphe had been quite right, when he said that they were not at alllike Henri. There was not one of the whole party who did not strive, heartily and truly, to forgive the treason and iniquity of which he hadbeen guilty; but there was not one there who did not, at the same time, feel a secret wish that he or she might never again be under the sameroof with the man who had been a traitor, both to his friends and to hisKing. 

Arthur Mondyon soon left them, and hurried out to bear his part in thecontest which was just commencing. He was a little jealous to think thathis accustomed place near Henri should have been taken from him by onewho had proved himself so faithless as Denot, but still he was notinclined to pass such a day as this in-doors, with sick men andtrembling women. He promised, however, to come to them himself from timeto time, or if that were impossible, to send them news of what was goingon; and as it was probable that the thickest of the fight would beeither in the town, or immediately on the skirts of it, there was noreason why he should not keep his promise. 

For a couple of hours they remained in dreadful suspense, hearingnothing and fearing everything. It seemed to them as though whole daysmust have passed in those two hours. De Lescure became dreadfullyimpatient, and even irritable; declaring at one moment that he was quiteequal to mount his horse, and that he would go out and see what theywere about; and then again almost fainting, with the exhaustionoccasioned by his intense excitement. Then he would lament theinexperience of Henri, expressing his dread that his indiscretion thisday would ruin all their hopes: and, again, when he saw how painfulthese surmises were to Agatha and Marie, he would begin to praise hiscourage and indomitable good spirits, and declare that their strongestsafeguard lay in the affection to his person, which was shared by everypeasant of La Vendée. 

Their suspense was at length broken; not by any visit or message fromtheir own party, but by a most unexpected and unwelcome sight. On asudden, they again heard the tumultuous noise of troops coming down thestreet; but, on this occasion, they were entering, instead of leavingthe town; and as the rushing body of men turned a corner in the street, it was seen that they all wore the well-known blue uniform of therepublican regiments. Yes, there in truth were the blues, nowimmediately under the house they were occupying: file after file ofsturdy, grizzled veteran soldiers, hurried through the streets in quick, but regular time. Men quite unlike their own dear peasant soldiers; menwith muskets in their hands, shakos on their heads, and cartouche boxesslung behind their backs. The three ladies, before whose sight thishorrid reality of a danger, so long apprehended, suddenly appeared, hadnever been so near a scene of absolute battle. Agatha, it is true, hadhad to endure through one long and dreadful night the presence ofSanterre and his men in the château of Durbellière; but then she had noactive part to play; she had only to sit in quiet, and wait for herdoom: now they all felt that something should be done, some means shouldbe tried to escape from the danger which was so close to them. 

The women immediately withdrew from the window, and wheeled away thecouch on which the Marquis was lying, but nothing would induce deLescure to allow himself to be stirred; in fixed silence, with his headresting low on the window sill, he gazed on the crowded soldiers, asthey poured thick and numerous into the town. 

"Oh, where is Henri now?" said Madame de Lescure. "What shall wedo--where are we to go? Speak, Charles, for heaven's sake, speak!"

Marie had opened the door, and now stood with it in her hands, wishingto run, and yet not choosing to leave her companions in misfortune;while Agatha vainly endeavoured with her unassisted strength to removeher father from the room. 

"Henri is just where he ought to be, " said de Lescure. "There--there--now they come--now they come. By heavens, there's Denotleading--and see, there's de Bauge and Arthur--dear boy, gallant boy. Well done, Henri Larochejaquelin: had you been grey it could not havebeen better done; he has got the blues as it were into a wine-press;poor devils, not one can escape alive. "

De Lescure, when he first saw the republicans coming down the street, had for a moment thought that the town was in their hands; but aminute's reflection served to show him, that were such really the case, they would have driven before them hundreds of the retreating Vendeans. The peasants had never yet so utterly forgotten their courage, as tothrow down their weapons at the first sight of their enemy, and flywithout making an effort for victory, and de Lescure was sure that suchcould not now have been the case. It immediately occurred to him, thatthe passage of the gate must have been purposely left free to thedevoted blues, and that Henri and his men would fail upon them in thetown, where their discipline and superior arms, would be but ofcomparatively little use to them. 

He was right; for while the women were yet trembling, panic-struck atthe first sight of their enemies, Henri and his party had entered thelong street from the market-place, and with a fierce yell of defiance, the Vendean cavalry rushed upon the astonished blues, meeting themalmost beneath the very window from which de Lescure was looking. 

The three women crouched round the aged Marquis in the farthest cornerof the room, comforted to find that he whom they so trusted stillexpected victory; but nearly fainting with fear, and deafened with thesounds of the conflict. To de Lescure the sight was pleasure itself; ashe could not be in the fight, the next thing was to see the combatantsand cheer his friends. The foremost of the republican soldiers soon gaveway beneath the weight of the attack; though they fought sturdily, anddid their best to keep their ground. They could not, however, retreatfar; their own men still advancing behind blocked up the way; and aftera while, that which De Lescure had predicted took place: another partyof Vendeans had attacked them in the rear, and occupied the only gatethrough which they could leave the city. 

And now the slaughter in the street was dreadful, and the blues hemmedin on every side fought desperately for their lives, like beasts at bay. Every now and again the Vendeans retreated a step or two, driven backby the fury of their foes, and then again regained their ground, advancing over the bodies of the slain. No one in the strange medley onwhich he was looking, was more conspicuous to de Lescure's eyes thanAdolphe Denot; he had lost his cap in the confusion of the fight, andhis thin, wan face, disfigured by the wound which the Chevalier hadgiven him, was plainly to be seen; and de Lescure was shocked by thechange which he saw there: the only weapon he bore was a huge sabre, which he swung round his head with a strength which could not have beenexpected from his attenuated frame; he was often the most forward, always among the first of the assailants; and frequently becamesurrounded by the blues, who were prevented by the closeness of thecrowd from using their arms. He had caught de Lescure's eye, and fromtime to time turned his face up toward the window, as though anxious todiscover whether he who had before witnessed his cowardice was nowlooking upon his prowess. 

"By heavens! he fights well, " said de Lescure to his wife, who wasgradually creeping somewhat nearer to her husband, but still unable toface the horrors of that open window. "He is greatly changed--look--lookat him now; well done, Adolphe--well done: there, there; he's down! Poorfellow, I fear he has struck his last blow: gallant Henri, braveHenri--there, they are up again together; but Denot's face is coveredwith blood. He still has his sword, however--well done, Denot: bravelydone Denot: no man of those living or dead, ever struck a better blowthan that. "

These last words were distinctly heard by him to whom they wereaddressed, and as he again turned up his face, a ray of triumphillumined his sunken eyes; he did not, however, or he could not speak, for the heat of the battle was carried back again towards the gate, andthe tumultuous sea of fighting men was hurried away from the spot wherethey had been contending. 

While this scene was going on in the street, another set of combatantswere engaged near the gate; and here two men of very different natures, but of similar station in life, found themselves together during atemporary pause, after a protracted struggle. These were Michael Stein, and Auguste Emile Septimus Plume. In spite of all that he had himselfsaid against the trade, Michael had, in his old age, turned soldier, andhad been fighting sturdily with a huge woodman's axe, a weapon which hehad chanced to meet with, and the use of which came readily to his hand:he was now sitting on the step of the gate-house, wiping with the sleeveof his coat the perspiration which the unaccustomed work had brought tohis forehead, and listening to the praises of M. Plume, who was standingover him, leaning on his sword. 

"That axe of yours, " said Auguste, "is a singular weapon, and perhapsnot entirely fitted for military purposes; but I must own you have usedit well--it fell with decided effect this morning on many a poorfellow's head and shoulders. You have probably, my friend, fought manya battle with these fellows of Mayence?"

"Not a battle I ever fought before, Monsieur, " said Michael; "nor doI ever wish to fight another; it's horrid weary work, this of knockingmen's brains out, not to talk of the chance a man runs of losing hisown. "

"But ain't you one of the Vendeans, my gallant comrade?" asked Auguste. 

"If you mean, did I come over from Poitou with them, I certainly did;but I only came because I could not help it, and because I could notlive to see a little girl I have fall into the hands of the butchers;it was not for any love of fighting that I came. "

"But yet you take to it kindly, my friend. I am considered to knowsomething of the sword exercise, and I thought you wielded that axe, asthough your arm had been used to a sabre this many a year. "

"I am a blacksmith, " said Michael, shortly; "and I have been fifty yearsringing hammers on an anvil: that makes a man's arm lusty. "

"Indeed, " said the other, "a blacksmith--well, you may be a blacksmith, and yet a good soldier. Now you wouldn't believe it, but I'm abaker--you wouldn't take me to be a baker by my trade, would you now?"

Michael Stein looked at him, and told him he couldn't well give anopinion, as he knew nothing about bakers. 

"I knew you wouldn't, " said the other; "no one on earth would take meto be a tradesman--that's what they all say; I have that kind of mannerabout me, that I look like a soldier--I did when I hadn't been at itabove a week. Every one used to say, Plume, you were born to be anofficer; Plume, you will live to be a General: and if I don't get killedin the wars, I think I shall. Now it's only three months since I joined, and I am already second in command in the whole army. "

Michael Stein stared at him, as he repeated his words, "Second incommand in the whole army!"

"Indeed I am, my friend, the second in command. You wouldn't believe it, now, but I was sticking loaves of bread into an oven three or fourmonths ago. "

"The second in command!" said Michael, still regarding his companionwith a look in which incredulous surprise and involuntary reverence wereblended. "I suppose you're a great way above Jacques Chapeau, then?"

"Oh, my friend Chapeau--and do you know my friend Chapeau? No, I'm notabove him; he's not in our army; he's second in command himself in theVendean army. You know I belong to La Petite Vendée. "

At this moment, the very man of whom they were speaking, the redoubtableChapeau, came up with a large party of straggling Vendeans, out ofbreath with running; they were in full pursuit of the blues, who werenow said to be flying towards Antrâmes and Château-Gonthier. 

"Come, my friends, " said Chapeau, "no idling now; come to Antrâmes, andwe'll get plenty of arms, if we get nothing else. What, is it you, Captain Plume. I'm told you did as well as the best today; and what--mydear old friend Michael: a soldier at last, eh, Michael Stein! Come, man, don't be ashamed to give us your hand; you've joined us in verygood time, for the Vendeans never gained such a victory as they havetoday. Come on, old friend, we'll get another sight of these runningdevils at Antrârnes. "

"They may run for me, M. Chapeau, and run far enough, before I try tostop them; do you know I'm nearly ashamed of what I've been doing as itis. "

"Ashamed!--ashamed of what?" said Chapeau. 

"Why look there, " said Michael; and as he spoke, he pointed with hisfoot to the body of a republican soldier, who lay calmly at his ease, in the sleep of death, not three yards from the spot where the old manwas now standing. 

"Not an hour since, that poor fellow ran this way, and as he passed, hehad no thought of hurting me; he was thinking too much of himself, forhalf-a-dozen hungry devils were after him. Well, I don't know whatpossessed me, but the smell of blood had made me wild, and I lifted upmy axe and struck him to the ground. I wish, with all my heart, the poorman were safe at Antrâmes. "

It was in vain that Chapeau tried to persuade the smith that he had onlydone his duty in killing a republican, who would certainly have livedto have done an injury to the cause, had he been suffered to escape. Michael Stein would not, or could not, understand the arguments he used;and decidedly declared that if he found it possible to avoid fightingfor the future he would do so. 

"Do you know, M. Chapeau, " he said at last, "when I first took this axein my hand, this morning, I had hardly made up my mind on which side Ishould use it. It was only when I thought of the boys and of Annot, thatI determined to go with the Vendeans. It wasn't possible for a man notto fight on one side or the other--that's the only reason I had forfighting at all. "

Chapeau became rather ashamed of his friend's irregular doctrines, andhurried on; explaining to Plume, who accompanied him, that Michael Steinwas a queer eccentric old man, but a thorough good royalist at heart. "Why he has two sons among the red scarfs, " he added, to settle thepoint. 

"Has he, indeed?" said Plume, who had never heard who the red scarfswere. 

CHAPTER XI

DEATH OF ADOLPHE DENOT

Nothing could be more complete than the success of the Vendeans, notonly in the town of Laval, but also outside the gate; nor could anyerror be more fatal than that committed by the republican General, Lechelle. Previous to this day he had never been worsted since he hadbeen sent from Paris with orders to exterminate the Vendeans; he haddriven them from Chatillon, their own chosen position in the centre oftheir own territory across the Loire; and he had rashly conceived thathe had only to show himself before Laval again, to scare them from theirresting-place, and scatter them farther from their own homes. He hadmarched his army up to Laval early on the morning of the fight; and hisbest men, the redoubtable Mayençais, indignant at the treatment whicha few of their brethren had received from Denot's followers on theprevious day, marched boldly into the town, conceiving that they hadonly to show themselves to take possession of it. The result has beentold. One half of these veteran troops fell in the streets ofLaval--many of the remainder were taken alive; a few only escaped toconsummate their disgrace by flying towards Antrâmes at their quickestspeed, spreading panic among the republican troops who had not yet comeup close to the town. 

The news of defeat soon communicated itself; and the whole army, beforelong, was flying to Antrâmes. The unfortunate Lechelle himself had beenone of the first to leave the town, and had made no attempt to stop hismen until he had entered Antrâmes. Nor did he long remain there: as thestraggling fugitives came up, they told how close and fast upon theirtrack the victorious brigands were coming; and that the conduct of thepeasants now was not what it had been when the war commenced, when theywere fighting in their own country, and near their own homes. Then theyhad spared the conquered, then they had shed no blood, except in theheat of battle; now they spared none; they had learnt a bloody lessonfrom their enemies, and massacred, without pity, the wretches who fellinto their hands. Antrâmes was not a place of any strength; it could notbe defended against the Vendeans; and Lechelle had hardly drawn hisbreath in the town, before he again left it, on the road toChâteau-Gonthier. 

Henri and Denot were among the first of the pursuers; indeed, of sodesultory a nature was the battle, that the contest was still continuednear the gate of the town, while they were far on their road towardsAntrâmes. They passed almost in a gallop through that place, and did notstop until they found themselves, towards evening, close to the bridge, leading into Château-Gonthier. Here they perceived that Lechelle hadmade some little attempt to defend his position. He had drawn out twocannons to the head of the bridge; had stayed the course of a fewfugitives, with whom he attempted to defend the entrance into the town;and had again taken upon himself the duties of a General. 

The pursuers now amounted to about three hundred horsemen, the very menwho had made the first attack on the blues in the streets of Laval, andHenri knew that so soon after their complete and signal success nothingcould daunt them, and that, in all probability, no effort of the beatenrepublicans could turn them back. 

"Come, " said he, speaking to those who were nearest to him, "only a fewyards farther, and we shall be far enough. It shall never be said thatthe vanquished slept in the town while their conquerors lay in thefields"; and again he put spurs to his horse, and with a yell oftriumph, his men followed him over the bridge. 

It would be difficult to say who was first, for Henri, Adolphe, andnearly a dozen others, galloped across the bridge together, and thewhole troop followed them pell-mell into the town. The two cannons weresoon taken; the irresolute blues, who, with only half a heart, hadattempted to defend themselves, were driven from their positions, andHenri at once found himself master of the place. 

A few of his gallant followers had fallen on the bridge. It could notbe expected but what. This should be the case, for they made theirattack in the face of two field-pieces and a discharge of musketry, froma body of men quite as numerous as their own; but Henri had notperceived till he reached the square in the middle of the town, thatAdolphe Denot was no longer by his side. 

"Did you see M. Denot?" said he to a soldier, who was now standing onthe ground at his horse's head. 

"You mean the gentleman who was riding with you all the day, General--hewho had lost his cap?"

"Yes, yes, did you see him? he passed over the bridge with me. "

"General, " said the man, "he never passed the bridge. He fell on thevery centre of it. I saw him fall, and his horse galloped into the townwithout a rider. "

Arthur Mondyon soon brought him confirmation of the news. He had beenstruck by a musket ball on the breast, while they were crossing thebridge, and the whole troop of horsemen, who were behind, had passedover his body. He had, however, been taken up, and brought into thetown; whether or no his life was extinct, Arthur could not say, but hehad been told that the wound would certainly prove mortal. 

Henri's first duty, even before attending to his friend, was toendeavour to save the lives of such of the blues as were yet in thetown, and, if possible, to get the person of Lechelle. It was well knownthat he had entered the place with the fugitives, and it was believedthat he had not since escaped from it. Some few of the republicansoldiers had made their way out of the town, on the road towards Ségré, but there was every reason to believe that the General had not beenamong them. The inhabitants of Château-Gonthier were very favourable tothe Vendean cause; Henri received every information which the peoplecould give him, and at last succeeded in tracing Lechelle into a largehalf-ruined house, in the lower portion of which, a wine shop, for theaccommodation of the poorer classes, was kept open. Here they learnt, from the neighbours, that he had been seen to enter the house, and anold woman, who alone kept her position behind the counter, confessedwith some hesitation, that a man, answering the description of him theysought, bad entered the shop about an hour since; that he had hastilyswallowed a large quantity of brandy, and then, instead of leaving theshop, had rushed through the inner door and gone upstairs. 

"He wasn't here a minute in all, " said she; "and he said nothing aboutpaying for what he took--and, when I saw him going in there, I thoughtit best to let him have his own way. "

"And he is there still, " said Chapeau, who had now again joined hismaster. 

"Unless he went out through the window, he is; there is no other way outthan what you see there. "

"Go up, Chapeau, " said Henri, "and take two or three with you; if he bethere, he must come down; but remember that he is an officer, and inmisfortune. "

"I will remember, " said Chapeau, "that he sent us word to Chatillon, that he would not leave alive in La Vendée a father or mother to lamenttheir children, or a child to lament its parents: those were bitterwords; maybe he will be sorry to have them brought to his memory just atpresent. "

"Remember what I tell you, Chapeau, " said his master; "whatever he mayhave said, it is not now your duty to sit in judgment on him. "

"For God's sake, gentlemen, don't do him a harm here, " said the oldwoman; "for mercy's sake, Monsieur, " and she turned to Henri, "don't letthem take his life; to tell you the truth, when he begged for some holeto hide in, I bid him to go upstairs; I could do no less. I should havedone the same if it had been one of you. "

Henri said what he could to tranquillize her, assuring her that the manshould, at any rate, not be killed before her eyes; and this seemed tobe sufficient to reassure her. Chapeau and four others had goneupstairs; and those below were not kept waiting long, before the heavytread of the men descending was heard on the stairs, as though they werecarrying down a weight among them. Such was the case: Henri steppedforward and opened the door; and as he did so, the men staggered intothe room with their burden, and then gently dropped upon the floor thedead body of the republican General. The unfortunate man had shothimself. 

Henri turned out of the shop without saying a word; and as the othersprepared to follow him, one of the men knelt down beside the body, andwrenched from the hand, which still held it fast, the fatal pistol whichhad so lately done its work. "At any rate, " said he, " there is no usein leaving this behind us; I doubt not but I can make a better use ofit than General Lechelle has done. "

The Chevalier had said but the truth, in declaring that Adolphe Denot'swound was mortal; the musket ball had passed right through his lungs, passing out between his shoulders; and his limbs had been dreadfullytorn and bruised by the feet of the horses which had passed over him. Still, however, he had been carried alive into the town, had been laidin a settle-bed in the little inn, and had his wounds dressed with suchsurgical skill as the town afforded. He had spoken once since he fell, and had then begged, in an almost inarticulate whisper, that HenriLarochejaquelin would come to him, and this message had been delivered, and was attended to. 

There were not many to watch and attend his bed-side, for many othersbeside him in the town were in the same position; and though it wasknown to a few that the Mad Captain of La Petite Vendée had been seenduring the whole day riding by the side of their own General, Denot hadnot yet been recognized by many of the Vendeans, and most of thosearound him were indifferent to his fate. When Henri reached the room inwhich he lay, no one was with him, but the poor baker of Laval, who hadentered the town with Chapeau, and having heard that his Captain wasmortally wounded, had lost not a moment in tendering him his services. The poor man was sitting on a low stool, close by Denot's head, and inhis lap he held a wooden bowl of water, with which, from time to time, he moistened the mouth of the wounded man, dipping his hand into thewater, and letting the drops fall from his fingers on to his lips. 

"Hush! hush!" he said, as Henri entered the room; "for mercy's sake, don't shake him; the black blood gushes out of his mouth with every movehe gets. "

The two men did not recognize each other, for they had only met for amoment, and that by the faint light of a rush candle. Plume, therefore, had no idea of giving up his place or his duty to a man whom heconceived was a stranger; and Henri was at a loss to conceive who couldbe the singular looking creature that seemed to take so tender aninterest in his friend. 

Henri advanced up to the bed on tiptoe, and gazed into Denot's face; hehad been shocked before, but he now thought that never in his life hadhe seen so sad a sight: the colour of his skin was no longer pale, butlivid; his thin, dry lips were partially open, and his teeth, close settogether, were distinctly visible; his eyes were at the moment closed, as though he were in a stupor, and his long black matted hair hung backover the folded cloak on which his head rested: his sallow, bony handslay by his side, firmly clenched, as though he had been struggling, andhis neck and breast, which had been opened for the inspection of thesurgeon, was merely covered with a ragged bloody towel. 

"Is he asleep?" asked Henri, in a whisper, such as seems to comenaturally to every one, when speaking by the bed-side of those who arein great danger, but which is generally much more painfully audible toa sick man than the natural voice. 

Denot opened his eyes, and showed, by the slight motion of his head, that he had heard his friend's voice, but he was at the moment unableto speak. 

Plume made a signal to Henri to be quiet, and he therefore sat himselfdown at the other side of the bed, to watch till Adolphe should gainstrength to speak to him, or till the breath should have passed from hisbody. Plume, in the meantime, continued his occupation, causing a fewdrops of water to fall from time to time between those thin shrivelledlips; and in this way a long half-hour passed over them. 

At last Henri heard his name scarcely pronounced by the dying man, andthe dull eyes opened, though it was evident that the film of death hadnearly hidden all objects from their view; still it was evident that heknew who it was that sat by his bed-side, and he faintly returned thepressure of the hand which grasped his own. Henri stooped down his earto catch the words which might fall from his lips; but for a while hemade no farther attempt to speak--an inexpressible look of confusedtrouble passed across his face and forehead, as he attempted to collecthis disordered thoughts, and again he closed his eyes, as though thestruggle was useless; at last he again muttered something, and Henricaught the words 'de Lescure, ' and 'bridge of Saumur. '

"Yes, yes, he shall, " said Henri, trying to comfort him, but still notunderstanding what it was that weighed so heavily on his breast; hefelt, however, that a promise of compliance would give him comfort. "Heshall, indeed; I will tell him, and I know he will. "

Again the eyes were closed, and the struggle to speak was discontinued. Plume gave over his task, for it was evident that no care of his couldany longer be of avail, and he walked away from the bed, that he mightnot overhear the words which his Captain strove to speak to his friend;but Henri remained, still holding Denot's hand: then a thought struckhim, which had not earlier occurred to him, and beckoning to Plume tocome to him, he dismissed him, in a whisper, to endeavour to find apriest, without the loss of another moment, and bring him to the aid ofthe dying man. 

Though Denot's sight and speech were almost gone, the sense of hearingwas still left to him, and he understood what Henri said. He again movedhis head in token of dissent; again pulled his friend towards him by thehand, and again muttered out a word, the last that he ever attempted toutter; that one word Henri heard as plainly as though it had been spokenwith the full breath of a strong man--it was his sister's name. 

Adolphe Denot survived this last effort of his troubled spirit, but afew moments; the sepulchral rattle in his throat soon told the sad taleof his dissolution; and Plume hurrying up to the bed-head, assistedHenri in composing the limbs of the dead man. 

For three months Denot and Plume had consorted together; they had beena strange fantastic pair of comrades, but yet not altogetherill-matched: nothing could be more dissimilar than they had been in age, in birth, and previous habits, but they had met together with the samewishes, the same ambition, the same want of common sense, and above allthe same overweening vanity; they had flattered each other from themoment of their first meeting to the present day, and thus these twopoor zealous maniacs, for in point of sanity the Lieutenant was butlittle better than his Captain, had learnt to love each other. 

And now Plume, having carefully completed what the exigencies of themoment required, gave way to his sincere grief, and bewailed his friendwith no silent sorrow. Henri, who had totally forgotten the little thathe had heard of the martial baker, was at a loss to conceive who couldbe the man, a stranger to himself who found cause for so much sorrow inthe death of Adolphe Denot. As for himself, he had tenderly loved Denotas a brother; he had truly forgiven him his gross treachery; and he haddetermined to watch over him, and if possible protect him from farthersorrow: but after the interview he had had with him, he could notconceal from himself that Adolphe was still insane; and he felt thatdeath had come to him in an honourable way, atoning for past faults, andrelieving him from future sufferings. He could not grieve that hisfriend had fallen in battle, bravely doing his duty in the cause towhich he was bound by so many ties. 

"He was the bravest man, and the best soldier, and the most honourablegentleman in the whole army, " said Plume, sobbing; "and now there's noone left but myself, " and then recovering himself he made to the manesof the departed warrior a loyal promise, which he fully determined tokeep. "Thou art gone, my brave commander, my gallant commander, " hesaid, standing suddenly upright, and stretching his long arms over thecorpse, "thou art gone, and I doubt not I shall follow thee: but tillthat moment shall come, till a death, as honourable as thine own, shallrelease me from my promise, I swear that I will not disgrace the highstation which thy departure obliges me to fill. It was thou who firsttutored my unaccustomed arm to wield the sword; it was thou who badestme hear unmoved the thunder of an enemy's artillery; it was thou whotaughtest me all I know of military tactics, and the art of war. Restin peace, dear friend, dearest of instructors, I will not disgrace thyprecepts. " And so finishing, he stooped down, kissed the face of thedead body which he apostrophized, made a cross on the bosom, andmuttered a fervent prayer for the welfare of the departed soul. 

If Henri was surprised before, he was now perfectly astounded; nothingcould be less poetical, less imposing, or have less of military grandeurabout it than the figure of poor Auguste Plume. What could he mean bysaying that he was now called on to fill a high station? Who could itbe that confessed to owe so deep a debt of gratitude to the dead man?

"Had you known M. Denot long?" asked Henri, when he conceived that Plumewas sufficiently composed to. Hear and answer a question. 

"What's that you say his name was?" said Plume, eagerly, pricking up hisears. "I beg your pardon, Sir, I didn't exactly catch the word. "

"And didn't you know the name of the friend, whom you seem to havevalued so highly?"

"Indeed, to tell you the truth, Sir, I did not. We two used to have agood deal of talk together: for hours and hours we've sat and talkedover this war, and he has told me much of what he used to do in Poitou, when he served with the Vendeans; but I could never get him to tell mehis name. It was a question he didn't like to be asked; and yet I amsure he never did anything to disgrace it. "

"His name was Adolphe Denot, " said Henri. 

"Adolphe Denot--Adolphe Denot! well, I am very glad I know at last. Onedoesn't like not to know the name of the dearest friend one ever had;especially after he's dead. But wasn't he Count Denot, or Baron Denot, or something of that sort?"

"No, he had no title; but yet he was of noble blood. "

"I suppose then we must call him General Denot--simple General; itsounds as well as Count or Marquis in these days. Was he a General whenyou knew him in La Vendee?"

"I have known him all my life, " replied Henri. 

"Indeed!" said Plume: and then gazing at his companion, from head tofoot, he continued, "An't you the gentleman that came with Chapeau tosee him last night? An't you the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendeans?"

Henri gave him to understand that he was. 

"Then this meeting is very lucky, " said Plume, "most exceedinglyfortunate! I am now the Commander-in-Chief of La Petite Vendée. We mustunite our forces. I am not ambitious--at least not too ambitious; youshall be the chief, I will be next to you. Chapeau, I am sure, will becontented to be third. Here, over the body of our friend, let us concertour measures for utterly exterminating the republicans. We have now beenvictorious, proudly, grandly victorious; my voice shall be for a marchto Paris. Come, General, give me your hand. Hand in hand, like truecomrades, let us march to Paris, and thunder at the doors of theConvention. "

As he spoke, Auguste Emile Septimus held out his hand to the youngCommander; and Henri could not refuse the proffered grasp. He nowremembered Chapeau's description of the martial baker; and as heunderwent the merciless squeeze which Plume inflicted on him, the youngMarquis meditated, with something like vexation, on the ridiculousfigure and language of him who now claimed his friendship andconfidence. He had before been on terms of perfect equality with menequally low in station with poor Plume. Cathelineau had been apostillion; Stofflet, a game-keeper; but he had admired the enthusiasticgenius of Cathelineau, he had respected the practical iron energy ofStofflet--he could neither admire nor respect Auguste Plume--and yet hecould not reject him. 

He endeavoured, in as few words as he could, to make his companionunderstand, that highly as he appreciated his disinterested offer, hecould not, at the present moment, accede to it. That many officers, highin the confidence of the whole army, must be consulted before anyimportant step was taken; that, as for himself his duty required him tohurry back to Laval as quick as he could. That, as regarded him, Plume, he advised him to return to his own men, and endeavour to organize theminto a regular corps, in doing which he promised him that practicalassistance should not be wanting; and that, as regarded the body oftheir mutual friend, he, Henri, would give orders for its immediateburial; and having said so much as quickly as he could speak, HenriLarochejaquelin hurried from the room, leaving the unfortunate Plume torenew his lamentations over his friend. He had cause to lament; the onlyman likely to flatter his vanity was gone. He would never again be toldthat he was born for great achievements--never again promised thatbravery, fidelity to his commander, and gallant demeanour among hiscomrades, would surely lead him to exalted duties. Such were theprecepts with which the insanity of Denot had inflamed the mad ambitionof his poor follower. He now felt--not his own unfitness, for that hecould not suspect--but the difficulty, the impossibility to get histalents and services acknowledged; and he again sat down to weep, partlyfor his friend, and partly for himself. 

Henri passed the remainder of the night in Château-Gonthier, and earlyon the next morning he returned towards Laval. The road was covered withswarms of Vendeans, now returning from the pursuit in which they hadnearly exterminated the unfortunate army which had followed them acrossthe Loire. They had crossed that river panic-stricken and hopeless; nowthey were shouting with triumph, and exulting with joy, confident ofsuccess. None of those who returned were without some token of success;some carried back with them the muskets of the republican infantry;others, the sabres of the cavalry; and others, more joyful in theirsuccess than any, were mounted on their horses. They all loudly greetedHenri as he passed, and declared that nothing should ever conquer them, now that they had the General over them, whom they themselves hadchosen. 

Henri, though he well knew the difficulties which were before him, couldnot but be triumphant as he listened to the cheers of his followers; hehad certainly been pre-eminently successful in the first attempts whichhad been made under his own sole command; and it is not surprising thatthis, joined to the confidence of youth, should have made him feelhimself equal almost to any enterprise. Then another subject of joyfilled his heart; Marie had promised that if the Vendeans were nowsuccessful, if they could look forward to spending one quiet week inLaval, she would no longer refuse to join her hand to his and becomebone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh--that promise she would nowrealize; and therefore as he rode back through the gate of Laval, Henrifelt happier than he had done for many a long, weary, tedious day. 

CHAPTER XII

VENDEAN MARRIAGES

The young General's good news had preceded him, and when he entered theroom where his friends were assembled, they were one and all ready toembrace and congratulate their successful soldier; he received theblessing of his father, the praises of de Lescure, the thanks andadmiration of Madame de Lescure, and what he valued more than all, Marie's acknowledgments of the promise she gave him, when last he lefther side. 

During his absence, three unexpected visitors had reached Laval; thefirst was Father Jerome, who had followed the army, and now brought themnews from the side of Nantes, that Charette was still at the head of alarge body of royalists, and was ready to join himself with the mainarmy, somewhere to the north of the Loire, if any plan could be struckout for their future proceedings, to which both he and Henri couldagree; and the others were perfect strangers. Two gentlemen had calledat the guard-house, and asked for M. De Larochejaquelin: on hearing thathe was not in Laval, they had desired to see M. De Lescure, and had, when alone with him, declared that they came from England, with offersof assistance, both in men and money; one of these gentlemen had withhim a stick, and after having carefully looked round the room to seethat no one but de Lescure could observe him, he had broken the stickin two, and taken from the hollow space within it, a letter addressedto the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean army. 

These two gentlemen were both Vendeans, but early in the contest theyhad passed over into England; they had now returned, habited likepeasants, and in this disguise had come over on their dangerous mission, passing first into Jersey and thence to the coast of Normandy; they hadwalked the whole distance, through the province of Brittany, passingthemselves off, in one place as good republicans, and in another as trueloyalists; they had, however, through all their dangers, managed to keepthe important stick, the promises contained in which could not havearrived at a moment when they would have been more welcome. 

Granville was the point at which it was decided that the English troopsshould land, and de Lescure was strongly of opinion that the Vendeanarmy, relieved of its intolerable load of women and children, shouldproceed thither to meet their allies; and this plan, though with somedissentient voices, was agreed to. They could not, however, start quiteimmediately; nor was it necessary for them to do so; and the few daysof secure rest which so many of them anxiously desired, was given to thearmy. 

At length Henri found leisure to tell them all the sad, but stillpleasing story of Denot's conduct and fate--of the gallantry by whichhe had redeemed so many sins, and of the death by which he had set aseal to the forgiveness of them all. Each of them had already learntthat Adolphe was the mysterious leader, the Mad Captain of La PetiteVendée, and they listened with deep attention to the story which theynow heard of the way in which he had been living, and of the manner ofhis death. 

"Poor fellow, " said Henri, "I understand it all, except about the bridgeof Saumur; from the time when I found him in his wretched chamber, tothe moment of his death, he was talking of that, and connecting yourname, Charles, with everything he said; I do not at all know what wasin his thoughts, but something connected with the bridge of Saumur waseither a great trouble to him, or a great triumph. "

And then de Lescure told him what had happened; how the poor fellow'sheart had failed him, at the moment when courage was so necessary; howhe had feared to advance at the decisive moment, and had shrunk back, appalled, conquered, and disgraced. Henri now understood why de Lescurehad not allowed Denot to be chosen at Saumur, as one of the twelveleaders of the army; why he had subsequently so generally distrustedhim; and expressed so little surprise of the conduct of which he hadbeen guilty at Durbellière. 

"His history, " said de Lescure, "gives us a singular insight into theintricacies of a man's character; Adolphe was not naturally a coward, for madness aggravates the foibles of our nature, and no one can haveshown himself more capable of gallantry than he did yesterday; but hewanted that sustained courage which is only given by principle, andtrust in God. May He forgive his sins, mercifully remembering hisinfirmities!"

Some time after this, preparations were made for the marriage of Henriand Marie--such preparations as the time and place allowed. There wasnow neither inclination nor opportunity for a fête, such as would havegraced the nuptials of Marie de Lescure at a happier time; she nowneither desired, nor could have endured it. Father Jerome had promisedto perform the ceremony; Agatha would be her bridesmaid; and her brotherand her father-in-law, both on their sick couches, would be herwedding-guests. Still she was happy and cheerful; she loved HenriLarochejaquelin with her whole heart, the more probably on account ofthe dangers through which they had already passed together, and she hadfirmly resolved to endure, without complaining, those which were stillbefore them. 

Two days before the ceremony was to take place, Chapeau came up to hismaster, as they were together leaving the quarters of some of thetroops, and with a very serious face, begged permission to speak to him. Now, as it usually happened that Chapeau passed a considerable portionof the day talking to his master in a most unconstrained way, on everyconceivable subject, Henri felt sure that something very much out of thecommon way was going to be said; however, he at once gave the desiredpermission. 

"And Monsieur is positively going to be married on Wednesday morning?"commenced Chapeau. 

"Why you know as well as myself that I am, " said Henri. 

"Oh, of course, yes--of course I know it, as Monsieur has beencondescending enough to tell me; and will Madame, that is Mademoiselleas she is at present, go with Monsieur to Granville. "

"What the deuce are you about, Chapeau, with all this rhodomontade?didn't I tell you that she would go with me. "

"And the other ladies, Mademoiselle Agatha and Madame de Lescure, theywill remain in Laval?"

"Yes, they will remain in Laval with my father and M. De Lescure: butyou know all that already, as well as I do. "

"But Madame de Larochejaquelin, that is, when she is Madame, she willwant some young woman to attend her. Madame, of course, cannot go toGranville without some decent female to be near her; of course it willbe quite impossible, will it not, Monsieur?"

"Now, Chapeau, tell me at once what you are coming to, and don't pretendto be so considerate and modest. You know that it is arranged that yourown fiancée, Annot Stein, should accompany my wife. "

"Yes--but, M. Henri, Annot Stein has some scruples; or rather--"

"Scruples! Oh, by all means, let her stay behind then. I'll have no onewith me who has any scruples; tell her to stay with her father. I'llspeak to Mademoiselle de Lescure. "

"But Monsieur is in such a hurry, " said Chapeau, who had not theslightest intention to have the matter arranged in this way. "I waswrong to say that Annot has scruples; indeed she hasn't got any--not oneat all--it is I that have them. "

"You! Now, Chapeau, may I ask the particular favour of you, to let meknow at once, what you mean to ask of me?"

"Why, you see, M. Henri, Annot is a poor lone girl, quite unprotectedas any one may say, though, of course, she will not be unprotected, whenshe will have the protection of Monsieur and Madame; but still she isa poor lone girl, and as such, she won't have the--the--the what d'yecall it, you know, which she would have as a married woman--theconfidence and station, you know: she wouldn't be half so useful toMadame; and, therefore, perhaps, Monsieur will think that she and I hadbetter be married at the same time as Madame. "

Chapeau had it all his own way; his arguments were unanswerable; and asno good reason could be given, why a wife would not be as serviceableto the man as it was to the master, it was agreed that they both shouldbe married on the same day, at the same hour, in the same room, and bythe same priest. The honour of this was almost too much for poor Annot, and quite upset her father, Michael Stein, who did not at all like theidea of not having his own way, after his own fashion, at hi own onlydaughter's wedding. However, he was ultimately reconciled to themelancholy grandeur of the ceremony, by arrangements which were made forsome substantial evening comfort below stairs; and although no banquetwas prepared for the wedding of the master and the mistress, the valetand the lady's maid were as well provided, as though they had beenunited in peaceful times, and in a quiet church. 

And now the sun had risen brightly on the morning which was to addanother care to those which already burthened the shoulders of HenriLarochejaquelin. They all sat down together and eat their quietbreakfast in the parlour, to which a fortnight's habitation had nowaccustomed them. Henri wore no bridal dress. He had on the uniform ofa Vendean officer, and round his waist was fastened a white scarf witha black knot, the distinguishing mark which he now bore of his rank inthe army as Commander-in-Chief. Marie de Lescure was dressed in white, but her dress was as simple and unadorned as it could be well made; nobride, young, beautiful, and noble was ever prepared for the altar withless costly care, with less attention to the generally acknowledgedproprieties of hymeneal decoration. Agatha and Madame de Lescure had inno respect altered their usual attire. It may easily be understood thatleaving their homes in the manner they had done, they had not broughtwith them a full wardrobe; and since their arrival in Laval, they hadhad more pressing cares than that of supplying it. 

De Lescure was daily getting weaker; but still the weaker he got theless he suffered, and the more capable he became of assuming hisaccustomed benevolent demeanour and anxious care for others. Both he andhis wife knew that he was approaching the term of his mortal sufferings;but others, and among them Henri was the most sanguine, still hoped thathe would recover; and there certainly was nothing in his cheery mannerOn the morning of the wedding, to make any one think that such hopeswere misplaced. The old Marquis was more sad and melancholy than he hadused to be among his beloved birds and cherry trees at Durbellière; and, on this occasion, he was probably the saddest of the party, for he wasthe one who would have rejoiced the most that the wedding of his sonshould be an occasion of joy to relatives, servants, tenants, and thenumerous neighbours among whom he had always lived with so much mutualaffection. 

The most singular figure of the whole party was Father Jerome, the Curéof St. Laud's. He still wore the same long grey coat in which he wasfirst introduced to the reader at Durbellière; which had since that timefigured at Saumur and many another scene of blood and violence, andwhich we last saw when he was found by Madame de Lescure in the chapelat Genet. It had now been so patched and darned, that its oldest friendscould not have recognized it. But Father Jerome still maintained thatit was good enough for the ordinary run of his present daily duties, though he jocosely apologized to Marie for appearing, on such anoccasion, in so mean a garment. 

As soon as the breakfast was over, the table on which it had been eaten, was converted into a rude altar, and the ceremony was commenced. JacquesChapeau and Annot, whose turn was immediately to follow, stood close upto the table, opposite to their master and mistress; but Michael Steinand his two sons, who of course were to be present at Annot's marriage, and who had prepared to seat themselves on the stairs till theirpresence should be required, had also been invited to attend; and theynow sat but very ill at their ease, on three chairs, in the veryfarthest corner of the room. Michael Stein, though chance had thrown himamong the loyal Vendeans, had in his heart but little of that love andveneration for his immediate superiors, which was the strong andattractive point in the character of the people of Poitou. Though he hadlived all his life in the now famous village of Echanbroignes, he hadin his disposition, much of the stubborn self-dependence of the earlyrepublicans; and he did not relish his position, sitting in the back-ground as a humble hanger-on in the family of a nobleman and anaristocrat. He was, however, unable to help himself; his sons wereVendeans; his daughter was just going to marry the confidential followerof the Vendean Commander-in-Chief; and he himself had been seen fightingfor La Vendée: there he sat, therefore, quiet, though hardly happy, between his two stalwart sons, with his thin hair brushed over hisforehead, and his huge swarthy hands crossed on his knees before him. 

The marriage ceremonies were soon performed: and then Henri and Chapeau, each in their turn, led their brides from the altar; and all went on asquietly in the one room which they occupied, as though nothing beyondtheir daily occupations had occurred. 

"God bless you, my children!" said the old Marquis, "this is but a sadwedding; but it is useless to regret the happy times which are gone, itseems for ever. "

"Not for ever, father, " said Marie, kissing the old man's face, "Henriand I still look forward to having our wedding fete; perhaps inParis--perhaps in dear La Vendée, when we shall once more be able tocall our old homes our own; then we will make you, and Agatha, andVictorine, make up fivefold for all that has been omitted now. Will wenot, Henri?"

Below stairs, Chapeau and Annot, wisely thinking that no time was likethe present, endeavoured to be as gay as they would have been had theyenjoyed their marriage-feast in the smith's own cottage; one or two ofChapeau's friends were asked on the occasion, and among them, Plumecondescended to regale himself though the cheer was spread in thekitchen instead of in the parlour. Michael, now relieved from thepresence of aristocracy, eat and drank himself into good humour; andeven received, with grim complacency, the jokes of his Sons, whoinsisted on drinking to his health as a new recruit to the famousregiment which was drawn from the parish of Echanbroignes. 

"Well, my girl, may heaven take care of you!" said he, kissing hisdaughter, "and of you too, Jacques, " and he extended the caress to hisson-in-law. "I won't say but what I wish you were a decent shoe-maker, or--"

"Oh, laws, father, " said Annot, "I'm sure I should never have had him, if he had been. "

"The more fool you, Annot; but I wish it all the same; and that Annothad had a couple of cows to mind, and half-a-dozen pigs to look after;but it's too late to think of that now; they'll soon have neither a cownor a pig in La Vendée; and they'll want neither smiths nor shoemakers;however, my boy, God bless you! God bless you! ladies and gentlemen, Godbless you all!" and then the smith completed the work he had commenced, and got as tipsy as he could have done, had his daughter been marriedin Poitou. 

CHAPTER XIII

CONCLUSION

We have told our tale of La Vendée; we have married our hero and ourheroine; and, as is usual in such cases, we must now bid them adieu. Wecannot congratulate ourselves on leaving them in a state of happyprosperity, as we would have wished to have done; but we leave them withhigh hopes and glorious aspirations. We cannot follow the Vendeansfarther in their gallant struggle, but we part from them, while theystill confidently expect that success which they certainly deserved, andare determined to deserve that glory, which has since been so fullyaccorded to them. 

In the foregoing pages much fiction has been blended with history, butstill the outline of historical facts has been too closely followed toallow us now to indulge the humanity of our readers by ascribing to thefriends we are quitting success which they did not achieve, or a stateof happiness which they never were allowed to enjoy. It would be easyto speak of the curly haired darlings, two of course, who blessed theunion of Henri Larochejaquelin and Marie de Lescure; and the joy withwhich they restored their aged father to the rural delights of hischâteau at Durbellière. We might tell of the recovery of that modernPaladine, Charles de Lescure, and of the glorious rebuilding of thehouse of Clisson, of the ecclesiastical honours of Father Jerome, andof the happy marriage, or with more probability, the happier celibacyof the divine Agatha. But we cannot do so with propriety: facts, stern, untoward, cruel facts, stare us in the face, and would make even thenovelist blush, were he, in total disregard of well-thumbed history, toattempt so very false a fiction. 

Still it is necessary that something should be said of the subsequentadventures of those with whom we have for a while been so intimate, someshort word spoken of the manner in which they adhered to the cause whichwas so dear to them. We cannot leave them in their temporary sojourn atLaval, as though a residence there was the goal of their wishes, the endof their struggle, the natural and appropriate term of their story; butas, unfortunately, their future career was not a happy one, we will begthe reader to advance with us at once over many years; and then, as helooks back upon La Vendée, through the softening vista of time, themelancholy termination of its glorious history will be lees painful. 

On the 7th July, 1815, the united English and Prussian armies marchedinto Paris, after the battle of Waterloo, and took military possessionof the city. It was a remarkable but grievous day for Paris; thecitizens generally stayed within their houses, and left the streets tothe armed multitude, whom they could not regard as friends, and withwhom they were no longer able to contend as enemies. In spite of theenthusiasm with which Napoleon was greeted in Paris on his return fromElba, there were very many royalists resident in the city; men, wholonged to welcome back to France the family of the Bourbons, and to liveagain beneath the shelter and shade of an ancient throne. But even thesecould not greet with a welcome foreigners, who by force had takenpossession. Of their capital. It was a sad and gloomy day in Paris, forno man knew what would be the fate, either of himself or of his country:shops were closed, and trade was silenced; the clanking of arms and thejingling of spurs was heard instead of the busy hum of busy men. 

On the evening of this day, a stout, fresh-coloured, good-looking woman, of about forty years of age, was sitting in a perruquier's shop, at thecorner of the Rue St. Honoré and the Rue St. Denis, waiting for thereturn of her husband, who had been called upon to exercise his skillon the person of some of the warriors with whom Paris was now crowded. The shutters of the little shop were up, as were those of all the housesin the street, and the place was therefore dark and triste; and thestout, good-looking woman within was melancholy and somewhat querulous. A daughter, of about twenty years of age, the exact likeness of hermother, only twenty years less stout, and twenty years more pretty, satwith her in the shop, and patiently listened to her complaints. 

"Well, Annot, " she said, "I wonder at your father. He had a littlespirit once, but it has all left him now. Had he been said by me, hewouldn't have raised a bit of steel over an English chin for the bestday's hire that ever a man was paid--unless, indeed, it was to cut thefellow's throat!"

"If he didn't, mother, another would; and what's the good of throwingaway their money?"

"No matter--it's a coward's work to go and shave one's country'senemies. Do you think he'd have shaved any of the blues' officers in LaVendée twenty years ago, for all the money they could have offered him?He'd have done it with a sword, if he had done it at all. Well, Isuppose it's all right! I suppose he's only fit to use a razor now. "

"But you always say those were horrid days in La Vendée; that you hadnothing to eat, and no bed to sleep in, nor shoes to your feet; and thatyou and father couldn't get married for ever so long, because of thewars?"

"So they were horrid days. I don't think any one will live to see thelike again. But still, one don't like to see a man, who once had alittle spirit, become jacky to every one who has a dirty chin to bescraped. Oh, Annot, if you'd seen the men there were in La Vendée, inthose days; if you'd seen the great Cathelineau, you would have seen aman. "

After having read this conversation, no one will be surprised to hearthat on the board over the shop window, the following words, in yellowletters, were decently conspicuous:

 JACQUES CHAPEAU, PERRUQUIER. 

Madame Chapeau was now disturbed in her unreasonable grumbling by aknock at the closed door, and on her opening it, an officer in undressuniform, about fifty years of age, politely greeted her, and asked herif that was not the house of M. Jacques Chapeau. From his language, thevisitor might at first have been taken for a Frenchman; his dress, however, plainly told that he belonged to the English army. 

"Yes, Monsieur, this is the humble shop of Chapeau, perruquier, " saidour old friend, the elder Annot, who, in spite of her feelings ofhostility to the English, was somewhat mollified by the politeness andhandsome figure of her visitor: she then informed him that Chapeau wasnot at home; that she expected him in immediately; and that hisassistant, who was, in some respects, almost as talented as his master, was below, and would wait upon Monsieur immediately; and she rang alittle bell, which was quickly responded to by some one ascending froma lower region. 

The visitor informed Madame Chapeau that he had not called at presentas a customer, but that he had taken the liberty to intrude himself uponher for the purpose of learning some facts of which, he was informed, her husband could speak with more accuracy than any other person inParis. 

"It is respecting the battles of La Vendée, " said he, "that I wish tospeak to him. I believe that he saw more of them than any person nowalive. "

Madame Chapeau was considering within herself whether there would be anyimprudence in confessing to the English officer the important part herhusband had played in La Vendee, when the officer's question wasanswered by another person, whose head and shoulders now dimly appearedupon the scene. 

These were the head and shoulders of Chapeau's assistant, who had beensummoned from his own region by the sound of his mistress's bell; thestairs from this subterraneous recess did not open on to any passage, but ascended at once abruptly into the shop, so that the assistant, whencalled on, found himself able to answer, and to make even a personalappearance, as far as his head was concerned, without troubling himselfto mount the three or four last stairs. From this spot he was in thehabit of holding long conversations with his master and mistress; andnow perceiving that neither the head nor chin of the strange gentlemanwere to be submitted to his skill, he arrested his steps, and astonishedthe visitor by a voice which seemed to come out of the earth. 

Indeed he did, Monsieur, more than any one now alive--more even thanmyself, and that is saying a great deal. Jacques Chapeau was an officerhigh in command through the whole Vendean war; and I, even I, humble asI am now, I also was thought not unworthy to lead brave men into battle. I, Monsieur, am Auguste Plume; and though now merely a perruquier's poorassistant, I was once the officer second in command in the army of LaPetite Vendée. 

The gentleman turned round and gazed at the singular apparition, whichthe obscurity of the shop only just permitted him to distinguish. Auguste Flume was now above sixty years old, and completely bald; hisface was thin, lanternjawed, and cadaverous; and his eyes, which wereweak with age, were red and bleared; still he had not that ghastly, sickappearance, which want both of food and rest had given him in theglorious days to which he alluded: after the struggle in La Vendée, hehad lived for some time a wretched life, more like that of a beast thana man; hiding in woods, living on roots, and hunting with the appetiteof a tiger after the blood of stray republicans; his wife and childrenhad perished in Carrier's noyades in the Loire; he himself had existedthrough two years of continued suffering, with a tenacity of life whichalmost reached to a miracle. He had joined the Chouans, and had takenan active part in the fiercest of their fierce acts of vengeance. Buthe had lived through it all; and now, in his old age, he had plenty andcomfort; yet he looked back with a fond regret to the days of hisimagined glory and power; he spoke with continual rapture of his ownbrave achievements, and regretted that he had not been allowed tocontinue a life, the miseries of which it would be impossible toexaggerate. 

"Bah, Auguste, " said his mistress; "the gentleman does not care to hearof your La Petite Vendée; it is of M. Henri--that is, of the youngMarquis de Larochejaquelin, and of Madame and of Mademoiselle Agatha, and of M. De Lescure, and of Charette, and the Prince de Talmont, thatMonsieur will want to hear!"

The stranger was in the act of explaining that the hostess was right inher surmise, when the master of the house himself returned. In spite ofwhat he had suffered, years had sat lightly on Chapeau, as they had doneon his wife. He was now a fat, good-humoured, middle-aged, comfortableman, who made the most, in his trade, of the éclat which attended him, as having been the faithful servant of the most popular among theVendean leaders. He never wearied his customers with long tales of hisown gallantry; he even had the unusual tact to be able to sink himself, in speaking, as he was often invited to do, of the civil war: he wasknown to have been brave, faithful, and loyal, and he was accordinglyvery popular among the royalists of Paris, who generally preferred hisscissors and razors to those of any other artist in the city. 

The officer, who was now seated in the shop, his wife and daughter, andhis assistant, began at once to explain to him the service which he wasrequired to perform; and Chapeau, bowing low to the compliments whichthe stranger paid to him, declared with his accustomed mixture ofpoliteness and frank good nature, that he would be happy to tellanything that he knew. 

The gentleman explained, that in his early years he had known de Lescureintimately; that he had met Larochejaquelin in Paris, and that he hadmade one of a party of Englishmen, who had done their best to send arms, money, and men from his own country into La Vendée. Chapeau was too wellbred to allude to the disappointment which they had all so keenly felt, from the want of that very aid; he merely bowed again, and said that hewould tell Monsieur all he knew. 

And so he did. From the time when Henri Larochejaquelin left Laval forGranville, nothing prospered with the Vendeans; the army, as it wasagreed, had left that place for Granville, and their first misfortunehad been the death of de Lescure. 

"He died in Laval?" asked the officer. 

"No, " said Chapeau. "When the moment for starting came, he insisted onbeing carried with the army; he followed us in a carriage, but thejolting of the road was too much for him--the journey killed him. Hedied at Fougères, on the third day after we left Laval. "

"And Madame?" asked the stranger. 

"It is impossible for me now, " said Chapeau, "to tell you all thedangers through which she passed, all the disguises which she had touse, and the strange adventures which for a long time threatened almostdaily to throw her in the hands of those who would have been delightedto murder her; but of course you know that she escaped at last. "

"I am told that she still lives in Poitou, and I think I heard that, some years after M. De Lescure's death, she married M. LouisLarochejaquelin. "

"She did so--the younger brother of my own dear lord. He was a boy inEngland during our hot work in La Vendée. "

"Yes; and he served in an English regiment. "

"So I had heard, Monsieur; but you know, don't you, that he also has nowfallen. "

"Indeed no!--for years and years I have heard nothing of the family. "

"It was only two months since: he fell last May at the head of theVendeans, leading them against the troops which the Emperor sent downthere. The Vendeans could not endure the thoughts of the Emperor'sreturn from Elba. M. Louis was the first to lift his sword, and Madameis, a second time, a widow. Poor lady, none have suffered as she hasdone!" He then paused a while in his narrative, but as the stranger didnot speak, he continued: "but of M. Henri, of course, Monsieur, youheard the fate of our dear General?"

"I only know that he perished, as did so many hundred others, who werealso so true and brave. "

"I will tell you then, " said Chapeau, "for I was by him when he died;he fell, when he was shot, close at my feet: he never spoke one word, or gave one groan, but his eyes, as they closed for the last time, looked up into the face of one--one who, at any rate, loved him verywell, " and Chapeau took a handkerchief from a little pocket in hiswife's apron, and applied it to his eyes. 

"Yes, " he continued, " when the bullet struck him, I was as near to himas I am to her, " and he put his hand to his wife's head. "It might havebeen me as well as him, only for the chance. I'll tell you how themanner of it was. You know bow we all strove to cross back into LaVendée, first at Angers and afterwards at Ancenis; and how M. Henri gotdivided from the army at Ancenis. Well, after that, the Vendean army wasno more; the army was gone, it had melted away; the most of those whowere still alive were left in Brittany, and they joined the Chouans. Here is my friend, Auguste, he was one of them. "

"Indeed I was, Monsieur, for a year and eight months. "

"Never mind now, Auguste, you can tell the gentleman by and bye; but, as I was saying, M. Henri was left all but alone on the southern bankof the river--there were, perhaps, twenty with him altogether--not more;and there were as many hundreds hunting those twenty from day to day. "

"And you were one of them, Chapeau?"

"I was, Monsieur. My wife here remained with her father in Laval; he wasa crafty man, and he made the blues believe he was a republican; but, bless you, he was as true a royalist all the time as I was. Well, therewe were, hunted, like wolves, from one forest to another, till about themiddle of winter, we fixed ourselves for a while in the wood of Vesins, about three leagues to the east of Cholet, a little to the south of thegreat road from Saumur. From this place M. Henri harassed them mosteffectually; about fifty of the old Vendeans had joined him, and withthese he stopped their provisions, interrupted their posts, and on oneoccasion, succeeded in getting the despatches from Paris to therepublican General. We. Were at this work for about six weeks; and he, as he always did, exposed himself to every possible danger. One morningwe came upon two republican grenadiers; there were M. Henri, two othersand myself there, and we wanted immediately to fire upon them; but M. Henri would not have it so; he said that he would save them, and rushedforward to bid them lay down their arms; as he did so, the foremost ofthem fired, and M. Henri fell dead without a groan. "

"And the two men--did they escape?"

"No, neither of them, " said Chapeau; and for a moment, a gleam of savagesatisfaction flashed across his face; "the man who fired the shot hadnot one minute spared him for his triumph; I had followed close upon mymaster, and I avenged him. "

"And where was his young wife all this time?"

"She was with Madame de Lescure, in Brittany; and so was MademoiselleAgatha; they were living disguised almost as peasants, at an old châteaucalled Dreneuf; after that they all escaped to Spain; they are bothstill alive, and now in Poitou; and I am told, that though they have notchosen absolutely to seclude themselves, they both pass the same holylife, as though they were within the walls of a convent. "

It was long before Chapeau discontinued his narrative, but it isunnecessary for us to follow farther in the sad details which he had togive of the loss of the brave Vendean leaders. The Prince de Talinont, Charette, Stofflet, Marigny, all of them fell: "And yet, " said Chapeau, with a boast, which evidently gave him intense satisfaction, "La Vendéewas never conquered. Neither the fear of the Convention, nor the armsof the Directory, nor the strength of the Consul, nor the flattery ofthe Emperor could conquer La Vendée, or put down the passionate longingfor the return of the royal family, which has always burnt in the bosomof the people. Revolt has never been put down in La Vendée, sinceCathelineau commenced the war in St. Florent. The people would serveneither the republic nor the empire; the noblesse would not visit thecourt; their sons have refused commissions in the army, and theirdaughters have disdained to accept the hands of any, who had forgottentheir allegiance to the throne. Through more than twenty years ofsuffering and bloodshed, La Vendée has been true to its colour, and nowit will receive its reward. "

Chapeau himself, however, more fortunate, though not less faithful, thanhis compatriots, had not been obliged to wait twenty years for hisreward; he owned, with something like a feeling of disgrace, that he hadbeen carrying on his business in Paris, for the last fifteen years, withconsiderable success and comfort to himself; and he frankly confessed, that he had by practice inured himself to the disagreeable task ofshaving, cutting and curling beards and heads, which were devoted to theempire; "but then, Monsieur, " said he apologizing for his conduct, "there was a great difference you know between them and republicans. "

Five-and-thirty years have now passed, since Chapeau was talking, andthe Vendeans triumphed in the restoration of Louis XVIII to the throneof his ancestors. That throne has been again overturned; and, anotherdynasty having intervened, France is again a Republic. 

How long will it be before some second La Vendée shall successfully, butbloodlessly, struggle for another re-establishment of the monarchy?Surely before the expiration of half a century since the return ofLouis, France will congratulate herself on another restoration. 

THE END