THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PQ2163 
 
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 1901 
 
This book is due at the 
 last date stamped unde 
 renewed by bringing it 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 
 
 
 
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 DATE 
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 RET. 
 
 JUN 0 8 191 
 
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 DATE 
 DUE 
 
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 Form No. 513 
 
THE TEMPLE EDITION 
 
 OF THE 
 
 COMEDIE HUM AINE 
 
 Edited by 
 
 GEORGE SAINTSBURY 
 
All rights reserved 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2014 
 
 https://archive.org/details/chouansleschouanOObalz 
 
THE 
 
 CHOUANS 
 
 (les»chouans) 
 
 - BY ► 
 
 H>DE>BALZAC 
 
 Translated • Vy 
 
 * ELLEN -MARRIAGE 
 
 With'a'Fiontiipiece 
 
 &i ched »lry 
 D'MURRAySMITH 
 
 * 19 Ol • 
 
 ^THE'MACMIIi-'ANr 
 * COMPANY * 
 
 66 FIFTH /r^N » /->rv AVENUE /; \ 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PREFACE . • •.«••< xi 
 THE CHO VANS 
 
 I. THE AMBUSCADE 
 II. A NOTION OF FOUCHe's • • • • • 68 
 
 III, A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW , , t 1 97 
 
 O 
 
 ro • , 
 
 a 2 
 
THE CHOUANS 
 
 [Les Chouans) 
 PREFACE 
 
 When, many years after its original publication, Balzac 
 reprinted Les Chouans as a part of the Comedie Humaine^ 
 he spoke of it in the dedication to his old friend M. 
 Theodore Dablin as c perhaps better than its reputation.' 
 He probably referred to the long time which had passed 
 without a fresh demand for it ; for, as has been pointed 
 out in the General Introduction to this Series of transla- 
 tions, it first made his fame, and with it he first emerged 
 from the purgatory of anonymous hack-writing. It would 
 therefore have argued a little ingratitude in him had 
 he shown himself dissatisfied with the original reception. 
 The book, however, has, it may be allowed, never ranked 
 among the special favourites of Balzacians ; and though 
 it was considerably altered and improved from its first 
 form, it has certain defects which are not likely to escape 
 any reader. In it Balzac was still trying the adventure- 
 novel, the novel of incident ; and though he here sub- 
 stitutes a nobler model — Scott, for whom he always had 
 a reverence as intelligent as it was generous — for the 
 Radcliffian or Lewisian ideals of his nonage, he was still 
 not quite at home. Some direct personal knowledge or 
 
Preface 
 
 experience of the matters he wrote about was always 
 more or less necessary to him ; and the enthusiasm with 
 which he afterwards acknowledged, in a letter to Beyle, 
 the presence of such knowledge in that writer's military 
 passages, confesses his own sense of inferiority. 
 
 It is not, however, in the actual fighting scenes, though 
 they are not of the first class, that the drawbacks of Les 
 Chouans lie. Though the present version is not my 
 work, I translated the book some years ago, a process 
 which brings out much more vividly than mere reading 
 the want of art which distinguishes the management 
 of the story. There are in it the materials of a really 
 first-rate romance. The opening skirmish, the hair- 
 breadth escape of Montauran at Alen^on, the scenes at 
 the Vivetiere, not a few of the incidents of the attack on 
 Fougeres, and, above all, the finale, are, or at least might 
 have been made, of the most thrilling interest. Nor are 
 they by any means ill supported by the characters. Hulot 
 is one of the best of Balzac's grognard heroes ; Montauran 
 may be admitted by the most faithful and jealous devotee 
 of Scott to be a jeune premier who unites all the qualifica- 
 tions of his part with a freedom from the flatness which not 
 unfrequently characterises Sir Walter's own good young 
 men, and which drew from Mr. Thackeray the equivocal 
 encomium that he should like to be mother-in-law to several 
 of them. Marche-a-Terre is very nearly a masterpiece ; 
 and many of the minor personages are excellent for their 
 work. Only Corentin (who, by the way, appears fre- 
 quently in other books later) is perhaps below what he 
 ought to be. But the women make up for him. Made- 
 moiselle de Verneuil has admirable piquancy and charm ; 
 Madame du Gua is a good bad heroine ; and Francine is 
 
Preface 
 
 xiii 
 
 not a mere soubrette of the machine-made pattern by 
 any means. 
 
 How is it, then, that the effect of the book is, as many 
 readers unquestionably feel it to be, c heavy * ? The 
 answer is not very difficult ; it is simply that Balzac had 
 not yet learned his trade, and that this particular trade was 
 not exactly his. He had a certain precedent in some — 
 not in all, nor in the best — of Scott's books, and in many 
 of his other models, for setting slowly to work ; and he 
 abused that precedent here in the most merciless manner. 
 If two-thirds of the first chapter had been cut away, and 
 the early part of the second had been not less courage- 
 ously thinned, the book would probably have twice the 
 hold that it at present has on the imagination. As it is, 
 I have known some readers (and I have no doubt that 
 they are fairly representative) who honestly avowed 
 themselves to be c choked off' by the endless vacillations 
 and conversations of Hulot at the c Pilgrim,' by the 
 superabundant talk at the inn, and generally by the very 
 fault which, as I have elsewhere noticed, Balzac repre- 
 hends in a brother novelist, the fault of giving the reader 
 no definite grasp of story. Balzac could not deny himself 
 the luxury of long conversations ; but he never had, and 
 at this time had less than at any other, the art which 
 Dumas possessed in perfection — the art of making the 
 conversation tell the story. Until, therefore, the talk 
 between the two lovers on the way to the Vivetiere, the 
 action is so obscure, so broken by description and chat, 
 and so little relieved, except in the actual skirmish and 
 wherever Marche-a-Terre appears, by real business, that 
 it cannot but be felt as fatiguing. It can only be promised 
 that if the reader will bear up or skip intelligently till this 
 
xiv 
 
 Preface 
 
 point he will not be likely to find any fault with the book 
 afterwards. The jour sans lendemain is admirable almost 
 throughout. 
 
 This unfortunate effect is considerably assisted by the 
 working of one of Balzac's numerous and curious 
 crotchets. Those who have only a slight acquaintance 
 with the Comedie Humaine must have noticed that 
 chapter-divisions are for the most part wanting in it, or 
 are so few and of such enormous length, that they are 
 rather parts than chapters. It must not, however, be 
 supposed that this was an original peculiarity of the 
 author's, or one founded on any principle. Usually, 
 though not invariably, the original editions of his longer 
 novels, and even of his shorter tales, are divided into 
 chapters, with or without headings, like those of other 
 and ordinary mortals. But when he came to codify and 
 arrange the Comedie^ he, for some reason which I do not 
 remember to have seen explained anywhere in his letters, 
 struck out these divisions, or most of them, and left the 
 books solid, or merely broken up into a few parts. Thus 
 Le Dernier Chouan (the original book) had thirty-two 
 chapters, though it had i\o chapter-headings, while the 
 remodelled work as here given has only three, the first 
 containing nearly a fifth, the second nearly two-fifths, 
 and the third not much less than a half of the whole 
 work. 
 
 Now, everybody who has attended to the matter must 
 see that this absence of chapters is a great addition of 
 heaviness in the case where a book is exposed to the 
 charge of being heavy. The named chapters of Dumas 
 supply something like an argument of the whole book \ 
 and even the unnamed ones of Scot lighten, punctuate, 
 
Preface 
 
 xv 
 
 and relieve the course of the story. It may well be that 
 Balzac's sense that c the story ' with him was not the first, 
 or anything like the first consideration, had something to 
 do with his innovation. But I do not think it improved 
 his books at any time, and in the more romantic class of 
 them it is a distinct disadvantage. 
 
 Le Dernier Chouan ou La Bret ague en 1800 first 
 appeared in March 1829, published in four volumes by 
 Canel, with a preface (afterwards suppressed) bearing date 
 the 15 th January of the same year. Its subsequent form, 
 with the actual title, threw the composition back to 
 August 1827, and gave Fougeres itself as the place of 
 composition. This revised form, or second edition, 
 appeared in 1 834 in two volumes, published by Vimont. 
 When, twelve years later, it took rank in the Comedie 
 Humaine as part of the Scenes de la vie Militaire^ a second 
 preface was inserted, which in its turn was cancelled by 
 the author. G. S. 
 
THE CHOUANS 
 
 OR BRITTANY IN 1799 
 
 To M. Theodore Dablin^ Merchant^ 
 My first book to my earliest friend. 
 
 De Balzac. 
 
 I 
 
 THE AMBUSCADE 
 
 In the early days of the year vni. at the beginning of 
 Vendemiaire, or towards the end of the month of Sep- 
 tember 1799, reckoning by the present calendar, some 
 hundred peasants and a fair number of townspeople who 
 had set out from Fougeres in the morning to go to 
 Mayenne, were climbing the mountain of the Pelerine, 
 which lies about half-way between Fougeres and Ernee, 
 a little place where travellers are wont to break their 
 journey. The detachment, divided up into larger and 
 smaller groups, presented as a whole such an outlandish 
 collection of costumes, and brought together individuals 
 belonging to such widely different neighbourhoods and 
 callings, that it may be worth while to describe their 
 various characteristics, and in this way impart to the 
 narrative the lifelike colouring that is so highly valued in 
 our day, although, according to certain critics, this is a 
 hindrance to the portrayal of sentiments. 
 
 Some of the peasants — most of them in fact — went 
 barefoot. Their whole clothing consisted in a large goat- 
 
 A 
 
2 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 skin, which covered them from shoulder to knee, and 
 breeches of very coarse white cloth, woven of uneven 
 threads, that bore witness to the neglected state of local 
 industries. Their long matted locks mingled so habitually 
 with the hairs of their goat-skin cloaks, and so completely 
 hid the faces that they bent upon the earth, that the goat's 
 skin might have been readily taken for a natural growth, 
 and at first sight the miserable wearers could hardly be 
 distinguished from the animals whose hide now served 
 them for a garment. But very shortly a pair of bright 
 eyes peering through the hair, like drops of dew shining 
 in thick grass, spoke of a human intelligence within, 
 though the expression of the eyes certainly inspired more 
 fear than pleasure. Their heads were covered with dirty 
 red woollen bonnets, very like the Phrygian caps that the 
 Republic in those days had adopted as a symbol of liberty. 
 Each carried a long wallet made of sacking over his 
 shoulder at the end of a thick knotty oak cudgel. There 
 was not much in the wallets. 
 
 Others wore above their caps a great broad-brimmed 
 felt hat, with a band of woollen chenille of various colours 
 about the crown, and these were clad altogether in the 
 same coarse linen cloth that furnished the wallets and 
 breeches of the first group ; there was scarcely a trace of 
 the new civilisation in their dress. Their long hair 
 straggled over the collar of a round jacket which reached 
 barely to the hips, a garment peculiar to the Western 
 peasantry, with little square side pockets in it. Beneath 
 this open-fronted jacket was a waistcoat, fastened with 
 big buttons and made of the same cloth. Some wore 
 sabots on the march, others thriftily carried them in their 
 hands. Soiled with long wear, blackened with dust and 
 sweat, this costume had one distinct merit of its own ; for 
 if it was less original than the one first described, it 
 represented a period of historical transition, that ended in 
 the almost magnificent apparel of a few men who shone 
 out like flowers in the midst of the company. 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 3 
 
 Their red or yellow waistcoats, decorated with two 
 parallel rows of copper buttons, like a sort of oblong 
 cuirass, and their blue linen breeches, stood out in vivid 
 contrast to the white clothing and skin cloaks of their 
 comrades ; they looked like poppies and cornflowers in a 
 field of wheat. Some few of them were shod with the 
 wooden sabots that the Breton peasants make for them- 
 selves, but most of them wore great iron-bound shoes and 
 coats of very coarse material, shaped after the old French 
 fashion, to which our peasants still cling religiously. 
 Their shirt collars were fastened by silver studs with 
 designs of an anchor or a heart upon them ; and, finally, 
 their wallets seemed better stocked than those of their 
 comrades. Some of them even included a flask, filled 
 with brandy no doubt, in their traveller's outfit, hanging 
 it round their necks by a string. 
 
 A few townspeople among these semi-barbarous folk 
 looked as if they marked the extreme limits of civilisation 
 in those regions. Like the peasants, they exhibited con- 
 spicuous differences of costume, some wearing round 
 bonnets, and some flat or peaked caps ; some had high 
 boots with the tops turned down, some wore shoes 
 surmounted by gaiters. Ten or so of them had put 
 themselves into the jacket known to the Republicans as 
 a carmagnole ; others again, well-to-do artisans doubtless, 
 were dressed from head to foot in materials of uniform 
 colour ; and the most elegantly arrayed of them all wore 
 swallow-tailed coats or riding-coats of blue or green cloth 
 in more or less threadbare condition. These last, more- 
 over, wore boots of various patterns, as became people of 
 consequence, and flourished large canes, like fellows who 
 face their luck with a stout heart. A head carefully 
 powdered here and there, or decently plaited queues, 
 showed the desire to make the most of ourselves which 
 is inspired in us by a new turn taken in our fortunes or 
 our education. 
 
 Any one seeing these men brought together as if by 
 
4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 chance, and astonished at finding themselves assembled, 
 might have thought that a conflagration had driven the 
 population of a little town from their homes. But the 
 times and the place made this body of men interesting 
 for very different reasons. A spectator initiated into the 
 secrets of the civil discords which then were rending 
 France would have readily picked out the small number 
 of citizens in that company upon whose loyalty the 
 Republic could depend, for almost every one who 
 composed it had taken part against the Government in 
 the war of four years ago. One last distinguishing 
 characteristic left no doubt whatever as to the divided 
 opinions of the body of men. The Republicans alone 
 were in spirits as they marched. As for the rest of the 
 individuals that made up the band, obviously as they 
 might differ in their dress, one uniform expression was 
 visible on all faces and in the attitude of each — the 
 expression which misfortune gives. 
 
 The faces of both townspeople and peasants bore the 
 stamp of deep dejection ; there was something sullen 
 about the silence they kept. All of them were bowed 
 apparently beneath the yoke of the same thought — a 
 terrible thought, no doubt, but carefully hidden away. 
 Every face was inscrutable ; the unwonted lagging of 
 their steps alone could betray a secret understanding. A 
 few of them were marked out by a rosary that hung 
 round about their necks, although they ran some risks by 
 keeping about them this sign of a faith that had been 
 suppressed rather than uprooted : and one of these from 
 time to time would shake back his hair and defiantly raise 
 his head. Then they would furtively scan the woods, 
 the footpaths, and the crags that shut in the road on either 
 side, much as a dog sniffs the wind as he tries to scent 
 the game ; but as they only heard the monotonous sound 
 of the steps of their mute comrades, they hung their 
 heads again with the forlorn faces of convicts on their 
 way to the galleys, where they are now to live and die. 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 5 
 
 The advance of this column upon Mayenne, composed 
 as it was of such heterogeneous elements, and represent- 
 ing such widely different opinions, was explained very 
 readily by the presence of another body of troops which 
 headed the detachment. About a hundred and fifty 
 soldiers were marching at the head of the column under 
 the command of the chief of a demi-brigade. It may not be 
 unprofitable to explain, for those who have not witnessed 
 the drama of the Revolution, that this appellation was 
 substituted for the title of colonel, then rejected by patriots 
 as too aristocratic. The soldiers belonged to a demi- 
 brigade of infantry stationed in the depot at Mayenne. 
 In those disturbed times the soldiers of the Republic were 
 all dubbed Blues by the population of the West. The blue 
 and red uniforms of the early days of the Republic, which 
 are too well remembered even yet to require description, 
 had given rise to this nickname. So the detachment of 
 Blues was serving as an escort to this assemblage, con- 
 sisting of men who were nearly all ill satisfied at being 
 thus directed upon Mayenne, there to be submitted to a 
 military discipline which must shortly clothe them all 
 alike, and drill a uniformity into their march and ways of 
 thinking which was at present entirely lacking among 
 them. 
 
 This column was the contingent of Fougeres, ob- 
 tained thence with great difficulty ; and representing its 
 share of the levy which the Directory of the French 
 Republic had required by a law passed on the tenth day 
 of the previous Messidor. The Government had asked 
 for a subsidy of a hundred millions, and for a hundred 
 thousand men, so as to send reinforcements at once to 
 their armies, then defeated by the Austrians in Italy and 
 by the Prussians in Germany; while Suwarroff, who 
 had aroused Russia's hopes of making a conquest of 
 France, menaced them from Switzerland. Then it was 
 that the departments of the West known as la Vendee, 
 Brittany, and part of Lower Normandy, which had been 
 
6 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 pacified three years ago by the efforts of General Hoche 
 after four years of hard fighting, appeared to think that 
 the moment had come to renew the struggle. 
 
 Attacked thus in so many directions, the Republic 
 seemed to be visited with a return of her early vigour. 
 At first the defence of the departments thus threatened 
 had been intrusted to the patriotic residents by one of the 
 provisions of that same law of Messidor. The Govern- 
 ment, as a matter of fact, had neither troops nor money 
 available for the prosecution of civil warfare, so the 
 difficulty was evaded by a bit of bombast on the part of 
 the Legislature. They could do nothing for the revolted 
 districts, so they reposed complete confidence in them. 
 Perhaps also they expected that this measure, by setting 
 the citizens at odds among themselves, would extinguish 
 the rebellion at its source. c Free companies will be 
 organised in the departments of the West* — so ran the 
 proviso which brought about such dreadful retaliation. 
 
 This impolitic ordinance drove the West into so hostile 
 an attitude, that the Directory had no hope left of sub- 
 duing it all at once. In a few days, therefore, the 
 Assemblies were asked for particular enactments with 
 regard to the slight reinforcements due by virtue of the 
 proviso that had authorised the formation of the free 
 companies. So a new law had been proclaimed a few 
 days before this story begins, and came into effect on the 
 third complementary day of the calendar in the year vn., 
 ordaining that these scanty levies of men should be 
 organised into regiments. The regiments were to bear 
 the names of the departments of the Sarthe, Ourthe, 
 Mayenne, Ille-et-Vilaine, Morbihan, Loire-Inferieure,and 
 Maine-et-Loire. These regiments — so the law provided — 
 are specially enrolled to oppose the Chouans^ and can never 
 be drafted over the frontiers on any pretext whatsoever. 
 These tedious but little known particulars explain at once 
 the march of the body of men under escort by the Blues, 
 and the weakness of the position in which the Directory 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 7 
 
 found themselves. So, perhaps, it is not irrelevant to add 
 that these beautiful and patriotic intentions of theirs came 
 no further on the road to being carried out than their 
 insertion in the Bulletin des Lois. The decrees of the 
 Republic had no longer the forces of great moral ideas, of 
 patriotism, or of terror behind them. These had been 
 the causes of their former practical efficiency; so now 
 they created men and millions on paper which never 
 found their way into the army or the treasury. The 
 machinery of the Revolutionary government was directed 
 by incapable hands, and circumstances made impression on 
 the administration of the law instead of being controlled 
 by it. 
 
 The departments of Mayenne and Ille-et-Vilaine were 
 then in command of an experienced officer, who, being on 
 the spot, determined that now was the opportune moment 
 for arranging to draw his contingents out of Brittany, and 
 more particularly from Fougeres, which was one of the 
 most formidable centres of Chouan operations, hoping in 
 this way to diminish the strength of these districts from 
 which danger threatened. This devoted veteran availed 
 himself of the delusive provisions of the law to proclaim 
 that he would at once arm and equip the requisitionaries, 
 and that he held in hand for their benefit a month's pay, 
 which the Government had promised to these irregular 
 forces. Although Brittany declined every kind of military 
 service at that time, this plan of operations succeeded at 
 the first start on the faith of the promises made, and so 
 readily that the officer began to grow uneasy. 
 
 But he was an old watch-dog, and not easily put off his 
 guard, so that, as soon as he saw a portion of his con- 
 tingent hurrying to the bureau of the district, he suspected 
 that there was some hidden motive for this rapid influx of 
 men - y and, perhaps, he had guessed rightly when he 
 believed that their object was to procure arms for them- 
 selves. Upon this he took measures to secure his retreat 
 upon Alen^on, without waiting for the later arrivals. He 
 
8 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 wished to be within call of the better affected districts, 
 though even there the continual spread of the insurrection 
 made the success of his plans extremely problematical. In 
 obedience to his instructions, he had kept the news of the 
 disasters that had befallen our armies abroad a profound 
 secret, as well as the disquieting tidings that came from 
 la Vendee ; and on the morning when this story begins, 
 he had made an effort to reach Mayenne by a forced 
 march. Once there, he thought to carry out the law at 
 his leisure, and to fill up the gaps in his demi-brigade with 
 Breton conscripts. That word conscript^ which became 
 so well known later on, had replaced for the first time, 
 in the wording of the law, the term Requisitionary, 
 by which the Republican recruits had at first been 
 described. 
 
 Before leaving Fougeres, the commandant had made his 
 own troops surreptitiously take charge of all the cartridge 
 boxes and rations of bread belonging to the entire body 
 of men, so that the attention of the conscripts should not 
 be called to the length of the journey. He had made up 
 his mind to call no halt on the way to Ernee ; the 
 Chouans doubtless were abroad in the district, and the 
 men of his new contingent, once recovered from their 
 surprise, might enter into concerted action with them. 
 A sullen silence prevailed among the band of requisition- 
 aries, who had been taken aback by the old republican's 
 tactics ; and this, taken with their lagging gait as they 
 climbed the mountain side, increased to the highest pitch 
 the anxiety of the commandant of the demi-brigade, 
 Hulot by name. He was keenly interested in noting those 
 marked characteristics which have been previously de- 
 scribed, and was walking in silence among five subaltern 
 officers who all respected their chief's preoccupied mood. 
 
 As Hulot reached the summit of the Pelerine, how- 
 ever, he instinctively turned his head to examine the 
 restless faces of the requisitionaries, and forthwith broke 
 the silence. As a matter of fact, the Bretons had been 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 9 
 
 moving more and more slowly, and already they had put 
 an interval of some two hundred paces between them and 
 their escort. Hulot made a sort of grimace peculiar to 
 him at this. 
 
 'What the devil is the matter with the ragamuffins ? ' 
 he cried in the deep tones of his voice. c Instead of 
 stepping out, these conscripts of ours have their legs 
 glued together, I think.* 
 
 At these words the officers who were with him turned 
 to look behind them, acting on an impulse like that 
 which makes us wake with a start at some sudden 
 noise. The sergeants and corporals followed their ex- 
 ample, and the whole company came to a standstill, 
 without waiting for the wished-for word of command to 
 c Halt ! 9 If, in the first place, the officers gave a 
 glance over the detachment that was slowly crawling up 
 the Pelerine like an elongated tortoise, they were suffi- 
 ciently struck with the view that spread itself out before 
 their eyes to leave Hulot's remark unanswered, its 
 importance not being at all appreciated by them. They 
 were young men who, like many others, had been torn 
 away from learned studies to defend their country, and 
 the art of war had not yet extinguished the love of other 
 arts in them. 
 
 Although they were coming from Fougeres, whence 
 the same picture that now lay before their eyes could be 
 seen equally well, they could not help admiring it again 
 for the last time, with all the differences that the change 
 in the point of view had made in it. They were not 
 unlike those dilettanti who take more pleasure in a piece 
 of music for a closer knowledge of its details. 
 
 From the heights of the Pelerine the wide valley of the 
 Couesnon extends before the traveller's eyes. The town 
 of Fougeres occupies one of the highest points on the 
 horizon. From the high rock on which it is built the 
 castle commands three or four important ways of com- 
 munication, a position which formerly made it one of the 
 
lO 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 keys of Brittany. From their point of view the officers 
 saw the whole length and breadth of this basin, which is 
 as remarkable for its marvellously fertile soil as for the 
 varied scenery it presents. The mountains of schist rise 
 above it on all sides, as in an amphitheatre, the warm 
 colouring of their sides is disguised by the oak forests 
 upon them, and little cool valleys lie concealed in their 
 slopes. 
 
 The crags describe a wall about an apparently circular 
 enclosure, and in the depths below them lies a vast 
 stretch of delicate meadow-land laid out like an English 
 garden. A multitude of irregularly-shaped quick-set 
 hedges surrounds the numberless domains, and trees are 
 planted everywhere, so that this green carpet presents an 
 appearance not often seen in French landscapes. Unsus- 
 pected beauty lies hidden in abundance among its manifold 
 shadows and lights, and effects strong and broad enough 
 to strike the most indifferent nature. 
 
 At this particular moment the stretch of country was 
 brightened by a fleeting glory such as Nature loves at times 
 to use to heighten the grandeur of her imperishable j 
 creations. All the while that the detachment was cross- 
 ing the valley, the rising sun had slowly scattered the 
 thin white mists that hover above the fields in September 
 mornings ; and now when the soldiers looked back, an 
 invisible hand seemed to raise the last of the veils that had 
 covered the landscape. The fine delicate clouds were 
 like a transparent gauze enshrouding precious jewels that 
 lie, exciting our curiosity, behind it. All along the wide 
 stretch of horizon that the officers could see, there was 
 not the lightest cloud in heaven to persuade them by its 
 silver brightness that that great blue vault above them 
 was really the sky. It was more like a silken canopy 
 held up by the uneven mountain peaks, and borne aloft 
 to protect this wonderful combination of field and plain 
 and wood and river. 
 
 The officers did not weary of scanning that extent of 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 ii 
 
 plain, which gave rise to so much beauty of field and 
 wood. Some of them looked hither and thither for long 
 before their gaze was fixed at last on the wonderful 
 diversity of colour in the woods, where the sober hues 
 of groups of trees that were turning sere brought out 
 more fully the richer hues of the bronze foliage, a con- 
 trast heightened still further by irregular indentations of 
 emerald green meadow. Others dwelt on the warm 
 colouring of the fields, with their cone-shaped stooks of 
 buckwheat piled up like the sheaves of arms that soldiers 
 make in a bivouac, and the opposing hues of the fields of 
 rye that were interspersed among them, all golden with 
 stubble after the harvest. There was a dark-coloured 
 slate roof here and there, with a white smoke ascending 
 from it ; and here again a bright silvery streak of some 
 winding bit of the Couesnon would attract the gaze — 
 a snare for the eyes which follow it, and so lead the soul 
 all unconsciously into vague musings. The fresh fra- 
 grance of the light autumn wind and the strong forest 
 scents came up like an intoxicating incense for those who 
 stood admiring this beautiful country, and saw with 
 delight its strange wild-flowers and the vigorous green 
 growth that makes it a rival of the neighbouring land 
 of Britain, the country which bears the same name in 
 common with it. A few cattle gave life to the scene, 
 that was already full of dramatic interest. The birds 
 were singing, giving to the breezes in the valley a soft 
 low vibration of music. 
 
 If the attentive imagination will discern to the utmost 
 the splendid effects of the lights and shadows, the misty 
 outlines of the hills, the unexpected distant views afforded 
 in places where there was a gap among the trees, a broad 
 stretch of water, or the coy, swiftly-winding courses of 
 streams ; if memory fills in, so to speak, these outlines, 
 brief as the moment that they represent ; then those for 
 whom these pictures possess a certain worth will form 
 a dim idea of the enchanting scene that came as a 
 
12 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 surprise to the yet impressionable minds of the young 
 officers. 
 
 They thought that these poor creatures were leaving 
 their own country and their beloved customs in sadness, 
 in order to die, perhaps, on foreign soil, and instinctively 
 forgave them for a reluctance which they well under- 
 stood. Then with a kindness of heart natural to soldiers, 
 they disguised their complaisance under the appearance of 
 a wish to study the lovely landscape from a military point of 
 view. But Hulot, for the commandant must be called 
 by his name, to avoid his scarcely euphonious title of 
 chief of demi-brigade, was not the kind of soldier who is 
 smitten with the charms of scenery at a time when danger 
 is at hand, even if the Garden of Eden were to lie before 
 him. He shook his head disapprovingly, and his thick 
 black eyebrows were contracted, giving a very stern expres- 
 sion to his face. 
 
 c Why the devil don't they come along ? 9 he asked for 
 the second time, in a voice that had grown hoarse with 
 many a hard campaign. c Is there some Holy Virgin 
 or other in the village whose hand they want to 
 squeeze ? ' 
 
 4 You want to know why ? ' a voice replied. 
 
 The sounds seemed to come from one of the horns 
 with which herdsmen in these dales call their cattle 
 together. The commandant wheeled round at the words, 
 as sharply as if he had felt a prick from a sword point, and 
 saw, two paces from him, a queerer looking being than 
 any of those now on the way to Mayenne to serve the 
 Republic. 
 
 The stranger was a broad-shouldered, thick-set man ; 
 his head looked almost as large as that of a bull, and was 
 not unlike it in other respects ; his wide, thick nostrils 
 made his nose seem shorter than it really was ; his thick 
 lips turned up to display a snowy set of teeth, long lashes 
 bristled round the large black eyes, and he had a pair of 
 drooping ears, and red hair that seemed to belong rather 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 >3 
 
 to some root-eating race than to the noble Caucasian 
 stock. There was an entire absence of any other 
 characteristics of civilised man about the bare head, which 
 made it more remarkable still. His face might have 
 been turned to bronze by the sun ; its angular outlines 
 suggested a remote resemblance to the granite rocks that 
 formed the underlying soil of the district, and his face 
 was the only discernible portion of the body of this 
 strange being. From his neck downwards he was 
 enveloped in a kind of smock-frock, or blouse of a coarse 
 kind of material, much rougher than that of which the 
 poorest conscript's breeches were made. This smock- 
 frock or sarrau^ in which an antiquary would have 
 recognised the saye {saga) or say on of the Gauls, reached 
 only half-way down his person, where his nether integu- 
 ments of goat's skin were fastened to it by wooden 
 skewers, so roughly cut that the bark was not removed 
 from all of them. It was scarcely possible to distinguish 
 a human form in the 8 goat-skins ' (so they call them in 
 the district), which completely covered his legs and 
 thighs. His feet were hidden by huge sabots. His long, 
 sleek hair, very near the colour of the skins he wore, 
 was parted in the middle and fell on either side of his 
 face, much as you see it arranged in some mediaeval 
 statues still existing in cathedrals. Instead of the knotty 
 cudgel with which the conscripts slung their wallets from 
 their shoulders, he was hugging a large whip to his breast, 
 like a gun, a whip with a cleverly plaited thong that 
 seemed quite twice the usual length. 
 
 The sudden appearance of this quaint being seemed 
 readily explicable. At the first sight of him several 
 officers took him for a conscript or requisitionary (both of 
 these terms were still in use) who had seen the halt made 
 by the column and had fallen in with it. Nevertheless 
 the man's arrival amazed the commandant strangely ; for 
 though there was not the slightest trace of alarm about 
 him, he grew thoughtful. After a survey of the new- 
 
14 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 comer, he repeated his question mechanically, as if he 
 were preoccupied with sinister thoughts. 
 
 1 Yes, why don't they come up ? Do you happen to 
 
 know ? ' 
 
 His surly interlocutor answered with an accent which 
 showed that he found it sufficiently difficult to express 
 himself in French. 6 Because,' he said, stretching out 
 his big, rough hand towards Ernee, c there lies Maine, and 
 here Brittany ends,' and he struck the ground heavily as he 
 threw down the handle of his whip at the commandant's feet. 
 
 If a barbarous tomtom were suddenly struck in the 
 middle of a piece of music, the impression produced would 
 be very like the effect made upon the spectators of this 
 scene by the stranger's concise speech. That word 
 c speech' will scarcely give an idea of the hatred, the 
 thirst for vengeance expressed in the scornful gesture and 
 the brief word or two, or of the fierce and stern energy 
 in the speaker's face. The extreme roughness of the 
 man, who looked as though he had been hewn into shape 
 by an axe, his gnarled skin, the lines of ignorant stupidity 
 graven in every feature, gave him the look of a savage 
 divinity. As he stood there in his prophetic attitude he 
 looked like an embodied spirit of that Brittany which had 
 just awakened from a three years' sleep, to begin a struggle 
 once more in which victory could never show her face 
 save through a double veil of crape. 
 
 'There's a pretty image,' said Hulot to himself. 4 To 
 my mind, he looks like an envoy from folk who are about 
 to open negotiations with powder and ball ! ' 
 
 When he had muttered these words between his teeth, 
 the commandant's eyes travelled from the man before 
 him over the landscape, from the landscape to the detach- 
 ment, from the detachment over the steep slopes on either 
 side of the way with the tall gorse-bushes of Brittany 
 shading their summits, and thence he suddenly turned 
 upon the stranger, whom he submitted to a mute 
 examination, ending it at last by asking him sharply — 
 
The Ambuscade 1 5 
 
 1 Where do you come from ? ? 
 
 His keen, piercing eyes were trying to read the secret 
 thoughts beneath the inscrutable face before him, a face 
 which had meantime resumed the usual expression of 
 vacuous stolidity that envelops a peasant's face in repose. 
 
 ' From the country of the gars,' the man answered, 
 without a trace of apprehension. 
 
 c Your name ? 9 
 
 c Marche-a-Terre.' 
 
 * What makes you call yourself by your Chouan nick- 
 name ? It is against the law.' 
 
 Marche-a-Terre, as he called himself, gaped at the 
 commandant with such a thoroughly genuine appearance 
 of imbecility, that the soldier thought his remark was not 
 understood. 
 
 4 Are you part of the Fougeres requisition ? • 
 
 To this question Marche-a-Terre replied with an 4 1 
 don't know,' in that peculiarly hopeless fashion which 
 puts a stop to all conversation. He sat himself down 
 quietly at the roadside, drew from his blouse some slices 
 of a thin dark bannock made of buckwheat meal, the 
 staple food of Brittany, a melancholy diet in which only 
 a Breton can take delight, and began to eat with wooden 
 imperturbability. 
 
 He looked so absolutely devoid of every kind of intelli- 
 gence, that the officers compared him as he sat first to 
 one of the cattle browsing in the pasture land below, next 
 to an American Indian, and lastly to some aboriginal savage 
 at the Cape of Good Hope. Even the commandant 
 himself was deceived by his attitude, and heeded his fears 
 no longer, till by way of making assurance surer still he 
 gave a last glance at the suspected herald of an approaching 
 massacre, and noticed that his hair, his blouse, and his 
 goat-skin breeches were covered with thorns, bits of 
 wood, scraps of bramble and leaves, as if the Chouan had 
 come through the thickets for a long distance. He 
 looked significantly at his adjutant Gerard, who was 
 
 i 
 
i6 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 standing beside him, gripped his hand, and said in a low 
 voice — 
 
 6 We went out to look for wool, and we shall go back 
 again shorn.' 
 
 The astonished officers eyed one another in silence. 
 
 Here we must digress a little, so that those stay-at- 
 home people who are accustomed to believe nothing 
 because they never see anything for themselves, may be 
 induced to sympathise with the fears of the commandant 
 Hulot, for these people would be capable of denying the 
 existence of a Marche-a-Terre and of the Western 
 peasants who behaved with such heroism in those times. 
 
 The word gars, pronounced gd, is a relic of the Celtic 
 tongue. It passed into French from the Bas-Breton, 
 and of all words in the language that we speak to-day in 
 France, this one preserves the oldest traditions. The gats 
 was the principal weapon of the Gaels or Gauls ; gaisde 
 meant armed, gats meant valour, and gas force. The 
 close similarity proves that the word gars is connected 
 with these expressions in the language of our ancestors. 
 The word corresponds to the Latin word vir, a man ; the 
 significance at the root of virtus, strength or courage. 
 The apology for this dissertation lies in the fact that the 
 word is a part of our national history, and this possibly 
 may reinstate such words as gars, gar f on, gar 'fonette, gar re, 
 garcette, in the good graces of some persons who banish 
 them all from conversation as uncouth expressions ; they 
 come of a warlike origin for all that, and will turn up 
 now and again in the course of this narrative. c C'est une 
 fameuse garce ! ' was the little appreciated eulogium which 
 Mme. de Stael received in a little canton of the Ven- 
 domois, where she spent some of her days in exile. 
 
 The Gaul has left deeper traces of his character in 
 Brittany than in all the rest of France. Those parts of 
 the province, where the wild life and superstitious spirit 
 of our rough ancestors are glaringly evident, so to speak, 
 even in our day, were called the Pays des Gars. When 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 the population of a district consists of a number of 
 uncivilised people like those who have just been collected 
 together in the opening scene, the folk round about in 
 the country side call them ' The Gars of such and such 
 a parish,' which classical epithet is a sort of reward for 
 the loyalty of their efforts to preserve the traditions of 
 their Celtic language and customs. In their daily lives, 
 moreover, there are deep traces of the superstitious beliefs 
 and practices of ancient times. Feudal customs are even 
 yet respected, antiquaries find Druidical monuments there, 
 and the spirit of modern civilisation hesitates to traverse 
 those vast tracts of primeval forest. There is an incred- 
 ible ferocity and a dogged obstinacy about the national 
 character, but an oath is religiously kept. Our laws, 
 customs, and dress, our modern coinage and our language, 
 are utterly unknown among them ; and if, on the one hand, 
 their combination of patriarchal simplicity and heroic virtues 
 makes them less apt at projecting complicated schemes 
 than Mohicans or North American redskins, on the 
 other hand they are as magnanimous, as hardy, and as 
 shrewd. 
 
 The fact that Brittany is situated in Europe makes it 
 very much more interesting than Canada. It is sur- 
 rounded by enlightenment, but the beneficent warmth 
 never penetrates it ; the country is like some frozen 
 piece of coal that lies, a dim black mass, in the heart of a 
 blazing fire. The attempts made by some shrewd heads 
 to make this large portion of France, with its undeveloped 
 resources, amenable, to give it social life and prosperity, had 
 failed ; even the efforts of the Government had come 
 to nothing among a stationary people, wedded to the 
 usages prescribed by immemorial tradition. The natural 
 features of the country offer a sufficient explanation of 
 this misfortune ; the land is furrowed with ravines and 
 torrents, with lakes and marshes, it bristles with hedges, 
 as they call a sort of earthwork or fortification that makes 
 a citadel of every field. There are neither roads nor 
 
 B 
 
i8 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 canals, and the temper of an ignorant population must be 
 taken into account, a population given over to prejudices 
 that cause dangers to which this story will bear witness, 
 a population that will none of our modern methods of 
 agriculture. 
 
 The picturesque nature of the country and the super- 
 stitions of its inhabitants both preclude the aggregation 
 of individuals and the consequent benefits that might be 
 gained from a comparison and exchange of ideas. There 
 are no villages. Frail structures, cabins, as they call them, 
 are scattered abroad over the country side, and every 
 family there lives as if in a desert. At the only times 
 when the people are brought together, the meeting is a 
 brief one, and takes place on Sundays, or on one of the 
 religious festivals observed by the parish. These un- 
 sociable gatherings only last for a few hours, and are always 
 presided over by the recteur^ the only master that their 
 dull minds recognise. The peasant hears the awe-inspir- 
 ing voice of the priest, and returns to his unwholesome 
 dwelling for the week ; he goes out to work and goes 
 home again to sleep. If any one goes near him, it is that 
 same rector, who is the soul of the country side. It 
 was at the bidding of the priest, too, that so many 
 thousands of men flung themselves upon the Republic, 
 when these very Breton districts furnished large bodies 
 of men for the first Chouan organisation, five years 
 before this story begins. 
 
 In those days several brothers, daring smugglers, named 
 Cottereau, who gave their name to the war, had plied 
 their dangerous trade between Laval and Fougeres. But 
 there was nothing noble about these rural outbreaks ; for 
 if La Vendee had elevated brigandage into warfare, 
 Brittany had degraded war into brigandage. The pro- 
 scription of the princes and the overthrow of religion 
 were, to the Chouans, simply pretexts for plundering 
 excursions, and all the events of that internecine warfare 
 were coloured by something of the savage ferocity 
 
The Ambuscade 19 
 
 peculiar to the disposition of the race. When the 
 real supporters of the Monarchy came in search of 
 recruits among this ignorant and combative population, 
 they tried, and tried in vain, when they ranged the 
 Chouans under the white flag, to infuse some larger 
 ideas into the enterprises which had made Chouannerie 
 detested. The Chouans remained a memorable instance 
 of the dangers incurred by stirring up the masses of a 
 half-civilised country. 
 
 The scene that the first Breton valley offers to the 
 traveller's eyes, the picture that has been given of the men 
 who composed the detachment of requisitionaries, the 
 description of the gars who appeared on the summit of 
 the Pelerine, would give altogether an accurate idea of the 
 province and of those who dwelt in it. From those details 
 an expert imagination could construct the theatre and the 
 machinery of war ; therein lay all the elements. 
 
 Concealed enemies were lurking behind those hedges, 
 with the autumn flowers in them, in every lovely valley. 
 Every field was a fortress, every tree was a snare in 
 disguise, not an old hollow willow trunk but concealed a 
 stratagem. The field of battle lay in all directions. 
 At every corner of the road muskets were lying in wait 
 for the Blues ; young girls, smiling as they went, would 
 think it no treachery to lure them under the fire of 
 cannon, and go afterwards with their fathers and brothers 
 on pilgrimage to ask for absolution, and to pray to be 
 inspired with fresh deceits, at the shrine of some carved 
 and gilded Virgin. The religion, or rather the fetichism, 
 of these ignorant folk had deprived murder of all sense of 
 remorse. 
 
 So it befell that when the struggle had once begun, 
 there was danger everywhere throughout the length and 
 breadth of the country ; in sound as in silence, in pardon 
 or in terror, and by the fireside just as much as on the 
 high road. They were conscientiously treacherous, 
 these savages who were serving God and the King by 
 
20 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 making war like Mohicans. Yet if the historian is to 
 give a true and faithful picture of the struggle, in every 
 particular, he ought to add that as soon as Hoche's 
 treaty was signed the whole country became blithe and 
 friendly at once. Families who had been ready to fly at 
 each other's throats the day before, supped without danger 
 under the same roof. 
 
 The moment that Hulot became aware of the 
 treacherous secrets revealed by Marche-a-Terre's goat- 
 skin apparel, his conviction was confirmed; the auspicious 
 peace inaugurated through Hoche's ability was now at an 
 end ; its longer duration indeed seemed to him impossible. 
 It was in this manner that war broke out again, after three 
 years of inaction, and in a more formidable guise than 
 hitherto. Perhaps the temper of the Revolution, which 
 had grown milder since the Ninth of Thermidor, was 
 about to revert to the ferocity which had made it hateful 
 to every rightly constituted mind. English gold, as 
 usual, contributed to bring about discord in France. If 
 the Republic were abandoned by the young Bonaparte, 
 who seemed to be its tutelary genius, it seemed as if it 
 would be utterly unable to make a stand against so many 
 foes, and the last to appear were the bitterest among 
 them. Civil war, heralded by numberless risings of little 
 importance, assumed a gravity before unknown, from the 
 moment that Chouans conceived the idea of attacking 
 so strong an escort. This, in a concise form, was the 
 substance of Hulot's reflections, when he believed that 
 in Marche-a-Terre's sudden appearance he saw the signs 
 of a skilfully prepared trap. And he alone, for no one 
 else was in the secret of the danger. 
 
 The pause which ensued after the commandant's pro- 
 phetic remark to Gerard, and which put an end to the 
 previous scene, sufficed for Hulot to regain his composure. 
 The veteran's brain had almost reeled ; he could not shake 
 off the gloom which covered his brow as he thought that 
 he was even then surrounded by the horrors of a warfare 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 2! 
 
 marked by atrocities from which, perhaps, even cannibals 
 would shrink. His captain, Merle, and the adjutant 
 Gerard, both of them friends of his, tried to understand 
 the terror, quite new in their experience, of which their 
 leader's face gave evidence ; then they looked at Marche-a 
 Terre, who was eating his bannock, and could not discern 
 the remotest connection between the brave commandant's 
 uneasiness and this sort of animal at the roadside. 
 
 Hulot's face soon cleared, however. 
 
 While he deplored the calamities that had befallen the 
 Republic, he was glad at heart that he was to fight for 
 her ; he vowed gaily to himself that he would not be 
 gulled by the Chouans, and that he would read this dark 
 intriguing nature that they had done him the honour to 
 send against him. Before making any decision he began 
 to study the place in which his enemies wished to take 
 him at a disadvantage. His thick black eyebrows con- 
 tracted in a heavy frown as he saw from the middle of the 
 road where he stood that their way lay through a sort of 
 ravine, of no great depth it is true, but with woods on 
 either side, and many footpaths through them. He spoke 
 to his two comrades in a low and very uncertain voice — 
 
 6 We are in a nice hornet's nest ! ' 
 
 'What is it that you are afraid of?* 
 
 c Afraid ? ' answered the commandant. c Yes, afraid. 
 I have always been afraid of being shot like a dog at some 
 bend in a wood, without so much as a " Who goes 
 there ? " » 
 
 c Bah,' chuckled Merle, c even a " Who goes there ? 99 
 is also a deception.' 
 
 c We really are in danger then ? ' asked Gerard, as 
 much amazed now at Hulot's coolness as he had been 
 before at his brief spasm of fear. 
 
 c Hush ! ' said the commandant ; c we are in the wolf's 
 den ; it is as dark as in an oven in there, and we must 
 strike a light. It is lucky,' he went on, c that we occupy 
 the highest ground on this side.' He added a vigorous 
 
22 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 epithet by way of ornament, and went on, 'Perhaps 
 I shall end by understanding it clearly enough down 
 there.' 
 
 The commandant beckoned the two officers, and they 
 made a ring round Marche-a-Terre ; the gars pretended 
 to think that he was in the way, and got up promptly. 
 
 c Stop where you are, vagabond ! ' cried Hulot, giving 
 him a push so that he went down again on to the slope 
 where he had been sitting. From that moment the chief 
 of demi-brigade never took his eyes off the impassive 
 Breton. 
 
 1 It is time to let you know, my friends,' said Hulot, 
 addressing the two officers in low tones, c that they have 
 shut up shop down there. A mighty rummaging has 
 been set up in the Assemblies, and the Directory in 
 consequence has sent a few strokes of the broom our way. 
 Those Pentarchs of Directors — call them Pantaloons, it is 
 better French — have just lost a good sword ; Bernadotte 
 has had enough of it.' 
 
 c Who suceeeds him ? ' asked Gerard eagerly. 
 
 ' Milet-Mureau, an old pedant. They have pitched 
 on an awkward time for setting numskulls to pilot us. 
 There are English rockets going up on the coasts : these 
 cockchafers of Vendeans and Chouans about : and the 
 fellows at the back of those marionettes yonder have 
 cleverly selected the moment when we are about to 
 succumb.' 
 
 c What ? 9 asked Merle. 
 
 c Our armies are beaten back at every point,' said 
 Hulot, lowering his voice more and more. 'The 
 Chouans have intercepted our couriers twice already ; my 
 own despatches and the last decrees issued only reached 
 me by a special express that Bernadotte sent just as he 
 resigned his place in the ministry. Personal friends, 
 fortunately, have written to me about this crisis. Fouche 
 has found out that traitors in Paris have advised the tyrant 
 Louis xvm. to send a leader to his dupes in the interior. 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 *3 
 
 Some think that B arras is a traitor to the Republic. In 
 short, Pitt and the princes have sent a ci-devant over 
 here ; a strong man and a capable leader, he intends, by 
 combining the efforts of Vendeans and Chouans, to teach 
 the Republic to respect them. The fellow has landed in 
 Morbihan 5 I knew it before any one else, and I advised 
 those rascals in Paris of his arrival. The Gars he has 
 chosen to call himself. All those animals,' and he pointed 
 to March e-a-Terre, c fit themselves up with names that 
 would give any honest patriot the colic if you called him 
 by them. But our man is here in this country, and the 
 appearance of that Chouan yonder,' again he pointed to 
 March e-a-Terre, 'tells me that he is close upon us. 
 But there is no need to teach grimaces to an old monkey, 
 and you will help me now to cage my linnets, and in 
 less than no time. A pretty idiot I should be to let 
 myself be snared like a bird, and that by a ci-devant from 
 London, come over here pretending that he wants to 
 dust our jackets.' 
 
 Thus informed in confidence of the critical state of 
 affairs, the two officers, who knew that their commandant 
 never alarmed himself without good reason, assumed that 
 gravity of expression common to soldiers in pressing 
 danger, who have been thoroughly tempered and have 
 some insight into the ways of mankind. Gerard, whose 
 rank, since suppressed, brought him into close contact 
 with his commandant, made up his mind to reply, and to 
 ask for the rest of the political news which had evidently 
 been passed over; but a sign from Hulot kept him silent, 
 and all three of them fell to scrutinizing Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 The Chouan showed not the least sign of agitation at 
 finding himself watched in this way by men as formidable 
 intellectually as they were physically. This sort of 
 warfare was a novelty to the two officers ; their curiosity 
 was keenly excited by the opening event, and the whole 
 matter seemed to be invested with an almost romantic 
 interest. They were inclined to joke about it ; but at the 
 
*4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 first word which they let fall, Hulot looked at them 
 sternly and said — 
 
 1 Tonnerre de Dieu^ citizens ! don't smoke your pipes 
 over a barrel of powder. You might as well amuse your- 
 selves with carrying water in a basket, as by showing 
 courage where it isn't wanted. Gerard,' he continued, 
 leaning over, and whispering in the adjutant's ear, 4 get 
 nearer to the brigand bit by bit, and if he makes the least 
 suspicious movement, run him through the body at once. 
 And I myself will take measures for keeping up the 
 conversation if our unknown friends really have a mind 
 to begin it.' 
 
 Gerard bent his head slightly in obedience. Then he 
 began to look round at different points in the landscape 
 of the valley, with which the reader has had an opportunity 
 of making himself familiar. He appeared to wish to 
 study them more closely, stepping back upon himself, so 
 to speak, quite naturally ; but the landscape, it will well 
 be believed, was the last thing he had in view. Marche- 
 a-Terre, on the other hand, took no heed whatever of 
 the officer's manoeuvres. One might have supposed that 
 he was fishing in the ditch with a rod and line, from the 
 way he played with his whip handle. 
 
 While Gerard was trying in this way to take up his 
 position by the Chouan, the commandant spoke in a low 
 voice to Merle. 
 
 4 Take ten picked men and a sergeant, and post them 
 yourself up above us, just on that part of the summit on 
 this side where the road widens and makes a kind of 
 plateau ; you could see a good long stretch of the road to 
 Ernee from the place. Pick out a spot where there are 
 no woods on either side of the road, so that the sergeant 
 can keep a look-out over the country round. Take Clef- 
 des-Cceurs ; he has his wits about him. This is no 
 laughing matter at all ; I would not give a penny for our 
 skins if we don't take every advantage we can get.' 
 
 Captain Merle understood the importance of prompt 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 action, and the manoeuvre was executed at once. Then 
 the commandant waved his right hand, demanding 
 absolute silence from his men, who stood round about 
 amusing themselves with chat. He signed to them afresh 
 to shoulder arms, and as soon as everything was quiet 
 again, his eyes travelled from one side of the road to the 
 other ; he seemed in hope to detect muffled sounds of 
 weapons or of footsteps, preliminaries of the looked-for 
 struggle, and to be listening anxiously for them. His 
 keen black eyes appeared to penetrate the very depths of 
 the woods in a marvellous way. No sign was forth- 
 coming. He consulted the sand on the road, as savages 
 do, trying every means by which he could discover the 
 invisible foes, whose audacity was known to him. 
 
 In despair at finding nothing which justified his fears, 
 he went towards the side of the road, climbed with 
 some difficulty up the bank, and went deliberately along 
 the top of it. Suddenly he felt how largely his own 
 experience conduced to the safety of his detachment, and 
 he came down again. His face grew darker, for leaders 
 in those days were wont to regret that they could not 
 reserve the most dangerous missions for themselves alone. 
 The other officers and the men noticed their leader's 
 preoccupied mood. They liked him. The courage of 
 his character was recognised among them ; so they knew 
 that this exceeding caution on his part meant that danger 
 was at hand. How serious it was they could not pos- 
 sibly suspect ; so, though they remained motionless and 
 scarcely drew their breath, it was done intuitively. The 
 soldiers looked by turns along the valley of the Couesnon, 
 at the woods along the road, and at their commandant's 
 stern face, trying to gather what their fate was to be, 
 much as the dogs try to guess what the experienced 
 sportsman means who gives them some order which they 
 cannot understand. They looked at each other's eyes, 
 and a smile spread from mouth to mouth. 
 
 As Hulot made his peculiar grimace* Beau-Pied, a 
 
 ; 
 
26 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 young sergeant, who was regarded as the wit of the 
 company, said in a low voice — 
 
 c What the devil have we run ourselves into to make 
 that old dragoon of a Hulot turn such a muddy face on 
 us ? He looks like a whole council of war/ 
 
 Hulot flung a stern glance at Beau-Pied, and forthwith 
 there was a sudden accession of the silence required of 
 men under arms. In the middle of this awful pause the 
 lagging footsteps of the conscripts were heard. The 
 gravel under their feet gave out a dull monotonous sound 
 that added a vague disagreeable feeling to the general 
 anxiety, an indescribable feeling that can only be under- 
 stood by those who, in the silence of night, have been 
 victims of a terrible suspense, and have felt their hearts 
 beat heavily with redoubled quickness at some monotonous 
 recurring noise which has seemed to pour terror through 
 them drop by drop. The commandant reached the 
 middle of the road again. He was beginning to ask him- 
 self, 'Am I deceived?' -His rage concentrated itself j 
 already upon Marche-a-Terre and his stolid tranquillity ; 
 it flashed in his eyes like lightning as he looked at him ; 
 but he discerned a savage irony in the Chouan's sullen 
 gaze that convinced him that it would be better not to 
 discontinue his precautionary measures. His captain, 
 Merle, came up to him just then, after having executed 
 Hulot's orders. The mute actors in this scene, which 
 was like so many another that was to make this war one 
 of the most dramatic ever known, were looking out 
 impatiently for new sensations, curious to see any fresh 
 manoeuvres that should throw a light on obscure points 
 of the military position, for their benefit. 
 
 'Captain,' said the commandant, £ we did well to put 
 the small number of patriots that we can depend upon 
 among the requisitionaries at the rear of the detachment. 
 Take another dozen of stout fellows and put Sub- 
 lieutenant Lebrun at the head of them ; take them down 
 quickly yourself to the rear of the detachment ; they will 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 *7 
 
 support the patriots down there, and they will make the 
 whole troop of rascals move on, and quickly too, and 
 bring them up to the level of our own men in no time. 
 I am waiting for you.' 
 
 The captain disappeared among the troop. The com- 
 mandant looked out four resolute men, whom he knew 
 to be alert and active, and called them by a gesture only ; 
 he tapped his nose with his forefinger, and then pointed 
 to each in turn by way of a friendly sign. The four 
 approached him. c You served with me under Hoche,' 
 said he, c when we gave these scoundrels who call them- 
 selves Chasseurs du Roi a lesson, and you know their ways 
 of hiding themselves so as to pepper the Blues ! 9 
 
 All four soldiers held up their heads and pressed their 
 lips together significantly at this praise of their quick- 
 wittedness. There was a reckless acquiescence in the 
 soldierly heroic faces which showed that since the begin- 
 ning of the struggle between France and Europe, their 
 thoughts had scarcely strayed beyond the limits of the 
 cartridge pouch at their backs and the bayonet they 
 carried in front. They stood with pursed-up mouths, 
 looking curiously and attentively at the commandant. 
 
 'Very well,' went on Hulot, who in an eminent 
 degree possessed the art of speaking in the soldier's pic- 
 turesque language, 'stout fellows, such as we are, must 
 never allow the Chouans to make fools of us ; and there 
 are Chouans about, or my name is not Hulot. Be off, the 
 four of you, and beat up either side of the road. The 
 detachment is going to slip its cable ; keep well alongside 
 of it. Try not to hand in your checks, and clear up this 
 business for me. Sharp ! ' 
 
 He pointed out the dangerous heights above the road. 
 By way of thanks, all four raised the backs of their hands 
 before their old cocked hats; the turned-up brims, weather- 
 beaten now and limp with age, had fallen over the crowns. 
 One of them, Larose by name, a corporal that Hulot knew, 
 said as he made the muzzle of his gun ring on the ground — 
 
28 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c They shall have a solo on the clarionette, com- 
 mandant.' 
 
 They set out, two of them to the right, and the others 
 to the left. It was not without an inward tremor that the 
 company saw them disappear on either side of the way. 
 The commandant shared in this anxiety; he believed 
 that he had sent them to a certain death. He shuddered 
 in spite of himself when he saw their hats no longer, and 
 both officers and men heard the sound of their footsteps 
 on the dead leaves gradually dying away with a feeling 
 all the more acutely painful for being hidden so far 
 beneath the surface. In war there are scenes like these, 
 when four men sent into jeopardy cause more consterna- 
 tion than the thousands of corpses stretched upon the field 
 at Jemappes. So many and so fleeting are the expres- 
 sions of the military physiognomy, that those who would 
 fain depict them are obliged to call up memories of 
 soldiers in the past, and to leave it to non-combatants to 
 study their dramatic figures, for these stormy times were 
 so rich in detail that any complete description of them 
 could only be made at interminable length. 
 
 Just as the gleam of the bayonets of the four soldiers 
 was no longer visible, Captain Merle came back after 
 executing the commandant's orders with lightning speed. 
 With two or three words of command Hulot set the rest 
 of his troop in order of battle in the middle of the road ; 
 then he gave the word to regain the summit of the Pelerine, 
 where his little advance guard was posted, and he him- 
 self followed last of all, walking backwards, so that he 
 might see the slightest change that should come over 
 any of the principal points in that view which nature had 
 made so enchanting, and man, so full of terrors. 
 
 Marche-a-Terre had followed all the commandant's 
 manoeuvres with indifferent eyes, but he had watched 
 the two soldiers as they penetrated the woods that lay 
 to the right with incredible keenness ; and now, as 
 Hulot reached the spot where Gerard stood on guard 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 2 9 
 
 over him, Marche-a-Terre began to whistle two or three 
 times in a way that imitated the shrill, far-reaching 
 cry of the screech-owl. 
 
 The three notorious smugglers whose names have been 
 already mentioned used to employ some of the notes of 
 that cry at night to give warning of an ambush, of 
 danger, or of anything else that concerned them. In this 
 way the nickname Chuin arose, which, in the dialect of 
 the country, means an owl, or screech-owl. A corruption 
 of the word served to designate those who in the previous 
 war had adopted the tactics and signals of the three 
 brothers, so that when he heard the suspicious whistle 
 the commandant stopped and fixed his gaze on Marche-a- 
 Terre. He affected to be deceived by the Chouan's 
 appearance of imbecility, that he might keep him at his 
 side as a kind of barometer to indicate the enemy's move- 
 ments. So he caught Gerard's hand as it was raised to 
 dispatch the Chouan, and posted two soldiers a few paces 
 away from the spy, ordering them in loud and distinct tones 
 to be ready to shoot him down if he attempted to make 
 the slightest signal of any kind. In spite of his imminent 
 peril, Marche-a-Terre showed no sort of perturbation, and 
 the commandant, who was studying him, noticed this 
 indifference. 
 
 6 The chap isn't up to everything, 5 he said to Gerard. 
 1 Aha ! it is not so easy to read a Chouan's face ; but 
 this fellow's wish to exhibit his intrepidity has betrayed 
 him. If he had shammed fright, Gerard, I should have 
 taken him for a nincompoop, you see ; and there would 
 have been a pair of us, he and I. I had come to the end 
 of my tether. Ah, we shall be attacked ! But let 
 them come \ I am ready now ! ' 
 
 The old soldier rubbed his hands triumphantly when 
 he had muttered these words, and looked maliciously at 
 Marche-a-Terre ; then he locked his arms over his chest, 
 took his stand in the middle of the road between his two 
 favourite officers, and awaited the result of the measures 
 
The Chouans 
 
 he had taken. Sure of the issue, he looked his men over 
 calmly. 
 
 4 Oho ! we are going to have a row/ said Beau-Pied 
 in a low voice ; 4 the commandant is rubbing his hands.' 
 
 Commandant Hulot and his detachment found them- 
 selves in one of those critical positions where life is 
 really at stake, and when men of energetic character feel 
 themselves in honour bound to show coolness and self- 
 possession. Such times bring a man to the final test. 
 The commandant, therefore, who knew the danger 
 better than any of his officers, prided himself on appear- 
 ing the coolest person present. With his eyes fixed 
 alternately on the woods, the roadway, and March e-a- 
 Terre, he was expecting the general onslaught of the 
 Chouans (who, as he believed, lay concealed all about 
 them like goblins), with an unmoved face, but not without 
 inward anguish. Just as the men's eyes were all turned 
 upon his, slight creases appeared in the brown cheeks 
 with the scars of smallpox upon them, the commandant 
 screwed his lip sharply up to one side, blinked his eyes, 
 a grimace which was understood to be a smile by his 
 men, then he clapped Gerard on the shoulder, saying — 
 
 4 Now we have time to talk. What were you going 
 to say to me just now ? ' 
 
 4 What new crisis have we here, commandant ? ' 
 
 4 It is nothing new,' he answered in a low voice ; 
 c all Europe has a chance against us this time. Whilst the 
 Directors are squabbling among themselves like horses left 
 in the stable without any oats, and are letting the govern- 
 ment go all to pieces, they leave their armies unsupported. 
 We are utterly ruined in Italy. Yes, my friends, we 
 have evacuated Mantua on the top of the disasters at la 
 Trebbia, and Joubert has just lost the battle of Novi. I 
 only hope Massena will guard the Swiss passes, for 
 Suwarroff is overrunning the country. We are beaten 
 along the Rhine. Moreau has been sent out there by 
 the Directory. He is a fine fellow, but is he going to 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 keep the frontier ? I wish he may, I am sure ; but the 
 coalition will crush us altogether at last, and unluckily 
 the one general who could save us has gone to the devil 
 down there in Egypt ! And how is he to get back 
 moreover ? England is mistress of the seas.' 
 
 c Bonaparte's absence does not trouble me, command- 
 ant/ said Gerard, his young adjutant, whose superior 
 faculties had been developed by a careful education. c Is 
 our Revolution to end like that ? We are bound to do 
 more than merely defend the soil of France ; ours is a 
 double mission. Ought we not to keep alive the very soul 
 of our country, the generous principles of liberty and 
 independence, that human reason evoked by our Assem- 
 blies, which is winning its way, I hope, little by little ? 
 France is like a traveller with a light in her keeping ; 
 she must carry it in one hand and defend herself with 
 the other; if your news is well founded, for these ten 
 years past we have never been surrounded by so many 
 who would seek to blow it out. Our doctrines and our 
 country, all alike are about to perish.' 
 
 1 Alas, yes ! ' sighed the commandant Hulot. c Those 
 mountebanks of Directors have managed to quarrel with 
 all the men who could have steered the vessel — Berna- 
 dotte, Carnot, and every one else down to citizen Talleyrand 
 has abandoned us. There is only one good patriot left 
 in fact, our friend Fouche, who has everything in his 
 hands by police supervision. There is a man for you ! 
 He it was, too, who gave me warning in time of this 
 insurrection. For all that, here we are in some pitfall or 
 other, I am positive.' 
 
 c Oh, if the army did not interfere a little in the 
 government,' said Gerard, 4 the lawyers would put us 
 back in a worse position than we were in before the 
 Revolution. Do those wretches understand how to 
 make themselves obeyed ? ' 
 
 4 1 am always in fear that I shall hear of their treating 
 with the Bourbon princes. Tonnerre de Dieu ! If they 
 
32 The Chouans 
 
 came to an understanding, what a fix some of the rest 
 of us would be in out here/ 
 
 c No, no, commandant ; we shall not come to that,' 
 said Gerard. 4 As you say, the army would make its 
 voice heard ; and so that the army does not pick its words 
 out of Pichegru's dictionary, we shall not have been 
 cutting ourselves to pieces for ten years, I hope, over 
 carding the flax for others to spin.' 
 
 'Well/ said Captain Merle, Met us always conduct 
 ourselves here like good patriots, and try to cut off the 
 Chouan communications with la Vendee ; for if once they 
 hear that England has a finger in the matter, I would not 
 answer for the cap of our Republic, one and indivisible.' 
 
 Just then the cry of a screech-owl, heard from some 
 considerable distance, interrupted the conversation. Still 
 more uneasily the commandant again furtively scrutinised 
 Marche-a-Terre ; there was no sign of animation, so to 
 speak, in his stolid face. The recruits, drawn up to- 
 gether by one of the officers, were mustered like a herd 
 of cattle in the crown of the road, some thirty paces from 
 the troops in order of battle. Behind them again, at the 
 distance of some ten paces, came the soldiers and patriots 
 commanded by Lieutenant Lebrun. The commandant 
 ran his eyes over this array, and gave a last glance at the 
 picket posted in advance up the road. Satisfied with this 
 disposition of his forces, he turned to give the order to 
 march, when he saw the tricolour cockades of two of his 
 scouts returning from the search of the woods that lay 
 on the left. As he saw no sign whatever of the two sent 
 to reconnoitre the right-hand woods, the commandant 
 determined to wait for them. 
 
 6 Perhaps the trouble is coming from that quarter,' he 
 remarked to his two officers as he pointed out the woods 
 which seemed to have swallowed up his two enfants 
 perdus. 
 
 While the two scouts were making some sort of report, 
 Hulot ceased to watch Marche-a-Terre. The Chouan 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 33 
 
 began again to give a sharp whistle, a cry so shrill that it 
 could be heard a long way off ; and then, before either 
 of his guards so much as saw what he was after, he 
 dealt them each a blow from his whip -handle that 
 stretched them on the roadside. All at once answering 
 cries, or rather savage yells, startled the Republicans. 
 A terrible fire was opened upon them from the wood that 
 crowned the slope where the Chouan had been sitting, 
 and seven or eight of their men fell. Five or six soldiers 
 had taken aim at Marche-a-Terre, but none of them hit 
 him. He had climbed the slope with the agility of a wild 
 cat and disappeared in the woods above. His sabots 
 rolled down into the ditch, and it was easy then to see 
 upon his feet the great iron-bound shoes which were always 
 worn by the Chasseurs du Roi. At the first alarm given 
 by the Chouans, all the recruits had made a dash for it 
 into the woods on the right, like a flock of birds scared 
 by the approach of a passer-by. 
 
 c Fire on those rascals ! 9 roared the commandant. 
 
 The company fired, but the recruits were well able to 
 screen themselves from the musket-shots. Every man 
 set his back against a tree, and before the muskets had 
 been reloaded, they were all out of sight. 
 
 c Issue warrants for a Departmental Legion, eh ? 9 
 Hulot said to Gerard. c One would have to be as big a 
 fool as a Director to put any dependence on a requisition 
 from this district. The Assemblies would show more 
 sense if they would send us clothing, and money, and 
 ammunition, and give up voting reinforcements.' 
 
 c These swine like their bannocks better than ammuni- 
 tion bread,' said Beau-Pied, the wag of the company. 
 
 At his words, hooting and yells of derisive laughtei 
 went up from the Republican troops, crying shame on the 
 deserters, but a sudden silence followed all at once. The 
 soldiers saw the two scouts who had been sent by the 
 commandant to search the woods on the right, painfully 
 toiling down the slope, the less injured man supporting 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 his comrade, whose blood drenched the earth. The two 
 poor fellows had scarcely reached the middle of the bank 
 when Marche-a-Terre showed his hideous face. His aim 
 was so certain that, with one shot, he hit them both, and 
 they rolled heavily down into the ditch. His huge head 
 had barely shown itself before the muzzles of some thirty 
 muskets were levelled at him ; but he had disappeared 
 like a phantom behind the ominous gorse bushes. All 
 these things, which it takes so many words to describe, 
 came to pass almost in a moment; and in a moment 
 more, the patriots and soldiers of the rear-guard came up 
 with the rest of the escort. 
 * Forward ! 1 shouted Hulot. 
 
 The company rapidly gained the high and exposed 
 position where the picket had been placed. The com- 
 mandant then drew up his forces in order of battle, but 
 he saw no further hostile demonstration on the part of the 
 Chouans, and thought that the sole object of the ambus- 
 cade was the deliverance of his conscripts. 
 
 c Their cries tell me that they are not in great force. 
 Let us march double quick. We may possibly get to 
 Ernee before we have them down upon us.' 
 
 A patriot conscript overheard the words, left the ranks, 
 and stood before Hulot. 
 
 c General,' said he, c I Ve seen some of this sort of 
 fighting before as a Counter-Chouan. May I put in a 
 word or two ? ' 
 
 4 Here's one of these barrack-lawyers,' the commandant 
 muttered in Merle's ears ; c they always think they are 
 on for hearing. Go on ; argue away,' he added to the 
 young man from Fougeres. 
 
 'Commandant, the Chouans have brought arms, of 
 course, for those men that they have just recruited. If 
 we have to run for it now, they will be waiting for us at 
 every turn in the woods, and will pick us off to a man 
 before we can get to Ernee. We must argue, as you say, 
 but it must be with cartridges ; then, during the skirmish, 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 35 
 
 which will last longer than you look for, one of us could 
 go for the National Guard and the Free Companies 
 stationed at Fougeres. We may be conscripts, but you 
 shall see by that time that we are not carrion-kites.' 
 
 c Then you think the Chouans are here in some 
 force ! * 
 
 4 Judge for yourself, citizen-commandant.' 
 
 He led Hulot to a spot on the plateau where the sand 
 had been disturbed, as if a rake had been over it \ and, 
 after calling Hulot's attention to this, led him some little 
 way along a footpath where traces of the passage of a 
 large body of men were distinctly visible. Leaves had 
 been trodden right into the trampled earth. 
 
 c That will be the gars from Vitre,' said the Fougerais ; 
 c they have gone to join the Bas-Normands. 7 
 
 c What is your name, citizen ? ' asked Hulot. 
 
 4 Gudin, commandant.' 
 
 c Well, then, Gudin, I shall make you corporal of your 
 townsmen here. You are a long-headed fellow, it seems 
 to me. I leave it to you to pick out one of your 
 comrades, who must be sent to Fougeres, and you your- 
 self will keep close beside me. But, first, there are these 
 two poor comrades of ours that those brigands have laid 
 out on the road there — you and some of your conscripts 
 can go and take their guns, and clothes, and cartridge- 
 boxes. You shall not stop here to take shots without 
 returning them.' 
 
 The brave Fougerais went to strip the dead, protected 
 by an energetic fire kept up upon the woods by the whole 
 company. It had its effect, for the party returned 
 without losing a man. 
 
 c These Bretons will make good soldiers,' said Hulot 
 to Gerard, ( if their mess happens to take their 
 fancy.' 
 
 Gudin's messenger set out at a trot down a pathway 
 that turned off to the left through the woods. The 
 soldiers, absorbed in examining their weapons, prepared for 
 
36 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 the coming struggle. The commandant passed them in 
 review, smiled encouragingly, and, placing himself with 
 his two favourite officers a step or two in advance, 
 awaited the onset of the Chouans with composure. 
 
 Silence prevailed again, but it was only for a moment. 
 Then three hundred Chouans, dressed exactly like the 
 requisitionaries, issued from the woods to the right. 
 They came on in no order, uttering fearful cries, and 
 occupied the width of the road before the little battalion of 
 Blues. The commandant divided his troops into two equal 
 parts, each part presenting a front of ten men to the enemy. 
 Between these divisions, and in the centre, he placed 
 himself at the head of his band of twelve hastily equipped 
 conscripts. The little army was protected by two wings 
 of twenty-five men each, under the command of Gerard 
 and Merle. These officers were to take the Chouans 
 adroitly in flank, and to prevent them from scattering 
 about the country — fegailler they call the movement in 
 the patois of this district, when every peasant would take 
 up his position where he could shoot at the Blues without 
 exposing himself, and the Republican troops were utterly 
 at a loss to know where to have their enemies. 
 
 These arrangements, made with the rapidity demanded 
 by the circumstances, seemed to infuse the commandant's 
 self-reliance into the men, and all advanced upon the 
 Chouans in silence. At the end of the few seconds 
 needed for the two bodies of men to approach each other, 
 there was a sudden discharge at close quarters which 
 scattered death through either rank ; but in a moment 
 the Republican wings had wheeled and taken the Chouans 
 in flank. These latter had no means of opposing them, 
 and the hot, pertinacious fire of their enemies spread 
 death and disorder in their midst. This manoeuvre 
 nearly redressed the balance of the numbers on either 
 side ; but the courage and firmness of the Chouan 
 character was equal to all tests. They did not give way ; 
 their losses did not shake them 5 they closed their ranks 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 37 
 
 and tried to surround the little, dark, compact lines of 
 Blues, who appeared in the narrow space they occupied 
 like a queen bee in the midst of a swarm. 
 
 Then they engaged in one of those horrible struggles 
 at close quarters, when the rattle of musketry almost 
 ceases, and the click of the bayonets is heard instead, and 
 the ranks meet man to man ; and, courage being equal on 
 either side, the victory is won by sheer force of numbers. 
 At first the Chouans would have carried all before them 
 if the two wings under Merle and Gerard had not 
 brought two or three volleys to bear slantwise on the 
 enemy's rear. By rights the two wings should have 
 stayed where they were, and continued to pick off their 
 formidable foes in this adroit manner ; but the sight of 
 the heroic battalion, now hemmed in on all sides by the 
 Chasseurs du Roi^ excited them. They flung themselves 
 like madmen into the struggle on the roadway, bayonet 
 in hand, and redressed the balance again for a few 
 moments. Both sides gave themselves up to a furious 
 zeal, aggravated by the ferocious cruelty of party-spirit 
 that made this war an exception. Each became absorbed 
 by his own peril, and was silent. The place seemed chill 
 and dark with death. The only sounds that broke the 
 silence, and rose above the clash of weapons and the 
 grating noise of the gravel underfoot, were the deep, 
 hollow groans of those who fell badly wounded, or of the 
 dying as they lay. In the Republican centre the dozen 
 conscripts defended the person of the commandant (who 
 issued continual warnings and orders manifold) with such 
 courage that more than once a soldier here and there had 
 cried, " Bravo, conscripts ! " 
 
 Hulot, the imperturbable and wide-awake, soon noticed 
 among the Chouans a man, also surrounded by picked 
 troops, who appeared to be their leader. It seemed to 
 him very needful to make quite sure of this officer ; now 
 and again he made efforts to distinguish his features, 
 hidden by a crowd of broad hats and red caps, and in this 
 
38 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 way he recognised Marche-a-Terre beside the officer, 
 repeating his orders in a hoarse voice, while he kept his 
 carbine in constant use, Hulot grew tired of the repeated 
 annoyance. He drew his sword, encouraged his requisi- 
 tionaries, and dashed so furiously upon the Chouan centre 
 that he penetrated their ranks and caught a glimpse of 
 the officer, whose face, unluckily, was hidden by a large 
 felt hat with a white cockade. But the stranger, taken 
 somewhat aback by this bold onset, suddenly raised his 
 hat. Hulot seized the opportunity to make a rapid 
 survey of his opponent. 
 
 The young chief, who seemed to Hulot to be about 
 twenty-five years of age, wore a short green cloth shoot- 
 ing coat. The white sash at his waist held pistols, the 
 heavy shoes he wore were bound with iron like those of 
 the Chouans ; gaiters reaching to the knee, and breeches of 
 some coarse material, completed the costume. He was of 
 middle height, but well and gracefully made. In his 
 anger at seeing the Blues so near to him, he thrust on his hat 
 again and turned towards them, but Marche-a-Terre and 
 others of his party surrounded him at once, in alarm. 
 Still through gaps in the crowd of faces that pressed 
 about the young man and came between them, Hulot 
 felt sure he saw a broad red riband on the officer's 
 unfastened coat, that showed the wearer to be a Knight 
 Commander of the Order of St. Louis. The com- 
 mandant's eyes, at first attracted by the long-forgotten royal 
 decoration, were turned next upon a face, which he lost 
 sight of again in a moment, for the risks of battle com- 
 pelled him to watch closely over the safety and the move- 
 ments of his own little band. He had scarcely time to 
 see the colour of the sparkling eyes, but the fair hair and 
 delicately cut features tanned by the sun did not escape 
 him, nor the gleam of a bare neck that seemed all the 
 whiter by contrast with a loosely knotted black scarf. 
 There was the enthusiasm and excitement of a soldier in the 
 bearing of the young leader, and of a type of soldier for 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 39 
 
 whom a certain dramatic element seems desirable in a 
 fight. The hand that swung the sword-blade aloft in 
 the sunlight was well gloved, vigour was expressed in 
 the face, and a certain refinement also in a like degree. In 
 his high-wrought exaltation, set off by all the charms of 
 youth and graciousness of manner, he seemed to be a fair 
 ideal type of the French noblesse ; while Hulot, not four 
 paces from him, might have been the embodiment of the 
 energetic Republic for whom the veteran was fighting. 
 His stern face, his blue uniform faced with the worn red 
 facings, the grimy epaulettes that hung back over his 
 shoulders, expressed the character and the deficiencies of 
 their owner. 
 
 The graceful attitude and expression of the younger 
 man were not lost upon Hulot, who shouted as he tried 
 to reach him — 
 
 * Here you, ballet-dancer ! come a little nearer, so that 
 I may get a chance at you ! 9 
 
 The Royalist leader, irritated by the momentary check, 
 made a desperate forward movement ; but the moment his 
 own men saw the danger he was thus incurring, they all 
 flung themselves upon the Blues. A clear, sweet voice 
 suddenly rang out above the din of conflict — 
 
 4 Here it was that the sainted Lescure fell ! Will you 
 not avenge him ? ' 
 
 At these magical words the Chouan onset became 
 terrible ; the little troup of Republican soldiers kept their 
 line unbroken with the greatest difficulty. 
 
 c If he had not been a youngster,' said Hulot to him- 
 self, as he gave way step by step, 6 we should not have 
 been attacked at all. When did Chouans offer battle 
 before ? But so much the better, they won't shoot us 
 down like dogs along the road.' 
 
 He raised his voice till the woods echoed with the 
 words — 
 
 c Come, look alive, men ; are we going to let ourselves 
 be fooled by these bandits ? ' 
 
40 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 The verb is but a feeble substitute for that of the 
 gallant commander's choice, but old hands will be able to 
 insert the genuine word, which certainly possesses a more 
 soldierly flavour. 
 
 'Gerard, Merle,' the commandant continued, c call 
 in your men, form them in columns, and fail on their 
 rear, fire on these curs, and make an end of them ! ' 
 
 Hulot's orders were carried out with great difficulty ; 
 for the young chief heard the voice of his antagonist, and 
 shouted — 
 
 c Saint Anne of Auray ! Don't let them get away ! 
 Scatter yourselves, my gars ! ' 
 
 As either wing commanded by Merle and Gerard with- 
 drew from the thick of the fray, each little column was 
 pertinaciously followed by Chouans in greatly superior 
 numbers. The old goat-skins surrounded the men under 
 Merle and Gerard on all sides, once more uttering those 
 threatening cries of theirs, like the howls of wild beasts. 
 
 c Silence, gentlemen!' shouted Beau-Pied; c we 
 can't hear ourselves being killed.' 
 
 The joke put fresh heart into the Blues. 
 
 The fighting was no longer concentrated upon & 
 single point, the Republicans defended themselves in 
 three different places on the plateau of the Pelerine, and 
 the valleys, so quiet hitherto, re-echoed with the sound of 
 the firing. Hours might have passed and left the issue 
 still undecided, or the struggle might have come to an end 
 for lack of combatants. The courage of Blues and 
 Chouans was evenly matched, and the fierce desire of 
 battle was surging as it were from the one side to the 
 other, when far away and faintly there sounded the tap of 
 a drum, and from the direction of the sound the corps that 
 it heralded must be crossing the valley of the Couesnon. 
 
 c That is the National Guard from Fougeres ! ' cried 
 Gudin ; c Vannier must have fallen in with them ! ' 
 
 His voice reached the young leader and his ferocious 
 aide-de-camp j the Royalists began to give way ; but a cry 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 41 
 
 like a wild beast's from Marche-a-Terre promptly checked 
 them. Two or three orders were given in a low voice 
 by the chief, and translated by Marche-a-Terre into Bas- 
 Breton for the Chouans ; and the retreat began, conducted 
 with a skill which baffled the Republicans, and even their 
 commandant. In the first place, such of the Chouans as were 
 not disabled drew up in line at the word, and presented a 
 formidable front to the enemy, while the wounded and the 
 remainder of them fell behind to load their guns. Then 
 all at once, with a swiftness of which Marche-a-Terre 
 had given an example, the wounded from the rear gained 
 the summits of the bank on the right side of the road, and 
 were followed thither by half of the remaining Chouans, 
 who clambered nimbly up, and manned the top of the 
 bank, only their energetic heads being visible to the 
 Blues below. Once there, they made a sort of rampart of 
 the trees, and thence they brought the barrels of their 
 guns to bear upon the remnant of the escort, who had 
 rapidly drawn up in obedience to repeated orders from 
 Hulot, in such a way as to present a front equal to that 
 of the Chouans, who were still occupying the road. 
 These last fell back, still disputing the ground, and 
 wheeled so as to bring themselves under cover of the fire 
 of their own party. When they reached the ditch which 
 lay by the roadside, they scrambled in their turn up the 
 steep slope, whose top was held by their own comrades, 
 and so rejoined them, steadily supporting the murderous 
 fire of the Republicans, which filled the ditch with 
 dead bodies, the men from the height of the scarp 
 replying the while with a fire no less deadly. 
 
 Just then the National Guard from Fougeres arrived 
 at a run on the scene of the conflict, and with their pre- 
 sence the affair was at an end. A few excited soldiers 
 and the National Guards were leaving the footpath to 
 follow them up in the woods, but the commandant called 
 to them in his soldier's voice, " Do you want to be cut 
 to bits over there ? " 
 
42 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 They came up with the Republican troops, who were 
 left in possession of the field indeed, but only after heavy 
 losses. Then all the old hats went aloft on the points of their 
 bayonets, while every soldier's voice cried twice over, 'Long 
 live the Republic ! ' Even the wounded men lying by the 
 roadside shared alike in the enthusiasm, and Hulot squeezed 
 his lieutenant's hand as he said— 
 
 4 One might call that pluck, eh ? ' 
 
 Merle was ordered to bury the dead in a ravine by the 
 wayside. Carts and horses were requisitioned from 
 neighbouring farms for the wounded, whom their com- 
 rades hastened to lay on the clothing taken from the 
 dead. Before they set out, the National Guard from 
 Fougeres brought a Chouan to Hulot ; the man was 
 dangerously wounded, and had been found lying exhausted 
 at the foot of the slope, up which his party had made 
 their escape. 
 
 4 Thanks for this prompt stroke of yours, citizens,' 
 said the commandant. 1 Tonnerre de Dieu ! we should 
 have had a bad quarter of an hour but for you. You 
 must look out for yourselves now ; the war has broken 
 out in earnest. Good day, gentlemen ! ' 
 
 Hulot turned to his prisoner. 
 
 c What is your general's name ? ' 
 
 1 The Gars.' 
 
 * Who ? Marche-a-Terre ? 9 
 < No, the Gars.' 
 
 * And where does the Gars come from ? ' 
 
 To this question the Chasseur du Roi made no reply ; 
 his wild, weather-beaten face was drawn with pain > he 
 took his beads and began to mutter a prayer, 
 
 'The Gars is that young ci-devant with the black 
 cravat, no doubt. He has been sent over here by the 
 Tyrant and his allies Pitt and Cobourg 9 
 
 Here the Chouan, who had so far seemed unconscious 
 of what was going on, raised his head at the words to say 
 proudly — 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 43 
 
 1 Sent by God and the King ! ' 
 
 The energy with which he spoke exhausted his 
 strength. The commandant turned away with a frown. 
 He saw the difficulty of interrogating a dying man, a man, 
 moreover, who bore signs of a gloomy fanaticism in every 
 line of his face. Two of his men stepped forward and 
 took aim at the Chouan ; they were friends of the two 
 poor fellows whom Marche-a-Terre had dispatched so 
 brutally with a blow from his whip at the outset, for both 
 were lying dead at the roadside. The Chouan's steady 
 eyes did not flinch before the barrels of the muskets that 
 they pointed at him, although they fired close to his face. 
 He fell; but when the men came up to strip the corpse, 
 he shouted again for the last time, 6 Long live the 
 King!' 
 
 'All right, curmudgeon,' said Clef-des-Coeurs, 
 c Be off to your Holy Virgin and get your supper. 
 Didn't he come back and say to our faces, " Long live the 
 Tyrant," when we thought it was all over with him ? ' 
 
 4 Here, sir,' said Beau-Pied; 'here are the brigand's 
 papers.' 
 
 'Look here, though,' cried Clef-des-Cceurs; 'here's a 
 fellow been enlisted by the Saints above ; he wears their 
 badge here on his chest ! ' 
 
 Hulot and some others made a group round the 
 Chouan's naked body, and saw upon the dead man's 
 breast a flaming heart tattooed in a bluish colour, a token 
 that the wearer had been initiated into the Brotherhood of 
 the Sacred Heart. Under the symbol Hulot made out 
 1 Marie Lambrequin^ evidently the Chouan's own name. 
 
 c You see that, Clef-des-Cceurs ? ' asked Beau-Pied. 
 ' Well, you would guess away for a century and never 
 find out what that part of his accoutrements means.' 
 
 < How should / know about the Pope's uniforms,' 
 replied Clef-des-Coeurs. 
 
 * You good-for-nothing flint-crusher, will you never be 
 any wiser ? Can't you see that they promised the chap 
 
44 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 there that he should come to life again ? He painted his 
 gizzard so as to be known by it.' There was some 
 ground for the witticism. Hulot himself could not help 
 joining in the general laughter that followed. 
 
 By this time Merle had buried the dead, and the 
 wounded had been laid in the carts as carefully as might 
 be. The other soldiers formed in a double file, one on 
 either side of the improvised ambulance waggons, and in 
 this manner they went down the other side of the 
 mountain, the outlook over Maine before their eyes, and 
 the lovely valley of the Pelerine, which rivals that of the 
 Couesnon. Hulot and his two friends Merle and Gerard 
 followed slowly after the men, wishing that they might, 
 without further mishap, reach Ernee, where the wounded 
 could be attended to. 
 
 This engagement, though scarcely heard of in France, 
 where great events were even then taking place, attracted 
 some attention in the West, where this second rising 
 filled every one's thoughts. A change was remarked in 
 the methods adopted by the Chouans in the opening of 
 the war : never before had they attacked so considerable 
 a body of troops. Hulot's conjectures led him to suppose 
 that the young Royalist whom he had seen must be 1 the 
 Gars,' a new general sent over to France by the princes, 
 and that his own name and title were concealed after the 
 custom of Royalist leaders by that kind of nickname 
 which is called a nom-de- guerre. This circumstance made 
 him as uneasy after his dubious victory as he had been on 
 his first suspicion of an ambuscade ; more than once he 
 turned to look at the plateau of La Pelerine, which he was 
 leaving behind, while even yet at intervals the faint sound 
 of a drum reached him, for the National Guard was going 
 down the valley of the Couesnon, while they themselves 
 were descending the valley of La Pelerine. 
 
 * Can either of you suggest their motive for attacking 
 us ? ' he began abruptly, addressing his two friends. 
 * Fighting is a kind of trade in musket shots for them, 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 45 
 
 and I cannot see that they have made anything in our case. 
 They must have lost at least a hundred men ; while we,' 
 he added, screwing up his right cheek, and winking his 
 eyes by way of a smile, 'have not lost sixty. By 
 Heaven, I can't understand the speculation ! The 
 rogues need never have attacked us at all. We should 
 have gone past the place like letters by the post, and I 
 can't see what good it did them to make holes in our 
 fellows.' 
 
 He pointed dejectedly to the wounded as he spoke. 
 4 May be they wanted to wish us good day,' he added. 
 
 4 But they have secured a hundred and fifty of our 
 lambs,' said Merle, thinking of the recruits. 
 
 * The requisitionaries could have hopped off into the 
 woods like frogs; we should not have gone in to fish 
 them out again, at any rate not after a volley or two. 
 No, no,' went on Huloti; c there is something more 
 behind.' 
 
 He turned again to look at La Pelerine. 
 6 Stay,' he cried ; c look there ! ' 
 
 Far away as they were from the unlucky plateau by 
 this time, the practised eyes of the three officers easily 
 made out Marche-a-Terre and others in possession of the 
 place. 
 
 'Quick march!' cried Hulot to his troop. c Stir 
 your shanks and make those horses move on faster than 
 that. Are their legs frozen ? Have the beasts also 
 been sent over by Pitt and Cobourg ? ' The pace of the 
 little troop was quickened by the words. 
 
 4 1 hope to Heaven we shall not have to clear up this 
 mystery at Ernee with powder and ball,' he said to the 
 two officers ; c it is too dark a business for me to see 
 through readily. I am afraid we shall be told that the 
 king's subjects have cut off our communications with 
 Mayenne.' 
 
 The very strategical problem which made Hulot's 
 moustache bristle, gave anxiety, no whit less keen, to the 
 
4 6 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 men whom he had discovered upon the summit of La 
 Pelerine. The drum of the National Guard from 
 Fougeres was hardly out of earshot, the Blues had only 
 reached the bottom of the long steep road below, when 
 Marche-a-Terre cheerfully gave the cry of the screech 
 owl again, and the Chouans reappeared, but in smaller 
 numbers. Some of them must have been occupied in 
 bandaging the wounded at the village of La Pelerine, on 
 the side of the hills overlooking the valley of the 
 Couesnon. Two or three Chasseurs du Roi came up to 
 Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 Four paces away the young noble sat musing on a 
 granite boulder, absorbed by the numerous thoughts to 
 which his difficult enterprise gave rise in him. Marche- 
 a-Terre shaded the sun from his eyes with his hand as he 
 dejectedly followed the progress of the Republicans down 
 the valley of La Pelerine. His small keen black eyes were 
 trying to discover what was passing on the horizon 
 where the road left the valley for the opposite hillside. 
 
 c The Blues will intercept the mail,' said one of the 
 chiefs sullenly, who stood nearest to Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 c By St. Anne of Auray ! ' asked another, 'why did 
 you make us fight ? To save your own skin ? 9 
 
 Marche-a-Terre's glance at the speaker was full of 
 malignity ; he rapped the butt of his heavy carbine on 
 the ground. c Am I in command?' said he. Then 
 after a pause he went on, c If all of you had fought as I 
 did, not one of the Blues would have escaped,' and he 
 pointed to the remnant of Hulot's detachment below, 
 c and perhaps then the coach would have come through 
 as far as here.' 
 
 c Do you suppose,' asked a third speaker, i that the 
 idea of escorting it, or stopping it either, would have 
 crossed their minds if we had let them pass peaceably ? 
 You wanted to save your own hide, you that would have 
 it the Blues were not on the march. He must save his 
 own bacon/ he went on, turning to the others, i and the 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 47 
 
 rest of us must bleed for it, and we are like to lose twenty 
 thousand francs in good gold coin besides/ 
 
 * Bacon yourself!' cried Marche-a-Terre, drawing 
 back and bringing his carbine to bear on his adversary. 
 4 It's not that you hate the Blues, but that you are fond 
 of money. You shall die without confession, do you 
 hear ? A damned rascal that hasn't taken the sacrament 
 this twelvemonth past.' 
 
 The Chouan turned white with rage at this insult, a 
 deep growl came from his chest as he raised his musket 
 and pointed it at Marche-a-Terre. The young leader 
 rushed between them, knocked the firearms out of their 
 hands by striking up their weapons with the stock of his 
 carbine, and demanded an explanation of the quarrel. 
 The dispute had been carried on in Bas Breton, with 
 which he was not very familiar. 
 
 Marche-a-Terre explained, and ended his discourse 
 with, c It's the more shame to them that bear a grudge 
 against me, my lord marquis, for I left Pille-Miche 
 behind, and very likely he will keep the coach out of 
 these robbers' clutches.' He pointed to the Blues, for 
 these faithful defenders of altar and throne were all 
 brigands and murderers of Louis xvi. 
 
 c What ? ' cried the young man angrily. c Do you 
 mean to say you are waiting here to stop a coach ? 
 You cowards, who could not gain the victory in the first 
 encounter with me for your commander ! How is 
 victory possible with such intentions ? So those who 
 fight for God and the King are pillagers ? By St. Anne 
 of Auray ! we are making war on the Republic and not 
 on diligences. Any one guilty of such disgraceful 
 actions in future will not be pardoned, and shall not 
 benefit by the favours destined for brave and faithful 
 servants of the King.' 
 
 A murmur like a growl arose from the band. It was 
 easy to see that the authority of the new leader, never 
 very sure over these undisciplined troops, had been com- 
 
48 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 promised. Nothing of this was lost upon the young man, 
 who cast about him for a means of saving his orders 
 from discredit, when the sound of approaching horse-hoofs 
 broke the silence. Every head was turned in the direction 
 whence the sound seemed to come. A young woman 
 appeared, mounted sideways upon a little horse, her pace 
 quickened to a gallop as soon as she saw the young man. 
 
 c What is the matter ? ' she asked, looking by turns at 
 the chief and the assembled Chouans. 
 
 'Would you believe it, madame, they are waiting to 
 plunder the coach that runs between Mayenne and 
 Fougeres, just as we have liberated our gars from 
 Fougeres in a skirmish which has cost us a good many 
 lives, without our being able to demolish the Blues.' 
 
 4 Very well, but where is the harm ? ' asked the young 
 lady, whose woman's tact had revealed the secret of this 
 scene to her. 4 You have lost some men, you say ; we 
 shall never run short of them. The mail is carrying 
 money, and we are always short of that. We will bury 
 our men, who will go to heaven, and we will take the 
 money, which will go into the pockets of these good 
 fellows. What is the objection ? * 
 
 Every face among the Chouans beamed with approval 
 at her words. 
 
 4 Is there nothing in this to make you blush?' said 
 the young man in a low voice. c Are you in such 
 straits for money that you have to take the road for it ? ' 
 
 4 1 am so in want of it, marquis, that I could put my 
 heart in pledge for it, I think, if it were still in my 
 keeping,' she said, smiling coquettishly at him. 4 Where 
 can you come from to think of employing Chouans 
 without allowing them to plunder the Blues now and 
 again ? Don't you know the proverb, " Thievish as an 
 owl," and what else is a Chouan ? Besides,' she went 
 on, raising her voice, 4 is it not a righteous action ? 
 Have not the Blues robbed us, and taken the property of 
 the Church ? ' 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 49 
 
 Again a murmur from the Chouans greeted her words, 
 a very different sound from the growl with which they 
 had answered the marquis. The colour on the young 
 man's brow grew darker, he stepped a little aside with 
 the lady, and began with the lively petulance of a well- 
 bred man — 
 
 1 Will these gentlemen come to the Vivetiere on the 
 appointed day ? ' 
 
 € Yes,' she answered, c all of them, l'Intime, Grand 
 Jacques, and possibly Ferdinand.' 
 
 'Then permit me to return thither, for I cannot 
 sanction such brigandage by my presence. Yes, madame, 
 I say it is brigandage. A noble may allow himself to be 
 robbed, but ' 
 
 ' Very well then,' she broke in ; c I shall have your 
 share, and I am obliged to you for giving it up to me. 
 The prize money will put me in funds. My mother has 
 delayed sending money to me for so long that I am fairly 
 desperate.' 
 
 ' Goodbye,' said the marquis, and he disappeared. 
 The lady hurried quickly after him, 
 
 'Why won't you stay with me?' she asked, with a 
 glance half tyrannous, half tender ; such a glance as a 
 woman gives to a man over whom she exerts a claim, 
 when she desires to make her wishes known to him, 
 
 ' Are you not going to plunder the coach ? ' 
 
 ' Plunder ? ' she repeated j ' what a strange expression ! 
 Let me explain ' 
 
 'Not a word,' he said, taking both her hands and 
 kissing them with a courtier's ready gallantry. 1 Listen 
 to me,' he went on, after a pause, ' if I were to stay 
 here while they stop the coach, our people would kill me, 
 for I should ' 
 
 ' They would not kill you,' she answered quickly ; 
 4 they would tie your hands together, always with due 
 respect to your rank ; and after levying upon the 
 Republicans a contribution sufficient for their equipment 
 
 D 
 
50 The Chouans 
 
 and maintenance, and for some purchases of gunpowder, 
 they would again obey you blindly.' 
 
 c And you would have me command here ? If my life is 
 necessary to the cause for which I am fighting, you must 
 allow me to save my honour as a commander. I can 
 pass over this piece of cowardice if it is done in my 
 absence. I will come back again to be your escort.' 
 
 He walked rapidly away. The young lady heard the i 
 sound of his footsteps with evident vexation. When the | 
 sound of his tread on the dead rustling leaves had died 
 away, she waited a while like one stupefied, then she 
 hurried back to the Chouans. An abrupt scornful 
 gesture escaped her ; she said to Marche-a-Terre, who 
 was aiding her to dismount, c The young man wants to 
 open war on the Republic in regular form !— Ah, well, he 
 will alter his mind in a day or two. But how he has 
 treated me !' she said to herself after a pause. 
 
 She sat down on the rock where the marquis had been 
 sitting, and waited the coming of the coach in silence. It 
 was not one of the least significant signs of the times that 
 a young and noble lady should be thus brought by violent 
 party feeling into the struggle between the monarchies 
 and the spirit of the age, impelled by the strength of 
 those feelings to assist in deeds, to which she yet was (so 
 to speak) not an accessory, led like many another by an 
 exaltation of soul that sometimes brings great things to 
 pass. Many a woman, like her, played a part in those 
 troubled times ; sometimes it was a sorry one, sometimes 
 the part of a heroine. The Royalist cause found no 
 more devoted and active emissaries than among such 
 women as these. 
 
 In expiation of the errors of devotion, or for the mis- 
 chances of the false position in which these heroines of their 
 cause were placed, perhaps none suffered so bitterly as 
 the lady at that moment seated on the slab of granite 
 by the wayside ; yet even in her despair she could not 
 but admire the noble pride and the loyalty of the young 
 
The Ambuscade 51 
 
 chief. Insensibly she fell to musing deeply. Bitter 
 memories awoke that made her look longingly back to 
 early and innocent days, and regret that she had not fallen 
 a victim to this Revolution, whose progress such weak 
 hands as hers could never stay. 
 
 The coach, which had counted for something in the 
 Chouan attack, had left the village of Ernee some 
 moments before the two parties began skirmishing. 
 Nothing reveals the character of a country more clearly 
 than its means of communication. Looked at in this 
 light, the coach deserves special attention. The Revolu- 
 tion itself was powerless to destroy it ; it is going yet in 
 our own day. 
 
 When Turgot resumed the monopoly of conveyance 
 of passengers throughout France, which Louis xiv. had 
 granted to a company, he started the fresh enterprise which 
 gave his name to the coaches or turgotines $ and then out 
 into the provinces went the old chariots of Messrs. de 
 Vousges, Chauteclaire, and the widow Lacombe, to do 
 service upon the highways. One of these miserable 
 vehicles came and went between Mayenne and Fougeres. 
 They were called turgotines out of pure perversity and 
 by way of antiphrasis -> perhaps a dislike for the minister 
 who started the innovation, or a desire to mimic Paris, 
 suggested the appellation. 
 
 This turgotine was a crazy cabriolet, with two enor- 
 mous wheels ; its back seat, which scarcely afforded room 
 for two fairly stout people, served also as a box for carrying 
 the mails. Some care was required not to overload the 
 feeble structure ; but if travellers carried any luggage, it 
 had to lie in the bottom of the coach, a narrow box-like 
 hole shaped like a pair of bellows, where their feet and legs 
 were already cramped for room. The original colour of the 
 body and the wheels offered an insoluble enigma to the 
 attention of passengers. Two leather curtains, unman- 
 ageable in spite of their long service, protected the 
 sufferers from wind and weather. The driver, 
 
The Chouans 
 
 seated in front on a rickety bench, as in the wretchedest 
 chaises about Paris, was perforce included in the conversa- 
 tion, by reason of his peculiar position among his victims, 
 biped and quadruped. There were fantastic resemblances 
 between the vehicle and some decrepit old man who has 
 come through so many bronchial attacks and apoplectic 
 seizures that Death seems to respect him. It went com- 
 plainingly, and creaked at every other moment. Like a 
 traveller overtaken by heavy slumber, it lurched back- 
 wards and forwards, as if it would fain have resisted the 
 strenuous efforts of the little Breton horses that dragged 
 it over a tolerably uneven road. This relic of a bygone 
 time held three passengers ; their conversation had been 
 interrupted at Ernee while the horses were changed, and 
 was now resumed as they left the place. 
 
 6 What makes you think that the Chouans will show 
 themselves out here ? ' asked the driver. c They have 
 just told me at Ernee that the commandant Hulot had 
 not yet left Fougeres.' 
 
 c It's all very well for you, friend,' said the youngest 
 of the three ; c you risk nothing but your own skin. If 
 you were known as a good patriot and carried three 
 hundred crowns about you, as I do, you wouldn't take 
 things so easily.' 
 
 c In any case, you are very imprudent,' said the driver, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 * You may count your sheep and yet the wolf will get 
 them,' said the second person. He was dressed in black, 
 looked about forty years of age, and seemed to be a recteur 
 thereabouts. His double chin and florid complexion 
 marked him out as belonging to the Church. Short and 
 stout though he was, he displayed a certain agility each 
 time he got in or out of the conveyance. 
 
 4 Are you Chouans ? ' cried the owner of the three 
 hundred crowns. His voluminous goat-skin cloak covered 
 breeches of good cloth and a very decent waist- 
 coat, all signs of a well-to-do farrner. 4 By the soul 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 S3 
 
 of St. Robespierre,' he went on, c you shall be well 
 received. . . .' 
 
 He looked from the driver to the rector, and showed 
 them both the pistols at his waist. 
 
 * Bretons are not to be frightened that way,' said the 
 cure ; 4 and besides that, do we look as if we wanted your 
 money ? ' 
 
 Each time the word money was mentioned the driver 
 became silent. The recteur's wits were keen enough to 
 make him suspect that the patriot had no money, and 
 that there was some cash in the keeping of their 
 charioteer. 
 
 * Have you much of a load, Coupiau ? 9 he inquired. 
 
 c Next to nothing, as you may say, Monsieur Gudin,' 
 replied the driver. 
 
 Monsieur Gudin looked inquiringly from Coupiau to 
 the patriot at this, but both countenances were alike 
 imperturbable. 
 
 c So much the better for you,' answered the patriot. 
 4 1 shall take my own measures for protecting my money 
 if anything goes wrong.' 
 
 This direct assumption of despotic authority provoked 
 Coupiau into replying roughly — 
 
 4 1 am the master here in the coach, and so long as I 
 take you to ' 
 
 6 Are you a patriot or a Chouan ? 9 interrupted his 
 adversary sharply. 
 
 c I am neither,' answered Coupiau ; c I am a 
 postilion, and, what is more, a Breton ; and therefore 
 I am not afraid of Blues nor of gentlemen.' 
 
 c Gentlemen of the road, you mean,' said the patriot 
 sardonically. 
 
 c They only take what others have taken from them,' 
 put in the recteur quickly, while the eyes of either 
 traveller stared at the other as if to penetrate into either's 
 brain. In the interior of the coach sat a third passenger, 
 who remained absolutely silent through the thick of the 
 
54 The Chouans 
 
 debate. Neither the driver, the patriot, nor Gudin 
 himself took the slightest heed of this nonentity. As a 
 matter of fact, he was one of those tiresome and incon- 
 venient people who travel by coach as passively as a calf 
 that is carried with its legs tied up to a neighbouring 
 market. At the outset they possess themselves of at 
 least the space allotted to them by the regulations, and 
 end by sleeping without consideration or humanity on 
 their neighbours' shoulders. The patriot, Gudin, and 
 the driver had let him alone, thinking that he was asleep, as 
 soon as they had ascertained that it was useless to attempt 
 to converse with a man whose stony countenance bore 
 the records of a life spent in measuring ells of cloth, and 
 a mind bent solely upon buying cheap and selling dear. 
 Yet, in the corner where he lay curled up, a pair of 
 china-blue eyes opened from time to time ; the stout, little 
 man had viewed each speaker in turn with alarm, doubt, 
 and mistrust, but he seemed to stand in fear of his travel- 
 ling companions, and to trouble himself very little about 
 Chouans. The driver and he looked at one another like 
 a pair of freemasons. Just then the firing began at La 
 Pelerine j Coupiau stopped in dismay, not knowing what 
 to do. 
 
 c Oh, ho ! ■ said the churchman, who seemed to grasp 
 the situation ; c this is something serious. There are a 
 lot of people about.' 
 
 'The question is, who will get the best of it, M. 
 Gudin ? 9 cried Coupiau, and this time the same anxiety 
 was seen on all faces. 
 
 c Let us put up at the inn down there, and hide the 
 coach till the affair is decided,' suggested Coupiau. 
 
 This advice seemed so sound that Coupiau acted upon 
 it, and with the patriot's help concealed the coach behind 
 a pile of faggots. 
 
 The supposed recteur found an opportunity of whis- 
 pering to Coupiau — 
 
 c Has he really any money ? 9 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 55 
 
 c Eh, M. Gudin, if all he has found its way into 
 your reverence's pockets they would not be very heavy.' 
 
 The Republicans, hurrying to reach Ernee came past 
 the inn without stopping there. The sound of their 
 rapid march brought Gudin and the innkeeper to the 
 door to watch them curiously. All at once the stout 
 ecclesiastic made a dash at a soldier who was lagging 
 behind. 
 
 c Eh ? 1 he cried, c Gudin ! Are you really going 
 with the Blues ? Infatuated boy ! Do you know what 
 you are about ? 9 
 
 4 Yes, uncle,' answered the corporal ; * I have sworn 
 to fight for France ! ' 
 
 c But your soul is in danger, scapegrace,' cried his 
 uncle, appealing to the religious scruples that are so 
 strong in Breton hearts. 
 
 'Well, uncle, I won't say but that if the king had 
 put himself at the head of his ' 
 
 c Idiot ! Who is talking about the king ? Will your 
 Republic give preferment ? It has upset everything ! 
 What kind of a career do you expect ? Stay with us ; 
 we shall triumph some day or other, and then you shall 
 be made councillor to some Parliament.' 
 
 c A Parliament ? ' asked Gudin mockingly. c Good- 
 bye, uncle ! ' 
 
 c You shall not have the worth of three louis from 
 me ; I shall disinherit you,' his uncle called angrily after 
 him. 
 
 c Thanks,' said the Republican, and they parted. 
 
 The fumes of cider to which the patriot had treated 
 Coupiau while the little troop was passing had succeeded 
 in obscuring the driver's intelligence somewhat ; but he 
 brightened up again when the landlord, having learned 
 the upshot of the struggle, brought the news of a victory 
 for the Blues. Coupiau brought out his coach upon the 
 road again, and they were not long in showing them- 
 selves in the bottom of the valley of La Pelerine. From 
 
5* 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 the plateaux of Maine and of Brittany both it was easy 
 to see the coach lying in the trough between two great 
 waves, like a bit of wreckage after a storm at sea. 
 
 Hulot meanwhile had reached the summit of a slope 
 that the Blues were climbing. La Pelerine was still in 
 sight, a long way off, so he turned to see if the Chouans 
 still remained on the spot. The sunlight shining on the 
 barrels of their muskets marked them out for him as a 
 little group of bright dots. As he scanned the valley for 
 the last time before quitting it for the valley of Ernee, he 
 thought he could discern Coupiau's chariot on the high 
 road. 
 
 c Isn't that the Mayenne coach ? ' he asked of his 
 two comrades, who turned their attention to the old j 
 turgotine and recognised it perfectly well. 
 
 c Well, then, how was it that we did not meet it ? ' j 
 asked Hulot, as all three looked at each other in silence. 
 
 4 Here is one more enigma,' he went on ; c but I 
 begin to have an inkling of the truth.' 
 
 Just at that very instant Marche-a-Terre also dis- 
 covered the turgotine, and pointed it out to his comrades. 
 A general outburst of rejoicing aroused the young lady 
 from her musings. She came forward and saw the coach 
 as it sped up the hillside with luckless haste. The 
 miserable turgotine reached the plateau almost immedi- 
 ately ; and the Chouans, who had hidden themselves, once 
 more rushed out upon their prey in greedy haste. The I 
 dumb traveller slipped down into the bottom of the coach, 
 and cowered there, trying to look like a package. 
 
 'Well,' cried Coupiau from the box, c so you have 
 smelt out the patriot there ! He has money about him — 
 a bag full of gold ; ' and as he spoke, he pointed out the 
 small farmer, only to find that the Chouans hailed his j 
 remarks with a general roar of laughter and shouts of j 
 ' Pille-Miche ! Pille-Miche ! Pille-Miche ! ' In the 
 midst of the hilarity, which Pille-Miche himself echoed, 
 Coupiau came down from the box in confusion. The j 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 57 
 
 famous Cibot, alias Pille-Miche, aided his companion to 
 alight, and a respectful murmur arose. 
 
 4 It is the Abbe Gudin ! 5 cried several voices. 
 
 All hats went off at the name, and the Chouans knelt 
 to ask for his blessing, which was gravely given. 
 
 Then the Abbe clapped Pille-Miche on the shoulder. 
 
 * He would deceive St. Peter himself, and steal away 
 the keys of Paradise ! ' he cried. c But for him the Blues 
 would have stopped us ; ' and, seeing the young lady, he 
 spoke with her a few paces aside. Marche-a-Terre 
 adroitly raised the seat of the coach, and with ferocious 
 glee, extracted a bag which, from its shape, evidently 
 contained rouleaux of gold. He was not long about 
 dividing the spoil. There were no disputes, for each 
 Chouan received his exact share. Lastly, he went up to 
 the lady and the priest, and presented them with about 
 six thousand francs. 
 
 4 Can I take this with a clear conscience, Monsieur 
 Gudin ? ' the lady asked, feeling within her the need of a 
 sanction. 
 
 c Why not, madame ? In former times, did not the 
 Church approve the confiscation of Protestant goods ? 
 And we have stronger reasons for despoiling these 
 revolutionaries, who deny God, plunder churches, and 
 persecute religion ? Thereupon the Abbe added example 
 to precept, and took without scruple the tenth — in new 
 coin — which Marche-a-Terre offered him. 
 
 * However,' he added, c I can now dedicate all I have to 
 the service of God and the King. My nephew has cast 
 in his lot with the Blues.' 
 
 Coupiau was lamenting, and bewailed himself for a 
 ruined man. 
 
 'Come along with us,' said Marche-a-Terre; 'you 
 shall have your share.' 
 
 6 Every one will say that I set out to be robbed, if I go 
 back again, and there are no traces of violence.' 
 
 6 Oh, if that is all you want,' said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
58 The Chouans 
 
 He made a sign, and a volley of musketry riddled the 
 turgotine. The old coach gave a cry so piteous at this 
 salute, that the Chouans, naturally superstitious, fell back 
 in alarm, save Marche-a-Terre, who had seen the pale 
 face of the mute traveller as it rose and fell inside. 
 
 4 There is one more fowl yet in your coop,' Marche- 
 a-Terre said in a low voice to Coupiau. Pille-Miche, 
 who saw what this meant, winked significantly. 
 
 6 Yes,' replied the driver ; c but I made it a condition 
 when I enlisted with you that I was to take this worthy 
 man safe and sound to Fougeres, I promised that in the 
 name of the Saint of Auray.' 
 
 c Who is he ? ' asked Pille-Miche. 
 
 c I can 't tell you that,' said Coupiau, 
 
 c Let him alone ! 9 said Marche-a-Terre, nudging Pille- 
 Miche with his elbow. c He swore by the holy Virgin of 
 Auray, and a promise is a promise. But don't be in too 
 great a hurry down the hill/ the Chouan went on, 
 addressing Coupiau ; c we will catch you up for reasons 
 of our own. I want to see the muzzle of that passenger 
 of yours, and then we will give him a passport/ 
 
 A horse was heard approaching La Pelerine at full 
 gallop. In a moment the young leader returned, and 
 the lady promptly tried to conceal her hand with the bag 
 in it. 
 
 'You need not scruple to keep that money/ he said, 
 drawing the lady's arm forward. c Here is a letter for 
 you among those that awaited me at the Vivetiere ; it is 
 from your mother.' 
 
 He looked from the coach, which now descended the 
 hill, to the Chouans, and added, 4 In spite of my haste, 
 I am too late. Heaven send that my fears are ill 
 grounded ! * 
 
 4 That is my poor mother's money ! ' cried the lady, 
 when she had broken the seal of the letter and read the 
 first few lines. 
 
 Sounds of smothered laughter came from the woods. 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 59 
 
 The young man himself could not help smiling at 
 sight of the lady with a share of the plunder of her own 
 property in her hands. She began to laugh herself. 
 
 4 Well, I escape without blame for once, Marquis,' she 
 said, * Heaven be praised ! ' 
 
 c So you take all things with a light heart, even 
 remorse ? ' the young man asked ; but she flushed up 
 with such evident contrition that he relented. The Abbe 
 politely handed to her the tenth he had just received with 
 as good a face as he could put upon it, and followed the 
 young leader, who was returning by the way he had 
 come. The young lady waited behind for a moment, 
 and beckoned to Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 c You must go over towards Mortagne,' she said in a 
 low voice. 4 1 know that the Blues must be continually 
 transmitting large sums of money to Alen^on for the 
 prosecution of the war. I give up to your comrades the 
 money I have lost to-day ; but I shall expect them to 
 make it up to me. And before all things, the Gars is 
 not to know the reason for this expedition ; but if any- 
 thing should go wrong, I will pacify him.' 
 
 'Madame,' the Marquis began, as she sat behind him 
 en croupe^ having made over her horse to the Abbe, c our 
 friends in Paris are writing to tell us to keep a sharp 
 look-out, for the Republic means to take us with craft 
 and guile.' 
 
 6 Well, they might do worse,' she replied ; 4 it is not at 
 all a bad idea of theirs. I shall take part now in the war, 
 and meet the enemy on my own ground.' 
 
 ' Faith, yes,' said the Marquis. c Pichegru warns me 
 to be on my guard as to friendships of every kind. The 
 Republic does me the honour to consider me more 
 formidable than all the Vendeans put together, and thinks 
 to get me into its grasp by working on my weaknesses.' 
 
 c Are you going to suspect me ? ' she asked, tapping 
 his breast with the hand by which she held him close 
 to her, 
 
6o 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 4 Would you be there, in my heart, if I could ? ' he said, 
 and turned to receive a kiss on his forehead. 
 
 4 Then we are like to run more risks from Fouche's 
 police than from regular troops or from Counter-Chouans,' 
 was the Abbe's comment. 
 
 4 Your reverence is quite right.' 
 
 4 Ah, ha ! ' the lady exclaimed, 4 so Fouche is going to 
 send women against you? I am ready for them,' she 
 added after a brief pause, with a deeper note in her voice. 
 
 Meantime, some four gunshots from the lonely plateau 
 which the leaders had just quitted, a drama was being 
 enacted of a kind to be common enough on the highways 
 for some time. Beyond the little village of La Pelerine, 
 Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre had again stopped the 
 coach in a place where the road widened out. Coupiau, 
 after a feeble resistance, came down from the box. The 
 taciturn traveller, dragged from his hiding-place by the 
 two Chouans, found himself on his knees in a bush of 
 broom. 
 
 ( Who are you ? ' asked Marche-a-Terre in threatening 
 tones. The traveller did not answer at all till Pille-Miche 
 recommenced his examination with a blow from the butt 
 end of his musket. Then, with a glance at Coupiau, the 
 man spoke — 
 
 4 I am Jacques Pinaud, a poor linen-draper.' Coupiau 
 seemed to think that he did not break his word by shaking 
 his head. Pille-Miche acted on the hint, and pointed his 
 musket at the traveller, while Marche-a-Terre deliber- 
 ately uttered this terrible ultimatum — 
 
 4 You are a great deal too fat to know the pinch of 
 poverty. If we have to ask you for your name again, here 
 is my friend Pille-Miche with his musket, ready to earn 
 the esteem and gratitude of your heirs. Now, who are 
 you ? 1 he asked after a pause. 
 
 4 1 am d'Orgemont of Fougeres.' 
 
 * Ha ! ' cried the two Chouans. 
 
 4 / did not betray you, Monsieur d'Orgemont,' said 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 61 
 
 Coupiau. 4 The holy Virgin is my witness that I did 
 my best to protect you/ 
 
 c Since you are Monsieur d'Orgemont of Fougeres, 
 replied Marche-a-Terre with a fine affectation of respect, 
 4 of course we must let you go in peace. But still, as you 
 are neither good Chouan nor genuine Blue (for you it 
 was who bought the property of the Abbey of Juvigny), 
 you are going to pay us three hundred crowns ' — here he 
 seemed to count the number of the party — and went on, 
 4 of six francs each. Neutrality is cheap at the price.' 
 
 4 Three hundred crowns of six francs each ! ' echoed 
 the unlucky banker in chorus with Coupiau and Pille- 
 Miche, each one with a different intonation. 
 
 4 My dear sir, I am a ruined man,' he cried. c This 
 devil of a Republic taxes us up to the hilt, and this forced 
 loan of a hundred millions has drained me dry.' 
 
 4 How much did your Republic want of you ? * 
 
 4 A thousand crowns, my dear sir,' groaned the banker, 
 thinking to be let off more easily. 
 
 4 If your Republic wrings forced loans out of you to 
 that tune, you ought to throw in your lot with us. Our 
 government will cost you less. Three hundred crowns — 
 isn't your skin worth that ? ' 
 
 4 Where am I to find them ? 9 
 
 4 In your strong box,' said Pille-Miche. 4 And no 
 clipped coins, mind you, or the fire shall nibble your 
 finger ends ! ' 
 
 4 Where am I to pay them over ? ' 
 
 4 Your country-house at Fougeres is not very far from 
 the farm of Gibarry, where lives my cousin Galope- 
 Chopine, otherwise big Cibot. You will make them over 
 to him,' said Pille-Miche. 
 
 4 It is not business,' urged d'Orgemont. 
 
 'What is that to us ?' said Marche-a-Terre. 'Mind 
 this, if the money isn't paid to Galope-Chopine within a 
 fortnight, we will pay you a call, and that will cure the 
 gout in your feet, if it happens to trouble you. As for 
 
6a 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 you, Coupiau,' he turned to the driver, c your name in 
 future will be Mene-a-Bien? 
 
 With that the two Chouans departed. The traveller 
 returned to the coach, and, with the help of Coupiau's 
 whip, they bowled rapidly along to Fougeres. 
 
 c If you had carried arms,' Coupiau began, i we might 
 have defended ourselves better.' 
 
 'Simpleton!' replied the banker; 'I have ten 
 thousand francs there,' and he held out his great shoes. 
 4 How is one to show fight with a large sum like that 
 about one ? ' 
 
 Mene-a-Bien scratched his ear and sent a glance behind 
 him, but his new friends were quite out of sight. 
 
 At Ernee Hulot and his men halted a while to leave 
 the wounded in the hospital in the little town, and 
 finally arrived at Mayenne without any further annoy- 
 ance. The next day put an end to the commandant's 
 doubts as to the fate of the stage-coach, for everybody 
 knew how it had been stopped and plundered. 
 
 A few days after, the authorities directed upon Mayenne 
 enough patriot conscripts to fill the gaps in Hulot's demi- 
 brigade. Very soon one disquieting rumour followed 
 another concerning the insurrection. There was com- 
 plete revolt at all the points which had been centres of 
 rebellion for Chouans and Vendeans in the late war. In 
 Brittany the Royalists had made themselves masters of 
 Pontorson, thus securing their communications with the 
 sea. The little town of Saint James between Pontorson 
 and Fougeres had been taken by them, and it appeared 
 that they meant to make it their temporary headquarters, 
 their central magazine, and basis of operations. Thence 
 they kept up a correspondence with Normandy and 
 Morbihan in security. The Royalists of the three pro- 
 vinces were brought into concerted action by subaltern 
 officers dispersed throughout the country, who recruited 
 partisans for the Monarchy, and gave unity to their 
 methods. Exactly similar reports came from La Vendee, 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 63 
 
 where conspiracy was rife in the country under the 
 guidance of four well-known leaders — the Counts of 
 Fontaine, Chatillon, and Suzannet, and the Abbe Vernal. 
 In Orne their correspondents were said to be the Chevalier 
 de Valois, the Marquis of Escrignon, and the Troisvilles. 
 The real head and centre of the vast and formidable 
 plan of operations, that gradually became manifest, was 
 the Gars, for so the Chouans had dubbed the Marquis of 
 Montauran since his arrival among them. 
 
 Hulot's dispatches to his Government were found to be 
 accurate on all heads. The authority of the newly 
 arrived commander had been recognised at once. The 
 Marquis had even sufficient ascendency over the Chouans 
 to make them understand the real aim of the war, and to 
 persuade them that the excesses of which they had 
 formerly been guilty, sullied the generous cause which they 
 had embraced. The cool courage, splendid audacity, 
 resource, and ability of the young noble were reviving the 
 hopes of the foes of the Republic, and had excited the 
 sombre enthusiasm of the West to such a pitch that even 
 the most lukewarm were ready to take part in a bold 
 stroke for the fallen Monarchy. Hulot's repeated reports 
 and appeals received no reply from Paris ; some fresh revo- 
 lutionary crisis, no doubt, caused the astonishing silence. 
 
 'Are appeals to the Government going to be treated like 
 a creditor's duns ? ' said the old chief to his friends. c Are 
 all our petitions shoved out of sight ? 9 
 
 But before long news began to spread of the magical 
 return of General Bonaparte, and the events of the 
 eighteenth of Brumaire. Then the commanders in the 
 West began to understand the silence of the ministers, 
 while they grew impatient of the heavy responsibilities 
 that weighed upon them, and eager to hear what steps the 
 new Government meant to take. Great was the joy in 
 the army when it became known that General Bonaparte 
 had been nominated First Consul of the Republic, and for 
 the first time they saw a man of their own at the head of 
 
6 4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 affairs. France had made an idol of the young general, 
 and trembled with hope. The capital, grown weary of 
 gloom, gave itself up to festivities long discontinued. 
 The first acts of the Consulate abated these hopes no 
 whit, and gave Liberty no qualms. The First Consul 
 issued a proclamation to the dwellers in the West. 
 Bonaparte had, one might almost say, invented the 
 appeals to the masses which produced such enormous 
 effect in those days of miracles and patriotism. A 
 prophetic voice it was which filled the world, for victory 
 had never yet failed to follow any proclamation of his, 
 4 Inhabitants ! 
 
 c For the second time an unnatural war has been 
 kindled in the departments of the West. 
 
 c The authors of these troubles are traitors in the pay 
 of England, or marauders who hope to secure their own 
 ends, and to enjoy immunity amid civil discords. 
 
 ' To such men as these the Government owes neither 
 consideration nor an explanation of its principles. 
 
 c But there are other citizens, dear to their country, 
 who have been seduced by their artifices ; to these 
 citizens, enlightenment and a knowledge of the truth is 
 due. 
 
 c Unjust laws have been promulgated and carried into 
 effect. The security of citizens and their right to liberty 
 of conscience have been infringed by arbitrary measures ; 
 citizens have suffered everywhere from mistaken entries 
 on the list of Emigrants, great principles of social order 
 have been violated. 
 
 'The Consuls declare that, liberty of worship being 
 guaranteed by the Constitution, the law of the nth 
 Prairial Year in., by which citizens are allowed the use 
 of buildings erected for religious worship, shall now be 
 carried into effect. 
 
 4 The Government will pardon previous offences ; it 
 will extend mercy and absolute and complete indemnity 
 to the repentant ; but it will strike down any who shall 
 
fhe Ambuscade 
 
 65 
 
 dare, after this declaration, to resist the national 
 sovereignty.' 
 
 'Well,' said Hulot, after a public reading of the 
 Consular manifesto, c could anything be more paternal ? 
 But for all that, you will see that not a single Royalist 
 brigand will change his opinion ! 9 
 
 The commandant was right. The proclamation only 
 confirmed each one in his adherence to his own side. 
 Reinforcements for Hulot and his colleagues arrived a few 
 days later. They were notified by the new Minister of 
 War that General Brune was about to assume command 
 in the West ; but in the meanwhile Hulot, as an officer 
 known to be experienced, was intrusted with the 
 departments of the Orne and Mayenne. Every Govern- 
 ment department showed unheard-of energy. A circular 
 from the Minister of War and the Minister-General of 
 Police gave out that active efforts were to be made 
 through the officers in command to stifle the insurrection 
 at its place of origin. But by this time the Chouans and 
 Vendeans, profiting by the inaction of the Republic, had 
 aroused the whole country and made themselves masters 
 of it. So a new Consular proclamation had to be issued. 
 
 This time the General spoke to his troops — 
 
 c Soldiers, all who now remain in the West are 
 marauders or emigrants in the pay of England. 
 
 c The army numbers more than sixty thousand heroes ; 
 let me learn soon that the rebel leaders exist no longer. 
 Glory is only to be had at the price of fatigue ; who would 
 not acquire it if it were to be gained by stopping in 
 town quarters ? 
 
 c Soldiers, no matter what your rank in the army, the 
 gratitude of the nation awaits you. To be worthy of 
 that gratitude you must brave the inclemency of the 
 seasons, frost and snow, and the bitter cold of winter 
 nights ; you must surprise your enemies at daybreak and 
 destroy those wretches who disgrace the name of 
 Frenchmen. 
 
 E 
 
66 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c Let the campaign be short and sharp ; show no mercy 
 to the marauders, and preserve strict discipline among 
 yourselves. 
 
 c National Guards, add your efforts to those of the 
 troops of the line. 
 
 If you know of any partisans of the bandits among 
 yourselves, arrest them ! Let them nowhere find a 
 refuge from the soldier who pursues them ; and should 
 traitors dare to receive and protect them, let both alike 
 perish ! ' 
 
 4 What a fellow ! ' cried Hulot ; c it is just as it used to 
 be in Italy ; first he rings the bells for mass, and then he 
 goes and says it. Isn 't that plain speaking ? ' 
 
 c Yes, but he speaks for himself and in his own name,' 
 said Gerard, who began to feel some concern for the 
 results of the eighteenth of Brumaire. 
 
 c Eh ! Sainte guerite y what does it matter ! Isn 't he a 
 soldier ? ' cried Merle. 
 
 A few paces away some soldiers had made a group 
 about the placard on the wall. As no one among them 
 could read, they eyed it, some with curiosity, others with 
 indifference, while one or two looked out for some passing 
 citizen who should appear scholar enough to decipher 
 it. 
 
 c What does that scrap of paper mean, now, Clef-des- 
 Coeurs ? ' asked Beau-Pied banteringly. 
 
 * It is quite easy to guess,' said Clef-des-Coeurs. Every- 
 body looked up at these words for the usual comedy to 
 begin between the two comrades. 
 
 4 Now look here,' went on Clef-des-Coeurs, pointing 
 to a rough vignette at the head of the proclamation, 
 where a pair of compasses had in the past few days 
 replaced the plumb-line level of 1793. 'That means 
 that we soldiers will have to step out. That's why the 
 compasses are open ; it's an emblem.' 
 
 ' No, my boy, you can't come the scholar over us. 
 That thing is called a problem. I served once in the 
 
The Ambuscade 
 
 67 
 
 artillery,' he added, c and that was what my officers fairly 
 lived on.' 
 
 'It's an emblem.' 
 
 c A problem.' 
 
 c Let us lay a bet on it.' 
 
 < What ? ' 
 
 ' Will you stake your German pipe ? ' 
 'Done!' 
 
 c No offence to you, sir ! 9 said Clef-des-Cceurs to 
 Gerard ; ' but isn't that an emblem and not a problem ? ' 
 
 c It is both the one and the other,' said Gerard gravely. 
 He was musing as he prepared to follow Hulot and Merle. 
 
 1 The adjutant is laughing at us,' said Beau-Pied ; 
 1 that paper says that our general in Italy has been made 
 Consul, which is a fine promotion, and we are all to 
 have new caps and shoes** 
 
H 
 
 A NOTION OF FOUCHE'S 
 
 One morning towards the end of the month of Brumaire, 
 after an order from the Government had concentrated 
 Hulot's troops upon Mayenne, that officer was engaged 
 in drilling his demi-brigade. An express from Alen^on 
 arrived with dispatches, which he read, while intense 
 annoyance expressed itself in his face. 
 
 c Come, forward ! ' he cried peevishly, stuffing the 
 papers into his hat. c Two companies are to set out with 
 me to march upon Mortagne. The Chouans are there. 
 You shall accompany me,' he said, turning to Merle and 
 Gerard. 'May I be ennobled if I understand a word of 
 this. I may be a fool, but no matter, forward ! There 
 is no time to lose.' 
 
 4 What sort of fearful fowl could come out of that 
 game bag ? 1 asked Merle, kicking the fallen envelope. 
 
 c Tonnerre de Dieu ! They are making fools of us, 
 that is all.' 
 
 Whenever this expression, explained above, escaped the 
 commandant, it always meant a storm of some sort. The 
 modulations of his voice when he uttered this phrase 
 indicated to the demi-brigade, like the degrees of a 
 thermometer, the amount of patience left in their chief ; 
 and the outspoken old soldier made this knowledge so 
 easy, that the most mischievous drummer could take his 
 measure, by remarking his shades of manner in puckering 
 up his cheek and winking. This time the suppressed 
 anger with which he brought out the word silenced his 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 6 9 
 
 friends and made them circumspect. The pock-marks 
 on his martial countenance seemed deeper and darker 
 than usual. As he put on his three-cornered hat, his 
 large plaited queue had slipped round upon one shoulder. 
 Hulot pushed it back so violently that the little curls 
 were unsettled. However, as he remained motionless, 
 with his arms locked across his chest and his moustache 
 a-bristle with rage, Gerard ventured to ask — 
 4 Must we set out at once ? ' 
 
 4 Yes, if the cartridge-boxes are filled,' he growled out. 
 c They are all full.' 
 
 4 Shoulder arms ! left file ! forward, march ! ? ordered 
 Gerard, at a sign from Hulot. 
 
 The drums headed the two companies chosen by 
 Gerard. The commandant, plunged in his own thoughts, 
 seemed to rouse himself at the sound, and went out of 
 the town between his two friends without a word to 
 either. Now and again Merle and Gerard looked at 
 each other as if to say, c How long is he going to be 
 sulky with us ? 9 and as they went they furtively glanced 
 at Hulot, who muttered chance words between his teeth. 
 
 Something very like an oath at times reached the 
 soldiers' ears, but neither dared to say a word, for on 
 occasion all could preserve the severe discipline to which 
 Bonaparte had accustomed his troops in Italy. Hulot 
 and most of his men represented all that was left of the 
 famous battalions who surrendered at Mayence, on con- 
 dition that they should not be employed upon the 
 frontiers; and the army had nicknamed them the May en fats. 
 It would have been difficult to find officers and men who 
 understood each other better. 
 
 The earliest hours of the next morning found Hulot 
 and his friends a league beyond Alen^on on the Mortagne 
 side, on a road through the meadows beside the Sarthe. 
 On the left lie stretches of picturesque lowland; while on 
 the right the dark woods, part of the great forest of 
 Menil-Broust, form a set-off^ to borrow a word from the 
 
7o 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 studio, to the lovely views of the river. The clearings 
 of the ditches on either hand, which are constantly 
 thrown up in a mound on their further sides, form high 
 banks, on the top of which furze bushes grow, ajoncs^ as 
 they call them in the West. These dense bushes 
 furnished excellent winter fodder for horses and cattle, 
 but so long as they remained uncut the dark-green clumps 
 served as hiding-places for Chouans. These banks and 
 furze bushes, signs which tell the traveller that he is 
 nearing Brittany, made this part of the journey in those 
 days as dangerous as it was beautiful. 
 
 The dangers involved by a journey from Mortagne to 
 Alen^on, and from Alen^on to Mayenne, had caused 
 Hulot's departure, and now the secret of his anger finally 
 escaped him. He was escorting an old mail-coach 
 drawn by post-horses, which the weariness of the soldiers 
 compelled to move at a foot pace. The companies of 
 Blues, belonging to the garrison of Mortagne, were 
 visible as black dots in the distance on their way back 
 thither ; they had accompanied this shocking conveyance 
 within their prescribed limits, and here Hulot must 
 succeed them in the service, a 6 patriotic bore,' as the 
 soldiers not unjustly called it. One of the old Republican's 
 companies took up its position a little in front, and the 
 other a little behind the caleche ; and Hulot, who found 
 himself between Merle and Gerard, at an equal distance 
 from the vehicle and the vanguard, suddenly said — 
 
 t Mille Tonnerres ! would you believe that the general 
 has drafted us out of Mayenne to escort a couple of 
 petticoats in this old fourgon ? 9 
 
 c But not so long since, commandant,' said Gerard, 
 c when we took up our position, you made your bow to 
 the citoyennes with a good enough grace.' 
 
 c Ah ! that is the worst of it ! Don't these dandies 
 in Paris require us to pay the greatest attention to their 
 damned females? How can they bring dishonour on 
 good and brave patriots like us, by setting us to dangle 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 7 1 
 
 after a petticoat. I run straight myself, and I don't like 
 crooked ways in others. When I saw that Danton and 
 Barras had mistresses, I used to say, c Citizens, when the 
 Republic called on you to govern, it was not that you 
 might play the same games as the old regime? You will 
 say now that women ? — Oh, one must have women, that 
 is right enough. Brave men must have women, look 
 you, and good women too. But when things grow 
 serious, prattling ought to stop. Why did we sweep 
 the old abuses away if patriots are to begin them again ? 
 Look at the First Consul now, that is a man for you ; no 
 women, always at work. I would wager my left 
 moustache he knows nothing of this foolish business.' 
 
 c Really, commandant,' laughed Merle, c I have seen 
 the tip of the nose of the young lady there hidden on the 
 back seat, and I am sure that no one need be blamed for 
 feeling, as I do, a sort of hankering to take a turn round 
 the coach and have a scrap of conversation with the ladies.' 
 
 c Look out, Merle ! ' said Gerard ; c there's a citizen 
 along with the pretty birds quite sharp enough to catch 
 you.' 
 
 c Who ? The incroyable^ whose little eyes keep 
 dodging about from one side of the road to the other, as 
 if he saw Chouans everywhere ? That dandy, whose legs 
 you can scarcely see, and whose head, as soon as his horses' 
 legs are hidden behind the carriage, sticks up like a 
 duck's from a pie ? If that nincompoop hinders me from 
 stroking the pretty white throat ' 
 
 c Duck and white throat ! My poor Merle, thy fancy 
 has taken wings with a vengeance ! Don't be too sure 
 of the duck. His green eyes are as treacherous as a 
 viper's, and as shrewd as a woman's when she pardons 
 her husband. I would sooner trust a Chouan than one 
 of these lawyers with a face like a decanter of lemonade.' 
 
 'Bah ! ' cried Merle gaily. 'With the commandant's 
 leave I shall risk it. That girl has eyes that shine like 
 stars ; one might run all hazards for a sight of them.' 
 
72 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c He is smitten ! * said Gerard to the commandant ; c he 
 is raving already.' 
 
 Hulot made his grimace, shrugged his shoulder, and 
 said — 
 
 c I advise him to smell his soup before he takes it.' 
 
 * Honest Merle, what spirits he has ! ' said Gerard, 
 judging by the slackening of the other's pace that he 
 meant to allow the coach to overtake him. c He is the 
 only man that can laugh when a comrade dies without 
 being thought heartless.' 
 
 c He is a French soldier every inch of him,' said Hulot 
 gravely. 
 
 c Only look at him, pulling his epaulettes over his 
 shoulders, to show that he is a captain,' cried Gerard, 
 laughing j c as if his rank would do anything for him 
 there.' 
 
 There were, in fact, two women in the vehicle towards 
 which the officer turned \ one seemed to be the mistress, 
 the other her maid. 
 
 c That sort of woman always goes about in pairs,' said 
 Hulot. 
 
 A thin, dried-up little man hovered sometimes before, 
 sometimes behind the carriage ; but though he seemed to 
 accompany the two privileged travellers, no one had yet 
 seen either of them speak a word to him. This silence, 
 whether respectful or contemptuous, the numerous trunks 
 and boxes belonging to the princess^ as he called her, 
 everything, down to the costume of her attendant cavalier, 
 helped to stir Hulot's bile. 
 
 The stranger's dress was an exact picture of the 
 fashions of the time — of the Incroy ablest an almost burlesque 
 pitch. Imagine a man muffled up in a coat with front 
 so short that five or six inches of waistcoat were left on 
 view, and coat-tails so long behind that they resembled 
 the tail of the cod-fish, after which they were named. A 
 vast cravat wound round his throat in such numerous 
 folds, that his little head issuing from the labyrinth of 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 73 
 
 muslin almost justified Captain Merle's gastronomical 
 simile. The stranger wore tight-fitting breeches and 
 boots a la Suwarrow. A huge blue and white cameo 
 served as a shirt-pin, a gold watch chain hung in two 
 parallel lines from his waist. His hair hung on either 
 side of his face in corkscrew ringlets, which almost 
 covered his forehead ; while, by way of final adornment, 
 his shirt collar, like the collar of his coat, rose to such a 
 height, that his head seemed surrounded by it, like a 
 bouquet in its cornet of paper. 
 
 Over and above the contrast of these insignificant 
 details, all at odds among themselves and out of harmony, 
 imagine a ludicrous strife of colours, yellow breeches, red 
 waistcoat, and cinnamon-brown coat, and you will form 
 a correct notion of the last decrees of elegance, as obeyed 
 by dandies in the early days of the Consulate. This 
 extravagantly absurd toilette might have been devised 
 as an ordeal for comeliness, or to demonstrate that there 
 is nothing so ridiculous but that fashion can hallow it. 
 The cavalier seemed to be about thirty years of age, 
 though in reality he was barely two-and-twenty. Hard 
 living, or the perils of the times, had perhaps brought this 
 about. In spite of his fantastic costume, there was a 
 certain grace of manner revealed in his movements, 
 which singled him out as a well-bred man. 
 
 As the captain reached the coach, the young exquisite 
 seemed to guess his intentions, and assisted them by 
 checking his own horse. Merle's satirical eyes fell upon 
 an impenetrable face, trained, like many another, by the 
 vicissitudes of the Revolution, to hide all feeling, even of 
 the slightest. The moment that the curved edge of a 
 shabby cocked hat and a captain's epaulettes came 
 within the ladies' ken, a voice of angelic sweetness 
 asked him — 
 
 'Would you kindly tell us where we are now, 
 Monsieur VOfficier ? ' 
 
 There is an indescribable charm in such a ques- 
 
74 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 tion by the way, a whole adventure seems to lurk behind 
 a single word ; and furthermore, if the lady, by reason 
 of weakness or lack of experience, asks for some pro- 
 tecting aid, does not every man feel an inward prompt- 
 ing to weave fancies of an impossible happiness for 
 himself ? So the polite formality of her question, and 
 her 4 Monsieur TQjJicierJ vaguely perturbed the captain's 
 heart. He tried to distinguish the lady's face, and was 
 singularly disappointed \ a jealous veil hid her features, 
 he could scarcely see her eyes gleaming behind the 
 gauze, like two agates lit up by the sun. 
 
 c You are now within a league of Alen^on, madame.' 
 
 c Alen^on, already ! ' and the strangei lady fell back 
 in the carriage without making any further reply. 
 
 c Alen^on ? ' repeated the other woman, who seemed 
 to rouse herself. 4 You are going to revisit ' 
 
 She looked at the captain and checked herself. Merle, 
 disappointed in his hope of a sight of the fair stranger, took 
 a look at her companion. She was a young woman of some 
 twenty-six years of age, fair-haired, well-shaped, with the 
 freshness of complexion and unfading brightness of colour 
 which distinguishes the women of Valognes, Bayeux, and 
 the Alen^on district. Sprightliness there was not in the 
 expression of her blue eyes, but a certain steadfastness and 
 tenderness. She wore a dress of some common material. 
 Her way of wearing her hair, modestly gathered up and 
 fastened under a little cap such as peasant women wear in 
 the Pays-de-Caux, made her face charming in its simplicity. 
 There was none of the conventional grace of the salons in 
 her manner, but she was not without the dignity natural 
 to a young girl who could contemplate the scenes of her 
 past life without finding any matter for repentance in them. 
 
 At a glance, Merle recognised in her one of those 
 country blossoms which have lost none of their pure 
 colouring and rustic freshness, although they have been 
 transplanted into the hothouses of Paris, where the 
 withering glare of many rays of light has been brought 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 75 
 
 to bear upon them. Her quiet looks and unaffected 
 manner made it plain to Merle that she did not wish for 
 an audience. Indeed, when he fell away, the two women 
 began a conversation in tones so low that the murmur 
 scarcely reached his ears. 
 
 c You set out in such haste,' said the young country- 
 woman, c that you had barely time to dress. A pretty 
 sight you are ! If we are going any farther than Alen^on, 
 you will really have to change your dress there. . . / 
 
 i Oh, oh, Francine ! ' said the other. 
 
 c What do you say ? ' 
 
 c This is the third time that you have tried to learn 
 where we are going, and why.' 
 
 c Have I said anything whatever to deserve this reproof?' 
 
 c Oh, I have noticed your little ways. Simple and 
 straightforward as you used to be, you have learned a 
 little strategy of my teaching. You begin to hold direct 
 questions in abhorrence. Quite right, my child. Of 
 all known methods of getting at a secret, that one is, in 
 my opinion, the most futile.' 
 
 1 Very well,' said Francine, 4 as one cannot hide any- 
 thing from you, admit at least, Marie, that your doings 
 would make a saint inquisitive. Yesterday morning you 
 had nothing whatever, to-day you have gold in plenty. 
 At Mortagne they assign the mail coach to you which 
 has just been robbed and lost its driver; you are given 
 an escort by the Government ; and a man whom I regard 
 as your evil genius is following you.' 
 
 6 Who, Corentin ? ' . . . asked her companion, throw- 
 ing emphasis into the two words by separate intonations 
 of her voice. There was a contempt in it that overflowed 
 even into the gesture by which she indicated the horse- 
 man. c Listen, Francine,' she went on, 4 do you remem- 
 ber Patriot, the monkey that I taught to mimic Danton, 
 and which amused us so much ? ' 
 
 • Yes, mademoiselle.' 
 
 i Were you afraid of him ? ' 
 
76 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 'But he was chained up.' 
 
 ' And Corentin is muzzled, my child.' 
 
 c We used to play with Patriot for hours together, I 
 know,' said Francine, c but he always played us some 
 ugly trick at last.' 
 
 And Francine flung herself suddenly back in the 
 carriage, and taking her mistress's hands, stroked them 
 caressingly, as she went on tenderly — 
 
 * But you know what is in my thoughts, Marie, and 
 yet you say nothing to me. After the sorrows which 
 have given me so much pain (ah, how much pain !), how 
 should twenty-four hours put you in such spirits, wild as 
 the moods when you used to talk of taking your life ? 
 What has brought the change about ? You owe me 
 some account of yourself. You belong to me rather 
 than to any other whatever, for you will never be better 
 loved than by me. Tell me, mademoiselle ! 1 
 
 4 Very well, Francine ; do you not see all about us the 
 cause of my high spirits ? Look at those clumps of trees 
 over there, yellow and sere, no one like another. Seen 
 from a distance, might they not be a bit of old tapestry 
 in some chateau ? See these hedges behind which 
 Chouans might be met with at any moment ; as I look 
 at those tufts of gorse I seem to see the barrels of muskets. 
 I enjoy this succession of perils about us. Every time 
 that there is a deeper shadow across the road, I think to 
 hear the report of firearms, and my heart beats with 
 an excitement I have never felt before. It is neither 
 fear nor pleasure that moves me so ; it is a better thing ; 
 it is the free play of all that stirs within me ; it is life. 
 How should I not be glad to have revived my own 
 existence a little ? " 
 
 " Ah ! you are telling me nothing, hard heart ! 
 Holy Virgin, to whom will she confess if not to me ? 9 
 said Francine, sadly raising her eyes to heaven. 
 
 c Francine,' her companion answered gravely, c I cannot 
 tell you about my enterprise. It is too horrible this time.' 
 
A Notion of Fouche s 
 
 77 
 
 1 But why do evil with your eyes open ? * 
 
 4 What would you have ? I detect myself thinking 
 like a woman of fifty and acting like a girl of fifteen. 
 You have always been my better self, my poor girl, but 
 this time I must stifle my conscience . . .' she paused 
 as a sigh escaped her, . . . c and I shall not succeed. 
 But how can I keep such a strict confessor beside me ?' 
 and she softly tapped the other's hand. 
 
 4 Ah ! when have I reproached you with anything?' 
 cried Francine. 4 Evil in you has so much grace with it. 
 Yes, Saint Anne of Auray, to whom I pray so often 
 for you, will absolve you. And for the rest, am I not 
 come beside you now, though I do not know where 
 your way is taking you ? ' 
 
 She kissed her mistress's hands with this outburst. 
 
 4 But you can leave me,' said Marie, 4 if your 
 conscience ' 
 
 4 Not another word, madame,' said Francine with a 
 little sorrowful twitch of the lips. 4 Oh, will you not 
 tell me ' 
 
 4 Nothing ! 9 said the young lady firmly. 4 Only, be 
 sure of this, that the enterprise is even more odious to 
 me than the smooth-tongued creature who explained its 
 nature. I wish to be candid ; so to you I confess that 
 I would not have lent myself to their wishes if I 
 had not seen, in this ignoble farce, some gleams of 
 mingled love and terror which attracted me. Then I 
 would not leave this vile world without an effort to 
 gather the flowers I look for from it, even if I must 
 die for them ! But, remember, for it is due to my 
 memory, that had my life been happy, that great knife 
 of theirs held above my head would never have forced 
 me to take a part in this tragedy, for tragedy it is.' A 
 gesture of disgust escaped her ; then she went on, 
 4 But now, if the piece were to be withdrawn, I should 
 throw myself into the Sarthe, and that would be in no 
 sense a suicide, for as yet I have not lived.' 
 
78 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c Oh, holy Virgin of Auray, forgive her ! * 
 6 What are you afraid of? The dreary ups and 
 downs of domestic life arouse no emotions in me, as you 
 know. This is ill in a woman, but my soul has loftier 
 capacities, in order to abide mightier trials. I should 
 have been, perhaps, a gentle creature like you. Why 
 am I so much above or below other women ? Ah, 
 how happy is the wife of General Bonaparte ! But I 
 shall die young, for even now I have come not to shrink 
 from that kind of pleasure which means " drinking 
 blood," as poor Danton used to say. Now forget all 
 this that the woman of fifty within me says. The girl 
 of fifteen will soon reappear, thank Heaven ! 9 
 
 The younger woman shuddered. She alone under- 
 stood the fiery and impetuous nature of her mistress ; 
 she only had been initiated into the mysteries of an 
 inner life full of lofty imaginings, the ideas of a soul for 
 whom life had hitherto seemed intangible as a shadow 
 which she longed to grasp. There had been no harvest 
 after all her sowings ; her nature had never been touched ; 
 she was harassed by futile longings, wearied by a struggle 
 without an opponent, so that in despair she had come to 
 prefer good to evil if it came as an enjoyment, and evil 
 to good if only an element of poetry lurked behind, to 
 prefer wretchedness as something grander than a life 
 of narrow comfort, and death, with its dark uncertainties, 
 to an existence of starved hopes or insignificant suffer- 
 ings. Never has so much powder awaited the spark, 
 such wealth lain in store for love to consume, so much gold 
 been mingled with the clay in a daughter of Eve. Over 
 this nature Francine watched like an angel on earth, 
 worshipping its perfection, feeling that she should 
 fulfil her mission if she preserved, for the choir above, this 
 seraph, kept afar as an expiation of the sin of pride. 
 
 c That is the steeple of Alen^on,' said their cavalier, as 
 he drew near to the coach. 
 * So I see,' said the lady drily, 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 79 
 
 c Very well ! 9 he said, and fell back again with all the 
 tokens of abject submission, in spite of his disappointment. 
 
 c Quicker ! ' cried the lady to the postilion. c There is 
 nothing to fear now ! Go on at a trot or a gallop if you 
 can. We are on the causeway of Alen^on, are we not ? ' 
 
 As she passed him she called graciously to Hulot — 
 
 4 We shall meet each other at the inn, commandant. 
 Come and see me.' 
 
 c Just so,' he replied ; c <c I am going to the inn, come and 
 see me ! 99 That is the way to speak to the commandant 
 of a demi-brigade.' 
 
 He jerked his fist in the direction of the vanishing 
 coach. 
 
 c Don't grumble, commandant,' said Coren tin, laughing ; 
 c she has your general's commission in her sleeve,' and he 
 tried to put his horse to a gallop, to overtake the coach. 
 
 c Those good folk shall not make a fool of me,' growled 
 Hulot to his two friends. c 1 would sooner fling my 
 general's uniform into a ditch than get it through a 
 woman's favour. What do the geese mean ? Do you 
 understand their drift, either of you ? ' 
 
 * Quite well,' said Merle ; c I know that she is the 
 handsomest woman I ever set eyes on ! You don't 
 understand figures of speech, I think. Perhaps it is the 
 First Consul's wife.' 
 
 * Stuff, his wife is not young, and this one is,' answered 
 Hulot. c Besides, the orders I have received from the 
 minister inform me that she is Mile, de Verneuil. She is 
 a ci-devant. Don't I know that ! They used to carry 
 on like this before the Revolution ; you could be a chief of 
 demi-brigade in a brace of shakes. You had only to say 
 to them c Mon cosur ! ' once or twice, with the proper 
 emphasis. 
 
 As each soldier c stepped out,' to use their com- 
 mandant's phrase, the wretched vehicle which then 
 served for a mail coach had quickly reached the sign of 
 the Three Moors in the middle of the principal street of 
 
8o 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Alen^on. The rattle of the crazy conveyance brought 
 the landlord to the threshold. Nobody in Alen^on had 
 expected that chance would bring the coach to the sign of 
 the Three Moors ; but the horrible event at Mortagne 
 brought out so many people to look at it, that its occu- 
 pants, to escape the general curiosity, fled into the kitchen, 
 the ante-chamber of every inn throughout the West. 
 The host was preparing to follow them after a look at the 
 coach, when the postilion caught his arm. 
 
 c Look here, citizen Brutus,' he said ; c there is an escort 
 of Blues on the way. As there was neither driver nor 
 dispatches, it was my doing that the citoyennes came to 
 you. Of course, they will pay like ci-devant princesses ; 
 and so 
 
 c And so we will have a glass of wine together directly, 
 my boy,' said the landlord. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil gave one glance round the smoke- 
 blackened kitchen, and at the stains of raw meat on the 
 table, and then fled like a bird into the next room. For 
 the appearance and odour of the place dismayed her quite 
 as much as the inquisitive looks which a slovenly cook and 
 a short, stout woman fastened upon her. 
 
 c Howare we going to manage, wife ? ' said the landlord. 
 * Who the devil would think so many people would come 
 here as times go now ? She will never have the patience 
 to wait till I can serve her up a suitable meal. My word, 
 I have hit upon it; they belong to the quality, why 
 shouldn't they breakfast with the lady upstairs, eh ? ' 
 
 When the host looked about for the new-comers, he 
 found only Francine, whom he drew to the side of the 
 kitchen nearest the yard, so that no one could overhear 
 him, and said — 
 
 c If the ladies wish to breakfast by themselves, as I 
 expect they do, I have a very nice meal now ready for a 
 lady and her son. They would not object, of course, to 
 breakfasting with you,' he went on mysteriously. * They 
 are people of quality ' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 81 
 
 The words were hardly out before the landlord felt a 
 light blow on the back from a whip-handle ; he turned 
 quickly and saw behind him a short, thick-set man, who 
 had come in noiselessly from a closet adjoining. The 
 stout woman, the cook, and his assistant seemed frozen 
 with terror by this apparition. The landlord turned his 
 head away aghast. The short man shook aside the hair 
 which covered his eyes and forehead and stood on tiptoe 
 to whisper in the landlord's ear — 
 
 c You know what any blabbing or imprudence lays you 
 open to, and the colour of the money we pay in. We 
 
 never grudge it 9 A gesture rendered his meaning 
 
 horribly clear. 
 
 The stout person of the landlord hid the speaker, but 
 Francine caught a word here and there of his muttered 
 talk, and stood as if thunderstruck as she listened to the 
 hoarse sounds of a Breton voice. Amid the general dis- 
 may she sprang towards the speaker, but he had darted 
 through a side door into the yard with the quickness of a 
 wild animal. Francine thought that she must be 
 mistaken, for she could only see what appeared to be the 
 brindled fell of a fair-sized bear. 
 
 She ran to the window in surprise, and gazed after the 
 figure through the grimy panes. He was slouching off 
 to the stable ; but before he entered, he bent two piercing 
 black eyes upon the first story of the inn, and then turned 
 them on the coach, as if he wished to call the attention 
 of some one within to some point of special interest about 
 it. 
 
 Thanks to this manoeuvre, which displayed his face, 
 Francine recognised the Chouan as Marche-a-Terre, 
 despite his goatskin cloak, by his heavy whip, and the 
 lagging gait, which he could quicken upon occasion. She 
 watched him still even through the dimness of the stable, 
 where he lay down in a heap among the straw, in a spot 
 whence he could see all that went on in the inn. Even 
 at close quarters an experienced spy might have taken him 
 
 F 
 
82 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 for a big carter's dog curled round, asleep, with his 
 muzzle between his paws. His conduct convinced 
 Francine that he had not recognised her. In her 
 mistress's difficult position, she hardly knew whether this 
 was a relief or an annoyance. But her curiosity was 
 whetted by the mysterious connection between the 
 Chouan's threat and the landlord's proposal, for an 
 innkeeper is always ready to stop two mouths with one 
 morsel. 
 
 She left the dingy window, whence she had seen 
 Marche-a-Terre as a shapeless heap in the darkness, and 
 turned to the landlord, who stood like a man who has 
 made a false step and cannot see how to retrieve it. The 
 Chouan's gesture had petrified the poor fellow. Every 
 one in the West knew how the Chasseurs du Roi visited 
 even a suspicion of indiscretion with cruel refinements 
 of torture. The landlord seemed to feel their knives at 
 his throat. The chef stared in terror at the hearth, 
 where too often they ' warmed the feet 9 of their 
 victims. The stout woman ceased to pare a potato, and 
 gaped stupidly at her husband, while the scullion tried to 
 guess the meaning of this mute terror. Francine's 
 curiosity was naturally roused by all this dumb-show, 
 with the principal performer absent though still visible. 
 The Chouan's terrible power pleased her ; and although 
 it hardly lay in her meek nature to play the abigail, for 
 once she was too deeply interested not to use her oppor- 
 tunities for penetrating this mystery. 
 
 c Very good, mademoiselle accepts your offer,' she said 
 gravely. At her words the landlord started as if from sleep. 
 
 ( What offer ? ' he asked in real surprise. 
 
 4 What offer ? ' asked Corentin as he came in, 
 
 4 What offer ? 9 asked Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 c What offer ? 9 asked a fourth person from the foot of 
 the staircase, as he sprang into the kitchen. 
 
 4 Why, to breakfast with your people of distinction,' 
 answered Francine impatiently. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 83 
 
 * People of distinction,' said the arrival from the staircase, 
 in caustic and mocking tones ; c this is one of your land- 
 lord's jokes, and a very poor one ; but if it is this young 
 citoyenne whom you wish to add to our party,' he added, 
 looking at Mile, de Verneuil, c it would be folly to 
 decline, my good fellow. In my mother's absence I 
 accept,' and he clapped the bewildered landlord on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 The careless grace of youth concealed the insolent 
 pride of his words, which naturally drew the attention of 
 those present to the new actor in the scene. The host 
 put on the face of Pilate at this, washing his hands of 
 the death of Christ ; he stepped back and whispered 
 to his plump wife — 
 
 * You are my witness, that if anything goes wrong, 
 I am not to blame. But, at all events,' he added in still 
 lower tones, c let M. Marche-a-Terre know everything.' 
 
 The new-comer was of middle height, and wore the 
 uniform of the c Ecole poly technique,' a blue coat without 
 epaulettes, breeches of the same material, and black 
 gaiters that reached above the knee. In spite of this 
 sombre costume, Mademoiselle de Verneuil recognised at 
 a glance the grace of his figure and an indescribable 
 something which indicated noble birth. At first sight 
 there was nothing remarkable in his face, but some- 
 thing in his features soon made it felt that he was 
 capable of great things. A sun-burned face, fair and 
 curling hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a delicately cut nose, 
 all these traits, like the ease of his movements, revealed a 
 life subordinated to lofty sentimentsanda mind accustomed 
 to command. The feature that most clearly revealed his 
 character was a chin like Bonaparte's, or a mouth where 
 the lower lip met the upper in a curve like that of some 
 acanthus leaf on a Corinthian capital ; there Nature had 
 exerted all her powers of magic. 
 
 c This young man is no ordinary Republican,' said 
 Mile, de Verneuil to herself. 
 
8 4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 She understood everything in a moment, and the wish 
 to please awoke in her. She bent her head a little to one 
 side with a coquettish smile, and the dark eyes shot forth 
 one of those velvet glances that would awaken life in a 
 heart dead to love ; then the heavy eyelids fell over her 
 black eyes, and their thick lashes made a curved line of 
 shadow on her cheeks as she said, 6 We are very much 
 obliged to you, sir,' imparting a thrill to the conventional 
 phrase by the most musical tones her voice could give. 
 All this by-play took place in less time than it takes to 
 describe it, and at once Mile, de Verneuil turned to the 
 landlord, asked for her room, found the staircase, and dis- 
 appeared with Francine, leaving the stranger to decide 
 whether or no she had accepted his invitation. 
 
 c Who is the woman ? ' asked the pupil of the Ecole 
 poly technique of the still further embarrassed and motion- 
 less landlord. 
 
 'She is the citoyenne Verneuil,' answered Corentin 
 tartly, as he ran his eyes over the other jealously. 6 What 
 makes you ask ? 9 
 
 The stranger hummed a Republican air, and raised his 
 head haughtily at Corentin. The two young men 
 looked at one another for a moment like game-cocks 
 about to fight, and at a glance an undying hatred of each 
 other dawned in them both. For the frank gaze of the 
 soldier's blue eyes there shone malice and deceit in 
 Corentin's green orbs. The one naturally possessed a 
 gracious manner, the other could only substitute insinua- 
 ting dexterity of address ; the first would have rushed 
 forward where the other slunk back. The one com- 
 manded the respect that the other sought to obtain ; the 
 first seemed to say, ' Let us conquer ! ' the second, c Let 
 us divide the spoil ! ' 
 
 c Is the citizen du Gua St.-Cyr here ? ' asked a peasant 
 at the door. 
 
 ' What do you want with him ? ' asked the voung man, 
 coming forward. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 85 
 
 The peasant made a deep reverence and handed him a 
 letter, which the young man read and threw into the 
 fire. He nodded by way of answer, and the peasant 
 went away. 
 
 'You have come from Paris, no doubt, citizen H said 
 Corentin, coming up to him with a familiar and cringing 
 complaisance that the citizen du Gua could hardly endure. 
 
 6 Yes,' he replied drily. 
 
 c Some appointment in the artillery, I expect.' 
 6 No, citizen, in the navy.' 
 
 4 Ah ! then you are going to Brest,' said Corentin care- 
 lessly, but the young sailor turned away quickly on his 
 heel without replying. 
 
 He soon disappointed the fair expectations that Mile, 
 de Verneuil had formed of him. A puerile interest in 
 his breakfast absorbed him. He discussed recipes with 
 the chef and the landlady, opened his eyes at provincial 
 ways like a fledgling Parisian picked out of his enchanted 
 shell, affected repugnances, and altogether showed a 
 weakness of mind that one would not have expected from 
 his appearance. Corentin smiled pityingly as he turned 
 up his nose at the best cider in Normandy. 
 
 ' Faugh ! ' he cried, c how do you manage to swallow 
 that stuff? One could eat and drink it too. No wonder 
 the Republic suspects a district where they bang the trees 
 with long poles for their vintage, and lie in wait to shoot 
 travellers on the roads. Don't put that physic on the 
 table for us, but give us some good Bordeaux wine, both 
 white and red, and see, above all things, that there is a 
 good fire upstairs. Civilisation is a long way behind 
 hereabouts, it seems to me. Ah ! * he sighed, c there is 
 but one Paris in the world, and it is a pity indeed that 
 one cannot take it afloat with one. Hullo, spoil-sauce,' 
 he cried to the cook, c do you mean to say you are putting 
 vinegar into the fricassee when there are lemons at hand ? 
 And your sheets, madam landlady, were so coarse, that 
 I scarcely slept a wink all night.' 
 
86 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 He then betook himself to playing with a large cane, 
 performing with childish gravity a number of evolutions, 
 which decided the place of a youth among Incroyables by 
 the degree of skill and neatness with which they were 
 executed. 
 
 1 And out of whipper-snappers like that the Republic 
 hopes to construct a navy,' said Corentin confidentially, 
 as he scanned the landlord's face. 
 
 c That man is one of Fouche's spies,' whispered the 
 sailor to the landlady. c I see it in every line of his face. 
 I would swear that he brought that splash of mud on his 
 chin from Paris. But set a thief to catch ' 
 
 A lady entered the kitchen as he spoke, whom he 
 greeted with every outward sign of respect. 
 
 1 Come here, chere maman] he cried \ 4 1 think I have 
 found some one to share our meal.' 
 
 4 To share our meal ! What nonsense ! 9 she replied. 
 
 4 It is Mile, de Verneuil,' he said, lowering his voice. 
 
 'She perished on the scaffold after the Savenay affair; 
 she had come to Mans to save her brother, the Prince de 
 Loudon,' said his mother shortly. 
 
 * You are mistaken, madame,' said Corentin amiably, 
 and with a little pause on the word madame. c There is a 
 second Mademoiselle de Verneuil. Great families have 
 always several branches.' 
 
 Surprised at his freedom, the lady drew back a pace or 
 two, as if to scrutinise this unlooked-for speaker. She 
 bent her dark eyes upon him as if she would divine, with 
 a woman's keen power of apprehension, why he affirmed 
 Mile, de Verneuil to be yet in existence. Corentin, who 
 at the same time furtively studied the lady, refused her 
 the pleasures of maternity to endow her with those of 
 love. 
 
 He gallantly declined to believe her to be the happy 
 mother of a son twenty years of age, seeing her dazzling 
 complexion, her thick arching eyebrows, her still abundant 
 eyelashes, which excited his admiration, and her wealth of 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 87 
 
 black tresses, divided on the forehead into two bandeaux, 
 a style which enhanced the youthfulness of a sprightly 
 face. It was the force of passion, he thought, and by no 
 means time, that had set faint lines on her forehead ; and 
 if the piercing eyes drooped somewhat, this might be due 
 rather to the constant expression of lively feelings than 
 to the weariness of her pilgrimage. Corentin then dis- 
 covered that the cloak she wore was of English materials, 
 and that her bonnet followed some foreign fashion, and 
 was not in the mode, called a la Grecque^ which ruled 
 Parisian toilettes. 
 
 Corentin's nature always led him to suspect evil rather 
 than good, and he began at once to have his doubts as to 
 the patriotism of the pair ; while the lady, who had as 
 rapidly come to her own conclusions about Corentin, 
 looked at her son, as if to say, c Who is this quiz ? Is 
 he on our side ? ' To this implied question, the young 
 man's manner replied, like his look and gesture, c I know 
 nothing about him, upon my word, and you cannot 
 suspect him as much as I do.' Then, leaving it to his 
 mother to discover the mystery, he went up and whispered 
 to the hostess — 
 
 c Try to find out who the rogue is, and whether he 
 really does accompany that young lady, and why.' 
 
 'So you are Sure, citizen,' said Mme. du Gua, looking 
 at Corentin, i that Mile, de Verneuil is still living ? ' 
 
 'She exists as surely in flesh and blood, madame, as the 
 citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr.' 
 
 There was a profound irony beneath his words known 
 only to the lady herself ; any other woman would have 
 been disconcerted. Her son suddenly fixed his eyes on 
 Corentin, who coolly drew out his watch, and did not 
 seem to suspect the apprehensions his reply had aroused. 
 But the lady, uneasy and anxious to know at once 
 whether treachery lurked in the words, or chance had 
 directed them, said to Corentin quite simply — 
 
 c Mon Dieu! How unsafe the roads are! The 
 
88 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Chouans set upon us on the other side of Mortagne. My 
 son narrowly escaped being left there for good ; he had 
 two balls through his hat while defending me.' 
 
 c Then, madame, you were in the coach that was 
 plundered by the brigands, in spite of its escort, and 
 which has just brought us hither. You will recognise it, 
 I expect. They said as I came through Mortagne that 
 Chouans to the number of two thousand had attacked the 
 mail, and that every one, even the travellers, had perished. 
 That is how history is written.' 
 
 The fatuous air with which Corentin spoke, and his 
 drawling tones, recalled some habitue of 4 La Petite 
 Provence,' who has discovered to his sorrow that a piece 
 of political news is false. 
 
 c Alas, madame,' he went on, c if travellers are murdered 
 at such a short distance from Paris, what will be the 
 state of affairs in Brittany ! Faith, I shall go back to 
 Paris and not venture any further.' 
 
 c Is Mademoiselle de Verneuil young and beautiful ? • 
 asked the lady of their hostess, as a sudden thought 
 crossed her mind. 
 
 Just then the landlord ended the conversation, which 
 had so painful an interest for the three speakers, by the 
 announcement that breakfast was ready. The young 
 sailor offered his arm to his mother with an assumed 
 familiarity which confirmed Corentin's doubts. 
 
 He called out as he reached the staircase — 
 
 c Citizen, if you are travelling with the citoyenne 
 Verneuil, and she accepts our landlord's offer, do not 
 hesitate.' And though these words were careless, and 
 his manner by no means pressing, Corentin went upstairs. 
 As soon as they were some seven or eight steps ahead of 
 the Parisian, the young man pressed the lady's hand 
 affectionately, and said in a low voice — 
 
 c See now the inglorious hazards to which your plans 
 have exposed us. If we are detected, how are we to 
 escape ? And what a part you have made me play ! 9 
 
A Notion of Fouch<?s 
 
 8 9 
 
 The three entered a large-sized room. Even those 
 unaccustomed to travel in the West would have seen 
 that the landlord had expended all his resources in a 
 lavish preparation for his guests. The table was care- 
 fully appointed, the dampness of the room had been 
 driven off by a large fire, the earthenware, linen, and 
 furniture were not intolerably dirty. Corentin saw that 
 the landlord had put himself about a good deal, as the 
 popular saying is, to please the strangers. 
 
 c So,' he thought, c these people are not what they wish 
 to appear then. The little youngster is adroit. I took 
 him for a simpleton, but I fancy he is quite as sharp as I 
 am myself.' 
 
 The landlord went to inform Mile, de Verneuil that 
 the young sailor, his mother, and Corentin awaited her 
 coming. 
 
 As she did not appear, the student of the Ecole 
 polytechnique felt sure that she had raised difficulties, 
 and humming c Veillons au salut de P Empire^ 9 he went off 
 in the direction of her room. A curiously keen desire 
 possessed him to overcome her scruples and bring her 
 back with him. Perhaps he meant to solve the doubts 
 which disturbed him, or to try to exert over this stranger 
 the authority men like to exercise in the case of a pretty 
 woman. 
 
 4 May I be hanged if that is a Republican,' thought 
 Corentin, as he went out. c The movements of those 
 shoulders show the courtier. . . . And if that is his 
 mother,' he continued, as he looked again at Mme. du 
 Gua, c I am the Pope ! I believe they are Chouans ; let 
 us make certain of their condition.' 
 
 The door soon opened, and the young sailor appeared, 
 leading by the hand Mile, de Verneuil, whom he led to 
 her place with presumptuous civility. The devil had 
 lost nothing during the hour which had just passed. With 
 Francine s aid, Mile, de Verneuil had equipped herself in 
 a travelling dress more formidable perhaps than a ball 
 
 I 
 
9° 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 toilette; for a woman beautiful enough to discard 
 ornaments knows how to relegate the charms of her 
 toilette to a second place, and to avail herself of the 
 attractions of a simplicity that proceeds from art. She 
 wore a green dress, charmingly made, and a short jacket 
 or spencer fastened with loops of twisted braid, a costume 
 which fitted the outlines of her form with a subtlety 
 scarcely girlish, and displayed her slender figure and 
 graceful movements. She came in smiling, with the 
 amiability natural to a woman who can disclose a set of 
 even teeth, white as porcelain, between two red lips, 
 and a couple of fresh childish dimples in her cheeks. 
 She had discarded the bonnet, which at first had almost 
 hidden her face from the young sailor, and could employ 
 the numerous apparently unconscious little devices by 
 which a woman displays or enhances the charms of her 
 face and the graces of her head. A certain harmony 
 between her manners and her toilette made her seem so 
 youthful that Madame du Gua thought herself liberal in 
 allowing her some twenty years of age. 
 
 The coquetry of this change of costume, which showed 
 a deliberate effort to please, might have aroused hope in 
 the young man, but Mile, de Verneuil bowed slightly 
 without looking at him, and left him to himself with a 
 careless cheerfulness that disconcerted him. Her reserve 
 seemed to unaccustomed eyes to indicate neither coquetry 
 nor prudence, but simple indifference, real or affected. 
 The ingenuous expression which she knew how to 
 assume was inscrutable. There was not a trace in her 
 manner of the anticipation of a conquest ; the pretty ways 
 which had already flattered and deceived the young man's 
 self-love seemed native to her. So the stranger took his 
 place somewhat put out. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil took Francine's hand and addressed 
 Mme. du Gua in conciliatory tones — 
 
 4 Madame, will you be so good as to allow this girl 
 to breakfast with us ? She is rather a friend than a 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 9* 
 
 servant, and in these stormy times devotion can only be 
 repaid by friendship ; indeed, what else is there left to us ? ' 
 To this last observation, made in a lowered voice, Mme. 
 du Gua replied by a somewhat stiff and mutilated curtsey 
 that revealed her annoyance at coming in contact with 
 so pretty a woman. She stooped to whisper in her son's 
 ear — 
 
 c Oh ! <c stormy times," " devotion,'* 4< madame," and 
 the waiting woman ; this is not Mile, de Verneuil, but 
 some creature sent by Fouche.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil became aware of Corentin's presence 
 as they seated themselves ; he still submitted the strangers 
 to a narrow inspection, under which they seemed rather 
 uneasy. 
 
 c Citizen,' she said, c I am sure you are too well bred 
 to wish to follow me about in this way. The Republic 
 sent my relations to the scaffold, but had not the 
 magnanimity to find a guardian for me. So, though 
 against my wish, you have accompanied me so far with 
 a Quixotic courtesy quite unheard of,' and she sighed, 
 * I am determined not to permit the protecting care 
 you have expended upon me to become a source of 
 annoyance to you. I am in safety here, and you can 
 leave me.' 
 
 She looked at him resolutely and scornfully. Corentin 
 understood her, suppressed a lurking smile about the 
 corners of his crafty mouth, and bowed respectfully. 
 
 4 Citoyenne,' said he, 6 it is always an honour to obey 
 your commands. Beauty is the only queen whom a true 
 Republican can willingly serve.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil smiled so significantly and joyously 
 at Francine as he went, that Madame du Gua's sus- 
 picions were somewhat allayed, albeit prudence had come 
 along with jealousy of Mile, de Verneuil's perfect 
 loveliness. 
 
 c Perhaps she is Mile, de Verneuil after all,' she said ta 
 her son. 
 
9 2 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 4 How about the escort ? 9 he answered, for vexation 
 had made him discreet in his turn. * Is he her gaoler or 
 her protector ? Is she a friend or an enemy of the 
 Government ? 9 
 
 Madame du Gua's eyes seemed to say that she meant 
 to go to the bottom of this mystery. Corentin's depart- 
 ure appeared to reassure the young sailor, his face relaxed, 
 but the way in which he looked at Mile, de Verneuil 
 revealed rather an immoderate love of women in general 
 than the dawning warmth of a respectful passion. On 
 the other hand, the young lady grew more and more 
 reserved, keeping all her friendly words for Madame 
 du Gua, until the young man grew sulky at being left to 
 himself, and in his vexation assumed airs of indifference. 
 It was all lost, it seemed, upon Mile, de Verneuil, who 
 appeared to be unaffected, but not shy, and reserved 
 without prudishness. After all, this casual meeting of 
 people who were unlikely to know more of each other 
 called for no special emotion ; but a certain constraint, 
 and even a vulgar embarrassment began to spoil any 
 pleasure which Mile, de Verneuil and the young sailor 
 had expected from it but a moment before. But women 
 have among themselves such strong interests in common, 
 or such a keen desire for emotions, combined with so 
 wonderful an instinct for finding the right thing to say and 
 do, that they can always break the ice on such occasions. 
 So that, as if one thought possessed both ladies, they 
 began to rally their cavalier, rivalled each other in paying 
 him various small attentions, and joked at his expense. 
 This unanimity of plan set them free from constraint. 
 Words and looks began to lose their significance and 
 importance. At the end of half an hour, in fact, the two 
 women, already enemies at heart, were outwardly on the 
 best of terms, while the young sailor found that he pre- 
 ferred Mademoiselle de Verneuil's reserve to her present 
 vivacity. He was so tormented that he angrily wished 
 he had not asked her to join them. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 93 
 
 4 Madame,' said Mademoiselle de Verneuil at last, ( is 
 your son always as dull as this ? ' 
 
 6 Mademoiselle,' broke in the victim, *I was just 
 asking myself what is the good of a pleasure that cannot 
 last. The keenness of my enjoyment is the secret of my 
 dulness.' 
 
 ^ c Pretty speeches like that are rather courtly for the 
 ficole polytechnique,' she said, laughing. 
 
 ( His idea was very natural, mademoiselle,' said Madame 
 du Gua, who for her own reasons wished to set her guest 
 at ease. 
 
 4 Come, why do you not laugh ? ' said the latter, smiling. 
 c How do you look when you weep, if what you are 
 pleased to call "a pleasure" depresses you like this ? ? 
 
 Her smile, accompanied by a challenge from her eyes 
 which broke through the mask of sedateness, gave 
 some hope to the young sailor. But inspired by her 
 nature, which always leads a woman to do too much or 
 too little, the more Mile, de Verneuil seemed to take 
 possession of the young sailor by glances full of the fore- 
 shadowing of love, the more she opposed a cool and 
 reserved severity to his gallant expressions — the common 
 tactics which women use to conceal their sentiments. 
 For one moment, and one only, when each had thought 
 to find the other's eyelids lowered, a glance communi- 
 cated their real thoughts ; but they both lowered their 
 eyes as promptly as they had raised them, confounded 
 by the sudden flash that had agitated both their hearts 
 while it enlightened them. In embarrassment at having 
 said so much in a glance, they did not dare to look 
 at each other again. Mile, de Verneuil, anxious to 
 undeceive the stranger, took refuge in a cool politeness, and 
 even seemed to be impatient for their breakfast to be over. 
 
 * You must have suffered much in prison, mademoi- 
 selle ? ' queried Mme. du Gua. 
 
 c Alas ! madame, I feel as though I had not yet ceased 
 to be a prisoner.' 
 
94 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c Is your escort intended to watch you or to watch over 
 you, mademoiselle ? Are you suspected by the Republic, 
 or are you dear to it ? ' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil felt instinctively that Mme. du Gua 
 took but little interest in her, and the question startled 
 her. 
 
 4 Madame,* she replied, c I hardly know what my 
 precise relations with the Republic are at this moment.' 
 
 * You make it tremble perhaps,' said the young man, 
 somewhat ironically. 
 
 c Why do you not respect mademoiselle's secrets ? ' 
 asked Mme. du Gua. 
 
 c The secrets of a young girl who has known nothing 
 of life as yet but its sorrows are not very interesting, 
 madame.' 
 
 c But the First Consul seems to be exceedingly well 
 disposed,' said Mme. du Gua, wishful to keep up a 
 conversation which might tell her something that she 
 wanted to know. i Do they not say that he is about to 
 repeal the law against emigrants ! ' 
 
 * It is quite true, madame,' said the other, almost too 
 eagerly perhaps. * Why, then, should we arouse La Vendee 
 and Brittany? Why kindle the flames of insurrection 
 in France ? ' 
 
 This generous outburst, in which she seemed to put 
 a note of self-reproach, moved the young sailor. He 
 looked attentively at Mile, de Verneuil, but he could read 
 neither hatred nor love in her face. Her face, with its 
 delicate tints that attested the fineness of the skin, was 
 impenetrable. Ungovernable curiosity suddenly attracted 
 him towards this singular being, to whom he had already 
 felt drawn by strong desire. 
 
 c But you are going to Mayenne, madame ? 9 she asked 
 after a short pause. 
 
 c And if so, mademoiselle ? ' queried the young man. 
 
 c Well, if so, madame, and as your son is in the service 
 of the Republic ' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 95 
 
 These words were uttered with seeming carelessness, 
 but she gave a furtive glance at the two strangers, such 
 as only women and diplomatists employ, as she continued, 
 c You must be in fear of the Chouans ? An escort is 
 not to be despised. We are almost travelling companions 
 already. Will you come with us to Mayenne ? 9 
 
 Mother and son looked at each other, and the latter 
 spoke. 
 
 c I hardly know, mademoiselle, whether I do very 
 discreetly in telling you that matters of great importance 
 require us to be in the district of Fougeres to-night, and 
 that so far we have found no means of transport ; but 
 women are so generous by nature that I should be 
 ashamed not to trust you. But still,' he continued, 
 c before we put ourselves in your hands, let us know at 
 any rate if we are likely to issue from them safe and 
 sound. Are you the slave or the mistress of your 
 Republican escort ? Forgive the plain speaking of a 
 young sailor, but I see so much that is unusual in your 
 circumstances ' 
 
 c In these times, sir, nothing that happens is usual. 
 Believe me, you may accept without hesitation. Above 
 all,' she spoke with emphasis, c you have no treachery to 
 fear in a straightforward offer made by one who takes no 
 share in party hatreds.' 
 
 * Even then the journey will have its perils,' he 
 answered, with an arch look that gave significance to the 
 commonplace words. 
 
 c What are you afraid of now ? ' she asked, with a 
 mocking smile ; i there is no danger that I see, for 
 anybody.' 
 
 'Is this the woman whose glances reflected my desires,' 
 said he to himself. c What a tone to take ! Does she 
 mean to entrap me ? ' 
 
 The shrill piercing cry of a screech-owl rang out like a 
 dismal portent ; it seemed to come from the chimney. 
 
 c What is that ? ' asked Mademoiselle de Verneuil, 
 
9 6 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 with a gesture of surprise. 4 It is a bad omen for our 
 journey. And how is it that screech-owls hoot in 
 broad daylight hereabouts ? ' 
 
 4 They do at times,' said the young man shortly. 
 'Mademoiselle, perhaps we shall bring you ill-luck. Is 
 not that what you are thinking ? We had better not 
 travel together.' 
 
 This was said with a soberness and gravity that 
 astonished her. 
 
 4 1 have no wish to constrain you, sir,' she said with 
 aristocratic impertinence. 4 Pray let us keep what little 
 liberty the Republic allows us. If your mother were 
 alone, I should insist ' 
 
 The heavy footsteps of a soldier sounded from the 
 corridor, and Hulot showed a scowling face. 
 
 4 Come here, colonel,' said Mile. de. Verneuil, smiling 
 and pointing to a chair beside her. 4 Let us occupy 
 ourselves with affairs of State if we must. But do not 
 look so serious ! What is the matter with you ? Are 
 there Chouans about ? ' 
 
 The commandant was staring open-mouthed at the 
 stranger, at whom he gazed with close attention. 
 
 4 Will you take some more hare, mother ? Mademoi- 
 selle, you are eating nothing,' the sailor said to Francine, 
 and he busied himself with his companions. 
 
 But there was something so cruelly earnest in Hulot's 
 surprise and Mile, de Verneuil's attention, that it was 
 dangerous to disregard these facts. 
 
 4 What is the matter, commandant ? Do you happen 
 to know me ? ' he asked sharply. 
 
 4 Perhaps,' answered the Republican. 
 
 4 Indeed, I think I have seen you as a visitor at the 
 school.' 
 
 ' I never went to school at all,' the commandant 
 answered abruptly. 4 What sort of school may you come 
 from?' 
 
 4 The Ecole polytechnique/ 
 
 4 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 97 
 
 € Oh ! ah ! yes ! Those barracks where they train 
 soldiers in the dormitories,' replied the commandant, who 
 had an ungovernable dislike of all officers from this 
 scientific seminary. c What corps are you serving in ? ' 
 
 * I am in the navy.' 
 
 c Ah ! ' said Hulot, laughing spitefully, c do you know 
 many pupils from that school in the navy ? They 
 only turn out officers of artillery and engineers,' he went 
 on sternly. 
 
 The other was not disconcerted. 
 
 4 The name I bear has made an exception of me,' he 
 answered. c We have all been sailors in our family.' 
 
 c Ah ! ' said Hulot ; c and what is your family name, 
 citizen ? ' 
 
 < Du Gua Saint-Cyr.' 
 
 4 Then you were not murdered at Mortagne ? ' 
 
 4 Ah ! A very little more and we must have been,' 
 said Madame du Gua ; c my son had a couple of balls 
 through ' 
 
 c Have you your papers ? 9 said Hulot, who paid no 
 attention to the mother. 
 
 c Would you like to read them ? ' said the young man 
 flippantly, with malice in his blue eyes, as he looked from 
 the scowling commandant to Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 c I am to have a young fool set his wits at me, I 
 suppose,' said Hulot. c Give me your papers, or come 
 away with you.' 
 
 c Come, come, my fine fellow, I am not a recruit. 
 Why should I answer you ? Who may you be ? ' 
 
 c I am the commandant of the department,' answered 
 Hulot. 
 
 c Oh, then this is a very serious matter, and I might 
 be taken with arms in my hands.' He held out a glass 
 of Bordeaux wine to the commandant. 
 
 c l am not thirsty,' said Hulot. c Come, show me 
 your papers.' 
 
 Just then the tramp of soldiers and the clanking of 
 
 G 
 
9 8 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 weapons filled the street. Hulot stepped to the window 
 with a satisfaction that alarmed Mile, de Verneuil. This 
 sign of concern softened the young man, whose face had 
 grown cold and hard. He searched the pocket of his coat 
 and drew out an elegant portfolio, and from this he selected 
 papers which he handed to the commandant, and which 
 Hulot began to read deliberately, studying the signa- 
 ture on the passport and the face of the suspected 
 traveller. As he proceeded with his scrutiny, the screech 
 owl hooted again, but this time it was plainly in the 
 accents of a human voice. 
 
 The commandant returned the papers with a sarcastic 
 expression. 
 
 c This is all very fine,' he said, c but you must follow me 
 to the district headquarters. I am not fond of music' 
 
 c Why take him to the district ? ' asked Mile, de Verneuil 
 in a new tone of voice. 
 
 4 That is no business of yours, young lady,' said Hulot, 
 with the usual grimace. 
 
 Irritated at this language from the old soldier, and by 
 the way she had been lowered, as it were, in the eyes 
 of a man who had taken a fancy to her, Mile, de 
 Verneuil dropped the sedate manner which had hitherto 
 been hers, her colour rose, and her eyes glowed. 
 
 ( Tell me, has this young man satisfied the require- 
 ments of the law ? ' she asked gently, though her voice 
 faltered a little. 
 
 4 Yes, to outward seeming.' 
 
 c Well, then, I shall expect you to leave him alone "in 
 outward seeming." Are you afraid he will escape you ? 
 You are going to escort us to Mayenne; he and his 
 mother will travel in the coach with me. No objections 
 — it is my wish ! Now, what is it ? ' she added 
 when he made his usual little grimace. c Do you still 
 suspect him ? ' 
 
 ' To some extent.' 
 
 * What do you want to do ? ' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 99 
 
 i Nothing but to cool his head a bit with some lead. . . 
 A hare-brained boy ! ' said the commandant, sardonically. 
 c You are joking, Colonel.' 
 
 c Come, comrade ! ' said the commandant, with a move- 
 ment of the head ; c come, let us be off, sharp ! ' 
 
 At this impertinence from Hulot, Mile, de Verneuil 
 smiled and grew calm. 
 
 c Stay where you are,' she said to the young man, with 
 a dignified gesture of protection. 
 
 'What a splendid head ! ' he whispered to his mother, 
 who knitted her brows. 
 
 Repressed vexation and wounded susceptibilities had 
 brought new beauties into the fair Parisian's face. Every 
 one rose to their feet, Francine, and Mme. du Gua and 
 her son. Mile, de Verneuil quickly stepped between 
 them and the commandant, who was smiling, and deftly 
 unfastened the loops of braid on her spencer. Then 
 with the heedlessness that possesses a woman whose self- 
 love has been severely wounded, she drew out a letter and 
 handed it at once to the commandant, pleased with her 
 power, and as impatient to exercise it as any child can be 
 to try a new plaything. 
 
 c Read it,' she said with a sarcastic smile. 
 
 Intoxicated with her triumph, she returned towards 
 the young man, with a glance at him in which malice 
 and love were mingled. The brows of both grew lighter, 
 a flush of joy overspread their excited faces, innumerable 
 contending thoughts arose in their minds. Mme. du Gua's 
 glance seemed to say that she attributed Mile, de 
 Verneuil's generosity rather to love than to charity, 
 and she was certainly quite right. The fair traveller 
 flushed up in the first instance, and modestly lowered her 
 eyelids, as she gathered the meaning of that feminine 
 glance ; but she raised her head again proudly under the 
 menacing accusation, and defiantly met all eyes. Mean- 
 while, the petrified commandant handed back her letter, 
 countersigned by ministers, and enjoining all persons in 
 
IOO 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 authority to obey the orders of the mysterious bearer ; 
 but he drew his sword from its sheath, broke it over his 
 knee, and flung down the fragments. 
 
 c Mademoiselle, you probably know what you are about ; 
 but a Republican has his own ideas and a pride of his 
 own, and I have not yet learned to take my orders from a 
 pretty woman. The First Consul will receive my 
 resignation to-night, and another than Hulot will obey 
 you. When I do not understand a matter, I will not stir in 
 it, especially if I am supposed to understand it and cannot.' 
 
 There was a moment's silence, soon broken by the 
 young Parisian lady, who went up to the commandant, 
 held out her hand, and said — 
 
 4 Colonel, although your beard is rather long, you may 
 give me a kiss. You are a man ! ' 
 
 'So I trust, mademoiselle,' he answered, as he 
 awkwardly pressed his lips to the hand of this strange girl. 
 c As for you, comrade/ and he pointed his finger at him, 
 c you have had a narrow escape.' 
 
 c The joke has gone quite far enough, commandant ; if 
 you like, I will go to the district with you,' said the 
 laughing stranger. 
 
 'And bring that invisible whistler Marche-a-Terre 
 along with you.' 
 
 c Marche-a-Terre — who is that ? ' said the sailor, 
 with every sign of genuine surprise. 
 
 4 Did not some one whistle a minute ago ? ' 
 
 c If they did,' said the other, 'what has that to do with 
 me, I wonder ? I thought that your men, brought here no 
 doubt to arrest me, were warning you of their approach.' 
 
 c Was that really what you thought ? ' 
 
 * Eh, mon Dieu I Yes. Drink your glass of Bordeaux ; 
 it is delicious.' 
 
 Perplexed by the sailor's astonishment, by the levity of 
 his manner, and the almost childish appearance of his face, 
 with its carefully curled fair hair, the commandant's 
 mind hesitated among endless suspicions. He noticed 
 
A Notion of Fouche*s 
 
 IOI 
 
 Madame du Gua, who was trying to read the secret in 
 her son's glances at Mile, de Verneuil, and suddenly asked 
 her — 
 
 c Your age, citoyenne ? 1 
 
 4 Alas! the laws of our Republic are growing very 
 merciless, Monsieur POfficier ; I am thirty-eight years old.' 
 
 c May I be shot if I believe a word of it. Marche-zU 
 Terre is about ; I heard him whistle, and you are Chouans 
 in disguise. Tonnerre de Dieu ! I will have the inn 
 surrounded and searched.' 
 
 A whistle not unlike the sound he spoke of interrupted 
 the commandant's speech. It came from the courtyard. 
 Fortunately, Hulot hurried into the corridor, and did not 
 notice the pallor that overspread Madame du Gua's face 
 at the words. When Hulot beheld the whistler, a 
 postilion harnessing his horses to the coach, his suspicions 
 were allayed. It seemed to him so absurd that Chouans 
 should risk themselves in the midst of Alen^on, that he 
 returned in confusion. 
 
 c I forgive him, but some day he shall pay dear for the 
 moments he has made us spend here,' said the mother 
 gravely, whispering to her son, and at that instant 
 Hulot came into the room again. The brave officer 
 clearly showed on his embarrassed face the expression of 
 a mental struggle between the rigorous claims of duty 
 and his own natural good nature. He still looked surly, 
 perhaps because he thought that he had been mistaken, 
 but he took the glass of Bordeaux and said — 
 
 c Excuse me, comrade ; but if your School sends out 
 such youngsters for officers ' 
 
 c Are there not still younger ones among the brigands ? ' 
 asked the so-called sailor, laughing. 
 
 4 For whom did you take my son ? ' answered Mme. du 
 Gua. 
 
 c For the Gars, the leader sent over to the Chouans 
 and Vendeans by the English ministry, and whose style 
 is the Marquis of Montauran.' 
 
102 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 As he spoke the commandant still kept a close watch 
 on the faces of the two suspected persons. They looked 
 at each other with the peculiar expressions which two pre- 
 sumptuous and ignorant people might assume successively, 
 and which might be translated by this dialogue : * Do you 
 know what this means ? ' — c No ; do you ? % — ( Not a bit 
 of it.' — 4 What does he mean to say?' — 4 He is dream- 
 ing,' — and there followed the mocking jeer of folly, 
 which thinks itself triumphant. 
 
 The mention of the Royalist's general's name wrought 
 in Marie de Verneuil's manners and unconcern a sudden 
 alteration, which was only visible to Francine, the one 
 person present who could read the almost imperceptible 
 shades of expression on that young face. Completely 
 baffled, the commandant picked up the two pieces of his 
 sword, and looked at Mile, de Verneuil. The warmth 
 and excitement in her face had succeeded in stirring his 
 own feelings \ he said — 
 
 c As for you, mademoiselle, I shall stick to my word, 
 and to-morrow the fragments of my sword shall return to 
 Bonaparte, unless ' 
 
 6 Eh ! What have I to do with your Bonapartes and 
 your Republics, your Chouans, your King, and your 
 Gars ? ' cried she, repressing with some difficulty an out- 
 burst of temper which would have been in very poor taste. 
 
 A strange excitement or waywardness brought a 
 brilliant colour to her face ; it was clear that the whole 
 world would become as nothing to this young girl from 
 the moment when she singled out one living creature in 
 it from all others. But suddenly she forced herself to 
 be calm again, finding that all eyes were turned upon her 
 as upon a principal personage. The commandant rose 
 abruptly. Mile, de Verneuil, anxious and disturbed, 
 followed him, stopped him in the passage outside, and 
 asked him in earnest tones — 
 
 4 Had you really very strong reasons for suspecting 
 this young man to be the Gars ? ' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 103 
 
 c Tonnerre de Dieu ! That popinjay who came along 
 with you, mademoiselle, had just told me that the 
 travellers and courier had all been murdered by the 
 Chouans, which I knew already ; but I did not know 
 that the name of the dead travellers was du Gua Saint- 
 Cyr!' 
 
 c Oh, if Corentin is mixed up in it, I am not sur- 
 prised at anything any longer,' she said, with a gesture 
 of disgust. The commandant withdrew, not daring to 
 look at Mile, de Verneuil, whose dangerous beauty had 
 already perturbed his heart. 
 
 4 If I had stayed there for ten more minutes,' he said 
 to himself, as he went downstairs, 6 1 should have been 
 fool enough to pick up my sword again to escort her.' 
 
 Mme. du Gua saw how the young man's eyes were 
 fixed on the door through which Mile, de Verneuil had 
 made her exit, and spoke in his ear — 
 
 * It is always the same with you ! You will only 
 come to your end through some woman or other. The 
 sight of a doll makes you forget everything else. Why 
 did you allow her to breakfast with us ? What sort 
 of demoiselle de Verneuil can she be who accepts invita- 
 tions to breakfast with strangers, has an escort of Blues, 
 and countermands them by a paper kept in reserve in 
 her spencer like a love-letter ? She is one of those vile 
 creatures, by means of whom Fouche thinks to entrap 
 you, and that letter which she produced authorised her 
 to make use of the Blues against you.' 
 
 6 Really, madame,' said the young man in a sharp tone 
 that cut the lady to the heart and made her cheeks turn 
 white, c her generosity is a flat contradiction to your 
 theories. Be careful to remember that we are only 
 brought together by the interests of the King. Can 
 the universe be other than a void for you, who have had 
 Charette at your feet ? Could you live any longer save to 
 avenge him ? ' 
 
 The lady stood lost in thought, like a man who 
 
104 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 watches the shipwreck of his fortunes from the strand, 
 and only feels a stronger craving for his lost riches. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil came back and exchanged with the 
 young man a smile and a look of gentle raillery. The 
 prophecies of hope were the more flattering because the 
 future seemed so uncertain, and the time that they might 
 spend together so very brief. 
 
 The glance, however rapid it might be, was not lost 
 on Mme. du Gua's discerning eyes. She saw what it 
 meant, and her brow slightly contracted at once ; her 
 jealous thoughts could not be kept entirely unexpressed 
 by her face. Francine was studying this woman ; she 
 saw her eyes sparkle and the colour glow in her cheeks ; 
 a fiendish inspiration seemed to animate her face ; she 
 seemed to be in the throes of some horrible convulsion ; 
 but this passed like a flash across her features, lightning 
 could not be more rapid, nor death more swift. Mme. 
 du Gua resumed her apparent sprightliness with such 
 ready self-command that Francine thought she had been 
 dreaming. For all that, she trembled as she discerned 
 in the woman before her a nature at least as vehement 
 as Mile, de Verneuil's, and foresaw the alarming 
 collisions that were sure to come to pass between two 
 minds of this temper. She shuddered again when she 
 saw Mile, de Verneuil go up to the young officer, fling 
 at him one of those passionate glances that intoxicate, 
 and draw him by both hands towards the window, with 
 mischievous coquetry. 
 
 c Now,' said she, as she tried to read his eyes, c confess 
 to me that you are not the citizen du Gua Saint-Cyr ? ' 
 
 c Yes ; I am, mademoiselle.' 
 
 c But both he and his mother were murdered the day 
 before yesterday ! ' 
 
 * I am extremely sorry,' he answered, smiling at her ; 
 6 but however that may be, I am none the less obliged to 
 you. I shall always remember you with deep gratitude, 
 and I wish that I were in a position to prove it.' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 105 
 
 C I thought I had saved an Emigrant; but I like you 
 better as a Republican.' 
 
 She became embarrassed at the words, which seemed to 
 have heedlessly dropped from her. Her lips grew redder. 
 There was nothing in her face but a delightfully artless 
 revelation of her feelings. Softly she dropped the young 
 officer's hands, not through bashfulness because she had 
 pressed them, but impelled by a thought within her heart 
 well nigh too heavy to bear. And so she left him in- 
 toxicated by his hopes. Then, quite suddenly, she seemed 
 to repent within herself of this freedom, although these 
 passing adventures of travel might seem to justify it. 
 She stood once more on ceremony, took leave of her 
 travelling companions, and vanished with Francine. 
 
 When they had reached their room, Francine locked 
 her fingers together, and turned out the palms of her out- 
 stretched hands, twisting her arms to do so, as she looked 
 at her mistress, saying, c Ah, Marie ! how many things 
 have happened in such a short time ! There is no one 
 like you for these goings-on.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil sprang to Francine and put her arms 
 round her neck. 
 
 ' This is life ! ' she cried. c I am in heaven ! 9 
 
 c Or in hell, maybe,' Francine answered. 
 
 'Yes — hell, if you like!' said Mile, de Verneuil 
 merrily. c Here, give me your hand ; feel how my pulse 
 beats ! I am in a fever. Little matters all the world 
 to me now ! How often have I not seen him in my 
 dreams ! What a fine head that is of his, and how his 
 eyes sparkle ! ' 
 
 c But will he love you ? ' asked the peasant girl with 
 direct simplicity. Her voice faltered, and her face took a 
 sober expression. 
 
 * Can you ask ? 9 replied Mile, de Verneuil. 6 Now tell 
 me, Francine,' she added, striking a half-comic, half- 
 tragical attitude before her, c would he be so very hard to 
 please ? * 
 
io6 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 *Yes; but will the love last?' Francine answered, 
 smiling. 
 
 For a moment the two remained struck dumb — 
 Francine because she had disclosed so much knowledge of 
 life, and Marie because, for the first time in her existence, 
 she beheld a prospect of happiness in a love affair. She 
 was leaning, as it were, over a precipice ; and would fain 
 try its depths, waiting for the sound of the pebble that 
 she had thrown over, and, in the first instance, had 
 thrown heedlessly. 
 
 ' Ah, that is my business,' she said with the gesture of 
 a desperate gambler. c I have no compassion for a woman 
 who is cast off ; she has only herself to blame for her 
 desertion. Once in my keeping, I shall know how to 
 retain a man's heart through life and death.' There was 
 a moment's pause, and she added in a tone of surprise, 
 c But how did you come by so much experience, Francine ? ' 
 
 4 Mademoiselle,' said the young country woman eagerly, 
 c I can hear footsteps in the corridor -' 
 
 4 Ah, not hisj said the other, listening for them. * So 
 that is the way you answer me ! I understand you. I 
 shall wait for your secret, or I shall guess it.' 
 
 Francine was right. Three raps on the door inter- 
 rupted their conversation, and Captain Merle soon showed 
 his face after he heard Mile, de Verneuil's invitation to 
 enter. The captain made a military salute, ventured a 
 sidelong glance at Mile, de Verneuil, and, dazzled by the 
 beautiful woman before him, could find nothing else to 
 say than, * I am at your orders, mademoiselle ! ' 
 
 4 So you have become my protector on the resignation 
 of your chief of demi-brigade. Is not that what your 
 regiment is called ? ' 
 
 4 My superior officer, Adjutant-Major Gerard, sent me 
 to you.' 
 
 c So your commandant is afraid of me ? ' she inquired. 
 * Begging your pardon, mademoiselle, Hulot is not 
 afraid ; but ladies are not much in his line, you see, and 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 107 
 
 it rather put him out to find his general wearing a 
 mutch.' 
 
 4 It was his duty to obey his superiors for all that,' 
 Mile, de Verneuil replied. ' I have a liking for subordina- 
 tion — I give you warning — and I do not like resistance to 
 my authority.' 
 
 6 It would be difficult,' said Merle. 
 
 c Let us talk things over,' Mile, de Verneuil continued. 
 c Your troops here are fresh ; they will escort me to 
 Mayenne, which I can reach to-night. Could we find 
 fresh soldiers there so as to set out again at once without 
 a halt ? The Chouans do not know of our little ex- 
 pedition. If we travel at night in this way, we should 
 have to be very unlucky indeed to meet with them in 
 numbers sufficient to attack us. Let us see now ; tell me 
 if you think the plan feasible ? ' 
 
 6 Yes, mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' How are the roads between Mayenne and Fougeres ? ' 
 
 6 Rough ; and there are everlasting ups and downs — 
 a regular squirrel-track.' 
 
 c Let us be off at once ! ' said she ; c and as we have no 
 dangers to fear on the outskirts of Alen^on, set out first, 
 and we will soon overtake you.' 
 
 4 One might think she had been ten years in command,' 
 said Merle to himself as he went out. 4 Hulot was wrong 
 about her ; that girl is not one of the sort that make their 
 living from feather beds. Milk cartouches ! If Captain 
 Merle means to be Adjutant-Major some day, I advise him 
 not to take St. Michael for the Devil.' 
 
 Whilst Mile, de Verneuil was taking counsel with the 
 captain, Francine slipped out, intending to inspect from 
 a corridor window a spot in the courtyard which had 
 attracted her curiosity ever since her arrival in the inn. 
 So rapt was her gaze upon the heap of straw in the 
 stable, that any one might have thought her engaged in 
 prayer before the shrine of the Holy Virgin. Very soon 
 she saw Mme. du Gua picking her way towards Marche- 
 
io8 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 a-Terre with all the caution of a cat thavt tries not to wet 
 its paws. At sight of the lady the Chouan rose and 
 stood most respectfully before hen This strange occur- 
 rence revived Francine's curiosity. She sprang out into 
 the yard, gliding along by the wall so that Mme. du Gua 
 should not see her, and tried to hide herself behind the 
 stable-door. She held her breath, and walked on tiptoe, 
 trying not to make the slightest sound, and succeeded in 
 placing herself close to Marche-a-Terre without attracting 
 his attention. 
 
 4 And if, after you have made all these inquiries, you 
 find that that is not her name,' said the stranger lady to 
 the Chouan, 4 you will shoot her down without mercy, as 
 if she were a mad dog.' 
 
 4 1 understand,' said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 The lady went ; the Chouan put his red woollen cap 
 on his head again, and stood scratching his ear like a 
 man in doubt, when he saw Francine start up before 
 him as if by magic. 
 
 4 Saint Anne of Auray ! ' cried he, and suddenly dropping 
 his whip, he clasped his hands, and stood enraptured. A 
 faint, red flush lit up his rough face, and his eyes shone 
 out like diamonds in the mud. 
 
 4 Is that really Cottin's lass ? ' he asked in a stifled voice, 
 audible to himself alone. 4 Aren't you just grand ! ' 
 (godaine) he went on after a pause. This rather odd 
 word, godain^ godaine^ in the patois of the country, serves 
 rustic wooers to express the highest possible admiration of 
 a combination of beauty and finery. 
 
 4 I am afraid to touch you,' Marche-a-Terre added ; 
 but, nevertheless, he stretched out his big hand to 
 Francine to ascertain the weight of a thick gold chain 
 which wound about her throat, and hung down to her 
 waist. 
 
 4 You had better not, Pierre ! 9 Francine said, inspired 
 by the woman's instinct to tyrannise wherever she is not 
 oppressed. Francine drew back with much dignity after 
 
A Notion of Fouches 109 
 
 enjoying the Chouan's surprise ; but there was plenty of 
 kindliness in her looks to make up for her hard words. 
 She came nearer again. c Pierre,' she went on, c was not 
 that lady talking to you about the young lady, my 
 mistress ? * 
 
 Marche-a-Terre stood in silence ; his face, like the 
 dawn, was a struggle between light and darkness. He 
 looked first at Francine, then at the great whip that he 
 had dropped, and finally, back at the gold chain, which 
 seemed to have for him an attraction quite as powerful as 
 the face of the Breton maid ; then, as if to put an end to 
 his perplexities, he picked up his whip again, and uttered 
 not a word. 
 
 c Oh, it is not difficult to guess that the lady has 
 ordered you to kill my mistress,' Francine continued. 
 She knew the scrupulous loyalty of the gars, and wished 
 to overcome his hesitation. Marche-a-Terre nodded 
 significantly. For 'Cottin's lass,' this was an answer. 
 
 c Very well then, Pierre, if anything should happen to 
 her, no matter how slight, or if you should take so much 
 as a hair of her head, we shall have seen each other for the 
 last time ; and we shall not even meet in eternity, for I 
 shall be in Paradise, and you will go to hell ! ' 
 
 No demoniac exorcised by the offices of the Church 
 performed in pomp in the days of yore, could have shown 
 more terror than Marche-a-Terre at this prophecy, 
 uttered with a conviction that went far to assure him 
 that it would really come to pass. The uncouth tender- 
 ness revealed in his first glances now struggled with a 
 fanatical sense of duty every whit as exacting as love 
 itself. He looked savage all at once as he noticed the air 
 of authority assumed by his innocent former sweetheart. 
 Francine explained the Chouan's glumness in her own 
 fashion. 
 
 c So you will do nothing for me ? ' she said in a 
 reproachful tone. The Chouan gave his sweetheart a 
 look, black as the raven's wing, at the words. 
 
no 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c Are you your own mistress ? ' asked he, in a growl 
 that no one but Francine could hear. 
 
 i Should I be here if I were ? ' she asked indignantly. 
 ! But what are you doing here ? Still Chouanning and 
 scouring the roads like a mad animal looking for some 
 one to bite. Oh, Pierre, if you were reasonable you 
 would come with me. This pretty young lady, who, I 
 may tell you, was brought up in our house at home, has 
 taken charge of me. I have two hundred livres invested 
 income ; mademoiselle gave five hundred crowns to buy 
 my uncle Thomas's big house for me, and I have two 
 thousand livres of savings besides.* 
 
 But her smile and the enumeration of her riches failed of 
 their effect ; she still confronted Marche-a-Terre's inscrut- 
 able gaze. 
 
 'The recteurs have told us to fight,' he replied. 
 * There is an indulgence for every Blue that drops.' 
 
 'But perhaps the Blues will kill you ! ' 
 
 He let his arms fall at his sides by way of reply, as if 
 he regretted the meagreness of his sacrifice for God and 
 the King. ' And then what would become of me ? ' the 
 girl went on sadly. 
 
 Marche-a-Terre looked at Francine like a man bereft 
 of his faculties. His eyes seemed to dilate, two tears 
 stole down his rough cheeks and rolled in parallel lines 
 over his goatskin raiment, a hollow groan came from his 
 chest. 
 
 ' Saint Anne of Auray ! is that all you will say to me, 
 Pierre, after we have been parted for seven years ? How 
 changed you are ! ' 
 
 ' My love is always the same,' the Chouan broke out in 
 gruff tones. 
 
 ' No,' she murmured ; ' the King comes before me.' 
 ' I shall go,' he said, ' if you look at me in that 
 way.' 
 
 'Very well then, goodbye,' she said sadly, 
 
 c Goodbye,' echoed Marche - a - Terre. He seized 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 in 
 
 Francine's hand, pressed it in his own and kissed it, 
 made the sign of the cross, and escaped into the stable 
 like some dog that has just purloined a bone. 
 
 c Pille-Miche,' he called to his comrade, 6 1 cannot see 
 a bit. Have you your snuff-box about you ? * 
 
 c Oh ! ere bleu^ what a fine chain ! ' said Pille-Miche, 
 fumbling in a pocket contrived in his goatskin. He held 
 out to Marche-a-Terre a little conical snuff-box, made 
 out of a cow's-horn, in which Bretons keep the snuff 
 that they grind for themselves in the long winter even- 
 ings. The Chouan raised his thumb so as to make a 
 cup-shaped hollow in his left hand, as pensioners are 
 wont to do when measuring their pinches of snuff, and 
 shook the horn into it vigorously, Pille-Miche having 
 unscrewed the nozzle. A fine dust was slowly shaken 
 from the tiny hole at the end of this Breton appurten- 
 ance. Marche-a-Terre repeated this feat seven or eight 
 times in silence, as if the powder possessed some virtue 
 for changing the current of his thoughts. Then with a 
 sudden involuntary gesture of despair, he flung the snuff- 
 box to Pille-Miche and picked up a carbine that lay 
 hidden in the straw. 
 
 c There is no use in taking seven or eight pinches at a 
 time like that ! ' said the niggardly Pille-Miche. 
 
 c Forward ! ' cried Marche-a-Terre hoarsely. 6 There 
 is some work for us to do.' Some thirty Chouans, who 
 were sleeping under the hay racks and in the straw, 
 raised their heads at this, and seeing Marche-a-Terre 
 standing, vanished forthwith through a door which led 
 into some gardens whence they could reach the open 
 country. 
 
 When Francine left the stable she found the mail 
 coach ready to start. Mile, de Verneuil and her two 
 travelling companions were seated in it already. The 
 Breton girl shuddered to see her mistress in the coach 
 with, at her side, the woman who had just given orders 
 to kill her. The c suspect ' had placed himself opposite 
 
112 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Marie, and as soon as Francine took her seat the heavy 
 coach set out with all speed. 
 
 The grey clouds had vanished before the autumn sun- 
 light, which brought a certain revival of gladness to the 
 melancholy fields, as though the year were yet young. 
 Many a pair of lovers read an augury in these signs in 
 the sky. Silence prevailed among the travellers at first, 
 to Francine's great surprise. xVllle. de Verneuil had 
 returned to her former reserve ; she kept her head slightly 
 bent and her eyes downcast, while her hands were hidden 
 under a sort of cloak in which she had wrapped herself. 
 If she raised her eyes at all, it was to look at the changing 
 landscape as she was whirled through it. She was secure 
 of admiration, and was declining to take any notice of it, 
 but her indifference seemed scarcely genuine, and suggested 
 coquetry. There is a certain touching purity which 
 dominates every fleeting phase of expression by which 
 weaker souls reveal themselves, but there was no charm 
 of this kind about this being, whose highly wrought 
 temperament had marked her out for the storms of 
 passion. The stranger opposite was as yet altogether 
 taken up with the delights of a newly-begun flirtation, 
 and did not try to reconcile the inconsistencies in this 
 extraordinary girl — a lofty enthusiast and a coquette. 
 Did not her feigned serenity give him a chance to study 
 her face at his leisure, rendered as beautiful now by 
 repose as before by excitement ? We are not very apt to 
 find fault with anything that gives us pleasure. 
 
 In a coach it is not easy for a pretty woman to avoid 
 the eyes of her fellow-travellers ; they turn to her in 
 search of one more relief from the tedium of the journey. 
 The young officer therefore took a pleasure in studying 
 the striking and clear-cut outlines of her face, delighted 
 to satisfy the cravings of a growing passion by gazing at 
 her as at a picture, without giving annoyance by his 
 persistence or causing the fair stranger to avoid his 
 glances. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 "3 
 
 Sometimes the daylight brought out the transparent 
 rose-hues of her nostrils, and the double curves that lie 
 between the nose and the upper lip ; or a faint sunbeam 
 would shed its light upon every shade of colour in her 
 face, on the pearly white about her mouth and eyes, grow- 
 ing to a dead ivory tint at her throat and temples, and 
 the rose-red in her cheeks. He watched admiringly the 
 contrasts of the light and shadow underneath the masses 
 of dark hair about her face, which lent to it one more 
 transient grace ; for everything is transient about woman, 
 her yesterday's beauty is not her beauty of to-day, and 
 this is lucky, perhaps, for her. 
 
 The sailor, as he called himself, was still at an age 
 when a man finds bliss in the nothings that make up the 
 whole of love; he watched with pleasure the incessant 
 movements of her eyelids -> the rise and fall of her bodice 
 as she breathed fascinated him. Sometimes his fancy led 
 him to detect a connection between the expression of her 
 eyes and a scarcely discernible movement of her lips. For 
 him every gesture was a revelation of the young girl's 
 nature, every movement showed her to him in some new 
 aspect. Some thought or other flickered over the rapidly 
 changing features, a sudden flush of colour overspread 
 them, or they glowed with life as she smiled ; and he 
 would find inexpressible pleasure in the attempt to 
 penetrate the secret thoughts of the mysterious woman 
 before him. Everything about her was a snare, alike for 
 the senses and the soul. The silence, so far from being a 
 hindrance to an intimate understanding, was forging a 
 chain of thought to unite them both. After several 
 encounters with the stranger's glances Marie de Verneuil 
 saw that this silence would compromise her ; so she 
 turned to Mme. du Gua with one of those banal ques- 
 tions that serve to open a conversation ; but even then 
 she could not help bringing in a mention of the lady's 
 son. 
 
 c How could you bring yourself to put your son into 
 
 H 
 
H4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 the navy, madame ? 9 said she. 4 Do you not condemn 
 yourself to a life of constant anxiety ? 9 
 
 6 Mademoiselle, it is the lot of women — of mothers, I 
 mean — to tremble constantly for their dearest treasures.' 
 
 * Your son is very like you.' 
 
 c Do you think so, mademoiselle ? ' 
 
 This serene acceptance of Mme. du Gua's statement as 
 to her age made the young man smile, and provoked a 
 new malignity in his supposed mother. Every glowing 
 look that her son bent on Marie increased her hatred. 
 Both the silence and the talk inflamed her anger to a 
 fearful pitch, though it was concealed beneath a most 
 amiable manner. 
 
 'You are quite mistaken, mademoiselle,' said the 
 stranger ; * the navy is not more exposed to danger than 
 the other service. Women ought not to dislike the 
 navy, for have we not one immense superiority over the 
 land forces in that we are always faithful to our mis- 
 tresses ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, because you cannot help it, 5 laughed Mile, de 
 Verneuil. 
 
 * But it is faithfulness at any rate,' said Mme. du Gua, 
 in an almost melancholy voice. 
 
 The conversation grew more lively, turning upon 
 matters which were only interesting to the three 
 travellers. Under circumstances of this kind people 
 with active minds are apt to give new significances to 
 commonplace utterances ; but beneath the apparently 
 frivolous cross fire of questions with which these two 
 amused themselves, the feverish hopes and desires that 
 stirred in them lay concealed. Marie was never off her 
 guard, displaying a tact and astute shrewdness which 
 taught Mme. du Gua that only by employing treachery 
 and slander could she look to triumph over a rival 
 whose wit was as formidable as her beauty. 
 
 The travellers overtook the escort, and the coach went 
 less rapidly on its way. The young sailor saw that there 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 115 
 
 was a long hill to climb, and proposed to Mile, de 
 Verneuil that they should alight and walk. The young 
 man's friendly politeness and courteous tact had its effect on 
 the fair Parisian ; he felt her consent to be a compliment. 
 
 4 Are you of the same opinion, madame ? 9 she asked of 
 Mme. du Gua. c Will you not join our walk ? ' 
 
 c Coquette ! ' exclaimed the lady as she alighted. 
 
 Marie and the stranger walked together, and yet asunder. 
 He already felt himself mastered by vehement desires, 
 and was eager to break through the reserve with which 
 she treated him — a reserve that did not deceive him in 
 the least. He thought to succeed in this by bringing his 
 lively conversational powers to bear upon his companion, 
 with the debonair gaiety of old France, that is some- 
 times light-hearted, sometimes earnest, readily moved to 
 laughter, but always chivalrous — the spirit that dis- 
 tinguished the prominent men among the exiled aristo- 
 cracy. But the lively Parisian lady met his attempts at 
 frivolity in so disdainful a humour, rallied him with such 
 malicious reproaches, and showed so marked a preference 
 for the bold and elevated ideas that passed into his talk in 
 spite of himself, that he soon perceived the way to please 
 her. 
 
 So the conversation took another turn. The stranger 
 thenceforward fulfilled the promises made by his eloquent 
 face. Every moment he found new difficulties in under- 
 standing this siren, who was captivating him more and 
 more ; and was compelled to suspend his judgment upon 
 a girl who took a capricious delight in contradicting each 
 conclusion that he formed concerning her. The mere 
 sight of her beauty had carried him away in the first 
 instance, and now he felt himself strongly drawn towards 
 this strange soul by a curiosity which Marie herself took 
 pleasure in stimulating. Unconsciously their converse 
 assumed a more intimate character ; the indifferent tone 
 which Mile, de Verneuil had unsuccessfully tried to gwe 
 to it had disappeared entirely. 
 
n6 The Chouans 
 
 Although Mme. du Gua had followed the lover-like 
 pair, they had unwittingly walked faster than she did, and 
 soon found themselves about a hundred paces ahead of her. 
 The two picturesque beings were treading the sandy 
 road, absorbed in the childish pleasure of hearing their 
 light footsteps sounding together, pleased that the same 
 spring-like rays of sunlight should envelope them both, 
 glad to breathe the same air with the autumn scent of 
 fallen leaves in it, which seemed to be a nourishment 
 brought by the breeze for the sentimental melancholy 
 of their growing love. Although neither of them 
 appeared to regard their brief companionship as anything 
 but an ordinary adventure, there was something in the 
 sky above them, in the season and in the place, which 
 gave their sentiments a tinge of soberness, and lent an 
 appearance of passion to them. They began to praise 
 the beauty of the day, and then fell to talking of their 
 strange meeting, of the end of the pleasant intercourse so 
 nearly approaching, and of how easy it is to become 
 intimate upon a journey with people, who are lost to sight 
 again almost directly after we meet them. At this last 
 observation, the young man availed himself of a tacit per- 
 mission which seemed to warrant him in making some 
 sentimental confidences, and in venturing a declaration, 
 like a man accustomed to situations of this kind. 
 
 c Do you notice, mademoiselle,' he said, c how little our 
 feelings flow in their accustomed channels in these times 
 of terror in which we live ? Is there not a striking and 
 unexplainable spontaneity about everything that takes 
 place around us ? We love nowadays, or we hate, on 
 the strength of a single glance. We are bound together 
 for life, or we are severed with the same speed that brings 
 us to the scaffold. We do everything in haste, like the 
 nation in its ferment. We cling to each other more 
 closely amid these perils than in the common course of life. 
 Lately, in Paris, we have come to know, as men learn on 
 the battlefield, all that is meant by a grasp of the hand.' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 117 
 
 4 The thirst for a full life in a little space,' she said, c was 
 felt then because men used to have so short a time to live.' 
 
 She gave a rapid glance at her companion, which seemed 
 to put him in mind of the end of their brief journey, and 
 added maliciously, c You have a very fair knowledge of life 
 for a young man just leaving the Ecole polytechnique.' 
 
 c What do you think of me ? ' he asked after a moment's 
 pause ; c tell me frankly and without hesitation.' 
 
 4 You wish in turn to acquire the right of speaking in 
 like fashion of me ? ' she queried, laughing. 
 
 c You are not answering me,' he said after another slight 
 pause. 6 Beware ! silence is very often an answer in itself.' 
 
 c Did I not guess all that you wished you could tell me ? 
 Eh y mon Dieu ! you have said too much already.' 
 
 c Oh, if we understand each other,' he said, smiling, 4 1 
 have obtained more than I dared to hope.' 
 
 She smiled so graciously at this, that she seemed willing 
 to engage in a courteous fence in words, in which a man 
 delights to press a woman closely. Half in jest and half 
 in earnest, they persuaded themselves that it was impos- 
 sible that, each for each, they could ever be other than 
 they were at that moment. The young man could fairly 
 give himself up to a predilection which had no future 
 before it, and Marie could laugh at him. When, 
 in this way, they had set an imaginary barrier between 
 them, both of them seemed eager to take full advantage 
 of the dangerous liberty which they had just acquired. 
 Marie suddenly slipped on a stone, and stumbled. 
 
 'Take my arm,' said the stranger. 
 
 4 I shall have to do so, giddy-pate ! because you would 
 grow so conceited if I declined. Would it not look as if 
 I were afraid of you ? * 
 
 4 Ah, mademoiselle ! ' he said, pressing her arm against 
 him to let her feel the beating of his heart ; 4 you have 
 just made me very vain by this favour.' 
 
 4 Well, then, my readiness to grant it will dispel your 
 illusions.' 
 
n8 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c Do you want to arm me already against the dangerous 
 emotions you inspire ? ' 
 
 c I beg that you will stop this talk,' she said ; c do not 
 involve me in a labyrinth of boudoir small-talk and the 
 jargon of drawing-rooms. I do not like to find the sort of 
 ingenuity that any fool can attain to, in a man of your 
 calibre. Look ! Here are we, out in the open country, 
 under a glorious sky ; everything before us and above us 
 is great. You wish to inform me that I am pretty ; is 
 that not so ? But I can tell that quite well from your 
 eyes, and moreover I am aware of it ; I am not a woman 
 to be gratified by civil speeches. Possibly you would 
 speak to me of your sentiments ? ' she went on, with 
 sardonic emphasis on the last word. 6 Could you really 
 think me foolish enough to believe in a sudden sympathy 
 powerful enough to control a whole life by the memories 
 of one morning ? - 
 
 ~h c Not the memories of a morning,' he replied, c but of a 
 beautiful woman who has shown herself to be magnanimous 
 as well.' 
 
 ' You forget,' she said, laughing, c much greater attrac- 
 tions than these. I am a stranger to you, and everything 
 about me must seem very unusual in your eyes — my 
 name, rank, and position, and my freedom of thought and 
 action.' 
 
 c You are no stranger to me,' he exclaimed. c I have 
 divined your nature ; I would not add one perfection more 
 to your completeness, unless it were a little more belief in 
 the love that you inspire at first sight.' 
 
 * You poor seventeen-year-old boy ! You are prating 
 of love already ! ' she smiled. c Very well, so be it 
 then. It is a stock subject of conversation when 
 any two creatures meet, like the wind and the weather, 
 when we pay a call. Let us take it then. You will 
 find no false modesty nor littleness in me. I can hear 
 the word c< love " pronounced without blushing. It 
 has been said to me so very often, but not in tones that 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 119 
 
 the heart uses, that it has grown almost meaningless in my 
 ears. I have heard it repeated everywhere, in the theatre, 
 in books and in society, but I have never met with any- 
 thing that resembled the magnificent sentiment itself.' 
 ( Have you looked for it ? 9 
 
 € Yes.' The word fell from her so carelessly that the 
 young man started and gazed at Marie as if his views 
 with regard to her character and condition had undergone 
 a sudden change. 
 
 c Mademoiselle, are you girl or woman, an angel or a 
 fiend ? ' he asked with ill-concealed emotion. 
 
 c Both the one and the other,' she answered him, smil- 
 ing. c Is there not something both diabolical and angelic 
 in a girl who has never loved, does not love, and possibly 
 never will love ? ' 
 
 c And you are happy for all that ? ' he asked, with a 
 certain freedom of tone and manner, as if this woman 
 who had liberated him had fallen in his esteem already. 
 
 4 Happy ? • she asked. c Oh, no ! When I happen to 
 think how solitary I am, and of the tyranny of social 
 conventions which perforce makes a schemer of me, I 
 envy man his prerogatives. Then at the thought of all the 
 means with which nature has endowed us women, so that 
 we can surround you and entangle you in the meshes of 
 an invisible power that not one of you can resist, my lot 
 here has its attractions for me ; and then all at once it 
 seems to me a pitiful thing, and I feel that I should despise 
 a man who could be deceived by these vulgar wiles. 
 Sometimes, in short, I recognise the yoke we must bear 
 with approval ; then, again, it is hateful to me, and I 
 rebel against it. Sometimes a longing stirs within me 
 for that lot of devotion which makes a woman so fair and 
 noble a thing, and then again I am consumed by a desire 
 for power. This is perhaps the natural struggle between 
 good and evil instincts, by which everything lives here 
 below. Angel or fiend, did you say ? Ah, I do not 
 recognise my double nature to-day for the first time. We 
 
120 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 women know our own insufficiency even better than you 
 do. Instinctively we expect in everything a perfection 
 which is no doubt impossible. But,' she sighed as she 
 turned her eyes to the sky, c there is one thing which 
 
 ennobles us in your eyes ' 
 
 c And that is ? ' asked he. 
 
 < Well, that is the fact that we are all struggling more 
 or less against our destiny of incompleteness.' 
 
 'Mademoiselle, why must we take leave of you to- 
 night ? ' 
 
 c Ah ! ' she said, smiling at the glowing look the young 
 man turned upon her ; 4 let us go back to the coach, the 
 fresh air is not good for us,' and Marie hurried back to 
 it. As the stranger followed he pressed her arm, with 
 scanty respect for her, but in a manner which expressed 
 both his admiration and the feelings which had gained 
 the mastery over him. She quickened her pace ; the 
 sailor guessed that she meant to escape from a suit 
 which might be urged upon her ; and this made him 
 the more vehemently eager. He risked everything to gain 
 a first favour from this woman, and said diplomatically — 
 
 < Shall I tell you a secret ? ' 
 
 c Oh, at once, if it relates to your own affairs.' 
 
 c I am not in the service of the Republic. Where 
 are you going ? I will go with you.' 
 
 Marie shuddered violentlyat thesewords. She withdrew 
 her arm from his and put both hands before her face 
 to hide the red flush, or the pallor it may be, that 
 wrought a change in her features ; then in a moment 
 she uncovered her face and said in a tremulous voice — 
 
 c So you began as you would fain have ended, by 
 deceiving me ? ' 
 
 c Yes,' he said. She turned her back on the bulky 
 coach towards which they were walking, and almost 
 started to run. 
 
 4 But just now the fresh air was not good ' began 
 
 the stranger. c Oh, it is different now,' she said with 
 
A Notion of Fouche s 
 
 121 
 
 a sad note in her voice, and she walked on ; a storm of 
 thoughts was raging within her. 
 
 c You are silent ? ' the stranger said. His heart was 
 full of joyous anticipation of pleasure to come. 
 
 c Oh ! ' she cried briefly, c how quickly the tragedy 
 has begun ! ' 
 
 c What tragedy are you talking of ? ' he inquired. 
 She stopped short, scanning the pupil from the Ecole 
 with both fear and curiosity in her looks, then she con- 
 cealed her troubled feelings beneath an inscrutable 
 serenity ; evidently for so young a woman she had no 
 small practical knowledge of life. 
 
 c Who are you ? 9 she went on. c But I know who 
 you are. I suspected you at first sight. Are you not 
 the Royalist chief called the Gars ? The ex-bishop of 
 Autun was quite right when he cautioned us to 
 believe in our forebodings of ill.' 
 
 4 What interest can there be for you in knowing that 
 fellow ? 9 
 
 c What interest could he have in concealing his identity 
 when I have saved his life already ? 9 She began to laugh, 
 but it was with visible effort. 6 1 did wisely,' she said, 
 c when I prevented you from making love to me. 
 Understand this, sir, you are abhorrent to me. I am a 
 Republican, you are a Royalist ; I would give you up 
 if I had not passed my word, if I had not saved your life 
 
 once already, and if ' She broke off. These 
 
 stormy revulsions of feeling, the struggle which she 
 scarcely troubled herself to hide from him any longer, 
 alarmed the stranger. He tried to watch her, but to no 
 purpose. 
 
 4 Let us part at once, I will have it so. Good-bye ! 9 
 said she. She turned sharply from him, took a step or 
 two, and then came back again. 
 
 1 Nay,' she said, c it is of immense importance to me 
 to know who you really are. Do not hide anything ; 
 tell me the truth. Who are you ? You are no more a 
 
122 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 pupil of the Ecole polytechnique than a seventeen year 
 old ' 
 
 c I am a sailor, ready to leave the sea to follow you 
 wherever your fancy may lead me. If I am fortunate 
 enough to represent a puzzle of some sort to you, I shall 
 be very careful not to extinguish your interest in it. 
 Why should we bring the grave cares of real life into 
 the life of the heart, in which we were coming to under- 
 stand one another so well ? ' 
 
 c Our souls could have met and known each other,' 
 she said earnestly. c But I have no right to demand your 
 confidence, sir. You shall never know the extent of 
 your obligations to me \ I will say no more.' They 
 went some little way in absolute silence. 
 
 ( You take a great interest in my life/ the stranger 
 began. 
 
 c For pity's sake, sir, either give me your name, or do 
 not speak. You are a child, and I am sorry for you,' 
 she added, shrugging her shoulders. 
 
 The persistent way in which his fellow traveller set 
 herself to learn his secret brought the supposed sailor 
 into a predicament between ordinary prudence and his 
 desires. A powerful attraction lies in the displeasure of 
 a woman we long to win ; and when she yields and 
 relents, no less than in her anger, her sway is absolute ; 
 she seizes upon so many fibres of man's heart as she 
 subdues and penetrates it. Was her vexation one more 
 wile of the coquette in Mile, de Verneuil ? In spite 
 of the fever that burned within him, the stranger had 
 sufficient remaining self-control to mistrust a woman 
 who wished to extort his secret of life and death from 
 him. He held the hand which she absently allowed 
 him to take. 'Why,' said he to himself, 'should my 
 blundering, which sought to add a future to to-day, have 
 destroyed all the charm of it instead ? 9 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil, who seemed to be in great trouble, 
 was silent. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 123 
 
 c In what way is it possible that I can give you pain ? 9 
 he began, c and what can I do to soothe you ? ' 
 
 c Tell me your name.' It was his turn to be silent 
 now, and they walked on some steps further. Then 
 Mile, de Verneuil suddenly stopped, like some one who 
 has made a momentous decision. 
 
 4 Marquis of Montauran,' she said with dignity, though 
 she could not altogether hide the inward agitation which 
 gave a kind of nervous trembling to her features. c I 
 am happy to do you a service, at whatever personal cost. 
 Here we must separate. The coach and the escort are 
 too necessary for your safety for you to decline to accept 
 either of them. You have nothing to fear from the 
 Republicans ; all those soldiers you see are men of 
 honour, and I shall give orders to the adjutant which he 
 will carry out faithfully. I myself shall return on foot 
 to Alen^on ; my maid and a few of the soldiers will go 
 back with me. Heed me well, for your life is in danger. 
 If before you are in safety you should meet the detestable 
 muscadin whom you saw in the inn, then you must fly, 
 
 for he would immediately give you up. As for me ' 
 
 here she paused, and then went on in a low voice as she 
 kept back the tears, c I shall plunge once more into the 
 miseries of life with a proud heart. Farewell, sir. 
 May you be happy, and, farewell 1 
 
 She beckoned to Captain Merle, who had reached the 
 top of the hill. The young man was not prepared for 
 such a sudden development as this. 
 
 c Stay ! ' he cried with a very fair imitation of despair. 
 The stranger had been so taken by surprise at this singular 
 freak on the girl's part, that though he was ready, at 
 that moment, to sacrifice his life to gain her, he invented 
 a pitiable subterfuge to satisfy Mile, de Verneuil without 
 revealing his name. 
 
 4 Your guess was a very near one,' he said ; c I am an 
 Emigrant under sentence of death, and I am called the 
 Vicomte de Bauvan. I came back to be near my brother 
 
I2 4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 in France, drawn by the love of my country. I hope to 
 be struck out of the list through the influence of Mme. 
 de Beauharnais, who is now the First Consul's wife; 
 but if that fails, I mean at any rate to die on French soil — 
 to fall fighting by the side of my friend Montauran. I 
 am going, in the first place, secretly into Brittany by 
 the help of a passport that I have succeeded in obtain- 
 ing, to learn if any of my property there yet remains 
 to me.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil studied the young gentleman as he 
 spoke with keen attention. She tried to weigh the 
 truth of his words, but it was in her nature to be trustful 
 and credulous, and her appearance of tranquillity slowly 
 returned as she asked, 4 Is all that you have just told me 
 true, sir ? * 
 
 4 Absolutely true,' the stranger repeated, who appeared 
 to regard veracity but slightly in his dealings with women. 
 Mile, de Verneuil heaved a deep sigh like one coming to 
 life again. 
 
 4 Ah ! I am really happy ! ' cried she. 
 
 c So you quite hate my poor Montauran ! ' 
 
 * No,' she said ; 4 you cannot understand me. I did not 
 wish that you should be threatened by dangers from 
 which I will try to shield him, since he is your friend.' 
 
 4 Who told you that Montauran was in danger ? ' 
 
 4 Oh, sir, if I had not just left Paris, where nothing but 
 his adventure is being talked of, the commandant told 
 us quite sufficient about him at Alen^on, I think.' 
 
 4 Then I am going to ask you in what way you could 
 shield him from danger.' 
 
 c And suppose I should not choose to answer ! ' she 
 said, with the haughty expression which women so 
 readily assume to conceal their feelings. 4 What right 
 have you to know my secrets ? 1 
 
 4 The right that a man who loves you ought to have.' 
 
 4 Already ? ' said she. 4 No, sir, you do not love 
 
 me ; for you I am simply a fitting object for a passing 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 125 
 
 affair of gallantry. Did I not read your thoughts at the 
 first glance ? Could a woman with any experience of 
 good society, as manners are at present, be deceived 
 about you, when she hears a pupil from the Ecole 
 polytechnique choose his expressions as you do, and 
 when he so clumsily disguises his courtly breeding 
 beneath an appearance of Republicanism. There is a trace 
 of powder about your hair, an aristocratic atmosphere about 
 you which any woman of the world would recognise at 
 once. It was because I trembled for you that I so 
 promptly dismissed my director, whose wits are as keen 
 as a woman's. A genuine Republican officer from the 
 Ecole, sir, would never have thought to make a conquest 
 of me, nor would he have taken me for a good-looking 
 adventuress. Permit me, M. de Bauvan, to put a small 
 piece of feminine reasoning before you. Are you really 
 so young that you do not know that the most diffi- 
 cult conquests to make are of those creatures of our sex 
 whose market value is known and who are satiated with 
 pleasure ? To gain that kind of woman, so they say, 
 great inducements are needed, and she only surrenders at 
 her own caprice ; to attempt to make any impression 
 upon her would be the acme of self-conceit in a man. > 
 Let us leave out of the question the women of the class 
 in which you are so gallant as to include me (because it 
 is understood that they all must be beautiful), and you 
 ought to see that a witty and beautiful young woman of 
 good birth (for you concede those advantages to me) is not 
 to be purchased — there is but one way of winning her, she 
 must be loved. Now you understand me ! If she loves, 
 and condescends to folly, there must be something great 
 in it to justify her in her own eyes. Pardon an exuber- 
 ance of reasoning, not often met with in persons of my 
 sex ; but for your own sake, and — for mine,' she added, 
 with a bend of her head, c I would not have either of 
 us deceived as to the worth of the other, nor would I 
 have you believe that Mile, de Verneuil, whether fiend 
 
126 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 or angel, girl 01 woman, could allow herself to be 
 captivated by the commonplaces of gallantry.' 
 
 c Mademoiselle,' began the supposed viscount, whose 
 surprise was extreme, although he concealed it, and who 
 suddenly became once more a very fine gentleman, c I beg 
 of you to believe that I will look upon you as a very 
 noble woman, full of lofty and generous feeling, or as a 
 kind-hearted girl — whichever you choose.' 
 
 6 1 do not ask so much of you, sir,' she said, laughing. 
 4 Leave me my incognito. My mask, moreover, fits 
 more closely than yours does, and it pleases me to retain 
 it, if only that I may know whether people who speak 
 of love to me are sincere. . . . Do not venture to 
 approach me so heedlessly. Hear me, sir,' she went on, 
 grasping his arm firmly, f if you could satisfy me that 
 your love was sincere, no power on earth should sunder 
 us. Yes, I could wish to share in the larger life of a 
 man, to be wedded to lofty ambitions and great thoughts. 
 Unfaithfulness is impossible to noble hearts ; constancy is 
 a part of their natural strength. I should be always loved, 
 always happy. But yet, I should not be ready at all 
 times to lay myself under the feet of the man I loved as a 
 step upon which he might rise in his career. I could not 
 give up all things for him, endure all things from him, 
 and still love on, even when he had ceased to love me. I 
 have never yet ventured to confide the longings of my own 
 heart to another, nor to speak of the impassioned impulses 
 of the enthusiasm that consumes me ; but I can readily 
 speak to you of them to some extent, because the 
 moment that you are in safety, we shall separate.' 
 
 c Separate ?— never ! ' he cried, electrified by the tones 
 of her voice, through which a powerful soul vibrated, a 
 soul at strife, as it seemed, with some vast thought. 
 
 c Are you free ? ' she asked with a scornful glance at 
 him which made him shrink. 
 
 * Oh, free — yes ; but for the sentence of death.' 
 
 Then she spoke, and her voice was full of bitterness, c If 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 127 
 
 this were not all a dream, what a glorious life ours should 
 be ! But let us commit no follies, though I may have 
 talked foolishly. Everything seems doubtful when I 
 think of all that you ought to become before you can 
 appreciate me at my just worth.' 
 
 c And nothing would be doubtful to me if you would 
 be mine ' 
 
 c Hush ! ' she cried, as she heard the words, with a 
 genuine ring of passion in them ; c the air is certainly 
 no longer wholesome for us, let us go back to our 
 chaperons.' 
 
 It was not long before the coach overtook the two, 
 who resumed their places, and they went on in silence for 
 several leagues. If both of them had plenty to think 
 about, their eyes henceforth avoided each other no more. 
 Each seemed to have, since their conversation, an equal 
 interest in watching the other, and in keeping an im- 
 portant secret hidden ; yet each also felt attracted to the 
 other by a desire which had risen to the degree of passion, 
 as each recognised characteristics which enhanced the 
 pleasure they expected to receive from union or from 
 conflict. Perhaps both of them, embarked upon their 
 lives of adventure, had come to the strange condition of 
 mind when, either from weariness, or by way of a 
 challenge to fate, we decline to reflect seriously over the 
 course we are pursuing, and yield ourselves up to the 
 caprices of fortune, precisely because there is but one 
 possible issue, which we behold as the inevitable result of 
 it all. Are there not abysses and declivities in the moral 
 as in the physical world, wherein vigorous natures love to 
 plunge and endanger their existence, with the joy of a 
 gambler who stakes his whole fortune on one throw ? 
 Mile, de Verneuil and the young noble had in a manner 
 come to understand these ideas, which were common 
 to them both since the conversation which had given 
 rise to them ; and both had suddenly made great pro- 
 gress when the sympathy of the soul had followed that 
 
128 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 of their senses. For all that, the more inevitably they 
 felt drawn towards each other, the more they became 
 absorbed in unconsciously counting up the amount of 
 happiness to come for them, if only for the sake of the 
 additional pleasure. 
 
 The young man had not recovered from his amaze- 
 ment at the depths of thought in this extraordinary girl -> 
 and he began with wondering how she could combine so 
 much experience with such youthful freshness. He next 
 thought that he discerned an intense desire to appear 
 innocent in the studied innocence of Marie's general 
 behaviour ; he suspected this to be assumed. He took 
 himself to task for his delight, and could only see a clever 
 actress in this fair stranger. He was quite right. Mile, 
 de Verneuil, like all girls who have been early thrown on 
 the world, became more and more reserved as her feelings 
 grew warmer ; and, very naturally, she assumed that 
 prudish mien which women use successfully to conceal 
 their violent desires. All women would fain meet love 
 with a maiden soul, and when it is theirs no longer, their 
 hypocrisy is a tribute with which they welcome love's 
 coming. These were the thoughts that passed rapidly 
 through the mind of the noble, and gave him pleasure. 
 
 Both of them, in fact, could not but make some 
 progress in love by this examination. In this way a lover 
 swiftly reaches the point where the defects in his mistress 
 are so many reasons for loving her the more. Mile, de 
 VerneuiPs meditations lasted longer than those of the 
 Emigrant ; perhaps her imagination took flight over a J 
 wider stretching future. He was obeying but one of a j 
 thousand impulses that go to make up a man's experience I 
 in life ; but the girl foresaw her whole future, taking a ! 
 pleasure in making it fair and full of happiness and of j 
 great and noble ideas. So in these dreams she was happy, I 
 the present and the future, her wild fancies, and the actual | 
 reality alike charmed her ; and Marie now sought to | 
 retrace her steps, the better to establish her power over 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 the young man's heart, acting in this instinctively, as all 
 women do. 
 
 After she had determined to surrender herself entirely, 
 she wished, so to speak, to yield inch by inch. She 
 would fain have recalled every action, every look and 
 word in the past, to make them in accord with the 
 dignity of a woman who is loved ; her eyes at times 
 expressed a kind of terror as she brooded over the bold 
 attitude she had assumed in their late conversation. But 
 as she looked at his resolute face again, she thought 
 that one so strong must needs be generous too, and 
 exulted within herself that a lot more glorious than that of 
 most other women had fallen to her, in that her lover was 
 a man of powerful character, a man with a death-sentence 
 hanging over him, who had just put his own life in peril 
 to make war upon the Republic. The thought that such 
 a soul as this was hers alone, with no other to share it, 
 gave a different complexion to everything else. Between 
 that moment, only five hours ago, when she had arranged 
 her face and voice so as to attract this gentleman, and the 
 present, when she could perturb him with a glance, there 
 lay a difference as great as between a dead and a living 
 world. Beneath her frank laughter and blithe coquetry 
 lay a hidden and mighty passion tricked out, like mis- 
 fortune, in a smile. 
 
 In Mile, de Verneuil's state of mind everything con- 
 nected with external life partook of the nature of a 
 phantom show. The coach passed through villages, and 
 over hills and valleys, which left no traces in her memory. 
 She reached Mayenne, the escort of soldiers was changed, 
 Merle came to speak to her, and she answered him, she 
 crossed the town, and they went on again ; — but faces and 
 houses, streets, and landscapes, and men, passed by her like 
 the shadowy forms of a dream. Night came on. Marie 
 travelled along the road to Fougeres by the soft light of 
 the brilliant stars in the sky, and it never struck her that 
 there was any change in the heaven above her. She 
 
 i 
 
The Chouans 
 
 neither knew where Mayenne was, nor Fougeres, nor her 
 own destination ; that, in a few hours, she might have 
 to part with the man whom she had chosen, and by whom, 
 as she thought, she herself had been chosen too, was 
 an utter impossibility to her. Love is the one passion 
 which knows neither past nor future. If she betrayed 
 her thoughts in words at times, the sentences that fell 
 from her were almost meaningless, but in her lover's 
 heart they echoed like promises of joy. There were two 
 who looked on at this new-born passion, and its progress 
 under their eyes was alarmingly rapid. Francine knew 
 Marie as thoroughly as the stranger lady knew the young 
 man ; and past experience led them to expect in silence 
 some terrific catastrophe. As a matter of fact, it was not 
 long before they saw the close of this drama, which Mile, 
 de Verneuil had, perhaps, in words of unconscious ill 
 omen, entitled a tragedy. 
 
 When the four travellers had come about a league out 
 of Mayenne, they heard a horseman coming towards 
 them at a furious pace. As soon as he caught them up, 
 he bent down and looked in the coach for Mile, de 
 Verneuil, who recognised Corentin. This ill-omened 
 individual took it upon himself to make a significant 
 gesture with a familiarity which for her had something 
 scathing in it, and then departed, having made her cold 
 and wretched by this vulgar signal. 
 
 This occurrence seemed to affect the Emigrant dis- 
 agreeably, which fact was by no means lost on his 
 supposed mother ; but Marie touched him lightly, and 
 her look seemed to seek a refuge in his heart, as if there 
 lay the one shelter that she had on earth. The young 
 man's brow grew clear, as he felt a thrill of emotion, 
 that his mistress should thus have allowed him to see, in- 
 advertently as it were, the extent of her attachment to him. 
 All her coquetry had vanished before an inexplicable 
 dread, and love had shown himself for a moment unveiled. 
 Neither of them spoke, as if the sweet moment so might 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 last a little longer. Unluckily, Mme du Gua in their 
 midst saw everything ; like a miser giving a banquet, she 
 seemed to count their morsels, and to measure out their 
 life. 
 
 Altogether absorbed in their happiness, and without a 
 thought of the way they had come, the two lovers arrived 
 at the part of the road which lies along the bottom of 
 the valley of Ernee, forming the first of the three valleys 
 among which the events took place with which this story 
 opened. Francine saw and pointed out strange forms 
 which seemed to move like shadows through the trees 
 and the ajoncs that bordered the fields. As the coach 
 came towards these shadows, there was a general discharge 
 of muskets, and the whistling of balls over their heads 
 told the travellers that all these phantoms were substantial 
 enough. The escort had fallen into an ambush. 
 
 At this sharp fusillade, Captain Merle keenly regretted 
 his share in Mile, de VerneuiPs miscalculation. She had 
 thought that the quick night journey would be attended 
 with so little risk, that she had only allowed him to bring 
 sixty men. Acting under Gerard's orders, the captain 
 immediately divided the little troop into two columns to 
 hold the road on either side, and both officers advanced 
 at a running pace through the fields of broom and furze, 
 seeking to engage their adversaries before even learning 
 their numbers. The Blues began to beat up the thick 
 under-growth right and left with rash intrepidity, and 
 kept up an answering fire upon the bushes of broom from 
 which the Chouan volley had come. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil's first impulse had led her to spring 
 out of the coach and to run back, so as to put some dis- 
 tance between her and the scene of the fray. But she 
 grew ashamed of her fright ; and, under the influence or 
 the desire to grow great in the eyes of her beloved, she 
 stood quite still, and tried to make a cool survey of the 
 fight. The Emigrant followed her, took her hand, and 
 held it to his heart. 
 
132 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 ' I was frightened,' she said, smiling, c but now * 
 
 Just at that moment her terrified maid called to her, 
 i Take care, Marie ! 9 But as Francine attempted to 
 spring from the coach, she felt the grasp of a strong hand 
 arrest her. The heavy weight of that huge hand drew a 
 sharp cry from her ; she turned and made not another 
 sound when she recognised Marche-a-Terre's face. 
 
 i So I must owe to your fears the disclosure of the 
 sweetest of all secrets for the heart,' the stranger said to 
 Mile, de Verneuil. ( Thanks to Francine, I have found 
 out that you are called by the gracious name of Marie — 
 Marie, the name that has been on my lips in every 
 sorrow I have known ! Marie, the name that henceforth 
 I shall utter in joy. I shall never more pronounce it 
 without committing sacrilege, without confusing my 
 religion with my love ! But will it be a sin, after all, to 
 love and pray at the same time ? 9 They pressed each 
 other's hands fervently as he spoke, and looked at each 
 other in silence - 9 the strength of their feelings had taken 
 from them all power of expressing them. 
 
 c There is no harm meant for you people,' Marche-a- 
 Terre said roughly to Francine. There was a note of 
 menace and reproach in the hoarse guttural sounds of his 
 voice ; he laid a stress upon every word in a way that 
 paralysed the innocent peasant girl. 
 
 For the first time she was confronted with cruelty in 
 Marche-a-Terre's expression. Moonlight seemed the 
 only suitable illumination for such a face. The fierce 
 Breton, with his cap in one hand and his heavy carbine in 
 the other, and with his squat gnome-like form in the cold 
 white rays of light which give everything an unfamiliar 
 look, seemed to belong rather to fairyland than to this 
 world. There was a shadowy swiftness about the coming 
 of this phantom and his reproachful exclamation. He 
 turned immediately to Mme. du Gua and exchanged 
 some earnest words with her. Francine had forgotten 
 her Bas Breton, and could make nothing of their talk. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 *33 
 
 The lady seemed to be giving a complication of orders to 
 Marche-a-Terre, and the short conference was terminated 
 by an imperious gesticulation on her part, as she pointed 
 out the two lovers to the Chouan. 
 
 Before he obeyed her, Marche-a-Terre gave Francine 
 one last look. He seemed to be sorry for her, and would 
 have spoken, but the Breton girl felt that her lover was 
 obliged to keep silent. There were furrows in the rough 
 sun-burned skin on his forehead ; the man's brows were 
 drawn together in a heavy frown. Would he disobey 
 this renewed order to take Mile, de Verneuil's life ? 
 Mme. du Gua, no doubt, thought him the more hideous 
 for this grimace, but to Francine there was an almost 
 tender gleam in his eyes. The look told her that it was 
 in her woman's power to direct that fierce will, and she 
 hoped yet to establish her sway after God's in this wild 
 heart. 
 
 Marie's tender conversation was interrupted by Mme. 
 du Gua, who caught hold of her with a cry, as if danger 
 was at hand. She had recognised one of the Royalist 
 Committee from Alen^on, and her sole object was to 
 gain for him an opportunity of speaking to the Emigrant. 
 
 c Mistrust the girl whom you met at the sign of the 
 c< Three Moors ! " ' so said the Chevalier de Valois in the 
 young man's ear, and then both he and the Breton pony 
 which he rode disappeared in the bushes of broom whence 
 he had issued. The sharp rolling fire of the skirmish 
 became at this moment astonishingly hot, but the com- 
 batants could not come to close quarters. 
 
 c Is not this attack a feint, adjutant, so that they may 
 kidnap our travellers and hold them for ransom ? ' sug- 
 gested Clef-des-Cceurs. 
 
 c Devil fetch me, you are on the right track ! * was 
 Gerard's answer, as he flung himself on the road. 
 
 The Chouan fire grew slacker. They had gained their 
 object in the skirmish when the Chevalier's communica- 
 tion was made to the chief. Merle saw them drawing 
 
f 34 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 off through the hedges, a few at a time, and did not 
 consider it expedient to engage in a useless and dangerous 
 struggle. The captain had a chance to hand Mile, de 
 Verneuil back into the carriage, for there stood the noble, 
 like one thunderstruck. The Parisian in her surprise got 
 in without availing herself of the Republican's courtesy ; 
 she turned to look at her lover, saw him standing there 
 motionless, and was bewildered by the sudden change just 
 wrought in him by the Chevalier's words. Slowly the 
 young Emigrant returned ; his manner disclosed a feeling 
 of intense disgust. 
 
 c Was I not right ? ' Mme. du Gua said in his ear, as 
 she went back with him to the coach. i We are certainly 
 in the hands of a creature who has struck a bargain for 
 your life ; but since she is fool enough to be smitten 
 with you instead of attending to her business, do not 
 behave yourself like a child, but pretend that you love 
 her until we reach the Vivetiere, and once there — Is he 
 really in love with her already ? ' she added to herself, for 
 the young man did not move, and stood like one lost in 
 dreams. 
 
 The coach rolled on almost noiselessly over the sandy 
 road. At the first glance round about her everything 
 seemed changed for Mile, de Verneuil. The shadow of 
 death had stolen across love already. The differences 
 were the merest shades perhaps ; but such shades as these 
 are as strongly marked as the most glaring hues for a 
 woman who loves. Francine had learned from Marche- 
 a-Terre's expression that Mile, de Verneuil's fate, over 
 which she had bidden him to watch, was in other hands 
 than his. Whenever she met her mistress's eyes, she 
 turned pale, and could scarcely keep back the tears. The 
 rancour prompting a feminine revenge was but ill con- 
 cealed by the feigned smiles of the stranger lady. The 
 sudden change in her manner, the elaborate kindness for 
 Mile, de Verneuil, infused into her voice and expression, 
 was sufficient to alarm any quick-sighted woman. Mile. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 135 
 
 de Verneuil shuddered instinctively, and asked herself, 
 4 Why did I shudder ? Is she not his mother ? ' But 
 she trembled in every limb as she suddenly asked herself, 
 4 But is she really his mother?' Then she saw the 
 precipice before her, and a final glance at the man's face 
 made it plain to her. 
 
 c This woman loves him ! ' she thought. c But why 
 should she overwhelm me with attentions after having 
 shown so much coolness to me ? Is it possible that she 
 fears me, or am I lost ? ' 
 
 As for the Emigre, he was red and pale by turns ; he 
 retained his apparently calm manner by lowering his eyes, 
 to conceal the strange emotions that warred within him. 
 His lips were pressed together so tightly that their gracious 
 curving outlines were disturbed ; a yellowish tint, due 
 to the violent conflict in his mind, overspread his face. 
 Mile, de Verneuil could not even discover if there was a 
 lingering trace of love in all this passion. Woods lined 
 the road on either side at this spot, and it became so dark 
 that the mute actors in the drama could no longer question 
 each other with their eyes. The sough of the wind 
 rustling through the woods, and the even paces of their 
 escort, gave a tinge of awe to the time and place, a 
 solemnity that quickens the beating of the heart. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil could not long seek in vain for the 
 cause of the estrangement. The recollection of Corentin 
 flashed through her mind, and with that the idea of her 
 real destiny rose up suddenly before her. For the first 
 time since the morning, she fell to thinking seriously over 
 her position. Hitherto she had given herself up to the 
 joy of being loved, without a thought of the future or of 
 the past. She grew unable to bear her agony of soul any 
 longer alone, and, with the meek patience of love, sat 
 waiting, beseeching one glance of the young man. There 
 was such a touching eloquence about her mute passionate 
 entreaty, her shudder, and her white face, that he wavered 
 a moment — the catastrophe was but the more complete. 
 
The Chouans 
 
 4 Are you feeling ill, mademoiselle ? ' he inquired. 
 There was no trace of tenderness in his voice. His look 
 and gesture, the very question itself, all served to convince 
 the poor girl that all that had happened during the day 
 had been part of a soul-mirage, which was now dispersing 
 as half-formed clouds are borne away by the wind. 
 
 4 Am I feeling ill?' she replied, with a constrained 
 laugh : 4 1 was just going to put the same question to 
 you.' 
 
 4 1 thought you both understood each other,' said 
 Mme. du Gua, with assumed good nature. 
 
 But neither Mile, de Verneuil nor the young noble 
 made her any answer. The girl thus grievously offended 
 for the second time was vexed to find that her all-powerful 
 beauty had lost its force. She knew that she could 
 discover the reason of this state of things whenever she 
 chose, but she was not anxious to look into it ; and for 
 the first time, perhaps, a woman shrank back from 
 learning a secret. There are in our lives far too many 
 situations when, either by dint of overmuch thinking, or 
 through some heavy calamity, our ideas become discon- 
 nected, have no foundation in fact, and no basis to start 
 from ; the links that bind the present to the future and 
 to the past are severed. This was Mile, de Verneuil's 
 condition. She bowed her head, lay back in the carriage, 
 and stayed in this position like an uprooted shrub. She 
 took no notice of any one, she saw nothing around her, 
 but suffered in silence, wrapping herself about in her 
 sorrow, a deliberate dweller in the solitary world whither 
 unhappiness betakes itself for shelter. Some ravens flew 
 croaking over them ; but although in her, as in all strong 
 natures, there was a superstitious spot, she gave no heed 
 to them. The travellers went on their way in silence 
 for some time. 
 
 4 Sundered already ! ' said Mile, de Verneuil to herself. 
 4 And yet nothing about me could have told him ! Could 
 it have been Corentin ? But it is not to Corentin's 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 137 
 
 interest. Who can have risen up to accuse me ? I 
 have scarcely been beloved, and here already I am 
 aghast at being forsaken. I have sown love, and I reap 
 contempt. So it is decreed by fate that I shall never do 
 more than see the happiness that I must always lose ! ' 
 
 There was a trouble within her heart that was new in 
 her experience, for she really loved now, and for the first 
 time. But she was not so overcome by her pain that she 
 could not oppose to it the pride natural to a young and 
 beautiful woman. Her love was still her own secret ; the 
 secret that torture often fails to draw had not escaped her. 
 She raised her head, ashamed that her mute suffering 
 should indicate the extent of the passion within her, 
 showed a smiling face, or rather a smiling mask, gave a 
 gay little shake of the head, controlling her voice, so as 
 to show no sign of the change in it. 
 
 c Where are we now ? ' she asked of Captain Merle, 
 who always kept at a little distance from the coach. 
 
 6 Three leagues and a half from Fougeres, mademoiselle.' 
 
 4 Then we shall very soon be there now,' said she, to 
 induce him to begin to talk, her mind being fully made 
 up to favour the young captain with some mark of her 
 consideration. 
 
 6 Those leagues,' replied the delighted Merle, c are no 
 great matter, except that hereabouts they never let any- 
 thing come to an end. As soon as you reach the upland 
 at the top of this hill that we are climbing, you will see 
 another valley just like the one we are leaving behind, 
 and then on the horizon you can see the top of La Peler- 
 ine. God send that the Chouans will be so obliging as 
 not to have their revenge up there. But as you can 
 suppose, we don't get on very fast, going up and down hill 
 in this way. From La Pelerine again you will see ' 
 
 The Emigrant trembled slightly at that word for the 
 second time, but so slightly that Mile, de Verneuil alone 
 observed it. 
 
 4 What may this La Pelerine be?' the girl inquired 
 
The Chouans 
 
 vivaciously, interrupting the captain, who was quite taken 
 up by his Breton topography. 
 
 4 It is the summit of a hill,' Merle answered. 4 It gives 
 its name to the valley here in Maine, which we are just 
 going to enter. The hill is the dividing line be- 
 tween that province and the valley of the Couesnon ; 
 Fougeres lies at the very end of the valley, and that is the 
 first town you come to in Brittany. We had a fight 
 there against the Gars and his bandits at the end of Ven- 
 demiaire. We were bringing over some conscripts, and 
 they had a mind to kill us on the border so as to stop in 
 their own country \ but Hulot is a tough customer, and 
 he gave them ' 
 
 4 Then you must have seen the Gars ? ' she asked. 
 4 What sort of man is he ? ' and all the time her keen 
 malicious eyes were never withdrawn from the pretended 
 Vicomte de Bauvan's face. 
 
 4 Oh, mon Dieu ! mademoiselle,' replied Merle, inter- 
 rupted again as usual; 4 he is so very much like the citizen 
 du Gua, that if it were not for the uniform of the Ecole 
 polytechnique that he is wearing, I would bet it was 
 the same man.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil stared hard at the cool and impassive 
 young man who was looking contemptuously back at her, 
 but she could see nothing about him that revealed any 
 feeling of fear. By a bitter smile she let him know that 
 she had just discovered the secret he had so dishon- 
 ourably kept. Then her nostrils dilated with joy ; she 
 bent her head to one side, so that she could scrutinise the 
 young noble, and at the same time keep Merle in view, 
 and said to the Republican in a mocking voice — 
 
 4 This chief is giving the First Consul a good deal of 
 anxiety, captain. There is plenty of daring in him, they 
 say, but he will engage in adventures of certain kinds like 
 a hare-brained boy, especially if there is a woman in the 
 case.' 
 
 4 We are just reckoning upon that to square our 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 139 
 
 accounts with him,' said the captain. c If we can get 
 hold of him for a couple of hours, we will put a little lead 
 in those brains of his. If he were to come across us, the 
 fellow from Coblentz would do as much for us ; he would 
 turn us off into the dark, so it is tit for tat.' 4 Oh, 
 you have nothing to fear,' said the Emigrant. c Your 
 soldiers will never get as far as La Pelerine ; they are too 
 tired 3 so if you agree to it, they could take a rest only a 
 step or two from here. My mother will alight at the 
 Vivetiere, and there is the road leading to it, a few gun- 
 shots away. These two ladies would be glad to rest there 
 too ; they must be tired after coming without a break in 
 the journey from Alen^on hither.' He turned to his 
 mistress with constrained politeness as he went on — 
 4 And, since mademoiselle has been so generous as to 
 make our journey safe as well as pleasant, perhaps she will 
 condescend to accept an invitation to sup with my 
 mother ? Times, in fact, are not so distracted but that 
 a hogshead of cider can be found at the Vivetiere to tap for 
 your men. The Gars will not have made off with every- 
 thing ; or so my mother thinks, at any rate ' 
 
 4 Your mother ? ' interrupted Mile, de Verneuil satiri- 
 cally, without making any response to the strange 
 invitation whicl> was held out to her, 
 
 'Does my age seem no longer credible to you now that 
 the evening has come, mademoiselle ? ' asked Mme. du 
 Gua. C I was unfortunately married while very young ; 
 my son was born when I was fifteen ' 
 
 c Are you not mistaken, madame ? Should you not 
 have said thirty ? ' 
 
 Madame du Gua turned pale as she swallowed this 
 piece of sarcasm. She longed for the power to avenge 
 herself, and yet must perforce smile. At all costs to her- 
 self, even by the endurance of the most stinging epigrams, 
 she wished to discover the girl's motives of action, so she 
 pretended not to have understood. 
 
 4 The Chouans have never had a leader so cruel as this 
 
The Chouans 
 
 one, if we are to believe the rumours that are flying 
 about concerning him,' she said, speaking at the same 
 time to Francine and Francine's mistress. 
 
 c Oh ! I do not believe he is cruel,' Mile, de 
 Verneuil answered, c but he can lie, and to me he seems 
 exceedingly credulous ; the leader of a party ought to be 
 the dupe of no one.' 
 
 c Do you know him ? * asked the Emigrant coolly. 
 
 c No' she answered, with a contemptuous glance at 
 him, c but I thought I knew him.' 
 
 c Oh, mademoiselle, he is a shrewd one, and no mis- 
 take ! ' said the captain, shaking his head and giving to 
 the word he used [matin) by an eloquent gesture the 
 peculiar shade of meaning which it then possessed, and 
 has since lost. c These old families sometimes send out 
 vigorous offshoots. They come over here from a country 
 where the ci-devant$ y so they say, have by no means an 
 easy time of it ; and men are like medlars, you know— 
 they ripen best on straw. If the fellow has a head on his 
 shoulders, he can lead us a dance for a long while yet. 
 He thoroughly understood how to oppose his irregular 
 troops to our free companies, and so paralyse the efforts 
 of the Government. For every Royalist village that is 
 burnt he burns two for the Republicans. He has spread 
 his operations over a vast tract of country, and in that 
 way he compels us to bring a considerable number of 
 troops into the field, and that at a time when we have 
 none to spare ! Oh, he understands his business ! ' 
 
 c He is murdering his own country,' said Gerard, 
 interrupting the captain with his powerful voice. 
 
 4 But if his death is to deliver the country,' said the 
 young gentleman, c shoot him down, and be quick about it.' 
 
 Then he tried to fathom Mile, de Verneuil's mind with 
 a glance ; and of the dramatic vivacity of the mute scene 
 that passed between them, and its subtle swiftness, words 
 can give but a very imperfect idea. Danger makes 
 people interesting. The vilest criminal excites some 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 141 
 
 measure of pity when it comes to be a question of his 
 death. So Mile, de Verneuil, being by this time quite 
 certain that the lover who had scorned her was the for- 
 midable rebel leader, did not seek to reassure herself on 
 this head by keeping him on the rack ; she had a quite 
 different curiosity to satisfy. She preferred to trust or to 
 doubt him, as her passion dictated, and set herself to play 
 with edged tools. She indicated the soldiers to the young 
 chieftain in a glance full of treacherous derision ; dangling 
 the idea of his danger before him, amusing herself with 
 making him pajnfully aware that his life hung on a word 
 which her lips seemed to be opening to pronounce. She 
 seemed, like an American Indian, to be ready to detect 
 the movement of any nerve in the face of an enemy 
 bound to the stake, flourishing her tomahawk with a cer- 
 tain grace ; enjoying a revenge unstained by crime, dealing 
 out to him his punishment like a mistress who has not 
 ceased to love. 
 
 1 If I had a son like yours, madam,' she said to 
 the visibly terrified stranger, ( I should put on mourn- 
 ing for him on the day when I sent him forth into 
 danger.' 
 
 She received no reply. Again and again she turned 
 her head towards the two officers, and then looked sharply 
 at Mme. du Gua ; but she could not detect that there 
 was any secret signal passing between the lady and the 
 Gars, such as could assure her of an intimacy which she 
 suspected, and yet wished not to credit. A woman likes 
 so much to maintain the suspense of a life-and-death 
 struggle when a word from her will decide the issue. 
 The young general bore the torture which Mile, de 
 Verneuil inflicted upon him without flinching, and with 
 smiling serenity ; the expression of his face and his 
 bearing altogether showed that he was a man utterly 
 unaffected by the perils he underwent, and now and then 
 he seemed to tell her, c Here is your opportunity for 
 avenging your wounded vanity ! Seize upon it ! I 
 
I 4 2 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 should be in despair if I had to resign the feeling of con- 
 tempt which I have for you.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil began to scrutinise the chief from 
 her position of vantage, with a haughty insolence, which 
 was quite superficial, for at the bottom of her heart 
 she was admiring his tranquil courage. Glad as she was 
 to make the discovery of the ancient name that her 
 lover bore (for all women love the privileges which a 
 title confers), she was still further delighted to confront 
 him in his present position. He was the champion of a 
 cause ennobled by its misfortunes \ he was exerting every 
 faculty of a powerful character in a struggle with a 
 Republic that had been so many a time victorious. She 
 saw him now, face to face with imminent danger, dis- 
 playing the dauntless valour that has such a powerful 
 effect on women's hearts. Over and over again she put 
 him through the ordeal, perhaps in obedience to an 
 instinct which leads womankind to play with a victim, 
 as a cat plays with the mouse that she has caught. 
 
 4 What law is your authority for putting Chouans to 
 death ? ' she asked of Captain Merle. 
 
 ( The law of the fourteenth of last Fructidor. The 
 revolted departments are put outside the civil jurisdiction, 
 and court-martials are established instead,' replied the j 
 Republican. 
 
 c To what cause do I owe the honour of your scrutiny J 
 of me ? ' she inquired of the young chief, who was watch- 
 ing her attentively. 
 
 c To a feeling which a gentleman hardly knows how 
 to express in speaking to a woman, whatever she may be,' 
 said the Marquis of Montauran in a low voice, as he 
 leant over towards her; then he went on aloud, 6 We 
 must needs live in such times as these, to see girls in 
 your station do the office of the executioner, and improve 
 upon him in their deft way of playing with the axe ' 
 
 Her eyes were set in a stare on Montauran ; then in 
 her exultation at receiving this insult from a man whose 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 life lay between her hands as he spoke, she whispered in 
 his ear with gentle malice as she laughed — 
 
 4 Your head is so wrong that the executioners will 
 none of it. I shall keep it for my own.' 
 
 The bewildered marquis in his turn gazed at this 
 unaccountable girl for a moment. The love in her had 
 prevailed over everything else, even over the most 
 scathing insults, and her revenge had taken the form of 
 pardoning an offence which women never forgive. The 
 expression of his eyes grew less cold and hard, a touch of 
 melancholy stole over his features. His passion had a 
 stronger hold upon him than he had recognised. These 
 faint tokens of the reconciliation she looked for satisfied 
 Mile, de Verneuil. She looked tenderly at the chief; 
 the smile she gave him seemed a caress ; then she lay 
 back in the coach, unwilling to endanger the future in 
 the drama of her happiness, and in full belief that that 
 smile of hers had once more tightened the knot that 
 bound them. She was so beautiful ! She knew so well 
 how to clear away all obstacles in love's course ! She 
 was so thoroughly accustomed to take all things as a 
 pastime, to live as chance determined ! She had such a 
 love of the unforeseen and of the storms of life ! 
 
 Very soon, in obedience to orders from the marquis, 
 the coach left the high road and turned off towards the 
 Vivetiere, along a cross-road in a hollow shut in on either 
 side by high banks, planted with apple trees, which made 
 their way seem more of a ditch than a road, properly 
 speaking. The travellers gradually left the Blues behind 
 them, as they reached the manor house > its grey roofs 
 appearing and vanishing alternately through the trees 
 along the way. Several soldiers were left behind, engaged 
 in extricating their shoes from the stiff clay. c This is 
 like the road to Paradise with a vengeance,' cried Beau- 
 Pied. 
 
 Thanks to the postilion, who had been there before, it 
 was not very long before Mile, de Verneuil came in 
 
144 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 sight of the chateau of the Vivetiere. The house lay on 
 the slope of a sort of promontory between two deep ponds 
 which almost surrounded it, so that it was only possible 
 to reach the mansion by following one narrow causeway. 
 That part of the peninsula on which the house and 
 gardens stood was protected at some distance from the 
 back of the chateau by a wide moat which received all 
 the overflow from the two ponds with which it communi- 
 cated. In this way an island was formed, which was 
 an almost impregnable retreat, and therefore invaluable 
 for a party leader, who could only be surprised here by 
 treachery. 
 
 As the gate creaked on its rusty hinges, and she passed 
 under the pointed archway that had been ruined in the 
 previous war, Mile, de Verneuil stretched out her head. 
 The gloomy colours of the picture presented to her gaze 
 all but effaced the thoughts of love and coquetry with 
 which she had been soothing herself. The coach 
 entered a great courtyard, almost square in shape, and 
 bounded by the steep banks of the ponds. These rough 
 embankments were kept dank by the water with its 
 great patches of green weed, and bore such trees as love 
 marshy places, for their sole adornment. They stood 
 leafless now. The stunted trunks and huge heads grey 
 with lichens rose above the reeds and undergrowth like 
 misshapen dwarfs. These uncomely hedges seemed to 
 have a sort of life in them, and to find a language when 
 the frogs escaped from them, croaking as they went ; and 
 the water-hens, in alarm at the sounds made by the coach, 
 flew and splashed across the surface of the pools. The 
 courtyard, surrounded by tall withered grasses, gorse, 
 dwarf shrubs and creeping plants, put an end to any pre- 
 conceived ideas of order or of splendour. 
 
 The chateau itself seemed to have been a long while 
 deserted. The roofs appeared to bend under an accumula- 
 tion of vegetable growths ; and although the walls were 
 built very solidly of the schistous stone of the district, 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 145 
 
 there were numerous cracks where the ivy had found a 
 hold. The chateau fronted the pond, and consisted of 
 two wings which met at right angles in a high tower, and 
 that was all. The doors and shutters hung loose and 
 rotten ; the balustrades were eaten with rust ; and these, 
 like the crazy windows, looked as if the first breath of 
 a storm would bring them down. A shrewd wind 
 whistled through the ruinous place, and in the uncertain 
 moonlight the great house had a spectral appearance and 
 character. The cold greys and blues of the granitic 
 stone, combined with the tawny brown and black of the 
 schist, must have been actually seen, before the accuracy 
 of the image called up at first sight by this dark empty 
 carcase of a house can be appreciated. It looked exactly 
 like a skeleton with the fissures in its masonry, its 
 unglazed windows, the embrasures in the battlements of 
 the tower seen against the sky, and the roofs that let the 
 light through ; the birds of prey that flew shrieking about 
 it added one more feature to the vague resemblance. A 
 few lofty fir-trees behind the house showed their dark 
 waving foliage above the roofs, and some yew trees that 
 had once been trimmed as a sort of ornament to the 
 corners, now made for it a setting of dismal festoons like 
 palls at a funeral. 
 
 The shape of the doorways, the clumsiness of the 
 ornaments, the want of symmetry in the construction, 
 and everything, in fact, about the mansion, showed that it 
 was one of those feudal manor-houses of which Brittany is 
 proud ; not without reason it may be, for in this Celtic 
 land they form monuments to the nebulous history of a 
 time when as yet the monarchy was not established. 
 In Mile, de VerneuiPs imagination the word c chateau* 
 always called up a conventional type, so that she was 
 greatly struck with the funeral aspect of the picture 
 before her. She sprang lightly from the coach, and stood 
 by herself looking about her in dismay, and meditating 
 on the part that she ought to play. 
 
 K 
 
146 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Francine heard Mine, du Gua give a sigh of joy when 
 she found herself free of the escort of Blues; and an 
 involuntary exclamation broke from her when the gate 
 was shut, and she found herself within this kind of 
 natural fortress. Montauran had hurried eagerly to 
 Mile, de Verneuil ; he guessed the nature of the thoughts 
 that filled her mind. 
 
 4 This chateau,' he said, with a shade of melancholy 
 in his voice, c was ruined in the war, just as the plans 
 which I projected for our happiness have been ruined by 
 you.' 
 
 4 And in what way ? ' she inquired in utter astonishment. 
 
 4 Are you, a beautiful young woman, witty , and nobly 
 born ? ' he said in caustic tones, repeating for her the 
 words which she had spoken so coquettishly during their 
 conversation by the way. 
 
 4 Who has told you otherwise ? ' 
 
 4 Friends of mine, worthy of credence, who are deeply 
 interested in my safety, and are on the watch to baffle 
 treachery.' 
 
 4 Treachery ! ' said she, with a satirical look. 4 Are 
 Alen^on and Hulot so far away already ? You have a 
 poor memory, a perilous defect in the leader of a 
 party ! But if friends begin to exert so powerful a sway 
 over your heart,' she went on with matchless insolence, 
 4 pray keep your friends. There is nothing which can 
 be compared with the pleasures of friendship. Farewell ! 
 for neither I nor the soldiers of the Republic will enter 
 here ! ' 
 
 She darted towards the gateway in her wounded pride 
 and scorn, but there was a dignity and a desperation about 
 her flight that wrought a change in the ideas of the 
 marquis concerning her. He could not but be imprudent 
 and credulous, for he could only forego his desires at too 
 great a cost to himself. He, also, was already in love, 
 so that neither of the lovers had any wish to protract their 
 quarrel. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 147 
 
 * Only a word, and I believe you,' he said, with entreaty 
 in his voice. 
 
 c A word ? ' she answered in an ironical tone, c not so 
 much as a gesture,' and her lips were tightly strained 
 together. 
 
 4 Scold me at any rate,' he entreated, trying to take the 
 hand which she withdrew, c if, indeed, you dare to pout 
 with a rebel chieftain, who is now as sullen and suspicious 
 as he was formerly light-hearted and confiding.' 
 
 There was no anger in Marie's look, so the marquis 
 went on, c You have my secret, and I have not yours.' 
 
 A darker shade seemed to cross her alabaster brow at 
 the words. Marie looked angrily at the chief and replied, 
 ( My secret ? Never ! ' 
 
 — Every word, every glance, has at the moment its own 
 eloquence, in love ; but Mile, de Verneuil's words had 
 conveyed no definite meaning, and for Montauran, clever 
 as he might be, the significance of her exclamation 
 remained undecipherable. And yet her woman's voice 
 had betrayed an emotion by no means ordinary, which was 
 still in evidence to excite his curiosity. 
 
 * You have a pleasant way of dispelling suspicions,' he 
 began. 
 
 c So you still harbour them ? ' she inquired, and her 
 eyes scanned him curiously as if to say, c Have you any 
 rights over me ? ' 
 
 ' Mademoiselle,' said the young man, who looked at 
 once submissive and resolute, c the authority you exercise 
 over the Republican troops, and this escort ' 
 
 c Ah, that reminds me ? Are we, my escort and I (your 
 protectors as a matter of fact), in security here ? ' she asked 
 with a trace of irony. 
 
 6 Yes, on my faith as a gentleman ! Whoever you 
 may be, you and yours have nothing to fear in my 
 house.' 
 
 The impulse that prompted this pledge was evidently 
 so generous and so staunch that Mile, de Verneuil could not 
 
The Chouans 
 
 but feel absolutely at rest as to the fate of the Republicans. 
 She was about to speak, when Mme. du Gua's presence 
 imposed silence upon her. Mme. du Gua had either 
 overheard the conversation of the two lovers, or she had 
 partly guessed at it, and it was in consequence no ordinary 
 anxiety that she felt when she saw them in a position 
 which no longer implied the slightest unfriendliness. At 
 sight of her, the Marquis offered his hand to Mile, de 
 Verneuil, and went quickly towards the house, as if to rid 
 himself of an intrusive companion. 
 
 ( I am in the way,' said the stranger lady to herself, 
 without moving from the place where she stood. She 
 watched the two reconciled lovers, moving slowly now, 
 on their way to the entrance flight of steps, where they 
 came to a stand that they might talk, so soon as they 
 had put a distance between themselves and her. 
 
 c Yes, yes, I am in their way ! ' she went on, speaking 
 to herself ; 6 but in a little while the creature yonder will 
 not be in my way any longer ; the pond, pardteu ! shall be 
 her grave. I shall not violate your "faith as a gentleman." 
 Once under that water, what is there to fear ? Will she 
 not be safe, down below there ? 9 
 
 She was staring at the calm mirror-like surface of the 
 little lake to the right of the courtyard, when she heard 
 a rustling sound among the briars on the embankment, 
 and by the light of the moon she saw Marche-a-Terre*s 
 face rise up above the knotty trunk of an old willow-tree. 
 One had to know the Chouan well to make him out 
 among the confusion of pollard trunks, for one of which 
 he might readily be taken. First of all, Mme. du Gua 
 looked suspiciously round about her. She saw the postilion 
 leading the horses round into a stable, situated in that 
 wing of the chateau which fronted the bank where 
 Marche-a-Terre was hiding ; she watched Francine go 
 towards the two lovers, who had forgotten everything else 
 on earth just then ; and she came forward with a finger 
 on her lips to enjoin absolute silence, so that the 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 149 
 
 Chouan rather understood than heard the words that 
 followed next, c How many are there of you here ? * 
 * Eighty-seven.' 
 
 c They are only sixty-five, for I counted them/ 
 
 c Good,' the savage answered with cruel satisfaction. 
 Heedful of Francine's slightest movement, the Chouan 
 vanished into the hollow willow trunk, as he saw her 
 return to keep a look-out for the woman whom her 
 instinct told her to watch as an enemy. 
 
 Seven or eight people appeared at the top of the steps, 
 brought out by the sounds of the arrival of the coach. 
 
 ' It is the Gars ! ' they exclaimed. 1 It is he ; here he is ! ' 
 
 Others came running up at their exclamations, and 
 the talk between the two lovers was interrupted by their 
 presence. The Marquis of Montauran made a rush 
 towards these gentlemen, called for silence with an 
 imperative gesture, and made them look at the top of the 
 avenue through which the Republican soldiers were 
 defiling. At the sight of the familiar blue uniform 
 turned up with red, and the gleaming bayonets, the 
 astonished conspirators exclaimed — 
 
 c Can you have come back to betray us ? 9 
 
 4 1 should not warn you of the peril if I had,' said the 
 marquis, smiling bitterly. i Those Blues,' he went on 
 after a pause, c are this young lady's escort. Her genero- 
 sity rescued us, by a miracle, from a danger which all but 
 overwhelmed us in an inn in Alencon. We will give you 
 the history of the adventure. Mademoiselle and her 
 escort are here on my parole, and must be welcomed as 
 friends.' 
 
 Mme. du Gua and Francine having come as far as the 
 flight of steps, the marquis gallantly presented his hand 
 to Mile, de Verneuil, the group of gentlemen fell back 
 into two rows in order to let them pass, and every one 
 tried to discern the features of the new-comer ; for Mme. 
 du Gua had already stimulated their curiosity by making 
 several furtive signs to them. 
 
1 5 o 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 In the first room Mile, de Verneuil saw a large table 
 handsomely furnished and set for a score of guests. The 
 dining-room opened into a vast saloon, where the company 
 were very soon assembled together. Both apartments 
 were in keeping with the appearance of dilapidation about 
 the exterior of the chateau. The wainscot was ol 
 polished walnut, ill carved with poor and rough designs 
 in bold relief; but it was split by great cracks, and seemed 
 ready to fall to pieces. The dark colour of the wood 
 seemed to make the mirrorless and curtainless rooms more 
 dismal yet ; and the antiquated and crazy furniture 
 matched the ruinous aspect of everything else. Marie 
 noticed maps and plans lying out unrolled upon a great 
 table, and a stack of weapons and rifles in a corner of 
 the room. Everything spoke of an important conference 
 among the Vendean and Chouan chiefs. The marquis 
 led Mile, de Verneuil to an enormous worm-eaten arm- 
 chair which stood beside the hearth, and Francine took 
 up her position behind her mistress, leaning upon the 
 back of the venerable piece of furniture. 
 
 c You will give me leave to do my duty as host for a 
 moment?' said the marquis, as he left the two new-comers 
 to mingle with the groups his guests had formed. 
 
 Francine saw how at a word or two from Montauran, 
 the chiefs hastily concealed their weapons and maps and 
 anything else which could arouse the suspicions of the 
 Republican officers. One or two of the chiefs divested 
 themselves of wide leather belts, furnished with hunting- 
 knives and pistols. The marquis recommended the 
 greatest discretion, and left the room, apologising for the 
 absence necessary to provide for the reception of the 
 inconvenient guests which chance had thrust upon him. 
 Mile, de Verneuil, who was trying to warm her feet at 
 the fire, had allowed Montauran to leave her, without 
 turning her head ; and thus disappointed the expectations 
 of the onlookers, who all were anxious to see her face. 
 Francine was the sole witness of the change wrought 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 1 5 1 
 
 among those assembled by the young chief's departure. 
 The gentlemen gathered round the stranger lady, and 
 during the murmured conversation which was carried on 
 among them, there was no one present who did not look 
 again and again at the two strangers. 
 
 c You know Montauran ! ' she said. ( He fell in love 
 with this girl at first sight, and you can easily understand 
 that the soundest advice was suspicious to him when it 
 came from my mouth. Our friends in Paris, and 
 Messieurs de Valois and d'Esgrignon at Alen^on, one 
 and all warned him of the trap they want to set for him, 
 by flinging some hussy at his head, and he is bewitched 
 with the first one he comes across ; a girl who, if all I 
 can learn about her is correct, has taken a noble name, 
 only to tarnish it, who ' and so on, and so on. 
 
 This lady, in whom the woman that decided the attack 
 on the turgotine can be recognised, will keep throughout 
 this story the name which enabled her to escape in the 
 perils of her journey through Alen^on. The publication 
 of her real name could only displease a noble family, who 
 have suffered deeply already from the errors of this young 
 person, whose fortunes have, moreover, been taken for the 
 subject of another drama. 
 
 Very soon the attitude of the company changed, and 
 simple curiosity grew to be impertinent, and almost hostile. 
 Two or three rather harsh epithets reached Francine's 
 ears, who spoke a word to her mistress, and took refuge in 
 the embrasure of a window. Marie rose, and turned her 
 glances filled with dignity, and even with scorn, upon the 
 insolent group. Her beauty, and her pride and the 
 refinement of her manner, worked a sudden change in the 
 attitude of her enemies, and called forth an involuntary 
 flattering murmur from them. Two or three men among 
 them, whose exterior polish and habits of gallantry 
 revealed that they had been acquired in the lofty spheres 
 of courts, came up to Marie in a free and easy manner; her 
 modest reserve compelled their respect, none of them 
 
i$2 The Chouans 
 
 dared to address a word to her, and, so far from being 
 accused by them, it was she who seemed to sit in judg- 
 ment upon them. 
 
 The chiefs in this war undertaken for God and the 
 King bore very little resemblance to the fancy portraits 
 which she had been pleased to draw of them. The real 
 grandeur of the struggle was diminished for her ; it shrank 
 into mean dimensions when she saw (two or three 
 energetic faces excepted) the country gentlemen about 
 her, every one of them entirely devoid of character and 
 vigour. Marie came down all at once from poetry to 
 prose. At first sight these faces seemed to manifest a 
 craving for intrigue rather than a love of glory ; it was 
 really self-interest that had set each man's hand to his 
 sword ; so if they grew heroic figures in the field, here 
 they appeared as they actually were. The loss of her 
 illusions made Mile, de Verneuil unjust, and prevented 
 her from recognising the real devotion that distinguished 
 several of these men. But most of them, for all that, 
 were of a commonplace turn. If a few faces among them 
 were marked out by a character of their own, it was 
 spoiled by a certain pettiness due to aristocratic etiquette 
 and convention. So if Marie's generosity allowed them 
 to be astute and shrewd, she found no trace among them of 
 the simpler and larger way of looking at things, which the 
 men and the successes of the Republic had always led her 
 to expect. 
 
 This nocturnal confabulation in the old ruined strong- 
 hold, beneath the quaintly-carved beams that were no 
 ill match for the faces below, made her smile ; she was 
 inclined to see it all as a typical presentment of the mon- 
 archy. Then she thought with delight that at any rate 
 the marquis took the first place among these men, whose 
 sole merit in her eyes lay in their devotion to a lost 
 cause. She drew the outlines of her lover's face upon that 
 background of figures, and pleased herself with the way in 
 which he stood out against it ; all these meagre and thin 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 *53 
 
 personalities were but tools in his hands, wherewith to 
 carry out his own noble purposes. 
 
 Just then the returning footsteps of the marquis sounded 
 from the next room ; the conspirators broke up into 
 knots at once, and there was an end to the whisperings. 
 They looked like school-boys who have been up to some 
 mischief in their master's absence, hurriedly restoring an 
 appearance of order and silence. Montauran came in. 
 The happiness of admiring him, of seeing him take the 
 first place among these folk, the youngest and handsomest 
 man among them, fell to Marie. He went from group 
 to group, like a king among his courtiers, distributing 
 slight nods, handshakes, glances, and words that indicated 
 a good understanding or a tinge of reproach ; playing his 
 part as a partisan leader with a grace and self-possession 
 which could hardly have been looked for in a young man 
 whom she had set down at first as a feather-brain. The 
 presence of the marquis had put a stop to their inquisitive 
 demonstrations with regard to Mile, de Verneuil, but 
 Mme. du Gua's spitefulness soon showed its effects. The 
 Baron du Guenic, nicknamed Vlntime\ who, among all 
 these men thus brought together by weighty considera- 
 tions, seemed best entitled by his name and rank to speak 
 on familiar terms with Montauran, laid a hand on his 
 arm, and drew him into a corner. 
 
 c Listen, my dear marquis,' he said ; ' we are all sorry 
 to see you about to commit a flagrant piece of folly.' 
 
 1 What do you mean by that remark ? ' 
 
 4 Who can tell where this girl comes from, what she 
 really is, and what her designs upon you may be ? ' 
 
 6 Between ourselves, my dear l'Intime, my fancy will 
 have passed off by to-morrow morning/ 
 
 c Just so ; but how if the gipsy betrays you before the 
 morning ? ' 
 
 c I will answer you that when you tell me why she has 
 not already done so,' answered Montauran jestingly, 
 assuming an air of exceeding self-complacency. 
 
*54 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 i If she has taken a liking to you, she would have no 
 mind perhaps to betray you till her "fancy" too had 
 " passed off." . . .' 
 
 c Just take a look at that charming girl, my dear fellow ; 
 notice her manners, and dare to tell me that she is not a 
 woman of good birth ! If she sent a favourable glance in 
 your direction, would you not feel, in the depths of you, 
 some sort of respect for her ? A certain lady has preju- 
 diced you against her, but after what we have just said to 
 each other, if she was one of those abandoned women that 
 our friends have spoken about, I would kill her.' 
 
 c You do not suppose that Fouche would be fool enough 
 to pick up a girl from a street corner to send after you ? 1 
 Mme. du Gua broke in. c He has sent some one likely 
 to attract a man of your calibre. But if you are blind, 
 your friends will have their eyes open to watch over you.' 
 
 c Madame,' answered the Gars, darting angry glances 
 at her, c take care to make no attempt against this person 
 or her escort, or nothing shall save you from my ven- 
 geance. It is my wish that mademoiselle should be 
 treated with the greatest respect, and as a woman who is 
 under my protection. We are connected, I believe, with 
 the family of Verneuil.' 
 
 The opposition which the marquis encountered pro- 
 duced the effects that hindrances of this sort usually 
 cause in young people. Lightly as he apparently held 
 Mile, de Verneuil when he gave the impression that his 
 infatuation for her was only a whim, his feeling of personal 
 pride had forced him to take a considerable step. By 
 openly acknowledging her, it became a question of his 
 own honour to make others respect her, so he went from 
 group to group assuring every one that the stranger really 
 was Mile, de Verneuil, with the air of a man whom it 
 would be dangerous to contradict ; and all the murmurs 
 were silenced. 
 
 As soon as harmony was in some sort re-established in 
 the salon, and his duties as host detained him no longer, 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 155 
 
 Montauran went eagerly up to his mistress, and said in a 
 low voice, 'Those people yonder have robbed me of a 
 moment of happiness.' 
 
 c I am very glad to have you beside me,' she answered, 
 smiling. * I give you fair warning ; I am inquisitive, so 
 do not grow tired of my questions too soon. First of all, 
 tell me who that worthy person is in the green waistcoat.* 
 
 i He is the celebrated Major Brigaut from the Marais, 
 a comrade of the late Mercier's, otherwise called 
 Vendee.' 
 
 'And who is the stout churchman with the florid 
 countenance, with whom he is now discussing me?' 
 went on Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 c Do you want to know what they are saying about 
 you ? ' 
 
 c Do I want to know ? . . . Can you doubt it ? ' 
 
 c But I could not tell you without insulting you.' 
 
 1 The moment that you allow me to be insulted without 
 wreaking vengeance for any affront put upon me in your 
 house, I bid you farewell, marquis. Not a moment 
 longer will I stay. I have felt some pangs of conscience 
 already at deceiving those poor trusting and trusty 
 Republicans.' She took several paces, but the marquis 
 went after her. 
 
 ( My dear Marie, hear me. Upon my honour, I have 
 silenced their scandalous talk before I know whether it is 
 false or true. But our friends among the ministers in 
 Paris have sent warning to me to mistrust every sort of 
 woman that comes in my way ; telling me that Fouche 
 has made up his mind to make use of some Judith out of 
 the streets against me ; and in my situation, it is very 
 natural that my best friends should think that you are too 
 handsome to be an honest woman ' 
 
 The marquis looked straight into the depths of 
 Mile, de Verneuil's eyes ; her colour rose, she could not 
 keep back the tears. 
 
 c Oh, I have deserved these insults,' she cried. c I 
 
1 5 6 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 would fain see you convinced that I am a despicable 
 creature, and yet know myself beloved — then I should 
 doubt you no longer. I believed in you when you 
 deceived me, but you have no belief in me when I am 
 sincere. There, that is enough, sir ! ' she said, knitting 
 her brows, and growing white, like a woman about to 
 die. 4 Farewell.* She fled into the dining-room with a 
 desperate impulse. 
 
 c Marie, my life is yours,' said the young marquis in 
 her ear. She stopped and looked at him. 
 
 ' No, no,' she said ; c I will be generous. Farewell. 
 When I followed you hither, I was mad ; I was thinking 
 neither of my own past nor of your future.' 
 
 c What ! you leave me at the moment when I lay my 
 life at your feet ' 
 
 c It is offered in a moment of passion, of desire ' 
 
 i It is offered without regret and for ever,' said he. 
 She came back again, and to hide his emotion the marquis 
 resumed their conversation — 
 
 4 That stout man whose name you asked for is a formid- 
 able person. He is the Abbe Gudin, one of those Jesuits 
 who are obstinate enough, or, it may be, devoted enough, 
 to stop in France in the teeth of the edict of 1763, which 
 drove them into exile. He is the firebrand of war in 
 these parts, and a propagandist of the religious confraternity 
 named after the Sacred Heart. He makes use of religion 
 as a means towards his ends, so he persuades his proselytes 
 that they will come to life again, and he understands how 
 to sustain their fanaticism by dexterously contrived 
 prophecy. You see how it is : one must seek to gain 
 over every one through his private interests, in order to 
 reach a great end. That is the whole secret of policy.' 
 
 c And that muscular person in a vigorous old age, with 
 such a repulsive face ? There, look ! the man who is 
 wearing a ragged lawyer's gown.' 
 
 * Lawyer ! He aspires to the title of marechal de camp. 
 Have you never heard them speak of Longuy ? ' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 *57 
 
 c Is that he ? 9 said Mile, de Verneuil, startled. 4 And 
 you make use of such men as he ? 9 
 
 4 Hush ! he might overhear you. Do you see thatother 
 man in unhallowed converse with Mme. du Gua ? ' 
 
 c The man in black who looks like a judge ? ■ 
 
 4 He is one of our diplomatists, La Billardiere, the son 
 of a counsellor in the Parliament of Brittany ; his name is 
 Flamet, or something like it ; but he is in the confidence 
 of the princes.' 
 
 4 Then there is his neighbour, who is clutching his white 
 clay pipe at this moment, and leaning the fingers of his 
 right hand against the panel of the wainscot, like a boor ? 9 
 said Mile, de Verneuil, laughing. 
 
 4 Pardieu ! your guess about him is correct. He was 
 formerly gamekeeper to that lady's husband, now deceased. 
 He is in command of one of the companies, which I am 
 opposing to the mobile battalions. He and Marche-a- 
 Terre are perhaps the most scrupulously loyal servants that 
 the King has hereabouts.' 
 
 'But who is she ?' 
 
 4 She was Charette's last mistress,' the marquis replied. 
 4 She has a great influence over everybody here.' 
 
 4 Has she remained faithful to his memory ? ' All the 
 answer vouchsafed by the marquis was a dubious kind of 
 compression of the lips. 
 
 4 Have you a good opinion of her ? ' 
 
 4 Really ; you are very inquisitive ! ' 
 
 4 She is my enemy because she can be my rival no 
 longer,' said Mile, de Verneuil, laughing. 4 1 forgive her 
 her past errors, so let her forgive mine. Who is that 
 officer with the moustaches ? ' 
 
 4 Permit me to leave his name unmentioned. He is 
 determined to rid us of the First Consul by attacking him 
 sword in hand. Whether he succeeds or no, you will 
 hear of him ; he will become famous.' 
 
 4 And you are come hither to command such men 
 as these ? ' she said, aghast, 4 and these are the King's 
 
The Chouans 
 
 champions ? Where are the great lords and the gentle- 
 men ? ' 
 
 4 Why, they are scattered throughout every court in 
 Europe ! ' said the marquis scornfully. * Who but they 
 are enlisting kings with their armies and their cabinets 
 in the service of the House of Bourbon, to hurl them all 
 upon this Republic, which is threatening monarchy and 
 social order everywhere with utter destruction ! ! 
 
 c Ah!' she answered him, stirred by an enthusiastic 
 impulse, 'from this time forward be for me the pure 
 source whence I shall draw all the rest of the ideas that I 
 must learn ; I am willing that it should be so. But leave 
 me the thought that you are the one noble who does his 
 duty in attacking France with Frenchmen and not with 
 foreign auxiliaries. I am a woman, and I feel that if my 
 own child were to strike me in anger, I could forgive 
 him ; but if he could see me torn in pieces by a stranger, 
 I should consider him a monster.' 
 
 4 You will always be a Republican ! ' said the marquis, 
 overcome by a delightful intoxication ; the strong feeling 
 in her tones had strengthened his confident hopes. 
 
 c A Republican ? No ; I am that no longer. I should 
 not respect you if you were to make your submission to 
 the First Consul,' she replied. c But neither should I be 
 willing to see you at the head of the men who are plunder- 
 ing a corner of France, when they should be attacking the 
 Republic in form. For whom are you fighting ? What 
 do you look for from a king restored to the throne by 
 your hands ? A woman once before achieved this glorious 
 master-stroke, and the king whom she delivered let them 
 burn her alive. Such as he are the anointed of the Lord, 
 and it is perilous to touch hallowed things. Leave it to 
 God alone to set them up, to take them down, or to 
 replace them on their dais among the purple. If you have 
 weighed the reward that will be meted out to you, then 
 in my eyes you are ten times greater than I have ever 
 thought you. If that is so, trample me beneath your feet 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 *59 
 
 if you will ; I would give you leave to do so, and be 
 glad!' 
 
 ' You are enchanting ! But do not try to urge your 
 doctrine on these gentlemen, or I shall be left without 
 soldiers.' 
 
 c Ah ! if you would let me convert you, we would go a 
 thousand leagues away from here.' 
 
 c These men, whom you appear to despise, will know 
 how to die in the struggle/ said the marquis in a more 
 serious tone ; * and all their faults will be forgotten then. 
 Besides, if my efforts are crowned with any success, will 
 not the laurels of victory hide everything ? ' 
 
 6 You are the only one present who has anything to 
 lose, as far as I can see.' 
 
 4 1 am not the only one,' he replied with real humility. 
 c There are those two Vendean chiefs over there. The 
 first one, whom you have heard spoken of as the Grande- 
 Jacques, is the Comte de Fontaine, and the other La 
 Billardiere, whom I have already pointed out to you.' 
 
 c Do you forget Quiberon, where La Billardiere played 
 a very strange part,' she answered, struck by a sudden 
 thought of the past. 
 
 i La Billardiere has undertaken heavy responsibilities, 
 believe me. Those who serve the princes do not lie 
 upon roses.' 
 
 c You make me shudder ! ' cried Marie ; then she went 
 on in a tone which indicated that she was keeping in the 
 background some mystery that concerned him personally. 
 4 A single moment is enough for the destruction of an 
 illusion, and to reveal secrets on which the lives and 
 happiness of many men depend.' She paused as if she 
 were afraid of having said too much, and added, c I should 
 like to know that the soldiers of the Republic are in 
 safety.' 
 
 4 1 will be very careful,' he said, smiling to conceal his 
 agitation : c but say no more about your soldiers, I have 
 answered for them to you on the faith of a gentleman.' 
 
i6o 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c And, after all, what right had I to dictate to you ? * 
 she resumed. c You are to be the master always when it 
 lies between us two. Did I not tell you that I should be 
 in despair to reign over a slave ? 1 
 
 1 My lord marquis,' said Major Brigaut respectfully, 
 interrupting the conversation, 'will the Blues remain 
 here for some time ? ' 
 
 4 They will go on again as soon as they are rested,' 
 Marie cried. 
 
 The marquis sent searching glances round the com- 
 pany, observed the excitement among them, went from 
 Mile, de Verneuil, and left Mme. du Gua to take his 
 place at her side. The young chiefs sarcastic smile did 
 not disturb the treacherous mask of good humour upon 
 her features. Just as she came, Francine uttered a cry 
 which she herself promptly stifled. Mile, de Verneuil 
 beheld with astonishment her faithful country-girl dash 
 into the dining-room. She looked at Mme. du Gua, and 
 her surprise increased when she saw the pallor that over- 
 spread the face of her enemy. Curious to learn the 
 reason of this hasty flight, she turned towards the em- 
 brasure of the window, followed thither by her rival, who 
 wished to lull any suspicions which an indiscretion might 
 have awakened, and who smiled upon her with indescrib- 
 able spitefulness as they returned together to the hearth 
 after both had glanced over the landscape and the lake. 
 Marie had seen nothing which justified Francine's 
 departure, and Mme. du Gua was satisfied that she was 
 being obeyed. 
 
 The lake, from the brink of which Marche-a-Terre 
 had appeared in the courtyard when the lady called him 
 forth, went to join the moat that surrounded and pro- 
 tected the gardens, forming winding stretches of water 
 with mist above it, sometimes as wide as a lake, sometimes 
 as narrow as the ornamental streams contrived in parks. 
 The steep sloping banks, past which the clear water was 
 rippling, ran but a few fathoms distant from the windows. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 161 
 
 Francine had been engaged in musing on the black out- 
 lines of several old willow stumps against the surface of the 
 water, and in noticing with indifferent eyes the uniform 
 curve that a light breeze was giving to the willow 
 branches. Suddenly, she thought she saw one of these 
 shapes moving, on the mirror of the water, in the 
 spontaneous and uneven fashion by which some living 
 thing is revealed. The shape, howsoever dim it was, 
 seemed to be that of a man. 
 
 At first Francine gave the credit of her vision to 
 the broken outlines produced by the moonlight falling 
 through the leaves ; but very soon a second head appeared, 
 and yet others showed themselves in the distance. The 
 low shrubs along the bank swayed violently up and down, 
 till Francine saw along the whole length of hedge a 
 gradual motion like that of a huge Indian serpent of 
 fabulous proportions. Here and there among the tufts of 
 broom and the brambles points of light gleamed and 
 danced. Redoubling her attention, Marche-a-Terre's 
 sweetheart thought that she recognised the first of the 
 black forms that moved along the quivering growth on 
 the bank. However vague the outlines of the man, the 
 beating of her heart convinced her that in him she saw 
 Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 A gesture made it clear to her. Impatient to learn 
 if some treachery or other were not lurking behind this 
 mysterious proceeding, she rushed in the direction of the 
 court. When she came into the middle of the green 
 space, she looked from the two wings of the house to the 
 banks on either side, without discerning any trace what- 
 ever of a furtive movement on the side which faced the 
 inhabited wing. A faint rustling sound reached her ; as 
 she lent an attentive ear to it, it sounded like a noise 
 made by some wild creature in the silence of the forests ; 
 she shuddered, but she did not tremble. Young and 
 innocent as she yet was, her curiosity swiftly prompted a 
 stratagem. She saw the coach, and ran to crouch within 
 
 L 
 
l62 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 it ; only raising her head, with all the caution of a hare 
 that has the sound of the far-off hunt ringing in her ears. 
 She saw Pi lie-Mi che come out of the stable. There 
 were two peasants with the Chouan, and all three 
 were carrying trusses of straw. These they spread out so 
 as to form a long sort of shake-down in front of the 
 inhabited pile of buildings that ran parallel with the 
 embankment where the stunted trees were growing. 
 The Chouans were still marching there with a noiseless- 
 ness which revealed the fact that some horrible plot was 
 being prepared. 
 
 6 You are giving them straw as if they really were to 
 sleep there. That's enough ! Pille-Miche, that's enough ! ' 
 muttered a hoarse voice which Francine recognised. 
 
 c And aren't they going to sleep there ? ' retorted Pille- 
 Miche, with a stupid horse-laugh. c But are you not afraid 
 that the Gars will be angry ? ' he went on in a voice so 
 low that Francine caught nothing of it. 
 
 c Oh, well, he will be angry,' Marche-a-Terre replied, 
 in rather louder tones ; c but all the same, we shall have 
 killed the Blues. There is a carriage here,' he went on j 
 c we must put that away.' 
 
 Pi lie-Mi che drew the coach by the pole, and Marche- 
 a-Terre gave such a vigorous push to one of the wheels, 
 that Francine found herself inside the barn, and just about 
 to be locked up in it, before she could think over her 
 situation. Pille-Miche went to help to fetch the hogs- 
 head of cider which was to be served out to the soldiers 
 of the escort by the orders of the Marquis. Marche-a- 
 Terre walked the length of the coach on his way out to 
 shut the door, when he felt a hand that stopped him by a 
 clutch at the long hair of his goatskin. He recognised 
 the eyes whose sweetness exercised a power over him like 
 magnetism, and stood still for a moment as if spellbound. 
 Francine sprang hastily out of the coach, and spoke in 
 the aggressive tone that is so wonderfully becoming to a 
 woman in vexation — 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 * Pierre, what news did you bring, as we came, to that 
 lady and her son ? What are they doing here ? Why 
 are you hiding yourself ? I want to know everything ? ' 
 
 Her words brought an expression into the Chouan's 
 face which Francine had never yet known there. The 
 Breton drew his innocent mistress to the threshold of the 
 door ; he turned her so that the white rays of the moon- 
 light fell upon her, and made his answer, gazing at her 
 the while with terrible eyes — 
 
 c Yes, by my damnation ! Francine, I will tell you, 
 but only when you have sworn to me on this rosary ! — 
 and he drew out a worn string of beads from under his 
 goatskin — 'swear upon this relic that you know,' he went 
 on, c to answer me truly one single question.' 
 
 Francine blushed as she looked at the rosary; some 
 lover's keepsake between them doubtless. 
 
 4 It was on this,' the Chouan went on, shaken with 
 ernotion, c that you swore ' 
 
 He did not finish, for the peasant-girl laid her hand 
 on the lips of her wild lover to enjoin silence upon 
 him. 
 
 c Is there any need for me to swear ? ' asked she. 
 
 He took his mistress gently by the hand, looked at her 
 for a moment, and went on, c Is the young lady whom 
 you serve really Mile, de Verneuil ? ' 
 
 Francine stood motionless with her arms at her sides, 
 with bowed head and drooping eyelids, pale and confused. 
 
 c She is a baggage ! ' Marche-a-Terre went on in a 
 terrible voice. 
 
 The pretty hand tried once more to cover his lips at 
 that word, but this time he recoiled from her in fury. 
 The little Breton maid no longer saw her lover before 
 her, but a wild beast in all his natural ferocity. His 
 brows were drawn into a heavy scowl ; his lips curled 
 back in a snarl that showed his teeth ; he looked like a 
 dog defending his master. 
 
 c 1 left you a flower, and I find you garbage ! Ah ! 
 
164 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 why did I leave you ? You are come here to betray us, 
 to deliver up the Gars ! ' 
 
 These phrases were roared rather than articulated. 
 Terrified as Francine was, she dared to look this savage 
 in the face at this last reproach, raised her eyes like an 
 angel's to his, and answered quietly — 
 
 c That is false ; I will stake my salvation on it. These 
 are some of your lady's notions.' 
 
 He lowered his head in his turn. She took his hand, 
 came close to him caressingly, and said, c Pierre, why are 
 we going on like this ? Listen, I do not know if you 
 yourself understand something of all this, for I can make 
 nothing of it. But remember that this beautiful and 
 noble young lady is my benefactress, and yours too — we 
 live together almost like sisters. No harm of any sort 
 ought to come to her so long as we are with her — not 
 while we are both alive, at any rate. So swear to me 
 that this shall be so, for you are the only person here 
 whom I can trust.' 
 
 c I am not the master here,' the Chouan replied in a 
 sullen tone. His face grew dark. She took his great 
 hanging ears and gently twisted them as if she were 
 caressing a cat. 
 
 c Well, then, promise me to use all the power you have 
 to ensure the safety of our benefactress,' she continued, 
 seeing that he relented somewhat. He shook his head as 
 if dubious of his success, a gesture that made the Breton 
 girl shudder. The escort arrived on the causeway at this 
 critical moment. The tramp of the men, and the clank- 
 ing of their weapons, woke the echoes of the courtyard, 
 and apparently put an end to Marche-a-Terre's hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 ( Perhaps I shall succeed in saving her,' said he to his 
 mistress, c if you can keep her in the house. And what- 
 ever may happen,' he added, c stay there with her and 
 keep the most absolute secrecy. Without that I will 
 engage for nothing.' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 165 
 
 c I promise,' she answered in her terror. 
 i Very well ; go in. In with you at once ! And let no 
 one see that you are frightened — not even your mistress.' 
 'Yes.' 
 
 The Chouan looked at her in a fatherly way. She 
 pressed his hand and fled with the swiftness of a bird 
 towards the flight of steps ; while he slipped into the hedge 
 he had left, like an actor who rushes to the wings as the 
 curtain rises on a tragedy. 
 
 c Do you know, Merle, this place looks to me like a 
 regular mouse- trap,' said Gerard, as they reached the 
 chateau. 
 
 ' Yes, I see that perfectly well,' the captain answered 
 thoughtfully. Both officers hastened to post sentinels so 
 as to secure the causeway and the gate ; then they cast 
 suspicious glances over the embankments and the lie of 
 the land about them. 
 
 ^ Pshaw!' said Merle; c we must either frankly trust 
 ourselves in these barracks, or keep out of them al- 
 together.' 
 
 4 Let us go in,' answered Gerard. 
 
 Released from duty by a word from their commander, 
 the soldiers quickly stacked their guns in conical piles, 
 and pitched their colours in front of the litter of straw, 
 with the cask of cider standing in the centre of it. 
 They broke up into groups, and a couple of peasants 
 began to serve out rye-bread and butter to them. The 
 Marquis came forward and took the two officers into the 
 salon. As Gerard reached the top of the flight of steps, 
 he took a look at the two wings of the house where the 
 aged larches were spreading their black branches, and 
 called Beau-Pied and Clef-des-Cceurs to him. 
 
 'Both of you go and reconnoitre the gardens and 
 search the hedges. Do you understand ? And then 
 post a sentinel in front of your line of defence.' 
 
 'May we light a fire before we set out on our prowl, 
 adjutant?' said Clef-des-Coeurs. 
 
The Chouans 
 
 Gerard nodded. 
 
 c You see it for yourself, Clef-des-Coeurs,' said Beau- 
 Pied ' y c the adjutant made a mistake in poking himself 
 into this hornet's nest. If Hulot had been commanding 
 us, he would never have run us into this corner ; it is as 
 if we were in the bottom of a pot here.' 
 
 c What an ass you are ! ' exclaimed Clef-des-Coeurs. 
 'You, the king of sharp fellows, can't guess that this 
 sentry-box of a chateau belongs to the amiable individual 
 for whom our gay Merle, the most accomplished of 
 captains, is tuning his pipe. He is going to marry her, 
 that is as easy to see as a well-polished bayonet ; and 
 such a woman as that will be a credit to the demi- 
 brigade.' 
 
 'True,' answered Beau-Pied, c and you might add that 
 there is good cider here, but I can't drink it with any 
 relish in front of those beastly hedges. I seem to see 
 Larose and Vieux-Chapeau coming to grief in the ditch 
 up yonder on La Pelerine. I shall never forget poor old 
 Larose's queue as long as I live ; it bobbed up and down, 
 like a knocker on a front door.' 
 
 ' Beau-Pied, my friend, you have too much imagina- 
 tion for a soldier. You ought to make poetry at the 
 National Institute.' 
 
 6 If I have too much imagination,' Beau-Pied answered, 
 6 you yourself have hardly any. It will be a good while 
 before you come to be consul.' 
 
 The laughter of the troop put an end to the dispute, 
 as Clef-des-Coeurs found no answering shaft for his 
 adversary in his quiver. 
 
 c Are you ready to make your round ? I myself am 
 going to take to the right,' said Beau-Pied. 
 
 c All right ; I will take the left,' his comrade answered. 
 4 But hold on a moment ! I want to drink a glass of 
 cider ; my throat is all glued together like the sticking- 
 plaster that covered Hulot's best hat.' 
 
 Unluckily, the perilous embankment, where Francine 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 i6 7 
 
 had seen the men moving, lay on the left-hand side of 
 the gardens, which Clef-des-Cceurs was neglecting to 
 beat up at once. War is altogether a game of chance. 
 
 As Gerard entered the salon and saluted the company, 
 he gave a searching look round at the men of whom it 
 was composed. His suspicions recurred to his mind 
 in greater force. He went suddenly up to Mile, de 
 Verneuil and spoke to her in a low voice, c I think you 
 ought to make a retreat at once ; we are not safe 
 here.' 
 
 c Can you fear anything in my house ? ' she asked, 
 laughing. c You are safer here than you would be in 
 Mayenne.' 
 
 A woman always answers unhesitatingly for her lover. 
 The two officers were less uneasy ; and just then, in spite 
 of some unimportant remarks about an absent guest whose 
 consequence was sufficient to keep them waiting for him, 
 the company went into the dining-room. Thanks to the 
 usual silence which prevails at the beginning of a meal, 
 Mile, de Verneuil could pay some attention to this meet- 
 ing, so strange under the present circumstances. She 
 herself had in a manner been the cause of it. It had 
 come about through the ignorance which women who 
 treat everything according to their own caprice are wont 
 to bring to the most critical actions in life. One fact 
 suddenly struck her with surprise. The two Republican 
 officers towered above the others by the impressive 
 character of their features. Their long hair was drawn 
 away from the temples and gathered at the nape of the 
 neck into a huge plaited tail, leaving the outlines of their 
 foreheads clearly defined in a way that gives an appear- 
 ance of sincerity and dignity to a young face. Their 
 threadbare blue uniforms, with the worn red facings, their 
 epaulettes flung behind their shoulders in many a march 
 (plainly showing a lack of greatcoats throughout the 
 army, even among the officers themselves) ; everything 
 about them, in fact, brought out the strong contrast 
 
1 68 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 between these two military men and the others who 
 surrounded them. 
 
 c Ah,' she said to herself, c this is the Nation ; this is 
 Liberty ! ' Then she glanced round the Royalists, — c and 
 there is the one man, a King and Privilege ! ' she said. 
 
 She could not help admiring Merle's face ; the gallant 
 soldier so completely resembled the typical French 
 trooper, who can whistle an air as the bullets fall thick 
 about him, and who cannot forego a gibe at a comrade 
 who meets with an awkward accident. Gerard was 
 impressive. In his sternness and self-possession he 
 seemed to be one of those Republicans from conviction, 
 who were to be met with in such numbers at this time 
 in the French armies — an element of noble unobtrusive 
 devotion, that lent to them an energy never known 
 before. 
 
 c There is another of these men with a large outlook,' 
 said Mile, de Verneuil to herself. c They are the masters 
 of the present on which they take their stand ; they are 
 shattering the past, but it is for the benefit of the future.' 
 
 The thought made her melancholy, because it had no 
 bearing upon her lover. She turned towards him, that a 
 different feeling of admiration might make reparation for 
 her tribute to that Republic which she already began to 
 hate. She saw the Marquis surrounded by men fanatical 
 and daring enough, and sufficiently keen speculators to 
 attack a triumphant Republic in the hope of reinstating 
 a dead monarchy, a proscribed religion, princes errant, and 
 defunct privileges. c His scope of action,' she thought, 
 c is no less than that of the other ; he is groping among 
 the ruins of a past out of which he seeks to make a 
 future.' 
 
 Her imagination, fancy-fed, hesitated between the new 
 and the old ruins. Her conscience clamoured in her, 
 that the one was fighting for a man and the other for a 
 country ; but by means of sentiment she had arrived at 
 the point which is reached by the way of reason, when 
 
A Notion of Fouches 169 
 
 it is recognised that the King is the same thing as the 
 country. 
 
 — The Marquis heard the sound of a man's footsteps in 
 the salon, and rose to go to meet him. He recognised 
 the belated guest who tried to speak to him, in surprise 
 at his company ; but the Gars hid from the Republicans 
 a sign by which he desired the stranger to take his place 
 at the banquet and to keep silence. When the two 
 Republican officers examined the features of their hosts, 
 the suspicions at first entertained by them awoke afresh. 
 Their prudence was aroused at the sight of the Abbe 
 Gudin's ecclesiastical vestments and the outlandish 
 costumes of the Chouans. Their heed redoubled ; they 
 discovered amusing contrasts between the talk and the 
 manners of the guests. If some of them showed 
 symptoms of ultra-Republicanism, the bearing of certain 
 others was just as pronouncedly aristocratic. Certain 
 glances exchanged between the Marquis and his guests, 
 which they detected, certain ambiguous words incautiously 
 dropped ; and more than either of these things, the round 
 beards which adorned the throats of several guests who 
 unsuccessfully tried to conceal them by their cravats, 
 apprised the officers of the truth, which struck them both 
 at the same moment. 
 
 They communicated the same thought to each other 
 by the same glance, for Mme. du Gua had cleverly 
 separated them, and they had to fall back upon the 
 language of the eyes. The situation required that they 
 should act adroitly. They did not know whether they 
 were the masters ot the chateau, or whether they had 
 been snared in a trap ; they had no idea whether Mile, 
 de Verneuil was a dupe or an accomplice in this inexplic- 
 able affair ; but an unforeseen occurrence hurried matters 
 to a crisis before they could fully recognise its gravity. 
 
 The newly-arrived guest was one of those men, squarely 
 built in every way, with a high-coloured complexion, 
 who fling their shoulders back as they walk, who seem to 
 
The Chouans 
 
 make a flutter in the atmosphere round about them, and 
 to be of the opinion that every one needs must take more 
 than one look at them. In spite of his noble birth, he 
 had taken life as a joke which must be made the best of ; 
 and though he had a devout veneration for himself, he was 
 good-natured, well-mannered, and witty, after the manner 
 of those gentlemen who, having finished their education 
 at court, have retired to their estates ; whereon, even 
 after the lapse of twenty years, they will never believe 
 that they have grown rusty. Men of this description 
 say and do the wrong thing with assured self-possession ; 
 they talk rubbish in a lively way, show no little skill in 
 fighting shy of good fortune, and take incredible pains to 
 run their heads into nooses. He made up for lost time 
 by plying his knife and fork in a way which showed him 
 to be a stout trencherman, and then gave a look round at 
 the company. At the sight of the two officers his sur- 
 prise was redoubled ; he directed a questioning look at 
 Mme. du Gua, who only replied by indicating Mile, de 
 Verneuil. When he set eyes on the siren whose beauty 
 was beginning to lay to rest the thoughts which Mme. 
 du Gua had at first aroused in the minds of the guests, 
 one of those insolent and derisive smiles that seem to con- 
 vey a whole scandalous chronicle broke over the counten- 
 ance of the stout stranger. He bent and whispered to his 
 neighbour two or three words that remained a mystery 
 for Marie and the officers, as they travelled from ear to 
 ear and from mouth to mouth, till they reached the heart 
 of him into whom they must strike death. 
 
 The Vendean and Chouan chiefs turned their scrutiny 
 upon the Marquis of Montauran with merciless curiosity. 
 Mme. du Gua's eyes were radiant with joy as they 
 travelled from the Marquis to the astonished Mile, de 
 Verneuil. The anxious officers seemed to consult each 
 other as they awaited the upshot of this extraordinary 
 scene. Then in a moment the knives and forks in all 
 hands ceased to move, silence prevailed in the place, and 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 171 
 
 all eyes were concentrated upon the Gars. A terrific 
 burst of fury had turned the flushed and passionate face to 
 the hue of wax. The young chief turned towards the 
 guest who had set this squib in motion, and said in a deep 
 smothered voice — 
 
 c Death of my soul! Count, is that true? ' he de- 
 manded. , 
 
 c On my honour,' the count answered, bowing gravely. 
 The Marquis lowered his eyes for one moment ; but he 
 raised them immediately to turn them once more upon 
 Marie. She was watching this struggle closely, and 
 received that deadly glance. 
 
 c I would give my life,' he muttered, c to have my 
 revenge at this moment.' 
 
 Mme. du Gua understood these words from the mere 
 movement of his lips, and smiled at the young man, as 
 one smiles at a friend who is about to be delivered from 
 his despair. The general scorn depicted upon all faces 
 for Mile, de Verneuil raised the indignation of the two 
 Republicans to the highest pitch. They rose abruptly. 
 
 4 What do you desire, citizens ? ' asked Mme. du Gua. 
 
 c Our swords, citoyenne ! ' Gerard replied, ironically. 
 
 * You do not require them at table,' said the Marquis 
 coolly. 
 
 4 No, but we are going to play at a game that you 
 understand,' said Gerard as he reappeared. c We shall 
 see each other a little closer here than we did at La 
 Pelerine.' 
 
 Tne company remained struck dumb. The court- 
 yard rang at that moment with a volley, fired all at once 
 and in a way that sounded terribly in the ears of the two 
 officers. They both rushed to the flight of steps, and 
 saw about a hundred Chouans taking aim at the few 
 soldiers who had survived the first round of firing, and 
 shooting them down like hares. These Bretons were 
 coming up from the bank where Marche-a-Tei re had 
 stationed them at the risk of their lives ; for during these 
 
172 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 manoeuvres, and after the last shots were fired, a sound 
 was heard through the cries of dying men. Several 
 Chouans had dropped like stones into the depths of the 
 water which eddied round about them. Pille-Miche 
 took aim at Gerard ; Marche-a-Terre covered Merle. 
 
 I Captain/ the Marquis said coolly, repeating to Merle 
 the words that the Republican had spoken about him, 
 1 vou see that nun are like medlars ; they ripen on straw? 
 He waved his hand to show the captain the whole escort 
 of Blues lying on the blood-drenched litter, where the 
 Chouans were despatching the living and stripping the 
 dead with incredible rapidity. 4 1 was quite right when I 
 told you that your men would never reach La Pelerine,' 
 added the Marquis, 'and I think that your skull will be 
 filled with lead before mine is. What do you say ? ' 
 
 Montauran felt a hideous craving to slake his anger. 
 His own taunts of the vanquished, the cold-blooded 
 crueltv, the verv treacherv of this military execution, 
 carried out without his orders, but to which he now gave 
 his countenance, satisfied the inmost wishes of his heart. 
 In his wrath he would fain have destroved all France. 
 The mangled Blues and their surviving officers, all of 
 them guiltless of the crime for which he demanded 
 vengeance, were in his hands like so many cards, which 
 the gambler gnaws to pieces in his despair. 
 
 I I would rather perish in the same way than gloat over 
 it as you do,' said Gerard. He looked at the naked blood- 
 stained corpses of his men. c Murdered ! ' he cried, c and 
 after this cowardly fashion ! ' 
 
 1 Like Louis xvi., sir ! 1 the Marquis retorted sharply. 
 
 c There are mysteries in the trial of a King which you, 
 sir, will never comprehend, 5 said Gerard haughtily. 
 
 1 Bring a King to trial ! 1 cried the Marquis, now beside 
 himself. 
 
 * Wage war against France ! ' said Gerard contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 4 Preposterous follv ! 1 c aid the Marquis. 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 173 
 
 c Parricide ! 9 the Republican retorted. 
 c Regicide ! 9 
 
 c What, are you going to pick a quarrel in the last 
 minute of your life ? ' cried Merle gaily. 
 
 'True,' said Gerard coldly. Then turning to the 
 marquis, c Sir,' he said, c if you mean to put us to death, at 
 least do us the favour to shoot us at once.' 
 
 'Just like you!' the captain put in ; 'always in a 
 hurry to be done with a thing. But when one sets out 
 on a long journey, my friend, and there is to be no 
 breakfast the next morning, one has supper first.' 
 
 Proudly, and without a word, Gerard sprang towards 
 the wall ; Pille-Miche levelled his musket at him, and 
 glanced at the impassive marquis. He construed the 
 silence of his chief as a command, and the adjutant-major 
 fell like a tree. Marche-a-Terre rushed up to share this 
 fresh spoil with Pille-Miche, and they wrangled and 
 croaked above the yet warm corpse like two famished 
 ravens. 
 
 * If you like to finish your supper, captain, you are at 
 liberty to come with me,' said the marquis, who wished 
 to keep Merle for an exchange of prisoners. The captain 
 went back with the Marquis mechanically, murmuring in 
 a low voice as if he were reproaching himself, c It is that 
 she-devil of a light-of-love who is at the bottom of all 
 this What will Hulot say ? ' 
 
 c Light-of-love ! ' exclaimed the Marquis in a smothered 
 voice \ c then there is no doubt about what she really is ! ' 
 
 The captain had apparently dealt a deathblow to 
 Montauran, who followed him pale, haggard, exhausted, 
 and with tottering steps. Another scene had been 
 enacted in the dining-room, which in the absence of the 
 Marquis had taken so menacing a turn, that Marie, who 
 found herself deprived of her protector, could read her 
 death-warrant written of a certainty in her rival's eyes. 
 At the sound of the volley every one except Mme. du 
 Gua had risen from the table. ' Take your seats again,' 
 
*74 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 said she; <it is nothing. Our people are killing the 
 Blues/ 
 
 When she saw that the marquis was well out of the room, 
 she rose. c Mademoiselle, here,' she said, with the calmness 
 of suppressed rage, c came to carry off the Gars from us. 
 She came here to try to give him up to the Republic' 
 
 * I could have given him up a score of times since this 
 morning,' replied Mile, de Verneuil, ( and I have saved 
 his life.' 
 
 Mme. du Gua sprang at her rival with lightning swift- 
 ness. In a transport of blind fury, she rent the feeble 
 loops of twisted braid that fastened the spencer of the girl 
 (who stood aghast at this unlooked-for assault), and with 
 violent hands broke into the sanctuary where the letter 
 lay concealed, tearing her way through the material, the 
 embroideries, corset, and shift. Then she took advantage 
 of this search to assuage her personal jealousy, and 
 managed to lacerate her rival's throbbing breast with such 
 dexterity and fury, that her nails left their traces in the 
 blood that they had drawn, feeling the while a horrid 
 pleasure in subjecting her victim to this detestable out- 
 rage. In the faint resistance which Marie offered to this 
 furious woman, her unfastened hood fell back ; her hair, 
 released from restraint, shook itself free in waving curls ; 
 modesty had set her whole face aflame ; two burning tears 
 fell, that left their gleaming traces on her cheeks and 
 made the fire in her eyes glow brighter ; she stood 
 quivering at the indignity, shuddering under the eyes of 
 those assembled. Even harsh judges would have believed 
 in her innocence when they saw what she suffered. 
 ^ Hatred is so clumsy a calculator that Mme. du Gua 
 did not perceive that no one gave any heed whatever to her 
 when she cried triumphantly, 'Look here, gentlemen; 
 have I traduced this frightful creature now ? ' 
 
 c Not so very frightful,' said the stout guest, who had 
 brought about this disaster. c I have a prodigious liking 
 for frights of this description.' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 175 
 
 c Here is an order,' said the merciless Vendean lady, 
 4 signed by Laplace, and counter-signed by Dubois.' 
 Several raised their heads at the two names. 4 And this is 
 the gist of it,' Mme. du Gua continued — 
 
 4 Military citizen-commandants of every rank, local 
 administrators , procureur-syndics, and so forth, in the 
 revolted departments, and especially those situated in the 
 localities frequented hy the ci-devant Marquis de Montauran, 
 chief of the bandits, and nicknamed the Gars, are to give 
 every help and assistance to the citoyenne Marie Verneuil, 
 and to act in accordance with the orders which she may give 
 them, each one, in everything that concerns him, and so on, 
 and so on.' 
 
 » 4 Here is an Opera girl taking an illustrious name to 
 soil it with this infamy,' she added. 
 
 There was an evident stir of surprise among those 
 assembled. 
 
 4 The contest is not on equal terms if the Republic is 
 going to employ such pretty women against us ! ' said the 
 Baron du Guenic gaily. 
 
 4 And women, moreover, who have nothing to lose,' 
 returned Mme. du Gua. 
 
 4 Nothing ? ' said the Chevalier du Vissard ; 4 Made- 
 moiselle has endowments which must bring her in a pretty 
 large income ! ' 
 
 4 The Republic must be of a very frivolous turn to send 
 us women of pleasure as envoys,' cried the Abbe Gudin. 
 
 4 But, unfortunately, Mademoiselle seeks those pleasures 
 which kill,' said Mme. du Gua, with a hideous glee in 
 her expression, which meant that the end to this jesting 
 was approaching. 
 
 4 How is it then that you are living still, madame ? ' said 
 Marie, rising to her feet after repairing the disorder in 
 her dress. The cutting epigram silenced the company, 
 and compelled their respect for so proud a victim. Mme. 
 du Gua noticed a smile stealing over the lips of the 
 chiefs; the irony in it infuriated her; she neither saw the 
 
176 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 entrance of the Marquis nor of the captain, who followed 
 him. 
 
 'Pille-Miche,' she called to the Chouan, as she pointed 
 out Mile, de Verneuil, c here is my share of the spoil -> I 
 make her over to you; do whatever you will with her.' 
 
 A shudder ran through the whole roomful at the 
 words 'whatever you will/ in that woman's mouth ; for 
 behind the Marquis there appeared the hideous heads of 
 Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche, and her fate was evident 
 in all its horror. 
 
 Francine stood as if thunderstruck, with clasped hands 
 and eyes brimming with tears. Mile, de Verneuil, who 
 recovered all her self-possession in the face of danger, cast 
 a look of scorn round the assembly, snatched her letter 
 back from Mme. du Gua, and held up her head ; her eyes 
 were dry, but there was lightning in them as she hastened 
 towards the door, where Merle's sword was standing. 
 There she came upon the Marquis, who stood apathetic and 
 motionless as a statue. There was no trace of pity for 
 her in his face ; every feature was rigid and immovable. 
 Cut to the heart, her life grew hateful to her. This man 
 then, who had professed so much love for her, had listened 
 to the taunts that had been heaped upon her ; had stood 
 there, a frozen-hearted spectator of the outrage she had 
 just suffered when the beauties that a woman reserves for 
 love had been subjected to the general gaze. Perhaps 
 she might have forgiven Montauran for the scorn with 
 which he regarded her, but it made her indignant that he 
 should have seen her in an ignominious position. The 
 dazed look she turned upon him was full of hate, for she 
 felt a dreadful craving for revenge awaking within her. 
 She saw death now close upon her, and felt oppressed by 
 her own powerlessness. 
 
 Something surged up in her head like an eddying tide 
 of madness. For her, with the boiling blood in her 
 veins, the whole world seemed wrapped in flames. In- 
 stead of killing herself therefore, she snatched up the 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 177 
 
 sword, brandished it above the Marquis, and drove it at 
 him up to the hilt ; but as the blade had slipped between 
 his side and his arm, the Gars caught Marie by the wrist 
 and dragged her from the room, aided by Pille-Miche, 
 who had flung himself upon the frenzied girl just as she 
 tried to kill the Marquis. At the sight of all this, 
 Francine shrieked. » 
 
 * Pierre ! Pierre ! Pierre ! ' she cried in piteous tones, 
 following her mistress as she wailed. 
 
 The Marquis left the stupefied assembly and went out, 
 shuttirig the door of the room behind him. He was still 
 holding the girl's wrist tightly in a convulsive clutch 
 when he reached the flight of steps ; and though Pille- 
 Miche's nervous hands were almost crushing the bone of 
 her arm, she was conscious of nothing but the burning 
 fingers of the young chief, at whom she gazed with her 
 cold eyes. 
 
 c You are hurting me, sir ! ' The Marquis looked at 
 his mistress for an instant, and this was all the answer 
 that he made. 
 
 c Have you something to avenge as foully as thaj 
 woman has done ? ' said she. Then she shivered as she 
 saw the corpses stretched out upon the litter, and she 
 cried, c The faith of a gentleman. ... Ha ! ha ! ha ! ' 
 Her laughter was fearful to hear. c A glorious day ! ' she 
 added. 
 
 4 Yes,' he echoed, 'a glorious day, and without a 
 morrow.' 
 
 He dropped Mile, de Verneuil's hand when he had 
 given one long, last look at the magnificent creature 
 whom he found it all but impossible to renounce. Neither 
 of these two highly wrought spirits would give way. 
 Perhaps the Marquis was waiting for a tear, but the girl's 
 eyes were dry and proud. He turned away abruptly, 
 and left Pille-Miche his victim. 
 
 c God will hear me, Marquis ; I shall pray to Him to 
 give you a glorious day without a morrow ! ' 
 
 M 
 
i 7 ? 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Pille-Miche, rather at a loss with so splendid a prey, 
 drew her along with a mixture of respect and mockery in 
 his gentleness. The Marquis heaved a sigh, and returned 
 to the dining-room, turning upon his guests a face like 
 that of a corpse with the eyes as yet unclosed. 
 
 Captain Merle's presence was inexplicable for every 
 actor in this tragedy ; every one looked at him question- 
 ingly and in surprise. Merle perceived their astonishment, 
 and, smiling sadly, he spoke, still in character, to the 
 Chouans. 
 
 ' I do not believe, gentlemen, that you can refuse a 
 glass of wine to a man who is about to go the last stage 
 of his journey.' 
 
 It was just as the assemblage had been restored to 
 equanimity by these words, uttered with a Gallic light- 
 heartedness which was bound to find favour with 
 Vendeans, that Montauran reappeared ; his white face and 
 the fixed look in his eyes struck a chill through every guest. 
 
 ' You shall see,' said the captain, c that dead men will 
 set the living going ! ' 
 
 c Ahi ' said the Marquis, with the involuntary start of 
 a man who wakes from sleep ; c there you are, my dear 
 Council-of-War ! ' He reached for a bottle of vin de 
 Grave as if to fill the other's glass. 
 
 'Thanks, citizen-marquis; but, you see, it might goto 
 my head.' 
 
 At this witticism, Mme. du Gua spoke smilingly to the 
 guests. 
 
 'Come,' she said ; c let us spare him the dessert.' 
 
 c You are very cruel, madame, in your vengeance,' the 
 captain answered. 4 You forget that murdered friend of 
 mine, who is waiting for me ; and I always keep my 
 appointments.' 
 
 * Captain,' said the Marquis, 'you are at liberty! 
 Stay,' and he threw his glove towards him ; c here is your 
 passport. The Chasseurs du Rot know that they must 
 not kill all the game at once/ 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 179 
 
 ' Life ! ' said Merle, c very well, so be it then ; but you 
 are making a blunder. You shall be closely pressed, I 
 will engage for it, and I shall give you no quarter. You 
 may be very clever, but you are not worth as much as 
 Gerard. Still, although your head will never make up to 
 me for his, have it I must and will/ 
 
 c He was in such a great hurry ! ' retorted the Marquis. 
 
 1 Good-bye. Perhaps I could drink with my own 
 executioners, but I cannot stay here with my friend's 
 murderers,' said the captain, and he vanished, leaving the 
 guests to their amazement. 
 
 6 Now, then, gentlemen, what have you to say about 
 'the sheriffs, apothecaries, and attorneys who rule the 
 Republic ? ' asked the Marquis coolly. 
 
 4 God's death, Marquis ! ' replied the Comte de Bauvan; 
 6 they are very ill-bred, at all events. That fellow has 
 affronted us, it seems to me.' 
 
 There had been a secret motive for the captain's prompt 
 retreat. This girl, who had met with such scorn and 
 humiliation, and who perhaps succumbed at that very 
 moment, had, during the past scene, shown him beauties 
 so difficult to forget that as he went out he said to 
 himself, 6 If she does belong to that class, she is no ordinary 
 girl at any rate, and she shall assuredly be my wife ' 
 
 He despaired so little of rescuing her from the clutches 
 of these savages, that his first thought had been how he 
 would take her under his protection in the future, having 
 saved her life. Unfortunately, when the captain reached 
 the flight of steps, he found the courtyard deserted. He 
 looked about him and gave ear to the silence, but heard 
 nothing except the noisy far-off laughter of the Chouans 
 as they drank and divided the booty in the gardens. He 
 ventured to turn the corner of the fatal wing of the 
 building, where his men had been shot down ; and by 
 the feeble light of one or two candles, he distinguished, 
 from his angle, the Chasseurs du Roi broken up into 
 different groups. Neither Pille-Miche, nor Marche-a- 
 
1 8a 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Terre, nor the girl herself was there; but he suddenly 
 felt a pull at the skirt of his uniform, and turning round, 
 he saw Francine on her knees. 
 ' Where is she ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' I do not know. . . . Pierre drove me away, and 
 ordered me not to stir.' 
 
 ' Which way did they go ? ' 
 
 'That way,' she answered, pointing to the causeway. 
 Then, in the moonlight, the captain and Francine dis- 
 cerned certain shadows falling on the waters of the lake ; 
 the slender feminine form that they both recognised, 
 indistinct as it was, made their hearts beat. 
 
 ' Oh, it is she ! ' said the Breton maid. Mile, de 
 Verneuil was apparently standing there resignedly, with 
 several figures about her whose actions indicated a discus- 
 sion. 
 
 ' There are several of them ! ' the captain exclaimed. 
 ' It is all one ; come along.' 
 
 'You will lose your life to no purpose,' said Francine. 
 
 ' 1 have lost it once already to-day,' he answered gaily. 
 Both of them made their way towards the gloomy gate- 
 way, on the other side of which this scene was taking 
 place. But Francine stopped half-way. 
 
 'No,' she called softly; 'I will go no further ! Pierre 
 told me not to meddle. I know him. We shall spoil 
 everything. Do anything you please, onsieur POfficier, 
 but keep away. If Pierre were to see you with me, he 
 would kill you.' 
 
 Pille-Miche appeared without the gate ; he called to the 
 postilion who had kept in the stable, saw the captain, and 
 shouted as he levelled his musket at him, 'Saint Anne of 
 Auray ! The recteur at Antrain was quite right when 
 he told us that the Blues had signed a contract with the 
 devil. Stop a bit ; I will show you how to come to life 
 again ! ' 
 
 ' Hollo, there ! My life has been granted to me, 
 shouted Merle, seeing himself threatened. 
 
A Notion of Fouches 
 
 4 Here is your chiefs glove ! 1 
 
 c Yes,' answered the Chouan, c just like a ghost, that ! 
 I, on the other hand, do not grant you your life. . . . 
 Ave Maria!'* and he fired. The shot penetrated the 
 captain's head, he dropped ; and as Francine came up 
 to him she distinctly heard Merle uttering these words, 
 c I would rather stop here with them than go back with- 
 out them.' 
 
 The Chouan rushed upon the Blue to strip the body 
 with trie remark, c There is one good thing about these 
 men who come back, their clothes come to life again 
 along with them ; ' but when he saw in the captain's 
 \hand the glove of the Gars that had been held up for 
 him, he stood in dismay at sight of that sacred token. 
 1 1 would not be in the skin of my mother's son ! ' he 
 exclaimed, and he vanished with the swiftness of a 
 bird. 
 
 In order to understand this unexpected meeting, so 
 fatal for the captain, it is necessary to follow the fortunes 
 of Mile, de Verneuil after the Marquis, overcome with his 
 rage and despair, had gone away and abandoned her to 
 Pille-Miche. Then Francine had seized Marche-a- 
 Terre's arm in a spasm of fear, and with her eyes full of 
 tears had reminded him of the promise he had made to 
 her. At the distance of a few paces Pille-Miche was 
 dragging off his victim, much as he might have trailed 
 some awkward burden after him. Marie, with loosened 
 hair and bowed head, turned her eyes upon the lake, but 
 she was held back by an iron grip, and compelled to 
 follow the Chouan with lagging steps ; now and again he 
 turned to give her a look or to hasten her progress, and 
 each time he did so a jovial thought was expressed on his 
 face by a frightful smile. 
 
 " c Isn't she grand ! . . he cried with uncouth emphasis. 
 Francine, hearing these words, recovered her power of 
 speech. 
 c Pierre!' 
 
i8S 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 < Well?' 
 
 c Is he going to kill mademoiselle ? ' 
 
 4 Not just at once,' answered Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 c But she will resist ; and if she dies, I shall die too ! ' 
 
 c Ah, well; you are too fond of her; ... so let her 
 die ! ' said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 c If we two are rich and happy, we owe our good 
 fortune to her; but, anyhow, have you not promised 
 me to save her from all misfortune ? ' 
 
 6 1 will try ; but stop there, and don't stir away.' 
 
 Marche-a-Terre's arm was instantly released, and 
 Francine, consumed by the most terrible anxiety, waited 
 in the courtyard. Marche-a-Terre came up with his 
 companion just as the latter had entered the barn and 
 forced his victim to get into the coach. Pille-Miche 
 demanded his fellow's aid to pull the coach out. 
 
 c What do you want with all this ? ' inquired Marche- 
 a-Terre. 
 
 c Well, the Grande-Garce has given me the woman, so 
 all she has belongs to me.' 
 
 c As for the coach, well and good, you will make some 
 money out of it; but how about the woman ? She will 
 fly at your face like a cat ! ' 
 
 Pille-Miche burst into a noisy laugh, and replied, 
 i ^uien y I shall take her home along with me, and I shall 
 tie her up.' 
 
 4 All right ; let us put the horses in,' said Marche-a- 
 Terre. 
 
 A moment later Marche-a-Terre, who had left his 
 companion to keep watch over his victim, brought the 
 carriage out upon the causeway outside the gate. Pille- 
 Miche got in beside Mile, de Verneuil, without noticing 
 the start she made to fling herself into the water. 
 - c Hollo ! Pille-Miche ! ' shouted Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 4 What is it?' 
 
 c I will buy your share of the plunder of you.' 
 
 'Are you joking?' asked the Chouan, pulling his 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 prisoner by the skirt as a butcher might seize a calf that 
 was escaping him. 
 
 ' Let me have a look at her, and I'll make you an offer.' 
 
 The unhappy girl was obliged to descend, and to stand 
 there between the two Chouans, who each held one of 
 her hands in his grasp, and gazed at her as the two elders 
 must have stared at the bathing Susannah. Marche-a- 
 Terre heaved a sigh. 
 
 ' Will you take thirty good livres a year ? 9 
 
 ' Do you really mean it ? ' 
 
 ' Do you take it ? ' asked Marche-a-Terre, stretching 
 ^out his hand. 
 
 'Oh, it is a bargain, for I can have Breton girls with 
 that, and grand ones too ! But how about the carriage; 
 who is to have that ? ' said Pille-Miche, bethinking him- 
 self. 
 
 'That is mine !' cried Marche-a-Terre, with a ring in 
 his terrible voice which indicated a kind of ascendancy 
 over all his companions due to the savagery of his nature. 
 
 ' But suppose there should be money in the carriage ? 9 
 
 ' Haven't you struck a bargain ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I closed with you.' 
 
 ' All right ; go and look up the postilion, who is fixed up 
 in the stable.' 
 
 'But if there was any gold in it ' 
 
 ' Is there any in there ? ' Marche-a-Terre asked 
 sharply of Marie, while he shook her by the arm. 
 
 c I have a hundred crowns,' replied Mile, de Verneuil. 
 At these words the two Chouans looked at each other. 
 
 'Well, my good friend, do not let us fall out about a 
 Republican girl,' said Pille-Miche in Marche-a-Terre's 
 ear; 'shall we chuck her into the pond with a stone 
 round her neck, and divide the hundred crowns between 
 us ? ' 
 
 ' I will give you the hundred crowns out of my share 
 of d'Orgemont's ransom ! ' cried Marche-a-Terre, suppres- 
 sing the groan occasioned by this sacrifice. 
 
184 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Pille-Miche gave a hoarse kind of cry, and went to 
 find the postilion. His glee brought bad luck to the 
 captain whom he met. When he heard the report of 
 the gun, Marche-a-Terre hurried to the spot, where 
 Francine, still in terror, was praying with clasped hands 
 upon her knees beside the poor captain, so vivid had 
 been the effect upon her of the spectacle of the murder. 
 
 c Run to your mistress,' said the Chouan shortly ; c she 
 is safe.' He himself ran in search of the postilion, and 
 returned with the speed of lightning. As he passed by 
 Merle's body for the second time, he saw the glove of the 
 Gars, which the dead hand was still clutching convulsively. 
 
 c Oh, ho!' cried he; c Pille-Miche has tried foul play 
 here ! It is not so sure that he will live to draw that 
 income of his ' 
 
 He tore away the glove, and said to Mile, de Verneuil, 
 who was already in her place in the coach with Francine 
 beside her, c Here; take this glove. If you are attacked 
 on the road say, " Oh ! the Gars ! " and show this pass- 
 port here, and no harm can come to you. Francine,' he 
 said, turning towards her and seizing her hand, c we are 
 quits now with the woman there ; the devil take her ; 
 come with me.' 
 
 c Would you have me leave her just now, at this 
 moment !' Francine answered in a melancholy voice. 
 Marche-a-Terre first scratched his ear and then his fore- 
 head. Then he raised his head and showed his eyes, 
 with the fierce expression that made them formidable. 
 
 c You are right,' said he. c For a week I will leave 
 you with her; but when once it is over, if you do not 
 come to me ' He did not finish the sentence, 
 
 but he struck the muzzle of his rifle a heavv blow 
 
 j 
 
 with the flat of his hand, made a feint of levelling it at 
 his mistress, and went without waiting for a response. 
 
 As soon as the Chouan had gone, a stifled voice that 
 seemed to rise from the surface of the pond cried. 
 1 Madame 1 . . . Madame ! . . . ' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 185 
 
 The postilion and the two women shuddered with 
 horror, for several dead bodies had drifted thither. A 
 Blue hiding behind a tree showed himself. 'Let me 
 get up on your box, or I am a dead man ! That damned 
 glass of cider that Clef-des-Coeurs would drink has cost 
 more than a pint of blood ! If he had followed my 
 example, and made his rounds, our poor comrades would 
 not be floating about there, like a fleet.' 
 
 While these events were taking place without the 
 house, the chiefs sent by the Vendeans were conferring 
 with the Chouans, glass in hand, while the Marquis of 
 Montauran presided. Ample potations of Bordeaux wine 
 gave warmth to the debate, which grew momentous and 
 serious as the banquet drew to a close. During the 
 dessert, when the lines of concerted military action had 
 been laid down, and the Royalists drank to the health of 
 the Bourbons, the report of Pi lie-Mi che's gun sounded 
 like an echo of the ill-omened war which these gay and 
 noble conspirators were fain to wage against the Republic. 
 Mme. du Gua shook with the pleasurable agitation which 
 she felt at being rid of her rival, and at this the guests all 
 looked at one another, and the Marquis rose from the 
 table and went out. 
 
 c After all, he was in love with her,' said Mme du Gua 
 satirically ; ( go and keep him company, M. de Fontaine ; 
 he will grow as tiresome as the flies if he gets into the blues.' 
 
 She went to the window which looked out upon the 
 courtyard, to try to see Marie's dead body. Thence, by 
 the last light of the setting moon, she could make out 
 the coach which was ascending the avenue between the 
 apple trees with incredible speed. Mile, de Verneuil's 
 veil was fluttering in the breeze out of the coach-window. 
 Mme. du Gua left the company, enraged at what she saw. 
 
 The Marquis was lounging on the flight of steps, deep 
 in gloomy thoughts, as he watched about a hundred and 
 fifty Chouans who had returned from the gardens, whither 
 they had gone to divide their booty, and who were now 
 
i86 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 about to finish the cider and the bread which had been 
 promised to the Blues. These soldiers (new pattern) 
 upon whom the hopes of the Monarchy were founded 
 were drinking together in little knots ; while seven or 
 eight of their number were amusing themselves on the 
 embankment opposite to the flight of steps, by tying 
 stones to the bodies of the Blues and flinging them into 
 the water. This spectacle, taken in connection with the 
 various pictures presented by the eccentric costumes and 
 the wild faces of the callous and uncivilised gars, was so 
 extraordinary and so novel to M. de Fontaine (who had 
 observed a certain appearance of seemliness and discipline 
 among the Vendean troops), that he seized this oppor- 
 tunity to say to the Marquis of Montauran, c What can 
 you hope to do with such brutes as that ? ' 
 
 c No great things, you mean, my dear Count ! ' replied 
 the Gars. 
 
 c Will they ever be able to execute manoeuvres when 
 they are confronted with the Republicans ? ' 
 c Never.' 
 
 * Will they ever be able to do so much as to understand 
 your orders and carry them out ? ' 
 
 * Never.' 
 
 c Then what use will they be to you ? ' 
 
 c They will enable me to plunge my sword into the 
 heart of the Republic,' thundered the Marquis ; c to make 
 Fougeres mine in three days, and the length and breadth 
 of Brittany in ten ! . . . Come, sir,' he continued in a 
 milder voice, c set out for la Vendee; let Autichamp, 
 Suzannet, and the Abbe Bernier only go ahead as quickly 
 as I shall ; let them not open negotiations with the First 
 Consul (as they once led me to fear)' — here he gave the 
 Vendean's hand a mighty grasp — 'and we shall be within 
 thirty leagues of Paris in three weeks.' 
 
 'But the Republic is sending sixty thousand men and 
 General Brune against us ! ' 
 
 4 Sixty thousand men ! Really ? ' cried the Marquis, 
 
A Notion of Fouches 
 
 i8 7 
 
 with a satirical smile. c And with what men will 
 Bonaparte carry on his Italian campaign ? And as for 
 General Brune, he will not come either. Bonaparte has 
 dispatched him against the English in Holland, and 
 General Hedouville, the friend of our friend Barras, will 
 take his place out here. Now do you understand me ? ' 
 
 When he heard him talk in this way, M. de Fontaine 
 looked at the Marquis with an astute and arch expression 
 which seemed to convey a reproach to the speaker for not 
 fully understanding the drift of the mysterious words 
 which he had just uttered. Both gentlemen understood 
 each other perfectly well from that moment, yet the 
 young chief replied with an indefinable smile to the 
 unspoken thought in the eyes of both. 
 
 C M. de Fontaine, do you know my arms ? My device 
 is — " Per severer jusqifa la mort." 9 
 
 The Comte de Fontaine grasped Montauran's hand and 
 pressed it as he said, c I was left for dead on the field at 
 Quatre-Chemins, so you will have no misgivings about 
 me ; but believe my experience — times are changed.' 
 
 c Oh ! yes,' said La Billardiere, who joined them. 
 'You are young, Marquis. Just listen to me. Your 
 estates have not all been sold ' 
 
 c Ah ! can you imagine devotion without a sacrifice ! ' 
 said Montauran. 
 
 Do you really know the King ? ' said La Billardiere. 
 
 < Yes.' 
 1 4 Then I admire you.' 
 
 4 The King,' said the young chief, 4 is the Priest, and I 
 am fighting for the faith.' 
 
 And so they separated. The Vendean, convinced of 
 the necessity of a resignation to the course of events, and 
 of keeping his faith in his own heart ; La Billardiere to 
 go back to England again ; and Montauran to fight 
 desperately, and to force the Vendeans to co-operate with 
 him by means of the victories of which he dreamed. 
 
 These events had stirred up so many emotions in the 
 
i88 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 soul of Mile, de Verneuil, that she lay back in the carriage 
 utterly prostrated and as if dead, when she had given the 
 order to proceed to Fougeres. Francine was silent, follow- 
 ing the example of her mistress. The postilion, who was 
 in terror of some fresh misadventure, made haste to reach 
 the high road, and very soon reached the top of La Pelerine. 
 
 In the dense, white morning mists, Marie de Verneuil 
 made her way across the wide and beautiful valley of the 
 Couesnon, where this story began. From the summit 
 of La Pelerine she could hardly see the schistous rock 
 upon which the town of Fougeres is built, and from 
 which the three travellers were still some two leagues 
 distant. Mile, de Verneuil felt chilled through with the 
 cold, and thought of the poor infantryman perched up 
 behind the carriage, insisting in spite of his refusals that 
 he should come in and sit beside Francine. The sight 
 of Fougeres drew her for a moment from her reverie. 
 Moreover, as the guard stationed at the St. Leonard gate 
 refused admittance into the town to strangers, she was 
 compelled to produce her credentials. Then she found 
 herself protected at last from all hostile attempts as she 
 came into this place, with its own townspeople for its 
 sole defenders at the moment. The postilion could find 
 no better sheltering roof for her than at the Post inn. 
 
 ' Madame,' said the Blue, whom she had rescued, c if 
 you should ever require to administer a sabre cut to any 
 individual, my life is at your service. I am good at that. 
 My name is Jean Falcon ; I am called Beau-Pied ; and I 
 am a sergeant in the first company of Hulot's lads in the 
 seventy-second demi-brigade, which they call the Mayen- 
 £aise. Excuse my vanity and presumption ; but I can do 
 no more than offer you the life of a sergeant, because for 
 the time being I have nothing else to put at your disposal.' 
 He turned on his heel and went away whistling. 
 — * The lower one looks in the ranks of society,' said 
 Marie with bitterness, 4 the more one finds generosity of 
 feeling without any parade of it. A marquis gives me 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 up to death in return for life, while a sergeant • . . But 
 there, let that be ! ' 
 
 When the beautiful Parisian lay in a well-warmed bed, 
 her faithful Francine hung about, waiting in vain for the 
 affectionate word that she was accustomed to hear ; but 
 her mistress saw her still standing there uneasily, and said 
 with every mark of sadness — 
 
 4 They call this a day, Francine, but I am ten years 
 older for it.' 
 
 The next morning, as she was getting up, Corentin 
 presented himself to call upon Marie, who gave him 
 admittance. 
 
 4 Francine,' she remarked, c my misfortune must be great 
 indeed when I can tolerate the sight of Corentin.' 
 
 But for all that, when she saw him again, she in- 
 stinctively felt for the thousandth time towards the man 
 a repugnance that an acquaintance of two years' standing 
 had mitigated no whit. 
 
 c Well,' said he, smiling ; c I thought you were going to 
 succeed. Was it not he then whom you got hold of ? ' 
 
 4 Corentin,' she answered slowly, with a sorrowful 
 expression, 4 do not mention that affair to me unless I 
 myself speak to you of it.' 
 
 He walked to and fro in the room, attempting to divine 
 *~the secret thoughts of this strange girl, in whose glance 
 there was a something which at times had power enough 
 to disconcert the cleverest men. 
 , 4 1 foresaw this check,' he began, after a moment's 
 pause. 4 I have been making inquiries, in case you might 
 care to make this town your headquarters. We are in 
 the very heart and centre of Chouannerie. Will you 
 stay here ? ' The nod vouchsafed to him by way of a reply 
 gave rise to conjectures as to yesterday's events on 
 Corentin's part, which were partially correct. 4 1 have 
 taken a house for you,' he went on ; c one confiscated by 
 the Nation, and as yet unsold. They are not very 
 advanced in their notions hereabouts. Nobody has dared 
 
190 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 to buy the place, because the emigrant to whom it belonged 
 is thought to be an awkward customer. It is close to 
 St. Leonard's church, and, upon my honour, one enjoys 
 a charming view from the windows. Something can 
 be made of the hole ; it is habitable ; will you go 
 into it ? ' 
 
 4 Yes, at once,' she exclaimed. 
 
 c But you must let me have a few hours in which to 
 get it cleaned and set to rights, so that you may find 
 everything to your mind.' 
 
 c What does it matter ? ' she said. c I should make no 
 difficulty about living in a convent or in a jail. How- 
 ever, you can arrange things so that I can be left to rest 
 in absolute solitude this evening. There, you can leave 
 me ! Your presence is intolerable. I wish to be 
 left alone with Francine. I am on better terms with her 
 perhaps than with myself. . . . There, good-bye ; go 
 away ! ' 
 
 It was evident from the words thus volubly uttered, 
 and imbued by turns with coquetry, wilfulness, and passion, 
 that her serenity was completely restored. Slumber no 
 doubt had gradually dispelled the impressions of the 
 previous day, and reflection had brought her counsels of 
 revenge. If dark thoughts at times were depicted upon her 
 face, they seemed to bear witness to the power possessed 
 by some women of burying their most enthusiastic feel- 
 ings in the depths of their souls, and of that capacity for 
 dissimulation which enables them to smile graciously 
 while they scheme out the ruin of their victim. 
 
 She sat alone, absorbed in plans for getting the Marquis 
 into her hands alive. For the first time she had known 
 a life in accordance with her inmost wishes ; but of that 
 life nothing remained to her now but the longing for 
 revenge — a revenge that should be absolute and unending. 
 This was her sole thought, her one passionate desire. 
 Francine's words and little services drew no response from 
 Marie, who seemed to be sleeping with her eyes open ; 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 the live-long day went by, and there was no outward 
 sign or movement of the life which is the expression of 
 our thoughts. She lay reclined on a kind of ottoman 
 which she had made with chairs and pillows, and not till 
 evening came did she languidly let fall these words and 
 no more, with her eyes upon Francine — 4 Yesterday, my 
 child, I saw clearly how one can live for love's sole sake ; 
 to-day I have come to understand how one can die to 
 have revenge. Yes ! I would give my life to find him 
 out, wherever he may be, to come across him once more, 
 to entangle him, and to have him in my power. . . . 
 But if, after a few days, I do not find this man who has 
 slighted me lying humble and submissive at my feet ; if I 
 do not reduce him to an abject servitude, why, then, I 
 shall be beneath contempt, and I shall be no more a 
 woman — I shall be no longer myself!' 
 
 The house which Corentin had proposed to Mile, de 
 Verneuil was well adapted to gratify her innate love of 
 refinement and luxury in her surroundings. He himself 
 appeared to have accumulated there everything which in 
 his opinion ought to please her, with a lover's eagerness, or 
 more properly speaking, with the anxious servility of a man 
 in power seeking to attach to his own interest some 
 inferior who is necessary to him. He came to Mile, de 
 Verneuil the next day to suggest a removal to this im- 
 provised dwelling-place. She scarcely did more than 
 transfer herself from her rickety ottoman to a venerable 
 sofa which Corentin had managed to find for her ; but 
 ] the fanciful Parisian entered into residence as if the house 
 had belonged to her. She treated everything she saw 
 with supreme indifference, and developed a sudden affinity 
 with the oddments, which by degrees she appropriated to 
 her own use, as if they had long been familiar to her. 
 These are trifling details, but not without significance in 
 the portraiture of an unusual character. She might have 
 become well acquainted with this dwelling in her dreams 
 or ever she saw the place ; and here she lived upon the 
 
192 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 hatred within her, just as she would have existed upon 
 love. 
 
 4 At any rate/ she said to herself, 4 1 have not inspired 
 in him that insulting kind of pity which is death ; I do 
 not owe my life to him. Oh, my first and last and only 
 love ! What an outcome of it all ! ' 
 
 She made a spring at the startled Francine. 4 Do 
 you love too ? Oh, yes ! I remember, you are in love ! 
 How very fortunate I am to have a woman beside me 
 who can understand ! Well, my poor Francine, do not 
 men seem to you to be horrible creatures ? Why, he told 
 me that he loved me ! And he could not stand the 
 slightest test , . . Yet if the whole world had spurned 
 him, he should have found a refuge in my heart ; if the 
 whole universe had been against him, I would have stood 
 by him. Once, I used to watch a world filled with 
 beings who came and went ; they were only indifferent 
 things for me, but that world of mine was only melan- 
 choly, not dreadful ; and now, what is it all without him ? 
 He will go on living though I am not there at his side, 
 though I do not speak to him, nor touch him, nor hold 
 him and clasp him close. . . . Oh, rather than that, I 
 will murder him myself as he sleeps ! 9 
 
 Francine looked at her in alarm for a moment without 
 speaking ; then she said in a gentle voice, 4 Murder the 
 man that you love ? ' 
 
 4 Ah ! surely, when he loves you no longer.' But 
 after these fearful words, she hid her face in her hands, 
 sank into her chair, and was mute. 
 
 The next day some one broke suddenly into her room 
 without being announced. It was Hulot ; his face was 
 hard and stern, and Corentin came with him. She raised 
 her eyes and trembled. 
 
 4 You are come to require an account of your friends 
 from me ? ' she said. 4 They are dead.' 
 
 4 1 know it,' answered Hulot. 4 They did not die in 
 the service of the Republic' 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 193 
 
 * For me, and it was my doing. • . . You are about to 
 speak to me of our country ! Will our country give 
 back life to those who die for her ? Will she so much as 
 avenge them ? Now, If she cried, i will avenge them ! ' 
 
 Baleful visions of the tragedy in which she had nearly 
 fallen a victim rose up and formed themselves before her 
 eyes ; a mad impulse seized this gracious being, who held 
 modesty to be a woman's first artifice, and she marched 
 ^abruptly over to the amazed commandant. 
 
 c For a few murdered soldiers,' she said, c I will bring a 
 head worth thousands of others beneath the axe upon your 
 scaffold. Women carry on war but seldom, yet you, 
 however old you may be, may pick up excellent strata- 
 gems in my school. I will give over to your bayonets in 
 him a whole family, his ancestors, his present, past, and 
 future. Insomuch as I have been kind and true to him, 
 so I will be crafty and false ! Yes, commandant ! I 
 mean to bring this gallant gentleman home to me ; he 
 shall only leave my arms to go to his death ! Yes ! I 
 shall never know a rival. The wretch pronounced his 
 own death sentence : a A day without a morrow ! " . . . 
 We shall both of us be avenged, your Republic and I 
 . . . The Republic ! ' she went on, with a strange in- 
 flection in her voice that startled Hulot ; c so the rebel 
 will die, after- all, for bearing arms against his country ? 
 France herself will cheat me of my revenge ? . . . Ah ! 
 one life is such a little thing — one death can only atone for 
 a single crime ! But since this gentleman has but one 
 head to lose, in the night before he dies I will make him 
 ' feel that he is losing more than a life. But before all 
 things, commandant, for it will be you who will put him 
 to death,' and a sigh broke from her, c act in such a sort 
 that nothing shall betray my treason ; let him die with a 
 full belief in my faith. That is all that I ask of you. 
 Let him see nothing but me— me and my endearments ! ' 
 
 With that she stopped ; but in the dark flush on her 
 face Hulot and Corentin saw that anger and rage had 
 
 N 
 
194 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 not extinguished modesty. Marie shuddered violently as 
 she uttered these last words ; she seemed to listen for 
 them afresh, as if she were not sure that she had spoken 
 them. She trembled undisguisedly, and made the in- 
 voluntary gesture of a woman who has suddenly dropped 
 her veil. 
 
 c But you have had him already in your hands ! ' said 
 Gorentin. 
 
 c Very likely,' she replied bitterly. 
 
 c Why did you stop me when I had hold of him ? ' 
 asked Hulot. 
 
 4 Eh, commandant ! We did not know that it was 
 he ! ' Suddenly, the excited woman who was hurriedly 
 pacing to and fro, flinging fiery glances at the two wit- 
 nesses of this tempest, grew calmer. 6 1 hardly know 
 myself,' she said, and her tones were those of a man. 
 t What is the good of talking ? We must go in search 
 of him!' 
 
 c Go in search of him ? ' repeated Hulot ; c my dear 
 child, mind that you do not. We are not masters of this 
 country-side ; and if you venture to stir a hundred paces 
 out of the town, you will either be killed or taken 
 prisoner.' 
 
 4 There is no such thing as danger for those who are 
 seeking for vengeance ! ' she answered, and with a dis- 
 dainful gesture she dismissed the two men from her pre- 
 sence ; the sight of them filled her with shame. 
 
 c What a woman ! ' Hulot exclaimed as he withdrew 
 with Corentin. 4 What a notion those police fellows in 
 Paris have had ! But she will never give him up to us,' 
 he added with a shake of the head. 
 
 c Oh, yes, she will ! ' Corentin replied. 
 
 c Can you not see that she is in love with him ? ' said 
 Hulot. 
 
 'That is exactly the reason. Moreover,' said Corentin, 
 as he looked at the astonished commandant, * I am on the 
 spot to prevent any nonsense on her part; for to my 
 
A Notion of Fouche's 
 
 '95 
 
 thinking, comrade, there is no love affair worth three 
 hundred thousand francs.' 
 
 With that, this diplomatist of the Home Office left 
 the soldier, who followed him with his eyes ; and, when 
 he no longer heard the sound of the other's footsteps, 
 he heaved a sigh and remarked to himself : c So there is 
 some advantage at times in being a mere thick-head like 
 me ? . . . Tonnerre de Dieu t If I hit upon the Gars, 
 we will fight it out man to man, or my name is not 
 Hulot; for now that they have instituted councils of war, 
 if yonder fox is anything to go by, my conscience will be 
 no cleaner, I should say, than any trooper's shirt who has 
 gone under fire for the first time.' 
 
 The massacre at the Vivetiere and the desire to avenge 
 his two friends had been quite as strong inducements to 
 resume the command of his demi-brigade as the letter 
 Hulot had received from the new minister Berthier, 
 who informed him that under the circumstances his 
 resignation could not be accepted. Along with the 
 official dispatch came a confidential letter, containing no 
 information concerning Mile, de Verneuil's mission, but 
 informing him that this incident was completely without 
 the scope of military operations, and should therefore in 
 no way hamper their progress. The share of the military 
 leaders in that matter was confined, so it ran, c to second- 
 ing the honourable citoyenne if occasion should call for 
 it.' 
 
 The reports which Hulot received having made it clear 
 to him that the mobilisation of the Chouans was being 
 directed upon Fougeres, he threw two battalions of his 
 demi-brigade into that important place, bringing them by 
 forced marches and hidden ways. Everything about 
 him had wrought to bring back all the fire of his youth 
 into the veteran commandant — the perils of his country, 
 a hatred of the aristocracy whose partisans were threaten- 
 ing such a considerable district, and the promptings of 
 friendship. 
 
The Chouans 
 
 * This, at last, is the life I was longing for ! 9 cried 
 Mile, de Verneuil when she was alone with Francine. 
 1 However swiftly the hours may pass, they are like cen- 
 turies of thought to me.' She took Francine's hand 
 impulsively, and these words fell from her, one by one, in 
 a voice like the first robin's notes after a storm. C I 
 cannot help it, my child. I always see those two exquisite 
 lips ; the short, slightly prominent chin, and those eyes 
 of fire - y I hear again the " Hue ! " of the postilion, and at 
 last I fall to dreaming. . . . And why is there such 
 hatred in me when I awake ? ' 
 
 She heaved a long sigh, and rose to her feet. She 
 looked out for the first time over the country, which had 
 been given over to civil war by the cruel noble whom she 
 would fain combat — she and no other. The view had an 
 attraction for her ; it drew her out of doors to breathe 
 more freely under the open sky ; and if it was chance 
 that determined her way, she was certainly under the 
 influence of the dark power within us, which makes us 
 look for a gleam of hope in some absurd course. Ideas 
 that occur to us while we are under this spell are often 
 realised ; and then we attribute our instinctive insight to 
 the faculty that we call presentiment — a power which is 
 real, if unexplained, and which is ever ready at the beck 
 and call of the passions, like a parasite who sometimes 
 utters a true word among his lies. 
 
Ill 
 
 A DAY WITHOUT A MORROW 
 
 As the final events of this story were largely determined 
 by the character of the country in which they took place, 
 a detailed description of it is unavoidable, for otherwise 
 the catastrophe will be difficult to understand. 
 
 The town of Fougeres is partly situated on a mass of 
 schistous rock that might have fallen forward from the 
 hills that close round the western end of the wide valley 
 of the Couesnon, each of which is differently named in 
 different places round about. A narrow ravine, with the 
 little stream called the Nan^on running at the bottom of 
 it, separates the town from these hills. The eastern side 
 of the mass of rock commands a view of the same land- 
 scape that the traveller enjoys from the top of La Pelerine ; 
 the only prospect^from the western side is along the 
 tortuous valley of the Nan^on ; but there is one spot 
 whence it is possible to see a segment of the great circle 
 formed by the main valley as well as the picturesque 
 windings of the smaller one that opens out into it. Here 
 the townspeople had elected to make a promenade, hither 
 Mile, de Verneuil was betaking herself, and this very 
 place was to be the stage on which the drama begun 
 at the Vivetiere was to be carried out. However 
 picturesque, therefore, the other parts of the town of 
 Fougeres may be, attention must be exclusively directed 
 to the disposition of the country that is visible from the 
 highest point of the promenade. 
 
 To give an idea of the appearance of the rock of 
 Fougeres when seen from this side, a comparison might 
 be made between it and one of those huge towers, about 
 
 197 
 
The Chouans 
 
 which Saracen architects have fashioned tier after tier of 
 balconies, connected each with each by spiral staircases. 
 The topmost point of the rock terminates in a Gothic 
 church with its crockets, spire and buttresses, which com- 
 pletes the almost perfect sugar-loaf form of the whole. 
 Before the door of this church, which is dedicated to St. 
 Leonard, lies a little irregularly shaped square. The soil 
 there is banked up and sustained by a wall that runs 
 round it like a balustrade, and it communicates with the 
 promenade by a flight of steps. This esplanade runs 
 round about the rock like a second cornice, several fathoms 
 below the square of St. Leonard, presenting an open space 
 planted with trees, which is brought to an end by the 
 fortifications of the town. Then, after a further interval 
 of some ten fathoms of rocks and masonry which support 
 this terrace (thanks, partly to the fortunate disposition ot 
 the schist, and partly to patient industry), there lies a 
 winding road called c The Queen's Staircase,' cut out of 
 the rock itself, and leading to a bridge built over the 
 Nan^on by Anne of Brittany. Underneath this road 
 again, which makes a third cornice, the gardens slope in 
 terraces down to the river, looking like tiers of staging 
 covered with flowers. 
 
 Lofty crags, called the hills of St. Sulpice, after the 
 name of the suburb of the town in which they rise, run 
 parallel with the promenade and along the river side. 
 Their sides slope gently down into the main valley, 
 wherein they take a sharp turn towards the north. These 
 steep, dark, and barren crags seem almost to touch the schist- 
 ous rock of the promenade, coming in some places within 
 a gunshot of them, and they shelter from the north wind a 
 narrow valley some hundred fathoms in depth, wherein the 
 Nan^on divides itself into three streams, and waters a 
 meadow-land pleasantly laid out and filled with houses. 
 
 To the south, just where the town, properly speaking, 
 comes to an end, and the suburb of St. Leonard begins, 
 the rock of Fougeres makes a curve, grows less lofty and 
 
A Day without a Morrow 199 
 
 precipitous, turns into the main valley and stretches along 
 the river, which is thus shut in between it and the hills of 
 St. Sulpice in a narrow pass. Thence the river flows in 
 two streams towards the Couesnon into which it falls. 
 This picturesque range of rocky hillsides is named the 
 Nid-aux-Crocs. The dale which is shut in by them is 
 called the valley of Gibarry, and its rich meadows produce 
 a large proportion of the butter known to epicures as 
 Prevalaye butter. 
 
 At the spot where the promenade abuts upon the 
 fortifications, a tower rises called the Papegaut's Tower. 
 The house in which Mile, de Verneuil was staying was 
 built upon this square structure. Beyond this point there 
 is nothing but a sheer space, sometimes of wall, sometimes 
 of rock, wherever the latter presents a smooth surface. 
 The portion of the town that is built upon this lofty and 
 impregnable base describes an immense half-moon, at 
 the termination of which the rocks slope away and are 
 hollowed out so as to give an outlet to the Nan^on. 
 Here stands the gate of St. Sulpice, through which the 
 way lies into the suburb that bears the same name. On 
 a knoll of granite rock, commanding the entrance intG 
 three valleys wherein several roads converge, rise the 
 ancient crenellated turrets of the feudal castle of Fougeres, 
 one of the most considerable structures erected by the 
 Dukes of Britanny, with its walls fifteen fathoms high 
 and fifteen feet thick. On its eastern side the castle is 
 protected by a pond in which the Nan^on rises, flowing 
 thence through the moats, and turning several mills 
 between the gate of St. Sulpice and the drawbridges of 
 the fortress. On the western side the perpendicular 
 rocks on which the castle is built form a sufficient 
 defence. 
 
 Thus, from the promenade to this magnificent relic of 
 the Middle Ages, adorned with its mantling ivy and its 
 turrets round or square, in any one of which a whole 
 regiment might be quartered ; the castle, the town, and 
 
200 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 its rock protected by a curtain of wall, or by scarps hewn 
 in the rock itself, form one immense horse-shoe, sur- 
 rounded by precipices, on the sides of which (time aiding 
 them) the Bretons have beaten out a few narrow foot- 
 paths. Blocks of stone project here and there as if by 
 way of decoration, or water oozes out through crannies 
 where spindling trees are growing. Further on, a few 
 less precipitous slabs of granite support a little grass 
 which attracts the goats ; and the heather grows every- 
 where, penetrating many a damp crevice and covering the 
 dark broken surface with its rosy wreaths. In the depth 
 of this great funnel the little river twists and winds in a 
 land of meadow, always carpeted with soft verdure. 
 
 At the foot of the castle there rises, between several 
 masses of granite, the Church dedicated to St. Sulpice, 
 which gives its name to a suburb on the other side of the 
 Nan f on. This suburb seems to lie in the bottom of an 
 abyss ; the pointed steeple of its church is not as high as 
 the rocks that seem ready to fall down upon it and its 
 surrounding cottages, which are picturesquely watered by 
 certain branches of the Nan^on, shaded by trees and 
 adorned with gardens. These make an irregular indenta- 
 tion in the half-moon described by the promenade, the 
 town, and the castle ; and their details are in quaint 
 contrast to the sober-looking amphitheatre which they 
 confront. The whole town of Fougeres, with its churches 
 and its suburbs, and even the hills of St. Sulpice, has for 
 its frame and setting the heights of Rille, which form a 
 part of the chain of hills that encircle the main valley of 
 the Couesnon. 
 
 Such are the most striking natural features of this 
 country. Its principal characteristic is a rugged wild- 
 ness, softened by intervals of smiling land, by a happy 
 mingling of the most magnificent works of man with 
 the caprices of a soil vexed by unlooked-for contrasts ; by 
 an indescribable something that takes us at unawares, that 
 amazes and overawes us. In no other part of France 
 
A Day without a Morrow 201 
 
 does the traveller meet with contrasts on so magnificent 
 a scale as in this wide valley of the Couesnon and among 
 the dales that are almost hidden between the craggy rocks 
 of Fougeres and the heights of Rille. There is beauty of 
 a rare kind in which chance is the predominating element, 
 but which, for all that, lacks no charm due to the 
 harmony of nature. Here are clear, limpid, rushing 
 streams ; hills clad in the luxuriant vegetation of these 
 districts ; stern masses of rock and shapely buildings ; 
 natural fortifications and towers of granite built by man. 
 Here are all the effects wrought by the play of light and 
 shadow, all the varied hues of different kinds of foliage 
 so highly valued by artists ; groups of houses alive 
 with a busy population, and solitary places where the 
 granite scarcely affords a hold to the pale lichens that 
 cling about stone surfaces ; here, in short, is every 
 suggestion of beauty or of dread that can be looked for 
 from a landscape — a poetry full of constantly renewed 
 magic, of pictures of the grandest kind, and charming 
 scenes of country life. Here is Brittany in its flower. 
 
 The Papegaut's Tower, as it is called, upon which the 
 house occupied by Mile, de Verneuil was built, has its 
 foundations at the very bottom of the precipice, and rises 
 to the level of the esplanade which has been constructed, 
 cornice fashion, in front of St. Leonard's church. The 
 view from this house, which is isolated on three of its sides, 
 includes the great horse-shoe (which has its starting-point 
 in the tower itself), the winding valley of the Nan^on, 
 and the square of St. Leonard. The dwelling is one of a 
 row of houses three centuries old, built of wood, and lying 
 in a parallel line with the north side of the church in such 
 a manner as to form a blind alley with it. The alley 
 opens on to a steep road that passes along one side of the 
 church and leads to the gate of St. Leonard, towards 
 which Mile, de Verneuil was descending. 
 — Marie naturally felt no inclination to go up into the 
 square before the church, beneath which she was standing, 
 
202 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 so she turned in the direction of the promenade. When 
 she had passed through the little green-painted barrier, 
 which stood before the guardhouse now established in 
 the tower of St. Leonard's gate, the conflict within her 
 was stilled by the sight of the wonderful view. She first 
 admired the wide stretch of the main valley of the 
 Couesnon — the whole length and breadth of it met her 
 eyes, from the summit of La Pelerine to the level plain, 
 through which the road runs to Vitre. Then her gaze 
 rested upon the Nid-aux-Crocs, upon the winding lines 
 of the valley of Gibarry, and upon the ridges of the hills, 
 bathed as they were in the glow of the misty sunset. 
 The depth of the valley of the Nan^on almost startled her ; 
 the tallest poplars down below scarcely reached the 
 height of the garden walls that lay beneath the Queen's 
 Staircase. On she went, one marvel still succeeding to 
 another, till she reached a point whence she could see the 
 main valley beyond the dale of Gibarry, and the whole 
 lovely landscape was framed by the horse-shoe of the town, 
 the crags of St. Sulpice, and the heights of Rille. 
 
 At that hour of day, the smoke, rising from the houses 
 in the suburbs and the valleys, made wreaths of cloud in 
 the atmosphere ; every object dawned on the sight 
 through a sort of bluish canopy. The garish daylight 
 hues had begun to fade, the tone of the sky changed to a 
 pearly gray, the moon flung its misty light over the 
 depths of the fair land below, — all the surroundings tended 
 to steep the soul in musings and to call memories of 
 beloved forms. 
 
 Suddenly she lost all interest in the shingle roofs of the 
 suburb of St. Sulpice, in its church with the bold spire 
 that was all but swallowed up in the depths of the valley, 
 in the ivy and clematis that had gown for centuries over 
 the walls of the old fortress, whence the Nan^on issues, 
 boiling over its mill-wheels, and in all else in the land- 
 scape. In vain the sunset poured a golden dust, and 
 sheets of crimson light over the peaceful dwellings 
 
A Day without a Morrow 203 
 
 scattered among the rocks, along the stream, and in the 
 meadows far below, — she was staring fixedly at the crags 
 of St. Sulpice. The wild hope that had brought her out 
 upon the promenade had been miraculously realised. 
 
 Across the ajoncs and the bushes of broom that grew 
 along the tops of the opposite hillsides, she thought that, 
 in spite of their goatskin clothing, she could recognise 
 several of the guests at the Vivetiere. The Gars was 
 conspicuous among them y his slightest movements stood 
 out against the soft glow of the sunset. Some paces 
 behind the principal group she saw her formidable enemy 
 Mme. du Gua. For a moment Mile, de Verneuil might 
 have thought that she was dreaming, but her rival's 
 hatred very soon made it plain to her that everything in 
 this dream had life. The rapt attention with which she 
 was watching every slightest gesture on the part of the 
 Marquis prevented her from noticing the care with which 
 Mme. du Gua was aiming a rifle at her. The echoes of 
 the hills rang with the report, and a ball whistling close 
 to Marie revealed her rival's skill to her. 
 
 c She is sending me her card ! ' she exclaimed, smiling 
 to herself. In a moment there was a cry in chorus of 
 6 Who goes there ? ' echoed by sentinel after sentinel, all 
 the way from the castle to St. Leonard's gate, which 
 made the Chouans aware of the precautions taken by the 
 Fougerais, since the least vulnerable side of their ramparts 
 was so well guarded. 
 
 c It is she, and it is he ! ' said Marie to herself. With 
 the speed of lightning the idea of seeking, tracking, and 
 surprising the Marquis flashed across her. 4 1 have no 
 weapon ! ' she exclaimed. She bethought herself that, 
 just as she was leaving Paris, she had thrown into a 
 trunk an elegant dagger, a thing that had once be- 
 longed to a sultan. She had provided herself with it 
 when she set out for the scene of the war in the same 
 humour which prompts some amusing beings to equip 
 themselves with notebooks, in which to jot down the 
 
204 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 ideas that occur to them upon a journey. She had been 
 less attracted, however, by the prospect of bloodshed than 
 by the mere pleasure of carrying a beautiful jewelled 
 kandjar, and of playing with the blade, as clean as an eye 
 glance. Three days ago, when she had sought to kill 
 herself to escape her rival's hideous revenge, she had keenly 
 regretted leaving this weapon in her trunk. 
 
 In a moment she reached the house again, found the 
 dagger, thrust it into her belt, muffled a great shawl 
 round about her shoulders, wound a black lace scarf about 
 her hair, covered her head with a large flapping hat, like 
 those worn by the Chouans, which she borrowed from a 
 servant about the house ; and, with the self-possession 
 which the passions sometimes bestow, she took up the 
 glove belonging to the Marquis, which Marche-a-Terre 
 had given to her as a safe-conduct. In response to 
 Francine's alarmed inquiries, she replied — 
 
 c What would you have ; I would go to hell to look for 
 him ! ' and she went back to the promenade. 
 
 The Gars was still there in the same place, but he was 
 alone. From the direction taken by his perspective-glass, 
 he appeared to be scrutinising with a soldier's minute 
 attention the various fords of the Nan^on, the Queen's 
 Staircase, and the road that starts from the gate of St. 
 Sulpice, winds by the church, and joins the high road 
 within range of the guns of the castle. Mile, de Verneuil 
 sprang down the narrow paths made by the goatherds 
 and their flocks upon the slopes of the promenade, gained 
 the Queen's Staircase, reached the foot of the crags, 
 crossed the Nan^on, passed through the suburb, found 
 her way instinctively, like a bird in the desert, among the 
 perilous scarped rocks of St. Sulpice, and very soon reached 
 a slippery track over the granite boulders. In spite of 
 the bushes of broom, the thorny ajoncs, and the sharp 
 loose stones, she began to climb with an amount of 
 energy unknown perhaps in man, but which woman, when 
 completely carried away by passion, possesses for a time. 
 
A Day without a Morrow 205 
 
 Night overtook Marie just as she reached the summit, 
 and tried to discover, by the pale moonlight, the way 
 which the Marquis must have taken. It was a search 
 made persistently but without any success. From the 
 silence that prevailed throughout the region she gathered 
 that the Chouans and their leader had retired. She 
 suddenly relinquished the effort begun in passion, along 
 with the hope that had inspired it. She found herself 
 benighted and alone in the midst of a strange country 
 where war was raging ; she began to reflect, and Hulot's 
 warning and Mme. du Gua's shot made her shudder with 
 fear. The silence of night upon the hills was so deep 
 that she could hear the least rustle of a wandering leaf, 
 even a long way off; such faint sounds as these, trembling 
 in the air, gave a gloomy idea of the utter solitude and 
 quiet. 
 
 The wind blew furiously in the sky above, bringing up 
 clouds that cast shadows below ; the effects of alternate 
 light and darkness increased her fears, by giving a fantastic 
 and terrifying appearance to objects of the most harmless 
 kind. 
 
 She turned her eyes towards the houses in Fougeres ; 
 the lights of every household glimmered like stars on 
 earth, and all at once she descried the Papegaut tower. 
 The distance she must traverse in order to reach her 
 dwelling was short indeed, but that distance consisted of 
 a precipice. She had a sufficiently clear recollection of 
 the abysses at the brink of the narrow footpath by which 
 she had come, to see that she would incur greater peril 
 by trying to return to Fougeres than by continuing her 
 enterprise. She reflected that the Marquis's glove would 
 deprive her nocturnal excursion of all its dangers, if the 
 Chouans should be in possession of the country. She had 
 only Mme. du Gua to dread. At the thought of her, 
 Marie clutched her dagger and tried to go in the 
 direction of a house, of the roofs of which she had caught 
 a glimpse as she reached the crags of St, Sulpice, She 
 
206 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 made but slow progress. Never before had she known 
 the majesty of darkness that oppresses a solitary being at 
 night in the midst of a wild country, over which the 
 mountains, like a company of giants, seem to bow their 
 lofty heads. 
 
 The rustle of her dress, caught by the gorse, made her 
 tremble more than once ; more than once she quickened 
 her pace, only to slacken it again with the thought that 
 her last hour had come. But circumstances very soon 
 assumed a character, which might perhaps have daunted 
 the boldest men, and which threw Marie into one of 
 those panics that make such heavy demands upon the 
 springs of life within us, that everything, strength as 
 weakness, is exaggerated in the individual. The weakest 
 natures at such times show an unexpected strength ; and 
 the strongest grow frantic with terror. 
 
 Marie heard strange sounds at a little distance. They 
 were vague and distinct at the same time, just as the 
 surrounding night was lighter and darker by turns. 
 They seemed to indicate tumult and confusion. She 
 strained her ears to catch them. They rose from the 
 depths of the earth, which appeared to be shaking with 
 the tramp of a great multitude of men on the march. A 
 momentary gleam of light allowed Mile, de Verneuil to 
 see, at the distance of a few paces, a long file of horrid 
 forms swaying like ears of corn in the fields — stealing 
 along like goblin shapes. But hardly had she seen them 
 when darkness, like a black curtain, fell again and hid 
 from her this fearful vision full of yellow and glittering 
 eyes. She shrank back and rushed swiftly to the top of a 
 slope, to escape three of these horrible figures that were 
 approaching her. 
 
 - i Did you see him ? ' asked one. 
 
 1 1 felt a cold wind when he passed near me,' a hoarse 
 roice replied. 
 
 4 1 myself breathed the dank air and the smell of a 
 graveyard,' said a third. 
 
A Day without a Morrow 207 
 
 1 How pale he is ! ' the first speaker began. 
 
 ( Why has he returned alone out of all who fell at La 
 Pelerine ? 9 asked the second. 
 
 c Ah, why indeed ? 9 replied the third. 6 Why should 
 those who belong to the Sacred Heart have the preference ? 
 However, I would rather die unconfessed than wander 
 about as he does, neither eating nor drinking, without 
 any blood in his veins or flesh on his bones.* 
 
 'Ah ! . . 
 
 This exclamation, or rather fearful yell, broke from the 
 group as one of the Chouans pointed to the slender form 
 and pallid face of Mile, de Verneuil, who was flying with 
 the speed of fear, while none of them caught the slightest 
 sound of her movements. 
 
 6 There he is ! — Here he is ! — Where is he ? — There ! 
 — Here ! — He has vanished ! — No ! — Yes ! — Do you see 
 him ? 9 The words rolled out like the monotonous sound 
 of waves upon the beach. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil went on bravely towards the house, 
 and saw the dim figures of a crowd which fled away at 
 her approach with every sign of panic-stricken fear. A 
 strange force within her seemed to urge her on ; its 
 influence was overpowering her ; a sensation of corporeal 
 lightness, which she could not understand, was a fresh 
 source of terror to her. The shapes which rose in masses 
 at her approach, as if from under the earth, where they 
 appeared to be lying, gave groans which seemed to have 
 nothing human about them. At last, and not without 
 difficulty, she reached a garden, now lying waste, with all 
 its fencing and hedges broken down. She showed her 
 glove to a sentinel who stopped her. The moonlight fell 
 upon her form, and at the sight the sentinel, who had 
 pointed his carbine at Marie, let the weapon fall from 
 his hand, uttering a hoarse cry that rang through the 
 country round about. 
 
 She saw large masses of buildings, with a light here 
 and there which showed that some of the rooms were 
 
208 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 inhabited ; and without further let or hindrance she 
 reached the wall of the house. Through the first window 
 towards which she went she beheld Mme. du Gua and 
 the chiefs who had come together at the Vivetiere, 
 This sight, combined with the consciousness of the peri! 
 she was in, made her reckless. She flung herself violently 
 upon a low opening, covered with massive iron bars, and 
 discerned the Marquis two paces distant from her, 
 melancholy and alone, in a long vaulted hall. The 
 reflections of the firelight from the hearth, before which 
 he was sitting in a cumbrous chair, lighted up his face 
 with flickering hues of red that made the whole scene 
 look like a vision. The poor girl strained herself to the 
 bars, trembling, but otherwise motionless ; she hoped that 
 she should hear him if he spoke in the deep silence that 
 prevailed. She saw him looking pale, dejected, and dis- 
 heartened ; she flattered herself that she was one of the 
 causes of his melancholy, and her anger turned to sym- 
 pathy, and sympathy to tenderness ; she suddenly felt that 
 it was not vengeance alone that had drawn her thither. 
 The Marquis rose to his feet, turned his head, and stood 
 bewildered when he beheld Mile, de VerneuiPs face as in 
 a cloud there. He made a sign of scorn and impatience 
 as he cried, c Must I see that she-devil always before me, 
 even in my waking hours ? ' 
 
 This intense contempt he had conceived for her drew 
 a frenzied laugh from the poor girl. The young chief 
 shuddered at it, and sprang to the window. Mile, de 
 Verneuil fled. She heard a man's footsteps behind her, 
 and took her pursuer for Montauran. In her desire to 
 escape from him she discerned no obstacles; she would 
 have scaled walls or flown through the air ; she could 
 have taken the road to hell if so be she might read no i 
 longer, in letters of flame, the words, c He scorns you ! 1 
 written upon his forehead — words which a voice repeated 
 within her in trumpet tones. After walking on, she knew 
 not whither, she stopped, for a chilly dampness seemed to \ 
 
A Day without a Morrow 
 
 strike through her. She heard the footsteps of several 
 people, and impelled by fear, she descended a staircase 
 that led into an underground cellar. As she reached the 
 lowest step, she listened for the footsteps of the pursuers, 
 trying to ascertain their direction ; but though the 
 sounds without were turbulent enough, she could hear the 
 lamentable groans of a human being within, which added 
 to her terrors. 
 
 A streak of light from the head of the staircase led her 
 to fear lest her hiding-place had been discovered by her 
 persecutors. Her desire to escape them lent her fresh 
 strength. A few moments later, when her ideas were 
 more collected, she found it very difficult to explain the 
 way in which she had contrived to scramble up the low 
 wall on the top of which she was hiding. At first she 
 did not even notice the cramp which her constrained 
 position caused her to experience; but the pain at last 
 grew intolerable, for, under the arch of the vault, she 
 was much in the position of a crouching Venus en- 
 sconced by some amateur in too narrow a niche. The 
 wall itself was built of granite, and fairly broad ; it 
 separated the staircase from the cellar whence the groans 
 were issuing. She soon saw a stranger clad in goatskins 
 come down the staircase beneath her, and turn under the 
 archway, without the least sign about him to indicate an 
 excited search. In her eagerness to discover any chance 
 of saving herself, Mile, de Verneuil waited anxiously till 
 the cellar was illuminated by the light which the stranger 
 was carrying ; then she beheld on the floor a shapeless but 
 living mass, trying to drag itself towards a certain part of 
 the wall by violent and repeated jerks, like the convulsive 
 writhings of a carp that has been drawn from the river 
 and laid on the bank. 
 
 -"A small resinous torch soon cast a bluish and uncertain 
 light over the cellar. In spite of the romance with which 
 Mile, de Verneuil had invested the groined roof that rang 
 with the sounds of agonised entreaties, she was compelled 
 
 o 
 
2IO 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 to recognise the fact that she was in an underground 
 kitchen which had been long unused. Thus illuminated, 
 the shapeless mass took the form of a short, stout person 
 whose every limb had been carefully tied, but who seemed 
 to have been left on the damp flags of the pavement 
 without any other precaution on the part of those who 
 had seized him. 
 
 At sight of the stranger (who carried a light in one 
 hand and a faggot in the other), the prisoner gave a deep 
 groan, which wrought so powerfully upon Mile, de 
 VerneuiPs feelings that she forgot her own terror and 
 despair, and the frightful cramp which was benumbing 
 her doubled-up limbs ; she could scarcely keep herself 
 still. The Chouan flung down his faggot upon the 
 hearth, after assuring himself of the solidity of an old pot- 
 hook which hung down the whole length of a sheet of 
 cast iron, and set the wood alight with his torch. Mile, 
 de Verneuil then recognised, not without alarm, the 
 cunning Pille-Miche, to whom her rival had assigned 
 her. His form, lighted up by the flames, looked very 
 like one of the tiny grotesque figures that Germans 
 carve in wood. A broad grin overspread his furrowed 
 and sunburnt face at the wails that went up from his 
 prisoner. 
 
 4 You see,' he remarked to the sufferer, c that Christians 
 such as we are do not go back on our words as you do. 
 This fire here will take some of the stiffness out of your 
 legs, and out of your hands and tongue too. . . . But 
 hold on ! I do not see a dripping-pan to put under your 
 feet, and they are so fat that they might put the fire out. 
 Your house must be very badly furnished when you cannot 
 find everything in it to make the master thoroughly 
 comfortable when he is warming himself.' 
 
 At this the victim uttered a piercing shriek, as if he 
 hoped that his voice would rise above the arched roof, and 
 bring some one to his rescue. 
 
 1 Sing away as much as you like, M. d'Orgemont ! 
 
A Day without a Morrow 
 
 211 
 
 They have all gone to bed upstairs, and Marche-a-Terre 
 is coming -> he will shut the cellar door/ 
 
 As he spoke, Pille-Miche rapped the butt end of his 
 carbine over the mantelpiece, the flags on the kitchen 
 floor, the walls and the stoves, trying to discover the 
 place where the miser had hidden his gold. The search 
 was so cleverly conducted that d'Orgemont did not utter 
 a further sound. He seemed possessed by the fear that 
 some frightened servant might have betrayed him ; for 
 though he had trusted nobody, his habits might have 
 given rise to very well-grounded suspicions. From time 
 to time Pille-Miche turned sharply and looked at his 
 victim, as in the children's game, when they try to guess 
 from the unconscious expression of one of their number 
 the spot where he has hidden a given object as they 
 move hither and thither in search of it. D'Orgemont 
 showed some alarm for the Chouan's benefit when he 
 struck a hollow sound from the stoves, and seemed to 
 have a mind to divert Pille-Miche's credulous greed in 
 this way for a time. 
 
 Just then three other Chouans came running down 
 the staircase, and suddenly entered the kitchen. Pille- 
 Miche abandoned his search when he saw Marche-a- 
 Terre, flinging a glance at d'Orgemont with all the 
 ferocity that his disappointed avarice had aroused in him. 
 
 c Marie Lambrequin has come to life again ! 9 said 
 Marche-a-Terre, with a preoccupation that showed how 
 all other interests faded away before such a momentous 
 piece of news. 
 
 ( I am not surprised at that,' answered Pille-Mich^ ; 
 c he took the sacrament so often ! He seemed to have 
 le bon Dieu all to himself.' 
 
 c Aha ! ' remarked Mene-a-Bien. c But it is of no more 
 help to him now than shoes to a dead man. He did not 
 receive absolution before that business at La Pelerine, and 
 .there he is ! He misguided that girl of Gogelu's, and 
 was weighed down by a mortal sin. Besides that, the 
 
212 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Abbe Gudin told us that he would have to wait a couple 
 of months before he could come back for good. We 
 saw him go along in front, every man jack of us. He 
 is white, and cold, and he flits about ; there is the scent 
 of the grave about him.' 
 
 i And his reverence assured us that if the ghost could 
 catch hold of anybody, he would make just such another 
 of him,' the fourth Chouan put in. 
 
 The wry face of the last speaker aroused Marche-a- 
 Terre from religious musings prompted by the newly- 
 wrought miracle, which, according to the Abbe Gudin, 
 might be renewed for every pious champion of religion 
 and royalty. 
 
 c Now you see, Galope-Chopine,' he said to the neo- 
 phyte, with a certain gravity, c what comes of the slightest 
 omission of the duties commanded by our holy religion. 
 St Anne of Auray counselled us not to pass over the 
 smallest faults among ourselves. Your cousin Pille-Miche 
 has asked for the surveillance of Fougeres for you -> the 
 Gars has intrusted you with it, and you will be well paid. 
 But you, perhaps, know the sort of flour we knead into 
 bread for traitors ? 9 
 
 c Yes, M. Marche-a-Terre.' 
 
 c Do you know why I tell you that ? There are folk 
 who hint that you have a hankering after cider and round 
 pence ; but there is to be no feathering of your nest, 
 you are to be our man now. 
 
 4 With all due respect, M. Marche-a-Terre, cider and 
 pence are two good things which do not anywise hinder 
 salvation.' 
 
 * If my cousin makes any blunders, 5 said Pille-Miche, 
 c it will be for want of knowing better.' 
 
 4 No matter how it happens,' cried Marche-a-Terre in 
 a voice that shook the roof, ? if anything goes wrong, I 
 shall not let him off. You shall answer for him,' he 
 added to Pille-Miche ; 4 if he gets himself into trouble, I 
 will take it out of the lining of your goatskins.' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 213 
 
 'But, asking your pardon, M. Marche-a-Terre,' Galope- 
 Chopine began, ' hasn't it often happened to you yourself 
 to mistake Contre-Chuins for Chans r * 
 
 'My friend, 5 replied Marche-a-Terre in a dry tone of 
 voice, c do not let that happen to you again, or I will slice 
 you in two like a turnip. Those who are sent out by 
 the Gars will have his glove. But since this affair at 
 the Vivetiere, the Grande-Garce fastens a green ribbon 
 to it.' 
 
 Pille-Miche jogged his comrade's elbow sharply, point- 
 ing out d'Orgemont, who was pretending to sleep ; but 
 Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche knew by experience 
 that no one had ever yet slept by the side of their fire, 
 and though the last remarks to Galope-Chopine had been 
 spoken in low tones, yet the sufferer might have under- 
 stood them ; so all four of the Chouans looked at him for 
 a moment, and no doubt concluded that fear had deprived 
 him of the use of his senses. Suddenly Marche-a-Terre 
 gave a slight sign 3 Pille-Miche drew off d'Orgemont's 
 shoes and stockings, Mene-a-Bien and Galope-Chopine 
 seized him by the waist and carried him to the hearth. 
 Next Marche-a-Terre took a band from the faggot and 
 bound the miser's feet to the pot-hook. All these 
 proceedings, together with the incredible quickness of 
 their movements, forced cries from the victim, which 
 grew heart-rending when Pille-Miche had heaped up 
 the glowing coals under his legs. 
 
 c My friends, my good friends,' cried d'Orgemont, 
 'you will hurt me ! I am a Christian as you are. . . .' 
 
 'You are lying in your throat,' answered Marche-a- 
 Terre. 'Your brother denied the existence of God, and 
 vou yourself bought the Abbey of Juvigny. The Abbe 
 Gudin says that we may roast apostates without scruple.' 
 
 ' But my brethren in religion, I do not refuse to pay 
 you.' 
 
 ' We gave you two weeks, and now two months have 
 passed, and Galope-Chopine here has received nothing.' 
 
2I 4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 4 Then you have received nothing, Galope-Chopine ? ' 
 asked the miser in despair. 
 
 'Nothing whatever, M. d'Orgemont,' replied the 
 alarmed Galope-Chopine. 
 
 The cries which had become a continuous kind of 
 growl, like the death-rattle of a dying man, began afresh 
 with extraordinary violence. The Chouans were as 
 much used to this kind of scene as to seeing dogs go 
 about without shoes \ and were looking on so coolly 
 while d'Orgemont writhed and yelled, that they might 
 have been travellers waiting round the fire in an inn- 
 kitchen until the joint is sufficiently roasted to eat. 
 
 c I am dying ! I am dying ! ' cried the victim, c and 
 you will not have my money.' 
 
 Violent as his outcries were, Pille-Miche noticed that 
 the fire had not yet scorched him ; it was stirred therefore 
 in a very artistic fashion, so as to make the flames leap a 
 little higher. At this, d'Orgemont said in dejected 
 tones — 
 
 ' Untie me, my friends. . . . What do you want ? A 
 hundred crowns ? A thousand ? Ten thousand ? A 
 hundred thousand ? I offer you two hundred crowns.' 
 
 His tone was so piteous that Mile, de Verneuil forgot 
 her own danger, and an exclamation broke from her. 
 
 ( Who spoke ? ' asked Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 The Chouans cast uneasy glances about them. The 
 very men who were so courageous under a murderous 
 fire from the cannon's mouth dared not face a ghost. 
 Pille-Miche alone heard with undivided attention the 
 confession which increasing torments wrung from his 
 victim. 
 
 4 Five hundred crowns. . . . Yes, I will pay it ! ' said 
 the miser. 
 
 4 Pshaw ! Where are they ? ' calmly responded Pille- 
 Miche. 
 
 4 Eh ? Oh, they are under the first apple tree. . . . 
 Holy Virgin ! At the end of the garden, to the left. . . , 
 
A Day without a Morrow 215 
 
 You are bandits ! . . . You are robbers ! . . . Oh ! I 
 am dying. . . . There are ten thousand francs there.' 
 
 c I wi&--not take francs,' said Marche-a-Terre ; 6 they 
 must be livres. Your Republican crowns have heathen 
 figures on them. They will never pass.' 
 
 c It is all in livres, in good louis d'or. But let me 
 loose, let me loose. . . . You know where my life 
 is . . . my hoard ! 9 
 
 The four Chouans looked at each other, considering 
 which of their number could be trusted with the errand 
 of unearthing the money. But just then their ferocious 
 cruelty had so revolted Mile, de Verneuil, that although 
 she could not be sure that the role assigned to her by her 
 pale face would still preserve her from danger, she cried 
 bravely in a deep tone of voice, c Do you not fear the 
 wrath of God ? Unbind him, you savages ! ' 
 
 The Chouans looked up. They saw eyes that shone 
 like stars, in mid-air, and fled in terror. Mile, de 
 Verneuil sprang down into the kitchen, ran up to 
 d'Orgemont, and drew him from the fire with such 
 energy that the faggot band snapped, then with the blade 
 of her dagger she cut the cords with which he was bound. 
 As soon as the miser was liberated and stood on his feet, 
 the first expression that crossed his face was a dolorous 
 but sardonic smile. 6 Off* with you ! ' he said ; 4 go to the 
 apple-tree, brigands ! . . . Ho ! ho ! This is the second 
 time that I have hoodwinked them, and they shall not 
 get hold of me a third time ! 9 
 
 Just then a woman's voice sounded without. c A 
 ghost ! ' cried Mme. du Gua. 4 A ghost ! Idiots ! It is 
 she ! A thousand crowns to any one who will bring that 
 harlot's head to me ! ' 
 
 Mme. de Verneuil turned pale, but the miser smiled. 
 He took her hand, drew her under the mantel-board of 
 the chimney, and saw that she left no least trace of her 
 passage by leading her round in such a way that the fire, 
 which took up but a little space, was not disturbed. He 
 
2l6 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 pressed a spring, the sheet of cast-iron rose ; and before 
 their foes came back into the cellar, the heavy door of 
 their hiding-place had slipped noiselessly back again. 
 Then the fair Parisian understood the carp-like struggles 
 which had been made by the luckless banker, and to 
 which she had been a witness* 
 
 4 You see, madame!' cried Marche-a-Terre. 4 The 
 ghost has taken the Blue for his comrade.' 
 
 Great must their alarm have been, for such a dead 
 silence followed his words that d'Orgemont and his com- 
 panion could hear the Chouans muttering, 4 Ave, sancta 
 Anna Auriaca gratia plena, Dominus tecum, and so forth. 
 
 4 The simpletons are saying their prayers ! ' exclaimed 
 d'Orgemont. 
 
 4 Are you not afraid,' said Mile, de Verneuil to her 
 companion, c of making known our hiding-place?' 
 
 The old miser's laugh dispelled the Parisian girl's fears. 
 
 4 The plate is set in a slab of granite ten inches thick. 
 We can hear them, but they cannot hear us.' He then 
 gently took the hand of his liberatress, and led her 
 towards a crevice through which the fresh breeze came 
 in whiffs ; she guessed that this opening had been con- 
 trived in the shaft of the chimney. 
 
 c Aha ! ' d'Orgemont began again. 4 The devil ! My 
 legs smart a bit. That 44 Filly of Charette's," as they 
 call her at Nantes, is not such a fool as to gainsay those 
 faithful believers of hers. She knows very well that if 
 they were not so besotted, they would not fight against 
 their own interests. There she is, praying along with 
 them. It must be a pretty sight to see her saying her 
 Ave to St. Anne of Auray ! She would be better 
 employed in plundering a coach so as to pay me back 
 those four thousand francs that she owes me. What 
 with the costs and the interest, it mounts up to quite 
 four thousand seven hundred and forty-five francs, and 
 some centimes over.' 
 
 Their prayer ended, the Chouans rose from their 
 
A Day without a Morrow 217 
 
 knees and went. Old d'Orgemont squeezed Mile, de 
 VerneuiPs hand by way of apprising her that, neverthe- 
 less, danger still existed. 
 
 'No, madame,' cried Pille-Miche after a pause of a 
 few minutes, ' you might stop here for ten years. They 
 will not come back.' 
 
 'But she has not gone out; she must be here!' 
 persisted ' Charette's Filly/ 
 
 'No, no, madame; they have flown right through the 
 walls. Did not the devil, once before, fly away from here 
 with a priest who had taken the oath under our eyes ?' 
 
 'You are a miser as he is, Pille-Miche, and yet you 
 cannot see that the old niggard might very probably 
 spend some thousands of livres in making a recess in the 
 foundations of these vaults, with a secret entrance to it.' 
 
 The girl and the miser heard the guffaw that broke 
 from Pille-Miche. ' Very true ! ' he said. 
 
 ' Stop here,' Mme. du Gua went on. ' Lie in wait for 
 them as they come out. For one single shot, I will give 
 you all that you will find in our usurer's treasury. If 
 you want me to pardon you for selling that girl, after I 
 had told you to kill her, you must obey me.' 
 
 ' Usurer ! ' said old d'Orgemont, ' and yet I only 
 charged her nine per cent, on the loan. I had a mort- 
 gage, it is true, as a security. But now you see how 
 grateful she is ! Come, madame ; if God punishes us for 
 doing ill, the devil is here to punish us for doing well ; 
 and man's position between these two extremities, with- 
 out any notion of what the future may be, always looks, 
 to my thinking, like a sum in proportion, wherein the 
 value of x is undiscoverable.' 
 
 He fetched a hollow-sounding sigh which was peculiar 
 to him ; for his breath as it passed through his larynx 
 seemed to come in contact with and to strike two aged 
 and relaxed vocal chords. The sounds made by Pille- 
 Miche and Mme. du Gua as they tried the walls, the 
 vaulted roof, and the pavement seemed to reassure 
 
2l8 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 d'Orgemont ; he took his liberatress's hand to help her 
 to climb a narrow spiral staircase, hollowed in the thick- 
 ness of the granite rock. When they had come up a 
 score of steps the faint glow of a lamp lighted up their 
 faces. The miser stopped and turned to his companion, 
 looking closely at her face as if he had been gazing upon 
 and turning over and over some doubtful bill to be 
 discounted. He heaved his terrible sigh. 
 
 ' When I brought you here,' he said, after a moment's 
 pause, 4 1 completely discharged the obligation under 
 which you laid me \ so I do not see why I should give ' 
 
 c Leave me here, sir ; I want nothing of you,' she 
 said. 
 
 Her last words, and possibly also the contempt visible 
 in the beautiful face, reassured the little old man, for he 
 went on, after a fresh sigh — 
 
 € Ah ! when I brought you here, I did too much not 
 to go through with it ' 
 
 He politely helped Marie to climb some steps, arranged 
 in a somewhat peculiar fashion, and brought her, half 
 willingly, half reluctantly, into a little closet, four feet 
 square, lighted by a lamp that hung from the roof. It 
 was easy to see that the miser had made every preparation 
 for spending more than one day in this retreat, in case the 
 exigencies of civil war compelled him to make some stay 
 there. 
 
 * Don't go near the wall ! you might get covered with 
 white dust,' d'Orgemont exclaimed suddenly, as he thrust 
 his hand hastily between the girl's shawl and the wall, 
 which seemed to be newly whitewashed. The old miser's 
 action produced an exactly opposite effect to the one 
 intended. Mile, de Verneuil looked straight in front of 
 her at once, and saw a sort of construction in a corner, 
 A cry of terror broke from her as she remarked its shape, 
 for she thought that some human being had been put 
 there in a standing position, and had been covered 
 with plaster. D'Orgemont made a menacing sign, 
 
A Day without a Morrow 219 
 
 imposing silence upon her, and his own little china-blue 
 eyes showed as much alarm as his companion's. 
 
 c Foolish girl ! ' cried he, c did you think I had murdered 
 him ? . . . That is my brother,' he said, and there was 
 a melancholy change in his sigh. 6 He was the first 
 recteur to take the oath, and this was the one refuge 
 where he was safe from the fury of the Chouans and of 
 his fellow priests. To persecute such a well-regulated 
 man as that ! He was my elder brother - 9 he had the 
 patience to teach me the decimal system, he and no other. 
 Oh ! he was a worthy priest ! He was thrifty, and knew 
 how to save. He died four years ago. I do not know 
 what his disease was ; but these priests, you see, have a 
 habit of kneeling in prayer from time to time, and possibly 
 he could never get used to the standing position here, as 
 I myself have done. ... I put him here; otherwise 
 they would have disinterred him. Some day I may be 
 able to bury him in consecrated earth, as the poor fellow 
 used to say, for he only took the oath through fear.' 
 
 A tear filled the hard eyes of the little old man. His red 
 wig looked less ugly to the girl, who turned her own eyes 
 away with an inward feeling of reverence for his sorrow ; 
 but notwithstanding his softened mood, d'Orgemont 
 spoke again. 4 Do not go near the wall, or you 9 
 
 He did not take his gaze off Mile, de Verneuil's eyes, 
 for in this way he hoped to prevent her from scrutinising 
 the partition walls of the closet, in which the scanty 
 supply of air hardly sufficed for the requirements of 
 breathing. Yet Marie managed to steal a glance round 
 about her, undetected by her Argus, and from the eccen- 
 tric protuberances in the walls she inferred that the miser 
 had built them himself out of bags of gold and silver. 
 
 In another moment, d'Orgemont was seized with a 
 strange kind of ecstasy. The painful smarting sensation 
 in his legs, and his apprehensions at the sight of a human 
 being among his treasures, were plainly to be seen in every 
 wrinkle ; but, at the same time, there was an unaccus- 
 
220 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 tomed glow in his dry eyes ; a generous emotion was 
 aroused in him by the dangerous proximity of his neigh- 
 bour, with the pink and white cheeks that invited kisses, 
 and the dark velvet-like glances ; so that the hot blood 
 surged to his heart in such a way that he hardly knew 
 whether it betokened life or death. 
 
 * Are you married ? ' he asked in a faltering voice, 
 € No,* she answered, smiling. 
 
 6 1 have a little property,' he said, heaving his peculiar 
 sigh, c though I am not so rich as they all say I am. A 
 young girl like you should be fond of diamonds, jewellery, 
 carriages, and gold,' he added, looking about him in a 
 dismayed fashion, c I have all these things to give you 
 at my death. . . . And if you liked ' 
 
 There was so much calculation in the old man's eyes, 
 even while this fleeting fancy possessed him, that while 
 she shook her head. Mile, de Verneuil could not help 
 thinking that the miser had thought to marry her, simply 
 that he might bury his secret in the heart of a second self. 
 
 c Money,' she said, with an ironical glance at d'Orge- 
 mont that left him half pleased, half vexed, c money is 
 nothing to me. If all the gold that I have refused were 
 here, you would be three times richer than you are.' 
 
 1 Don't go near the wall ' 
 
 c And yet nothing was asked of me but one look,' she 
 went on with indescribable pride. 
 
 * You were wrong. It was a capital piece of business. 
 Just think of it ' 
 
 ( Think that I have just heard a voice sounding here,' 
 broke in Mile, de Verneuil, c and that one single syllable 
 of it has more value for me than all your riches.' 
 
 c You do not know how much ' 
 
 Before the miser could prevent her, Marie moved with 
 her finger a little coloured print, representing Louis xv. 
 on horseback, and suddenly saw the Marquis beneath her, 
 engaged in loading a blunderbuss. The opening con- 
 cealed by the tiny panel, over which the print was pasted, 
 
A Day without a Morrow 221 
 
 apparently corresponded with some ornamental carving on 
 the ceiling of the next room, where the Royalist general 
 had no doubt been sleeping. D'Orgemont slid the old 
 print back again with extreme heedfulness, and looked 
 sternly at the young girl. 
 
 c Do not speak a word, if you value your life ! It is no 
 cockle-shell that you have grappled,' he whispered in her ear, 
 after a pause. c Do you know that the Marquis of Mon- 
 .tauran draws a revenue of more than a hundred thousand 
 livres from the rents of estates which have not yet been 
 sold ? And the Consuls have just issued a decree putting a 
 stop to the sequestrations. I saw it in the paper, in the 
 Primidi de V Ille-et-Vilaine. Aha ! the Gars there is a 
 prettier man now, is he not ? Your eyes are sparkling 
 like two new louis d'ors.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil's glances had become exceedingly 
 animated when she heard afresh the sounds of the voice 
 that she knew so well. Since she had been standing 
 there, buried as it were in a mine of wealth, her mind, 
 which had been overwhelmed by these occurrences, 
 regained its elasticity. She seemed to have made a sinister 
 resolve, and to have some idea of the method of carrying 
 it out. 
 
 c There is no recovering from such contempt as that,' 
 she said to herself ; c and if he is to love me no more, I 
 will kill him ! No other woman shall have him ! 9 
 
 c No, Abbe, no ! 9 cried the young chief, whose voice 
 made itself heard •> c it must be so.' 
 
 c My lord Marquis,' the Abbe Gudin remonstrated 
 stiffly, c you will scandalise all Brittany by giving this 
 ball at Saint James. Our villages are not stirred up by 
 dancers, but by preachers. Have some small arms, and 
 not fiddles.' 
 
 4 Abbe, you are clever enough to know that only in a 
 •general assembly of all our partisans can I see what I can 
 undertake with them. A dinner seems to give a better 
 opportunity of scrutinising their countenances, and of 
 
222 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 understanding their intentions, than any possible espion- 
 age, which is moreover abhorrent to me. We will make 
 them talk, glass in hand.' 
 
 Marie trembled when she heard these words, for the 
 idea of going to the ball, and of there avenging herself, 
 occurred to her. 
 
 i Do you take me for an idiot, with your sermon against 
 dancing ! ' Montauran went on. Would not you your- 
 self figure in a chaconne very willingly to find yourself 
 re-established under your new name of Fathers of the 
 Faith ? Do you really not know that Bretons get up 
 from mass to have a dance ? Do you really not know 
 that Messieurs Hyde de Neuville and d'Andigne had a 
 conference with the First Consul, five days ago, over the 
 question of restoring his majesty, Louis xviii. ? If I am 
 preparing at this moment to venture so rash a stroke, it 
 is only to make the weight of our iron-bound shoes felt 
 in these deliberations. Do you not know that all the | 
 chiefs in la Vendee, even Fontaine himself, are talking 
 of submission ? Ah ! sir, the princes have clearly been 
 misled as to the condition of things in France. The \ 
 devotion which people tell them about is the devotion , 
 of place-men. Abbe, if I have dipped my feet in blood, 
 I will not wade waist-deep in it without knowing where- , 
 fore. My devotion is for the King, and not for four , 
 crack-brained enthusiasts, for men overwhelmed with , 
 debt like Rifoel, for chauffers and ' \ 
 
 'Say it straight out, sir, for abbes who collect imposts c 
 on the highways so as to carry on the war ! ' interrupted 
 the Abbe Gudin. s 
 
 c Why should I not say it ? ' the Marquis answered 
 tartly. 4 I will say more — the heroic age of La Vendee is i 
 past.' ^ ; || 
 
 c My lord Marquis, we shall know how to work miracles S( 
 without your aid.' n 
 
 c Yes, like the miracle in Marie Lambrequin's case,* 8 j 
 the Marquis answered, smiling. c Come, now, Abbe, let j 
 
A Day without a Morrow 223 
 
 us have done with it. I know that you yourself ^o not 
 shrink from danger, and you bring down a Blue or say 
 your oremus equally well. God helping me, I hope to 
 make you take a part in the coronation of the King with 
 x mitre on your head.' 
 
 This last phrase certainly had a magical effect upon the 
 Abbe, for there sounded the ring of a rifle, and he cried — 
 
 i I have fifty cartridges in my pockets, my lord Marquis, 
 and my life is at the King's service.' 
 
 'That is another debtor of mine,' the miser said to 
 Mile, de Verneuil. € 1 am not speaking of a paltry five 
 or six hundred crowns which he borrowed of me, but of 
 a debt of blood, which I hope will be paid in full. The 
 fiendish Jesuit will never have as much evil befall him as 
 I wish him ; he swore that my brother should die, and 
 stirred up the district against him. And why ? Because 
 the poor man had been afraid of the new laws ! ' 
 
 He put his ear to a particular spot in his hiding-place. 
 
 * All the brigands are making off ,' he said. c They are 
 going to work some other miracle. If only they do not 
 attempt to set fire to the house, as they did last time, by 
 way of a good-bye ! ' 
 
 For another half-hour or thereabouts Mile, de Verneuil 
 and d'Orgemont looked at each other, as each of them 
 might have gazed at a picture. Then the gruff, coarse 
 voice of Galope-Chopine called in a low tone, c There 
 is no more danger now, M. d'Orgemont. My thirty 
 crowns have been well earned this time ! ' 
 
 c My child,' said the miser, c swear to me that you will 
 shut your eyes.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil laid one of her hands over her eyelids ; 
 but for greater security, the old man blew out the lamp, 
 took his liberatress by the hand, and assisted her to descend 
 seven or eight steps in an awkward passage. After a few 
 
 • minutes, he gently drew down her hand, and she saw that 
 she was in the miser's own room, which the Marquis of 
 Moutauran had just vacated. 
 
224 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 * You can go now, my dear child,* said the miser. 
 ' Do not look about you in that way. You have no money, 
 of course. See, here are ten crowns ; clipped ones, but 
 still they will pass. When you are out of the garden, 
 you will find a footpath which leads to the town, or the 
 district, as they call it nowadays. But as the Chouans 
 are at Fougeres, it is not to be supposed that you could 
 return thither at once ; so you may stand in need of a 
 safe asylum. Do not forget what I am going to tell you, 
 and only take advantage of it in dire necessity. You 
 will see a farmhouse beside the road which runs 
 through the dale of Gibarry to the Nid-aux-Crocs. Big 
 Cibot (called Galope-Chopine) lives there. Go inside, 
 and say to his wife, u Good-day, Becaniere ! 99 and Barbette 
 will hide you. If Galope-Chopine should find you out, 
 he will take you for a ghost, if it is night; and if it is 
 broad daylight, ten crowns will mollify him. Good-bye ! 
 Our accounts are squared. . . If you liked,' he added, 
 with a wave of the hand, that indicated the fields 
 that lay round ahout his house, c all that should be 
 yours ! ' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil gave a grateful glance at this strange 
 being, and succeeded in wringing a sigh from him, with 
 several distinct tones in it. 
 
 6 You will pay me back my ten crowns, of course ; 
 I say nothing about interest, as you note. You can pay 
 them to the credit of my account, to Master Patrat, the 
 notary in Fougeres, who, if you should wish it, would draw 
 up our marriage contract. Fair treasure ! Good-bye.' 
 
 c Good-bye,' said she, with a smile, as she waved her 
 hand to him. 
 
 ( If you require any money,' he called to her, c I will 
 lend it to you at five per cent.! Yes, only five. . • • 
 Did I say five ? ' But she had gone. 
 
 4 She looks to me like a good sort of girl,' d'Orgemont 
 continued ; c but for all that, I shall make a change in the 
 secret contrivance in my chimney.' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 225 
 
 Then he took a loaf that weighed twelve pounds, and 
 a ham, and returned to his hiding-place. 
 
 As Mile, de Verneuil walked in the open country, she 
 felt as though life had begun anew. The chilly morning 
 air against her face revived her, after so many hours 
 during which she had encountered a close atmosphere. 
 She tried to find the footpath that the miser had described ; 
 but after the setting of the moon, the darkness grew so 
 dense, that she was compelled to go as chance determined. 
 Very soon the dread of falling over a precipice took 
 possession of her, and this saved her life, for she suddenly 
 stopped with a presentiment that if she went a step 
 further she should find no earth beneath her feet. A 
 breath of yet colder wind which played in her hair, the 
 murmur of streams, and her own instinct, told her that 
 she had come to the brink of the crags of St. Sulpice. 
 She cast her arms about a tree, and waited in keen anxiety 
 for the dawn, for she heard sounds of armed men, human 
 voices, and the trampling of horses. She felt thankful to 
 jthe darkness which was preserving her from the peril of 
 falling into the hands of the Chouans, if, as the miser had 
 told her, they were surrounding Fougeres. 
 
 A faint purple light, like the beacon-fires lighted at 
 night as the signal of Liberty, passed over the mountain 
 tops ; but the lower slopes retained their cold bluish tints 
 in contrast with the dewy mists that drifted over the 
 valleys. Very soon a disc of ruby red rose slowly on the 
 horizon, the skies felt its influence, the ups and downs of 
 the landscape, the spire of St. Leonard's church, the crags 
 and the meadows hidden in deep shadow gradually began 
 to appear, the trees perched upon the heights stood out 
 against the fires of dawn. With a sudden gracious 
 start the sun unwound himself from the streamers of 
 fiery red, of yellow and sapphire, that surrounded him. 
 The brilliant light united one sloping hillside to another 
 by its level beams, and overflowed valley after valley. 
 The shadows fled away, and all nature was over- 
 
 P 
 
226 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 whelmed with daylight. The air trembled with a 
 fresh breeze, the birds sang, and everything awoke 
 to life again. 
 
 But the young girl had barely had sufficient time to 
 look down over the main features of this wonderful land- 
 scape, when by a frequently recurring phenomenon in 
 these cool parts of the world the mists arose and spread 
 themselves in sheets, filling the valleys, and creeping up 
 the slopes of the highest hills, concealing this fertile basin 
 under a cloak like snow. Very soon Mile, de Verneuil 
 could have believed that she beheld a view of a mer de 
 glace^ such as the Alps furnish. Then this atmosphere 
 of cloud surged like the waves of the sea, flinging up 
 opaque billows which softly poised themselves, swayed or 
 eddied violently, caught bright rosy hues from the shafts 
 of sunlight, or showed themselves translucent here and 
 there as a lake of liquid silver. Suddenly the north wind 
 blew upon this phantasmagoria, and dispelled the mists, 
 which left a rusty dew on the sward. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil could then see a huge brown patch, 
 situated on the rocks of Fougeres — seven or eight hundred 
 armed Chouans were hurrying about in the suburb of 
 St. Sulpice, like ants on an ant hill. The immediate 
 neighbourhood of the castle was being furiously attacked 
 by three thousand men who were stationed there, and 
 who seemed to have sprung up by magic. The sleeping 
 town would have yielded, despite its venerable ramparts 
 and hoary old towers, if Hulot had not been on the 
 watch. A concealed battery on a height, in the midst 
 of the hollow basin formed by the ramparts, answered 
 the Chouans' first volley, taking them in flank upon 
 the road that led to the castle. The grape-shot cleared 
 the road and swept it clean. Then a company made 
 a sortie from the St. Sulpice gate, took advantage of 
 the Chouans' surprise, drew themselves up upon the road, 
 and opened a deadly fire upon them. The Chouans 
 did not attempt to resist when they saw the ramparts 
 
AT~Day without a Morrow 227 
 
 covered with soldiers, as if the art of the engineer had 
 suddenly traced blue lines about them, while the fire 
 from the fortress covered that of the Republican sharp- 
 shooters. 
 
 Other Chouans, however, had made themselves masters 
 of the little valley of the Nan^on, had climbed the rocky 
 galleries, and reached the promenade, to which they 
 .mounted till it was covered with goatskins, which made 
 it look like the time-embrowned thatch of a hovel. Loud 
 reports were heard at that very moment from the quarter 
 of the town that overlooks the Couesnon valley. Fougeres 
 was clearly surrounded, and attacked at all points. A 
 fire which showed itself on the eastern side of the rock 
 showed that the Chouans were even burning the suburbs ; 
 but the flakes of fire that sprang up from the shingle roofs or 
 the broom-thatch soon ceased, and a few columns of dark 
 smoke showed that the conflagration was extinguished. 
 
 Black and brown clouds once more hid the scene from 
 Mile, de Verneuil, but the wind soon cleared away the 
 smoke of the powder. The Republican commandant 
 had already changed the direction of his guns, so that 
 they could bear successively upon the length of the valley 
 of the Nan^on, upon the Queen's Staircase, and the rock 
 itself, when from the highest point of the promenade he 
 had seen his first orders admirably carried out. Two guns 
 by the guard-house of St. Leonard's gate were mowing 
 down the ant-like swarms of Chouans who had seized 
 that position, while the National Guard of Fougeres, 
 precipitating themselves into the square by the church, 
 were completing the defeat of the enemy. The affair 
 did not last half an hour, and did not cost the Blues a 
 hundred men. The Chouans, discomfited and defeated, 
 were drawing off" already in all directions, in obedience to 
 repeated orders from the Gars, whose bold stroke had 
 come to nothing (though he did not know this) in con- 
 sequence of the affair at the Vivetiere, which had brought 
 back Hulot in secret, to Fougeres. The artillery had 
 
228 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 only arrived there during this very night ; for the mere 
 rumour that ammunition was being transported thither 
 would have sufficed to make Montauran desist from an 
 enterprise, which, if undertaken, could only have a 
 disastrous result. 
 
 As a matter of fact, Hulot had as much desire to give 
 a severe lesson to the Gars as the Gars could have had to 
 gain a success, in the moment he had selected, to influence 
 the determinations of the First Consul. At the first 
 cannon-shot the Marquis knew that it would be madness 
 to carry this failure of a surprise any further from motives 
 of vanity. So, to prevent a useless slaughter of his 
 Chouans, he hastened to send out seven or eight messen- 
 gers bearing orders to operate a prompt retreat at every 
 point. The commandant, seeing his antagonist with a 
 number of advisers about him, of whom Mme. du Gua 
 was one, tried to send a volley over to them upon the 
 rocks of St. Sulpice, but the place had been selected too 
 cleverly for the young chief not to be in security, Hulot 
 changed his tactics all at once from the defensive to the 
 aggressive. At the first movements which revealed the 
 intentions of the Marquis, the company which was posted 
 beneath the walls of the castle set themselves to work to 
 cut off the Chouans' retreat by seizing the outlets at the 
 upper end of the Nan§on valley. 
 
 In spite of her animosity, Mile, de Verneuil's sympathies 
 were with the side on which her lover commanded. She 
 turned quickly to see if the passage was free at the lower 
 end. But she saw the Blues, who had no doubt been 
 victorious on the other side of Fougeres, returning from 
 the Couesnon valley, through the dale of Gibarry, so as 
 to seize the Nid-aux-Crocs, and that portion of the crags 
 of St. Sulpice where the lower exits from the Nan^on 
 valley were situated. The Chouans, thus shut up in the 
 narrow space of meadow at the bottom of the ravine, 
 seemed certain to be cut ofF to a man ; so accurately had 
 the old Republican commandant foreseen the event, and 
 
A Day without a Morrow 229 
 
 so skilfully had he laid his plans. But the cannon, which 
 had done Hulot such good service, were powerless upon 
 either point. A desperate struggle began, and the 
 town of Fougeres once safe, the affair assumed the 
 character of an engagement to which the Chouans were 
 accustomed. 
 
 Then Mile, de Verneuil understood the presence of 
 the large bodies of men which she had come upon in the 
 open country, the meeting of the chiefs in d'Orgemont's 
 house, and all the occurrences of the previous night, 
 and was unable to account for her escape from so many 
 perils. This enterprise, suggested by despair, had so 
 keen an interest for her, that she stood motionless, watch- 
 ing the moving pictures that spread themselves beneath 
 her eyes. The fighting that went on at the foot of the 
 hills of St. Sulpice soon had yet another interest for her. 
 When the Marquis and his friends saw that the Chouans 
 were almost at the mercy of the Blues, they rushed to 
 their assistance down the Nan^on valley. The foot of 
 the crags was covered with a crowd, composed of furious 
 groups who were fighting out the issues of life and death 
 — both the weapons and the ground being in favour of 
 the goatskins. Imperceptibly the shifting battlefield 
 expanded its limits. The Chouans scattered themselves 
 and gained possession of the rocks, thanks to the help of 
 the shrubs which grew here and there. A little later 
 Mile, de Verneuil was startled by the sight of her foes 
 once more upon the summits, where they strenuously 
 defended the perilous footpaths by which they had come. 
 
 As every passage on the hill was now in the possession 
 of one side or the other, she was afraid of finding herself 
 in among them. She left the great tree behind which 
 she had been standing, and took to flight, meaning to 
 . take advantage of the old miser's advice. After she had 
 hastened for some time along the slope of the hills of St. 
 Sulpice which overlooks the main valley of the Couesnon, 
 she saw a cowshed in the distance, and concluded that it 
 
The Chouans 
 
 must be one of the outbuildings about Galope-Chopine's 
 house, and that he must have left his wife by herself 
 while the fighting went forward. Encouraged by these 
 conjectures, Mile, de Verneuil hoped to be well received 
 in the dwelling, and to be allowed to spend a few hours 
 there, until it should be possible to return to Fougeres 
 without danger. To all appearance, Hulot would gain 
 the day. The Chouans were flying rapidly, so that 
 she heard gunshots all about her, and the fear of being 
 struck by a stray ball led her to reach the cottage, whose 
 chimney served as a landmark, without delay. The path 
 which she followed led to a sort of cart-shed. Its roof, 
 thatched with broom, was supported by the trunks of 
 four great trees which still retained their bark. There 
 was a wall of daub and wattle at the back of it. In the 
 shed itself there was a cider-press, a threshing-floor for 
 buckwheat, and some ploughing apparatus. She stopped 
 short beside one of the posts, hesitating to cross the miry 
 swamp, that did duty for a yard before this house, which 
 afar off, she, like a true Parisian, had taken for a cow-shed. 
 
 The cabin, sheltered from the blasts of the north wind 
 by a knoll that rose above its roof, and against which it 
 was built, was not destitute of a certain poetry of its 
 own, for saplings and heather and rock-flowers hung in 
 wreaths and garlands about it. A rustic staircase con- 
 trived between the shed and the house allowed its 
 inmates to ascend the heights of the knoll to breathe the 
 fresh air. To the left of the cabin the knoll fell away 
 abruptly, so that a succession of fields was visible, the 
 first of which belonged in all probability to this farm. 
 A border of pleasant copse wood ran round these fields, 
 which were separated by banks of earth, upon which trees 
 had been planted. The nearest field completely sur- 
 rounded the yard. The way thither was closed by the 
 huge half-rotten trunk of a tree, a barrier peculiar to 
 Brittany, called by a name, which later on will furnish 
 a final digression on the characteristics of the country. 
 
A Day without a Morrow 231 
 
 Between the staircase that had been cut in the rock, and 
 the track which was closed by the great log, and 
 beneath the overhanging rocks, stood the cottage, with 
 the swamp before it. The four corners of the hovel 
 were built of roughly hewn blocks of granite, laid one 
 over another, thus maintaining the wretched walls in 
 position. These were built up of a mixture of earthen 
 bricks, beams of wood, and flintstones. Half of the root 
 was covered with broom, in the place of straw thatch, 
 and the other half with shingles, or narrow boards cut in 
 the shape of roofing slates, showing that the house con- 
 sisted of two parts ; and as a matter of fact, one part, 
 divided off by a crazy hurdle, served as a byre, while the 
 owners lived in the other division. 
 
 Owing to the near vicinity of the town, there were 
 improvements about this cabin which would be com- 
 pletely lacking anywhere two leagues further away ; and 
 yet it showed very plainly the insecure condition of life 
 to which wars and feudal customs had so rigorously sub- 
 jected the habits of the serf, that even to-day many of 
 the peasants in these parts still call the chateau in which 
 their landlords dwell, the House. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil studied the place with an amaze- 
 ment that can readily be imagined, and at last she noticed 
 a broken block of granite here and there in the mire of 
 the yard, arranged to afford a method of access to the 
 dwelling, not unattended with danger. But, hearing 
 the sounds of musketry drawing appreciably nearer, she 
 sprang from stone to stone, as if she were crossing a 
 river, to ask for shelter. Entrance to the house was 
 barred by one of those doors that are made in two separate 
 pieces; the lower part being of solid and substantial 
 timber, while the upper portion was protected by a 
 •shutter, which served as a window. Shop-doors in certain 
 little towns in France are often made on this model, but 
 they are much more elaborate, and the lower portion is 
 supplied with an alarm bell. The lower half of this par- 
 
232 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 ticular door was opened by unfastening a wooden latchet 
 worthy of the Golden Age, while the upper part was only 
 closed during the night, since the daylight entered 
 the room through no other opening. A rough sort of 
 window certainly existed, but the panes were like bottle 
 ends, and the massive leaden frames which supported them 
 took up so much room, that the window seemed to be 
 intended rather to intercept the light than to afford a 
 passage to it. 
 
 As soon as Mile, de Verneuil had made the door turn 
 on its creaking hinges, she encountered an alarming 
 ammoniacal odour which issued in whiffs from the 
 cottage, and saw how the cattle had kicked to pieces 
 the partition wall that divided them from the house-place. 
 So the inside of the farmhouse (for such it was) was 
 quite in keeping with the outside. Mile, de Verneuil 
 was asking herself how it was possible that human beings 
 should live in such confirmed squalor, when a tiny ragged 
 urchin, who seemed to be about eight or nine years old, 
 suddenly showed a fresh pink and white face, plump 
 cheeks, bright eyes, ivory teeth, and fair hair that fell in 
 tangled locks over his half-naked shoulders. His limbs 
 were sturdy, and in his attitude there was the charm of 
 wonder, and the wild simplicity that makes a child's eyes 
 grow larger. The little lad's beauty was of the heroic 
 order. 
 
 c Where is your mother ? 9 said Marie in a gentle tone, 
 as she stooped down to kiss his eyes. 
 
 After receiving the kiss the child slipped away like an 
 eel and disappeared behind a manure heap which lay 
 between the path and the house, upon the slope of the 
 knoll. Galope-Chopine was wont, like many other 
 Breton farmers (who have a system of agriculture peculiar 
 to them), to pile manure in high situations ; so that by 
 the time they come to use it, the rain has washed all the 
 goodness out of it. 
 
 Marie, being left in possession of the cabin for some 
 
A Day without a Morrow 233 
 
 minutes, quickly made an inventory of its contents. 
 The whole house consisted of the one room in which she 
 was waiting for Barbette. The most conspicuous and 
 pretentious object was a vast fireplace, the mantelpiece 
 being made out of a single slab of blue granite. The 
 etymology of the word c mantelpiece * was made apparent 
 by a scrap of green serge, bordered with pale-green ribbon, 
 and scalloped at the edges, which was hanging along the 
 slab, in the midst of which stood a coloured plaster cast 
 of the Virgin. On the base of the statuette, Mile, de 
 Verneuil read a couple of lines of religious poetry which 
 are very widely popular in the district : — 
 
 Protectress of this place am I, 
 
 The Mother of God who dwells on high. 
 
 Behind the Virgin there was a frightful picture splashed 
 over with red and blue, a pretence of a painting that 
 represented St. Labre. A bed covered with green serge, 
 of the kind called tomb-shaped, a clumsy cradle, a wheel, 
 some rough chairs, and a carved dresser, fitted up with 
 a few utensils, almost completed the list of Galope- 
 Chopine's furniture. Before the window there was a 
 long table and a couple of benches made of chestnut wood ; 
 the light that fell through the panes of glass gave them 
 the deep hues of old mahogany. Beneath the bung-hole 
 of a great hogshead of cider Mile, de Verneuil noticed a 
 patch of moist yellowish thick deposit. The dampness 
 was corroding the floor, although it was made of blocks of 
 granite set in red clay, and proved that the master of the 
 abode had come honestly by his Chouan nickname.* 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil raised her eyes to avoid this sight, 
 and it seemed to her forthwith that she had seen all the 
 bats in the world — so numerous were the spiders' webs 
 that hung from the beams. Two huge pitchers, filled 
 with cider, were standing on the long table. These 
 utensils are a sort of brown earthenware jug of a pattern 
 
 * Galope-Chopine, literally, Toss-pot. Translator's note, 
 
2J4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 which is still in use in several districts in France, and which 
 a Parisian can imagine for himself by thinking of the pots 
 in which epicures serve Brittany butter ; but the body of 
 the jug is rounder, the glaze is unevenly distributed, and 
 shaded over with brown splashes, like certain shells. The 
 pitcher ends in a mouth of a kind not unlike the head of 
 a frog thrust out above the water to take the air. The 
 two pitchers had attracted Marie's attention last of all ; 
 but the sound of the fight grew more and more distinct, 
 and compelled her to look about for a suitable hiding-place 
 without waiting for Barbette, when the latter suddenly 
 appeared. 
 
 ( Good-day, Becaniere,' she said, repressing an involun- 
 tary smile at the sight of a face that rather resembled the 
 heads which architects set, by way of ornament, in the 
 centres of window arches. 
 
 ■ Aha ! you come from d'Orgemont,' answered Barbette 
 with no particular eagerness. 
 
 1 Where will you put me ? For the Chouans are 
 here ' 
 
 * There ! ' said Barbette, as much at a loss at the sight 
 of the beauty as well as of the eccentric attire of a being 
 whom she did not venture to include among her own sex. 
 c There ! In the priest's hole ! ■ 
 
 She took her to the head of the bed, and put her 
 between it and the wall ; but both of them were thunder- 
 struck just then, for they thought they could hear strange 
 footsteps hurrying through the swamp. Barbette had 
 scarcely time to draw one of the bed-curtains and to 
 huddle Marie in it before she found herself face to face 
 with a fugitive Chouan. 
 
 i Good-wife, where can one hide here ? I am the 
 Comte de Bauvan.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil trembled as she recognised the voice 
 of the dinner-guest, who had spoken the few words (still 
 a mystery for her) which had brought about the catastrophe 
 at the Vivetiere, 
 
A Day without a Morrow 235 
 
 * Alas ! monseigneur, you see there is nothing here ! 
 The best thing I can do is to go ; but I will watch, and 
 if the Blues are coming I will give you warning. If I 
 were to stop here, and they found me with you, they 
 would burn my house down.' 
 
 So Barbette went out, for she had not wit enough to 
 reconcile the opposing claims of two foes, each of whom 
 had an equal right to the hiding-place, by virtue of the 
 double part her husband was playing. 
 
 6 1 have two shots to fire,' said the Count despairingly, 
 6 but they have gone past me already. Pshaw ! I should 
 be unlucky, indeed, if the fancy were to take them to look 
 under the bed as they come back. 
 
 He gently lent his gun against the bed-post, beside 
 which Marie stood wrapped about with the green 
 serge curtain. Then he stooped down to make quite 
 sure that he could creep under the bed. He could not 
 have failed to see the feet of the other refugee, who in 
 the desperation of the moment snatched up his gun, 
 sprang quickly out into the room, and threatened the 
 Count with it. A peal of laughter broke from him, 
 however, as he recognised her ; for, in order to hide 
 herself, Marie had taken off her enormous Chouan hat, 
 and thick locks of her hair were escaping from beneath a 
 sort of net of lace. 
 
 c Do not laugh, Count ; you are my prisoner. If you 
 make any movement, you shall know what an incensed 
 woman is capable of.' 
 
 Just as the Count and Marie were looking at each 
 other with widely different feelings, confused voices were 
 shouting among the rocks, c Save the Gars ! Scatter 
 yourselves ! Save the Gars ! Scatter yourselves ! ' 
 
 Barbette's voice rose above the uproar without, and 
 was heard by the two foes inside the cottage with very 
 different sensations, for she was speaking less to her own 
 son than to them. 
 
 — ' Don't you see the Blues ? ' Barbette cried tartly. 
 
The Chouans 
 
 c Come here, you naughty little lad, or I will go after 
 you ! Do you want to get shot ? Come, run away 
 quickly.' 
 
 While all these small events were rapidly taking place, 
 a Blue dashed into the swamp. 
 
 c Beau-Pied ! ' called Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 At the sound of her voice Beau-Pied ran up and took 
 a somewhat better aim at the Count than his liberatress 
 had done. 
 
 * Aristocrat,' said the waggish soldier, c do not stir, or I 
 will bring you down like the Bastille, in a brace of 
 shakes.' 
 
 ' Monsieur Beau-Pied,' said Mile, de Verneuil in per- 
 suasive tones, c you are answerable to me for this prisoner. 
 Do it in your own way, but you must deliver him over to 
 me at Fougeres safe and sound.' 
 
 * Enough, madame ! ' 
 
 4 Is the way to Fougeres clear by now ? ' 
 
 c It is safe, unless the Chouans come to life again.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil cheerfully equipped herself with the 
 light fowling-piece, gave her prisoner an ironical smile 
 as she remarked, c Goodbye, Monsieur le Comte, we shall 
 meet again ! ' and went swiftly up the pathway, after 
 putting on her great hat again. 
 
 4 1 am learning a little too late,' said the Comte de 
 Bauvan bitterly, c that one should never jest concerning 
 the honour of women who have none left.' 
 
 c Aristocrat,' cried Beau-Pied with asperity, 4 say 
 nothing against that beautiful lady, if you do not wish 
 me to send you to your ci-devant paradise.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil returned to Fougeres by the paths 
 which connect the crags of St. Sulpice with the Nid-aux- 
 Crocs. When she reached these latter heights and 
 hastened along the winding track which had been beaten 
 out over the rough surface of the granite, she admired the 
 lovely little Nan^on valley, but lately so full of tumult, 
 now so absolutely peaceful. Seen from that point of view, 
 
A Day without a Morrow 237 
 
 the glen looked like a green alley. Mile, de Verneuil 
 returned by way of St. Leonard's gate, where the narrow 
 path came to an end. 
 
 The townspeople were still in anxiety about the 
 struggle ; which, judging by the firing that they heard 
 in the distance, seemed likely to last through the day. 
 They were awaiting the return of the National Guard 
 to know the full extent of their losses. When this girl 
 appeared in her grotesque costume, with her hair dis- 
 hevelled, a gun in her hand, her dress and shawl drenched 
 with dew, soiled by contact with walls, and stained with 
 mud, the curiosity of the people of Fougeres was all the 
 more vividly excited since the authority, beauty, and 
 eccentricity of the fair Parisian already furnished the 
 stock subject of their conversation. 
 
 Francine had sat up all night waiting for her mistress, 
 a prey to horrible misgivings, so that on her return she 
 wished to talk, but silence was enjoined upon her by a 
 friendly gesture. 
 
 c I am not dead, child,' said Marie. c Ah ! when I 
 left Paris I longed for emotions — and I have had them,' 
 she added after a pause. Francine went out to order a 
 meal, remarking to her mistress that she must be in great 
 need of it. 
 
 c Oh, no,' said Mile, de Verneuil, c but a bath, a bath ! 
 The toilet before everything else.' 
 
 It was with no small degreee of astonishment that 
 Francine heard her mistress asking for the most fashion- 
 able and elegant dresses that had been packed for her. 
 
 After her breakfast, Marie made her toilette with all 
 the minute care and attention that a woman devotes to 
 this most important operation, when she is to appear 
 before the eyes of her beloved in the midst of a ballroom. 
 Francine could not account in any way for her mistress's 
 mocking gaiety. There was none of the joy of love in 
 it — no woman can make a mistake as to that expression 
 —there was an ill-omened and concentrated malice about 
 
The Chouans 
 
 her, With her own hands Marie arranged the curtains 
 about the windows, through which her eyes beheld a 
 magnificent view. Then she drew the sofa nearer to the 
 fire, set it in a light favourable to her face, and bade 
 Francine bring flowers, so as to impart a festival appearance 
 to the room. When Francine had brought the flowers, 
 Marie superintended her arrangement of them to the best 
 advantage. After casting a final glance of satisfaction 
 round her apartment, she ordered Francine to send some 
 one to demand her prisoner of the commandant. 
 
 She lay back luxuriously upon the sofa, partly to rest 
 herself, and partly in order to assume a graceful and 
 languid pose, which in certain women exerts an irresistible 
 fascination. There was an indolent softness about her ; 
 the tips of her feet scarcely escaped from beneath the 
 folds of her dress in a provoking manner ; the negligence 
 of her attitude, the bend of her neck — everything, down 
 to the curves of her slender fingers that drooped over a 
 cushion like the bells of a spray of jessamine, was in 
 unison with her glances, and possessed an attractive 
 influence. She burned perfumes so that the air was per- 
 meated with the sweet fragrance that acts so powerfully 
 on the nerves, and frequently prepares the way for con- 
 quests which women desire to make without any advance 
 on their part. A few moments later the heavy tread of 
 the old commandant was heard in the ante-chamber. 
 
 4 Well, commandant, where is my captive ? ' 
 
 c I have just ordered out a picket of a dozen men to 
 shoot him, as he was taken with arms in his hands.' 
 
 4 You have disposed of my prisoner ! 9 said she. c Listen, 
 commandant. If I read your countenance rightly, there 
 can be no great satisfaction for you in the death of a man 
 after the engagement is over. Very well, then ; give me 
 back my Chouan, and grant him a reprieve. I will take 
 the responsibility upon myself. I must inform you that 
 this aristocrat has become indispensable to me, and with 
 his co-operation our projects will be accomplished. More- 
 
A Day without a Morrow 
 
 2.39 
 
 over, it would be as ridiculous to shoot this amateur 
 Chouan as to fire on a balloon, for the prick of a pin is all 
 that is needed to bring about its entire collapse. Leave 
 butchery to the aristocrats, for heaven's sake. Republics 
 should show themselves to be magnanimous. Would not 
 you yourself have granted an amnesty to the victims at 
 Quiberon and to many others ? Now, then, send your 
 doz^ii men to make the rounds, and come and dine with 
 me and my prisoner. There is only an hour of daylight 
 left, and you see,' she added, smiling, ' that if you delay, 
 my toilette will lose all its effect.' 
 
 'But, mademoiselle ' said the astonished com- 
 mandant. 
 
 c Well, what is it ? I understand you. Come, the 
 Count will not escape you. Sooner or later the portly 
 butterfly yonder will scorch himself beneath the fire of 
 your platoons.' 
 
 The commandant slightly shrugged his shoulders, like 
 a man who is compelled to submit, against his own judg- 
 ment, to the whims of a pretty woman. He returned in 
 the space of half an hour, followed by the Comte de Bauvan. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil made as though her two guests had 
 taken her by surprise, and appeared to be in some con- 
 fusion at being detected by the Count in so careless an 
 attitude ; but when she had seen, from that gentleman's 
 eyes, that a first effect had been produced upon him, she 
 rose and gave her whole attention to her visitors with 
 perfect politeness and grace. There was nothing either 
 constrained or studied in her attitude, in her smile, her 
 voice or her manner, nothing that betrayed a premedi- 
 tated design. Everything about her was in agreement ; 
 there was no touch of exaggeration which could give an 
 impression that she was assuming the manners of a world 
 with which she was not familiar. 
 
 When the Royalist and the Republican were both 
 seated, she looked at the Count with an expression of 
 severity. The nobleman understood women sufficiently 
 
240 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 well to know that the affront that he had offered to hei 
 was like to be his own death-warrant. But in spite of 
 this misgiving, and without showing either melancholy 
 or levity, he behaved like a man who did not look for 
 such a sudden catastrophe. It soon appeared to him that 
 there was something ridiculous about fearing death in the 
 presence of a pretty woman, and Marie's severe looks had 
 put some ideas into his head. 
 
 4 Eh ! 9 thought he. 4 Who knows whether a Count's 
 coronet still to be had will not please her better than the 
 coronet of a Marquis which has been lost ? Montauran 
 is as hard as a nail, while I ' and he looked com- 
 placently at himself. 4 At any rate, if I save my life, that 
 is the least that may come of it.' 
 
 These diplomatic reflections were all to no purpose. 
 The penchant which the Count intended to feign for 
 Mile, de Verneuil became a violent fancy, which that 
 dangerous being was pleased to encourage. 
 
 4 You are my prisoner, Count,' she said, 4 and I have the 
 right to dispose of you. Your execution will only take 
 place with my consent ; and I have too much curiosity to 
 allow you to be shot at once.' 
 
 4 And suppose that I maintain an obstinate silence ? ' he 
 answered merrily. 
 
 4 With an honest woman perhaps you might, but with 
 a light one ! Come now, Count, that is impossible.' 
 
 These words, full of bitter irony, were hissed at him 
 4 from so sharp a whistle ' (to quote Sully's remark con- 
 cerning the Duchess of Beaufort), that the astonished 
 noble could find nothing better to do than to gaze at his 
 cruel opponent. 
 
 4 Stay,' she went on with a satirical smile, 4 not to gain- 
 say you, I will be a 44 good girl," like one of those creatures. 
 Here is your gun, to begin with/ and she held out his 
 weapon to xim with mock amiability. 
 
 4 On the faith of a gentleman, mademoiselle, you are 
 doing ' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 241 
 
 * Ah ! ' she broke in, i I have had enough of <c the faith 
 of a gentleman ! " On that security I set foot in the 
 Vivetiere. Your chief swore that I and mine should be 
 in safety ' 
 
 c What infamy ! ■ exclaimed Hulot with a scowl. 
 
 c It is the Count here who is to blame,' she said, address- 
 ing Hulot, and indicating the noble. c The Gars 
 certainly intended to keep his word ; but this gentleman 
 put some slander or other in circulation, which confirmed 
 the stories which it had pleased Charette's Filly to imagine 
 about me.' 
 
 c Mademoiselle,' said the Count in dire distress, with 
 the axe hanging over him, 4 1 will swear that I said 
 nothing but the truth ' 
 
 * And what did you say ? 1 
 
 c That you had been the ' 
 
 1 Speak out ! The mistress ? ' 
 
 c Of the Marquis of Lenon court, the present Duke, and 
 a friend of mine,' the Count made answer. 
 
 4 Now, I might let you go to your death,' said Marie, 
 who was apparently unmoved by the Count's circum- 
 stantial accusation. The indifference, real or feigned, with 
 which she regarded its opprobrium amazed the Count. 
 'But,' she continued, laughing, c you can dismiss for ever 
 the ominous vision of those leaden pellets, for you have 
 no more given offence to me than to that friend of yours 
 to whom you are pleased to assign me as — fie on you ! 
 Listen to me, Count, did you never visit my father, the 
 Due de Verneuil ? — Very well then ' 
 
 Considering, doubtless, that the confidence which she 
 was about to make was so important that Hulot must be 
 excluded from it, Mile, de Verneuil beckoned the Count 
 to her, and whispered a few words in his ear. A stifled 
 exclamation of surprise broke from M. de Bauvan ; he 
 looked at Marie in a bewildered fashion ; she was leaning 
 quietly against the chimney piece, and the childish 
 simplicity of her attitude suddenly brought back the whole 
 
242 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 of the memory which she had partially called up. The 
 Count fell on one knee. 
 
 4 Mademoiselle,' he cried, 4 I entreat you to grant my 
 pardon, although I may not deserve it.' 
 
 4 I have nothing to forgive,' she said. 4 You are as 
 irrational now in your repentance as you were in your 
 insolent conjectures at the Vivetiere. But these mys- 
 teries are above your intelligence. Only,' she added 
 gravely, 4 you must know this, Count, that the daughter of 
 the Due de Verneuil has too much magnanimity not to 
 feel a lively interest in your fortunes.' 
 
 4 Even after an insult ? ' said the Count, with a sort of 
 remorse. 
 
 4 Are there not some who dwell so high that they are 
 above the reach of insult ? I am of their number, Count.' 
 
 The dignity and pride in the girl's bearing as she 
 uttered these words impressed her prisoner, and made 
 this affair considerably more obscure for Hulot. The 
 commandant's hand travelled to his moustache, as though 
 to turn it up at the ends, while he looked on uneasily. 
 Mile, de Verneuil gave him a significant glance, as if to 
 assure him that she was not deviating from her plan. 
 
 4 Now, let us have some talk,' she went on, after a 
 pause. 4 Bring us some lights, Francine, my girl.' 
 
 Skilfully she turned the conversation on the times, 
 which, in the space of so few years, had come to be the 
 ancien regime. She carried the Count back to those days 
 so thoroughly, by the keenness of her observations and 
 the vivid pictures she called up ; she gave him so many 
 opportunities of displaying his wit, by conducting her own 
 replies with dexterous and gracious tact, that the Count 
 ended by making the discovery that never before had he 
 been so agreeable. He grew young again at the thought, 
 and endeavoured to communicate his own good opinion 
 of himself to this attractive young person. The mis- 
 chievous girl amused herself by trying all her arts of 
 coquetry upon the Count, doing this all the more 
 
A Day without a Morrow 243 
 
 dexterously, because, for her, it was only a game. Some- 
 times she led him to believe that he was making rapid 
 progress in her regard ; sometimes she appeared to be 
 taken aback by the warmth of her own feelings ; and 
 displayed, in consequence, a reserve that fascinated the 
 Count, and which visibly helped to fan his extem- 
 porised flame. She behaved exactly like an angler who 
 lifts his rod from time to time to see if the fish is nibbling 
 at the bait. The poor Count allowed himself to be caught 
 by the innocent way in which his deliverers received two 
 or three rather neatly turned compliments. Emigration, 
 the Republic, and the Chouans were a thousand leagues 
 away from his thoughts. 
 
 Hulot sat bolt upright, motionless and pensive as the 
 god Terminus. His want of education made him totally 
 unapt at this kind of conversation. He had a strong 
 suspicion that the two speakers must be a very witty 
 pair ; but the efforts of his own intellect were confined 
 to ascertaining that their ambiguous words contained no 
 plotting against the Republic. 
 
 c Montauran, mademoiselle,' the Count was saying, 4 is 
 well born and well bred ; he is a pretty fellow enough ; 
 but he understands nothing of gallantry. He is too 
 young to have seen Versailles. His education has been 
 deficient ; he does not play off" one shrewd turn with 
 another ; he gives a stab with the knife instead. He can 
 fall violently in love, but he will never attain to that fine 
 flower of manner which distinguished Lauzun, Adhemar, 
 Coigny, and so many others. He has no idea of the 
 agreeable art of saying to women those pretty nothings, 
 which are better suited to them, after all, than outbursts 
 of passion, which they very soon find wearisome. Yes, 
 although he may have made conquests, he has neither 
 grace nor ease of manner.' 
 
 1 1 saw that clearly,' Marie replied. 
 
 c Ah ! ' said the Count to himself, c there was a note in 
 her voice and a look that shows that it will not be 
 
244 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 long before I am on the best of terms with her ; and 
 faith ! I will believe anything she wishes me to believe, 
 in order to be hers.' 
 
 Dinner was served ; he offered his arm. Mile, de 
 Verneuil did her part as hostess with a politeness and 
 tact which could only have been acquired by an educa- 
 tion received in the exclusive life of a court. 
 
 4 Leave us/ she said to Hulot, as they left the table, 
 c he is afraid of you ; while, if I am left alone with him, 
 I shall very soon learn everything that I wish to know ; 
 he has reached the point when a man tells me everything 
 that he thinks, and sees things only through my eyes.' 
 
 4 And after that ? 9 asked the commandant, who seemed 
 thus to reassert his claim to the prisoner. 
 
 4 Oh ! he will go free,' she said, 4 free as the air.' 
 
 4 But he was taken with arms in his hands ' 
 
 4 No, he was not,' said she, 4 for I had disarmed him,' 
 a jesting sophistry such as women love to oppose to 
 sound but arbitrary reasoning. 
 
 4 Count,' she said, as she came in again, 4 1 have just 
 obtained your freedom ; but nothing for nothing ! ' she 
 went on, smiling, and turning her head questioningly to 
 one side. 
 
 4 Ask everything of me that you will, even my name 
 and my honour ! 9 he cried, in his intoxication, 4 1 lay it 
 all at your feet.' And he came near to seize her hand, in 
 his endeavour to impose his desires upon her as gratitude, 
 but Mile, de Verneuil was not a girl to make a mistake 
 of this kind. So, while she smiled upon this new lover, 
 so as to give him hope — 
 
 4 Will you make me repent of my confidence in you ? ' 
 she said, drawing back a step or two. 
 
 4 A girl's imagination runs faster than a woman's,' he 
 answered, laughing. 
 
 4 A girl has more to lose than a woman.' 
 
 4 True, if one carries a treasure, one must needs be 
 suspicious.' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 245 
 
 4 Let us leave this kind of talk/ she answered, c and 
 speak seriously. You are giving a ball at Saint James. 
 I have heard that you have established your magazines 
 there, and your arsenals, and made it the seat of your 
 government. When is the ball ? • 
 
 c To-morrow night.' 
 
 c It will not astonish you, sir, that a slandered woman 
 should wish, with feminine persistency, to obtain a signal 
 reparation for the insults to which she has been subjected, 
 and this in the presence of those who witnessed them. 
 So I will go to your ball. What I ask of you is to grant 
 me your protection from the moment of my arrival to 
 the moment of my departure. I do not want your word 
 for it,' she said, seeing that he laid his hand on his heart. 
 ' 1 hold vows in abhorrence ; they seem to me too like 
 precautions. Simply tell me that you undertake to secure 
 me against any infamous and criminal attempts upon my 
 person. Promise to repair your own error by giving out 
 everywhere that I am really the daughter of the Due de 
 Verneuil 5 keeping silence, at the same time, about the 
 misfortunes which I owe to the lack of a father's protecting 
 care ; and then we shall be quits. Eh ! Can a couple 
 of hours' protection extended to a woman in a ballroom 
 be too heavy a ransom ? Come, come, you are not worth 
 a penny more than that,' and a smile deprived her words 
 of any bitterness. 
 
 4 What will you demand for my gun ? ' laughed the 
 Count. 
 
 4 Oh ! more than I do for you yourself/ 
 • 'What is it?' 
 
 'Secrecy. Believe me, Bauvan, only a woman can 
 read another woman. I am positive that if you breathe 
 a word of this, I may lose my life on the way thither. 
 One or two balls yesterday warned me of the risks which 
 I must encounter on the journey. Oh ! that lady is as 
 expert with a rifle as she is dexterous in assisting at the 
 toilet. No waiting-woman ever undressed me so quickly, 
 
246 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Pray manage things so that I may have nothing of that 
 kind to fear at the ball.' 
 
 4 You will be under my protection,' the Count replied 
 proudly. 4 But perhaps it is for Montauran's sake that 
 you are coming to Saint James ? ' 
 
 4 You wish to know more than I do myself,' she said, 
 laughing. 4 You must go, now,' she added, after a pause. 
 C I myself will be your conductor until you are out of 
 the town, for you have made the war one of cannibals, 
 here.' 
 
 4 But you take some interest in me,' cried the Count. 
 4 Ah ! mademoiselle, allow me to hope that you will not 
 be insensible to my friendship ; for I must be content 
 with that, must I not ? ' he added, with the air of a 
 coxcomb. 
 
 4 Come now, conjurer ! ' she said, with the blithe ex- 
 pression that a woman can assume when she makes an 
 admission that neither betrays her real feelings nor com- 
 promises her dignity. She put on her pelisse, and went 
 with the Count as far as the Nid-aux-Crocs. When 
 they reached the beginning of the footpath, she said — 
 
 4 Maintain an absolute reserve, sir, even with the 
 Marquis,' and she laid a ringer on her lips. The Count, 
 emboldened by Mile, de Verneuil's graciousness, took her 
 hand ; she suffered him to do so, like one who grants a 
 great privilege, and he kissed it tenderly. 
 
 4 Oh, mademoiselle,' he cried, when he saw that he was 
 quite out of danger, 4 you can reckon upon me through 
 life and death ? Since I owe you a debt of gratitude 
 almost as great as that which I owe to my own mother, 
 it will be very hard to feel nothing more than esteem for 
 you.' 
 
 He sprang down the pathway. Marie watched him as 
 he scaled the crags of St. Sulpice, and nodded approvingly, 
 as she murmured to herself — 
 
 4 That fine fellow yonder has paid me for his life more 
 than the worth of his life, I could make him my 
 
A Day without a Morrow 247 
 
 creature at a very small cost ! A creature and a creator ! 
 There lies the whole difference between one man and 
 another ! 9 She went no further with her thought. She 
 gave a despairing look at the sky above her, and slowly 
 returned to St. Leonard's Gate, where Hulot and Corentin 
 were waiting for her. 
 
 ' Yet two more days,' she cried ; then she checked 
 herself, seeing that they were not alone, and whispered 
 the rest in Hulot's ears — ' and he shall drop down beneath 
 your fire.' 
 
 With a peculiar jocose expression not easy to describe, 
 the commandant suddenly drew back a step and looked 
 at the girl before him — there was not a shadow of remorse 
 in her face or bearing. It is wonderful how women, 
 generally speaking, never reason over their most blame- 
 worthy actions ; they are led entirely by their feelings ; 
 there is a kind of sincerity in their very dissimulation, and 
 only among women is crime dissociated from baseness ; 
 for, for the most part, they themselves do not know how 
 the thing has come about. 
 
 ' I am going to Saint James, to a ball given by the 
 Chouans, and ' 
 
 c But that is five leagues away from here,' Corentin 
 put in. 'Shall I escort you ? 9 
 
 'You are very much taken up,' said she, 'with some- 
 thing that I never think about at all — that is to say, 
 yourself.' 
 
 The contempt for Corentin which Marie had displayed 
 was eminently gratifying to Hulot, who made his peculiar 
 grimace as he watched her disappear in^the direction of 
 St. Leonard. Corentin's eyes likewise followed her; 
 but from his face it was evident that he suppressed the 
 consciousness of a superior power which he thought to 
 exercise over this charming woman's destiny ; he meant 
 so to control her by means of her passions that one day 
 she should be his. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil, on her return, betook herself at 
 
248 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 once to considering her ball dress. Francine, quite 
 accustomed to obedience, though she did not understand 
 the ends which her mistress had in view, ransacked the 
 trunks, and suggested a Greek costume. Everything at 
 that time took its tone from ancient Greece. This 
 toilette, which received Marie's approval, could be packed 
 in a trunk that could easily be carried. 
 
 c I am setting out on a wild errand, Francine, child ; 
 think whether you would rather stay here or go with me ? ' 
 
 4 Stay here ! ' cried Francine ; * if I did, who would 
 dress you ? ' 
 
 4 Where have you put the glove that I gave you this 
 morning ? ' 
 f Here it is ! ' 
 
 * Sew a bit of green ribbon upon it ; and before all 
 things, do not forget to take some money.' 
 
 But when she saw that Francine had newly coined 
 money in her hand, she exclaimed, c That in itself would 
 be the death of us! Send Jeremiah to arouse Corentin. 
 . . . No, the villain would follow us ! It would be 
 better to send to the commandant to ask him for some 
 crowns of six francs each, for me.' 
 
 Marie thought of everything down to the smallest 
 detail, with a woman's foresight. While Francine com- 
 pleted the preparations for her incomprehensible journey, 
 she occupied herself with trying to imitate the cry of 
 the screech owl, and succeeded in imitating Marche-a- 
 Terre's signal in a manner that baffled detection. At 
 midnight she passed out through St. Leonard's Gate, 
 reached the narrow footpath along the Nid-aux- Crocs ; 
 and, with Francine following her, she ventured across 
 the dale of Gibarry. She walked with a firm step ; 
 for so strong a will as that which stirred within her 
 invests the body and its movements with an inde- 
 scribable quality of power. For women, the problem 
 how to leave a ballroom without catching a cold is 
 of no small importance ; but when their hearts are j 
 
A Day without a Morrow 249 
 
 once possessed by passion, their frames might be made 
 of iron. Even a bold man would have hesitated over 
 such an enterprise ; but scarcely had Mile, de Verneuil 
 begun to feel the attractions of the prospect, when its 
 dangers became so many temptations for her. 
 
 c You are setting out without a prayer for God's pro- 
 tection,' said Francine, who had turned to look at St. 
 Leonard's spire. 
 
 The devout Breton girl stopped, clasped her hands, and 
 said her Ave to St. Anne of Auray, beseeching her to 
 prosper their journey, while her mistress stood waiting, 
 deep in thought, gazing alternately at the childlike 
 attitude of her maid, who was praying fervently, and 
 at the effects of the misty moonlight, as it fell over the 
 carved stone-work about the church, giving to the granite 
 the look of delicate filagree. 
 
 In no long time the two women reached Galope- 
 Chopine's cottage. Light as were the sounds of their foot- 
 steps, they aroused one of the huge dogs that, in Brittany, 
 are intrusted with the safe keeping of the door, a simple 
 wooden latch being the only fastening in vogue. The 
 dog made a rush at the two strangers, and his bark 
 became so furious that they were compelled to retreat 
 a few paces and to call for help. Nothing stirred, how- 
 ever. Mile, de Verneuil gave the cry of the screech-owl, 
 and then the rusty hinges of the cabin-door creaked 
 loudly all at once, and Galope-Chopine, who had risen in 
 haste, showed his gloomy countenance. 
 
 .Marie held out Montauran's glove for the inspection of 
 the warden of Fougeres. 
 
 4 1 must go to Saint James at once,' she said. c The 
 Comte de Bauvan told me that I should find a guide and 
 protector in you. So find two donkeys for us to ride, 
 my worthy Galope-Chopine, and prepare to come with 
 us yourself. Time is valuable ; for if we do not reach 
 Saint James before to-morrow evening, we shall neither 
 see the Gars nor the ball.' 
 
250 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Galope-Chopine, utterly amazed, took the glove and 
 turned it over and over. Then he lighted a candle made 
 of resin, about the thickness of the little finger, and the 
 colour of gingerbread. This commodity had been im- 
 ported from the north of Europe, and, like everything 
 else in this strange land of Brittany, plainly showed the 
 prevailing ignorance of the most elementary principles of 
 commerce. When Galope-Chopine had seen the green 
 ribbon, taken a look at Mile, de Verneuil, scratched his 
 ear, and emptied a pitcher of cider, after offering a glass 
 to the fair lady, he left her seated upon the bench of 
 polished chestnut wood before the table, and went in 
 search of two donkeys. 
 
 The violet rays of the outlandish candle were hardly 
 strong enough to outshine the fitful moonlight, that gave 
 vague outlines in dots of light to the dark hues of the 
 furniture, and to the floor of the smoke-begrimed hut. 
 The little urchin had raised his pretty, wondering face ; 
 and up above his fair curls appeared the heads of two 
 cows, their pink noses and great eyes shone through the 
 holes in the wall of the byre. The big dog, whose head 
 was by no means the least intelligent one in this family, 
 seemed to contemplate the two strangers with a curiosity 
 quite as great as that displayed by the child. A painter 
 would have dwelt admiringly on the effect of this night- 
 piece, but Marie was not very eager to enter into 
 conversation with the spectre-like Barbette, who was 
 now sitting up in bed, and had begun to open her 
 eyes very wide with recognition. Marie went out to 
 avoid the pestiferous atmosphere of the hovel, and to 
 escape the questions which the 'Becaniere' was about 
 to ask. 
 
 She tripped lightly up the flight of stairs cut in the 
 rock which overhung Galope-Chopine's cottage, and 
 thence admired the endless detail of the landscape before 
 her, which underwent a change at every step, whether 
 backwards or forwards, towards the crests of the hills or 
 
A Day without a Morrow 251 
 
 down to the depths of the valleys. Moonlight was spreading 
 like a luminous mist far and wide over the valley of the 
 Couesnon. A woman who carried a burden of slighted 
 love in her heart could not but experience the feeling of 
 melancholy that this soft light produces in the soul— a 
 light that lent fantastic outlines to the mountain forms, 
 and traced out the lines of the streams in strange pale 
 tints. 
 
 The silence was broken just then by the bray of the 
 asses. Marie hurried down to the Chouan's cabin, and 
 they set out at once. Galope-Chopine, armed with a 
 double-barrelled fowling-piece, wore a shaggy goatskin 
 which gave him the appearance of a Robinson Crusoe. 
 His wrinkled and blotched countenance was barely 
 visible beneath his huge hat, an article of dress to which 
 the peasants still cling, in pride at having obtained, 
 after all their long ages of serfdom, a decoration sacred to 
 the heads of their lords in times of yore. There was 
 something patriarchal about the costume, attitude, and 
 form of their guide and protector ; the whole nocturnal 
 procession resembled the picture of 'The Flight into 
 Egypt' which we owe to the sombre brush of Rem- 
 brandt. Galope-Chopine industriously avoided the high- 
 way, and led the two women through the vast labyrinth 
 made by cross-country roads in Brittany. 
 
 By this time Mile, de Verneuil understood the tactics 
 of the Chouans in war. As she herself went over these 
 tracks, she could form a more accurate notion of the 
 najure of the country which had appeared so enchanting 
 to her when she viewed it from the heights ; a country 
 presenting dangers and well-nigh hopeless difficulties, 
 which must be experienced before any idea can be formed 
 concerning them. The peasants, from time immemorial, 
 have raised a bank of earth about each field, forming a 
 flat-topped ridge, six feet in height, with beeches, oaks, 
 and chestnut trees growing upon the summit. The ridge 
 or mound, planted in this wise, is called c a hedge' (the 
 
252 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 kind of hedge they have in Normandy) ; and as the long 
 branches of the trees which grow upon it almost always 
 project across the road, they make a great arbour over- 
 head. The roads themselves, shut in by clay banks in 
 this melancholy way, are not unlike the moats of for- 
 tresses; and whenever the granite, which is nearly always 
 just beneath the surface in these districts, does not form 
 an uneven natural pavement, the ways become so exces- 
 sively heavy, that the lightest cart can only travel over 
 them with the help of two yoke of oxen and a couple of 
 horses; they are small horses, it is true, but generally 
 strong. So chronic is the swampy state of the roads that, 
 by dint of use and wont, a path called a rote has been 
 beaten out for foot passengers along the side of the hedge 
 in each field. The necessary transition from one field to 
 another is effected by climbing a few steps cut in the 
 bank sides, which are often slippery in wet weather. 
 
 The travellers found other obstacles in abundance to 
 be surmounted in these winding lanes. Each separate 
 piece of land, fortified in the way that has been described, 
 possesses a gateway some ten feet wide, which is barred 
 across by a contrivance called an echalier in the West. 
 The echalier is either a trunk or a limb of a tree, with a 
 hole drilled through one end of it, so that it can be set on 
 another shapeless log of wood which serves, as it were, 
 for a handle or pivot upon which the first piece is turned. 
 The thick end of the echalier is so arranged as to project 
 some distance behind this pivot, so that it can carry a 
 heavy weight as a counterpoise, a device that enables a 
 child to open and close this curious rustic gate. The 
 further end of the tree trunk lies in a hollow fashioned on 
 the inner side of the bank itself. Sometimes the peasants 
 thriftily dispense with the stone counterpoise, and let the 
 thick end of the trunk or limb of the tree hang further over 
 instead. This kind of barrier varies with the taste of 
 every farmer. Very often the echalier consists of one 
 single branch of a tree, with either end ensconced in the 
 
A Day without a Morrow 253 
 
 earth of the bank. Often, again, it looks like a square 
 gate, built up of many branches, set at intervals, as if the 
 rungs of a ladder had been arranged crosswise. This 
 kind of gate turns about like an echalier^ and the other 
 end moves upon a little revolving disc. 
 
 These 'hedges' and echaliers make the land look like 
 a vast chessboard. Every field is a separate and distinct 
 enclosure like a fortress, and each, like a fortress, is pro- 
 tected by a rampart. The gateways are readily defended, 
 and, when stormed, afford a conquest fraught with many 
 perils. The Breton has a fancy that fallow land is made 
 fertile by growing huge bushes of broom upon it \ so he 
 encourages this shrub, which thrives upon the treatment 
 it receives to such an extent that it soon reaches the 
 height of a man. This superstition is not unworthy of 
 a population capable of depositing their heaps of manure 
 on the highest points of their fold yards ; and in conse- 
 quence, one-fourth of the whole area of the land is covered 
 with thickets of broom, affording hiding-places without 
 number for ambuscades. Scarcely a field is without its 
 one or two old cider-apple trees, whose low overhanging 
 branches are fatal to the vegetation beneath. Imagine, 
 therefore, how little of the field itself is left, when every 
 hedge is planted with huge trees, whose greedy roots 
 spread out over one-fourth of the space ; and you will 
 have some idea of the system of cultivation and general 
 appearance of the country through which Mile, de 
 Verneuil was travelling. 
 
 It is not clear whether a desire to avoid disputes about 
 landmarks, or the convenient and easy custom of shutting 
 up cattle on the land with no one to look after them, 
 brought about the construction of these redoubtable 
 barriers — permanent obstacles which make the country 
 impenetrable, and render a war with large bodies of 
 troops quite impossible. When the nature of the land 
 has been reviewed, step by step, the hopelessness of a 
 struggle between regular and irregular troops is abun- 
 
254 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 dantly evident ; for five hundred men can hold the 
 country in the teeth of the troops of a kingdom. This 
 was the whole secret of Chouan warfare. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil now understood how pressing was 
 the necessity that the Republic should stamp out rebellion 
 rather by means of police and diplomacy than by futile 
 efforts on the part of the military. As a matter of fact, 
 what was it possible to effect against a people clever 
 enough to despise the possession of their towns, while 
 they secured the length and breadth of their land by such 
 indestructible earthworks ? And how do otherwise than 
 negotiate, when the whole blind force of the peasants 
 was concentrated in a wary and audacious chief? She 
 admired the genius of the minister who had discovered 
 the clue to a peace in the depths of his cabinet. She 
 thought she had gained an insight into the nature of the 
 considerations which sway men who have ability enough 
 to see the condition of an empire at a glance. Their 
 actions, which in the eyes of the crowd seem to be 
 criminal, are but the partial manifestations of a single 
 vast conception. There is about such awe-inspiring 
 minds as these an unknown power which seems to belong 
 half to chance and half to fate ; a mysterious prophetic 
 instinct within them beckons them, and they rise up 
 suddenly -> the common herd misses them for a moment 
 from among its numbers, raises its eyes, and beholds them 
 soaring on high. These thoughts seemed to justify, nay, 
 to exalt Mile, de Verneuil's longings for revenge ; her 
 hopes and the thoughts that wrought within her lent to 
 her sufficient strength to endure the unwonted fatigues of 
 her journey. At the boundary of every freehold Galope- 
 Chopine was compelled to assist the two women to dis- 
 mount, and to help them to scramble over the awkward 
 interval, and when the rotes came to an end they were 
 obliged to mount again and venture into the miry lanes 
 which the approach of winter had already affected. The 
 huge trees, the hollow ways, and the barriers in these low- 
 
A Day without a Morrow 255 
 
 lying meadows, all combined to shut in a damp atmosphere 
 that surrounded the three travellers like an icy pall. After 
 much painful fatigue they reached the woods of Marignay 
 at sunrise. Their way became easier along a broad forest 
 ride. The thick vault of branches overhead protected 
 them from the weather, and they encountered no more 
 of the difficulties which had hitherto impeded them. 
 
 They had scarcely gone a league through the forest, 
 when they heard a confused far-off murmur of voices and 
 the silvery sounds of a bell, ringing less monotonously 
 than those which are shaken by the movements of cattle. 
 Galope-Chopine hearkened to the soft sounds with keen 
 attention. Very soon a gust of the breeze bore the 
 words of a psalm to his ear. This seemed to produce a 
 great effect upon him ; he led the weary donkeys aside 
 into a track which took the travellers away from the 
 direct road to Saint James, turning a deaf ear to the 
 remonstrances of Mile, de Verneuil, whose uneasiness 
 was increased by the gloomy condition of the place. 
 Enormous blocks of granite, with the strangest outlines, 
 lay to right and left of them, piled one above another. 
 Huge serpent-like roots wandered over these rocks, 
 seeking moisture and nourishment afar for some few 
 venerable beeches. Both sides of the road looked like the 
 huge caves which are famous for their stalactites. Ravines 
 and cavern-mouths were hidden by festoons of ivy ; the 
 sombre green of the holly thickets mingled with the 
 brackens and with green or greyish patches of moss. The 
 travellers had not taken many steps along this narrow 
 track when a most amazing scene suddenly spread itself 
 before Mile, de Verneuirs eyes, and explained Galope- 
 Chopine's pertinacity. 
 
 A kind of cove rose before them, built up of huge 
 masses of granite, forming a semi-circular amphitheatre. 
 Tall dark firs and golden brown chestnut trees grew on 
 its irregular tiers, which rose one above another, as in a 
 great circus. The winter sun seemed not so much to 
 
256 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 throw its light as to pour a flood of pale colours over 
 everything, and autumn had spread a warm brown 
 carpet of dry leaves everywhere. In the very centre of 
 this hall, which seemed to have had the Deluge for its 
 architect, rose three giant Druidical stones, a great altar 
 above which the banner of the church was set. Some 
 hundred men, in fervent prayer, knelt, bareheaded, in 
 this enclosure, where a priest, assisted by two other 
 ecclesiastics, was saying mass. The poverty of the 
 sacerdotal garb, the weak voice of the priest, which echoed 
 like a murmur in space, the crowd of men filled with 
 conviction, united by one common feeling, bending before 
 the undecorated altar and the bare crucifix, the sylvan 
 austerity of the temple, the hour and the place, lent this 
 scene an appearance of simplicity which must have 
 characterised early Christian gatherings. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil stood still in admiring awe. She 
 had never before seen or imagined anything like this 
 mass said in the heart of the forest, this worship which 
 persecution had driven back to its primitive conditions, 
 this poetry of the days of yore brought into sharp contrast 
 with the strange and wild aspects of nature, these kneeling 
 Chouans, armed or unarmed, at once men and children- — 
 at once cruel and devout. She recollected how often 
 she had marvelled, in her childhood, at the pomps which 
 this very Church of Rome has made so grateful to every 
 sense ; but she had never been brought thus face to face 
 with the thought of God alone — His cross above the altar, 
 His altar set on the bare earth ; among the autumn 
 woods that seemed to sustain the dome of the sky above, 
 as the garlands of carved stone crown the archways of 
 gothic cathedrals ; while for the myriad colours of 
 stained-glass windows, a few faint red gleams of sunlight 
 and its duller reflections scarcely lighted up the altar, the 
 priest, and his assistants. 
 
 The men before her were a fact, and not a system ; 
 this was a prayer, and not a theology. But the human 
 
A Day without a Morrow 257 
 
 passions which, thus restrained for a moment, had left the 
 harmony of this picture undisturbed, soon reasserted 
 themselves, and brought a powerful animation into the 
 mysterious scene. 
 
 The gospel came to an end as Mile, de Verneuil came 
 up. She recognised, not without alarm, the Abbe Gudin 
 in the officiating priest, and hastily screened herself from 
 his observation behind a great fragment of granite, which 
 made a hiding-place for her. She also drew Francine 
 quickly behind it, but in vain did she endeavour to tear 
 Galope-Chopine away from the post which he had chosen 
 with a view to sharing in the benefits of the ceremony. 
 She hoped to effect an escape from the danger that 
 threatened her when she saw that the nature of the 
 ground would permit her to withdraw before all the rest 
 of the congregation. 
 
 Through a large cleft in the rock she saw the Abbe 
 Gudin take his stand upon a block of granite which 
 served him for a pulpit, where he began his sermon with 
 these words : c In nomine Patris^ et Filii^ et Spiritus sancti? 
 
 The whole congregation devoutly made the sign of 
 the Cross as he spoke. 
 
 4 My dear brethren,' the Abbe then began, in a loud 
 voice, c first of all let us pray for the dead : for Jean 
 Cochegrue, Nicolas Laferte, Joseph Brouet, Francois 
 Parquoi, Sulpice Coupiau, all of this parish, who died of 
 the wounds which they received in the fight at La 
 Pelerine and in the siege of Fougeres. . . . De profundisj 
 and the psalm was recited, as their custom was, by the 
 priests and congregation, who repeated alternate verses 
 with an enthusiasm that augured well for the success of 
 the sermon. When the psalm for the dead was over, the 
 Abbe Gudin went on again in tones that grew more and 
 more vehement ; for the old Jesuit was well aware that 
 an emphatic style of address was the most convincing 
 form of argument by which to persuade his uncivilised 
 audience. 
 
258 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c These defenders of God, Christian brethren, have set 
 example of your duty before you,' said he. c Are you not 
 ashamed of what they may be saying of you in Paradise? 
 Were it not for those blessed souls, who must have been 
 welcomed there by the saints with open arms, our Lord 
 might well believe that your parish is the abode of heathen 
 Mahometans ! Do you know, my gars, what is said 
 about you in Brittany, and what the King is told of you ? 
 . . . You do not know, is not that so ? I will tell you. 
 They say : " What is this ? Altars have been overthrown 
 by the Blues; they have slain the rectors, they have 
 murdered the King and Queen, they intend to take the 
 men of every parish in Brittany, to make them Blues like 
 themselves, and to send them away from their parishes to 
 fight in far-off" countries where they run the risk of dying 
 unshriven, and, therefore, of spending eternity in hell. 
 And are the gars of Marignay, whose church has been 
 burned down, waiting with their arms hanging by their 
 sides ? Oho ! This accursed Republic has sold the 
 goods of God and of the seigneurs by auction, and divided 
 the price among the Blues ; and in order to batten itself 
 on money as it has battened on blood, the Republic has 
 issued a decree which demands three livres out of every 
 crown of six francs, just as it demands three men out of 
 every six ; and the men of Marignay have not taken up 
 their weapons to drive the Blues out of Brittany ? Aha ! 
 Paradise will be shut against them, and they will never 
 save their souls ! " This is what people are saying about 
 you. It is your own salvation, Christians, that is at stake ! 
 You will save your souls in the struggle for your faith 
 and your king. St. Anne of Auray appeared to me 
 herself yesterday at half-past two. She told me then just 
 what I am telling you now. " Thou art a priest from 
 Marignay ? " — " Yes, madame, at your service." — " Very 
 good, I am St. Anne of Auray, aunt of God, as we reckon 
 in Brittany. I dwell at Auray, and I am come hither also, 
 to bid thee tell the gars of Marignay that there is no hope 
 
A Day without a Morrow 259 
 
 of salvation for them if they do not take up arms. So 
 thou shalt refuse to absolve them from their sins unless 
 they serve God. Thou shalt bless their guns, and those 
 gars who shall be absolved from their sins shall never 
 miss the Blues, for their guns shall be holy ! " She 
 disappeared beneath the Goose-foot oak, leaving an odour 
 of incense behind. I marked the spot. There is a 
 beautiful wooden Virgin there, set up by the recteur of 
 Saint James. Moreover, the mother of Pierre Leroi, 
 who is called Marche-a-Terre, having repaired thither in 
 the evening to pray, has been healed of her sufferings 
 through the good works wrought by her son. There she 
 is in your midst ; you can see her with your own eyes 
 walking about without help from any one. It is a 
 miracle, like the resurrection of the blessed Marie 
 Lambrequin, wrought to prove to you that God will 
 never forsake the cause of the Bretons so long as they 
 fight for His servants and for the King. 
 
 4 So, dear brethren, if you would save your souls and 
 show yourselves to be defenders of our lord the King, you 
 ought to obey him who has been sent to you by the King, 
 and whom we call the Gars, in everything that he may 
 command. Then you will no longer be like heathen 
 Mahometans, and you will be found, with all the gars of 
 all Brittany, beneath the banner of God. You can take 
 back again, out of the Blues' pockets, all the money that 
 they have stolen, for since your fields lie unsown while 
 you go out to war, our Lord and the King make over to 
 you all the spoils of your enemies. Christians, shall it be 
 said of you that the gars of Marignay lag behind the gars 
 of Morbihan, the gars of Saint-Georges, of Vitre or of 
 Antrain, who are all in the service of God and the King ? 
 Will you allow them to take everything ? Will you 
 look on, like heretics, with folded arms, while so many 
 Bretons are saving their own souls while they save their 
 King ? " For Me, ye shall give up all things," says the 
 gospel. Have not we ourselves given up our tithes 
 
260 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 already ? Give up everything to wage this sacred war ! 
 You shall be as the Maccabees, you will be pardoned at 
 the last. You will find, in your midst, your rectors and 
 your cures, and the victory will be yours ! Christians, 
 give heed to this ! ' said he as he drew to an end. 4 To-day 
 is the only day on which we have the power of blessing 
 your guns. Those who do not take advantage of this 
 favour will never find the Blessed One of Auray so 
 merciful at another time, and she will not hear them 
 again, as she did in the last war.' 
 
 This sermon, supported by the thunders of a powerful 
 voice and by manifold gesticulations, which bathed the 
 orator in perspiration, produced but little apparent affect. 
 The peasants stood motionless as statues, with their 
 eyes fixed on the speaker -> but Mile, de Verneuil soon 
 saw clearly that this universal attitude was the result of 
 a spell which the Abbe exerted over the crowd. Like all 
 great actors, he had swayed his audience as one man, by 
 appealing to their passions and to their interests. Was 
 he not absolving them beforehand for any excesses that 
 they might commit ? Had he not severed the few bonds 
 that restrained these rough natures, and that kept them 
 obedient to the precepts of religion and of social order ? 
 He had prostituted the priestly office to the uses of poli- 
 tical intrigue; but in those revolutionary times, every one 
 used such weapons as he possessed in the interests of his 
 party, and the peace-bringing cross of Christ became an 
 instrument of war, as did the ploughshare that produces 
 man's daily bread. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil saw no one who could undersand 
 her thoughts, so she turned to look at Francine, and was 
 not a little amazed to find that her maid was sharing in 
 the general enthusiasm. She was devoutly telling her 
 beads on Galope-Chopine's rosary ; he, no doubt, had 
 made it over to her during the course of the sermon. 
 
 c Francine,' she murmured, 'are you also afraid of being 
 a " heathen Mahometan " ? 9 
 
A Day without a Morrow 
 
 261 
 
 € Oh ! mademoiselle,' answered the Breton girl, c only 
 look at Pierre's mother over yonder, she is walking ' 
 
 There was such deep conviction in Francine's attitude, 
 that Marie understood the secret spell of the sermon, the 
 influence exercised by the clergy in the country, and the 
 tremendous power of the scene which was just about to 
 begin. Those peasants who stood nearest went up, one 
 by one, kneeling as they oiFered their guns to the 
 preacher, who laid them down upon the altar. Galope- 
 Chopine lost no time in presenting himself with his old 
 duck gun. 
 
 The three priests chanted the hymn Vent Creator, 
 while the officiating priest enveloped the instruments of 
 death in a thick cloud of bluish smoke, describing a 
 pattern of intertwining lines. When the light wind had 
 borne away the fumes of incense, the guns were given 
 out again in order. Each man knelt to receive his 
 weapon from the hands of the priests, who recited a 
 prayer in Latin as they returned it to him. When every 
 armed man had returned to his place, the intense enthu- 
 siasm (hitherto mute) which possessed the congregation 
 broke out in a tremendous yet touching manner — 
 
 c Domine, salvum fac regem ! . . 
 
 This was the prayer that the preacher thundered forth 
 in an echoing voice, and which was sung twice through 
 with vehement excitement. There was something wild 
 and warlike about the sounds of their voices. The two 
 notes of the word regem, which the peasants readily 
 comprehended, were taken with such passionate force that 
 Mile, de Verneuil could not prevent her thoughts from 
 straying with emotion to the exiled family of Bourbons. 
 These recollections awoke others of her own past life. 
 Her memory brought back festive scenes at the court 
 where she herself had shone conspicuous, a court now 
 scattered abroad. The form of the Marquis glided into 
 her musings. She forgot the picture before her eyes ; 
 and with the sudden transition of thought natural to 
 
262 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 women's minds, her scheme of vengeance recurred to her, 
 a scheme for which she was about to risk her life, and yet 
 a single glance might bring it to naught. She meditated 
 how to appear at her best, at this supreme moment of 
 her career, and remembered that she had no ornaments 
 with which to deck her hair for this ball. A spray of 
 holly at once attracted her attention, and the thought of 
 a wreath of its curling leaves and scarlet berries carried 
 her away. 
 
 c Aha ! ' said Galope-Chopine, wagging his head to 
 show his satisfaction. c My gun may hang fire when I 
 am after birds, but when I am after the Blues — never ! ' 
 
 Marie looked more closely at her guide's countenance, 
 and saw that it was on the same pattern as all the others 
 which she had just seen. There seemed to be fewer 
 ideas expressed in the old Chouan's face than in that of a 
 child. His cheeks and forehead were puckered with 
 unconcealed joy as he looked at his gun ; religious convic- 
 tion had infused an element of fanaticism into his elation, 
 so that, for a moment, the worst propensities of civilisation 
 seemed to be manifested in his barbarous features. 
 
 They very soon reached a village, that is to say, a 
 collection of four or five dwellings, like Galope-Chopine's 
 own. Mile, de Verneuil was finishing a breakfast, com- 
 posed solely of bread and butter and dairy produce, when 
 the newly recruited Chouans arrived. The recteur 
 headed these irregular troops, bearing in his hands a 
 rough crucifix transformed into a banner, and followed 
 by a gars, who was full of pride at assisting to carry the 
 parish standard. Mile, de Verneuil perforce found herself 
 included in this detachment, which was on its way to 
 Saint James, and consequently protected from dangers of 
 all kinds ; for Galope-Chopine had been happily inspired 
 to make an indiscreet avowal to the leader of the troop — 
 how that the pretty garce whom he was escorting was a 
 good friend to the Gars. 
 
 It was growing towards sunset when the three travellers 
 
A Day without a Morrow 263 
 
 reached Saint James, a little town which owes its name 
 to the English, by whom it was built in the fourteenth 
 century, during the time of their rule in Brittany. Before 
 they entered it, Mile, de Verneuil beheld a curious scene 
 of warfare, to which she gave but little heed, for she was 
 afraid that some of her enemies might recognise her, and 
 the fear quickened her pace. Five or six thousand 
 peasants were bivouacking in a field. There was no 
 suggestion of war about their costumes, which were not 
 unlike those of the requisitionaries on La Pelerine ; on the 
 contrary, the disorderly assemblage of men resembled a 
 huge hiring-fair. A careful scrutiny was required to 
 ascertain whether or no the Bretons carried arms at all ; 
 for their guns were almost hidden by the goatskins of 
 various patterns that they wore, and in many cases the 
 most conspicuous weapons were the scythes with which 
 they had replaced the muskets that had been distributed 
 among them. Some were eating and drinking, some 
 were brawling and fighting, but the greater number were 
 lying asleep upon the ground. There was no sign or 
 trace of order or of discipline. An officer in a red uniform 
 attracted Mile, de Verneuirs attention ; she thought that 
 he must belong to the English army. Further on, two 
 other officers appeared to be bent on teaching a few of 
 the Chouans, who seemed to be quicker-witted than 
 their fellows, how to handle a couple of cannon, of 
 which the whole artillery of the future Royalist army 
 appeared to consist. 
 
 The gars from Marignay were recognised by their 
 standard, and welcomed with uproarious yells. Under 
 cover of the bustle made in the camp by the arrival of 
 the troop and its recteurs^ Mile, de Verneuil was able to 
 make her way across it, and into the town, in safety. 
 She reached an unpretending inn, at no great distance 
 from the house where the ball was given. The town was 
 so crowded with people that, after the greatest imagin- 
 able difficulty, she could only succeed in obtaining a 
 
264 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 wretched little room. When she had taken possession of 
 it, and Galope-Chopine had given over the box that carried 
 her mistress's costume into Francine's keeping, he stood 
 waiting and hesitating in a manner that cannot be 
 described. At any other time Mile, de Verneuil would 
 have been diverted by the spectacle of the Breton peasant 
 out of his own parish ; but now she broke the charm by 
 drawing from her purse four crowns of six francs each, 
 which she handed over to him. 
 
 4 Take them ! • said she to Galope-Chopine ; c and if 
 you wish to oblige me, you will return at once to 
 Fougeres without tasting cider, or passing through the 
 camp.' 
 
 The Chouan, in amazement at such open-handedness, 
 was looking alternately at Mile, de Verneuil and at the 
 four crowns which he had received, but she dismissed him 
 with a wave of the hand, and he vanished. 
 
 c How can you send him away, mademoiselle ? * asked 
 Francine. c Did you not see how the town is sur- 
 rounded ? How are we to leave it, and who will protect 
 you here ? ' 
 
 c Have you not a protector of your own ? ' said Mile, 
 de Verneuil, with a low mocking whistle after the manner 
 of Marche-a-Terre, whose ways she tried to mimic. 
 
 Francine blushed and smiled sadly at her mistress's 
 high spirits. 
 
 c But where is your protector ? ' she said. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil rapidly drew out her dagger and 
 showed it to the frightened Breton maid, who sank 
 down into a chair and clasped her hands. 
 
 c What have you come to look for here, Marie ? ' she 
 exclaimed ; there was a note of entreaty in her voice 
 which called for no response. Mile, de Verneuil was 
 absorbed in bending and twisting the sprays of holly 
 which she had gathered ; she said — 
 
 i I am not sure that the holly will look very pretty 
 in my hair. Only a face as radiant as mine could 
 
A Day without a Morrow 265 
 
 bear such a sombre adornment. What do you think, 
 Francine ? ' 
 
 Such remarks as this, made many times in the course of 
 her toilette, showed that her mind was absolutely free 
 from preoccupation. Any one who had overheard this 
 strange girl would hardly have believed in the gravity of 
 the crisis in which she was risking her life. 
 
 A somewhat short gown of Indian muslin revealed the 
 delicate outlines of her figure, to which it clung like 
 damp linen. Over this she wore a red overskirt, with 
 innumerable drooping folds, that fell gradually lower and 
 lower towards one side, thus preserving the graceful out- 
 lines of the Greek chiton. The sensuous beauty of this 
 garb of a pagan priestess made the costume, a costume 
 which the fashion of those days permitted women to 
 wear, less indelicate ; and, as a further palliation, Marie 
 wound gauze about her white shoulders which the low 
 lines of the tunic had left too bare. She knotted up the 
 long locks of her hair at the back of her head in the 
 irregular flattened cone that, by apparently adding length 
 to the head, lends such charm to the faces of classical 
 statues j reserving for her forehead a few long curls that 
 fell on either side of her face in shining coils. Thus 
 robed, and with her hair arranged thus, her resemblance 
 to the greatest masterpieces of the Greek chisel was 
 complete. She saw how every detail in the disposition 
 of her hair set off* the loveliness of her face, w T ith a smile 
 that denoted her approval ; then she crowned herself with 
 the wreath of holly which she had twisted. The red 
 colour of her tunic was repeated in her hair with the 
 happiest effect by the thick clusters of scarlet berries. 
 As she twisted back a few of the leaves so as to secure 
 a fanciful contrast between their upper and under 
 sides, Mile, de Verneuil flung a glance over herself 
 in the mirror, criticising the general effect of her 
 toilette. 
 
 'I am hideous to-night,' she exclaimed, as though she 
 
266 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 had been surrounded by flatterers. 4 1 look like a statue 
 of Liberty.' 
 
 She was careful to set her dagger in her corset, leaving 
 the ruby-ornamented hilt protruding, so that the crimson 
 gleams might draw the eye to the beauties which her 
 rival had so unworthily profaned. Francine could not 
 reconcile herself to parting from her mistress. When 
 she was quite ready to start, the maid was ready to 
 accompany her, finding an excuse in the difficulties that 
 women necessarily encounter in going to a dance in 
 a little town in Lower Brittany. Would she not be 
 required to uncloak Mile, de Verneuil, to take off the 
 overshoes which the filthy condition of the streets had 
 rendered imperative (albeit sand had been laid down), 
 and to remove the gauze veil that her mistress had wound 
 about her head, so as to screen herself from the curious 
 eyes of the Chouans, who had been drawn by curiosity 
 to surround the house where the dance was taking place? 
 The crowd was so dense that they went between two 
 hedges of Chouans. Francine no longer tried to keep 
 her mistress back. After rendering the final necessary 
 assistance demanded by a toilette in which unruffled 
 freshness was a first requirement, she stayed on in the 
 courtyard. She could not leave her mistress to the 
 chances of fate without being at hand to fly to her 
 assistance, for the poor Breton maid foresaw nothing but 
 calamities. 
 
 A strange scene was taking place in Montauran's 
 room at the time of Marie's arrival at the festival. The 
 young Marquis was almost dressed, and was donning the 
 broad red ribbon that was to mark him out as the most 
 important personage among those assembled, when the 
 Abbe Gudin came in with an anxious face. 
 
 c Come quickly, my lord Marquis,' said he. c You 
 alone can calm the storm that has arisen among the 
 chiefs. I do not know what it is all about. They are 
 talking of withdrawing from the King's service. It is 
 
A Day without a Morrow 267 
 
 that devil of a Rifoel who is the cause of the trouble, I 
 think. There is always some piece of foolery at the 
 bottom of these disputes. They say that Mme. du Gua 
 upbraided him for coming to the ball in an unsuitable 
 dress.' 
 
 4 The woman must be crazy,' exclaimed the Marquis, 
 c to expect ' 
 
 'The Chevalier du Vissard,' the Abbe went on, 
 interrupting him, c retorted that if you had given him 
 the money, promised to him in the King's name ' 
 
 c Enough, enough, Abbe ! Now I understand every- 
 thing. The scene had been got up beforehand, had it 
 not ? And you are their spokesman ' 
 
 ' 7, my lord Marquis ? ' the Abbe broke in with yet 
 another interruption, C I will support you vigorously. 
 I hope that you will believe, in fairness to me, that the 
 prospect of the re-establishment of the altar throughout 
 France, and of the restoration of the King to the throne 
 of his forefathers, holds out far greater inducements 
 to my humble efforts than that Archbishopric of Rennes 
 which you ' 
 
 The Abbe dared not go any further, for at these words 
 a bitter smile stole over the lips of the Marquis. But 
 the young chief at once suppressed the gloomy reflections 
 that occurred to him. With austere brows he followed 
 the Abbe Gudin into a large room that echoed with 
 vehement clamour. 
 
 c I own the authority of no one present,' Rifoel was 
 crying out. He flung fiery glances on those about him, 
 and his hand was finding the way to the hilt of his 
 sabre. 
 
 4 Do you own the authority of common sense?' asked 
 the Marquis, coolly. The young Chevalier du Vissard, 
 better known by his patronymic of Rifoel, kept silence in 
 the presence of the general of the Catholic armies. 
 
 c What is the matter now, gentlemen ? ' the young 
 chief demanded, as he scanned the faces about him. 
 
268 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 'The matter, my lord Marquis/ replied a notorious 
 smuggler — embarrassed at first like a man of the people 
 who has long been overawed by the prestige of a great 
 lord, but who loses all sense of restraint the moment 
 that the boundary line that separates the pair has been 
 overstepped, because thenceforth he regards him as 
 their equal — 4 the matter is that you have come in 
 the nick of time. I cannot talk in fine golden words, 
 so I will put it roundly. I had five hundred men under 
 me all through the last war, and since we have taken up 
 arms again I have managed to find, for the King's service, 
 a thousand heads quite as hard as my own. All along, 
 for seven years past, I have been risking my life in the 
 good cause - 9 I do not blame you at all, but all work ought 
 to be paid for. Therefore, to begin with, I wish to be 
 called M. de Cottereau ■> and I wish to be requited by 
 the rank of colonel, otherwise I shall offer my submission 
 to the First Consul. My men and I, you see, my lord 
 Marquis, are always dunned by a cursedly pressing creditor 
 who must be satisfied. Here he is ! ' he added, striking 
 his stomach. 
 
 c Have the fiddles arrived ? ' Montauran inquired of 
 Mme. du Gua in caustic tones. 
 
 But the smuggler, in his brutal way, had opened up 
 too all-important a question - } and these natures, as 
 calculating as ambitious, had been too long in suspense as 
 to their prospects in the King's service for the scene to 
 be cut short by the young leader's scorn. The young 
 Chevalier du Vissard, in his heat and excitement, sprang 
 to confront Montauran, and seized his hand to prevent 
 him from turning away. 
 
 1 Take care, my lord Marquis ! ' he said. c You are 
 treating too lightly men who have some claim to the 
 gratitude of him whom you represent here. We are 
 aware that His Majesty has given you full power to 
 recognise the services we have rendered, which ought to 
 be rewarded either in this world or in the next — for the 
 
A Day without a Morrow 269 
 
 scaffold is prepared for us daily. As for me, I am sure 
 
 that the rank of marechal de camp ' 
 
 4 Of colonel, you mean ? ' 
 
 c No, my lord Marquis, Charette made me a colonel. 
 My claim to the rank I have spoken of cannot be dis- 
 puted. Still I am not urging my own claims just now 
 in any way, but those of my dauntless brothers in arms, 
 whose services stand in need of acknowledgment. 
 Hitherto your promises and your personal guarantees 
 have satisfied them ; ' he lowered his voice as he added, 
 c and I must say that they are easily contented. But,' 
 and he raised his voice again, 6 when the sun shall rise at 
 last in the Chateau of Versailles to shine upon the happy 
 days of the monarchy to come, will all the King's 
 faithful servants in France, who have aided the King to 
 recover France, readily obtain his favour for their 
 families ? Will their widows receive pensions ? Will 
 their unfortunate losses of property through confiscation 
 be made good to them ? I doubt it. Therefore, my 
 lord Marquis, will not indisputable proofs of past services 
 be useful then ? It is not that I ever shall mistrust the 
 King himself, but I heartily mistrust those cormorants 
 of ministers and courtiers about him, who will din a lot 
 of trash into his ears about the public good, the honour 
 of France, the interests of the crown, and a hundred more 
 such things. They will make mock then of a loyal Vendean 
 or a brave Chouan because he is aged, and because the 
 old sword that once he drew for the good cause dangles 
 against his legs, which are shrunken with sufferings. 
 Can you blame us, Marquis ? ' 
 
 c You put it admirably, M. du Visard ; but you have 
 spoken a little too soon,' replied Montauran. 
 
 c Listen, Marquis,' said the Comte de Bauvan in a low 
 voice, c upon my word, Rifoel has told us some very true 
 things. You yourself are always sure of access to the 
 King's ear ; but the rest of us can seldom go to see our 
 master. So I tell you frankly that if you do not pledge 
 
270 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 your word as a gentleman to obtain the post of Grand 
 Master of the Rivers and Forests of France for me, when 
 opportunity offers, the devil take me if I will risk my 
 neck. It is no small task that I am set — to conquer 
 Normandy for the King, so I hope to have the Order for 
 it. But there is time yet to think about that,' he added, 
 blushing. 1 God forbid that I should follow the example 
 of these wretches, and worry you. You will speak to the 
 King for me, and there is an end of it.' 
 
 Each of the chiefs by some more or less ingenious 
 device found means to inform the Marquis of the extra- 
 vagant reward which he expected for his services. 
 One modestly asked for the Governorship of Brittany, 
 another for a barony, one demanded promotion, and 
 another a command ; while one and all of them desired 
 pensions. 
 
 'Well, Baron,' the Marquis said, addressing M. du 
 Guenic, c do you really wish for nothing ? ' 
 
 * Faith, Marquis, these gentlemen have left nothing for 
 me but the crown of France; but I could readily manage 
 to put up with that ' 
 
 c Gentlemen ! ' thundered the Abbe Gudin. 4 Con- 
 sider this, that if you are so eager in the day of victory, 
 you will spoil everything. Will not the King be com- 
 pelled to make concessions to the Revolutionaries ? ' 
 
 c What ! to the Jacobins ! ' exclaimed the smuggler. 
 ( Let the King leave that to me ! I will undertake to 
 set my thousand men to hang them, and we shall very 
 soon be rid of them ' 
 
 C M. de Cottereau,' said the Marquis, c I see that several 
 invited guests are arriving. We must vie with each 
 other in assiduity and zeal, so as to determine them to 
 take part in our sacred enterprise. You understand that 
 the present moment is not a time to consider your 
 demands, even if they were just.' 
 
 The Marquis went towards the door as he spoke, as if 
 to welcome some nobles from the neighbouring districts, 
 
A Day without a Morrow 271 
 
 of whom he had caught sight, but the bold smuggler 
 intercepted him deferentially and respectfully. 
 
 'No ! no ! my lord Marquis, excuse me, but in 1793 
 the Jacobins taught us too thoroughly that it is not the 
 reaper who gets the bannock. If you put your name to 
 this scrap of paper, I will bring you fifteen hundred gars 
 to-morrow ; otherwise, I shall treat with the First 
 Consul.' 
 
 The Marquis looked haughtily around, and saw that the 
 onlookers at the debate regarded the audacity and resolu- 
 tion of the old free-lance with no unfavourable eyes. 
 One man only, seated in a corner, appeared to take no 
 part whatever in what was going on, but was employed 
 in filling a white clay pipe with tobacco. The contempt 
 that he visibly showed for the orators, his unassuming 
 manner, and the commiseration for himself which the 
 Marquis read in the man's eyes, made him look closely at 
 this magnanimous adherent, in whom he recognised 
 Major Brigaut. The chief went quickly up to him, and 
 said — 
 
 c How about you ? What do you ask for ? ' 
 c Oh ! my lord Marquis, if the King comes back again, 
 I shall be quite satisfied.' 
 c But for you yourself? ' 
 
 1 For me ? Oh ! . . . You are joking, my lord.' 
 
 The Marquis pressed the Breton's hard hand, and spoke 
 to Mme. du Gua, by whom he was standing. c Madame, 
 I may loose my life in this undertaking of mine before I 
 have had time to send the King a faithful report of the 
 Catholic armies in Brittany. If you should see the days 
 of the Restoration, do not forget either this brave fellow 
 nor the Baron du Guenic. There is more devotion in 
 these two than in all the other people here.' 
 
 He indicated the chiefs who were waiting, not without 
 impatience, till the youthful Marquis should comply with 
 their demands. Papers were displayed in every hand, in 
 which, doubtless their services in previous wars had been 
 
272 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 recorded by Royalist generals ; and one and all began to 
 murmur. The Abbe Gudin, the Comte de Bauvan, and 
 the Baron du Guenic were taking counsel in their midst, 
 as to the best means of assisting the Marquis to reject 
 such extravagant claims, for in their opinion the young 
 leader's position was a very difficult one. 
 
 There was a sarcastic light in the blue eyes of the 
 Marquis as he suddenly gazed about him on those 
 assembled, and spoke in clear tones — 
 
 c Gentlemen, I do not know whether the powers which 
 the King has vouchsafed to me are comprehensive enough 
 to permit of my fulfilling your demands. He possibly 
 did not foresee such zeal and such devotion as yours. 
 You yourselves shall decide as to my duties, and perhaps 
 I may be able to perform them.' 
 
 He went and returned promptly with a letter lying 
 open in his hand, ratified by the royal signature and seal. 
 
 4 These are the letters patent by virtue of which you I 
 owe me obedience,' said he. 'They empower me to 
 govern in the King's name the provinces of Brittany, 
 Normandy, Maine, and Anjou ; and to acknowledge the 
 services of the officers that shall distinguish themselves in 
 his Majesty's armies.' 
 
 An evident thrill of satisfaction went through those 
 assembled. The Chouans came up and respectfully 
 formed a circle about the Marquis. All eyes were fixed 
 on the King's signature, when the young chief, who was 
 standing by the hearth, flung the letter into the fire, 
 where it was burned to ashes in a moment. 
 
 c I will no longer command any but those who see in 
 the King, a King ; and not a prey for them to devour. 
 Gentlemen, you are at liberty to leave me ' 
 
 A cry of c Long live the King ! ' went up from Mme. 
 du Gua, the Abbe Gudin, Major Brigaut, the Chevalier 
 du Vissard, the Baron du Guenic, and the Comte de 
 Bauvan. If, in the first instance, the other chiefs 
 wavered a moment before echoing the cry of these 
 
A Day without a Morrow 273 
 
 enthusiasts ; the Marquis's noble action soon produced an 
 effect upon them ; they besought him to forget what had 
 happened, and protested that, no matter for letters patent, 
 he should always be their leader. 
 
 c Come, let us dance ! * cried the Comte de Bauvan, 
 c and happen what may ! After all,' he added merrily, 
 c it is better praying to God than to the saints. Let 
 us fight first, and by-and-by we shall see.' 
 
 c Ah! that is quite true. Begging your pardon. 
 Baron,' said Brigaut, speaking in a low voice to the 
 staunch du Guenic, c I have never seen a day's wage 
 asked for in the morning.' 
 
 The company distributed themselves through the 
 rooms, where several people had already come together. 
 In vain the Marquis tried to dismiss the sombre 
 expression which had wrought a change in his face ; 
 the chiefs could easily discern that the foregoing 
 scene had left an unfortunate impression on the mind 
 of a man who still united some of the fair illusions 
 of youth with his devotion to the cause ; and this shamed 
 them. 
 
 The assemblage, composed of the most enthusiastic 
 partizans of royalty, was radiant with intoxicating joy. 
 In the remote parts of a rebellious province they had 
 never had an opportunity of forming just opinions as to 
 the events of the Revolution, and had to take the most 
 visionary assumptions for solid realities. Their courage 
 had been stimulated by Montauran's bold initial measures, 
 by his fortune and ability, and by the name he bore, all 
 of which had combined to cause that most perilous form 
 of intoxication — the intoxication of politics, which is 
 only abated after torrents of blood have been shed, and 
 for the most part, shed in vain. The Revolution was 
 only a passing disturbance in France for all those who 
 were present ; and for them nothing appeared to be 
 changed. The districts about them held to the House 
 of Bourbon. So complete was the domination of the 
 
 s 
 
274 The Chouans 
 
 Royalists, that four years previously Hoche had brought 
 about an armistice rather than a peace. 
 
 The nobles, therefore, held the Revolutionaries very 
 cheap ; they took Bonaparte for a Marceau, who had had 
 better luck than his predecessor. And the ladies prepared 
 to dance, in high spirits. Only a few of the chiefs who 
 had met the Blues in the field were aware of the real 
 gravity of the crisis, and they knew that they should be 
 misunderstood if they spoke of the First Consul and his 
 power to their countrymen who were behind the times. 
 So they talked among themselves, turning indifferent 
 eyes upon the ladies, who avenged themselves by criticising 
 them to each other. Mme. du Gua, who appeared to be 
 doing the honours of the ball, tried to distract the atten- 
 tion of the ladies from their impatience, by retailing 
 conventional flatteries to each in turn. The harsh sounds 
 of the tuning of the instruments were already audible, 
 when Mme. du Gua saw the Marquis, with a trace of 
 melancholy still about his face. She hurried to him, and 
 said — 
 
 4 1 hope you are not depressed by the scene you 
 have had with those boors ? It is a very commonplace 
 occurrence.' 
 
 She received no reply. The Marquis was absorbed in 
 his musings. He thought that he heard some of the 
 arguments that Marie had urged upon him in her 
 prophetic tones among these very chiefs at the Vivetiere — 
 when she had tried to induce him to abandon the 
 struggle of kings against peoples. But he had too much 
 loftiness of soul, too much pride, and possibly too strong 
 a belief in the work that he had begun, to forsake it 
 now ; and he resolved at that moment to carry it on with 
 a stout heart, in spite of obstacles. He raised his head 
 again proudly, and the meaning of Mme. du Gua's words 
 only then reached him. 
 
 c You are at Fougeres, of course ! ' she was saying with 
 a bitterness that betrayed the futility of the attempts she 
 
A Day without a Morrow 275 
 
 had made to divert his mind. c Ah ! my lord, I would 
 give all the life in me to put her into your hands, and to 
 see you happy with her.' 
 
 * Then why did you fire at her so dexterously ? ' 
 
 4 Because I wished her either dead or in your arms. 
 Yes ! I could have given my love to the Marquis of 
 Montauran on the day when I thought that I discerned a 
 hero in him. To-day I have for him only a compassionate 
 friendship ; he is held aloof from glory by the roving 
 heart of an opera girl.' 
 
 c As to love,' the Marquis answered with irony in his 
 tones, 4 you are quite wrong about me ! If I loved that 
 girl, madame, I should feel less desire for her — and, but 
 for you, I should even now possibly think no more of her.' 
 
 c Here she is ! 9 said Mme. du Gua suddenly. 
 
 The haste with which the Marquis turned his head 
 gave a horrible pang to the poor lady ; but by the brilliant 
 light of the candles the slightest changes that took place 
 in the features of the man whom she so ardently loved 
 were easily discerned, so that she fancied she saw some 
 hopes of a return, when he turned his face back to hers, 
 with a smile at this feminine stratagem. 
 
 c At what are you laughing ? ' asked the Comte de 
 Bauvan. 
 
 c At a soap-bubble that has burst ! • Mme. du Gua re- 
 plied gaily. c If we are to believe the Marquis, he wonders 
 to-day that his heart ever beat for a moment for the 
 creature who calls herself Mile, de Verneuil. You know 
 whom I mean ? ' 
 
 4 The creature ? • queried the Count, with reproach in 
 his voice. c It is only right, madame, that the author of 
 the mischief should make reparation for it, and I give you 
 my word of honour that she really is the daughter of the 
 Due de Verneuil.' 
 
 4 Which word of honour, Count ? 9 asked the Marquis in 
 an entirely different tone. c Are we to believe you at the 
 Vivetiere or here at Saint James ? ' 
 
276 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil was announced in a loud voice. The 
 Count hurried towards the door, offered his hand with 
 every sign of the deepest respect to the fair new-comer, 
 and led her through the curious throng of gazers to the 
 Marquis and Mine, du Gua. 
 
 c Believe nothing but the word I have given you 
 to-day,' he said to the astonished chief. 
 
 Mme. du Gua turned pale at the untoward reappearance 
 of the girl who was standing looking proudly about her, 
 to discover, among those assembled, the former guests at 
 the Vivetiere. She waited to receive her rival's con- 
 strained greeting ; and, without a glance at the Marquis, 
 she allowed the Count to lead her to a place of honour by 
 the side of Mme. du Gua, to whom she bowed slightly 
 in a patronising way. The latter would not be vexed at 
 this, and her woman's instinct led her at once to assume 
 a friendly and smiling expression. For a moment Mile, 
 de Verneuil's beauty and singular costume drew a murmur 
 from the company. When the Marquis and Mme. du 
 Gua looked at those who had been at the Vivetiere, they 
 saw that the respectful attitude of each one seemed to be 
 sincere, and that every one appeared to be considering 
 how to reinstate himself in the good graces of the 
 Parisian lady, concerning whom they had been in error. 
 The two antagonists were now face to face. 
 
 c But this is witchcraft, mademoiselle ! Who but you 
 in all the world could take us by surprise like this ? Did 
 you really come hither quite alone ? ' asked Mme. du 
 Gua. 
 
 c Quite alone,' Mile, de Verneuil repeated, 4 so this 
 evening, madame, you will have only me to kill.' 
 
 c Make allowances for me,' answered Mme. du Gua. 
 4 1 cannot tell you how much pleasure I feel at meeting 
 you again. I have been really overwhelmed by the 
 recollection of the wrong I did you, and I was seeking for 
 an opportunity which should permit me to atone for it.' 
 
 ' The wrong you did me, madame, I can readily 
 
A Day without a Morrow 277 
 
 pardon ; but the death of the Blues whom you murdered 
 lies heavily on my heart. I might, moreover, make some 
 further complaint of the brusque style of your correspon- 
 dence. . . . But, after all, I forgive everything, on 
 account of the service that you have done me.' 
 
 Mme. du Gua lost countenance as she felt her hand 
 clasped in that of her lovely rival, who was smiling upon 
 her in an offensively gracious manner. The Marquis had 
 not stirred so far, but now he seized the Count's arm in 
 a close grip. 
 
 c You have shamefully deceived me,' he said. 1 You 
 have even involved my honour ; I am no comedy dupe ; 
 I will have your life for this, or you shall have mine.' 
 
 c I am ready to afford you every explanation that you 
 may desire, Marquis,' said the Count stiffly, and they went 
 into an adjoining room. Even those who were least 
 acquainted with the mystery underlying this scene began 
 to understand the interest that it possessed ; so that no 
 one stirred when the violins gave the signal for the 
 dancing to begin. 
 
 Mme du Gua spoke, compressing her lips in a kind of 
 fury — 
 
 4 Mademoiselle, what service can I have had the honour 
 of rendering, of importance sufficient to deserve ? ' 
 
 c Did you not enlighten me, madame, as to the Marquis 
 de Montauran's real nature ? With what calm indiffer- 
 ence the execrable man allowed me to go to my death ! 
 ... I give him up to you very willingly.' 
 
 * Then what have you come here to seek ? ' Mme. du 
 Gua asked quickly. 
 
 < The esteem and the reputation of which you robbed 
 me at the Vivetiere, madame. Do not give yourself any 
 uneasiness about anything else. Even if the Marquis 
 were to come back to me, a lost love regained is no love 
 at all, as you must be aware.' 
 
 Mme. du Gua took Mile, de Verneuil's hand in hers 
 with a charming caressing gesture, such as women like to 
 
278 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 use among themselves, especially when men are also 
 present. 
 
 c Well, dear child, I am delighted that you are so 
 sensible about it. If the service which I have rendered 
 you has been a somewhat painful one at the outset ' (and 
 here she pressed the hand which she held, though she 
 felt within her a wild longing to tear it in pieces, when 
 she found how delicately soft the ringers were), c at 
 any rate it shall be thorough. Just listen to me. I 
 know the Gars's nature well,' she went on, with a 
 treacherous smile ; c he would have deceived you, he will 
 not marry any woman, nor can he do so.' 
 
 < Ah ! > 
 
 c Yes, mademoiselle. He only accepted his perilous 
 mission in order to win the hand of Mile. d'Uxelles ; his 
 Majesty has promised to use all his influence to bring the 
 marriage about.' 
 
 < Indeed ! ' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil added not a word more to this 
 satirical exclamation. The young and handsome Chevalier 
 du Vissard, eager to earn her forgiveness for the witticism 
 which had been a signal for the insults that had followed 
 upon it at the Vivetiere, came up to her and respectfully 
 asked for a dance ; she gave him her hand, and they 
 hastened to take their places in the same quadrille with 
 Mme. du Gua. The powdered or frizzled hair of the 
 other ladies, and their toilettes, which recalled the by- 
 gone days of the exiled court, looked ridiculous when 
 confronted with the magnificent simplicity of the elegant 
 costume which the prevailing fashion of the day permitted 
 Mile, du Verneuil to wear. The ladies condemned it 
 aloud, and inwardly envied her. The men were never 
 weary of admiring the effect of so simple a way of 
 dressing the hair, and every detail about her dress, which 
 owed all its charm to the graceful outlines which it 
 displayed. 
 
 The Marquis and the Count returned to the ballroom, 
 
A Day without a Morrow 279 
 
 and stood behind Mile, de Verneuil, who did not turn 
 her head ; but even if a mirror opposite to her had not 
 informed her of the Marquis's presence, she would have 
 learned it from the face of Mme. du Gua, whose apparent 
 carelessness concealed but ill the anxiety with which she 
 awaited the dispute that must sooner or later take place 
 between the lovers. Although Montauran was talking 
 with the Count and with two other persons, he could 
 overhear the chat of his neighbours and of each pair of 
 dancers, as, in the shifting figures of the quadrille, they 
 stood for a moment where Mile, de Verneuil had been. 
 
 c Oh ! mon Dieu -> yes, madame, she came here by her- 
 self,' said one. 
 
 c She must be very fearless,' his partner replied. 
 
 c If I had dressed myself like that, I should feel as if I 
 had no clothes on,' said another lady. 
 
 c Oh ! the costume is indelicate,' her cavalier answered, 
 ' but she is so pretty, and it is very becoming to her.' 
 
 c Look at her ! She dances so perfectly that it makes 
 one blush for her. Is she not exactly like an opera girl ? ' 
 the envious lady inquired. 
 
 c Do you think that she can have come here to treat 
 with us in the name of the First Consul ? ' asked a third 
 lady. 
 
 c What a joke ! ' said her partner. 
 
 c She will scarcely bring innocence with her as a dowry,' 
 laughed the lady. 
 
 The Gars turned sharply round to see the speaker who 
 had ventured to make such an epigram, and Mme. du 
 Gua gave him a look which said distinctly — 
 
 4 You see what they think of her ! ' 
 
 4 Madame,' the Count said jestingly to Marie's enemy, 
 c only ladies so far have deprived her of it.' 
 
 In his heart the Marquis forgave the Count for all his 
 offences. He ventured to glance at his mistress. Her 
 loveliness was enhanced, as is nearly always the case with 
 women, by the candle-light. She reached her place, her 
 
280 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 back was turned towards him, but as she talked with 
 her partner the persuasive tones of her voice reached the 
 Marquis. 
 
 c The First Consul is sending us very formidable am- 
 bassadors ! 1 her partner remarked. 
 
 c That has been said already, sir, at the Vivetiere,' she 
 replied. 
 
 4 Your memory is as good as the King's ! ' returned the 
 gentleman, vexed at his own awkwardness. 
 
 4 Offences must be clearly kept in mind if they are to 
 be forgiven,' she said quickly, and a smile released him 
 from his predicament. 
 
 c Are all of us included in the amnesty ! ' the Marquis 
 asked. But she flung herself into the dance with childish 
 enthusiasm, leaving him confused, and with his question 
 unanswered. She saw how he was watching her in sullen 
 gloom, and bent her head in a coquettish manner, which 
 displayed the symmetry of her neck, heedful, at the same 
 time, to omit no movement which could reveal the won- 
 derful grace of her form. Marie's beauty was attractive 
 as Hope, and elusive as Memory. To see her thus, was 
 to wish to possess her at any cost. She knew this, and 
 the consciousness of her own beauty made her face at 
 that moment radiant with indescribable loveliness. The 
 Marquis felt a tempest of love, anger, and madness raging 
 in his heart ; he wrung the Count's hand, and withdrew. 
 
 c Ah ! has he gone away ? ' asked Mile, de Verneuil 
 when she came back to her place. 
 
 The Count hurried into the adjoining room, and thence 
 brought back the Gars, making a significant gesture for 
 the lady to whom he had extended his protection. 
 
 c He is mine ! ' she said within herself, as she studied the 
 Marquis in the mirror ; his face was somewhat agitated, 
 but he was radiant with hope. 
 
 She received the young chief ungraciously, and did not 
 vouchsafe a word to him, but she smiled as she turned 
 away ; she saw him so far above the others, that she felt 
 
A Day without a Morrow 281 
 
 proud of her tyrannous power over him. Guided by 
 an instinct that all women obey more or less, she deter- 
 mined to make him pay a heavy price for a few kind 
 words, in order that he might learn their value. When 
 the quadrille came to an end, all the gentlemen who had 
 been at the Vivetiere came about Marie, each one 
 endeavouring to obtain her forgiveness for his mistake by 
 compliments more or less neatly turned. But he whom 
 she would fain have seen at her feet kept away from her 
 little court. 
 
 c He thinks that I love him yet,' she said to herself, 
 c and he will not make one among those to whom I am 
 indifferent.' 
 
 She declined to dance. Then, as if the ball had been 
 given in her honour, she went from quadrille to quadrille, 
 leaning upon the arm of the Comte de Bauvan, with whom 
 it pleased her to appear to be on familiar terms. There 
 was no one present who did not know the whole history 
 of what had happened at the Vivetiere, down to the 
 smallest detail, thanks to Madame du Gua, who hoped, 
 by this very publicity given to the affairs of Mile, de 
 Verneuil and the Marquis, to put a further hindrance to 
 any understanding between them. In this way the two 
 estranged lovers became objects of general interest. 
 Montauran did not dare to approach his mistress ; the 
 recollection of her wrongs and the vehemence of his 
 reawakened desires made her almost terrible in his eyes ; 
 and the young girl, though she seemed to give her attention 
 to the dancers, was watching his face and its forced 
 composure. 
 
 c It is dreadfully hot in here,' she said to her cavalier. 
 * I see that M. de Montauran's forehead is quite damp. 
 Will you take me across to the other side, so that I can 
 breathe ? . . . This is stifling.' 
 
 With a movement of the head, she indicated the next 
 room, where a few card-players were sitting. The Mar- 
 quis followed her, as if he had guessed at the words from 
 
282 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 the movements of her Hps. He even hoped that she had 
 left the crowd in order to see him once more, and with 
 this hope the violence of his passion grew with redoubled 
 force, after the restraint that he had imposed upon himself 
 for the last few days. It pleased Mile, de Verneuil to 
 torment the young chief. Those eyes of hers, so like 
 velvet, and so gentle for the Count, became cold and 
 gloomy for him, if he met their gaze by chance. Mon- 
 tauran made an effort that seemed to cost him something, 
 and said in an uncertain voice— 
 ' Will you never forgive me ?' 
 
 c Love forgives nothing unless it forgives everything,' 
 she said, in a dry, indifferent tone. Then, as she saw him 
 give a sudden start of joy, she added, c but it must be 
 love. . . .' 
 
 She rose, took the Count's arm, and hastened to a little 
 sitting-room adjoining the cardroom. The Marquis 
 followed her thither. 
 
 4 You shall hear me ! ' he cried. 
 
 c You will make others imagine, sir,' she replied, 4 that 
 I came here on your account, and not out of respect 
 for myself. If you will not desist from this detestable 
 persecution, I shall go.' 
 
 Then he bethought himself of one of the wildest extra- 
 vagances of the last Duke of Lorraine. 4 Let me speak 
 to you,' he entreated, 'only for so long as I can keep 
 this coal in my hand.' 
 
 He stooped, snatched up a firebrand from the hearth, 
 and held it in a strenuous grasp. Mile, de Verneuil 
 reddened, drew her arm quickly from the Count, 
 and looked in amazement at the Marquis. The Count 
 softly withdrew and left the lovers alone. Nothing is so 
 convincing in a lover as some piece of splendid folly — 
 his mad courage had shaken Marie's very heart. 
 
 4 You simply show me,' she said, trying to compel him 
 to drop the coal, 'that you would be capable of giving me 
 over to the worst of torture. You are all for extremes. 
 
A Day without a Morrow 283 
 
 You believed the evidence of a fool and a woman's 
 slander ; you suspected that she who came to save your 
 life was capable of betraying you.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, smiling. c I have been cruel to you, 
 but you must forget that ; — I shall never forget it. Ah ! 
 hear me. ... I was infamously deceived ; but so many 
 things on that wretched day all told against you . . .' 
 
 'And those things were enough to extinguish your 
 love ? ' 
 
 c He hesitated a moment ; with a scornful movement 
 she rose. 
 
 c Marie,' he said, c just now, I wish to believe you, and 
 you only.' 
 
 'Then drop that coal ! You must be mad. Open 
 your hand ; do as I wish.' 
 
 He delighted in the feeble resistance he made to her 
 gentle efforts ; he wanted to prolong the keen pleasure 
 that he felt in the pressure of her little fingers ; but she 
 succeeded at last in opening the hand she felt she could 
 have kissed. The fire had been extinguished in blood. 
 
 c Now,' she said, 6 what was the use of doing that ? ' 
 
 She tore little strips from her handkerchief and dressed 
 the wound ; it was not very serious, and the Marquis 
 easily concealed it under his glove. Madame du Gua 
 came into the cardroom on tiptoe, and furtively watched 
 the lovers, cleverly keeping herself out of their sight, 
 noting from behind them their slightest movements ; yet 
 she found it difficult to guess at their talk from anything 
 that she saw them do. 
 
 4 If everything that you have heard against me were true, 
 admit, at least, that now I am well avenged,' said Marie 3 
 there was a malignity in her expression that made the 
 Marquis turn pale. 
 
 c What feeling was it that brought you here ? ' 
 
 'My dear boy, you are a great coxcomb. Do you 
 think you c?n insult such a woman as I am with impunity? 
 I came here for your sake, and for mine,' she added after 
 
The Chouans 
 
 a pause, laying her hand on the cluster of rubies at her 
 breast, and showing him the blade of a poniard. 
 
 c What does all this mean ? ' meditated Madame du 
 Gua. 
 
 c But you love me still,' Marie went on •> c or at least, 
 you wish for me ; and that piece of folly of yours,' she 
 said, taking the hand in hers, c made it clear to me. I 
 am again as I had wished to be, and I shall go away 
 happy. Those who love us we always forgive. And I 
 — I am loved ; I have regained the respect, the man 
 who is for me the whole world \ I could die now.' 
 
 4 You love me yet ? ' said the Marquis. 
 
 c Did I say so ? ' she replied ; she laughed ; she was 
 happy, for ever since her arrival she had made the Marquis 
 feel increasing torment. * But had I not some sacrifices 
 to make in order to come here ? For I saved M. de 
 Bauvan from death,' she went on ; c and he, more grateful 
 than you, has offered me his name and fortune in return 
 for my protection. That idea never entered your mind.' 
 
 Her last words astonished the Marquis ; the Count 
 appeared to have made a fool of him •> he struggled with a 
 feeling of anger stronger than any that he had yet known, 
 and did not reply. 
 
 c Ah, you are deliberating ! ' she said, with a bitter smile. 
 
 c Mademoiselle, your misgivings justify mine.' 
 
 * Let us go back,' said Mile, de Verneuil, who caught 
 a glimpse of Madame du Gua's robe in the cardroom. 
 
 Marie rose ; but a wish to torment her rival made her 
 hesitate a little. 
 
 c Do you want to plunge me into hell ? ' asked the 
 Marquis, taking her hand and holding it tightly. 
 
 c Where did you plunge me five days ago ? And now, 
 now at this moment, are you not leaving me in cruel 
 suspense as to the sincerity of your love ? ' 
 
 c How do I know that your vengeance may not go so 
 far as this — to take possession of my whole life, so that 
 you may sully it, rather than compass my death . . .' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 285 
 
 c Ah, you do not love me ; you only think of yourself, 
 and not of me,' she said, with angry tears in her eyes. 
 
 The coquette knew well the power of those eyes of 
 hers when they were drowned in tears. 
 
 'Take my life, then,' said the Marquis, now quite 
 beside himself, c but dry those tears.' 
 
 c Oh, my love ! ' she murmured ; 6 the words, the tones, 
 the look that I waited for, to wish for thy happiness 
 rather than mine. But, my lord,' she resumed, C I ask 
 for one last proof of your affection, that you tell me is so 
 great. I can stay here only for a little, only for the time 
 needed to make sure that you are mine. I shall not take 
 even a glass of water in this house, where a woman lives 
 who has twice tried to murder me, who at this moment 
 perhaps is planning some treachery against us both, 
 and who is listening to us at this moment,' she added, 
 pointing out to the Marquis the floating folds of Madame 
 du Gua's robe. 
 
 Then she dried her tears, and bent to the ear of the 
 young noble, who trembled to feel her soft breath on him. 
 
 'Prepare everything so that we can go,' she said. 
 ' You will take me back to Fougeres, and there you shall 
 know whether I love you or no. For the second time I 
 trust in you. Will you too trust a second time in me ? ' 
 
 ( Ah, Marie, you have led me on till I scarcely know 
 what I am doing. Your words, your looks, your presence 
 intoxicate me. I am ready to do everything you wish.' 
 
 4 Well, then, give me one moment's bliss. Let me 
 enjoy the only triumph for which I have longed. I want 
 to breathe freely once more, to live the life of my dreams, 
 to take my fill of illusions before they leave me. Let us 
 go. Come and dance with me.' 
 
 They went back again together into the ballroom. 
 For her the gratification of heart and of vanity had been 
 as complete as a woman can know ; but her inscrutable 
 soft eyes, the mysterious smile about her mouth, and her 
 swift movements in the excited dance, kept the secret of 
 
286 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil's thoughts as the sea buries the secret 
 of some criminal who has given a heavy corpse into its 
 keeping. Yet a murmur of admiration went through 
 the room as she turned to her lover's arms for the waltz ; 
 and closely interlocked, with drooping heads and languid 
 eyes, they swayed voluptuously round and round, clasping 
 each other in a kind of frenzy, revealing all their hopes 
 of pleasure from a closer union. 
 
 4 Go and see if Pille-Miche is in the camp, Count,' 
 said Mme. du Gua to M. de Bauvan. c Bring him to 
 me ; and for this little service you may assure yourself 
 that you shall receive anything that you will ask of me, 
 even my hand. . . My revenge will cost me dear,' she 
 said, as she saw him go •> 'but it shall not fail this time.' 
 
 A few moments after this scene Mile, de Verneuil and 
 the Marquis were seated in a berline drawn by four 
 strong horses. Francine did not utter a word. She was 
 surprised to see the two who to all appearance had been 
 foes now sitting hand in hand and on such good terms 
 with each other. She did not even venture to put the 
 question to herself whether this meant love or treachery 
 on her mistress's part. Thanks to the stillness and the 
 darkness of night, the Marquis could not perceive Mile, 
 de Verneuil's agitation, which increased as she drew 
 nearer and nearer to Fougeres. Through the faint dusk 
 they could see the spire of St. Leonard's church in the 
 distance ; and then — c I shall die,' said Marie to herself. 
 
 When they reached the first hill on the road, the same 
 thought came to both the lovers ; they left the carriage, 
 and walked up it, as if in memory of that first day of 
 their meeting. 
 
 Marie took Montauran's arm, and thanked him by a 
 smile for having respected her silence. When they i 
 reached the stretch of level ground at the summit, whence ] 
 they could see Fougeres, she emerged from her reverie. \ 
 
 4 Come no further,' she said ; c my authority will not i 
 save you from the Blues to-day.' t 
 
A Day without a Morrow 287 
 
 Montauran showed some astonishment at this ; but she 
 smiled sadly and pointed to a massive boulder, as if to bid 
 him to be seated, while she herself remained standing in a 
 melancholy attitude. The heartrending grief within her 
 made the artifices which she had used so lavishly no 
 longer possible to her. She could have knelt on burning 
 coals just then, and have been no more conscious of them 
 than the Marquis had been of the brand which he had 
 seized to make known the vehemence of his passion. 
 After looking long at her lover with the deepest sorrow 
 in her gaze, she pronounced the terrible words — 
 
 c All your suspicions of me are true.' 
 
 The Marquis made an unconscious movement. 
 
 4 Ah ! for pity's sake,' she cried, clasping her hands, 
 'hear me to the end without interrupting me. I am 
 really the daughter of the Due de Verneuil,' she went on 
 in an unsteady voice ; c but I am only his natural daughter. 
 My mother, a Mile, de Casteran, took the veil to escape 
 from the punishment which her family had prepared for 
 her. She expiated her fault by fifteen years of weeping, 
 and died at Seez. It was only at the last, when on her 
 deathbed, that the dear abbess, for my sake, sent an 
 entreaty to the man who had forsaken her ; for she knew 
 that I had neither friends, nor fortune, nor prospects. 
 This man, who was well remembered in Francine's 
 home (for I had been confided to her mother's care), had 
 quite forgotten his child. Yet the duke welcomed me 
 gladly, and recognised my claim upon him because I was 
 pretty, and perhaps, too, because I brought back me- 
 mories of his younger days. He was one of those great 
 lords who, in the previous reign, took a pride in showing 
 how that, if a crime were but gracefully perpetrated, it 
 needs must be condoned. I will say no more about him ; 
 he was my father. And yet you must suffer me to 
 explain how my life in Paris could not but leave my 
 mind tainted. In the Due de VerneuiTs circle, and in 
 the society into which he introduced me, there was a 
 
288 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 craze for the sceptical philosophy which France had 
 accepted with enthusiasm, because it was put forward 
 everywhere with so much ability. The brilliant talk that 
 pleased my ears found favour with me on account of the 
 keenness of apprehension displayed in it, or by reason of 
 the cleverly-turned formulas which brought contempt 
 upon religion and upon truth. The men who made 
 light of feelings and opinions expressed them all the 
 better because they had never felt or held them ; and 
 their epigrammatic turn of expression was not more 
 attractive than the lively ease with which they could put 
 a whole story into a word. Sometimes, however, their 
 cleverness misled them ; and women found them weari- 
 some when love-making became a science rather than an 
 affair of the heart. I made a feeble resistance to this 
 torrent, although my soul (forgive me for my vanity) was 
 impassioned enough to feel that esprit had withered all 
 these natures about me ; the life that I led in those days 
 ended in a chronic strife between my natural disposition 
 and the warped habits of mind that I had acquired. A few 
 aspiring intellects had amused themselves by encouraging 
 me in a freedom of thought and a contempt for public 
 opinion that deprives a woman of a certain reticence, 
 without which she has no charm. Alas ! it has not been 
 in the power of adversity to correct the defects which 
 prosperity implanted in me,' and she sighed. 
 
 c My father, the Due de Verneuil,' she resumed, c died 
 after recognising me as his daughter, leaving a will which 
 considerably diminished the estate of my half-brother, 
 his legitimate son, in my favour. One morning I found 
 myself without a protector or a roof above my head. My 
 brother disputed the will which had enriched me. My 
 vanity had been developed during the past three years 
 that had been spent in a wealthy household. My father 
 had indulged all my fancies ; to him I owed a craving for 
 luxury, and habits in which my simple and inexperienced 
 mind failed to recognise a perilous bondage. The 
 
A Day without a Morrow 289 
 
 Marechal Due de Lenoncourt, one of my father's friends, 
 a man of seventy, offered to become my guardian. I 
 accepted his offer ; and a few days after the detestable law- 
 suit had begun, I found myself in a splendid house, where 
 I was in full possession of all the advantages that a 
 brother's unkindness had refused to me over our father's 
 coffin. The old Marshal used to come to spend a few 
 hours with me every evening ; and from him I heard 
 only gentle and soothing words. His white hair and all 
 the touching proofs of paternal tenderness which he gave 
 me led me to believe that the feelings of my own heart 
 were likewise his ; and I liked to think that I was his 
 daughter. I took the ornaments that he gave to me, and 
 made no secret of any of my fancies when I saw him so 
 glad to indulge them. One evening I discovered that 
 all Paris looked upon me as the poor old man's mistress. 
 It was made clear to me that I could never re-establish 
 my innocence, of which I had been groundlessly deprived. 
 The man who had taken advantage of my inexperience 
 could not be my lover, and would not be my husband. 
 In the week in which I made this hideous discovery, and 
 on the eve of the day that had been fixed for my marriage 
 — for I had insisted that he should give me his name, the 
 one reparation that it was in his power to make me — he 
 suddenly started for Coblentz. I was ignominiously 
 driven from the little house in which the Marshal had 
 installed me, and which was not his own property. So 
 far I have told the truth to you as if I stood before the 
 Judgment Throne ; but after this point do not ask for a 
 complete list of all the sufferings that lie buried in the 
 memory of an unhappy girl One day, sir, I found 
 myself Dan ton's wife. A few days later, and the great 
 oak-tree about which I had cast my arms was uprooted 
 by the tempest. Then, when plunged for the second 
 time into utter misery, I determined to die. I do not 
 know if it was mere love of life, or the hope of out- 
 wearing misfortune, and so of finding at last, in the 
 
 T 
 
290 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 depths of this infinite abyss, the happiness that eluded 
 my grasp, or by what other motive I was unconsciously 
 counselled. I know not whether I was led away by the 
 arguments of the young man from Vendome, who, for 
 the past two years, has hung about me like a serpent 
 about a tree, thinking, no doubt, that some overwhelming 
 misfortune may give me to him. Indeed, I do not know 
 how 1 came to accept this hateful mission, of winning the 
 love of a stranger whom I was to betray for three 
 hundred thousand francs ! Then I saw you, sir, and I 
 knew you at once. I knew it by one of those presenti- 
 ments that never lead us astray ; and yet I was glad to 
 doubt it, for the more I loved you, the more appalling 
 the conviction grew for me. When I rescued you from 
 Hulot's clutches, I forswore the part that I was playing ; 
 I determined to outwit the executioners instead of deceiv- 
 ing their victim. It was wrong of me to play in that way 
 with men's lives, and with their schemes, and with 
 myself, with all the heedlessness of a girl who can see 
 nothing but sentiment in the world. I thought that I 
 was loved, and allowed the hope of beginning my life 
 anew to be my guide ; but everything about me, and 
 even I myself, perhaps, betrayed my lawless past, for you 
 must have mistrusted a woman with so passionate a nature 
 as mine. Alas ! who could refuse forgiveness to me for 
 my love and my dissimulation ? Yes, sir, I felt as 
 though, after a long and uneasy sleep, I had awakened to 
 find myself a girl of sixteen again. Was I not in 
 Alen^on ? The pure and innocent memories of my 
 childish days there rose up before me. My wild credulity 
 led me to think that love would give me a baptism of 
 innocence. For a little while I thought that I was a 
 maiden still, for as yet I had never loved. But, yesterday 
 evening it seemed to me that there was sincerity in your 
 passion ; and a voice within me cried, " Why do you 
 deceive him ? " Know this, therefore. Marquis,' she went 
 on, in a deep, hard voice which seemed proudly to demand 
 
A Day without a Morrow 291 
 
 her own condemnation — c know this for a certainty, that 
 I am only a dishonoured creature and unworthy of you. 
 From this moment I will resume my role of castaway ; 
 I am too weary to sustain any longer the part of the 
 woman whom you had led to yield herself to all the most 
 sacred impulses of her heart. Virtue weighs me down ; 
 I should despise you if you were weak enough to marry 
 me. A Comte de Bauvan might perhaps commit such a 
 folly ; but you, sir, be worthy of your future, and leave 
 me without regret. The courtesan, you see, would 
 require too much ; she would love you in nowise like a 
 simple and artless girl — she who felt in her heart for a 
 little while the exquisite hope that she might be your 
 companion, that she might make you always happy and 
 do you honour, and be a noble and high-minded wife to 
 you ; and who, through these very thoughts that moved 
 her, gathered courage, and revived her evil nature of vice 
 and infamy, so as to set it between herself and you as an 
 eternal barrier. I give up honour and fortune for your 
 sake. The pride which lays this sacrifice upon me will 
 uphold me in my wretchedness, and my fate I leave to 
 the disposal of destiny. I will never betray you. I shall 
 go back to Paris ; and when I am there your name will 
 be another separate self to me ; and the splendid heroism 
 with which you will invest it will be my consolation in 
 all my sorrows. As for you, you are a man; you will 
 forget me — Farewell.' 
 
 She fled in the direction of the valleys of St. Sulpice, 
 and vanished before the Marquis had risen to delay her ; 
 but she retraced her steps, hid herself in a fissure of the 
 rocks, raised her head, and anxiously and doubtfully 
 studied the Marquis. He was walking on without 
 heeding the direction in which he went, like a man 
 distraught. 
 
 i If his should be a weak nature,' she said to herself 
 as he disappeared, and she felt herself cut off from him, 
 4 will he understand me ? 9 
 
2$2 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 She trembled. Then she suddenly walked on towards 
 F ougeres by herself, with rapid steps, as if she feared that 
 the Marquis might follow her to the town, where he 
 would have met with his death. 
 
 c Well, Francine, what did he say ?' she asked of her 
 faithful Breton, as soon as they were together again. 
 
 c Alas ! Marie, I was sorry for him. You great ladies 
 can stab a man to the heart with a bitter word.' 
 
 4 What was he like when he came up with you ? 9 
 
 1 Did he so much as see me ? — Oh ! Marie, he loves 
 you ! 9 
 
 c Oh, he loves me, or he loves me not ! 9 she answered, 
 c two words that mean heaven or hell for me; and 
 between those two extremes I cannot find a place on 
 which to set my foot.' 
 
 After she had accomplished the task laid upon her 
 by fate, Marie could give way to her sorrow. Her face 
 had kept its composure hitherto, owing to a mixture of 
 different sentiments within her, but now it underwent a 
 rapid change, so that after a day spent in fluctuating 
 between presentiments of joy or despair, her beauty lost 
 its radiance and the freshness which owes its existence 
 either to the absence of all passion or to transports of 
 happiness. Hulot and Corentin came to see her shortly 
 after her arrival, curious to know the results of her wild 
 enterprise. Marie received them smilingly. 
 
 c Well,' she said to the commandant, whose anxious 
 face looked searchingly at her, c the fox is coming within 
 range of your guns again, and you will soon gain a very 
 glorious victory !' 
 
 c What has happened ? ' Corentin inquired carelessly. 
 He gave Mile, de Verneuil a sidelong glance, such as 
 this sort of diplomatist uses for discovering the thoughts 
 of others. 
 
 1 Ah ! ' she answered, c the Gars is more in love with 
 me than ever, and I made him come with us as far as 
 
 the gates of Fougere3. > 
 
A Day without a Morrow 293 
 
 1 Apparently that is where your power ends,' said 
 Corentin, c and the ci-devant* s fears are still stronger than 
 the love which you inspire in him.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil glanced contemptuously at Corentin. 
 
 6 You judge him by yourself,' she replied. 
 
 c Well,' he said, serenely, c why did you not bring him 
 as far as your own house ? 5 
 
 c If he really loved me, commandant,' she said to Hulot, 
 with a malicious glance, * would you bear a grudge 
 against me if I saved him and bore him away out of 
 France ? ' 
 
 The old veteran went quickly up to her, and took her 
 hand as if to kiss it, with a sort of enthusiasm ; then he 
 gazed steadily at her and said, as his brow grew dark — 
 
 c You forget my two friends, and my sixty-three 
 men ! ' 
 
 * Ah ! commandant,' she said, with all the naivete of 
 passion, 6 that was not his fault, he was tricked by a bad 
 woman, Charette's mistress, who, I believe, would drink 
 the blood of the Blues.' 
 
 c Come, Marie,' Corentin put in, c do not make fun of 
 the commandant ; he does not understand your jests as 
 yet.' 
 
 4 Be silent,' she answered, 'and know that the day on 
 which you annoy me a little too much will be your last.' 
 
 c I see, mademoiselle,' said Hulot, with no bitterness in 
 his tone, c that I must prepare to fight.' 
 
 c You are in no condition to do so, my dear colonel. 
 I saw more than six thousand of their men at Saint 
 James ; regular troops, and ordnance, and English officers. 
 But without him y what will become of all these people ? 
 I think, as Fouche does, that his head is everything.' 
 
 c Very well, when shall we have it ? ' Corentin asked 
 impatiently. 
 
 ' I do not know,' was her careless response. 
 
 c English officers ! ' cried Hulot, in hot wrath, 6 the one 
 thing wanting to make a downright brigand of him ! 
 
The Chouans 
 
 Ah ! I will fit him up with his Englishmen, that I will ! 
 ... It seems to me, citizen diplomatist, that you allow 
 that girl to upset all your plans from time to time,' was 
 Hulot's remark to Corentin, when they were a few paces 
 distant from the house. 
 
 c It is quite natural, citizen commandant,' said Corentin^ 
 with a pensive air, * that you are bewildered by all that 
 she has told us. You men of the sword do not know 
 that there are several ways of making war. To make a 
 dexterous use of the passions of men and women, as so 
 many springs which can be set in motion for the benefit 
 of the State ; to set in position all the wheels in the 
 mighty piece of machinery that we call a Government ; 
 to take a pleasure in setting within it the most stubborn 
 sentiments, like detents whose action one can amuse 
 oneself by controlling ; is not all this the work of a 
 creator ? Is it not a position like God's, in the centre of 
 the universe ? 9 
 
 c You will permit me to prefer my trade to yours,' the 
 soldier answered drily. c Do as you will with that 
 machinery of yours ; I acknowledge no superior but the 
 Minister of War. I have my instructions, and I shall 
 take the field with stout fellows who will not skulk, and 
 openly confront the enemy whom you wish to take from 
 behind.' 
 
 c Oh, you can get ready to march if you like,' Corentin 
 rejoined. c Inscrutable as you may think this girl, I have 
 managed to gather from her that there will be some 
 skirmishing for you ; and before very long I shall have 
 the pleasure of obtaining for you a tete-a-tete with the 
 chief of these brigands.' 
 
 c How will you do that ? ' inquired Hulot, stepping 
 back a little, the better to see this singular being, 
 
 * Mile, de Verneuil loves the Gars,' Corentin answered 
 in a stifled voice, c and very likely he is in love with her. 
 He is a Marquis, he wears the red ribbon, he is young, 
 and he has a clever head, who knows but that he may 
 
A Day without a Morrow 295 
 
 still be wealthy, — how many inducements ' She would 
 be very foolish not to play for her own hand, and try to 
 marry him rather than give him up to us. She is 
 endeavouring to keep us amused, but I can read a kind of 
 misgiving in the girl's eyes. The two lovers will most 
 probably arrange a meeting, perhaps they have done so 
 already. Well, then, to-morrow I shall have my man 
 fast enough. Hitherto he was the enemy of the Republic 
 and nothing more, but a few minutes ago he became 
 mine as well, for all those who have taken it into their 
 heads to come between this girl and me have died on the 
 scaffold.' 
 
 When he had finished, Corentin became too much 
 absorbed in his own meditations to notice the expression 
 of intense disgust on the true-hearted soldier's face. 
 When Hulot became aware of the depths in this intrigue, 
 and of the nature of the springs employed in Fouche's 
 machinery, he made up his mind at once to thwart 
 Corentin in every matter in which the success of the 
 enterprise or the wishes of the Government were not 
 essentially concerned, and to give to the foe of the 
 Republic a chance of dying honourably sword in hand, 
 before he could fall a victim to the executioner, whose 
 avowed caterer stood before him in the person of this 
 secret agent of the upper powers of the police. 
 
 * If the First Consul were to take my advice,' he said, 
 turning his back on Corentin, c he would leave this kind 
 of fox to fight it out with the aristocrats — they would be 
 well matched — -and he should employ soldiers in quite 
 other business.' 
 
 Corentin looked coolly at the veteran (whose thoughts 
 shone out plainly in his face), and a sardonic expression 
 returned to his eyes, revealing a sensu of superiority in 
 this Machiavellian understrapper. 
 
 c Give three ells of blue cloth to brutes of that sort, 
 and hang a bit of iron at their sides, and they fancy that 
 in politics men may only be got rid of after one fashion,' 
 
296 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 said he to himself. He walked slowly on for a few 
 minutes, and suddenly exclaimed within — 
 
 c Yes, the hour has come, and the woman shall be 
 mine ! The circle that I have traced about her has been 
 gradually growing smaller and smaller for five years ; I 
 have her now, and with her help I shall climb as high in 
 the Government as Fouche. . . . Yes, when she loses 
 the one man whom she has loved, the agony of it will 
 give her to me body and soul. All that I have to do 
 now is to keep a watch on her night and day, to surprise 
 her secret.' 
 
 A moment later an onlooker might have seen Corentin's 
 pale face at the window of a house whence he could 
 behold every one who came into the blind alley, between 
 the row of houses and St. Leonard's Church. He was 
 there again on the morning of the next day ; patient as a 
 cat that lies in wait for a mouse, attentive to the slightest 
 sound, and engaged in submitting every passer-by to a 
 rigorous scrutiny. It was the morning of a market day ; 
 and although in those troubled times the peasants scarcely 
 ventured to come to the town, Corentin saw a gloomy 
 looking man clad in goatskins, who carried a small round 
 flat-shaped basket on his arm, and who went towards 
 Mile, de Verneuil's house, after giving a careless look 
 round about him. Corentin came down from his post, 
 purposing to stop the peasant as he came out ; but it 
 suddenly occurred to him that if he could enter Mile, de 
 Verneuil's house at unawares, a single glance might 
 possibly surprise the secret hidden in the messenger's 
 basket. Popular report, moreover, had taught him that 
 it was all but impossible to come off best in an encounter 
 with the impenetrable replies that Normans and Bretons 
 are wont to make. 
 
 4 Galope-Chopine ! ' cried Mile, de Verneuil, as 
 Francine brought in the Chouan. 
 
 4 Am I then beloved ? ' she added to herself in a low 
 voice. An instinct of hope brought a bright colour to 
 
A Day without a Morrow 297 
 
 her face, and put joy in her heart. Galope-Chopine 
 looked by turns at the mistress of the house and at 
 Francine, casting suspicious glances at the latter, until 
 his doubts were removed by a sign from Mile, de 
 Verneuil. 
 
 c Madame,' he said, 1 towards two o'clock he will be at 
 my place, waiting for you.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil's agitation was so great that she 
 could only bend her head in reply, but a Samoyede could 
 have understood all its significance. Corentin's footsteps 
 echoed in the salon at that moment. Galope-Chopine 
 was not disturbed in the least when Mile, de Verneuil's 
 glance and shudder made him aware of approaching 
 danger. As soon as the spy showed his astute coun- 
 tenance, the Chouan raised his voice to a deafening pitch. 
 
 c Yes, yes!' he said to Francine, 'there is Brittany 
 butter and Brittany butter. You want Gibarry butter, 
 and only give eleven sous the pound for it ? You ought 
 not to have sent for me ! This is really good butter,' he 
 said, opening his basket, and exhibiting two pats that 
 Barbette had made up. 'Pay a fair price, good lady. 
 Come, another sou ! ' There was no trace of agitation 
 in his hollow voice, and his green eyes, underneath the 
 bushy grey eyebrows, bore Corentin's keen scrutiny with- 
 out flinching. 
 
 4 Come now, my man, hold your tongue. You did not 
 come here to sell butter; you are dealing with a lady 
 who never drove a bargain in her life. Your line of 
 business, old boy, will leave you shorter by a head some 
 of these days.' 
 
 Corentin tapped him amicably on the shoulder and 
 continued, c You cannot be in the service of both 
 Chouans and Blues at once for very long.' 
 
 It took all Galope-Chopine's self-possession to choke 
 down his wrath, and so prevent himself from rebutting 
 this accusation, which, owing to his avarice, was a true 
 one. He contented himself with saying — 
 
298 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c The gentleman has a mind to laugh at me.' 
 
 Corentin had turned his back upon the Chouan ; but 
 as he greeted Mile, de Verneuil, whose heart stood still 
 with terror, he could easily watch the man in the mirror. 
 Galope-Chopine, who believed that the spy could no 
 longer see him, looked inquiringly at Francine, and 
 Francine pointed to the door, saying — 
 
 c Come along with me, good man ; we shall always 
 manage to settle things comfortably.' 
 
 Nothing had been lost upon Corentin. He had seen 
 everything. He had noticed the contraction of Mile, de 
 VerneuiPs mouth, which her smile had failed to disguise ; 
 and her red flush, and the alteration in her features, as 
 well as the Chouan's uneasiness and Francine's gesture. 
 He felt certain that Galope-Chopine was a messenger 
 from the Marquis, caught at the long hair of the man's 
 goatskins, stopped him just as he was going out, drew 
 him back so that he confronted his own steady gaze, and 
 said — 
 
 c Where do you live, my good friend ? / want , 
 butter ' 
 
 c Good gentleman,' the Chouan answered, Everybody 
 in Fougeres knows where I live. I am, as you may 
 say ' 
 
 c Corentin ! 9 cried Mile, de Verneuil, breaking in upon 
 Galope-Chopine's answer, 4 it is a great piece of presump- 
 tion on your part to pay me a visit at this time of day, 
 and to take me by surprise like this ! I am scarcely 
 dressed ! Leave the peasant in peace, he understands 
 your tactics as little as I understand your motives for 
 them. Go, good fellow ! ' 
 
 Galope-Chopine hesitated for a moment before he 
 went. The indecision of an unlucky wretch who cannot 
 tell whom he must obey, whether it was real or feigned, 
 had already succeeded in deceiving Corentin ; and the 
 Chouan, at an imperative gesture from Marie, tramped 
 heavily away. Then Mile, de Vernenil and Corentin 
 
A Day without a Morrow 299 
 
 looked at one another in silence. This time Marie's 
 clear eyes could not endure the intensity of the arid glare 
 that was shed upon her in the other's gaze. The deter- 
 mined manner with which the spy had made his way 
 into her room, an expression on his face which was new 
 to Marie, the dull sound of his thin voice, his attitude, 
 everything about him, alarmed her. She felt that a secret 
 struggle had begun between them, and that he was exert- 
 ing all the powers of his sinister influence against her ; 
 but although at that moment she distinctly beheld the 
 full extent of the gulf, and the depths to which she 
 had consigned herself, she drew sufficient strength from 
 her love to shake off the icy cold of her presentiments. 
 
 c Corentin,' she began, with an attempt at mirth, c I 
 hope you will allow me to finish my toilette.' 
 
 ' Marie,' said he, c — yes, allow me to call you so — you 
 do not know me yet ! Listen ! A less sharp-sighted 
 man than I am would have found out your love for the 
 Marquis de Montauran before this. I have again and 
 again offered you my heart and my hand. You did not 
 think me worthy of you, and perhaps you are right ; but 
 if you think that you are too much above me, too 
 beautiful or too high-minded for me, I can easily make 
 you come down to my level. My ambitions and my 
 doctrines have inspired you with scanty respect for me, 
 and, to be plain with you, you are wrong. The value of 
 men is even less than my estimate of them, and I rate 
 them at next to nothing. There can be no doubt but 
 that I shall attain to a high position, to honours that 
 will gratify your pride. Who will love you better than 
 I ? Over whom will you have such an absolute 
 dominion as over the man who has loved you for five 
 years past * At the risk of making an impression upon 
 you which will not be in my favour (for you have no 
 idea that it is possible to renounce, through excess of love, 
 the woman whom one worships), I will give you a 
 measure of the disinterested affection with which I adore 
 
3oo 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 you. Do not shake your pretty head in that way. If 
 the Marquis loves you, marry him, but first make quite 
 sure of his sincerity. If I knew that you were dis- 
 appointed in him, I should be in despair, for your hap- 
 piness is dearer to me than my own. My determination 
 may surprise you, but you must ascribe it simply to the 
 prudence of a man who is not fool enough to wish to 
 possess a woman against her will. I blame myself, more- 
 over, and not you, for the futility of my efforts. I hoped 
 to win you by dint of submission and devotion ; for, as 
 you know, for a long time past I have tried to make you 
 happy, after my notions; but you have thought fit to 
 reward me for nothing.' 
 
 c I have endured your presence,' she said haughtily. 
 
 4 Say further that you are sorry to have done so.' 
 
 4 After you have committed me to this disgraceful 
 enterprise, are thanks still owing to you ? * 
 
 4 When I proposed an undertaking to you, in which 
 timorous souls might find something blameworthy, I had 
 only your fortune in view,' he answered audaciously. 
 c As for me, whether I succeed or fail, I can now make 
 every sort of result conduce to the ultimate success of 
 my plans. If you should marry Montauran, I shall be 
 delighted to make myself useful to the Bourbon cause in 
 Paris, where I am a member of the Clichy Club. As it 
 happens, any circumstance that put me in correspondence 
 with the princes would persuade me to quit the cause of 
 a Republic which is tottering to its fall. General 
 Bonaparte is far too clever not to perceive that he cannot 
 possibly be at once in Germany and Italy and here where 
 the Revolution is on the wane. He arranged the i8th 
 Brumaire because, no doubt, he wished to obtain the best 
 possible terms from the Bourbons, in treating with them 
 as to France ; for he is a very clever fellow, and has no 
 lack of capacity. But politicians ought to get ahead of 
 him on the road on which he has entered. As to betray- 
 ing France, we who are superior to any scruples on that 
 
A Day without a Morrow 301 
 
 score, can leave them to fools. I am fully empowered — I 
 do not conceal it from you — either to open negotiations 
 with the Chouan chiefs or to extirpate them ; for my 
 patron Fouche is deep fellow enough, he has always 
 played a double game. During the Terror he was at 
 once for Robespierre and for Danton " 
 
 c Whom you forsook like a coward ! ' she said. 
 
 c Rubbish,' replied Corentin ; 4 he is dead, forget him. 
 Come, speak your mind frankly ; I have set the example. 
 The chief of demi-brigade is shrewder than he looks, 
 and if you wish to elude the watch he keeps, I might be 
 useful to you. So long as you stay here, beneath his eye, 
 you are at the mercy of his police. You see how quickly 
 he learned that the Chouan was with you ! How could 
 his military sagacity fail to make it plain to him that 
 your least movements would keep him informed as to 
 the whereabouts of the Marquis, if you are loved by 
 Montauran ? 9 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil had never heard such gently affec- 
 tionate tones before. Corentin seemed to be absolutely 
 sincere, and to put full trust in her. The poor girl's 
 heart so readily received generous impressions, that she 
 was about to intrust her secret to the serpent who had 
 wound his coils about her. She bethought herself, how- 
 ever, that she had no proof whatever that this crafty talk 
 was genuine, and so she felt no hesitation about deceiv- 
 ing the man who was watching her. 
 
 c Well,' she answered, c you have guessed my secret, 
 Corentin. Yes, I love the Marquis ; but I am not loved 
 by him, pr at least, I fear not ; so that the rendezvous 
 he has made seems to me to hide some trap.' 
 
 c But you told us yesterday that he had come with you 
 as far as Fougeres,' Corentin replied. 6 If he had 
 intended violence, you would not be here.' 
 
 c Your heart is withered, Corentin. You can base 
 cunningly contrived schemes on the occurrences of 
 ordinary life, but you cannot reckon with the course of 
 
302 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 passion. Perhaps that is the cause of the aversion that 
 you always inspire in me. But as you are so clear-sighted, 
 try to understand how it is that a man from whom the 
 day before yesterday I parted in anger is waiting eagerly 
 for me to-day on the Mayenne road, at a house in 
 Florigny, towards the end of the day * 
 
 At this confession, which seemed to have escaped from 
 her in a moment of excitement natural enough in a 
 nature so passionate and outspoken, Corentin reddened, 
 for he was still young ; but furtively he gave her one of 
 those keen glances that try to explore the soul. Mile, de 
 Verneuil's feigned revelation of self had been made so 
 skilfully that the spy was deceived. He made answer 
 with a semblance of good nature, c Would you like me 
 to follow you at a distance ? I would take soldiers in 
 plain clothes with me, and we should be at your orders.' 
 
 c I agree to it,' said she, c but promise me, on your 
 honour — Oh, no ! for I put no faith in that ; on your 
 salvation — but you do not believe in God \ on your soul 
 — but perhaps you have no soul. What guarantee can 
 you give me of your fidelity ? And yet I am trusting in 
 you, notwithstanding, and I am putting into your hands 
 more than my life, or my love, or my revenge ! ' 
 
 The faint smile that appeared over Corentin's sallow 
 features showed Mile, de Verneuil the danger that she 
 had just escaped. The agent of police, whose nostrils 
 seemed to contract rather than to expand, took his 
 victim's hand and kissed it with every outward sign of 
 deep respect, and took leave of her with a not ungraceful 
 bow. 
 
 Three hours later, Mile, de Verneuil, who stood in fear 
 of Corentin's return, stole out of St. Leonard's gate and 
 took the narrow path down the Nid-aux-Crocs, which led 
 into the Nancon valley. She thought herself safe as she 
 went unnoticed, through the labyrinth of tracks which 
 led to Galope-Chopine's cabin, whither she betook herself 
 with a light heart, for the hope of happiness led her on, as 
 
A Day without a Morrow 303 
 
 well as a strong wish to save her lover from the dangers 
 that threatened him. 
 
 Corentin, meanwhile, went in quest of the com- 
 mandant. He had some difficulty in recognising Hulot 
 when he came upon him in a little square, where the 
 commandant was deep in military preparations. Indeed, 
 the brave veteran had made a sacrifice of which the merit 
 can hardly be estimated. His queue had been cut off, he 
 had shaved his moustache, and there was a trace of 
 powder about his hair which was clipped as short as a 
 priest's. He wore great iron-bound shoes, and had ex- 
 changed his old blue uniform and his sword for goat- 
 skins, a belt adorned with pistols, and a heavy carbine. 
 Thus accoutred he was reviewing two hundred of the 
 townsmen of Fougeres, whose costumes might have de- 
 ceived the eyes of the most expert Chouan. The martial 
 fervour of the little town and of the native Breton 
 character was very evident. There was no novelty about 
 the spectacle. Here and there a mother or sister carried 
 to a son or brother a gourd of brandy or pistols that had 
 been forgotten. A number of old men were investigating 
 the quality and quantity of the cartridges supplied to the 
 National Guards thus metamorphosed into Counter- 
 Chouans, whose high spirits seemed more in accordance 
 with a hunting party than with a dangerous enterprise. 
 The skirmishes of Chouannerie, wherein Breton towns- 
 men fought with Breton peasants, appeared, in their eyes, 
 to be a substitute for the tournaments of chivalry. 
 Possibly this fervid patriotism had its source in certain 
 grants of National property ; but the benefits of the 
 Revolution (which were better appreciated in the towns), 
 as well as party spirit and a characteristic and innate love 
 of fighting, all counted for something in bringing about 
 their enthusiasm. 
 
 Hulot went through the ranks in admiration, making 
 inquiries of Gudin, to whom he had transferred the friend- 
 ship he had formerly entertained for Merle and Gerard 
 
304 The Chouans 
 
 A crowd of townspeople, examining the preparations for 
 their expedition, compared the appearance of their undis- 
 ciplined fellow-countrymen with that of a battalion of 
 Hulot's own demi-brigade. 
 
 Silent and motionless, the Blues stood drawn up in line, 
 under the command of their officers, awaiting the orders 
 of the commandant, whom the eyes of every soldier fol- 
 lowed about from group to group. As Corentin ap- 
 proached the chief of demi-brigade, he could not repress 
 a smile at the change that had been wrought in Hulot's 
 face. He looked like a portrait which no longer bears 
 any likeness to the original. 
 
 c What is the news now ? ' Corentin asked him. 
 
 c Come and fire a shot along with us, and you will 
 know,' the commandant replied. 
 
 6 Oh ! I do not belong to Fougeres,' answered Corentin. 
 
 * That is easy to see, citizen,' said Gudin. 
 
 A mocking laugh broke out here and there among the 
 groups of bystanders. 
 
 * Do you imagine,' retorted Corentin, c that France 
 can only be served with the bayonet ? ' He turned his 
 back on the scoffers and went up to one of the women to 
 inquire the purpose and the destination of the expedition. 
 
 * Alas ! good sir, the Chouans are even now at Florigny I 
 They say that they are more than three thousand strong, 
 and that they are marching on Fougeres.' 
 
 c Florigny ! ' cried Corentin, turning pale. 
 
 c Then her rendezvous is not there ! ♦ . . Are they 
 really at Florigny on the road to Mayenne ? ' he asked. 
 
 c There is only one Florigny,' the woman answered, 
 and as she spoke, she indicated the road that was cut 
 short by the summit of La Pelerine. 
 
 c Are you looking for the Marquis de Montauran ? ' 
 Corentin asked the commandant. 
 
 4 Rather ! ' Hulot answered shortly. 
 
 'Then he is not at Florigny, 1 Corentin resumed. 
 1 Bring your own battalion and the National Guard to 
 
A Day without a Morrow 305 
 
 bear on that point, but keep a few of your Counter- 
 Chouans with you and wait for me.' 
 
 c He is too cunning to be mad/ the commandant 
 exclaimed, as he watched Corentin set off with hasty 
 strides. c He is the very king of spies ! ' 
 
 Hulot immediately gave his battalion a signal to depart. 
 The Republican soldiers marched silently and without 
 beat of drum through the narrow suburb that lies on the 
 way to the Mayenne road, forming a long streak of blue and 
 red among the houses and trees. The disguised National 
 Guards followed them, but Hulot stayed behind in the 
 little square, with Gudin and a score of the smartest of 
 the young men of the town. He was waiting for Corentin, 
 whose enigmatical air had roused his curiosity. Francine 
 herself told Corentin that Mile, de Verneuil had gone out, 
 and the keen-witted spy's surmise became a certainty. He 
 started out at once in quest of any light that he could 
 obtain as to this abrupt departure, which with good 
 reason seemed suspicious to him. Corentin learned from 
 the soldiers in the guard-house at St. Leonard's gate 
 that the fair stranger had gone down the path on the side 
 of the Nid-aux-Crocs ; he hurried to the Promenade, and 
 unluckily reached it just in time to watch all Marie's 
 slightest movements from his post of observation. Though 
 she had dressed herself in a hood and gown of green, so 
 as to be less conspicuous, the quick uneven movements 
 of her almost frenzied progress among the hedges, now 
 leafless and white with hoar-frost, readily betrayed the 
 direction in which she was going. 
 
 c Ah ! ' he cried, c you should by rights be on the way to 
 Florigny, and you are going down the dale of Gibarry ! 
 I am a fool after all. She has tricked me. Patience, 
 though, I can light my lamp in the daytime quite as 
 well as at night.' 
 
 Corentin, who had all but detected the spot where the 
 two lovers were to meet, hurried back into the square 
 just as Hulot was leaving it to rejoin his troops. 
 
 u 
 
306 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 * Halt, general ! ' he shouted, and the commandant 
 came back. In a brief space Corentin put the soldier in 
 possession of the facts that seemed to be visible threads in 
 a web as yet concealed from them. Hulot, struck with 
 the diplomatist's astuteness, seized him by the arm. 
 
 c Mille tonnerres ! you are right, citizen Pry ! The 
 bandits down there are making a feint ! The two flying 
 columns that I sent out to reconnoitre the neighbourhood 
 which lies between the road to Antrain and the road to 
 Vitre have not yet come back. So we shall, no doubt, obtain 
 reinforcements in the country which will come in handy, 
 for the Gars is not such a fool as to venture out without 
 his blessed screech-owls. Gudin,' he went on, addressing 
 the young Fougerais, 6 hurry off, and let Captain Lebrun 
 know that he can do without me at Florigny ; tell him 
 to give the brigands there a dressing-down, and come 
 back again in less than no time. You know the short 
 cuts. I shall wait for you here to set out on a hunt for 
 the ci-devant, and to avenge the murders at the Vivetiere. 
 Tonnerre de Dieu ! how he runs ! ' he added, as he 
 watched Gudin set off, and vanish as if by magic. c How 
 Gerard would have liked that fellow ! ! 
 
 When Gudin came back he found the numbers of 
 Hulot's little band increased. A few soldiers had been 
 withdrawn from the guard-houses in the town. The 
 commandant told the young Fougerais to pick out a 
 dozen of his countrymen who were best acquainted with 
 the risky trade of Counter-Chouan, and ordered him to 
 make his way through St. Leonard's gate so as to go over 
 the whole length of that side of the hills of St. Sulpice 
 which overlooked the main valley of the Couesnon, the 
 side moreover on which Galope-Chopine's cabin lay. 
 Hulot put himself at the head of his remaining men, and 
 went out of the town through the gate of St. Sulpice, 
 meaning to climb the hills and to follow the line of their 
 crests, where, according to his calculations, he ought to 
 fall in with Beau-Pied and his men, whom he intended to 
 
A Day without a Morrow 307 
 
 employ in forming a cordon of sentinels who should 
 watch the crags from the suburb of St. Sulpice as far as 
 the Nid-aux-Crocs. 
 
 Corentin, feeling quite certain that he had put the fate 
 of the Chouan chief into the hands of his bitterest foes, 
 promptly betook himself to the Promenade, the better to 
 grasp the whole of Hulot's military dispositions. He was 
 not slow to perceive Gudin's little band, as it issued from 
 the valley of the Nancon, and followed the line of the crags 
 along the side of the Couesnon valley ; while Hulot, 
 breaking cover, stole under the walls of the castle of 
 Fougeres, and climbed the dangerous path that ascends to 
 the summits of the hills of St. Sulpice. The two bodies 
 of men, therefore, appeared in parallel lines. The rich 
 tracery of hoar-frost that decorated every bush and tree 
 had given a white hue to the country side, which made it 
 easy to watch the grey moving lines of the two small 
 bodies of soldiers. 
 
 When Hulot reached the level heights of the crags, he 
 called out all the men in uniform among his troops, and 
 Corentin saw how they were posted, by the orders of the 
 keen-sighted commandant, as a line of patrolling sentinels, 
 with a sufficient distance between each man. The first 
 man of the chain communicated with Gudin, and the 
 last with Hulot, so that there was no bush that could 
 escape the bayonets of the three moving lines which were 
 to hunt down the Gars, over hill and field. 
 
 4 The old war- wolf is crafty ! ' cried Corentin as the 
 glittering points of the last bayonets disappeared in the 
 adjoncs. c The Gars's goose is cooked ! If Marie had 
 betrayed this accursed Marquis, she and I should have had 
 the strongest of all bonds between us — the bond of guilt. 
 But she shall certainly be mine ! ' 
 
 The twelve lads from Fougeres, under the command 
 Df Gudin, their sub-lieutenant, very soon reached a spot 
 on the other side of the St. Sulpice crags, where they 
 slope by degrees into the dale of Gibarry. Gudin him- 
 
The Chouans 
 
 self left the road, and vaulted lightly over the echalier j 
 into the first field of broom that he came across. Six of 
 his fellows went with him, while the other six, in obedi- 
 ence to his orders, took the fields to the right, so that in 
 this way they beat up both sides of the road. Gudin 
 himself hurried to an apple-tree that stood in the midst 
 of the broom. At the sound of the footsteps of the six 
 Counter-Chouans, whom Gudin led through the forest of 
 bushes, making every effort the while not to disturb the 
 rime upon them, Beau-Pied and seven or eight men 
 under his command hid themselves behind some chestnut 
 trees that grew on the summit of the hedge, by which 
 the field was surrounded. In spite of the white covering 
 that enveloped the country, and in spite of their well- 
 trained eyes, the lads from Fougeres at first did not 
 notice the others, who had made a sort of rampart of the 
 trees. i 
 
 c Hush ! ' said Beau-Pied, who had raised his head first, l 
 c here they are ! The brigands have got ahead of us ; ! 
 but since we have them here at the ends of our guns, i 
 don't let us miss them, or, my word for it, we shall not ( 
 even be fit to be soldiers to the Pope ! ' 
 
 Gudin's keen eyes, however, had at last discerned the i 
 barrels of the muskets that were pointed at his little 1 
 party. Eight loud voices immediately shouted, 'Who s 
 goes there ! 9 a. bitter gibe that was followed up at a 
 once by eight shots. The bullets whistled about 
 the Counter-Chouans ; one was hit in the arm, and t 
 another dropped. Five of the party who remained un- i 
 hurt retorted with a volley, as they answered, i Friends ! ' t 
 and marched rapidly upon their supposed enemies, so as o 
 to come upon them before they could reload. e 
 
 ' We did not know that there was so much truth in n 
 what we said,' the young sub-lieutenant exclaimed, as he n 
 recognised the uniforms and shabby hats of his demi- p 
 brigade. c We have acted in true Breton fashion, fight- 1 
 ing first, and asking for explanations afterwards.' si 
 
A Day without a Morrow 309 
 
 The eight soldiers stood dumbfounded at the sight of 
 Gudin. c Plague take it, sir, who the devil could help 
 taking you for the brigands in those goatskins of yours?' 
 cried Beau-Pied dolefully. 
 
 4 It is unlucky, and none of us are to blame, for you 
 were not told beforehand that our Counter-Chouans 
 were going to make a sortie. But what are you about ? ' 
 Gudin asked him. 
 
 4 We are looking out for a dozen Chouans, sir, who 
 are amusing themselves by breaking our backs. We have 
 been running for it like poisoned rats, but our legs are 
 stiff with jumping over these echaliers and hedges (heaven 
 confound them !), so we were taking a rest. I think by 
 now the brigands must be somewhere near the shanty 
 you see over there with the smoke rising from it.' 
 
 4 Good ! ' cried Gudin. c As for you,' he said to Beau- 
 Pied, and his eight men, 4 fall back across the fields on 
 the crags of St. Sulpice, and support the line of sentinels 
 that the commandant has posted there. It will not do 
 for you to stay with us, as you are in uniform. Mille 
 cartouches ! We want to put an end to the dogs ; the 
 Gars is among them ! Your comrades will tell you more 
 about it than I can. File to the left, and do not fire on 
 half-a-dozen of our goatskins, whom you may come 
 across. You can tell our Chouans by their cravats ; they 
 are wound round their necks without a knot.' 
 
 Gudin left the two wounded men under the apple- 
 tree, and went towards Galope-Chopine's house, which 
 Beau-Pied had pointed out to him, guided by the smoke 
 that rose from it. While the young officer had been put 
 on the track of the Chouans by a chance fray common 
 enough in this war, but which might have been much 
 more serious, the little detachment under Hulot's com- 
 mand had reached a point in his line of operations 
 parallel with that reached by Gudin on the other side. 
 The veteran, at the head of his Counter-Chouans, 
 stole noiselessly along the hedges with all the eagerness 
 
3rd 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 of a young man. He sprang over the echaliers lightly 
 enough, even now > his tawny eyes wandered over the 
 heights, and he turned his ear like a hunter towards the 
 slightest sound. In the third field which he entered hi 
 saw a woman of thirty, or thereabouts, engaged in hoeing. 
 She was hard at work, and bending over her toil ; while 
 a little boy, about seven or eight years old, armed with 
 a bill-hook, was shaking the hoar-frost from a few furze- 
 bushes that had sprung up here and there, before cutting 
 them down, and laying them in heaps. The little urchin 
 and his mother raised their heads at the sound that 
 Hulot made, as he came down heavily on the near side 
 of the ichalier. Hulot readily took the young woman 
 for an old one. Wrinkles had come before their time 
 to furrow the skin of the Breton woman's throat and 
 brow ; and she was so oddly dressed, in a well-worn 
 goatskin, that if a skirt of dirty yellow canvas had not 
 denoted her sex, Hulot would not have known whether 
 the peasant was a man or a woman, for the long locks of 
 her black hair were hidden away under a red woollen 
 cap. The little urchin's rags scarcely covered him, and 
 his skin showed through them. 
 
 c Hollo ! old woman,' said Hulot in a low voice, as he 
 came up to her. c Where is the Gars ? ' 
 
 The twenty Counter-Chouans who followed him leapt 
 the boundary into the field at that moment. 
 
 c Oh ! to go to the Gars, you must go back to the 
 place you have come from,' the woman replied, after she 
 had given a suspicious glance round at the men. 
 
 c Did I ask you the way to the suburb of the Gars at 
 Fougeres, old scarecrow ? ' Hulot answered roughly. 
 c St. Anne of Auray ! Have you seen the Gars go by ? ' 
 
 i I do not know what you mean,' the woman answered, 
 stooping to go on with her work. 
 
 4 Do you want the Blues on our track to swallow 
 us up, accursed garce ? ' shouted Hulot. 
 
 The woman raised her head at the words, and eyed 
 
A Day without a Morrow 
 
 3 1 * 
 
 the Chouans with fresh suspicion as she answered, c How 
 can the Blues be at your heels ? I have just seen seven 
 or eight of them going back to Fougeres along the road 
 below there.' 
 
 c Now, would not any one think that she had a mind 
 to bite us ? ' asked Hulot. 1 There ! look there, old 
 nanny-goat ! ' The commandant pointed to three or 
 four of his own sentries, some fifty paces behind, whose 
 hats, uniforms, and guns were easily recognisable. 
 
 'Do you want the men whom Marche-a-Terre is 
 sending to help the Gars to have their throats cut ? The 
 Fougeres people want to catch them ! ' he said angrily. 
 
 4 Ah ! I beg your pardon,' the woman answered, 6 but 
 it is so easy to make a mistake ! What parish do you 
 come from ? ' she asked. 
 
 'From Saint George's,' cried two or three of the 
 Fougeres men in Bas-Breton, 'and we are perishing of 
 hunger.' 
 
 c Very well, stop a moment,' said the woman. c Do 
 you see that smoke yonder ? My house is there. If 
 you follow the track to the right, you will come out up 
 above it. Perhaps you may meet my husband on the 
 way. Galope-Ghopine has to keep a look out, so as to 
 warn the Gars \ for he has come to our house to-day, 
 you know,' she added proudly. 
 
 c Thanks, good woman,' Hulot answered. i Forward ! ' 
 he added, speaking to his men. c Tonnerre de Dieu ! 
 We have him now ! ' 
 
 At these words the detachment followed the com- 
 mandant at a run, down the footpath that had been 
 pointed out to them. But when Galope-Chopine's wife 
 heard the oath, which so little beseemed a Catholic, 
 uttered by the supposed Chouan, she turned pale. She 
 looked at the gaiters and goatskins of the lads from 
 Fougeres, sat herself down on the ground, and held her 
 child in a tight embrace, as she said — 
 
 1 May the Holy Virgin of Auray and the blessed St. 
 
The Chouans 
 
 Labre have mercy upon us ! I do not believe that those 
 are our people ; their shoes have no nails to them. . . . 
 Run along the lower road and tell your father about it. 
 His head is at stake,' she said to the little boy, who 
 vanished among the broom and furze like a fawn. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil, however, had met no one belonging 
 to either side upon her way ; though Blues and Chouans 
 were hunting each other in the labyrinth of fields that 
 lay round Galope-Chopine's cabin. When she came in 
 sight of the column of bluish smoke which rose from the 
 half-ruined chimney of the wretched dwelling, she felt 
 her heart beating so violently that the quick vibrating 
 throbs seemed to surge into her throat. She stopped, 
 laid her hand on the branch of a tree to steady herself, 
 and gazed at the smoke which was to serve for a beacon 
 alike to the friends and foes of the young chief. Never 
 before had she felt such overwhelming emotion. 
 
 4 Ah ! I love him too much ! ' she said to herself in a 
 kind of despair 5 * perhaps to-day I shall have command 
 of myself no longer.' 
 
 She suddenly crossed the space that lay between her 
 and the hovel, and came into the yard, whose muddy 
 surface was now hard frozen. The great dog flew 
 barking at her, but at a word from Galope-Chopine he 
 ceased, and wagged his tail. As she entered the hut 
 Mile, de Verneuil gave a comprehensive glance round it. 
 The Marquis was not there. Marie breathed more 
 freely. She was glad to see that the Chouan had made 
 an effort to restore some amount of cleanliness to the 
 one dirty room of his den. Galope-Chopine seized his 
 duck-gun, took leave of his visitor without uttering a 
 word, and went out with his dog. Marie went after 
 him as far as the threshold, and watched him turn to the 
 right, when outside his cabin, into a lane, whose entrance 
 was barred by the decayed trunk of a tree that was 
 almost dropping to pieces. From the doorway she could 
 see field beyond field. The bars across their openings 
 
A Day without a Morrow 313 
 
 made a sort of vista of gateways, for the bareness of the 
 trees and hedges enabled the eye to see the smallest 
 details in the landscape. 
 
 As soon as Galope-Chopine's great hat was quite out 
 of sight, Mile, de Verneuil went out and turned to the 
 left to gain a view of the church at Fougeres; but the shed 
 hid it from her completely. Then she turned her gaze 
 upon the Couesnon valley, which lay beneath her eyes like 
 a great sheet of muslin ; its whiteness made the lowering 
 sky, with its grey snow clouds, seem heavier yet. It was 
 one of those days when nature seems to be dumb, and 
 every sound is absorbed by the air ; so that although the 
 Blues and Counter-Chouans were traversing the country 
 in three lines, in the form of a triangle that diminished 
 as they came nearer and nearer to the cabin, the silence 
 was so deep that Mile, de Verneuil felt a trouble caused 
 by her surroundings, and a kind of physical sadness was 
 added to her mental anguish. There was calamity in the 
 air. At last, in a spot where the vista of echaliers was 
 screened off by a few trees, she saw a young man leaping 
 over the bars like a squirrel, and running with wonderful 
 speed. 
 
 ' It is he ! ' she said to herself. 
 
 The Gars was dressed like any other Chouan. His 
 blunderbuss was slung behind him over his goatskin, and 
 but for his grace of movement he would have been 
 unrecognisable. Marie fled into the cabin, acting upon 
 an instinctive impulse as little explainable as fear; but 
 almost immediately the young chief stood at a distance of 
 two paces from her, before the hearth, where a clear 
 and glowing fire was crackling. Neither of them could 
 find a voice ; each of them feared to move or to look at the 
 other. One hope united their thoughts ; one doubt held 
 them apart — it was agony and it was rapture. 
 
 * Sir,' said Mile, de Verneuil at last, in an unsteady 
 voice, c it is only a regard for your safety that has brought 
 me hither.' 
 
3*4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 4 For my safety ? ' he asked, with bitterness in his tones. 
 
 * Yes,' she replied. 4 So long as I remain in Fougeres 
 your life is imperilled. My love for you is too great to 
 prevent me from going away to-night. You must not 
 seek for me there again.' 
 
 c You are going away, dear angel ? — Then I shall 
 follow you.' 
 
 c You will follow me ? How can you think of it ? 
 And how about the Blues ? ' 
 
 ( Ah ! Marie, my beloved, what connection is there 
 between the Blues and our love ? ' 
 
 c But it seems to me that it is difficult for you to remain 
 in France beside me, and still more difficult for you to 
 leave it with me.' 
 
 c Is there anything impossible for a lover who is in 
 earnest ? ' 
 
 c Ah ! yes. I believe that everything is possible. . . 
 Have I not had the courage to give you up for your owir 
 sake ? ' 
 
 c What ! you give yourself to a horrible being whom 
 you did not love, and you will not make the happiness o 
 a man who worships you ? A man whose life you would 
 fill, who would swear to be yours for ever, and your 
 only ? . . . Listen to me, Marie — do you love me ? ' 
 
 c Yes,' she said. 
 
 4 Then be mine.' 
 
 c Have you forgotten that I resumed my vile part of 
 courtesan, and that it is you who must be mine ? If I am 
 determined to fly from you, it is in order that I may not 
 draw down upon your head the scorn that may be poured 
 on mine. Perhaps, but for that fear ' 
 
 c But if / fear nothing ? ' 
 
 c Who will convince me of it ? I am distrustful. 
 Who, in my position, would not be distrustful ? If the 
 love that each of us inspires in the other cannot last, let 
 it at least be absolute, so that we may joyfully sustain the 
 burden of the world's injustice. What have you done 
 
A Day without a Morrow 315 
 
 for my sake ? You desire me. Do you think that that 
 raises you very much above the level of others who have 
 hitherto seen me ? Have you risked your Chouans for an 
 hour's happiness, taking no more thought for them than 
 I once took for the Blues that were murdered when 
 everything was lost for me ? And what if I were to bid 
 you renounce your ideas, your hopes, your king, of whom 
 I am jealous, and who perhaps will deride you when you 
 die for him, while I could die for you, as a sacred duty ? 
 How if I required you to make your submission to the 
 First Consul, so that you might follow me to Paris ? . . . 
 How if I ordained that we should go to America, that we 
 might live far away from a world where all is vanity, so 
 that I might know whether you really love me for my 
 own sake, as I love you at this moment ? To sum it all 
 up in a word — if I set myself to drag you down to my 
 level instead of raising myself to yours, what would 
 you do ? 9 
 
 * Hush, Marie ! do not slander yourself. Poor child, 
 I have read your thoughts. If my first desire became 
 passion, so my passion is now turned into love. 
 Dear soul of my soul, you are as noble as your name, 
 your soul is as lofty as you are beautiful ; I know it now. 
 My name is noble enough, and I feel that I myself am 
 great enough to compel the world to accept you. Is this 
 because I feel a presentiment of undreamed of happiness 
 without an end with you ? Is it because I feel that I 
 recognise in you the priceless qualities of soul that con- 
 strain us to love one woman for ever ? I do not know 
 why it is, but my love is infinite, and I feel that I can no 
 longer live without you — that my life would be loathsome 
 to me if you were not always near me.' 
 
 c What do you mean by " near you " ? ' 
 
 ( Oh, Marie, you will not understand your Alphonse.' 
 
 c Ah ! Do you think to honour me greatly by offering 
 me your name and your hand ? 9 she asked in seeming 
 disdain, fixing her steady eyes upon the Marquis, as if to 
 
3*6 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 detect his every thought. i And do you know whether 
 you will love me in six months' time ? And what would 
 be my outlook then ? . . . No, no; a mistress is the only 
 woman who can be certain of the reality of the feeling 
 that a man shows for her. Duty, and legal sanctions, 
 and the world, and the common interest of children are 
 but sorry aids to her power ; for if it is lasting, her pride 
 in it and her happiness will enable her to endure the 
 heaviest troubles the world can give. To be your wife, 
 and incur the risk of one day being burdensome to 
 you? Rather than face that fear, I choose a transient 
 love, but a love that is true while it lasts, though 
 it should lead to death and misery in the end. Yes, 
 better than any other, could I be a virtuous mother and 
 a devoted wife ; but if such sentiments are to dwell for 
 long in a woman's heart, a man must not marry her in a 
 fit of passion. Besides this, do I myself know that I 
 shall care for you to-morrow ? No ; I will not bring 
 trouble upon you. I am about to leave Brittany,' she 
 said, as she noticed that he wavered. c I am going back 
 to Paris, and you must not go thither in search of 
 me ' 
 
 c Well, then, if on the morning of the day after 
 to-morrow you see smoke rising from the crags of St. 
 Sulpice, I shall be with you in the evening. I will be 
 your lover, your husband, whatever you would have me 
 be. I shall have dared all things.' 
 
 1 Oh ! Alphonse,' she cried in her intoxication, i do 
 you love me so well that you will risk your life for me 
 in this way, before you make it mine ? ' 
 
 He made no answer ; he looked at her, and she lowered 
 her eyes; but from his mistress's eager face, he knew 
 that her fevered frenzy equalled his own, and he held out 
 his arms to her. Carried away by this madness, Marie 
 was about to sink back languidly upon Montauran's 
 breast, determined that the surrender of herself should be 
 an error that should bring her the greatest happiness, 
 
A Day without a Morrow 317 
 
 since in this way she risked her whole future, which 
 would have been more certain if she had issued victorious 
 from this final ordeal. But as she laid her head on her 
 lover's shoulder, a faint sound echoed outside the house. 
 She tore herself away from him as if she had been suddenly 
 aroused from sleep, and sprang out of the hovel. This 
 enabled her to recover her self-possession to some extent, 
 and to think over her situation. 
 
 c He would have taken me, and perhaps have laughed 
 at me afterwards,' she said to herself. 4 Ah ! if I could 
 bring myself to believe that, I would kill him. Ah ! not 
 just yet ! 9 she added, as she caught sight of Beau- 
 Pied, and made a sign, which the soldier understood with 
 wonderful quickness. 
 
 The poor fellow turned on his heel at once and made 
 as though he had seen nothing. Mile, de Verneuil went 
 suddenly back into the hut, with the first finger of her 
 right hand laid upon her lips in a way that recommended 
 silence to the young chief. 
 
 c They are there ! ' she said, and her voice was low 
 with horror. 
 
 c Who is there ? 9 
 
 c The Blues.' 
 
 c Ah ! I will not die without • 
 
 c Yes, take it.' 
 
 He clasped her, as she stood there cold and powerless, 
 and pressed upon her lips a kiss full of rapture and of ghastly 
 fear, for it might be at once the first kiss and the last. 
 Then together they stood upon the threshold of the 
 door, with their heads in such a position that they could 
 watch everything without being seen. The Marquis saw 
 Gudin at the head of a dozen men holding the foot of 
 the Couesnon valley ; then he turned and looked along 
 the vista of echaliers ; seven soldiers were on guard over 
 the great rotten tree trunk. He climbed upon the cask 
 of cider and broke a hole through the shingle roof, so as 
 to spring out on to the knoll behind the house, but he 
 
The Chouans 
 
 quickly drew back his head through the gap he had just 
 made, for Hulot, on the summit, had cut off the way to 
 Fougeres. He looked for a moment at his mistress, who 
 uttered a despairing cry ; for she heard the tramp of 
 the three detachments who had met at last about the 
 house. 
 
 1 Go out first,' he said ; c you will save my life.' 
 
 For her those words were sublime. Full of happiness, 
 she went and stood in the doorway, while the Marquis 
 cocked his blunderbuss. The Gars calculated the distance 
 between the cabin door and the echalier^ suddenly con- 
 fronted the seven Blues, riddled the group with shot, and 
 made his way through their midst. All three detach- 
 ments flung themselves upon the echalier that the chief 
 had just cleared, only to see him running across the field 
 with incredible swiftness. 
 
 c Fire ! fire ! in the devil's name ! You are no 
 Frenchmen ! Fire, you wretches ! ' thundered Hulot. 
 
 As he called these words from the top of the knoll, his 
 own men and Gudin's troop fired a volley point blank, 
 which, luckily, was badly aimed. The Marquis had 
 already reached the echalier at the other end of the nearest 
 field, and was just entering the next, when he was all 
 but overtaken by Gudin, who had flung himself after him 
 in hot pursuit. When the Gars heard the footsteps of 
 his formidable antagonist not many yards behind him, he 
 redoubled his speed ; but in spite of this, both Gudin and the 
 Marquis reached the third echalier almost at the same time. 
 Montauran adroitly flung his blunderbuss at Gudin's 
 head, and struck the Counter-Chouan a blow that made 
 him slacken his pace. It is impossible to describe Marie's 
 agony of mind, and the intense interest with which 
 Hulot and his troops watched this spectacle, each one 
 unconsciously imitating the gestures of the two runners 
 in a dead silence. The Gars and Gudin both reached 
 the screen of copse, now white with hoar frost, when 
 the officer suddenly fell back and disappeared behind an 
 
A Day without a Morrow 
 
 3*9 
 
 apple tree. Some score of Chouans, who had not dared 
 to fire for fear of killing their leader, now appeared, and 
 riddled the tree with balls. All Hulot's little band set 
 out at a run to rescue Gudin, who, being without 
 weapons, fled towards them from one apple tree to 
 another, choosing the moments when the Chasseurs du 
 Roi were reloading, for his flight. He was not long in 
 jeopardy. The Counter-Chouans joined the Blues ; and, 
 with Hulot at their head, they came to the young officer's 
 assistance just at the place where the Marquis had flung 
 away his blunderbuss. 
 
 As they came up, Gudin caught a glimpse of his foe, 
 who was sitting exhausted beneath one of the trees in the 
 little copse ; and leaving his comrades to shoot from 
 behind their cover at the Chouans who were entrenched 
 behind a hedge along the side of the field, he made a 
 circuit round them and went in the direction of the 
 Marquis with the eagerness of a beast of prey. When 
 the Chasseurs du Roi saw his manoeuvre they uttered 
 fearful yells to warn their chief of his danger ; then, after 
 firing a round at the Counter-Chouans, with poacher's 
 luck, they tried to hold their own against them ; but the 
 Counter-Chouans boldly climbed the bank which served 
 their enemies as a rampart, and took a murderous revenge. 
 Upon this the Chouans made for the road that ran beside 
 the enclosure in which the skirmish had taken place, and 
 made themselves masters of the high ground, abandoned 
 by a blunder of Hulot's. Before the Blues knew where 
 they were, the Chouans had entrenched themselves 
 among the gaps in the crests of the rocks; and thus 
 sheltered, they could pick off Hulot's men in safety, 
 should the latter show any disposition to follow them 
 thither, and thus prolong the fight. 
 
 Whilst Hulot and a few of his soldiers were going 
 slowly towards the copse in search of Gudin, the men 
 of Fougeres stayed behind to strip the dead, and dispatch 
 the living Chouans, for no prisoners were made on either 
 
320 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 side in this terrible war. The Marquis being in safety, 
 both Chouans and Blues recognised the strength of their 
 respective positions, and the futility of continuing the 
 struggle, so that neither party now thought of anything 
 but of beating a retreat. 
 
 c If I lose this young man,' Hulot exclaimed, as he 
 carefully scanned the copse, 4 1 will never make another 
 friend.' 
 
 c Oho ! ' said one of the lads from Fougeres, c there's a 
 bird here with yellow feathers,' and he held up for his 
 fellow-countrymen's inspection a purse full of gold pieces 
 that he had just found in the pocket of a stout man in 
 black clothes. 
 
 4 But what have we here ? ' asked another, as he drew 
 a breviary from the dead man's overcoat. c Here be holy 
 goods ' y this is a priest ! ' he exclaimed, as he flung the 
 breviary down. 
 
 1 The robber ! He will make bankrupts of us ! ' said a 
 third, who had only found two crowns of six francs each 
 in the pockets of the Chouan that he was stripping. 
 
 c Yes, but he has a famous pair of shoes,' said a soldier, 
 who made as though he would help himself to them. 
 
 * You shall have them if they fall to your share,' a 
 Fougerais answered, as he dragged them off the feet of 
 the dead Chouan, and flung them down on a pile of goods 
 already heaped together. 
 
 A fourth Counter-Chouan took charge of the money, 
 so as to divide it when the soldiers belonging to the party 
 should return. Hulot came back with the young officer, 
 whose last attempt to come up with the Gars had been 
 as useless as it was dangerous, and found a score of his 
 own men and some thirty Counter-Chouans standing 
 round eleven of their dead foes, whose bodies had been 
 flung into a furrow below the hedge. 
 
 c Soldiers ! ' Hulot shouted sternly ; c I forbid you to 
 take any part of those rags. Fall in, and look sharp 
 about it ! ' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 321 
 
 It is all very well about the money, commandant,' 
 said one of the men, exhibiting for Hulot's benefit a pair 
 of shoes out of which his five bare toes were protruding ; 
 4 but those shoes would fit me like a glove,' he went on, 
 pointing the butt end of his gun at the pair of iron- 
 bound shoes before him. 
 
 4 So you want a pair of English shoes on your feet ! ' 
 was Hulot's reply. 
 
 * But ever since the war began we have always shared 
 
 the booty ' began one of the Fougerais in a respectful 
 
 voice. Hulot broke in upon him roughly with — 
 
 'You fellows can follow your customs; I make no 
 objection.' 
 
 4 Wait a bit, Gudin, there is a purse here, and it is not 
 so badly off for louis \ you have been at some trouble, so 
 your chief will not object to your taking it,' said one of 
 his old comrades, addressing the officer. 
 
 Hulot, in annoyance, looked at Gudin, and saw him 
 turn pale. 
 
 4 It is my uncle's purse ! ' the young fellow exclaimed. 
 Exhausted and weary as he was, he went a step or two 
 towards the heap of bodies, and the first that met his 
 eyes happened to be that of his own uncle. He had 
 scarcely caught sight of the florid face, now furrowed 
 with bluish lines, of the gunshot wound and the stiffened 
 arms, when a smothered cry broke from him, and he said, 
 4 Let us march, commandant ! ' 
 
 The Blues set off, Hulot supporting his young friend, 
 who leant upon his arm. 4 Tonnerre de Dieu ! ' said the 
 old soldier. 4 Never mind ! ' 
 
 4 But he is dead ! ' Gudin replied ; 4 he is dead ! He 
 was the only relation I had left, and though he cursed 
 me, he was fond of me. If the King had come back, the 
 whole country would have wanted my head, but the old 
 fellow's cassock would have screened me.' 
 
 4 What a fool ! ' remarked the National Guards, who 
 stayed behind to divide the booty ; 4 the old boy was well 
 
 x 
 
322 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 off, and as things fell out, he had not time to make a 
 will to disinherit his nephew.' 
 
 When the plunder had been divided, the Counter- 
 Chouans started after the little battalion of Blues, and 
 followed after them at a distance. 
 
 As the day wore away, there was a dreadful sense of 
 uneasiness in Galope-Chopine's hovel, where life had 
 hitherto been so simple and so free from anxiety. 
 Barbette and her little lad went home at the hour when 
 the family usually took their evening meal ; the one bore 
 a heavy burden of furze, and the other a bundle of fodder 
 for the cattle. Mother and son entered the hut, and 
 looked round in vain for Galope-Chopine. Never had 
 their wretched room looked so large to them, nor seemed 
 so empty. The fireless hearth, the darkness and the 
 stillness all foreboded calamity of some kind. 
 
 At nightfall Barbette hastened to light a bright fire and 
 two oribus — for so they call their resin candles in the 
 country that lies between the shores of Armorica and the 
 district of the Upper Loire, and the word is in use even 
 on this side of Amboise in the Vendomois. 
 
 Barbette set about her preparations with the delibera- 
 tion that characterises all actions performed under the 
 influence of deep feeling. She listened to the slightest 
 sound •> the wailing of the gusts of wind often deceived 
 her, and brought her to the door of her wretched hovel, 
 only that she might go sadly back again. She rinsed a 
 couple of pitchers, filled them with cider, and set them 
 on the long table of walnut wood. Again and again she 
 looked at her little boy, who was watching the baking of 
 the buckwheat cakes, but she could not bring herself to 
 speak a word to him. Once the little lad fixed his 
 eyes upon the nails in the wall from which his father 
 was wont to hang his duck gun, and Barbette shuddered 
 when she noticed, as he had also noticed, that the space 
 was vacant. The silence was unbroken save for the 
 lowing of the cows, and the sound at regular intervals of 
 
A Day without a Morrow 323 
 
 the drippings from the cider barrel. The poor woman 
 sighed as she poured out into three brown earthenware 
 porringers a sort of soup, made of milk, cakes cut into 
 dice, and cooked chestnuts. 
 
 They fought in the field that belongs to La Beraudiere,' 
 said the little boy. 
 
 4 Go and have a look there,' his mother answered. 
 
 The little fellow ran off, and made out the faces of the 
 heap of dead by the moonlight ; his father was not among 
 them, and he came back whistling joyfully, for he had 
 picked up a few coins that the victors had overlooked and 
 trampled into the mud. He found his mother busy 
 spinning hemp, seated upon a stool by the fireside. He 
 shook his head at the sight of Barbette, who did not dare 
 to believe in any good news. It was ten o'clock by St. 
 Leonard's Church, and the little fellow went to bed, after 
 lisping his prayer to the Holy Virgin of Auray. At day- 
 break Barbette, who had not slept all night, gave a cry of 
 joy as she heard a sound in the distance that she recog- 
 nised ; it was Galope-Chopine's step and his heavy 
 iron-bound shoes, and he himself soon showed his sullen 
 countenance. 
 
 4 Thanks to St. Labre, to whom I have promised a fine 
 wax-candle, the Gars is saved ! Do not forget that we 
 now owe three candles to the saint.' 
 
 With that Galope-Chopine seized upon a pitcher and 
 gulped down the contents without taking a breath. 
 When his wife had put the soup before him, and had 
 helped him to rid himself of his duck-gun, he seated 
 himself on the bench of walnut wood and said, as he 
 drew near the fire, c How could the Blues and Counter- 
 Chouans have come here ? There was a fight going on 
 at Florigny. What devil can have told them that the 
 Gars was in our house ? Nobody knew about it except 
 us, and the Gars, and that pretty lass of his.' 
 
 The woman turned pale. 
 
 'The Counter-Chouans made me believe that they 
 
The Chouans 
 
 were the gars from Saint Georges,' she made answer, 
 trembling, 4 and I myself told them where the Gars 
 was.' 
 
 Now it was Galope-Chopine's turn to grow pale \ he 
 set his porringer down on the edge of the table. 
 
 c I sent our little chap to warn you,' the terrified 
 Barbette went on ; 'he did not find you.' 
 
 The Chouan rose to his feet and dealt his wife 
 such a violent blow, that she fell back half dead upon 
 the bed. 
 
 6 Accursed garcej he said, * you have killed me ! ' 
 
 Then terror seized him, and he took his wife in his 
 arms. c Barbette ! ' he cried, c Barbette ! . . . Holy 
 Virgin ! My hand was too heavy ! ' 
 
 4 Do you think that Marche-a-Terre will get to know 
 about it ? ' she said, when she opened her eyes again. 
 
 c The Gars has given orders for an inquiry to be made, 
 so as to know where the treachery came from,' answered 
 the Chouan. 
 
 1 Did he tell Marche-a-Terre ? ' 
 
 * Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre were at Florigny.' 
 
 Barbette breathed more freely. 
 
 4 If they touch a single hair of your head,' she said, ( 1 
 will rinse their glasses with vinegar.' 
 
 c Ah ! I have no appetite now ! ' Galope-Chopine 
 exclaimed dejectedly. 
 
 His wife set another full pitcher before him, but he gave 
 no heed to it. Two great tears left their traces on 
 Barbette's cheeks, and moistened the wrinkles on her 
 withered face. 
 
 c Listen, wife. To-morrow morning you must make a 
 heap of faggots on the crags of St. Sulpice to the right of 
 St. Leonard, and set fire to them. That is the signal 
 agreed upon between the Gars and the old recteur of 
 Saint Georges, who will come and say a mass for him.' 
 
 c Is he going to Fougeres ? ' 
 
 c Yes. He is going to see his pretty lass, and on 
 
A Day without a Morrow 
 
 that account I shall have running about to do to-day. I 
 am pretty sure that he means to marry her and to take 
 her away with him, for he told me to hire horses and to 
 have them ready all along the Saint Malo Road. There- 
 upon Galope-Chopine, being tired out, went to bed for 
 a few hours, and afterwards went about his errands. 
 
 He came in again the next morning, having faithfully 
 carried out the Marquis's instructions ; and when he learned 
 that Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche had not put in an 
 appearance, he dispelled his wife's fears, so that she set 
 out for the crags of St. Sulpice with an almost easy mind. 
 On the previous evening she had made a pile of faggots, 
 now white with rime, upon the knoll that faced the 
 suburb of St. Leonard. She held her child by the hand, 
 and the little fellow carried some glowing ashes in a 
 broken sabot. 
 
 His wife and son had hardly disappeared behind the 
 shed, when Galope-Chopine heard two men jump over 
 the last of the series of echaliers. By degrees he made 
 out two angular figures, looking like vague shadows in a 
 tolerably thick fog. 
 
 4 There are Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre,' he said 
 within himself, and trembled as the two Chouans showed 
 their dark countenances in the little yard. Beneath their 
 huge battered hats they looked not unlike the foreground 
 figures that engravers put into landscapes. 
 
 4 Good-day, Galope-Chopine,' said Marche-a-Terre 
 soberly. 
 
 4 Good-day, M. Marche-a-Terre,' Barbette's husband 
 respectfully answered. 4 Will you come inside and empty 
 a pitcher or two ? I have some cold cakes and fresh 
 butter here.' 
 
 4 That is not to be refused, cousin,' said Pille-Miche, 
 and the two Chouans came in. There was nothing to 
 alarm Galope-Chopine in this beginning ; he hastened to 
 his great cider butt and filled three pitchers, while 
 Marche-a-Terre and Pille-Miche, seated upon the 
 
326 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 polished bench on either side of the long table, cut slices 
 of the cakes for themselves, and spread them with the 
 rich yellow butter that exuded little beads of milk 
 under the pressure of the knife. Galope-Chopine set the 
 foaming pitchers full of cider before his visitors, and the 
 three Chouans fell to ; but from time to time the master 
 of the house cast a sidelong glance at Marche-a-Terre as 
 he eagerly satisfied his thirst. 
 
 4 Pass me your snuff-box,' Marche-a-Terre remarked to 
 Pille-Miche. 
 
 The Breton gave it a few vigorous shakes, till several 
 pinches lay in the hollow of his hand, then he snuffed the 
 powdered tobacco like a man who wished to fortify him- 
 self for serious business. 
 
 c It is cold,' Pille-Miche remarked, and rose to shut the 
 upper part of the door. 
 
 The dim foggy daylight now only entered the room 
 through the little window, so that only the table and the 
 two benches were faintly visible, but the red glow of the 
 firelight filled the place. Galope-Chopine had just 
 refilled the pitchers and had set them before his guests ; 
 but they declined to drink, flung their large hats aside, 
 and suddenly assumed a solemn expression. This gesture 
 and the look by which they took counsel of each other 
 sent a shudder through Galope-Chopine, who seemed to 
 read thoughts of bloodshed lurking beneath those red 
 woollen bonnets. 
 
 c Bring us your hatchet,' said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 c But what do you want with it, M. Marche-a- 
 Terre ? ' 
 
 c Come, cousin, you know quite well that you are 
 doomed,' said Pille-Miche, putting away the snuff-box 
 that Marche-a-Terre had returned to him. 
 
 Both of the Chouans got up together and seized their 
 carbines. 
 
 c M. Marche-a-Terre, I did not say one word about the 
 Gars.' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 327 
 
 *Get your hatchet, I tell you/ was the Chouan's 
 answer. 
 
 The wretched Galope-Chopine stumbled over his child's 
 rough bedstead, and three five-franc pieces fell out on to 
 the floor. Pille-Miche picked them up. 
 
 4 Oho ! the Blues have given you new coin ! ' cried 
 Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 4 I have not said one word ; that is as true as that St. 
 Labre's image stands there,' Galope-Chopine replied. 
 4 Barbette mistook the Counter-Chouans for the gars from 
 Saint-Georges -> that was all.' 
 
 4 Why do you prate about your business to your wife ? ' 
 Marche-a-Terre answered roughly. 
 
 4 And besides, we don't ask you for excuses, cousin ; we 
 want your hatchet. You are doomed.' 
 
 At a sign from his comrade, Pille-Miche helped him to 
 seize the victim. Galope-Chopine's courage broke down 
 when he found himself in the hands of the Chouans. 
 He fell on his knees and held up his despairing hands to 
 his executioners. 
 
 4 Good friends,' he cried, c and you, cousin, what will 
 become of my little lad ? ' 
 
 4 1 will look after him,' said Marche-a-Terre. 
 
 4 Dear comrades,' Galope-Chopine began again with 
 blanched cheeks, 4 I am not ready for death. Will you 
 send me out of the world without shrift ? You have the 
 right to take my life, but you have no right to rob me of 
 eternal bliss.' 
 
 4 That is true,' said Marche-a-Terre, as he looked at 
 Pille-Miche. 
 
 The two Chouans remained in this most awkward 
 predicament for a moment or two, in utter inability to 
 resolve the case of conscience. Galope-Chopine, mean- 
 while, listened to the slightest noise made by the wind, as 
 if he had not yet lost all hope. He looked mechanically 
 at the cider butt ; the regular sound of the dripping 
 leakage made him heave a melancholy sigh. Suddenly 
 
The Chouans 
 
 Pille-Miche clutched the sufferer's arm, drew him into a 
 corner, and said to him — 
 
 6 Confess your sins to me. I will repeat them to a 
 priest of the true Church, and he will give me absolution ; 
 if there is any penance, I will do it for you.' 
 
 Galope-Chopine obtained some respite by the way in 
 which he made his confession ; but in spite of the number 
 of his sins and the full account which he gave of them, 
 he came at last to the end of the list. 
 
 ' Alas ! ' he said, when he had finished, c since I am 
 speaking to you, my cousin, as to a confessor, I affirm to 
 you, by the holy name of God, that I have nothing to 
 reproach myself with, unless it is that I have now and then 
 buttered my bread a little too well ; and I call St. Labre 
 over there above the chimney-piece to bear witness, that 
 I have not said a word about the Gars. No, my friends, 
 I did not betray him.' 
 
 c All right, get up, cousin ; you will explain all that to 
 the hon Dieu when the time comes.' 
 
 * Let me say one little word of good-bye to Barbe ' 
 
 c Come, now,' said Marche-a-Terre, 6 if you want us 
 not to think more ill of you than we can help, behave 
 yourself like a Breton, and die decently.' 
 
 The two Chouans seized on Galope-Chopine again, 
 and stretched him on the bench, where he lay making no 
 sign of resistance save convulsive movements prompted 
 by physical fear ; there was a heavy thud of the hatchet, 
 and a sudden end of his smothered cries ; his head had 
 been struck off" at a blow. Marche-a-Terre took it up by 
 a lock of hair, and went out of the hut. He looked about 
 him and found a great nail in the doorway, about which 
 he twisted the strand of hair, and so suspended the bloody 
 head, without even closing the eyes. The two Chouans 
 washed their hands leisurely in a great earthen pan, full 
 of water, put on their hats, took up their carbines, and 
 sprang over the echalier^ whistling the tune of the ballad 
 of The Captain. At the end of the field Pille-Miche 
 
A Day without a Morrow 329 
 
 began in a hoarse voice to sing some odd stanzas of the 
 simple poem — 
 
 The first town that they came until 
 
 Her lover has lighted down, 
 And he has clad that bonny lass 
 
 In a milk-white satin gown : 
 
 The next town that they came until 
 
 He has lighted, her lover bold, 
 And he has clad her in white silver 
 
 And in the ruddy gold : 
 
 But when she came to his regiment, 
 
 So fair a maid to greet, 
 They have taken webs of the silken cloth 
 
 To spread them beneath her feet. 
 
 As the Chouans went further and further away, the 
 tune grew less distinct ; but there was such a deep silence 
 over the country side that a note here and there reached 
 Barbette as she returned to the cabin, holding her little 
 boy by the hand. No peasant woman can hear this song 
 with indifference, so popular is it in the west of France. 
 Barbette therefore unconsciously took up the earlier 
 verses of the ballad — 
 
 We must away, bonny lassie, 
 
 For we have far to ride ; 
 We must away to the wars, lassie, 
 
 I may no longer bide. 
 
 Spare thy trouble, oh, bold captain ! 
 
 Save that treason give her thee, 
 She shall not be thine in any land, 
 
 Nor yet upon the sea ! 
 
 Her father has stripped her of her weed 
 
 And flung her into the wave, 
 But the captain has swum out cannily 
 
 His lady-love to save. 
 
 We must away, bonny lassie, etc. 
 
 Barbette came into her yard just as she had reached 
 the place in the ballad at which Pille-Miche had taken it 
 up ; her tongue was suddenly petrified, she stood motion- 
 
330 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 less, and a loud cry, which she instantly repressed, came 
 from her open mouth. 
 
 c Mother, dear, what is the matter ? ' asked the little 
 one. 
 
 'You must go alone,' cried Barbette in a choking 
 voice, as she withdrew her hand from his, and pushed 
 him from her with indescribable roughness. c You have 
 a father and mother no longer ! ' 
 
 The child rubbed his shoulder, but he caught sight of 
 the head as he cried, and, though his pink and white face 
 was still puckered by the nervous twitch that tears give 
 to the features, he grew silent. He stared wide-eyed for 
 a long while at his father's head, with a stolid expression 
 that revealed no emotion whatever ; his face, brutalised 
 by ignorance, at last came to wear a look of savage 
 curiosity. At last Barbette suddenly took her child's 
 hand in a powerful grip, and hurried him into the house. 
 One of Galope-Chopine's shoes had fallen off when Pille- 
 Miche and Marche-a-Terre had stretched him on the 
 bench ; it had lain beneath his neck, and was filled with 
 blood. This was the first thing that met the widow's 
 eyes. 
 
 'Take off your sabot,' the mother said to her son, 
 c and put your foot in that. Good ! Always remember 
 your father's shoe,' she cried in piteous tones. 1 Never 
 set a shoe on your foot without remembering how this 
 one was full of blood that the Chuins spilt, and kill the 
 Churns ! ' 
 
 She shook her head so violently as she spoke, that the 
 long locks of her black hair fell about her throat and gave 
 her face a sinister look. 
 
 c I call St. Labre to witness,' she went on, c that I 
 dedicate you to the Blues. You shall be a soldier, so that 
 you may avenge your father. Kill them ! Kill the 
 Chums, and do as I do. Ah ! they have taken my 
 husband's head, and I will give the head of the Gars to 
 the Blues.' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 331 
 
 She sprang to the bed at a bound, drew a little bag or 
 money from its hiding-place, took her astonished child 
 by the hand, and dragged him forcibly with her, not even 
 leaving him time to put on his sabot again. Then they 
 both set out for Fougeres at a quick pace, neither of 
 them giving a look behind them at the cottage they 
 were forsaking. When they reached the summit of the 
 crags of St. Sulpice, Barbette stirred up her lire of faggots, 
 and her little son helped her to pile on bushes of green 
 broom with the rime upon them, so as to increase the 
 volume of smoke. 
 
 * That will outlast your father's life, and mine, and the 
 Gars's too ! ' said Barbette savagely, as she pointed out 
 the fire to her child. 
 
 While Galope-Chopine's widow and son, with his foot 
 dyed in blood, were watching the eddying smoke-wreaths 
 with brooding looks of vengeance and curiosity, Mile, de 
 VerneuiPs eyes were fastened on the crag. She tried, in 
 vain, to discern the signal there of which the Marquis 
 had spoken. The fog had grown gradually denser, and 
 the whole district was enveloped in a grey veil that hid 
 the outlines of the landscape, even at a little distance 
 from the town. She looked with fond anxiety at the 
 crags and the castle, and at the buildings that loomed 
 through the heavy air like darker masses of the fog itself. 
 A few trees round about her window stood out against 
 the bluish background, like branching corals dimly seen 
 in the depths of a calm sea. The sun had given to the 
 sky the yellowish hues of tarnished silver, its rays shed a 
 vague red colour over the bare branches of the trees, 
 where a few last withered leaves were hanging yet. But 
 Marie felt an agitation of soul too delightful to allow her 
 to draw dark auguries from this scene ; it was too much 
 out of harmony with the happiness to come, of which, in 
 thought, she took her fill. 
 
 Her ideas had altered strangely in the past two days. 
 Slowly the fierceness and uncontrolled outbursts of her 
 
The Chouans 
 
 passions had been subdued by the influence of the even 
 warmth that true love brings into a life. The certain 
 knowledge that she was beloved, for which she had 
 sought through so many perils, had awakened in her a 
 desire to return within the limits in which society sanc- 
 tions happiness — limits which despair alone had led her 
 to overstep. A love that only lasts for the space of a 
 moment seemed to her to betoken weakness of soul. She 
 had a sudden vision of herself, withdrawn from the depths 
 wherein misfortune had plunged her, and restored again 
 to the high position in which she had been placed by her 
 father. Her vanity awoke, after being repressed by the 
 cruel vicissitudes of a passion that had met at times with 
 happiness and again at times with scorn. She saw all 
 the advantages conferred by an exalted rank. When 
 she was married to Montauran, and came into the 
 world (so to speak) as a marquise, would she not live and 
 act in the sphere to which she naturally belonged ? She 
 could appreciate better than other women the greatness 
 of the feelings and thoughts that underlie family life ; 
 for she had known the chances of a life of continual 
 adventure. The responsibilities and cares of marriage 
 and motherhood would for her be a rest rather than a 
 burden. She looked forward longingly, through this last 
 storm, to a quiet and virtuous life, as a woman tired of 
 virtuous conduct might give a covetous glance at an 
 illicit passion. Virtue for her possessed a new attraction. 
 She turned away from the window, for she could not see 
 the fire on the crags of St. Sulpice. 
 
 4 Perhaps I have coquetted overmuch with him ? But 
 was it not in this way that I learned how well I was 
 beloved ? — Francine, it is a dream no longer ! To-night 
 I shall be the Marquise de Montauran ! What can I 
 have done to deserve such entire happiness ? Oh ! I 
 love him — and love alone can requite love. And yet, it 
 is God's purpose doubtless to reward me, because I have 
 kept so much love in my heart through so many miseries ; 
 
A Day without a Morrow 333 
 
 and to make me forget all that I have suffered, for I have 
 suffered greatly, as you know, dear child.' 
 
 4 You, Marie ! You to-night the Marquise de 
 Montauran ? Ah ! until it is over and done, I shall 
 think that I am dreaming. Who taught him to know 
 your worth ? ' 
 
 c But he has not only a handsome face, dear child ; he 
 has a soul too ! If you had seen him in danger, as I did ! 
 Ah ! he is so brave, he needs must know how to love 
 well!' 
 
 c If you love him so much, why do you allow him to 
 come to Fougeres ? ' 
 
 'Had we time to say a word to each other before we 
 were surprised ? Besides that, is it not one more proof 
 of his love ? Can one ever have enough of them ? .-W 
 Do my hair. He will not be here yet.' 
 
 But stormy thoughts still mingled themselves with the 
 anxieties of coquetry, and again and again she spoiled the 
 carefully arranged effects, as her hair was dressed, by 
 movements that seemed to be electric. As she shook out 
 a curl into waves, or smoothed the glossy plaits, a trace 
 of mistrust made her ask herself whether the Marquis was 
 playing her false. And then came the thought that such 
 baseness would be unfathomable, for in coming to seek 
 her at Fougeres he had boldly laid himself open to swift 
 and condign punishment. She studied keenly in the mirror 
 the effects of a side glance, of a smile, of a slight con- 
 traction of her brows, of a gesture of anger, scorn, 
 or love ; seeking in this way for a woman's wile that should 
 probe the young chief's heart, even at the last moment. 
 
 4 You are right, Francine,' said she. c Like you, I wish 
 that the marriage was over. This is the last of my over- 
 clouded days — it is big with my death or our happiness. 
 This fog is detestable,' she added, looking afresh at the 
 summits of St. Sulpice that were still hidden from her. 
 
 With her own hands she arranged the curtains of silk 
 and muslin that draped the window, taking a pleasure in 
 
334 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 shutting out the daylight, and so producing a soft gloom 
 in the chamber. 
 
 4 Take away those knick-knacks that cover the chimney- 
 piece, Francine,' she said ; 4 leave nothing there but the 
 clock and the two Dresden vases. I myself will put 
 into them those winter flowers that Corentin found for 
 me. Take all the chairs out of the room ; I only care to 
 keep the armchair and the sofa; and when you have done 
 these things, child, brush the carpet, to make the colours 
 look brighter, and put candles in the sconces by the fire- 
 side, and in the candlesticks.' 
 
 Marie looked long and closely at the ancient tapestry 
 Jhat covered the walls of the room. Her innate taste 
 discovered among the vivid colours of the warp the hues 
 which could serve to bring this decoration of a bygone 
 day into harmony with the furniture and accessories of 
 the boudoir — hues which either repeated their colours or 
 made a charming contrast with them. The same idea 
 pervaded her arrangement of the flowers with which she 
 filled the fantastic vases about the room. The sofa was 
 drawn up to the fire. Upon two gilded tables on either 
 side of the bed, which stood near the wall opposite to the 
 chimney-piece, she set great Dresden vases filled with 
 leafage and sweet-scented flowers. More than once she 
 trembled as she arranged the voluminous folds of green 
 silk brocade about the bed, and followed with her eyes 
 the curving lines of the flowered pattern on the coverlet 
 which she laid over it. About such preparations there is 
 an indefinable secret happiness, a delightful stimulation 
 that causes a woman to forget all her doubts in the 
 pleasure of her task, as Mile, de Verneuil did at this 
 moment. Is there not a kind of religious sentiment 
 about the innumerable pains thus undertaken to please a 
 beloved being, who is not there to behold them and to 
 recompense them ; but who must, later on, feel the signi- 
 ficance of these charming preparations, and repay them 
 with an approving smile ? In moments like these, women 
 
A Day without a Morrow 335 
 
 give themselves up to love in advance, so to speak. 
 There is not one who does not say to herself, as Mile, de 
 Verneuil said in her thought, c I shall be very happy 
 to-night.' The most innocent among them at such times 
 sets this sweet hope in the least folds of the silk or muslin, 
 and the harmony that she establishes about her steeps the 
 whole of her surroundings in an atmosphere of love. All 
 things in this delicious world of her creation become 
 living beings and onlookers ; she already makes them 
 accomplices in her happiness to come. At each move- 
 ment and at each thought, she grows bold to rob the 
 future. Soon her hopes and expectations cease, and she 
 reproaches the silence. She must needs take the slightest 
 sound for a presage, till doubt, at last, sets his talons in 
 her heart, and she feels the torture of a burning thought 
 that surges within her, and that brings something like a 
 physical strain to bear upon her. Without the sustaining 
 hope of joy, she could never bear those alternations of 
 exultation and of anguish. Time after time Mile, de 
 Verneuil had drawn the curtains aside, hoping to see a 
 column of smoke rising above the rocks ; but the fog 
 appeared to grow greyer every moment, until at last its 
 grisly hues affected her imagination, and seemed to be 
 full of evil augury. In a moment of impatience she let 
 the curtain fall, and vowed to herself that she would not 
 raise it again. She looked discontentedly round the room 
 for which she had found a soul and a language, asked her- 
 self whether her preparations had all been made in vain, 
 and fell to pondering over them, at the thought. 
 
 She drew Francine into the adjoining dressing-closet, 
 in which there was a round casement looking out 
 upon the dimly visible corner of the cliffs where the 
 fortifications of the town joined the rocks of the 
 promenade. 
 
 * Little one,' she said, c put this in order for me, and let 
 everything be fresh and neat ! You may leave the salon 
 in disorder, if you will,' she added, with one of the smiles 
 
336 The Chouans 
 
 that women keep for those who know them best, with a I 
 subtle delicacy in it that men can never understand. 
 
 4 Ah ! how lovely you look ! ' cried the little Breton maid, j 
 4 Eh ! fools that we all are, is not our lover our fairest 
 ornament ? ' 
 
 Francine left her stretched languidly on the sofa. As 
 she went out slowly step by step, she began to see that \ 
 whether her mistress was beloved or no, she would never 
 betray Montauran. 
 
 4 Are you sure about this yarn of yours, old woman ? f ! 
 said Hulot to Barbette, who had recognised him as she 
 came into Fougeres. 
 
 4 Have you eyes in your head ? There ! look over 
 there at the rocks of St. Sulpice, master, to the right of 
 St. Leonard ! ' 
 
 Corentin scanned the ridge in the direction indicated 
 by Barbette's finger ; the fog began to clear off a little, 
 so that he could distinctly see the column of pale smoke 
 of which Galope-Chopine's widow had spoken. 
 
 4 But when is he coming ? Eh, old woman ? This 
 evening, or to-night ? ' 
 
 4 1 know nothing about it, master,' Barbette answered. 
 
 4 Why do you betray your own side ? ' asked Hulot 
 sharply, when he had drawn the peasant woman a few 
 paces away from Corentin. 
 
 4 Ah ! my lord general, look at my lad's foot ! See, it is 
 dipped in my husband's blood ! The Chuins butchered him 
 like a calf, begging your pardon, to punish him for those 
 three words that you got out of me when I was at work the 
 day before yesterday. Take my gars, since you have made 
 him fatherless and motherless, but make a thorough Blue 
 of him, master, so that he may kill many Chuins ! Look, 
 here are two hundred crowns. Take charge of them for 
 him. With care, they ought to last him a long time, 
 for it took his father twelve years to get them 
 together.' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 337 
 
 Hulot stared in amazement at the peasant woman. 
 Her wrinkled face was white, and her eyes were tearless. 
 
 c But what will become of you yourself, mother ? It 
 would be better if you took charge of the money yourself.' 
 
 She shook her head sadly. c I need nothing more now. 
 You might clap me into the dungeons below Melusina's 
 tower there ' (and she pointed to one of the towers of the 
 castle), and the Chuins would find means to get at me 
 and kill me there ! 9 
 
 She clasped her little lad in her arms, and her brow 
 was dark with pain as she looked at him ; two tears fell from 
 her eyes, and with one more look at him she vanished. 
 
 c Commandant,' said Corentin, c here is an opportunity, 
 and if we mean to profit by it, we shall require two hard 
 heads rather than one. We know everything, and yet 
 we know nothing. If we were to encompass Mile, de 
 Verneuil's house at once, we should set her against us, 
 and you and I, and your Counter-Chouans, and both 
 your battalions all put together, would be no match for 
 that girl, if she has taken it into her head to save her 
 ci-devant. The fellow is a courtier, and consequently he 
 is crafty ; he is a young man moreover, and mettlesome. 
 We could never get possession of him as he enters 
 Fougeres ; he may possibly be in Fougeres already. And 
 as for making domiciliary visits, the thing would be 
 absurd ! We should not take anything by it ; it would 
 give the alarm, and it would plague the townspeople.' 
 
 4 1 shall order the sentry on guard at St. Leonard to 
 lengthen his round by two or three paces,' said Hulot, out 
 of patience ; c in that way he will come in front of Mile, 
 de Verneuil's house. I shall arrange for every sentinel 
 to give a signal, and I myself shall wait in the guard- 
 house. Then when they let me know that any young 
 man whatever has entered the town, I shall take a cor- 
 poral and four men with me, and ' 
 
 1 And how if the young man is not the Marquis after 
 all ? ' said Corentin, interrupting the impetuous soldier. 
 
 Y 
 
338 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c How if the Marquis enters by none of the gates ? If he 
 is in Mile, de Verneuil's house already ? If— if ' 
 
 Corentin looked at the commandant with an air of 
 superiority in which there was something so offensive that 
 the old soldier exclaimed — 
 
 c Mille tonnerres de Dieu ! Go about your business, 
 citizen of hell ! What is all that to me ? If this cock- 
 chafer tumbles into one of my guard-houses, there is no 
 help for it, but I must shoot him ; if I hear that he is in 
 a house, there is no help for it, but I must search the 
 house and take him and shoot him. But the devil fetch 
 me if I will cudgel my brains to soil my uniform ' 
 
 c Commandant, the letter from the three ministers 
 orders you to obey Mile, de Verneuil.' 
 
 ' Let her come to me herself, citizen, and then I will 
 see what I will do.' 
 
 4 Very good, citizen/ Corentin answered stiffly ; 4 she 
 will not be very long about it. She shall tell you herself 
 the hour and the minute when the ci-devant comes. 
 Possibly she will not be content until she has seen you 
 post the sentries and surround her house ! ' 
 
 6 He is the devil incarnate ! 9 said Hulot plaintively, as 
 he watched Corentin stride back up the Queen's Staircase, 
 where all this had taken place, and reach St. Leonard's 
 gate. c He is for betraying the citizen Montauran to 
 me, bound hand and foot,' the chief of demi-brigade went 
 on, speaking to himself, c and I shall have the plague of 
 presiding at a court-martial. c After all,' said he, with a 
 shrug of his shoulders, c the Gars is an enemy of the 
 Republic ; he killed my poor friend Gerard, and in any 
 case he is an aristocrat. But the devil take it ! • 
 
 He turned quickly on his heel, and set out to go the 
 rounds of the town, whistling the Marseillaise as he went. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil was steeped in those musings whose 
 secrets lie buried, as it were, in the inmost depths of the 
 soul ; musings made up of numberless thoughts and 
 
A Day without a Morrow 339 
 
 emotions at war with one another, which have often 
 proved to those who have suffered from them that a 
 stormy and passionate life may be lived within four 
 walls ; nay, without even leaving the ottoman whereon 
 existence is burning itself away. The girl who was now 
 face to face with the catastrophe of a drama of her own 
 seeking reviewed each scene of love or anger that had 
 stimulated life so powerfully during the ten days that had 
 elapsed since she first met the Marquis. While she 
 mused, the sound of a man's footstep, echoing in the 
 adjoining salon, made her tremble ; the door opened, 
 she turned her head quickly, and saw Corentin. 
 
 4 Little trickster ! ' said the superior agent of police, 
 ' so you still have a mind to deceive me ? Oh ! Marie ! 
 Marie ! you are playing a very dangerous game when 
 you determine on the strokes without consulting me, and 
 do not attach me to your interests ! If the Marquis has 
 escaped his fate ' 
 
 c It has been through no fault of yours, is not that 
 what you mean ? ' said Mile, de Verneuil with poignant 
 irony. c What right have you to enter my house a 
 second time ? ' she went on severely. 
 
 c Tour house ? ? he queried in bitter tones. 
 
 'You remind me,' she replied with dignity, c that I 
 am not in my own house. Perhaps you deliberately 
 chose it out, so that you might the more surely do your 
 murderous work here ? I will go out of it. I would 
 go out into a desert rather than receive ' 
 
 'Spies — speak out ! ' Corentin concluded. 'But this 
 house is neither yours nor mine ; it belongs to the 
 Government ; and as for leaving it,' he added, with a 
 diabolical glance at her, c you will do nothing of the kind.' 
 
 An indignant impulse brought Mile, de Verneuil to 
 her feet. She made a step or two towards him, but 
 suddenly came to a standstill, for she saw Corentin raise 
 the curtain over the window, and the smile with which 
 he asked her to rejoin him. 
 
340 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 4 Do you see that column of smoke ? ' he said, with the 
 unshaken calmness which he knew how to preserve in his 
 haggard face, however deeply his feelings had been stirred. 
 
 4 What connection can there possibly be between my 
 departure and those weeds that they are burning ? • she 
 iuquired. 
 
 4 Why is your voice so changed?' asked Corentin. 
 'Poor little thing,' he added in gentle tones, 'I know 
 everything ! The Marquis is coming to Fougeres to- 
 day ; and you had no purpose in your mind of giving 
 him up to us when you set this boudoir in such festive 
 array, with flowers and lights.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil turned pale. She read Montauran's 
 death-warrant in the eyes of this tiger in human shape, 
 and the love within her for her lover grew to frenzy. 
 Every hair of her head seemed to be a source of hideous 
 and intolerable pain, and she sank down upon the otto- 
 man. For a moment Corentin stood with his arms 
 folded across his chest. He was half-pleased at the sight 
 of a torture which avenged all the sarcasms and scorn 
 that the woman before him had heaped upon his head, 
 half- vexed to see a being suffer whose yoke he had liked 
 to bear, heavily though it had lain on him. 
 
 4 She loves him ! ' he said in a smothered voice. 
 
 4 Loves him f ' she cried ; what does that word signify ? 
 . . . Corentin, he is my life, my soul, my very 
 breath ' 
 
 The man's calmness appalled her ; she flung herself at 
 his feet. 
 
 c Sordid soul ! ' she cried -> 4 I would rather abase myself 
 to obtain his life than abase myself to take it ! Save him 
 I will, at the price of every drop of blood in me. Speak ! 
 What do you want ? ' 
 
 Corentin trembled. 
 
 4 1 came to take my orders from you, Marie,' he said, 
 in dulcet tones, as he raised her with polished grace. 
 4 Yes, Marie, your insults will not check my devotion to 
 
A Day without a Morrow 341 
 
 you, provided that you never deceive me again. As you 
 know, Marie, no one ever fools me and goes scatheless.' 
 
 4 Oh ! if you want me to love you, Corentin, help me 
 to save him ! ' 
 
 c Well, when is the Marquis coming ? ' he said, forcing 
 himself to ask the question calmly. 
 
 c Alas ! I do not know.' 
 
 They both looked at each other in silence. 
 
 4 I am lost ! ' said Mile, de Verneuil to herself. 
 
 4 She is playing me false,' thought Corentin. 4 Marie, 5 
 he went on, 4 1 have two maxims : one is, never to 
 believe a word that women say — which is the way to 
 avoid being gulled by them ; and the other is, always to 
 seek to discover whether they have not some motive for 
 doing the very opposite of the thing they say, and for 
 behaving in a fashion the very reverse of the course of 
 action which they are kind enough to disclose to us in 
 confidence. Now, we understand each other, I think.' 
 
 4 Admirably,' replied Mile, de Verneuil. 4 You require 
 proofs of my good faith ; but I am holding them back 
 until you shall give me proofs of yours.' 
 
 4 Good-bye, mademoiselle,' said Corentin drily. 
 
 4 Come,' the girl said, smiling at him, 4 sit down. Seat 
 yourself there, and do not be sulky, or I shall readily 
 find means to save the Marquis without your aid. As 
 for the three hundred thousand francs that are always 
 spread out before your eyes, I can lay them there upon 
 the chimney-piece, in gold, for you the moment that the 
 Marquis is in safety.' 
 
 Corentin rose to his feet, drew back several paces, and 
 looked at Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 4 You have grown rich in a very short time ! ' said he, 
 with ill-concealed bitterness in his tones. 
 
 4 Montauran himself could offer you very much more 
 for his ransom,' said Marie, with a pitying smile. 4 So 
 prove to me that it is in your power to protect him against 
 all dangers, and * 
 
34* 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c Could you not arrange for him to escape the very 
 moment that he arrives,' Corentin exclaimed suddenly, 
 c for Hulot does not know the hour, and * 
 
 He broke off as though he blamed himself for having 
 said too much. 
 
 4 But can it be that you are asking me for a stratagem?' 
 he went on, smiling in the most natural manner. * Listen, 
 Marie, I am certain of your good faith. Promise that 
 you will make good to me all that I am losing by serving 
 you, and I will see that that blockhead of a commandant 
 shall sleep so soundly that the Marquis will be as much 
 at liberty here in Fougeres as in Saint James itself/ 
 
 c I give you my word,' the girl said, with a kind of 
 solemnity. 
 
 4 Not in that way though,' he said. 4 Swear it by 
 your mother.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil shivered ; then she raised a trembling 
 hand and took the oath the man required of her. His 
 manners underwent an instant change. 
 
 * You may do what you will with me,' said Corentin. 
 c Do not deceive me, and you will bless me this evening.' 
 
 c I believe you, Corentin ! ' exclaimed Mile, de Verneuil, 
 quite softened towards him. 
 
 She bowed graciously as she took leave of him, and 
 there was a kindliness not unmingled with wonder in 
 her smile, when she saw the expression of melancholy 
 tenderness on his face. 
 
 4 What an entrancing creature ! ' cried Corentin, as he 
 withdrew. c And is she never to be mine, never to be 
 the instrument of my fortune and the source of my 
 pleasures ? To think that she should throw herself at 
 my feet ! . . . Yes, the Marquis shall die ; and if I can 
 only obtain her by plunging her in the mire, I will thrust 
 her down into it. Yet, it is possible that she mistrusts 
 me no longer,' he said to himself as he reached the square, 
 whither he had unconsciously bent his steps. c A hundred 
 thousand crowns at a moment's notice ! She thinks that 
 
A Day without a Morrow 343 
 
 I covet money. It is a trick of hers, or else she has 
 married him.' 
 
 Corentin did not venture to resolve on anything ; he 
 was lost in thought. The fog, which the sun had par- 
 tially dispelled at noon, gradually thickened again, and 
 grew so dense at last that Corentin could no longer see 
 the trees, though they were only a short distance from him. 
 
 c Here is a fresh piece of bad luck,' he said to himself, 
 as he went slowly back to his lodging. 4 It is impossible 
 to see anything six paces off. The weather is shielding 
 our lovers. How is a house to be watched when it is 
 enveloped in such a fog as this ? Who goes there ? ' he 
 called, as he caught an arm belonging to some unknown 
 person, who had apparently scrambled up on to the 
 promenade over the most dangerous places of the rock. 
 
 4 It is I,' was the guileless answer in a child's voice. 
 
 4 Ah ! it is the little red-foot lad. Do you not want 
 to avenge your father ? ' Corentin asked. 
 
 4 Yes ! ' cried the child. 
 
 4 Good. Do you know the Gars when you see him ? ' 
 4 Yes.' 
 
 4 Better still. Now keep with me, and do exactly as I 
 bid you in everything, and you will finish your mother's 
 work, and earn some big pennies. Do you like big 
 pennies ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 4 So you like big pennies, and you want to kill the 
 Gars. I will take care of you. — Now, Marie ! ' Corentin 
 said within himself after a pause, 4 you shall give him up 
 to us yourself. She is too impetuous to think calmly over 
 the blow that I mean to give her ; and besides, passion 
 never reflects. She does not know Montauran's hand- 
 writing ; now is the time to set the snare into which her 
 nature will make her rush blindfold. But Hulot is 
 necessary to me if my scheme is to succeed. I will go 
 and see him. 
 
 Meanwhile Mile, de Verneuil and Francine were 
 
344 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 pondering devices for saving the Marquis from Corentin's 
 dubious generosity and Hulot's bayonets. 
 
 C I will go and warn him!' the little Breton maid cried. 
 
 * Mad girl ! do you know where he is ? I myself, 
 with all the instincts of my heart to guide me, might 
 search a long while for him and never find him/ 
 
 After devising a goodly number of the wild schemes 
 that are so easily carried out by the fireside, Mile, de 
 Verneuil exclaimed, c When I see him, his peril will give 
 me inspiration ! ' 
 
 Like all vehement natures, she delighted in leaving 
 her course undecided till the last moment — trusting in 
 her star, or in the ready wit and skill that seldom deserts 
 a woman. Perhaps nothing had ever wrung her heart so 
 violently before. Sometimes she seemed to remain in a 
 kind of stupor, with her eyes set in a stare ; sometimes 
 the slightest sound shook her from head to foot, as some 
 half-uprooted tree quivers violently when the woodman's 
 rope about it drags it hastily to its fall. There was a 
 sudden loud report in the distance as a dozen guns were 
 fired. Mile, de Verneuil turned pale, caught Francine's 
 hand, and said — 
 
 c l am dying, Francine ; they have killed him ! ' 
 
 They heard the heavy footstep of a soldier in the salon, 
 and the terrified Francine rose to admit a corporal. The 
 Republican made a military salute, and presented Mile, 
 de Verneuil with some letters written on soiled paper. 
 As he received no acknowledgment from the young lady 
 to whom he gave them, he said as he withdrew — 
 
 'They are from the commandant, madame.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil, a prey to dark forebodings, read the 
 letter, which Hulot had probably written in haste — 
 
 c Mademoiselle,' so it ran, 6 my Counter-Chouans have 
 seized one of the Gars's messengers, who has just been 
 shot. Among the letters thus intercepted is the one that 
 I send, which may be of some use to you,' etc. 
 
 c Heaven be thanked, it was not he whom they killed!' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 345 
 
 she cried, as she threw the letter into the fire. She 
 breathed more freely, and eagerly read the note that had 
 just been sent to her. It was from the Marquis, and 
 appeared to be addressed to Mme. du Gua — 
 
 c No, my angel, this evening I shall not be at the 
 Vivetiere, and this evening you will lose your wager 
 with the Count, for I shall triumph over the Republic in 
 the person of this delicious girl, who is certainly worth a 
 night, as you must agree. This is the only real advan- 
 tage that I have gained in the campaign, for La Vendee is 
 submitting. There is nothing left for us to do in France, 
 and we will, of course, return to England together. But 
 serious business to-morrow ! ' 
 
 The note slipped from her fingers. She closed her 
 eyes and lay back in absolute silence, with her head 
 propped by a cushion. After a long pause she raised her 
 eyes to the clock and read the hour ; it was four in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 c And my lord is keeping me waiting ! ' she said, with 
 savage irony. 
 
 4 Oh ! perhaps he could not come ! ' said Francine. 
 
 c If he does not come/ said Marie, in a smothered 
 voice, C I will go myself to find him! But, no, he 
 cannot be much longer now. Francine, am I very 
 beautiful ? 9 
 
 c You are very pale ! ' 
 
 c Look round ! 9 Mile de Verneuil went on ; c might 
 not the perfumed room, the flowers, and the lights, this 
 intoxicating vapour and everything here, give an idea of 
 a paradise to him whom to-night I will steep in the bliss 
 of love ? 9 
 
 'What is the matter, mademoiselle ? f 
 
 6 1 am betrayed, deceived thwarted, cheated, duped, 
 and ruined. I will kill him ! I will tear him in pieces ! 
 Oh ! yes, there was always something contemptuous in 
 his manner that he scarcely concealed, but I would not 
 see it ! Oh ! this will kill me ! What a fool I am ! ' 
 
346 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 she laughed -> c he is on his way, and to-night I will 
 teach him that, whether wedded to me or no, the 
 man who has possessed me can never forsake me after- 
 wards. My revenge shall be commensurate with his 
 offence — he shall die in despair ! I thought that there 
 was something great in him ; but he is the son of a 
 lackey, there is no question of it. Truly, he has deceived 
 me cleverly ! Even now, I can scarcely believe that the 
 man who was capable of giving me up to Pille-Miche 
 without mercy could condescend to trickery not unworthy 
 of Scapin. It is so easy to dupe a loving woman, that 
 it is the lowest depth of baseness ! He might kill me ; 
 well and good ; but that he should lie to me, to me who 
 had set him on high ! To the scaffold with him ! ] 
 wish I could see him guillotined ! Am I so very cruel ? 
 He shall go to his death covered with kisses and caresses, 
 which will have been worth twenty years of life to him.' 
 
 6 Marie,' said Francine with angelic meekness, c be 
 the victim of your lover, as so many another has been, 
 but do not be his mistress or his executioner. In the 
 depths of your heart you can keep his image, and it need 
 not make you cruel to yourself. If there were no joy in 
 love when hope is gone, what would become of us, poor 
 women that we are ? The God of whom you never 
 think, Marie, will reward us for having submitted to our 
 lot upon earth — to our vocation of loving and suffering.' 
 
 'Little puss,' answered Mile, de Verneuil, as she 
 stroked Francine's hand, c your voice is very sweet and 
 very winning. Reason, when she takes your form, has 
 many charms. How I wish that I could obey you ! ' 
 
 4 You will forgive him ? You will not give him up ? 9 
 
 1 Hush ! do not speak of that man any more. Corentin 
 is a noble creature compared with him. Do you under- 
 stand me ? 9 
 
 She rose to her feet. Her wild thoughts and unquench- 
 able thirst for vengeance were concealed beneath the 
 dreadful quietness of her face. The very slowness of her 
 
A Day without a Morrow 347 
 
 measured footsteps seemed to betoken the fixed purpose 
 in her mind in an indescribable way. Devouring this 
 insult, tormented by her own thoughts, and too proud to 
 own to the least of her pangs, she went to the guard- 
 house in St. Leonard's gate, to ask to be directed to the 
 commandant's lodging. She had scarcely left the house 
 when Corendn entered it. 
 
 c Oh, M. Corentin,' cried Francine, c ifyou areinterested 
 in that young man, save him ! Mademoiselle will give 
 him up. This wretched paper has ruined everything.' 
 
 Corentin took up the letter carelessly. 4 Where is she 
 gone ? ' he inquired. 
 
 4 I do not know.' 
 
 4 1 will hurry after her,' he said, 4 to save her from her 
 own despair.' 
 
 He vanished, taking the letter with him, hurried out 
 of the house with all speed, and spoke to the little boy 
 who was playing about before the door. 
 
 4 Which way did the lady go when she went out just 
 now ? ' 
 
 Galope-C h opine's son went several paces with Corentin, 
 and pointed out the steep road which led to St. Leonard's 
 gate. 
 
 c That way,' he said, without hesitating, faithful to the 
 instinct of vengeance that his mother had inspired in him. 
 
 While he was speaking four men in disguise entered 
 Mile, de VerneuiPs house ; but neither Corentin nor the 
 little boy saw them. 
 
 4 Go back to your post,' the spy said. 4 Look as though 
 you were amusing yourself by turning the latches on the 
 shutters, but keep a sharp lookout in every direction, 
 even upon the roofs.' 
 
 Corentin sped in the direction pointed out by the child. 
 He thought that he recognised Mile, de Verneuil in the 
 fog, and, as a matter of fact, he came up with her just as 
 she reached St. Leonard's gate. 
 
 4 Where are you going ? 9 said he, offering his arm to 
 
34* 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 her. * You look pale ; what can have happened ? Is it 
 fitting for you to go out alone in this way ? Take my 
 arm.' 
 
 c Where is the commandant ? ' she asked him. 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil had scarcely finished the sentence 
 when she heard a reconnoitring party moving outside St. 
 Leonard's gate, and soon distinguished Hulot's deep bass 
 voice among the other confused sounds. 
 
 c Tonnerre de Dieu ! 9 he exclaimed. c I have never 
 seen it thicker than it is just now when we are making 
 the rounds. The ci-devant seems to have the control of 
 the weather.' 
 
 4 What are you grumbling at ? 9 said Mile, de Verneuil, 
 as she grasped his arm tightly ; ( the fog can hide ven- 
 geance as well as perfidy. Commandant,' she went on 
 in a low voice, c it is a question now of taking such 
 measures in concert with me that the Gars shall not 
 escape us this time.' 
 
 c Is he in your house ? ' he asked, and there was a 
 troubled sound in his voice that showed his astonishment. 
 
 c No,' she replied ; c but give me a man that can be 
 depended upon, and I will send him to you, to warn 
 you of the Marquis's arrival.' 
 
 c What are you doing ? ' Corentin asked with eager 
 haste. c A soldier in your house will scare him, but a 
 child (I will find one) will not awaken suspicion ' 
 
 c Commandant,' Mile, de Verneuil resumed, 4 you 
 can surround my house at once, thanks to this fog that 
 you execrate. Post soldiers about it in every direction. 
 Place a picket in St. Leonard's church so as to secure the j 
 esplanade, which is overlooked by my windows. Post 
 men on the Promenade itself ; for though my window is 
 twenty feet from the ground, despair sometimes gives 
 strength sufficient to overleap the most perilous distances 
 Listen ; I shall probably send this gentleman away 
 through the house door ; so you must give the task of 
 watching it to none but a brave man ; for no one can 
 
A Day without a Morrow 349 
 
 : deny his courage,' she said, heaving a sigh, c and he will 
 A fight for his life.' 
 
 6 Gudin ! ' cried the commandant. 
 The young Fougerais sprang forward. He had been 
 ^ standing in the midst of the knot of men who had returned 
 :t « with Hulot, and who had remained drawn up in rank at 
 ® a little distance. 
 
 4 Listen, my boy,' the old soldier said in low tones, 
 i c this confounded girl is betraying the Gars to us. I do 
 i not know why, but no matter, that is not our business, 
 uf Take ten men with you and post them so as to guard the 
 blind-alley and the girl's house at the end of it ; but you 
 il> must manage so that neither you nor your men are seen.' 
 
 6 Yes, commandant, I know the ground.' 
 on i Well, my boy,' Hulot went on, ' I will send Beau- 
 ck Pied to you to let you know when the moment comes 
 lot to be up and doing. Try to tackle the Marquis yourself ; 
 
 and if you can kill him, so that I shall not have to try 
 i a him first and shoot him afterwards, you shall be a lieu- 
 d tenant in a fortnight, or my name is not Hulot. Here, 
 be mademoiselle,' he said, as he pointed to Gudin; c here is a 
 in brave fellow who will flinch from nothing. He will keep 
 a sharp lookout before your house, and whether the 
 ?ei ci-devant comes out or tries to go in, he will not miss him.' 
 1 1 Gudin set out with his ten soldiers. 
 
 * Do you clearly understand what you are about ? 9 
 u Corentin murmured to Mile, de Verneuil. 
 t She made him no answer. With a kind of satisfaction 
 , she watched the men start, under the orders of the sub- 
 ; lieutenant, to post themselves on the promenade, and 
 i yet others, who, in obedience to Hulot's directions, took 
 \ i up their position along the dark walls of St. Leonard's 
 j I church. 
 
 f -j 'There are houses adjoining mine,' she said to the 
 i ! commandant ; 1 surround them also. Let us not lay up 
 { ; matter for repentance by neglecting a single precaution 
 j that we ought to take.' 
 
The Chouans 
 
 * She is mad,' thought Hulot. 
 
 c Am I not a prophet ? ' Corentin said in his ear. 
 c The child I shall send to the house is the little gars with 
 the bloody foot, so that ' 
 
 He did not finish. Mile, de Verneuil had suddenly 
 darted away towards her house, whither he followed her, 
 whistling like a happy man. When he came up with 
 her she had already reached her doorstep, where Corentin 
 once more found Galope-Chopine's son. 
 
 * Mademoiselle/ he said, 4 take this little fellow with 
 you; you could not have a more guileless and active 
 messenger.' 
 
 Then he breathed (so to speak) the following words 
 into the little lad's ear : c When you have once seen the 
 Gars within the house, no matter what they say to you, 
 run away, come and find me at the guard-house, and I 
 will give you enough to find you in bread for the rest of 
 your life. Corentin felt his hand squeezed hard by the 
 young Breton, who followed Mile, de Verneuil. 
 
 4 Now, my good friends, come to an explanation when- 
 ever you like,' cried Corentin, when the door was shut. 
 c If you make love, my lord Marquis, it will be over your 
 own shroud ! ' 
 
 Yet Corentin could not bring himself to go out of 
 sight of that fatal house, and betook himself to the 
 Promenade, where he found the commandant busily giving 
 orders. Night soon came on. Two hours passed by, 
 and still the different sentries distributed at their posts 
 had seen nothing that could lead them to suspect that the 
 Marquis had come through the triple line of men, who 
 were watching from their hiding-places along the three j 
 sides of the Papegaut's Tower by which access was possible. 
 Corentin had walked from the Promenade to the guard- 
 house a score of times, and each time his expectations 
 had been disappointed, and his young messenger had not 
 yet come to find him. Plunged in deep thought, the spy j 
 strolled slowly along the promenade, undergoing the 
 
A Day without a Morrow 351 
 
 - vour 
 
 .: )( 
 
 the 
 
 in 
 tfd] 
 
 , w:io 
 :::c€ 
 
 :;.( 
 
 martyrdom to which three terrible conflicting passions 
 subjected him — a victim to love, ambition, and greed of 
 Sold. 
 
 It struck eight on all the clocks. The moon rose late, 
 so that the scene on which this drama of his own devising 
 was about to come to a crisis was wrapped in appalling 
 *loom by the darkness and the thick fog. The agent of 
 Dolice managed to suppress his passions ; he locked his 
 irms over his breast, and never took his eyes off the 
 window that stood out above the tower like a gleaming 
 Dhantom shape. Whenever his steps led him to the side 
 )f the promenade nearest the valleys, along the brink of 
 :he precipices, he mechanically scrutinised the fog, with 
 :he long pale streaks of light flung across it here and 
 there, from some window among the houses in the 
 :own or suburbs, above or below the fortifications. 
 The deep silence that prevailed was only troubled by 
 he murmur of the Nan^on, by melancholy sounds at 
 ntervals from the belfry, or by the footsteps of the 
 sentinels and the clank of weapons, when they came to 
 elieve guard hour by hour. Everything, men and nature 
 dike, had grown solemn. 
 
 c It is as dark as a wolf's throat,' Pille-Miche remarked 
 ust then. 
 
 'Go along,' replied Marche-a-Terre, 'and keep as 
 juiet as a dead dog.' 
 
 I scarcely dare draw my breath,' the Chouan re- 
 zorted. 
 
 c If the man who let a stone roll down just now wants 
 ny knife to find a sheath in his heart, he has only to do it 
 igain,' said Marche-a-Terre, in so low a voice that it 
 ningled confusedly with the murmur of the Nan^on. 
 c Why, it was I,' said Pille-Miche. 
 c Well, old money-bag, creep along on your belly like a 
 ;nake, or we shall leave our carcases here before there is 
 iny occasion for it.' 
 4 Hi ! Marche-a-Terre,' the incorrigible Pille-Miche 
 
35* 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 began again. He had laid himself flat on the ground, I 
 and was using both hands to hoist himself on to the path I 
 where his comrade was, and now he spoke in the ear of 
 the latter in so low a voice that the Chouans following | 
 behind him did not catch a syllable that he said. c Hi! 
 Marche-a-Terre, if we are to believe our Grand-Garce, j 
 there is a glorious lot of plunder up there. Will you go 1 
 halves ? ' 
 
 c Listen, Pille-Miche ! ' said Marche-a-Terre, as, still 
 flat on his stomach, he came to a stop, a movement I 
 imitated by the whole troop of Chouans, so exhausted j 
 were they by the difficulties of their progress up the f 
 steep sides of the precipice. 
 
 c I know you for one of those honest grab-alls, who are ( 
 as fond of giving hard knocks as of taking them, when * 
 there is no other choice. We have not come here after \ 
 dead men's shoes ; it is devil against devil, and woe to 
 them that have the shorter claws ! The Grande-Garce 
 sent us here to rescue the Gars. That is where he is, 
 look ! Lift up your dog's head and look at that window, 
 up above the tower ! ' It was on the stroke of midnight 
 as he spoke. The moon rose, and the fog began to look 
 like pale smoke. Pille-Miche gripped Marche-a-Terre's 
 arm violently, and pointed out, without making a sound, 
 the gleaming triangular blades of several bayonets, some 
 ten feet above them. 
 
 c The Blues are there already,' said Pille-Miche; 
 6 we have not a chance against them.' 
 
 4 Patience ! ' replied Marche-a-Terre •> c if I looked into 
 it thoroughly this morning, there should be, somewhere 
 about the base of the Papegaut's Tower and between 
 the ramparts and the promenade, a space where they are 
 always heaping manure ; one can drop down on to it as 
 if it were a bed.' 
 
 c If St. Labre would turn all the blood that will be shed 
 into good cider, the Fougeres people would find a very 
 ample supply of it to-morrow,' remarked Pille-Miche. 
 
A Day without a Morrow 353 
 
 Marche-a-Terre laid his great hand over his friend's 
 mouth ; then the muttered caution that he gave passed 
 from line to line till it reached the last Chouan, who 
 clung aloft to the heather on the schistous rock. As a 
 matter of fact, Corentin was standing on the edge of the 
 esplanade, and his ears were too accustomed to vigilance 
 not to detect the rustling noises made by the shrubs as the 
 Chouans pulled and twisted them, and the faint sound 
 of the pebbles that fell to the foot of the precipice below. 
 Marche-a-Terre apparently possessed the gift of seeing 
 through the darkness, or his senses had become as acute 
 as those of a savage by being constantly called into play. 
 He had caught sight of Corentin, or perhaps he had 
 scented him like a well-trained dog. The diplomatist 
 spy listened intently to the silence, and scanned the 
 natural wall of the schist, but he could discover nothing 
 there. If the hazy dubious light allowed him to see a 
 few of the Chouans at all, he took them for fragments of 
 the rock, so thoroughly did the living bodies preserve the 
 appearance of inanimate nature. The danger to the 
 troop did not last long. Corentin's attention was called 
 away by a very distinct and audible sound which came 
 from the other end of the Promenade at a spot where the 
 buttress-wall came to an end and the sheer face of the 
 rock began. A pathway that ran along the edge of the 
 schist and communicated with the Queen's Staircase 
 also ended at this point, just where the rock and the 
 masonry met. As Corentin reached the spot, a form rose 
 up as if by magic before his eyes ; and when, feeling 
 doubtful as to its intentions, he stretched out a hand to 
 lay hold of the being (phantom or otherwise), he grasped 
 the soft and rounded outlines of a woman. 
 
 'The devil take it, good woman,' he muttered in a low 
 tone ; c if you had happened on any one else, you might 
 have come in for a bullet through your head. Where 
 do you come from, and where are you going at this time 
 of night ? Are you dumb ? ' 
 
354 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c It really is a woman, at any rate,' said he to himself. 
 
 Silence was growing dangerous, so the stranger replied 
 in tones that showed her great alarm — 
 
 c Oh ! I am coming back from an up-sitting, master.* 
 
 c It is the Marquis's make-believe mother,' said Corentin 
 to himself. c Let us see what she will do.' 
 
 c All right ; go along that way, old woman,' he went on 
 aloud, pretending not to recognise her. ' Go to the left 
 if you don't want to be shot.' 
 
 He stood motionless, till, seeing that Mme. du Gua 
 turned in the direction of the Papegaut's Tower, he fol- 
 lowed her at a distance with diabolical cunning. While 
 this fateful meeting was taking place, the Chouans had 
 very cleverly taken up their position on the manure-heap 
 to which Marche-a-Terre had guided them. 
 
 c There is the Grande-Garce ! ' muttered Marche-a- 
 Terre to himself, while he shuffled along the side of the 
 tower as a bear might have done. 
 
 6 Here we are ! ' he said to the lady. 
 
 c Good ! ' Mme. du Gua replied. c If you can find a 
 ladder about the house or in the garden that comes to 
 an end about six feet below the manure heap, the Gars 
 will be saved. Do you see the round window up there ? 
 It is in a dressing-room that opens out of the bedroom ; 
 and you must reach it. This side of the tower, at the 
 foot of which you are standing, is the one side that is not 
 surrounded. The horses are ready ; and if you have 
 guarded the ford of the Nan^on, we ought to have him 
 out of danger in fifteen minutes, in spite of his folly. But 
 if that wench tries to follow him, stab her.' 
 
 Corentin now perceived through the gloom that a few 
 of the vague shapes which he had at first taken for rocks 
 were moving stealthily ; he went at once to the guard 
 at St. Leonard's Gate, where he found the commandant 
 fully dressed, but sleeping on a camp bed. 
 
 i Let him alone ! 9 Beau-Pied said roughly to Corentin ; 
 c he has only just lain down there.' 
 
A Day without a Morrow 355 
 
 * The Chouans are here ! ' cried Corentin in Hulot's ears. 
 
 1 Impossible ! but so much the better,' said the com- 
 mandant, heavy with sleep though he was ; c there will be 
 fighting at any rate ! * 
 
 When Hulot came to the Promenade, Corentin pointed 
 out to him, through the darkness, the strange position 
 occupied by the Chouans. 
 
 'They have either outwitted or gagged the sentries 
 that I posted between the Queen's Staircase and the 
 castle,' exclaimed the commandant. * By Jove ! what 
 a fog it is ! But patience ! I will send fifty men and a 
 lieutenant round to the base of the cliff. We must not 
 set upon them from above, for the brutes are so tough 
 that they will let themselves drop to the bottom of the 
 precipice like stones, and never break a limb.' 
 
 The cracked bell in the church-tower struck two as 
 the commandant came back to the promenade, after 
 taking the most stringent measures a soldier could devise 
 for surprising and seizing March-a-Terre and the 
 Chouans under his command. Every guard had been 
 doubled, so that by this time Mile, de Verneuil's house 
 had become the central point about which a small army 
 was gathered. The commandant found Corentin absorbed 
 in contemplation of the window that looked out over 
 the Papegaut's tower. 
 
 1 Citizen,' said Hulot, addressing him, c it is my belief 
 that the ci-devant is making fools of us all, for nothing 
 has stirred so far.' 
 
 c There he is ! ' cried Corentin, pointing to the window. 
 ( I saw a man's shadow on the curtains. But I do not 
 understand what has become of my little boy. They 
 have killed him or gained him over. Look there, com- 
 mandant ; do you see ? It is a man. Let us go.' 
 
 c Tonnerre de Dieu ! I am not going to arrest him in 
 bed. If he is in there, he is sure to come out ; Gudin 
 will not miss him,' replied Hulot, who had his own 
 reasons for delay. 
 
356 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c Come, now, commandant ; in the name of the law, I 
 command you to advance instantly upon the house.' 
 
 4 You are a pretty fellow, at all events, to think to 
 order me about.' 
 
 The commandant's wrath did not trouble Corentin. 
 
 c You will obey me,' he said coolly ; c for here is an 
 order drawn up in due form, and signed by the Minister 
 of War, which will compel you to do so.' He drew a 
 paper from his pocket. c Do you really think that we are 
 fools enough to let that girl act according to her own 
 notions ? We are stamping out civil war, and the great- 
 ness of the end in view justifies the littleness of the means 
 employed.' 
 
 4 1 take the liberty, citizen, of sending you to 1 
 
 You understand ? That is enough, then. Put your best 
 foot foremost, and let me alone ; and do it in less than 
 no time.' 
 
 4 Read this first ! ' said Corentin. 
 
 * Don't plague me about your business,' cried Hulot, 
 furious at receiving orders from a creature in his opinion 
 so despicable. 
 
 Galope-Chopine's son started up between the two at 
 that moment like a rat out of a hole in the ground. 
 6 The Gars is going ! ' he cried. 
 4 Which way ? 9 
 c Along the Rue St. Leonard.' 
 
 4 Beau- Pied,' Hulot whispered to the corporal, who was 
 standing beside him, 4 run and tell your lieutenant to 
 approach the house, and to keep up some nice little file- 
 firing upon it ; do you understand ? File to the left, and 
 march towards the tower,' the commandant shouted to 
 the rest of the men. 
 
 It is necessary, if the close of the drama is to be clearly 
 understood, to return and to enter Mile, de Verneuil's 
 house with her. When the passions are excited to the 
 highest pitch, the intoxication that they produce is far 
 
A Day without a Morrow 357 
 
 more complete than anything effected by those paltry 
 stimulants — wine and opium. The clearness of ideas to 
 which we attain at such times, the subtle keenness of our 
 over-excited senses, bring about the strangest and most 
 unexpected results. Beneath the arbitrary sway of one 
 sole thought, certain temperaments can clearly perceive 
 the least perceptible things, while the most obvious 
 matters are for them as though they had no existence. 
 Mile, de Verneuil had fallen a victim to the kind of 
 ; intoxication which makes our actual existence seem to 
 I be like the life of a somnambulist. When she had read 
 1 Montauran's letter, she had ordered all things in such a 
 ; way that he could not escape her vengeance, just as 
 eagerly as she had but lately made every preparation for 
 the first festival of her love. But when she saw her 
 house carefully surrounded, by her own orders, with a 
 triple line of bayonets, a sudden gleam of light shone 
 through her soul. She sat in judgment upon her conduct, 
 ! and thought with a kind of revulsion that she had just 
 perpetrated a crime. Her first uneasy impulse led her to 
 spring to the threshold of her door, and to stay there 
 motionless for a brief space, trying to reflect, but utterly 
 unable to follow out a train of thought. She was so 
 little aware of what she had just done, that she wondered 
 why she was standing in the vestibule of her own house 
 holding a strange child by the hand. Myriads of sparks 
 like little tongues of flame swam in the air before her. 
 She took a step or two to shake off the dreadful numbness 
 that had crept over her senses, but nothing appeared to 
 her in its true shape or with its real colours ; she was like 
 one that slept. She seized the little boy's hand with a 
 roughness that was not usual to her, and drew him along 
 so hurriedly, that she seemed to possess the activity of a 
 mad woman. She saw nothing whatever in the salon 
 when she crossed it, though three men greeted her, and 
 stood apart to allow her to pass. 
 c Here she is ! ' said one of them. 
 
358 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 6 She is very beautiful ! ' the priest exclaimed. 
 
 c Yes/ replied the first speaker, 4 but how pale and 
 troubled she is 9 
 
 c And how absent-minded ! ' said the third ; c she does 
 not see us.' 
 
 At the door of her own room Mile, de Verneuil saw 
 Francine, who whispered to her with a sweet and happy 
 face, c He is there, Marie ! 9 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil seemed to awake, and to be able to 
 think ; she looked down at the child whose hand she held, 
 recognised him, and said to Francine — 
 
 * Shut this little boy up somewhere, and if you wish me 
 to live, be very careful not to let him escape.' 
 
 While she slowly uttered the words, she turned her 
 eyes on the door of her room, on which they rested with 
 such appalling fixity that it might have been thought 
 that she saw her victim through the thickness of the 
 panels. She softly pushed the door open, and closed it 
 without turning herself, for she saw the Marquis standing 
 before the hearth. He was handsomely^ but not too 
 elaborately dressed ; and there was an air of festival about 
 the young noble's attire that added to the radiance with 
 which lovers are invested in women's eyes. At the 
 sight of him, all Mile, de Verneuil's presence of mind 
 returned to her. The white enamel of her teeth showed 
 between the tightly-strained lines of her half-opened lips, 
 which described a set smile that expressed dread rather 
 than delight. With slow steps she went towards the 
 young noble, and pointing to the clock, she spoke with 
 hollow mirth, C A man who is worthy of love is well 
 worth the anxiety with which he is expected.' 
 
 But the violence of her feelings overcame her ; she fell 
 back upon the sofa that stood near the fire. 
 
 4 Dear Marie, you are very charming when you are 
 angry ! ' said the Marquis, seating himself beside her, 
 taking her passive hand, and entreating a glance which 
 she would not give. c I hope,' he went on, in a tender 
 
A Day without a Morrow 359 
 
 and soothing voice, 6 that in another moment Marie will 
 be very vexed with herself for having hidden her face 
 from her fortunate husband.' 
 
 She turned sharply as the words fell on her ear, and 
 gazed into his eyes. 
 
 c What does that terrible look mean ? ' he went on, 
 smiling. c But your hand is as hot as fire ! My love, 
 what is it ? ' 
 
 4 My love ! 9 she echoed, in a stifled, unnatural voice. 
 
 'Yes,* he said, falling on his knees before her, and 
 taking both her hands, which he covered with kisses \ 
 1 yes, my love, I am yours for life.' 
 
 Impetuously she pushed him from her, and rose to her 
 feet. Her features were distorted ; she laughed like a 
 maniac as she said — 
 
 c You do not mean one word of it > you are baser than 
 the vilest criminal ! ' 
 
 She sprang quickly towards the dagger which lay 
 beside a vase, and flashed it within a few inches of the 
 astonished young man's breast. 
 
 c Bah ! 9 she said, flinging down the weapon, c I have 
 not enough esteem for you to kill you ! Your blood is 
 too vile even for the soldiers to shed. I see nothing but 
 the executioner before you/ 
 
 The words came from her with difficulty, and were 
 uttered in a low voice ; she stamped her foot like a 
 spoiled child in a passion. The Marquis went up to her 
 and tried to clasp her in his arms. 
 
 c Do not touch me ! ' she cried, drawing back in 
 horror. 
 
 6 She is mad ! ' said the Marquis, speaking aloud in his 
 despair. 
 
 4 Yes, I am mad,' she repeated, c but not yet so mad as 
 to be a toy for you. What would I not forgive to 
 passionate love ! But that you should think to possess 
 me without any love for me ! That vou should write 
 and say so to that ' 
 
The Chouans 
 
 c To whom have I written ? 9 he asked in amazement, 
 that was clearly unfeigned. 
 
 c To that virtuous woman who wished to kill me ! % 
 
 The Marquis turned pale at this, and grasped the back 
 of the armchair by which he was standing so tightly that 
 he broke it, as he cried — 
 
 c If Mme. du Gua has been guilty of any foul play ' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil looked round for the letter and 
 could not find it again — she called Francine, and the 
 Breton maid came. 
 
 c Where is the letter ? * 
 
 1 M. Corentin took it away with him.* 
 
 Q Corentin ! Ah ! I understand everything now. That 
 letter was his doing. He has deceived me, as he can 
 deceive, with diabolical ingenuity.' 
 
 She went to the sofa and sank down upon it, with a 
 piercing wail, and a flood of tears fell from her eyes. 
 Doubt and certainty were equally horrible. The Marquis 
 flung himself at his mistress's feet, and clasped her to his 
 breast, saying over and over again for her the only words 
 that he could pronounce — 
 
 c Why do you weep, dear angel ? What is the trouble ? 
 Your scornful words are full of love. Do not weep ! I 
 love you ; I love you for ever ! ' 
 
 Suddenly he felt that she clasped him to her with 
 superhuman strength, and in the midst of her sobs she 
 said, c You love me still ? ' 
 
 c Can you doubt it ? ' he answered, and his tone was 
 almost sad. 
 
 She withdrew herself suddenly from his arms, and 
 sprang back two paces, as if in confusion and dread. 
 6 If I doubt it ? ' she cried. 
 
 She saw the Marquis smiling at her with such gentle 
 irony that the words died away on her lips. She let him 
 take her hand and lead her as far as the threshold. Marie 
 saw, at the end of the salon, an altar that had been hastily 
 erected during her absence. The priest, who had resumed 
 
A Day without a Morrow 361 
 
 his ecclesiastical garb, was there ; and the light upon the 
 < ceiling from the shining altar candles was sweet as hope. 
 She recognised the two men who had before saluted her ; 
 1 they were the Comte de Bauvan and the Baron du 
 I Guenic, the two witnesses whom Montauran had chosen. 
 
 'Will you still refuse?' the Marquis asked her in a 
 I low voice. But when she saw the scene before her, she 
 ! shrank back a step so as to reach her own room again, 
 1 and fell upon her knees before the Marquis, and raised her 
 hands to him, and cried — 
 
 4 Oh, forgive me ! forgive ! forgive ' 
 
 Her voice died in her throat, her head fell back, her 
 eyes were closed, and she lay as if dead in the arms of the 
 Marquis and of Francine. When she opened her eyes 
 again she met the gaze of the young chief — a look full of 
 kindness and of love. 
 
 i Patience, Marie ! This is the last storm !' he said. 
 c Yes, the last ! 9 she echoed. 
 I Francine and the Marquis looked at each other in 
 ; surprise, but she enjoined silence on them both by a 
 gesture. 
 
 ' Ask the priest to come,' she said, Q and leave me alone 
 with him/ 
 
 They withdrew. 
 
 c Father,' she said to the priest, who suddenly appeared 
 before her, c when I was a child, an old man with white 
 hair like you often used to tell me that if it is asked 
 with a living faith, one can obtain anything of God : is 
 that true ? 5 
 
 4 It is true,' the priest answered ; c all things are possible 
 to Him who has created all things.' 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil threw herself on her knees with 
 incredible fervour. 
 
 4 O God ! ' she cried in her ecstasy, 4 my faith in 
 Thee is as great as my love for him ! Inspire me * 
 Work a miracle here, or take my life ! ' 
 
 4 Your prayer will be heard,' said the priest. 
 
362 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil came out to meet the eyes of those 
 assembled, leaning upon the arm of the old white-haired | 
 priest. It was a profound emotion hidden in the depths 
 of her heart that gave her to her lover's love ; she was 
 more beautiful now than on any bygone day, for such a 
 serenity as painters love to give to martyrs' faces had set 
 its seal upon her, and lent grandeur to her face. 
 
 She gave her hand to the Marquis, and together they 
 went towards the altar, where they knelt. This marriage, 
 which was about to be solemnised two paces from the 
 nuptial couch ; the hastily erected altar, the crucifix, the 
 vases, the chalice brought secretly by the priest, the 
 fumes of incense floating beneath the cornices, which 
 hitherto had only seen the steam of everyday meals, the 
 priest, who had simply slipped a stole over his cassock, 
 the altar candles in a dwelling-room, — all united to make 
 a strange and touching scene which completes the picture 
 of those days of sorrowful memory, when civil discord 
 had overthrown the most sacred institutions. In those 
 times religious ceremonies had all the charm of mysteries. 
 Children were privately baptized in the rooms where their 
 mothers still groaned. As of old, the Lord went in 
 simplicity and poverty to console the dying. Young 
 girls received the sacred wafer for the first time on the 
 spot where they had been playing only the night before. 
 The marriage of the Marquis and Mile, de Verneuil was 
 about to be solemnised, like so many other marriages, with 
 an act forbidden by the new Legislation ; but all these 
 marriages, celebrated for the most part beneath the oak 
 trees, were afterwards scrupulously sanctioned by law. 
 The priest who thus preserved the ancient usages to the 
 last was one of those men who are faithful to their 
 principles in the height of the storm. His voice, guiltless 
 of the oath required by the Republic, only breathec 
 words of peace through the tempest. He did not stir 
 up the fires of insurrection, as the Abbe Gudin had been 
 wont to do; but he had devoted himself, like many others 
 
A Day without a Morrow 363 
 
 to the dangerous task of fulfilling the duties of the priest 
 towards such souls as remained faithful to the Catholic 
 Church. In order to carry out his perilous mission suc- 
 cessfully, he made use of all the pious artifices to which 
 persecution compelled him to resort; so that the Marquis 
 had only succeeded in finding him in one of those under- 
 ground hiding-places which bear the name of c The Priest's 
 Hole,' even in our own day. The sight of his pale worn 
 face inspired such devout feelings and respect in others, 
 that it transformed the worldly aspect of the salon, and 
 made it seem like a holy place. Everything was in readi- 
 ness for the act that should bring misfortune and joy. 
 In the deep silence before the ceremony began the priest 
 asked for the name of the bride. 
 
 4 Marie-Nathalie, daughter of Mile. Blanche de Caste- 
 ran, late Abbess of Notre-Dame de Seez and of Victor- 
 Amedee, Due de Verneuil.' 
 
 'Born?' 
 
 * At la Chasterie, near Alen^on.' 
 
 6 1 should not have thought that Montauran would 
 have been fool enough to marry her,' the baron whispered 
 to the count. 4 The natural daughter of a duke ! Out 
 upon it !* 
 
 c If she had been a king's daughter, he might have been 
 excused,' the Comte de Bauvan said, with a smile, but I 
 am not the one to blame him. I have a liking for the 
 other, and I mean to lay siege to Charette's Filly now. 
 There is not much coo about her ! ' 
 
 Montauran's designations had been previously filled in, 
 the lovers set their names to the document, and the 
 names of the witnesses followed. The ceremony began, 
 and all the while no one but Marie heard the sound of 
 arms and the heavy even tread of the soldiers coming 
 to relieve the Blues, who were, doubtless, on guard 
 before St. Leonard's Church, where she herself had 
 posted them. She shuddered and raised her eyes to the 
 crucifix upon the altar. 
 
3^4 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 c She is a saint ! ' murmured Francine. 
 
 i Give me saints of that sort, and I will turn deucedly 
 devout,' the Count said to himself, in a low voice. 
 
 When the priest put the usual question to Mile, de 
 Verneuil, her answering 4 Yes ' came with a heavy sigh. 
 She leaned over, and said in her husband's ear, c In a little 
 while you will know why I break the vow that I made 
 never to marry you.' 
 
 The rite was over, and those who had been present 
 passed out into the room where dinner had been served, 
 when, just as the guests were sitting down, Jeremiah 
 came in in a state of great terror. The unhappy bride rose 
 at once and went up to him, followed by Francine. 
 Then making one of the excuses that women can devise 
 §o readily, she begged the Marquis to do the honours of 
 the feast by himself for a few moments ; and hurried 
 the servant away before he could commit any blunder 
 that might prove fatal. 
 
 * Oh ! Francine,' she said, c what a thing it is to feel 
 oneself at the brink of death, and to be unable to say, 
 "lam dying!'" 
 
 Mile, de Verneuil did not return. An excuse for her 
 absence could be found in the ceremony that had just been 
 concluded. When the meal came to an end, and the 
 Marquis's anxiety had risen to its height, Marie came back 
 in all the splendour of her bridal array. She looked calm 
 and happy ; while Francine, who had returned with her, 
 bore traces of such profound terror on all her features, 
 that those assembled seemed to see in the faces of the 
 two women some such strange picture as the eccentric 
 brush of Salvator Rosa might have painted, representing 
 Death and Life holding each other by the hand. 
 
 c Gentlemen/ she said, addressing the priest, the Baron, 
 and the Count, c you must be my guests to-night. Any 
 attempt to leave Fougeres would be too hazardous. I 
 have given orders to this good girl here to conduct each 
 of you to his own room. No resistance, I beg,' she said, 
 
A Day without a Morrow 365 
 
 as the priest was about to speak ; c I hope that you will 
 not refuse to obey a bride on her wedding day.' 
 
 An hour later she was alone with her lover in the 
 bridal chamber that she had made so fair. They stood at 
 last beside the fatal couch where so many hopes are 
 blighted as by the tomb, where the chances of an awaken- 
 ing to a happy life are so uncertain, where love dies or 
 comes into being according to the power of the character 
 that is only finally tested there. Marie looked at the 
 clock, and said to herself, c Six hours to live ! ? 
 
 4 So I have been able to sleep ! ? she exclaimed when, 
 as morning drew near, she woke with the shock of the 
 sudden start that disturbs us when we have agreed with 
 ourselves on the previous evening to wake at a certain 
 hour. 4 Yes, I have slept,' she repeated, as she saw by 
 the candle-light that the hand on the dial of the clock 
 pointed to the hour of two. She turned and gazed at the 
 Marquis, who was sleeping with one hand beneath his 
 head, as children do, while the other hand grasped that 
 of his wife. He was half smiling, as though he had 
 fallen asleep in the midst of a kiss. c Ah !' she murmured 
 to herself, c he is slumbering like a child! But how 
 could he feel mistrust of me, of me who owe him un- 
 speakable happiness ? ' 
 
 She touched him gently, he awoke and smiled in 
 earnest. He kissed the hand that he held, and gazed at 
 the unhappy woman before him with such glowing eyes, 
 that she could not endure the passionate light in them, 
 and slowly drooped her heavy eyelids as if to shut out a 
 spectacle fraught with peril for her. But while she thus 
 veiled the growing warmth of her own eyes, she so pro- 
 voked the desire to which she appeared to refuse herself, 
 that if she had not had a profound dread to conceal, her 
 husband might have reproached her with too much 
 coquetry. They both raised their charming heads at the 
 same moment, with a sign full of gratitude for the 
 pleasures that they had experienced. But after a moment's 
 
366 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 survey of the exquisite picture presented by his wife's 
 face, the Marquis, thinking that Marie's brow was over- 
 shadowed by some feeling of melancholy, said to her 
 softly — 
 
 4 Why that shade of sadness, love ? ' 
 1 Poor Alphonse, whither do you think I have brought 
 you ? ' she asked, trembling. 
 4 To happiness.' 
 4 Nay, to death.' 
 
 Quivering with horror, she sprang out of bed, followed 
 by the astonished Marquis. His wife led him to the 
 window. A frenzied gesture escaped Marie as she drew 
 back the curtains and pointed to a score of soldiers in the 
 square. The fog had dispersed, and the white moonlight 
 fell on their uniforms and muskets, on the imperturbable 
 Corentin, who came and went like a jackal on the lookout 
 for his prey, and on the commandant, who stood there 
 motionless with folded arms, with his head thrown back, 
 and his mouth pursed up, in an alert and uneasy attitude. 
 
 4 Let them be, Marie, and come back.' 
 
 4 Why do you laugh, Alphonse ? It was / who posted 
 them there ! ' 
 
 4 You are dreaming.' 
 
 4 Nay.' 
 
 For a moment they looked at each other, and the 
 Marquis understood it all. He clasped her in his arms. 
 c What of that,' he said ; 4 1 love you for ever.' 
 
 4 All is not lost, even now ! ' cried Marie. 4 Alphonse !j 
 she said, after a pause, c there is yet hope ! ' 
 
 Just then they distinctly heard the stifled cry of a 
 screech-owl, and Francine suddenly entered from the 
 dressing-room. 
 
 4 Pierre is there ! ' she cried, in almost frenzied joy. 
 
 The Marquise and Francine dressed Montauran in a 
 Chouan's costume with the marvellous quickness that 
 women alone possess. When Marie saw that her 
 husband was busy loading the firearms that Francine ha( 
 
A Day without a Morrow 367 
 
 brought for him, she quickly slipped away, making a sign 
 to her faithful Breton maid. Francine led the Marquis 
 into the adjoining dressing-room. At the sight of a 
 number of sheets securely knotted together, the young 
 I chief could appreciate the alert activity with which the 
 Breton girl had done her work, as she sought to disappoint 
 the watchfulness of the soldiers. 
 
 C I can never get through,' the Marquis said, as he 
 imade a survey of the narrow embrasure of the round 
 j window. But the circular opening was just then blocked 
 I up by a great dark countenance ; and the hoarse voice, 
 I that Francine knew so well, cried softly — 
 
 c Quick, general ! Those toads of Blues are on the 
 move ! ' 
 
 i Oh ! one more kiss/ said a sweet and trembling 
 i voice. 
 
 Montauran's feet were set on the ladder by which he 
 was to escape, but he had not yet extricated himself from 
 the window, and felt himself clasped in a desperate 
 embrace. He uttered a cry, for he saw that his wife had 
 dressed herself in his clothes, and tried to hold her fast, 
 but she tore herself hastily from his arms, and he was 
 obliged to descend the ladder. In his hand he kept a 
 scrap of some woven material, and a sudden gleam of 
 moonlight showed him that it must be a strip of the 
 waistcoat that he had worn on the previous evening. 
 
 1 Halt ! Fire by platoons ! 9 
 
 Hulot's words spoken broke the deep stillness that had 
 something hideous about it, and snapped the charm that 
 seemed hitherto to have prevailed over the place and the 
 men in it. The sound of a salvo of balls at the base of 
 the tower in the valley bottom followed hard upon the 
 firing of the Blues upon the Promenade. Volley suc- 
 ceeded volley without interruption ; the Republicans kept 
 up their fire, mercilessly ; but no sound was uttered by 
 the victims — there was a horrible silence between each 
 discharge. 
 
3 68 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 Corentin, however, suspected some trap, for he had 
 heard one of the men, whom he had pointed out to the 
 commandant, drop from his lofty position at the top o 
 the ladder. 
 
 c Not one of those animals makes a sound,' he remarkec 
 to Hulot. c Our pair of lovers are quite capable o: 
 keeping us amused by some sort of trick, while they 
 themselves are perhaps escaping in another direction.' 
 
 The spy, in his eagerness to obtain light on this 
 mystery, sent Galope-Chopine's child to find some 
 torches. Hulot had caught the drift of Corentin's 
 suspicions so aptly that the old soldier, who was pre- 
 occupied with the sounds of an obstinate encounter that 
 was taking place before the guard-house in St. Leonard's 
 Gate, exclaimed, c True, there cannot be two of them,' 
 and rushed off in that direction. 
 
 c We have given him a leaden shower-bath, comman- 
 dant,' so Beau-Pied greeted his commandant, 4 but h 
 has killed Gudin, and wounded two more men. Ah 
 the madman. He had broken through three lines of oui 
 fellows, and would have got away into the open country, 
 if it had not been for the sentry at St. Leonard's Gate, 
 who spitted him on his bayonet.' 
 
 The commandant hurried into the guard-house o 
 hearing this piece of news, and saw a blood-stained bod 
 stretched out upon the camp-bed where it had just bee 
 laid. He went up to the man whom he believed to be 
 the Marquis, raised the hat that covered his face, and 
 dropped into a chair. 
 
 c I thought so,' he cried vehemently, as he folded his 
 arms. c Sacre tonnerre ! she had kept him too long.' 
 
 The soldiers stood about, motionless. The comman- 
 dant's movement had uncoiled a woman's long dark hair. 
 
 The silence was suddenly broken by the sounds of a 
 crowd of armed men. Corentin came into the guard- 
 house, followed by four men, who had made a kind o 
 stretcher of their muskets, upon which they were carry- 
 
A Day without a Morrow 369 
 
 ing Montauran, whose legs and arms had been broken by 
 many gunshots. They laid the Marquis on the camp- 
 bed beside his wife. He saw her, and found strength 
 sufficient to take her hand in a convulsive clasp. The 
 dying girl turned her head painfully, recognised her 
 I husband, and a sudden spasm shook her that was terrible 
 ! to see, as she murmured in a nearly inaudible voice — 
 c A day without a morrow ! . . . God has heard me 
 indeed ! 9 
 
 c Commandant,' said the Marquis, summoning all his 
 strength to speak, while he still held Marie's hand in his, 
 c I depend upon your loyalty to send word of my death 
 to my young brother in London. Write to him, and 
 
 i tell him that if he would fain obey my last wishes, he 
 will not bear arms against France ; but he will never 
 
 j forsake the service of the King.' 
 
 I * It shall be done,' said Hulot, pressing the hand of the 
 dying man. 
 
 c Take them to the hospital near by,' cried Corentin. 
 
 Hulot grasped the spy by the arm in such a sort that 
 he left the marks of his nails in the flesh as he said to 
 him — 
 
 4 Since your task here is ended, be off ! And take a 
 good look at the face of Commandant Hulot, so that 
 you may never cross his path again, unless you have a 
 mind to have his cutlass through your body.' 
 
 The old soldier drew his sabre as he spoke. 
 
 1 There is another of your honest folk who will never 
 make their fortunes,' said Corentin to himself, when he 
 was well away from the guard-house. 
 
 The Marquis was still able to thank his enemy by a 
 movement of the head, expressing a soldier's esteem for 
 a generous foe. 
 
 In 1827 an °W man, accompanied by his wife, was 
 bargaining for cattle in the market of Fougeres. Nobody 
 took any special heed of him, though in his time he had 
 
 2 A 
 
37° 
 
 The Chouans 
 
 killed more than a hundred men. No one even reminded 
 him of his nickname of Marche-a-Terre. The person to 
 whom valuable information concerning the actors in this 
 drama is owing saw the man as he led a cow away ; there 
 was that look of homely simplicity about him which 
 prompts the remark, c That is a very honest fellow ! * 
 
 As for Cibot, otherwise called Pille-Miche, his end has 
 been witnessed already. Perhaps Marche-a-Terre made 
 a vain attempt to rescue his comrade from the scaffold, 
 and was present in the market place of Alen^on at the 
 terrific riot that occurred during the famous trials of 
 Rifoel, Bryond, and La Chanterie. 
 
 Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty, 
 at the Edinburgh University Press.