LA VENDEE. 
 
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BY ANTHONY TROLLOPBi 
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 CHAPTER I. ' ^ /. 
 
 THE POITEVINS. 
 
 jHE history of France in 1792 has been too fully 
 t>"^ri written, and too generally read to leave the novelist 
 ^''^f any excuse for describing the state of Paris at the 
 ?-=tJ] close of the summer of that year. It is known to 
 everyone that the palace of Louis XVI was sacked on the loth 
 of August. That ne himself with his family took refuge in the 
 National Assembly, and that he was taken thence to the prison 
 of the Temple. 
 
 The doings on the fatal loth of August, and the few following 
 days had, however, various effects in Paris, all of which we do 
 not clearly trace in history. We well* know how the Mountain 
 became powerful from that day ; that from that day Marat 
 ceased to shun the light, and Danton to curb the licence of his 
 tongue ; that then, patriotism io France began to totter, and 
 that, from that time, Paris ceased to be a fitting abode for aught 
 that was virtuous, innocent, or high-minded ; but the steady 
 march of history cannot stop to let us see the various lights in 
 which the inhabitants of Paris regarded the loss of a King, and 
 the commencement of the first French Republic. 
 
 The Assembly, though it had not contemplated the dethrone- 
 ment of the King, ac|quiesced in it ; and acted as it would have 
 4o&ehad the establishment of a Republi: been decreed I7 A^ 
 
 613 
 
• La Vetuih. 
 
 inajority of its members. The municipality had determined that 
 the King should fall, and, of course, rejoiced in the success of its 
 work; and history plainly marking the acquiescence of the 
 Assembly, and the activity of the city powers, naturally passes 
 over the various feelings excited in different circles in Paris, by 
 the overthrow of the monarchy. 
 
 Up to that period there was still in Paris much that was high, 
 noble, and delightful. The haute nob'esse had generally left the 
 country ; but the haute noblesse did not comprise the better 
 educated, or most social families in Paris. Never had there 
 been more talent, more wit, or more beauty in Paris than at the 
 commencement of 1792 ; never had literary acquirement been 
 more fully appreciated in society, more absolutely necessary in 
 those who were ambitious of social popularity. 
 
 There were many of this class in Paris who had hitherto 
 watched the progress of the Revolution with a full reliance in 
 the panacea it was to afford for human woes ; many who had 
 sympathised with the early demands of the Tiers Etat ; who 
 had rapturously applauded the Tennis Court oath ; who had 
 taken an enthusiastic part in the fete of the Champ de Mars ; 
 men who had taught themselves to believe that sin, and avarice, 
 and selfishness were about to be banished from the world by the 
 lights of philosophy ; but whom the rancour of the Jacobins, and 
 the furious licence of the city authorities had now robbed of 
 their golden hopes. The dethronement of the King totally 
 severed many such from the revolutionary party. They found 
 that their high aspirations had been in vain ; that their trust in 
 reason had been misplaced, and that the experiment to which 
 they had committed themselves had failed ; disgusted, broken- 
 spirited, and betrayed, they left the city in crowds, and with few 
 exceptions, the intellectual circles were broken up. 
 
 A few of the immediate friends of the King, a few ladies and 
 gentlemen, warmly devoted to the family of Louis XVI, remained 
 in Paris. At the time when the King was first subjected to 
 actual personal restraint, a few young noblemen and gentlemen 
 had formed themselves into a private club, and held their 
 sittings in the Rue Vivienne. Their object was to assist the 
 King in the difficulties with which he was surrounded, and their 
 immediate aim was to withdraw him from the metropolis ; Louis* 
 own oft-repeated indecision alone prevented them from being 
 successful. These royalists were chiefly from the province of 
 Poitou, and as their meetings gradually became known and 
 talked of in Paris, they were called the Poitevins. 
 
 They had among them one or two members of the Assembly, 
 but the club chiefly consisted of young noblemen attached to the 
 Court, or of officers in the body-guard of the King ; their object, 
 
 first, had been to maintain, undiminished, the power of the 
 
The Poitevim. 3 
 
 throne ; but they had long since forgotten their solicitude for 
 the King's power, iir. their anxiety for his safety and perso»^al 
 freedom. . 
 
 The storming of the Tuilleries, and the imprisonment of Louis, 
 completely destroyed their body as a club ; but the energy of 
 each separate member was raised to the highest pitch. The 
 Poilevins no longer met in the Rue Vivienne, but they separated 
 with a determination on the part of each individual royalist to 
 use evsry effort to replace the King. 
 
 There were three young men in this club, who were destined 
 to play a conspicuous jJart in the great effort about to be made, 
 in a portion of France, for the restitution of the monarchy; their 
 fathers had lived within a few miles of each other, and though 
 of different ages, and very ditTerent dispositions, they had come 
 to Paris together since the commencement of the revolution. 
 
 M. de Lescure was a married man, about twenty-seven years 
 of age, of grave and studious habits, but nevertheless of an 
 active temperament. He was humane, charitable, and bene- 
 volent : his strongest passion was the love of his fellow- 
 creatures ; his pure heart had glowed, at an early age, with 
 unutterable longings for the benefits promised to the human 
 race by the school of philosophy from which the revolution ' 
 originated. Liberty and fraternity had been with him 
 principles, to have realised which he would willingly have; 
 sacrificed his all ; but at the commencement of the revolution 
 he had seen with horror the successive encroachments of the 
 lower classes, and from conscience had attached himself to the 
 Crown. Hitherto he had been without opportunity of showing 
 the courage for which he was afterwards so conspicuous ; he 
 did not even himself know that he was a brave man ; before, 
 however, his career was ended, he had displayed the chivalry of 
 a Bayard, and performed the feats of a Duguesclin. A perfect 
 man, we are told, would be a monster ; and a certain dry 
 obstinacy of manner, rather than of purpose, preserved Dc 
 Lescure from the monstrosity of perfection. Circumstances 
 decreed that the latter years of his life should be spent among 
 scenes of bloodshed ; that he should be concerned in all the 
 horrors of civil war; that instruments of death should be 
 familiar to his hands, and the groans of the dying continually 
 in his ears. But though the horrors of war were awfully familiar 
 to him, the harshness of war never became so ; he spilt no blood 
 that he could spare, he took no life that he could save. The 
 cruelty of his enemies was unable to stifle the humanity of his 
 heart ; even a soldier and a servant of the Republic became his 
 friend as soon as he was vanquished. 
 
 Two young friends had followed M. de Lescure to Paris — 
 Henri de Larochejaquelin and Adolphe Denot. The fonner 
 I — a 
 
4 UVtndH. 
 
 Wfts the son of the Marquis de Larochejaquelfn, and the heir of 
 an extensive property in Poitou \ M. do Lcscure and he were 
 cousins, and tne strictest friendship had long existed between 
 the families. Young Larochejaquelin was of a temperament 
 very different from that of his friend : he was eager, impetuous, 
 warm-tempered, and fond of society ; but he had formed his 
 principles on those of M. de Lescure. The love of his fellow- 
 creatures was not with him the leading passion of his heart, as 
 it was with the other ; but humanity h.id early been instilled 
 into him as the virtue most necessary to cultivate, and he con- 
 secjuently fully appreciated and endeavoured to. Imitate the 
 philanlhrophy of his friend. 
 
 At the time alluded to, Henri de Larochejaquelin was not 
 quite twenty years of age, He was a lieutenant in the body- 
 guard immediately attached to the King's person, and called the 
 " Garde du Roi." At any other period, lie would hardly yet 
 have finished his cducfUion, but the revolution ^javc a precocious 
 manhood to the risini^ generation. lIenrl*H lather, moreover, 
 was very old \ he had not married till late In life } and the younij 
 Maitpilrt, wiuMi ho wa«t only buvenlccn, had to take on hiinHcIl' 
 the guardianship of his sister Agatha, and the management of 
 the patern.ll property. The old man was unable to leave his 
 chair, and though he still retained his senses, was well pleased 
 to give up to the son of his old .tge the rights and privileges 
 which in the course of nature would descend to him. 
 
 Without being absolute handsome, young Larochejaquelin 
 was of a very prepossessing appearance. He was tall and 
 robust, well made, and active. Though he had not attained 
 that breadth of shoulder and expansion of chest which a few 
 years would probably have given him, he had the perfect use of 
 his limbs, and was full of health and youthful energy ; his eyes 
 were bright, and of a clear bhie colour ; his hair was light, and 
 his upper lip could already boast that ornament which the then 
 age and his own position made allow.iblc. He was a favourite 
 with all who knew him — more so even than his friend Dc 
 Lcscure ; and it is saying much in his favour to declare that 
 A year's residence amongst all that was beautiful and charming 
 in Paris, had hitherto done but liule to spoil him. 
 
 Adolphe Denot was an orphan, but also possessed of a fair 
 property in the province of Poitou. He had, when very young, 
 been leUto the guardianship of the Marquis de Larochejaquelin, 
 and had at intervals, during' his holidayti, and after he had left 
 •chool, spent much of his time at Durbetli^re, the family 
 residence of the LarochejiuiueiinH. Henri had of course 
 contracted a close friendship with him ; but this arose more 
 from the position in which they were placed together, than a 
 similarity of disposition. They were, indeed, very unlike; 
 
The PoiUvins* 5 
 
 Adolphc was somewhat older than the other, but he had 
 neither his manliness of manner' nor strength of character ; 
 he was more ambitious to be popular, without the same 
 capacity of making himself so : he had as much romantic love 
 of poetical generosity, without the same forgetfulness of self to 
 enable him to emulate in practice the characters, .which he. 
 admired in description ; he had much veneration for poetic 
 virtue, though but little strength to accomplish practical excel- 
 lence. He had, on leaving school, proclaimed himself to be an 
 ardent admirer of Rousseau ; lie had been a warm partisan of 
 the revolution, and had displayed a most devoted enthusiasm to 
 his country at the f6te of the Champ de Mars. Latterly, how- 
 ever, the circles which he mostly frequented in Paris had voted 
 strong revolutionary ardour to be mauvais ton; a kind of 
 modulated royalism, or rather Louis Seizeism, had become 
 fashionable ; and Adolphe Denot was not the man to remain 
 wilfully out of the fashion. On the loth of August, he was a 
 staunch supporter of the monarchy. 
 
 Adolphe Denot was a much handsomer man than his friend ; 
 his features were better formed, and more regular ; ho had; 
 beautifully white teeth, an almost feminine mouth, a straight 
 Grecian nose, and delicately small hands and feet ; but he was 
 vain of his person, and ostentatious ; fond of dress and of 
 jewellery. He was, moreover, suspicious of neglect, and vindic- 
 tive when neglected ; querulous of others, and intolerant of 
 reproof himself; exigeant among men, and more than politely 
 flattering among women. He was not, however, without talent, 
 and a kind of poetic fecundity of language, which occasionally 
 made him brilliant in society ; it was, however, generally speak- 
 ing, those who knew him least who liked him best. 
 
 Larochejaquelin, however, was always true to him ; he knew 
 that he was an orphan, without brother, sister, or relatives, and 
 with the devotion of a real friend, he overlooked all his faults, 
 and greatly magnified his talents. Yox Henri's sake, M. dc 
 Lcscure tolerated him, and the three were therefore much 
 together ; they came from the same country ; they belonged 
 to the same club ; they had the same political sympathies ; and 
 were looked upon as dear and stedfast friends. 
 
 On the loth cf August, thef King left the Tuilleries, and took 
 refuge in the National Assembly ; during the greater part of the 
 night he remained there with his family. Early on the following 
 morning, he was removed, under a guard, to the Feuillants.; 
 and on the 12th it was decided that he should be confined in 
 the prison of the Temple. 
 
 It was on the morning of the 12th, that the last meeting of 
 the little club of the Poitevins took place. 
 
 They met with throbbing hearts and blank faces ; they all 
 
6 La Venddi. 
 
 felt that evil days had come ; that the Revolution which had 
 been so petted and caressed by the best and fairest in France, 
 had become a beast of prey, and that war, anarchy, and misrule 
 were at hand. 
 
 Thev sat waiting on the morning of the 12th, till they should 
 learn tne decision of the Assembly with regard to the King. 
 De Lescurc was there calm and grave, but with much melancholy 
 in his countenance. 
 
 Larochejaquelin was there. Hot and eager, whispering plans 
 for rescuing the King, to which the less resolute hardly dared to 
 listen. Charette, the Prince de Talmont, D'Autachamp?, 
 Fleuriot, and others, all of whom now detested the Revolution, 
 though they could not but feel the danger of proclaiming them- 
 selves royalists. 
 
 " Denot will be here directly,** said Larochejac^uelin ; he is 
 nt the Assembly — they are not apt to be very tedious in their 
 decisions." 
 
 " Danton has openly declared," said Fleuriot, " that the armed 
 sections shill remain in revolt, unless the Assembly decree the 
 abolition of the Monarchy.'* 
 
 " Lafayette," said the Prince, " is the only man now who could 
 s.ive the country— if Lafayette will move, he might still save the 
 throne." 
 
 " He could do nothing," said D'Autachamps, "but add himself 
 to the ruins — the regiments, to a man, would side with the 
 populace.'* 
 
 " I don't know,*' said Larochejaquelin, '* I don't think so. 
 See how our Swiss fought — could any men be more true to their 
 officers or their colours ? and do you think there are not 
 thousands in the French army as true, as brave as they ? H 
 Lafayette would raise his hand, I for one would join him." 
 
 '* Wait, Henri, wait," said De Lescure, " wait till you know 
 whether Lafayette and the army will really be wanting to save 
 the King. If Roland be still firm, and Vergniaud true to his 
 principles, they may still quell the fury of the Jacobins — the 
 moderate party has still a large majority in the Assembly." 
 
 " Roland and Ver;5niaud are both true," said Fleuriot, " but 
 you will find, De Lescure, that they can do nothing but yield or 
 go — they must vanish out of the Assembly and become nothing 
 —or else they must go with the people." 
 
 "The people! How I hate that phrase. :n the sense in 
 which it is now used," said Larochejaquelin. " A mob of 
 blood-thirsty ruffians wishes to overturn the throne — but what 
 evidence have we that the people wish it." 
 
 *' The people, Henri, have been taught to wish it," said De 
 T-escurc. 
 
 " No, Charles, the people of France have not been taught 
 
TVftT Poitcvins, 7 
 
 to wish it — with all the teaching -they have had, they do not 
 wish it ; — have they shown any favour to the new priests 
 whom the Revolution has sent to them ; do they love much 
 the Commissioners, who from time to time come among 
 them with the orders of the Assembly. Do the people in the 
 ]5ocage wish it ?— do they wish it in the Marais, Charette ? — 
 do they wish it in Anjou and lirittany ? Danton, Robespierre 
 and Tallien wish ii — the mob of Paris wishes it — but the 
 people of France do not wish to depose their King." 
 
 •* But unfortunately," said D'Autachamps, " it is Danton, 
 Robespierre, and the mob of Paris who have now the supreme 
 power, and for a time will have their way — they who are wise 
 will lie by till the storm has blown over." 
 
 " And are we to remain quiet while we are robbed of every 
 thing which we esteem as holy?" said Larochejaquelin ; "are 
 we all to acquiesce in the brutality of such men as Danton, for 
 fear the mob of Paris should be too strong for us ! " 
 " I for one, will not ! " said Charette. 
 
 " Nor I," said Larochejaquelin — not while I have a sword 
 to draw, and an arm to use it. You are silent, Charles— is a 
 Republic so much to your mind, that you have not a word, or 
 even a wish for your King ? " 
 
 " You are too talkative, Henri," replied the other ; " will it 
 not be well to think a little first before we proclaim definitel) 
 what we mean to do ? We do not even know as yet in what 
 position Louis XVI may find himself to-morrow — he may be 
 more firmly seated on his throne than he has been at any time 
 since the Three Estates first met at Versailles." 
 
 As he ceased speaking, the door opened, and Adolphe Denot 
 entered, hot with walking fast, and with his whole dress dis- 
 ordered by pushing through the dense masses of the crowd. 
 
 " Speak, Adolphe," said Henri, " have they decreed — has it 
 come to the vote ? " 
 
 "Are they still sitting ?" said Fleuriot ; '* Danton, I am sure 
 would not have yielded so soon as this : — if the chamber be 
 closed, he must have been victorious." 
 
 "The King," said Denot, pausing for breath, "the King is to 
 be taken to the Temple ! " 
 
 . There was a momentary silence among them all — their worst 
 fears had been realised— the brute force of Paris had been 
 triumphant. The firmness of Roland, the eloquence of 
 Vergniaud, the patriotism of Guadet had been of no avail. 
 The King of France— the heir of so long a line of royalty 
 — the King, who had discarded the vices of his predecessors, 
 and proved himself the friend of the people, was to be in- 
 carcerated in the worst prison in Paris by the vote of that 
 very Assembly which he had himself called into existence. 
 
8 La Vendie, 
 
 **He is to be confined in the Templf," continued Denot, 
 "with the Queen and the two children. The jwpulace are 
 mad ; they would kill him, if they could lay their hands on 
 him." 
 
 " Where are your hopes now, Charles ? " said Larochcjacjuclin. 
 "Is it yet time for us to proclaim what we arc — is it yet 
 time for us to move? or are we to set still, until Danton enrols 
 us in his list of suspected persons ? " 
 
 No one immediately answered the appeal of the hot young 
 loyalist, and after a moment or two De Lescure spoke. 
 
 " Adolphe, did you hear the words of the decree ? " 
 
 " Again and again," said Denot. " I was at the door of 
 the Assembly, and the decree was known to the crowd the 
 moment the votes had been taken." 
 
 " But did you hear the exact words ? " 
 
 "That Louis and his family should be imprisoned in the 
 Temple," answered Denot. 
 
 " Did they say the King, or did they call him by his name ?** 
 asked De Lescure again. " Did they decree that the King 
 should be imprisoned, or Louis Capet .'*" 
 
 As he spoke, the door again opened, and another member, 
 who had been among the crowd, entered the room. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said he, " allow me the honour to congratulate 
 you. You do not know your own happiness. Vou are no 
 .'ongcr the burdened slaves of an effete monarchy ; you are now 
 the vigorous children of a young republic." 
 
 " Vive le Roi^ quand mime^' said Larochejaquelin, standing 
 up in the middle of the room, " I am glad they have so plainly 
 declared themselves ; we arc driven now to do the same. 
 Prince, now is the time to stand by our King. Charette, your 
 hand ; our dreams must now be accomplished. You will doubt 
 no longer, Charles. Prudence herself would now feel that we 
 have no longer aught to wait for." 
 
 "No — we must delay no longer," said Adolphe Denot. "A 
 King is to be saved ; every hour of delay is an hour of treason, 
 while the King is in the hands of his enemies." 
 
 "A fine sentiment, Denot," said D'Autachamps ; "but how 
 will you avoid the treason ?— how do you purpose to rescue his 
 majesty ? " 
 
 " With my sword," said Adolphe, turning round shortly. " Do 
 you doubt my will ? " 
 
 " We only doubt your power, Adolphe," s.iid De Lescure. 
 " We only fear you may not be able to raise the standard of 
 revolt against the armed sections of all Paris, backed by a 
 dct ree of the Assembly." 
 
 " 1 can at any rate die in the attempt," replied Denot " I 
 cannot diaw the breath of life from the atmosphere of a republic* 
 
The roiievins. 9 
 
 I will not live by the permissiqn of Messieurs Dantoii and 
 Robespierre." 
 
 " Whatever wc do," said Fleuriot, " the club must be given 
 up. We are known to be friendly to the King, and we are too 
 weak to stand our ground ; indeed, we should only incur useless 
 danger by meeting here." 
 
 " And waste the time which we may well employ in the 
 provinces," said Charette. 
 
 " You are right, Charette," said Larochejaquclin, whom the 
 wildness of his friend Denot had a little sobered. " You arc 
 quite right — Paris is no longer a place for us. I will go back 
 to the Bocage ; there, at least, I may own among my neighbours 
 that I am not a republican : there, perhaps, I may make some 
 effort for my king— here I can make none. You will not stay 
 in Paris, Charles, to hear unwashed revolutionists clatter ot 
 Louis Capet ? " 
 
 " No, Henri, I also will return home. Charette is right. We 
 should but waste our time in Paris, and be in danger. Wc 
 shall probably be in safety in Poitou." 
 
 "Perhaps not in safety," said Henri. "We may, I trust, 
 soon be in action." 
 
 "How in action?" said Fleuriot. "What do you intend 
 to do?" 
 
 " To follow any one who will lead me to assist in restoring 
 the king to his throne," replied Henri. "Let us, at any rate, 
 retire to our provinces ; and be assured that the National 
 Assembly will soon hear of us." 
 
 The club was broken up ; the young friends met no more in 
 the Rue Viyienne. Within a week from the loth of August, 
 the denizens of the municipality had searched the rooms for any 
 relics which might be discovered there indicatory of a feeling 
 inimical to the Republic ; their residences also were searched, 
 and there were orders at the barriers that they should not pass 
 out ; but the future Vcndean leaders had too quickly appreciated 
 \\\Q signs of the time ; they had gone before the revolutionary 
 tribunal had had time to form itself. They were gone, and their 
 names for a season were forgotten in Paris ; but Henri Laroche- 
 jaquclin was right — before long, the National Assembly did 
 hear of them ; before twelve months had passed, they were 
 more feared by the Republic than the allied forces of England, 
 Austria, and Prussiiu 
 

 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ST. FLORENT. 
 
 55JO THING occurred in the provinces, subsequently 
 called La Vendde, during the autumn or winter of 
 1 792 of sufficient notice to claim a place in history, 
 but during that time the feelings which afterwards 
 occasioned the revolt in that country, were every day becoming 
 more ardent. The people obstinately refused to attend the 
 churches to which the constitutional clergy had been appointed ; 
 indeed, these pastors had found it all but impossible to live in 
 the parishes assigned to them; no one would take them as 
 tenants ; no servants would live with them ; the bakers and 
 grocers would not deal with them j the tailors would not make 
 their clothes for them, nor the shoemakers shoes. During the 
 week they were debarred from all worldly commerce, and on 
 Sundays they perfomied their religious ceremonies between 
 empty walls. 
 
 The banished priests on the other hand, who were strictly 
 forbidden to perform any of the sacerdotal duties, continued 
 among th(? trees and rocks to collect their own congregations 
 undiminished in number, and much more than ordinarily zealous 
 in their religious duties ; and with the licence which such sylvan 
 chapels were found to foster, denunciations against the 
 Republic, and prayers for the speedy restoration of the 
 Monarchy, were mingled with the sacred observances. 
 
 The execution of Louis, in January, 1 793, greatly increased 
 the attachment which is now felt in this locality to his family. 
 In Nantes and Angers, in Saumur, Thouars, and other towns 
 in which the presence of republican forces commanded the 
 adhesion of the inhabitants, this event was commemorated by 
 illuminations, but this very show of joy at so cruel a murder, 
 more than the murder itself, acerbated the feelings both of the 
 
. S/. F lore III. 11 
 
 gentry and the peasants. They were given to underiland that 
 those who wished well to their cpuntry were now expected to 
 show some sign of gratitude for what the blessed revolution had 
 done for them, — that those who desired to stand well with the 
 Republic should rejoice openly at their deliverance from 
 thraldom. In fact, those who lived in large towns, and who 
 would not illuminate, were to be marked men,— marked as 
 secret friends to the monarchy, — as inveterate foes to the 
 Republic, — and they were told that they were to be treated 
 accordingly. Men then began to congregate in numbers round 
 the churches, and in the village squares, and to ask each other 
 whether they had better not act as enemies, if they were to be 
 considered as enemies ; to complain of their increasing poverty 
 and diminished comfort ; and to long for the coming time, when 
 the King should enjoy his own again. 
 
 The feeling with the country gentry was very generally tlie 
 same as with the peasantry, though hitherto they had openly 
 expressed no opposition to the ruling Government. They had, 
 however, been always elected to those situations which the 
 leaders of the revolution had wished the people to fill exclusively 
 with persons of their own ranks. They were chosen as mayors 
 in the small towns, and were always requested to act as officers 
 in the corps of the National Guards, which were formed in this, 
 as in every other district of France. On this account the 
 peculiar ill-will of the Republican Government was directed 
 against them. In France, at that time, political inactivity was 
 an impossibility. Revolt against the Republic, or active par* 
 ticipation in its measures, was the only choice left to those who 
 did not choose- to fly their country, and many of the seigneurs of 
 Anjou and Poitou would not adopt the latter alternative. 
 
 In March,- the Commissaries of the Republic entered these 
 provinces to collect from that district, its portion towards the 
 levy of three hundred thousand men which had been ordered by 
 the Convention. This was an intolerable grievance,— it was not 
 to be borne, that so many of their youths should be forcibly 
 dragged away to fight the battles of the Republic, — battles in 
 which they would rather that the Republic should be worsted. 
 Besides, every one would lose a relative, a friend, or a lover ; 
 the decree affected every individual in the district. The 
 peasants declared that they would not obey the orders of the 
 Convention — that they would not fight the battles of the 
 Republic. 
 
 This was the commencement of the revolt. The troops of the 
 Republic were, of course put in motion to assist the officers 
 who were entrusted with the carrying out of the conscription 
 There were garrisons in Nantes, in Anjou, and in Saumur ; and 
 detachments from these places were sent into the smaller towni 
 
ti La Vendie, 
 
 and villages, into every mayoralty, to enforce the collecti«|>^ cf 
 the levy, and to take ofif with them the victims of the conscrip- 
 tion. Among other places, an attempt was made to carry out 
 the new law at St. Florent, and at this place was made the first 
 successful resistance, by an armed force, to the troops of the 
 Convention. 
 
 St. Florent is u small town on the south bank of the Loire, 
 in the province of Aniou, and at the northern extremity of that 
 district, now so well known by the name of La Vendue. It 
 43oasted of a weekly market, a few granaries for the storing of com, 
 and four yearly fairs for the sale of cattle. Its population and 
 trade, at the commencement of the war, was hardly sufficient to 
 entitle it to the name of a town ; but it had early acquired some 
 celebrity as a place in which the Republic was known to be very 
 unpopular, and in which the attachment of the people to the 
 throne was peculiarly warm. 
 
 Here the work of the conscription was commenced in silence. 
 The lists were filled, and the names were drawn. No opposition 
 was shown to the employes in this portion of their unpopular 
 work. Indeed, it appears that no organised system of 
 opposition had been planned ; but the first attempt that was 
 made to collect the unlortunate recruits upon whom the lots had 
 fallen, was a signal for a general revolt. The first name on the 
 list was that of Peter Berrier ; and had Peter Bcrricr intended 
 to prove himself a good citizen and a willing soldier, he should, 
 without further call, have attended that day at the temporary 
 barracks which had been established in St. Florent. But he 
 had not done so, and there was nothing wonderful or unusual 
 in this; for on all occasions of the kind many of the con- 
 scripts had to be sought out and brought forth from the bosoms 
 of their families, to which they retired, with a bashful diffidence 
 as to their own peculiar fitness for martial glory. But in this 
 instance not one of the chosen warriors obeyed the summons of 
 the Convention, by attending at the barracks of St. Florent. 
 Not one of the three hundred thousand men was there ; and it 
 Was soon appaix.t to the colonel in command of the detach- 
 ment that he had before him the unpleasant duty of collecting' 
 one by one, from their different hiding-places, the whole con- 
 tingent which the town of St. Florent was bound to supply. 
 
 , Peter Berrier was the first on the list, and as it was well known 
 tliat he was an ostler at a little auberge in the middle of the 
 square, a corporal and a couple of soldiers was despatched to 
 the house of entertainment to capture him ; and the trio soon 
 found that they would not have far to search, for Peter was 
 standing at the gate of the inn yard, and with him three 
 or four of his acquaintance^men equally well-known in Sl 
 Florent. 
 
S/, Florcni, 1 3 
 
 ihcrc WAS a sturdy farmer thcce of the belter sort — a mau 
 who not only held a farm near the town, but liad a small shop 
 within it, for the sale of seeds and tools for plantinj^ — his 
 name was Foret— and it was said that no man in St. Florcnt 
 was more anxious for the restoration of the King. There was 
 the keeper of the auberge himself, who seemed but little inclined 
 to find fault with his servant, for the contumacious manner in 
 which he treated the commands of the Convention ; and thv o 
 was the well-known postillion of St. Florcnt, the crack of whose 
 whip was so welcome from Angers to Nantes, the sound of 
 whose cheery voice was so warmly greeted at every hostclric 
 between those towns. The name of Cathcllncau was not then 
 so well known as it was some six months afterwards, but even 
 then Cathelincau, the postillion, was the most popular man in 
 St. Florcnt. He was the merriest among the mirthful, the 
 fiicnd of every child, the playmate of every Inss in the town ; 
 but he was the comforter of those poorer than himself, and the 
 solace of the aged and afllictcd. lie was the fiicnd of the 
 banished priest, and the trusted messenger of the royalist 
 seigneur ; all classes adored him, save those who sided with the 
 Republic, and by them he had long been looked on as an open 
 and dCTclared enemy. St. Florcnt was justly proud of its 
 postillion ; and now that evil days were come upon the little 
 town, that their, priests were banished, and these young men 
 called for to swell the armies of the hated Convention, many 
 flocked to Cathelincau to nsk from whence he expected deliver- 
 ance from all their troubles. 
 
 It was well known that Peter I3erricr was the first whom the 
 Colonel's myrmidons would be sent to sei/.c, and many eyes were 
 resting on the group collected at the gateway of the aubcrgc, as 
 the corporal and the two soldiers, without their muskets, but 
 with pistols at their belts, marched across from the little barracks 
 to the spot where they were standing. At any rate, Cathe- 
 lincau had not advised a retreat, for there stood Peter Berrier — 
 prominent in front of the group— a little pale to be sure, and 
 perhaps rather uneasy in his attitude ; but still evidently pre- 
 pared to bear the brunt of that day's proceeding. He was not 
 going to run away, or he would long since have started. He 
 was not going to obey the orders of the Convention, or he would 
 not have stood there so openly and firmly, waiting the approach 
 of the corporal and the two soldiers. It was very evident that was 
 to be a row in St. Florent that day, and that the postilUoa 
 approved of it. 
 
 As the military party drew near to the gate of the inn yard, 
 the corporal opened a small roll of paper, which he held in his 
 hand, and standing still about six paces distant from the spot 
 where Peter was maintaining his ground, read or prcten'^^d to 
 
14 La Vindit^ 
 
 read, the following words from the piece of paper which he held 
 
 in his hands : 
 
 " In the name of the French Republic^ and by command of 
 the Convention, you, Peter Berrier, havmg been duly, legally, 
 and specially drawn, chosen, and selected by lot, to f,erve in the 
 armies of the Republic for one year, from the date of your first 
 bearing arms, or for so long as your services may be necessary 
 to the security of the Republic, arc hereby required and desired 
 lojoiu the detachment of the republican army at present serv- 
 luK iu St. Florcnt, without lit, delay, or hindrance, and thereby 
 show your.>>clf a friend to your country, and a good citizen of the 
 Republic." 
 
 The corporal pronounced this form of Invit.ition in that tone 
 of voice, wliich proved that it was very familiar to him, and that 
 he was much in the habit of requesting good citizens to join the 
 armies of ihe Republic for such time as their services might be 
 necessary } and, having finished it, he rolled up the piece of 
 paper, stuck it into his belt, as he might soon require the use of 
 nis h.'inds, and, walking quite close up to the group, s.iid— 
 
 " Coinc, Peter IJerrier, you are not such a fool, I hope, as to 
 intend giving us any trouble. Come along." 
 
 Peter looked first into the farmer's face ; then to his master's ; 
 and, lastly, to the postillion's ; and, seeing that they were all evi- 
 dently firm in their resolve, he plucked up spirit and replied — 
 
 "Why, Mr. Corporal, I have no inclination just at present to 
 go to fight for the Republic. You see I have no auarrcl yet with 
 my master here, M. Dcbedin, and he cannot well spare me. 1 
 am afraid, Mr, Corporal, I must decline." 
 
 ** Thai's nonsense, you know," growled the corporal ; " you 
 must come, you know ; and as well first as last. I doVt want 
 to be uncivil to a comrade, and Pd be sorry to have to lay a 
 hand on you." 
 
 " Then you'd belter keep your hands off," said Cathelincau, 
 *' we quiet people in St. Florent don't bear handling well." 
 
 The cor^)oral looked up at the postillion, but he soon saw that 
 he wasn't joking. 
 
 "Take luy word for it, my friend," continued Cathclineau, 
 " Peter bcrncr does not wish to be a soldier, and, if you force 
 him to become one, it is not on the side of the Republic that he 
 will be found fighting." 
 
 " We'll take chances for that,'* replied the corporal, not exactly 
 understanding what *\^ other meant ; " at any rate, back with- 
 out him we won't go ; and if you're determined for a riot, 
 Messieurs, why I'm sorry ; but I can't help it," and^ appealing to 
 Peter as a last hope, he said, " Come, lierrler, will you come 
 with us quietly, or must we three drag you across the square to 
 the barracks." 
 
SL FlorenU 1 5 
 
 " At any late Mr. Corporal," said Feter, " I will not go with 
 you quietly ; as to the being dragged, I can say nothing about 
 that yet" 
 
 The corporal looked round towards the barracks, as he felt 
 that it was possible that he might want more assistance, and he 
 saw that a body of men under arms was standing immediately 
 in front of the building, and that a couple of the officers were with 
 them. The corporal saw at a glance that they were ready for 
 immediate action, if their services should be requisite. In fact, 
 the colonel of the detachment well knew the feeling in the place 
 with reference to the levies of the conscription. He was sure, 
 from the fact of not a single man having attended at the banacksj 
 as directed, that there existed some general determination to 
 resist the demands of the Convention, and he had consequently 
 closely watched the proceedings of the corporal. 
 
 "Take your answer, Mr. Corporal," said Cathelineau : "had 
 Peter lierrier intended to have joined you, he would not have 
 troubled you to come across the square to fetch him. In one 
 word, he will not go with you ; if, as you say, you intend to 
 drag him across the market-place, you will find that you have 
 enough to do. Peter Berrier has many friends in St. Floient." 
 
 The corporal again looked round, and he saw that the men 
 under arms now stretched from the front of the barracks, nearly 
 into the square ; but he also saw that the inhabitants of the town 
 were standing clustering at all the doors, and that men were crowd- 
 ing towards thj square from the ditTerent inlets. Four or five 
 of the more respectable inhabitants had also joined the group in 
 the gateway, from thC^ands of one of whom the postillion 
 quietly took a stout ask/ stick. The corporal, however, was not 
 a coward, and he sawSftat, if he intended to return with Peter 
 Berrier, he should not delay his work with any further parley, so 
 he took his pistol from his belt and cocked it, and, stepping quite 
 close to Berrier, said, 
 
 " Come men — forward, and bring him off ; one man to each 
 shoulder," and he himself seized Iijld of the breast of Peter's coat 
 with his left hand and pulled him forward a step or two. 
 
 Peter was a little afraid of the pistol, but still he resisted 
 manfully : from the corporal's position, Cathelineau was unable 
 to reach with his stick the arm which had laid hold of Berrier, 
 but it descended heavily on the first soldier who came to the 
 corporal's assistance. The blow fell directly across the man's 
 wrist, and his arm dropped powerless to his side. The corporal 
 immediately released his hold of Peter's coat, and turning on 
 Cathciineau laised his pistol and fired ; the shot missed the pos- 
 tillion, but it struck M. Debedin, the keeper of the aubcrge, and 
 wounded him severely in the jaw. He was taken at once into 
 the house, and the report was instantaneously spread through 
 
1 6 tn VencUt, 
 
 U\c town that M. Dcbcdin had been shot dead by the 
 loldicry. 
 
 The ash slicU of the postillion was again raised, and this time 
 the corporal's head was the sufferer : ihc man's shako protected 
 his skull, which, if uncovered, would have probably been 
 fractured ; but he was half-stunned, at any rate stupefied by the 
 blow, and was pulled about and pushed from one to another by 
 the crowd who had now collected in the archway, without 
 making any further attempt to carry off his prisoner. 
 
 The other soldier, when he saw his two comrades struck, fired 
 his pistol also, and wounded some other person in the crowd. 
 He then attempted to make his escape back towards the 
 barracks, but he was tripped up violently as he attempted to run, 
 and fell on his face on the pavement. The unfortunate trio were 
 finally made prisoners of; they were disarmed, their hands 
 bound together, and then left under a strong guard in the cow- 
 house attached to the aubergc. 
 
 This skinuisn, lii which 15crricr was so successfully rescued, 
 occurred with greater rapidity than it has been recounted ; for, 
 as soo)i as the colonel heard the first shot fired, he ordered his 
 men to advance in a trot across the square. It took some litile 
 time for him to give his orders to the lieutenants, and for the 
 lieutenants to put the men into motion ; but within five minutes 
 from the time that the first shot was fired, abojit forty men had 
 been commanded to halt in front of the hotel ; they all had 
 their muskets in their hands and their bayonets fixed, and as 
 soon as they halted, a portion of them were wheeled round, so 
 that the whole body formed a square. By this time, however, 
 the corporal and two soldiers were out of sight, and so was also 
 Peter lierrier, for Cathelineau considered that now as the man 
 had withstood the first shock, and had resolutely and manfully 
 refused to comply with the order of the Convention, it was better 
 that he should be out of the way, and that the brunt of the battle 
 should be borne by his friends. Peter was consequently placed 
 in the cow-house with the captives, and had the gratification of 
 acting as- guard over the three first prisoners taken in the 
 Vendean war. 
 
 Cathelineau and Foret, however, stood out prominently 
 before the men who were collected before the auberge, and 
 had already taken on themselves the dangerous honour of lead- 
 ing the revolt. 
 
 " Men of St. Florcnt," said the colonel, addressing the crowd, 
 ** I am most reluctant to order the soldiers to fire upon the in- 
 habitants of the town ; but unless you at once restore the three 
 men who were sent over here on duty, and give up the man, 
 Peter Berrier, who has been drawn as a conscript, 1 will do 
 8o at once." 
 
Sf. Fhreut. 17 
 
 " Peter Berricr is a iVcc man," said Forct, " and declines fjoing 
 with you ; and as for your three soldiers, they have fucd ra and 
 killed or wounded two inhabitants of the town, — they at any 
 rate shall be brought before the mayor, before they arc 
 given up." 
 
 " Sergeant," said the colonel, " take out six men and make 
 prisoner that man ; if a rescue be attempted, the soldiers shall at 
 once fire on the people, and on your own heads be your own 
 blood." 
 
 The sergeant and the six men instantly stepped out, but Forct 
 was surrounded by a dense crowd of friends, and the soldiers 
 found it utterly impossible to lay hold of him. 
 
 "Your pistols, sergeant ; use your pistols," roared the 
 colonel, as he himself drew one of his own from his holsters, 
 and at the same time ga\c orders to the men in the ranks to 
 present their pieces. 
 
 The sergeant, followed by his six men, made a desperate dash 
 hito the crowd with the object of getting hold of Foret ; but in 
 spite of the butt-end of their pistols, with which the soldiers laid 
 about ihem, they found themselves overpowered, and were 
 barely able to make good their retreat to the main body of the 
 detachment ; at the same time, a volley of stones, brickbats, and 
 rough missiles of all kinds, descended on the soldiers from every 
 side, for they were now nearly surrounded ; a stone struck the 
 colonel's horse and made him rear ; immediately afterwards, 
 another stone struck himself on the side of the face, and nearly 
 dismounted him. 
 
 **Fire," roared the colonel, and the whole detachment fired at 
 the same moment : the soldiers fronting the auberge could not 
 fire into the mob directly before them, or they would have run 
 the risk of killing their own comrades, who were still struggling 
 there with the townspeople ; and in this way, Cathelineau and 
 Foret were saved, but the carnage all round them was horrid ; 
 the soldiers had fired point blank into the dense crowd, and not 
 a bullet had fallen idle to the ground. A terrible scream 
 followed the discharge of musketry ! the dying and the wounded 
 literally covered the space round the soldiers, but they were 
 quickly dragged into the back ground, and their places filled by 
 men who were evidently determined that they would not easily 
 be conquered. 
 
 Another volley of stones was soon showered on the soldiers, 
 and this was kept up with wonderful activity — the women and 
 children supplied the men with materials — the stones in the 
 streets were at once picked up — old walls were pulled down — 
 every article that would answer for a missile was bi'ought into 
 use ; an iron pot, which had been flung with immense violence 
 by the handle, struck the second officer in command iq the facC| 
 
1 8 l^ Vend/e. 
 
 and dashed his brains out. Immediately that either part of the 
 square battalion was in any confusion, the people dashed inj and 
 attempted to force the muskets from the hands of the soldiers ; 
 in some cases they were successful, and before the body had 
 commenced a retreat, Foret and Cathclineau were both armed 
 with a musket and bayonet. 
 
 The colonel now saw that he could not maintain his position 
 where he was ; he had not brought out with him the whole force 
 of the garrison, though in all he had not above seventy or eighty 
 men ; but he had behind the barrack a gun of very large 
 calibre, properly mounted, with all the necessary equipments 
 and ready for service. Such a piece of artillery accompanied 
 every detachment, and was kept in preparation for Immediate 
 use at every military station ; it had already been ascertained 
 that this afforded the readiest means of putting down the revolt. 
 He resolved, therefore, on retreating while he had the power for 
 doing so, and gave the necessary orders to the men. 
 
 With great difficulty, but slowly and steadily, his men executed 
 them. Amidst showers of stones, and the now determined attack 
 of the people, the soldiers returned to the barracks, leaving one 
 of their officers, and one other man dead in the crowd ; many of 
 them were severely wounded ; few, if any, had escaped some bruise 
 or cut. The people now conceived that they were going to take 
 refuge in the barrack, and determined to drive them utterly out 
 of the town ; but] as soon as the soldiers had filed into the 
 barrack yard, another murderous fire was discharged by those 
 who had been left at the station. Then Cathclineau, who was 
 Still in front of the crowd, and who was now afmed with the 
 bayonet, which he had taken from the point of the musket, re- 
 membered the cannon, and he became for a moment pale as he 
 thought of the dreadful slaughter which would take place, if the 
 colonel were able to effect his purpose of playing it upon the 
 town. 
 
 " The cannon ! *' whispered he to Foret, who was still at 
 his side^ "they will fall like leaves in autumn, if we don't 
 prevent it." 
 
 " Have they it ready ? '* said Foret. 
 
 "Always," said the other, "they have nothing to do but 
 wheel it into the street ; and they are at it, — you hear the noise 
 of the wheels this moment. We must bear one discharge from 
 it, and the next, if there be a second, shall fall upon the 
 soldiers." 
 
 Others, besides Cathclineau, recognised the sound of the 
 moving wheels— and, " the cannon, the cannon, they will fire 
 the cannon on us," was heard from side to side among the crowd : 
 but none attempted to run, not one of the whole mass attempted 
 to fly, and when the barrack gates flew open and the deadly 
 
S/. Flo rent, ig 
 
 mouth of the huge instrument was close upon them, they 
 rushed upon it, determined at any rate, to preserve their 
 houses, their wives, and their children from the awful destruction 
 of a prolonged firing, 
 
 " They must have one shot at us," said a man in a trembling 
 whisper to his neighbour. " God send it were over ! " replied 
 the other, as the gates of the barrack yard were thrown back. 
 
 The greater nuniber of the soldiers and the two officers who 
 had returned with them, made good their retreat into the 
 barracks, under the fire of their comrades, who had been left 
 there. Some three or four had been pulled and hustled into the 
 crowd, and their arms were quickly taken from them and they 
 were sent back to the auberge as prisoners. The colonel, as soon 
 as he found himself in his own quarters, gave immediate orders 
 that the gun should be wheeled round to the barrack-yard gate, 
 which had hitherto been kept closed, and that the moment the 
 gates could be got open it should be fired on the crowd. These 
 gates faced directly mto the square, and the destruction caused 
 by one shot would have been tremendous. The colonel, more- 
 over, calculated that in the confusion he would have been able 
 to reload. The gun, in its original position, was pointed on the 
 town, but it was, immediately seen that without moving it it 
 could not be brought to bear upon the crowd congregated round 
 the barracks. 
 
 The first attack of the crowd had been at the barrack door, 
 through which the soldiers had retreated ; but this was sooi? 
 changed to the yard gates. The people, however, were -unable 
 to knock them down before the wheels of the cannon were heard, 
 as they had been considerably checked by the fire of the reserved 
 party. Both soldiers and townspeople were now anxious to face 
 each other, and the gates soon fell inwards towards the military. 
 Had the men at the gun had their wits about them they would 
 have fired through the gates ; but they did not, they waited till 
 they fell inwards across the cannon's mouth, and in his confusion 
 the artillery-sergeant even then hesitated before he put the light 
 to the touch-hole. • 
 
 He had never time to do more than hesitate. Cathelineau 
 had been clbse up to the wooden gates, against which he was so 
 closely pressed that he was hardly able to change his bayonet 
 from his right to his left hand, and to cock the pistol which he 
 had taken from the corporal who had commenced the day's 
 work. However, he contrived to do so, and when the woodwork 
 fell, he sprang forward, and though he stumbled over the frag- 
 ments of the timber, he fired as he did so, and the artillerv- 
 sergeant fell dead beside the cannon ; the unextinguished light 
 was immediately seized by his comrade, but he had not time to 
 use it ; it was knocked from bis hand before it was well raised 
 
20 La yendie. 
 
 from the groimc!, and tlie liftrmless piece of cannon was soon 
 entirely surrounded by crowds of the townspeople. They wen? 
 not content with spiking it in such a way as to make it im- 
 possible that it should be discharged : but they succeeded in 
 turning it entirely round, so that the back of the carriage faced 
 towards tnc town. 
 
 The soldiers still continued the fight within the barrack-yard, 
 and from the barrack windows ; but they were so completely 
 mixed with the townspeople, that the officers were afraid to 
 order the men to fire from the windows, lest they should kill 
 their own comrades. At last the colonel himself was taken 
 prisoner ; he was literally dragged out of one of the windows 
 by the people, and soon afterwards the remainder of the troops 
 gave up. One of the three officers and six men were killed ; the 
 rest were nearly all more or less wounded, and were all, without 
 exception, made prisoners of war. 
 
 Cathellncau and Forct had been in front of the battle all 
 through ; but neither of them were wounded. It was to Forct 
 that the colcncl had given up his sword, after he had been 
 dragged headforemost through a window, had had his head cut 
 open with a brick-bat, and his sheath and sword-belt literally 
 torn from his side. He had certainly not capitulated before he 
 was obliged to do, and the people did not like him the worse 
 for it. 
 
 And now the unarmed soldiery, maimed and lame, with 
 broken heads and bloody faces, were led down in triumph into 
 the square, and after them was brought the great trophy of 
 the day, the cannon, with its awful mouth still turned away 
 from the town. Cathelineau and Foret led the procession, the 
 former siiil carrying his bayonet, for he had given up both the 
 musket and pistols to some one else, and Foret armed with the 
 Colonel's sword : they were fully recognised as the victorious 
 leaders of the day. 
 
 At the bottom of the square they met a whble concourse of 
 women, the wives and sisters of the champions — among whom 
 the sister, and sweetheart of Peter Kerrier were conspicuous ; 
 they had come out to thank the townspeople for what they had 
 done for them. With the women were two of the old curc^s of 
 tliat and a neighbouiing parish — pastors whom the decree of 
 the Convention had banished from their own churches, but 
 whom all the powers of the Convention Ivid been unable to 
 silence. To them this day's battle was a most acceptable sign 
 of better days coming ; they foresaw a succession of future 
 victories on behalf of the people, which would surely end in 
 the restoration of the Bourbons to the throne, and cf the clergy 
 to their churches. The curds shook hands warmly with those 
 in the front ranks of the people, gave their blessing to Cathc 
 
Sf. Florcnt. 31 
 
 lincau and Forct, .ind then invited |lie people, with one accord, 
 to give thanks to God for the great success which He had given 
 them. 
 
 In one moment the whole crowd were on their knees in the 
 market-place, while the two priests stood amonj; them with 
 their arms raised, uttering thanksgiving to the Lord for His 
 mercy, and praying for the eternal welfare of those who had 
 fallen in the affray. The soldiers of the Republic found them- 
 selves standing alone as prisoners in the midst of the kneeling 
 crowd ; they looked awkward and confused enough, but they 
 could not help themselves ; they could not have escaped, even 
 if tliey had been unanimous in attempting to do so ; for they 
 were unarmed, and the people knelt so closely round them, that 
 they could hardly move. It was out of the question that they 
 should also kneel, and join in the thanksgiving for having been 
 so utterly beaten ; so there they stood, their wounds stiffening 
 and their blood running, till the priests had finished, and the 
 people had risen. j 
 
 And then another ceremony was performed ; the priests were I 
 besought to come and bless the cannon, the first great trophy j 
 of the Royal insurrection ; and tliey did so. The cannon was / 
 a lucky cannon, a kind cannon, and a good cannon — a bon 
 enfanty and worthy to be blessed ; it had refused to pour foith 
 its murderous fire against the inhabitants of a town that was so 
 friendly to the King. It was decidedly a royalist cannon ; it 
 nad very plainly declared the side it meant to tal^-c ; nothing 
 but miraculous interference on its own part could have pre- 
 vented its having been discharged on the people, when it stood 
 ready pointed on the town, with the torch absolutely glimmer- f 
 ing at the touch-hole. It had been brought to St. Florent by | 
 republican soldiers, dragged by republican horses, and loaded 
 with republican gunpowder ; but it should never be used except ^ 
 in the service of the King, and against the enemies of the 
 . throne. 
 
 And so the priests blessed the cannon, and the people 
 baptized it, and called it Marie-Jeanne, and the women brought 
 out their little children, and sat them straddle-legged across it, 
 whole rows of them at the same time, till the cannon looked like 
 a huge bunch of grapes on which the fruit clustered thickly. By 
 this time it was dark, and the people lighted huge bonfires 
 through the town, and the children remained up, and as many 
 as could cling on it still sat upon the cannon, and ropes were 
 ^ot and fastened to it, and all the girls of St. Florent dragged 
 Marie-Jeanne round the town, and a last she was dragged into 
 the yard of the aubcrge, in front of which the fight had com- 
 menced, and there she was left for the night, under a strong 
 juarcj* 
 
t) La Vendh, 
 
 White these rejoicings were going on out of doors, Cathe- 
 lineau and Foret, the two priests, and a few others — the wise 
 men of the town — were collected together within the aubcrge, 
 and were consulting as to their future proceedings. 
 
 " We have done much,** said Cathclineau, " and I rejoice at 
 it. Too much, a great deal, for us now to remain Idle. Wc 
 cannot go back, wc arc now the enemies of the Kcpublic, and 
 we must attack our enemies elsewhere, or they will attack and 
 over^vhelm us in our little town." 
 
 They then determined that Cathelineau, on the next morning, 
 should address the people from the window of the market- 
 place, and that afterwards he and Forct should go through the 
 neighbouring country and implore the assistance of the people, 
 of the gentry, the priests, the farmers, and the peasants, in 
 o))p<)Hing the luitcd levy or the Kepubllean forces; uut first they 
 would go to the gentry, and the names of many were mentioned 
 whom It was thought would be sure to ioin them. The first 
 was that of Henri dc Larochejaquelin, and the next that of his 
 friend M. de Lescurc. Who loved the people so well as they, 
 and whom did the people love so truly ? Yes, they would call 
 on young Larochejaquelin and his friend to be their leaders. 
 
 Karly on the morrow, the postillion addressed the people 
 from the market-place, lie did not seek to himself the lionour 
 of doing so, nor, when he was asked to conie forward as tl^c 
 leader of the people, did he refuse to do so. He was not 
 covetous of the honour, but he would not refuse the danger. 
 During the whole of the combat everyone had looked to him 
 as to the leader, He had not constituted himself the people's 
 general, he had not for a moment thought of assuming the 
 position ; but lie as little thought of refusing the danger or the 
 responHJIjliiiy, when the duties of a general fieeined, by the will 
 of all, to fall to his lot. 
 
 "Friends," said he, addressing them from the market-house, 
 " we have saved ourselves for a while from the grasp of the 
 Republic. But for the battle of yesterday, every one here would 
 have a brother, a son, or a cousin, now enrolled as a conscript 
 in the army of the Convention. Manv of yourselves wouUl 
 have been conscripts, and would have this morning waked to 
 the loss of your liberty. Wc did much vcstcrday when we 
 bound the hands of the soldiers ; but we nave much moic to 
 do than we have yet done. Already in Nantes and in Angers are 
 they talking of what we yesterday performed. We shall doubt- 
 less have many friends in Nantes and Angers, but the Republic 
 also has many friends in those towns, and the soldiers of the 
 Republic arc strong there. It will not be long before they 
 hurry to St. Florent to avenge the disgrace of their comrades ; 
 and bitter will bo their revenge if they tJike you unprepared, 
 
S/, Florent 23 
 
 You have declared war against the Republic, and you must be 
 prepared to fight it out to the end." 
 
 " We will, we will," shouted the people. " Down with the 
 Repviblic — down with the Convention. Long live the King— 
 our own King once again." 
 
 "Very well, my friends," continued Cathclincau, "so bo it. 
 We will fight it out then. We will combat with the Republic, 
 sooner than be carried away from our wives, our children, and 
 our sweethearts. We will fight for our own curds and our own 
 churches ; but our battle will be no holiday-work. It will be a 
 different affair from that of yesterday. We must learn to carry 
 arms, and to stand under them. You showed yesterday that 
 you had courage— you must now show that you can join patience 
 and perseverance to your courage." 
 
 " We will, Cathclmeau, we will," shouted they. " Tell us 
 what wc must do, Cathelineau, and we will do it," 
 
 " We must see," continued he, " who will be our friends and 
 our allies. St. Florent cannot fight single-handed against the 
 Republic. There arc others in Anjou, and Poitou also, besides 
 ourselves, who do not wish to leave their homes and their fields. 
 There are noblemen and gentlemen, our friends and masters, 
 who will leaa you better than I can." 
 
 " No, no, Cathelineau is our general ; we will follow no one 
 but Cathelineau." 
 
 " You will, my friends, you will ; but we need not quarrel 
 about that. Foret and I, with Peter Berrier, will visit those 
 who we think will join us ; but you must at once prepare your- 
 selves. You must arm yourselves. We will distribute the 
 muskets of the soldiers as far as they will go. You must 
 prepare yourselves. If we do not at once attack the republicans 
 elsewhere, they will soon overwhelm us in St. Florent. Wc will 
 go to Cholet— the men of Cholet will surely second us— thv-y 
 are as fond of their sons and their brethren as we are. Cholet 
 will join us, and Beauprdau, and Coron, and Torfou. We will 
 go and ask them whether they prefer the . Republic to their 
 homes— whether the leaders of the Convention are dearer to 
 them than their own lords — whether their new priests love 
 them as the old ones did? And I know what will be their 
 answer." 
 
 He ceased speaking, and his audience crowded around him 
 to shake hands with him, and to bless him ; and before the sun 
 was in the middle of the sky he bad led St. Florent on his 
 mission, in company with Foret and Peter Berrier. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 DUR^ELLIERE. 
 
 I 
 
 HE chAteau of Durbelli&re, the family scat of the 
 Larochejacquelins, was situated in the very centre of 
 Bocagc, between the small towns of Chatillon and 
 Vihiers— in the province of Poitou, and about twelve 
 leagues from St. Florent. 
 
 It was a large mansion, surrounded by extensive gardens, 
 and a considerable domain. There were few residences of more 
 importance as betokening greater wealth in the province of 
 Poitou ; but it was neither magnificent nor picturesque. The 
 landlords of the country were not men of extensive property or 
 expensive habits— they built no cosily castles, and gave no 
 siimpluous banquets ; but they lived at home, on their incomes, 
 and had always something to spare for the poorer of their 
 neighbours. Farming was their business — the chase their 
 amusement — loyalty their strongest passion, and the prosperity 
 of their tenantry their chief ambition. 
 
 The chateau of Durbellicre was a large square building, three 
 stories high, with seven front windows to each of the upper 
 storics,«and three on each side of the large door on the ground 
 lloor. Eight stone steps of great width led up to the front door; 
 but between the top step and the door there was a square 
 flagged area of considerable space ; and on the right hand, and 
 on the left, two large whitewashed lions reclined en brick and 
 niortar pedestals. An enormous range of kitchens, offices and 
 cellars, ran under the whole house ; the windows opened into a 
 low aiea^ or rather trench, which ran along the front and back 
 of the house, and to which there were no rails or pailings of any 
 kind. The servants' door was at the side of the house, and the 
 cervants, and people coniin^ to tliem, to save themselves the 
 liouble of walking round to this door, were in the habit of 
 
DurbeUi^re. 25 
 
 ;jniping into the area and entering the kitchen by the window, 
 Doubtless some lady of the house, whc'n the mansion was first 
 ;}uilt, had protested strongly against this unsightly practice ; but 
 Iiabit had now accustomed the family to this mode of ingress 
 ind egress, and the servants of Durbclli^rc consequently never 
 ;:scd any other. 
 
 The back of the chateau was just the same as the front, the 
 s.ime windows, the same broad steps, the same pedestals and 
 ;hc same white-washed lions, only the steps, instead of leading 
 un to a large gravelled square, led into a trim garden. There 
 ^vcre 1)0 windows, whatsoever, on one side of the house, and on 
 the other only those necessary to light the huge staircase of the 
 r.i.insion. 
 
 The rooms were square, very large, and extremely lofty ; the 
 salcn alone, was carpettcd, and none of them were papered, the 
 drawing-room, the dining-room and the grand salon were 
 (irnamentcd with painted panels, which displayed light- 
 coloured shepherds and shepherdesses in almost every possible 
 attitude. In these rooms, also, there were highly ornamented 
 stoves, which stood out about four feet from the wall, topped 
 with marble slabs, on which were sculptured dll the gods and 
 dcmi-gods of the heathen mythology — that in the drawing-room 
 exhibited Vulcan catching Mars and Venus in his marble net ; 
 and the unhappy position of the god of war was certainly 
 calculated to read a useful lesson to any Parisian rover, who 
 might attempt to disturb the domestic felicity of. any family in 
 the Bocage. 
 
 , The house was not above a hundred yards from the high road, 
 from which there were two entrances about two hundred yards 
 apart. There were large wooden gates at each, which were 
 usually left open, but each of which was guarded by two white- 
 washed lions—not quite so much at ease as those on the 
 pedestals, for they were fixed a-top of pillars hardly broad 
 enough to support them. But this doubtless only increased 
 their watchfulness. 
 
 But the glory of the chateau was the large garden behind the 
 house. It was completely enclosed by a very high wall, and, 
 like the house, was nearly square in its proportions. It contained 
 miles of walks, and each walk so like the others, that a stranger 
 might wander there for a week without knowing that he had 
 rctraversed the same ground, were it not that he could not fail 
 to recognise the quaint groups of figures which met him at 
 every turn. A few of these were of stone, rudely sculptured, 
 but by far the greater number were of painted wood, and, like 
 the shepherds and shepherdesses in the drawing-room, dis- 
 played every action of rural life. You would suddenly come 
 upon a rosy- coloured gentleman, with a gun to his shoulder in 
 
a6 ^ VK'ndif» 
 
 the act of thooting game—then a girl with a basket of huge 
 cabbagcs—an old man in a fit of the cholic ; the same rosv 
 gentleman violently kissing a violet-coloured youne lady ; and, 
 at the next turn, you would find the violet-coloured young lady 
 fast asleep upon a bank. You would meet a fat curd a dozen 
 times in half-an-hour, and always well employed. He would 
 be saying his prayers— drinking beer — blessing a young maiden» 
 and cudgelling a mule that wouldn't stir a step for him, till the 
 large yellow drops of sweat were falling from his face. It was 
 inconceivable how so many painted figures in such a variety 
 of attitudes could have been designed and executed ; but there 
 they were, the great glory of the old gardener, and the end- 
 less amusement of the peasants of the neighbourhood, who were 
 allowed to walk there on the summer Sunday evenings. 
 
 The gardens of Durbelli6re were also wonderful in another 
 respect. It was supposed to be impossible to consume, or even 
 to gather, all the cherries which they produced in the early 
 summer. The trees between the walks were all cherry-trees — 
 old standard trees of a variety of sorts ; but they all bore fruit 
 of some description or another, some sweet and some bitter ; 
 some large, some small, and some perfectly diminutive ; some 
 black, some red, and some white. Every species of known 
 cherry was in that garden in abundance ; but even the gardener 
 himself did not know the extent of the produce. Birds of all 
 kinds flocked there in enormous numbers, and banqueted 
 gloriously during the summer. No one disturbed them except 
 the painted sportsman ; and the song of the linnet and the 
 thrush was heard all day, and that of the nightingale during the 
 night. 
 
 The old Marauis de Larochejaquelin had been crossed in love 
 early in life, and he had not recovered from his sorrow till he 
 was above fifty, when he married, and outlived his young wife, 
 who left him different children. Henri and Agatha were the 
 only two now living with him. As has already been said, the 
 old man was very infirm, and had lost the use of his limbs. 
 
 When the weather was cold or wet, he sat with his daughter 
 Agatha, near his bright wood fire, and watched her needle, or 
 listened to her songs ; but, if the sun appeared at all, he was 
 out dragged in his garden chair among the birds and the painted 
 figures, and was happy in spite of his infirmities. 
 
 He was most affectionate to his children, and indulgent to a 
 fault. He was kind to everyone, and, unless the birds were 
 disturbed, the cherry-trees injured, or the figures upset, he was 
 never angry evert with a servant. Everybody loved and 
 venerated the old Marquis, and even in his foibles, he was 
 thoroughly respected. He had a vast collection of stuffed birds 
 of every description, and the peasants round him were so 
 
DiirbcUihre^ 37 
 
 .inxiuus to gratify him by adding to his stock, that there began 
 to be a doubt whether room in the ch'Ateau could be found for 
 the presents which were continually brought. The upper story 
 of the house had never been required by the family, and the 
 rooms had not even been roofed or plastered. One great 
 partition wall ran across the space, and the only ceiling was the 
 bare high-pointed roof of the house. This place was called the 
 granary, and was used for a drying ground. And here the 
 vupcrfluous birds were brought, much to the old man's grief, for 
 he knew that he should never see ti.cm again ; but he could 
 not refuse them when they >vcre given to him, and the room 
 which he inhabited would conveniently hold no more. 
 
 The happiness of the last years of the old man's life was 
 much disturbed by the events of the French revolution. He 
 had been very anxious when he saw his young son join a club 
 which was sure to incur the ill-will of the ruling power in Paris ; 
 and yet he could not dissuade him from doing so ; and, though 
 he had rejoiced when his son returned to Poitou still safe, the 
 imprisonment of the king had woefully afflicted him, and his 
 death had nearly killed him. He had now expressed his 
 opposition to the levies of a conscription with a degree of energy 
 which had astonished his family. He knew the names and 
 persons of ever)' man and woman living on his estate, indeed of 
 every child above the age of ten ; and, when he was told the 
 names of those who were drawn as conscripts, he desired that 
 they might all be told in his name that he hoped they would 
 not obey. 
 
 Henri de Larochejacauelin has already been introduced to 
 the reader. He returned to Poitou as soon as the Republic was 
 proclaimed, together with De Lescure and Adolphe DenoU 
 Adolphe had been staying a great portion of the winter at 
 Durbelli^re, but he had since gone to his own place/and was 
 I'.ow at Clisson, the seat of M. de Lescure. 
 
 Marie de Lescure, the sister of Henri's friend, was staying at 
 Durbelli^re with Agatha Larocheja<^uelin ; and her visit, which 
 had been prolonged from before Christmas, had certainly not been 
 made less agreeable by the fact of Henri's having been at home 
 the whole time. She and Agatha were both pretty, but they 
 were very different. Marie had dark hair, nearly black, very 
 dark eyes, and a beautiful rich complexion ; her skin was dark, 
 but never sallow ; her colour was not bright, but always "Jear 
 and transparent ; her hair curled naturally round her head, and 
 the heavy curls fell upon her neck and shoulders ; she was 
 rather under the middle height, but the symmetry of her figure 
 was so perfect, that no one would have called her too short 
 She had high animal spirits, and was always happy and good 
 humoured ; was very fond of amusement of every kind, and 
 
9$ La Vendke. 
 
 able to extract amusement out of everything.- She was the great 
 favourite of the old Marquis, not that he loved her so well as his 
 own daughter, but her habits and manners suited him better than 
 Agatha's ; she could better sympathise with the old man's 
 wishes and fancies ; she would smooth the plumage of his birds 
 for him j arrange and re-arrange his shells ; feed his cats, his 
 dogs, his tame deer, and his white peacock — for the old Marquis 
 had live pets as well as dead favourites. Then she would sinj^ 
 merry little songs to him, and laugh at him, and quiz his 
 painted figures, and help to wheel his chair, or pretend to 
 do so. 
 
 She did all these things more readily than Agatha did, for 
 her spirits were lighter. Not that Agatha was unhappy, or 
 inattentive to her father ; but she was auieter than Marie and 
 of a more contemplative mood. She also had dark hair, but 
 it was a dark brown, and she wore it braided close to her fore- 
 head. Her complexion was clear and bright, her forehead was 
 white, and the colour in her cheeks, when she had colour there, 
 was that of the clearest carnation. She was considerably taller 
 than Marie, but her figure was exquisitely perfect, and her gait 
 was that of a queen. She was the Rose of Poitou — the beauty 
 and queen of the whole district. She was all but worshipped 
 by the peasantry around her ; if they admired her beauty much, 
 they much more strongly appreciated her virtues, her charity, 
 her conbiclerate kindness, her want of selfishness, her devotion 
 to her friends and neighbours, and lastly, her strong feeling 
 of loyalty, her love for the king while he lived, and her 
 
 ?assionate regret for him since he had perished on the scafTold. 
 n this she inherited all the feelings of her father, and it was 
 greatly her attachment to the throne and to the name of the 
 King, which led to so high a pitch of enthusiasm of the peasantry 
 in behalfof the royalists. 
 
 Many wishes, surmises and anticipations had arisen as to 
 who was to carry off this rich prize ; who should be the hapjiy 
 husband of Agatha Larochejaquelin ; but her friends had 
 hitherto been anxious in vain ; she still went " in maiden 
 meditation faflCy free." Not that she was without professed 
 admirers ; but they had none of them yet touched her heart. 
 Many thought that she would be the bride of her brother's 
 friend, Adolphe Denot ; for he was more at the chdteau than 
 anyone else, was very handsome, and had a good property. 
 Adolphe was moreover seen to be very attentive to Mademoiselle 
 Agatha ; and thrown so much with her as he was, how could he 
 fail of being in love with her. 
 
 This belief much disturbed the comfort of Agatha's humble 
 friends, for Adolphe Denot was not popular among them : 
 there was a haughtiness in hii manner to the poor, to which 
 
DurhclUht\ »9 
 
 their own lords .ind masters had never accustomed them. He 
 was supercilious and proud in his bearing towards them, and 
 had none of the cheering, frank look and tone of their own dear 
 young M. Henri. They need not, however, have been alarmed, 
 for Agatha Larochcjaquelin was not at all disposed to take 
 Adolphe Denot as her lord ; she was passionately attached to 
 lior brother, and for his sake she had been kind, attentive, nay, 
 almost aftcctionate to his friend ; she and Adolphe had been 
 much together since they were children. He had been absent 
 from DurbelliC;rc for about a year, during which time he had 
 ceased to be a boy, and on his return to the chateau had taken 
 on himself the airs, if not the manners of a man. Agatha's 
 manner to him was not altered, it was still friendly and 
 affectionate, and Adolphe, with his usual vanity, misinterpreted 
 it ; he flattered himself that the beautiful girl loved him, and he 
 soon persuaded himself that he was devotedly attached to her. 
 
 lie had not yet positively declared his love, but Agatha felt 
 from his manner that she had to expect a declaration, and she 
 consequently altered her own ; she became less familiar with 
 him ; she avoided all opportunities of being alone with him ; 
 she still called him by his Christian name, for she had always 
 done so ; she was still kind and attentive to him, for he was a 
 guest in her father's house ; but Adolphe felt that she was altered, 
 and he became angry and moody ; he thought that she was co- 
 quetting and that he was slighted j and without much notice 
 to anyone, he left the house. 
 
 Agatha was glad that he was gone ; she wished to spare him 
 the humiliation of a refusal ; she understood his character well, 
 and felt that the wound inflicted on his self-love, by being re- 
 jected, would be more painful to him than his actual disappoint- 
 ment ; she knew that Adolphe would not die for love, but she 
 also knew that he would not quietly bear the fancied slight of 
 unreturned affection. If, by her conduct, she could induce him 
 to change his own, to drop the lover, and be to her again 
 simply her brother's friend, all might yet be well ; but if he 
 persevered and declared his love, she felt that there would be a 
 quarrel, not only between him and her, but between him and 
 Henri. 
 
 To tell the truth, Henri had rather fostered his friend's 
 p.ission, fpr Agatha. He had wished to see them married ; and, 
 though he had not exactly told his friend as much, he had said 
 so much that both Agatha and Denot knew what his wishes 
 were. This, Of course, gave great encouragement to the lover, 
 but it greatly grieved poor Agatha ; and now that Adolphe was 
 gone, she made up her mind to open her heart to her brother. 
 
 A day or two before the revolt of St. Florent, they were sitting 
 together in the drawing-room ; it was late in the evening, the old 
 
 
 
30 , l^ Vendie* 
 
 Marquis had retired for the night, and Marie de Lescure 
 engaged elsewhere, so that Agatha and her brother were left 
 alone together. He was reading, but she was sitting gazing at 
 the fire. She could hardly summon up courage to say, even to 
 her dear brother, what she wished to say. 
 
 " Henri," she said at last, " does Adolphe return here from 
 Fleury?" (Fleury was the name of Denot's house). 
 
 "I hope he will," said Henri ; " but what makes you ask? the 
 place is dull without him, isn't it ? " 
 " Dull ! you don't find Marie dull, do you, Henri ?" 
 " Oh, Marie ! " said he, laughing, " Marie amuses our father, 
 and she charms me ; but you might find the house dull, in spite 
 of Marie— eh, Agatha ? " 
 
 " Indeed no, Henri ; the house was not dull even when you 
 were in Paris, and Marie was at Clisson, and papa and I were 
 alone together here ; it was not my being dull made me ask 
 v;hether Adolphe was to return." 
 
 " But you wouldn't be sorry that he should come back, Agatha? 
 You don't want to banish poor Adolphe from Durbelli^re, I 
 hope?" 
 
 " No," said Agatha, doubtfully, " no, I don't want to banish 
 j^im — of course, Henri, I can't want to banish your friend from 
 
 the house ; but " 
 
 "But what?" said Henri, now perceiving that his sister had 
 something on her mind— something that she wished to say to 
 him ; " but what, dearest Agatha ? " 
 
 '* I don't want to banish him from the house, Henri ; but I 
 wish he would not return just at present ; but you hav'n't 
 ansv.ercd my question— you haven't told me whether you expect 
 him." 
 
 " I think he will return ; but he did not himself say exactly 
 when. I am sorry to hear what you say, Agatha — very sorry— I 
 thought you and Adolphe were great friends. I was even a 
 Uttle jealous," added he, laughing, " at the close alliance between 
 you, and 1 thought of getting up a little separateparty of my own 
 with Marie." 
 
 " Don't separate yourself from me, Henri !" said she ; "don't 
 let us be separated in anything, even in thought ; not but that I 
 should be delighted to see a dearer friendship between you and 
 Marie, even than that between Marie and myself; but don't 
 phm any separate alliance for me. I hope you have not been 
 doing so— tell me, Henri, that you have not." And then she 
 added, blushing deeply up to her pale forehead, "You have not 
 proposed to Adolphe that I should be his wife ?" 
 
 " No, Agatha, I have not proposed it to him j I should not 
 have dreamt of doing so, without knowing that it would not be 
 disagreeable to you." 
 
Durhellilre. 
 
 31 
 
 "There's my own dear brother ! my own Henri !" said she, 
 going over to him, caressing him and kissing his forehead. 
 
 " I will never make an offer of your hand to anyone, Agatha ; 
 you shall choose for yourself ; I will never cause you sorrow in 
 that way : but I will own, dearest, that I have wished you 
 should marry Adolphe, and I have also fancied that you loved 
 him." 
 
 " No, Henri, no, I do not love him— I can never love him— 
 that is, as my husband. I do love him as your friend. I will 
 continue to love him as such, as long as he remains your 
 friend." 
 
 " I fancied also," continued he ; " nay I did more than fancy 
 — I am sure he loves you — is it not so ? " 
 
 " He has never told me so," said she, again blushing ; " it is 
 that he may not tell me so, that I now say that I hope he is not 
 returning. Oh, Henri, my own dearest brother, do not let him 
 come to Durbelli^re ; prevent him in some way ; go to him for 
 a while ; make some plan with him ; and give me warning when 
 he is coming, and I will be at Clisson wjth Marie." 
 
 " Will it not be better for both of you, Agatha, that you 
 should understand each other ? I know he loves you, though he 
 has not told me so. You must tell him kindly that you cannot 
 return his affection : you cannot always run away from him." 
 
 " He will forget me soon. He will, at any rate, forget his 
 love, when he finds that I avoid his company ; but, Henri, if he 
 formally asks my hand, and is refused, that he will neither forget 
 nor forgive." 
 "He must take his chance, dearest, like other men." 
 "But he isn't like other men, Henri. You know he is — he is 
 rather impatient of refusal ; he could not bear as well as some 
 men any mortification to his pride." 
 
 " I trust he has too much real pride to feel himself disgraced, 
 because he is not loved. I grieve for him, for I love him myself; 
 and I know his affections are strong j but I think it is better he 
 should know the truth at once, and it mu-st be from your own 
 lips, I cannot tell him you will not accept him before he himself 
 makes the offer." 
 
 Agatha did not reply ; she could not explain even to her 
 brother all that she felt. She could not point out to him how 
 very weak— how selfish his friend was. She could not tell him 
 that his bosom friend would suffer ten times more from the 
 wound to his pride in being rejected, than from the effects of 
 disappointed love ; but she rightly judged her lover\s character. 
 Adolphe Denot loved her as warmly as he was capable of loving 
 ought but himself; but were she to die his grief would be 
 very short lived ; he would not, however, endure to see that sho 
 preferred anyone to himself. 
 
31 La X^endii* 
 
 •*! am sorry for this, Agatha— very sorry,** continued hci 
 brother ; " I had fondly hoped to see you Adolphe's wife, but it 
 is over now, I will never press you against your will** 
 
 *' My own Henri— how good you are to your Agatha, I knew 
 you would not torture me with a rcauest that I should marry a 
 man I did not love. I grieve that I interfere with your plans ; 
 but I will live with you, and be your old maid sister, and nurse 
 and love your children, and they shall love their old maid 
 aunt" 
 
 " There are other men, Agatha, besides Adolphe. Perhaps 
 your next request will be a very different one ; perhaps, then, 
 you will be singing the praises of some admirer, and asking mc 
 to give him a brother's place in my heart. 
 
 " And when I ask it, you will do so j but Henri," and she put 
 her hands upon his shoulder, as she stood close to his chair, 
 " don't let Adolphe come hcru immediately." 
 
 " He must do so, dearest, now I think of it : wc have other 
 things to think of besides ladies' hearts, and other matters to plan 
 besides wedding favours ; the troops will be in Clisson on 
 Monday next, to collect the conscripts. I have promised to be 
 with de Lescure, and Adolphe is to meet me there ; they are 
 both then to come here. Not a man shall be taken who docs 
 not choose to go ; and there are not many who wish to go 
 from choice. There will be warm work in Poitou next week, 
 Agatha ; few of us then can think of love or marriage. You 
 and Marie will be making sword-knots and embroidering flags ; 
 that will be your work. A harder task will soon follow it— that of 
 dressing wounds and staunching blood. We shall have hot work, 
 mnd more than plenty of it. May God send us well through it." 
 
 " Amen ; with all my heart I say, amen," said Agatha j ** but 
 will these poor men resist the soldiers, Henri ?" 
 
 " Indeed they will, Agatha." 
 
 " But can they ? They have not arms, nor practice in the way 
 of fighting — they have no leaders." 
 
 "We will take arms from our enemies. We will be apt 
 scholars in fighting for our wives, and our sisters, and our 
 houses. As for leaders, the man who is most fit shall lead the 
 others." 
 
 *' And you, Henri — merciful Heaven ! what are you about to 
 do — will you take up arms against tlie whole Republic ? " 
 
 "With God's blessing I will— against the whole Republic." 
 
 " May the Lord, in His mercy, look on you and give you His 
 assistance ; and as your cause is just and holy, He will do so. 
 Whatever women can do, we will do ; you shall have our prayers 
 for your success, our tears for your reverses, and our praises 
 for your courage ; and when you require it, as some of you will 
 too soon, our tenderest care in your sufferings." At this moment 
 
Durbellilrt. 33 
 
 Marie dc Lcsciirc entered the room.^ " M;;rie, - continue-d 
 Agatha^ ** you will help to succour those who arc wounded in 
 fii;hting for their King?" 
 
 " Indeed, and indeed I will," said the bright-eyed girl, eagerly, 
 "and regret only that I cannot do more ; that I cannot myself 
 be in the battle. lUit, M. Larochcjaquelin, will the people rise? 
 will there really be fighting? will Charles be there ?" 
 
 " Indeed he will, Nlarie ; the first among the foremost. Agatha 
 asked mc but new, who would be our leaders ? Is there a man in 
 the IJocage— aye, in all Poitou, who will not follow Charles de 
 Lcscurc?" 
 
 " May the blessed Saviour watch over him and protect him/* 
 said Marie shuddering. 
 
 " But tell me, Henri," said Agatha, " where will it commence 
 —where will they first resist the troops ?" 
 
 "I cannot say exactly," said he, "in many places at once I 
 hope. In St. P'lorent they say not a man will join ; in Clisson 
 and Torfou they begin on Monday. Charles, and I, and Adolphe 
 will be in Clisson. Father Jerome has the whole lists ; he says 
 that in St. Laud's, in Echanbroignes, and Clisson, they are ready, 
 to a man, to rtppose the troops : he will go with me to Clisson 
 on Sunday afternoon j on Monday, with God's will, we will be 
 in the thick of it." 
 
 " And will Father Jerome be there, among the soldiers ! " said 
 Marie. 
 
 " Why not," said Henri, " will the peasants fight worse when 
 they sec their priest before them?" 
 " And if he should fall ? " 
 
 " He will fall in the service of his God and his King ; Father 
 Jerome will be here himself to-morrow," 
 
 "The Cur^ of St. Laud's," said Agatha, " is not the man to sit 
 idle, when good v/ork is to be done ; but, oh ! what awful times 
 are these, when the priests themselves have to go out to fight 
 for their altars and their crucifix." 
 
 " I will return home with you, M. Larochcjaquelin, when you 
 go to CHsson," said Marie. 
 " And leave Agatha alone ? " said Henri. 
 " Don't mind me, Henri," said Agatha, " I shall be well hero 
 Marie cannot leave Madame de Lescure alone, when her hus 
 band is a\yay, and in such danger." 
 
 "You will soon have company here enough," said Henri. 
 " De Lescure, and I, and Adolphe, and Heaven knows whom 
 besides. Charette will be in arms, and D'Autachamps, the Prince 
 de Talmont, and M. Bonchamps. At present their business 's 
 at a distance from \is ; but we shall probably be all brought to- 
 gether sooner or later, and they will all be welcome At 
 Durbelli^rc," 
 
i4 La Venti/i. 
 
 *• They shall be welcome if they are friends of yours, and 
 friends of the King ; but come, Marie, it is late, let us go to 
 bed ; next week, perhaps, we shall be wanting rest, and unable 
 to take it." 
 
 They met the next morning at breakfast, and the old Marquis 
 was there also, and the priest, to whom they had alluded in 
 their conversation on the preceding evening — Father Jerome, 
 the Curd of St. Laud's — such at least ijad he been, and so was 
 he still called, though his parish had been taken away from 
 him, and his place filled by a constitutional pastor ; that is, by 
 a priest who had taken the oath to the Constitution required by 
 the National Assembly. Father Jerome was banished from his 
 church, and deprived of the small emoluments of his oflice ; 
 but he was not silenced, for he still continued to perform the 
 ceremonies of his religion, sometimes in some gentleman's 
 drawing-room, sometimes in a farmer's house, or a peasant's 
 cottage, but oftcner out in the open air, under the shadow of a 
 spreading beech, on a rude altar hastily built for him with 
 rocks and stones. 
 
 The church of St. Laud's was perfectly descried — not a 
 single person would attend there to hear mass said by the 
 strange priest— the peasants would as soon have been present 
 at some infernal rite, avowedly celebrated in honour of the 
 devil — and yet the curd newly sent there was not a bad man. 
 But he was a constitutional priest, and that was enough to re» 
 commend him to the ill-will of the peasantry, In peaceable 
 and happy times, prior to the revolution, the Curd of St. Laud's 
 had been a remarkable person ; he was a man of more activity, 
 both of mind and body, than his brethren ; he was more 
 intimate with the gentry than the generality of clergymen in 
 the neighbourhood, and at the same time more actively engaged 
 in promoting the welfare of the poor. The country curds 
 generally were men who knew little of the world and its ways 
 —who were uneducated, save as regards their own profession—* 
 who had few ideas beyond their own duties and station. This 
 was not so with Father Jerome ; he had travelled and heard 
 the ways of men in other countries ; he had not read much 
 but he had seen a good deal, and he was a man of quick 
 apprehension — and above all a man of much energy. He had 
 expressed great hostility to the revolution since its commence- 
 ment ; at a time when so few were hostile to it, he had foreseen 
 that it would destroy the religion and the religious feeling of 
 the country, and he had constantly besought his flock to re* 
 main true to their old customs. He was certainly a devout 
 man in his own way, though he was somewhat unscrupulous 
 in his devotions ; the people were as superstitious as they were 
 faithful, and he never hesitated in using their superstition to 
 
Durbelliht. 35 
 
 forward his own views. His whole anxiety was for their wel- 
 fare ; but he cherished their very faults, their ignorance and 
 lh(?ir follies, to enable himself to serve them in his own 
 manner. He was unwilling that they should receive other 
 education than that which they now had — he was jealous of 
 anyone's interfering with them but their landlord and himself. 
 He would not own that any change could better their condition, 
 or that anything more was desirable for them than that they 
 should live contented and obedient, and die faithful in hope. 
 
 Durbelli^re had not been in his parish, but he had always 
 been peculiarly intimate with the family of the Larochejaquelins, 
 and had warmly welcomed the return of Henri to the liocage, 
 at a time when so many of the nobility were leaving the 
 country. They were now about to join hand and heart in 
 saving the people from the horrors of the conscription, and 
 though the Curd's nominal mission was to be purely spiritual, 
 he was quite prepared to give temporal aid to his allies, should 
 it any time appear expedient to himself to do so. 
 
 F'ather Jerome was a tall, well-made, brawny man ; his face 
 \i^^ not exactly handsome, but it was bold and intellectual ; his 
 eye was bright and clear, and his forehead high and open — he 
 was a man of immense muscular power and capable of great 
 physical exertion — he was above forty-five years of age but still 
 apparently in the prime of his strength. He wore a long rusty 
 black, or rather grey curd's frock, which fell from his shoulders 
 down to his heels, and was fastened round his body with a 
 black belt— this ganncnt was much the worse for wear, for 
 Father Jerome had now been deprived of his income for some 
 twelve months ; but he was no whit ashamed of his threadbare 
 coat, he rather gloried in it, and could not be induced by the 
 liberal offers of his more wealthy friends to lay it aside. 
 
 Father Jerome greeted them all as he entered the breakfast- 
 room. He was received with great kindness by the old Marquis, 
 who pressed his hand and made him sit beside himself ; he 
 blessed the two young girls fervently, and nodded affectionately, 
 lo Henri, whom he had seen on the preceding day. It was 
 evident that the Curd of St. Laud's was quite at home at 
 DurbclliCirc. 
 
 *' We have awful limes coming on us now, Father Jerome," 
 said Agatha. 
 
 "Not so. Mademoiselle," said the priest, "we have good 
 times coming ; we will have a King and our Church again ; we 
 poor curds will have our homes and our altars again ; our own 
 parishes and our old flocks." 
 
 " Come what, come may," said Henri, "we cannot be worse 
 than the Convention would make us." 
 
 " BMt wc firmly trust that by God's will and with God s aiid, 
 
%(^ £ti Ventih\ 
 
 we will soon be rid of all our troubles/' said the priest. " M. to 
 Maiquis, we have your best wishes, 1 know, and your full 
 tipproval. I hope wc shall soon be able to lay our trophies at 
 your feet." 
 
 " The approval of an old man like me Is but of little avail ; 
 but you shall have my prayers. I would, however, that God 
 had spared me from these days ; it is grievous for me to see my 
 son going out to fight against his own countrymen, at his own 
 door-sill; it would be more grievous still, where he now to 
 hesitate in doing so." 
 
 ^No true son of Poitou hesitates now," said the enthusiastic 
 priest. "I yesterday saw every conscript in the parish of 
 St. Laud's, and not a single man hesitated — not one dreams of 
 joining the republicans; and, moreover, there is hot an ablc- 
 Dodicd man who will not come forward to assist the cotvscripts 
 in withstanding the soldiers ; the women, too, Mademoiselle, arc 
 equally eager. Harare will find it difficult, I think, to raise; a 
 troop from Poitou." 
 
 " Will the conscripts from hence be required to join at 
 Chatillon or at Cholet ?" said the old man. 
 
 " 'i'hose from St. Laud's, at Chatillon," said Henri ; " but the 
 men will not leave their homes, they will know how to receive 
 the soldiers if they come amongst them." 
 
 •So saying, he got up and went out, and the priest followed 
 him : they had much to do, and many things to arrange ; to dis-^ 
 tribute arms and gunpowder, and niiikc the most of their little 
 means. It was not their present intention to lead the men from 
 their homes, but they wished to prepare them to receive the 
 republican troops, when they came into the country to enforce 
 the collection of the republican lew. 
 

 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CATHELINEAU. 
 
 HE revolt of St. Florcnt took place on the day after 
 that on which the priest had breakfasted at Dur- 
 belli^rc, and the rumours of it went quickly through 
 the country. As Cathelineau had said, the news was 
 soon known in Nantes r.nd Angers, and the commander of the 
 republican troops determined most thoroughly to avenge the 
 insolence and rebellion of the vain people of St. Florent. Jle 
 was not, however, able to accomplish his threat on the instant, 
 for he also was collecting conscripts in the neighbourhood of 
 Nantes, and the peasantry had heard of the doings of St. 
 Florcnt as well as the soldiers, and the men of Brittany seemed 
 inclined to follow the example of the men of Anjou. 
 
 He had, therefore, for a time, enough to occupy his own 
 troops, without destroying the rebels of St. Florent — and it v/as 
 well for St. Florent that it was so. Had he at once marched 
 five hundred men, with four pieces of cannon against the town^ 
 he might have reduced the place to ashes, and taken a bloody 
 revenge for their victory. The men of St. Florent would have 
 had no means of opposing such a force, and the peasantry 
 generally were not armed, the tactics of the royalists were not 
 settled, and the revolt through the province was not general. 
 The destruction of St. Florcnt was postponed for a month, and 
 at the expiration of that time, the troopa of the Republic had too 
 much to do to return to the little town where the war liad 
 commenced. 
 "^ The rumour of what had been done at St, Florcnt, was also 
 soon known in Coron, in Torfou, and in Clisson. The battle was 
 fought on Thursday, and early on Saturday morning, M. de 
 Lescure had heard some indistinct rumour of the occurrence ; 
 indistinct at least it seemed to him, for he could not believe 
 
38 t^ Vend^e> 
 
 that the success of the townspeople was so compiCiw m it was 
 represented to him to be ; he heard at the same time that the 
 revolt had been headed by Cathelineau and Foret, and that as 
 soon as the battle was over, they had started for Durbelli^re to 
 engage the assistance of Henri Larochejaquclin. I)c Lc$cure» 
 therefore, determined to go at once to DurbclliCire; and Adolphe 
 Dcnot, who was with him, accompanied him. 
 
 They found Henri in the midst of his preparations, weighing 
 out gunpowder with the assistance of the priest and the two 
 girls. There was a large quarry on the the Marquis's estate, 
 and a considerable supply of gunpowder for blasting had been 
 lately brought to DurbcUi^re from Nantes, as it could not be 
 
 Eurchascd in the neighbouring towns. As the priest remarked, 
 lasting powder was not the best, but it was good enough to 
 treat republicans with — at any rate they could get no better, 
 and it was luckv that thcv chanced to have that. 
 
 Charles de l.cbcuro hluuUlcrcd, as ho saw the dangerous 
 employment on which his sifter was enga^jcd { but Henri'* »ihlcr 
 was doing the same thing, and he knew that dangerous times 
 for all of them were coming. Adolphe was disgusted that 
 Agatha's white hands should be employed in so vile a service, 
 but he thought little of the danger to which she was exposed. 
 
 " You are well employed, ladies." said De Lescure, " but not 
 an hour too soon. I am rcjoicccl to see you so well supplied, 
 Henri ; this is indeed a Godsend. Father Jerome, is this 
 strictly canonical ; gunpowder, I fear, is altogether a temporal 
 affair." 
 
 " liut rebellion and hell-fire are synonymous," said the priest, 
 "and loyalty is the road to Paradise, I am strictly within my 
 calling, M. de Lescure. Mademoiselle, these packets are too 
 large. You are giving too good measure. Remember how many 
 are the claimants for our bounty." 
 
 ••You have, of course, all heard what occurred at St. Florcnt 
 Ihc day before yedtenlay," daid De Lescure, 
 
 •' Not a word," baicl licnii. •' What happened there ? wc hear 
 nothing here till a week after it is known m the towns." 
 
 They all left off what they were doing, and listened anxiously 
 for M. de Lcscure's tidings. " Good news, I trust," said the 
 Curd, whose face showed a fearful degree of anxiety. " Good 
 news, I trust in God ; the men of St, Florent, I am sure, hava 
 not disgraced themselves." 
 
 •' Indeed, they have not, Father Jerome. If llkc lialf of wliat 
 I hear be true, they have already played a grand part. What I 
 hear is this— not a conscript was to be seen at the barracks 
 when they were summoned. Three or four soldiers were sent 
 to commence the collection in the town, and they were at once 
 taken prisoners by a party headed by CatheUneau, the postillion. 
 
Cathelineau, 39 
 
 The Colohci then turned out, and fired on the crowd ; but he 
 could not stand his ground before the people, who drove him 
 back to the barracks ; half his men were killed in retreating. 
 The people then attacked the barracks, and regularly carried 
 them by storm : took the cannon which was with the detach- 
 ment, and made prisoners of every soldier that was not killed in 
 the fray. If the naif of it be true, St. Florent has made a fine 
 beginning for us." 
 
 " Glorious fellows 1 " said Adolphe. " What would I not give 
 to have been with them?" 
 
 " You will have plenty of opportunity, M. Denot," said the 
 priest, who held Adolphe in great aversion. 
 
 " But, Charles, the carnage of the people must have been 
 dreadful," said Henri ; " they had nothing but their hands and 
 nails to fight with, against the muskets and bayonets of the 
 soldiers— against artillery even." 
 
 " The Lord supplied then\ with weapons, my son," said the 
 priest solemnly. " Cannot He who has given them courage and 
 good hearts to stand against the enemies of their country, also 
 give them weapons to fight His battles?" 
 
 *' They say, too, that by some miracle the cannon could not 
 be got to fire on the town. They say it was loaded and ready, 
 but that the powder would not ignite when the torch was put to 
 it," said De Lescure. 
 
 " They say," added Denot, " that the colonel himself re* 
 peatedly tried to fire it, but could not ; and that when he found 
 that Providence interfered for the people, he laid down his 
 sword, and gave himself up." 
 
 " The man who came to me from the town," continued De 
 Lescure, " had a thousand wonderful stories. He says, that 
 twenty times in the day Cathelineau stood unharmed before the 
 bayonets of the soldiers ; that twenty times he was shot at, but 
 it was impossible to wound him. They say that God has in- 
 terfered for the protection of St. Florent." 
 
 *' Most probable," said the priest, " most probable : for who, 
 my children, shall attempt to judge the ways of God ? Wh/ 
 should He not put out his right hand to assist his own ?" 
 
 " And were there not many of the townspeople killed ? '* asked 
 Agatha, 
 
 " We did not hear," replied De Lescure ; " but the news of 
 their triumph would travel faster than the account of their 
 misfortunes ; there could not but have been much bloodshjed." 
 
 " After all," said Henri, " we do not know how much of this 
 is true. We must not believe it all; it is too glorious to be 
 true." 
 
 **Do not say so, M. LarochejaqueEn," said the pnest, do 
 not say so ; we will do greater things than that with tb« 
 
40 t*t yindii, 
 
 assistance or Cod and the blessed Virgin ; but we will not cnty 
 the men of St. Florcnt the honour they have won." 
 
 " You believe it all, then, Father Jerome," said Marie. •* You 
 believe that the republicans have been beaten." 
 
 " Every word, Mademoiselle, every word relii^iouslv, I should 
 b« ft heathen else, or worse than that, a republican." 
 
 The «ruu|) wlio wore dIacuHwInu the probability of tho victory 
 •aid to nave been L'ained at St Florent, were standing at the 
 window of one of the front rooms of the chateau, which Ip.oked 
 immediately on one of the whitewashed recumbent lions, and 
 from it they could see the wooden gates, the lodge, and the 
 paved road which ran from Chatillon to Vihiers In front of the 
 ch.ltcau. As the priest finished speaking, three men rode 
 through the gates into the avenue, directly up to the house* 
 door : one was tolerably well mounted on a large horse, the 
 second was on a shaggy pony, and the third, who was rather 
 behind the others, was seated on a mule of most unprepossess- 
 ing appearance, whose sides he did not for a moment cease to 
 lacerate with his heels, to enable himself to keep up with his com- 
 panions. 
 
 " That is Foret, from St. Florent himself 1 " shouted the priest, 
 rushing out towards the door, as soon as he saw the first 
 horseman turn in at the gate ; " a good man, and true as any 
 living, and one who hates a skulking republican as he does the 
 devil." 
 
 ** And that is the postillion himself, on the pony 1 ** shouted 
 Henri, running after him. " I could swear to him, by his hat, 
 among a thousand." 
 
 " Who is the man on the mule, Adolphe ? " said De Lescure, 
 remaining at the window. " Bv-the-bye," he added, turning to 
 the two gills who remained with him, and who were trembling 
 in every joint, at they knew not what, " I forgot, in my hurry, 
 or rather I hadn't time as yet to tell Henri that I had heard that 
 these men were coming here." 
 
 "Are those the very men who gained the victory at St. 
 Florent ? " asked Marie. 
 
 " So we heard,"' replied De Lescure, " and now, and not tih 
 now, I believe it ; their coming here is strong confirmation ; the 
 Cur^ is right, it seems." 
 
 " And is that man the good postillion of whom the people 
 talk?" . r r 
 
 " He is— at least he is no longer a postilHon. He will cease to 
 be a postillion now ; from henceforth he will be only a soldier." 
 
 The Curd and Larochejaquelin had rushed down the steps, 
 and seized the hands of Foret and Cathelineau, as they got off 
 their horses. It was soon evident to them that the noise of their 
 deeds had gone before them. Foret at once returned the greeting 
 
Catlu'Untdu. 41 
 
 of rather Jerome, for they had long known each other, and the 
 difference between their stations was rfot so very great ; but 
 Calhclineau hardly knew how to acJept or how to refuse the un- 
 wonted mark of friendship shown him by a wealthy seigneur ; it 
 had not been his lot to shake hands with gentlemen, and he had no 
 wish to step beyond his proper sphere, because he had been put 
 prominenlly forward in the affair of St. Florent ; but he had no 
 help for it ; before he knew where he was, Larochejaquelin had 
 got him by the hand, and was dragging him into the salon of 
 l)urbellii!;rc. It appeared to the postillion that the room was 
 full ; there were ladies there too — young, beautiful, and modest 
 — such as he was in the habit of seeing through the windows of 
 the carriages which he drove ; the old Marquis was there too 
 now ; the butler had just wheeled in his chair, and Cathclincau 
 perceived that he was expected to join the group at once. A 
 vista was opened for him up to the old man's chair ; his eyes 
 swam, and he hardly recollected the faces of the different people 
 round him. He wished that he had waited at the gate, and sent 
 in for M. Henri ; he could have talked to him alone. Why had 
 he ridden up so boldly to the chateau gate? He had never 
 trembled, for a moment, during the hot work at St. Florent, but 
 now he felt that circumstances could almost make him a 
 coward. 
 
 On a sudden he remembered that his hat was still on his 
 head, and he snatched his hand out of Henri's to remove it, and 
 then, when it was off, he wanted to go back to the hall to 
 put it down. 
 
 Henri saw his confusion, and, taking it from him, put it on a 
 chair, and then they all shook hands with him. He first found 
 his hand in that of the Marquis, and heard the old man bless 
 him, and then the priest blessed him, and then he felt the soft, 
 sweet hands of those bright angels within his own horny palm ; 
 he heard them speaking to him, though he knew not what they 
 said ; and then he could restrain himself no longer, for tears 
 lorced themselves into his eyes, and, in the midst of them all, he 
 cr?ed like a child. 
 
 • There was infection in his tears, for Agatha and Marie, when 
 ihey saw them, cried too, and the eyes of some of the men also 
 wore not dry ; they all knew what the feelings of the man 
 were, and they fully sympathised with him. It was strange how 
 little they said about St. Florent at first ; the moment the men 
 had been seen, they were most anxious for the tidings of what 
 had been done; but now they all seemed satisfied as to the 
 truth of what they had heard — there was no longer any doubt. 
 The heroes of St Florent were there, and, though neither of them 
 had yet spoken a word about the battle which had been fought, 
 the presence of the victors was sufficient evidence of the victory. 
 
4i Z^ Vend/e. 
 
 The Cuid, however, and M. de Lcscure soon took Forct apart, 
 and learnt from him the details of what had been done, while 
 the father and son, and the two girls, endeavoured to put the 
 postillion at his ease in his new position. 
 
 Cathelincau was a very good-looking man, about thirty-five 
 years of age ; his hair was very dark, and curled in short, thick 
 clusters ; his whiskers were large and bushy, and met beneath 
 his face ; his upper lip was short, tis mouth v^as beautifully 
 formed, and there was a deep dimple on his chin ; but the charm 
 of his face was in the soft benignant expression of his eyes ; he 
 looked as though he loved his fellow-creatures— he looked as 
 though he could not hear, unmoved, a tale of woe or oppression 
 —of injuries inflicted on the weak, or of unfair advantages as- 
 sumed by the strong. It was thia which had made him so much 
 beloved ; and it was not only the expression of his countenance, 
 but of his heart also. 
 
 " And were you not wounded, Cathelineau ? " asked the old 
 gentleman. 
 
 " No, M. le Marquis, thank God ! I was not." 
 
 «'NorForet?" 
 
 " No, M. le Marquis." 
 
 " But were there many wounded?" said Agatha. 
 
 " Ah ! Mademoiselle, there were— many, very many t* 
 
 " I knew there must have been," said Marie, shuddering. 
 
 " We cannot have war without the horrors of war," said HenH. 
 " It is better, is it not, Cathelineau, that some of us should fall, 
 than that all of U3 should be slaves?" 
 
 " A thousand times, M. Larochcjaquclin I ten thousand 
 times ! " said he, with a return of that determined vigour with 
 v/hich he had addressed his fcllow-to'.vnsmen the day before. 
 
 " Yea, you are right, ten thousand times better ! and, Marie, 
 you would not be your brother's sister if you did not think so," 
 said Henri ; " but you do think so, and so docs Agatha, though 
 she cries so fast." 
 
 " I am not crying, Henri," said Agatha, removing her hand- 
 kerchief from her eyes, which behed her assertion ; " but one 
 cannot but think of all the misery which is coming on us : were 
 there — were there any women wounded in the battle ? " 
 
 " There were. Mademoiselle : but those who were so, never 
 complained ; and those who were killed will never have need to 
 complain again." 
 
 *' Were there women killed ? " 
 
 *' There were two. Mademoiselle ; one a young girl ; the other 
 has left children to avenge her death." 
 
 "That is the worst of all," said Henri, shuddering. "Calhe- 
 hneau, we must keep the women in the houses ; our men will 
 not fight if they see their wives and sweethearts bleeding beside 
 
Cathelineau, 43 
 
 tlicin ; such a sight would make me .throw my sword away 
 myself." 
 
 " It would make you throw away the scabbard, M. Laroche* 
 jaquclin ; but I fear we shall see enough of such sights," and 
 then he blushed deeply, as he reflected that what he had said 
 would frighten the fair girls sitting near him; "but I beg 
 pardon, ladies — I " 
 
 "Don't mind us, Cathelineau," said Agatha; "you will not 
 frighten us ; our brothers will fight by your side ; and you will 
 find that we are worthy of our brothers. Marie and I will take 
 our chance without repining." 
 
 "And what is to come next, Cathelineau?" said Henri ; "we 
 have thrown down the gauntlet now, and we must be ready for 
 all the consequences. You see, we were preparing for the same 
 work," and he pointed to the open packets of gunpowder which 
 were lying scattered on the table. " What are we to do now ? 
 wc shall soon have swarms of republican soldiers upon us, and 
 it will be well to be prepared. We look to you for counsel now, 
 you know." 
 
 " Not so, M. Larochejaquelin ; it was to seek council that I 
 and Foret came hither ; it was to throw ourselves at the feet of 
 my Lord the Marquis, and at yours, and at those of M. de 
 Lescure ; and to implore you to join us, to fight with us, and to 
 save us ; to lead us against the republicans, and to help us to 
 save our homes." 
 
 " They will, Cathelineau ; they will, my excellent friend," said 
 the old man. " Henri shall fight with you — he would not be my 
 son else ; and Charles de Lescure there will fight with you for 
 his King as long as the breath is in his body. The Curd there 
 — Father Jerome—will pray for you, and bless your arms ; and 
 I believe you'll find he'll fight for you too ; the whole country 
 are your friends." 
 
 "Yes," said Henri. "The whole province, down to the sea, 
 will be with us. Charette is in the Marais ready to take up 
 arms, the moment the collection of the conscripts is commenced, 
 or before, if it be necessary. M. Bonchamps, who is now at 
 Angers, will join us at once, and give us what we so much want 
 — military skill. The Prince de Talmont is with us, M. Fleuriot, 
 and M.d'Autachamps, every gentleman of standing in the country 
 will help the good cause ; my friend here, Adolphe Dcnot, will 
 fight for us to the last drop of his blood." 
 
 Cathelineau bowed graciously, as he was in this way intro- 
 duced by Larochejaquelin to his friend. Dcnot also bowed, but 
 he did it anything but graciously : two things were disagreeable 
 to him, he felt himself at the present moment to be in the back- 
 ^p-ound, and the hero of the day, the fSted person, was no better 
 than a postillion. When the rest of the party had all given their 
 
44 J^ii VettdJi, 
 
 hnnds to Cathclincau he had remained behind, he did not like 
 to put himself on an equality with such a person ; he fancied 
 even then his dignity was hurt by having to remain in his 
 company. 
 
 "And what step shall v/c first take, M. Larochejaquclin?* 
 said Cathelineau. 
 
 "What do you propose yourself?** said Henri. 
 
 *' I think we should not wait for them to punish us for our first 
 success. I think we should follow up ovir little victory, and 
 attack the republicans, at Beaupricu, perhaps, or at Cholct ; we 
 should so teach our men to fight, teach them to garrison and 
 protect their own towns, and then, perhaps, before very long, we 
 mi|-^ht fly at higher game ; we n»ight endeavour to drive these 
 wolves from their own strong places ; from Angers perhaps, or 
 Nantes, or better still, from Saumur." 
 
 "Why Saumur, especially," said Henri; "surely Nantes 
 Would be a better mark than Saumur ; besides Saumur is a 
 perfect fortress, walled on all sides, almost impregnable ; 
 whereas Nantes is not fortified at all. Saumur is reckoned the 
 strongest town in the south of France ; it is the only fortified 
 town in Anjou, Poitou, Tourraine or Southern Rritanny." 
 
 "That is just the reason, my friend," said Cathelineau, now 
 reassured by his own enthusiasm, and by his intense anxiety on 
 the subject, "that is the very reason why Saumur should be our 
 aim. The republicans now fear nothing from us, and will take 
 no more than ordinary precautions ; if we should now attack 
 other places, and commence our proceedings with some success, 
 they would make Saumur utterly impregnable : and what could we 
 do with such a place as that opposed to us on the borders of our 
 country, and on the very road to Paris. But think what it would 
 be in our favour ; it commands the Loire, it commands the road 
 from Paris, besides, it contains what we so much want, arms, 
 ammunition, and artillery ; it is from Saumur that the republican 
 troops are supplied with gunpowder j believe me, Saumur should 
 be our mark. 1 know it is difficult, there will be danger and 
 difficulties enough, 1 know : but it is not impossible, and I 
 believe it may be 'done," and then he looked round, and saw 
 where he was, and that everyone in the room was listening to 
 him, and he added, " but I am too bold to say so much before 
 my Lcrd the Marquis, and M. Larochcjac^uelin, and M. de 
 Lescurc, and the other gentlemen, whose opinions are so much 
 better than niy own." 
 
 " He is right, Henri," Said Dc Lescurc ; "take my Word, he is 
 right. We will do it, my friend," and he put his hand on the 
 postillion's shoulder. " We will be masters of Saumur, a;id you 
 shall lead us there ; we will help you to plant the King's standard 
 on the citadel of the town." 
 
CatheHueau, 45 
 
 Cathclincau was still sitting, and he looked up into l)e 
 Lescurc's face with thankful admiration. "Ah! M. dc 
 Lcscurc, with such guides as you, with such a heart, such 
 courage as yours, no walls shall hinder us, no enemies prevent 
 us." 
 
 " You shall have many such friends, Cathelineau/' said he ; 
 " many as eager, and very many more useful." 
 
 "None more useful," said the postillion; "none could be 
 more useful." 
 
 " No ; none more useful," said the Marquis ; "may you havo 
 many friends as good, and then you will succeed." 
 
 " .Sauuuu- let it be, then," said Henri. "I iiave no doubt you 
 are right ; and indeed 1 do not claim to bo great in council j I 
 only hope I may not bo found backward in action." 
 
 "That you never, never will," said Agatha. 
 
 "That he never will, Mademoiselle : a Larochcjaquclin was 
 never backward in the hour of need," said Cathelineau. 
 
 "They know how to flatter in St. Florent, my friend," said she, 
 smiling. 
 
 " If that be flattery, all the country flatters. I only speak as 
 I hear others speaking ; they say that beauty and courage were 
 always to be found at Durbelli6re." 
 
 " Nay, Agatha ; but is he not Bayard complete ?" said Marie, 
 laughing. " I am sure we should be obliged ; it is an age since 
 we received a compliment here in the Bocage," 
 
 " The ladies are laughing at me," said Cathelineau, rising, " and 
 it is time that I and my friend should cease to trouble you." 
 
 " But where would you go, Cathelineau "i" said Henri. 
 
 " Back to St. Florent ; we have gained our object ; we can 
 tell our townsmen that the gentlemen of Poitou will fight on their 
 side." 
 
 " We will tell them so together, to-morrow by sunset," said 
 Henri ; " it is now late, you and Foret stay here to-night ; not a 
 word either of you, for your life. I command this garrison ; do 
 not you, Cathelineau, be the first to show an example of dis» 
 obedience. Father Jerome, lay hands on Foret, lebt he fly. 
 Why, my friend, have we so much time to spare, that we can 
 afford to lose it in foolish ceremony ? Have avc not a thousand 
 plans to mature, — a thousand things to settle, which we must 
 settle, and none but we, and which we must discuss together ? 
 Are there not here foui, six of us, brothers in arms together? 
 I count you one, Father Jerome ; and are we not here with the 
 benefit of our father's advice ? When shall we all vntQi again, 
 or when could we meet that our meeting would be more 
 desirable? Well, go if you will, Cathclincau," added he, seeing 
 that die postillion hesitated ; " but everyone here will tell you 
 that you ate wrong to do so." 
 
 D 
 
^ La Veudtfit 
 
 " Stay, my friend," said the Marquis, who understood well the 
 different feelings which perplexed the mind of the postillion ; 
 " stay, my friend, and take vour supper with us ; you have 
 undertaken a great work, and have shown yourself fit for it, do 
 not let little things embarrass you. Agatha, dariing, see that 
 beds ht got ready for our friends. Father Jerome also will 
 remain here to-night, and Charles and Adolphe ; we may not 
 have many merry suppers more, we will at any rate enjoy to- 
 night." 
 
 "And Cathelineau," said Henri, "you wiil not, I trust, be 
 less welcome in St. Florcnt to-morrow because 1 accompany 
 you." 
 
 It was then decided that they should all remain there that 
 night, that De Lescurc and Adolphe should return with Marie 
 to Clisson on the following morning, and that Henri and the 
 priest should accompany Foret and the postillion to St. Florent, 
 i.here to make the best arrangement within their power for the 
 immediate protection of the place. 
 
 They were not very merrv that evening, but they were by no 
 means unhappy j as Henri had said, they had much to talk of, 
 and they spent an anxious evening, but each satisfied the other. 
 Cathelineau felt himself to be in a new world, sitting down at 
 table to eat with Such companions as those around him. The 
 sweet, kind face of Agatha disturbed him most. It almost un- 
 manned him ; he thought that it would be happiness enough for 
 a life to be allowed to remain unseen where he might gaze on 
 her. He felt that such biiauty, sucli incftable loveliness as hers 
 could almost make him for^^et his country and his countrymen j 
 and then he shuddered and turned his eyes away from her. But 
 there she sat close to him : and she would speak to him, and 
 ask him questions ; she asked after his friends in St. Florcnt, 
 after the women who were wounded, and she gave him money 
 for the children who were made orphans ; and then her hand 
 touched his again, and he thought that he was asleep and 
 dreaming. 
 
 Much of importance to their future plans was arranged that 
 night, and such a* council of war was probably never before 
 assembled. The old man joined in their contemplated designs 
 with as much energy as the youngest among them ; the words 
 rash and imprudent never once crossed his lips ; nothing seemed 
 rash to him that was to be undertaken for the restoration of the 
 King. The priest took a very prominent part in it, and his word 
 was certainly not for peace ; he was the most urgent of the party 
 for decided measures. De Lescure, Larochcjaquelin, and Denot, 
 argued, debated, and considered, as though war had always been 
 their profession ; but they all submitted, or were willing to 
 iubmit, to Cathelineau ; he had already commenced the wari 
 
Cafheiineau, 47 
 
 and had been successful ; he had already slicun the ready \\\\. 
 to contrive, and the bold hand to execute ; his fitness to lead 
 was acknowledged, and though two days since he was only a 
 postillion, he was tacitly acknowledged by this little band of 
 royalists to be their leader. 
 
 And there, too, among these confederates sat Agatha and 
 Marie, if not talking themselves, yet listening with almost 
 breathless attention to the plans of the party ; sharing their 
 anxiety, promising their women's aid, enchanting them with 
 their smiles, or encouraging them with their tears. Cathelincau 
 had heard how knights of old, famed in song, had spent their 
 lives among scenes of battle and danger, and all for the smiles 
 of the lady of their love ; and now he thought he understood it. 
 He could do the same to be greeted with the smiles of Agatha 
 Larochejaquelin, and he would not dream of any richer reward. 
 She was as an angel to him, who had left her own bright place 
 in heaven to illuminate the holy cause in which he had now; 
 engaged himself ; under such protection he could not be other 
 than successful. 
 
 When Foret and Cathelineaii dismounted, and were taken 
 into the house by Henri and the Curd, they left their steeds in 
 the care of Peter Berrier ; but Peter has not been left ever since 
 leading them up and down in sight of the white-washed lions. 
 The revolt of St. Florent had been heard of in the servants' hall 
 as well as in the salon upstairs, and it was soon known that the 
 heroes of the revolt were in the house, and that their horses 
 were before the door. A couple of men and two or three boys 
 soon hurripd round, and Peter was relieved from his charge, and 
 courteously led into the servants' hall by Momont, the grey- 
 headed old butler and favourite servant of the Marquis, and 
 iacques Chapeau, the valet, groom, and confidential factotum of 
 .arochejaauelin. Peter was soon encouraged to tell his tale, 
 and to explain the mission which had brought him- and his two 
 companions to Durbelli^re, and under ordinary circumstances 
 the having to tell so good a tale woul^ have been a great joy to 
 hiin ; but at the present moment Peter was not quite satisfied 
 with his own position ; why was the postillion in the salon while 
 he was in the kitchen ? Peter usually was a modest man enough, 
 and respectful to his superiors ; the kitchen table in a noble- 
 man's house would generally be an elysium to him ; he had no 
 idea that he was good enough to consort with Marquises and 
 their daughters ; but he did think himself equal to Cathelineau, 
 the postillion, and as Cathelineau was in the salon, why should 
 he be in the kitchen ? He quite understood that Cathelineau 
 was thus welcomed, thus raised from his ordinary position in 
 consequence of what he had done at St. Florent, but why 
 ihouldn'l ^, Berrier, be welcomed and raiset' hIso? He 
 
4$ La Vendii^ 
 
 couldnx b:o that Cathelincau had done more than he had 
 himself. He was the first man to resist ; he had been the first 
 hero, and yet he was left for half-an-hour to lead about a horse, 
 Rn ass, and an old mule, as tliough he were still the ostler nt an 
 auberge, and then he was mcrelv taken into the servants' hall, 
 and asked to cat cold meat, while Cathelincau was brou^'ht into 
 a grand room upstairs to talk to lords and ladies ; this made 
 Peter fidgetty and uncomfortable ; and when he heard, moreover, 
 that Cathelincau was to sup upstairs at the same table with the 
 Marquis and the ladies, all his pleasure in the revolt was de- 
 stroyed, he had no taste for the wine before him, and he wished 
 in his heart that he had joined the troops, and become a good 
 republican, lie could not bear the aristocratic foppery of that 
 Cathelincau. 
 
 "And were you a conscript yourself, Peter Berrier?" said 
 Jacques Chapeau. 
 
 " Of course I was," said Peter. " Why, hav'n't you heard what 
 the revolt of St. Florent was about ? " 
 
 . " Well ; we have heard something about it," said Moment \ 
 "but we didn't exactly hear your name mentioned." 
 
 "You couldn't have heard much of the truth then," said 
 Berricr. 
 
 " We heard," said Chapeau, " how good Cathelincau began by 
 taking three soldiers prisoners." 
 
 " 1 had twice more to do with those three prisoners than ever 
 he had," said Peter. 
 
 *' Well ; we never heard that," said Momont. 
 
 " but we heard," said Chapeau, " how Cathelincau led a few 
 of the townsmen against a wiiolc regiment of soldiers, and scat- 
 tered them through the town like chaff." 
 
 "Scattered them like chaff I" said Peter. 
 
 " And we heard," said Momont, " how he stormed the barracks, 
 slaughtered all the soldiers, and dragged the colonel with his 
 own hand through the barrack window." 
 
 " Through the barrack window ! " repeated Peter, with an air 
 intended to throw discredit on the whole story. 
 
 "And we hear^l," said Agatha's confidential maid, "how 
 he laid his hand upon the cannon and charmed it, so that it 
 would not go off, though the fiery torch was absolutely laid upon 
 the gunptjwder." 
 
 "• riiai the cannon wouldn't go off though the torch was laid 
 upon the gunpowder ! " said Peter. 
 
 " And we heard," said the cook, " how all the girls in the 
 town came and crowned him with bay leaves ; and how the 
 priest blessed liim." 
 
 " And how the young men made him their captain and theif 
 general," said the housekeeper. 
 
Cathelineau, 49 
 
 And how ihcy christened him the Saviour of St. Florcnt," 
 SAid the laundress. 
 
 " And gave him all the money in the town, and the biggest 
 sword they could find," said the page. 
 
 " You heard all this, did you ? " said Peter Berrier. 
 
 "Indeed we did," said Jacques Chapeau, "and a great deal 
 more from M. de Lescure's own man, who went back to Clisson 
 only an hour since, and who had it all from one who came direct 
 from St. Florent." 
 
 "And you heard not a word of Peter Berrier ?" 
 
 " Not a word, not a word," said they all at once. 
 
 "Then, friends, let me tell you, you have not heard much of 
 the truth, although M. de Lescure's own man did see the man 
 who came direct from St. Florent ; i think I may say, without 
 boasting, and I believe Monsieur the postillion upstairs will not 
 be inclined to contradict me, that without me, there would have 
 been no revolt." 
 
 "No revolt without you .^ No revolt without Peter Berrier? 
 No revolt without M. Debedin's ostler?" said they one after 
 another. 
 
 " No— no revolt without M. Debedin's ostler, Madame." The 
 last question had been asked by the cook. " M. Debedin's ostler 
 is as good, I suppose, as M. Gaspardieu's postillion." 
 
 " What, as good as Cathehneau? " asked Momont. 
 
 " As good as our good postillion ! " shouted Chapeau, 
 
 " As good as the holy man who charmed the cannon ! " said 
 the contidential maid in a tone of angry amazement. 
 
 " Would all the girls in St. Florent crown you with bay leaves ! " 
 jeered the cook. 
 
 " Will they ever make you a great captain ! " screamed the 
 housekeeper. 
 
 " Or call you the Saviour of St. Florent ! " added the 
 laundress. 
 
 "Or trust you with all the money, Pd like to know !** suggested 
 the page. 
 
 Peter Berrier felt that he was ill-used after all that he liad 
 gone through for his King and his country ; he sat apart for the 
 rest of the evening, and meditated whether he would go over to 
 the epublicans, and bring an army down upon Durbelli^c, or 
 whether he would more nobly revenge himself by turning out a 
 moie enterprising royalist than even the postillion himself. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 D£ LESCUR£. 
 
 I 
 
 E LESCURE with his sister returned on the following 
 morning to Clisson ; for so was his chateau called. 
 Clisson is .ibout two leagues south of the town of 
 Bressuire, in the province of Poitou, and is situated 
 in the southern part of the Bocage, M. de Lescure owned the 
 chateau and a considerable territory around It. He was a man 
 of large property in that country wuerc the properties were all 
 comparatively small, and was in other respects also by far the 
 most influential person in the neighbourhood. He had married 
 a lady with a large fortune, whicli gave him more means of as- 
 sisting the poor than most of the gentlemen resident in the 
 Bocage possessed. He took a deep interest in the welfare of 
 those around him : he shared their joys, and sympathised 
 \ -iih thcii* grief, and he was consequently beloved ana almost 
 adored. 
 
 lie had now undertaken to join with his whole heart the hv 
 surgcnts against the Republic, and he was fully determined to 
 do so ; he had made up his mind that it was his duty to oppose 
 measures which he thou'^ht dcslruciivc to the happiness of hi:: 
 countrymen, aijd to make an effort to re-establish the throne; 
 but he did not bring to tlie Work the sanguine hope of success^ 
 the absolute pkasurc in the task which animated Larocheiaque- 
 lin ; nor yet the sacred enthusiastic chivalry of Cathelincau, 
 who was firmly convinced of the truth of his cause, and believed 
 that the Justice of Cod would not allow the murderers of a King 
 and the blasphcincis of His name to prevail against the arms of 
 people who were both loyal and faithful. 
 
 De Lescure had studied and thought much ; he Was older 
 than Larochejaquelin, much belter educated than Cathelineau. 
 He was as ardent in the cause as they were ; v.hy else had h« 
 
Di Lcscuie. 5 1 
 
 undertaken it ? but lie understood bolter than they did the fearful 
 chances which were against ihcni ; the odds against wliich they 
 had to fight, the almost insuperable difficulties in their way. He 
 knew that the peasantry around them would be brave and en- 
 thusiastic followers, but he also knew that it would be long 
 before they were disciplined soldiers. He was sure that they 
 would fight stoutly round their homes and their families ; but he 
 felt that it would be almost impossible to lead any body of them 
 to a distance from their own fields. He foresaw, also, all the 
 horrors into which they were about to plunge; horrors, of which an 
 honorable death on the field of battle would be the least. The 
 llcpublic had already shown the bitterness of their malice 
 towards those who opposed them, and De Lescurc knew what 
 mercy it would show to those of his party who fell into its power. 
 lJesideS;how could they hope for success against the arms of a 
 whole nation supported by a despotic government. His friepds 
 talked sanguinely of aid from England, from Austria, and from 
 Prussia ; but he feared that that aid would come too laic, after 
 liicir houses were burnt and their fields destroyed ; after the best 
 among Ihcm had fallen ; after their children had been murdered ; 
 when the the country should be de-populated, and nothing but 
 the name of La Vendde left. 
 
 With all these fears around his heart, and yet with a firm 
 determination to give himself entirely to the cause in which he 
 was embarked, De Lescure rode home to tell his young wife, to 
 whom he was but barely two years married, that he must not 
 only leave her, and give up the life so congenial to both their 
 tastes, which they had lately led : but that he was going to place 
 himself in constant danger, and leave her and all he loved in 
 danger also. 
 
 "You must be very good to Victorine," he said to his sister ; 
 " you must be very good to each other, Marie, for you will both 
 have much to bear." 
 
 " We will, we will," said Marie ; " but you, Charles, you will 
 be with us ; at any rale, not far from us." 
 
 " I may be near you, and yet not with you ; or I may soon be 
 placed beyond all human troubles. I would have you prepare 
 yourself ; of all the curses which can fall on a country, a civil 
 war is the most cruel." 
 
 Madame de Lescurc was the daughter of a nobleman of high 
 rank ; she had been celebrated as a beauty, and known to possess 
 a great fortune ; she had been feted and caressed in the world, 
 but she had not been spoiled ; she was possessed 6f much miiet 
 sense ; and though she was a woman of strong passions, she kept 
 them under control. When her husband told her, therefore, that 
 the quiet morning of their life was over, that they had now to 
 wade through contest, bloodshed, and civil war, and that pro* 
 
53 La VtiuU'e* 
 
 bably all their earthly bliss would be brought to a violent end 
 before the country was again quiet, she neither screamed nor 
 fainted ; but she felt what he intended that she should feel, that 
 she must now, more entirely than ever, look for her happiness 
 in some world beyond the present one. 
 
 " I know, Victorine," said he, when they were alone together 
 in the evening, when not even his own dear sister Marie was 
 there to mar the sacred sweetness of their conference, "I know 
 that I am doing right, and that gives me strength to leave you 
 and our darling child. I know that I am about to do my duty ; 
 and you would not v.ish that I should remain here in safety, 
 when my King and my country require my services." 
 
 " No, Charles ; I would never wish that you should be dis- 
 graced in your own estimation. I could perfectly disregard 
 what all others said of you, as long as you were satisfied with 
 your own conduct ; but 1 would not for any worldly happiness 
 that you should live a coward in your own esteem." 
 
 "My own, own Victorine,'' said he, "how right you arc! 
 What true happiness could we have ever had, if we attempted to 
 enjoy it at the expense of our countrymen ! Every man owes 
 his life to his country ; in happy, quiet times, that debt is best 
 paid by the performance of homely quiet duties ; but our great 
 Father has not intended that lot for us." 
 
 " Mis will be done. He may yet turn away from us this 
 misery. Wc may yet live, Charles, to look on these things as 
 our dearest reminiscences." 
 
 " We may ; but it is not the chance for which we should be 
 best prepared. Wc are not to expect that God will raise his 
 I arm especially to vindicate our injuries ; it would be all but 
 j blasphemous to ask Ilim to do so. Wc arc but a link in the 
 I chnin of events which His wisdom has designed. Should we 
 ! wish that that chain should be broken for our purposes ?" 
 \ " .Surely not. 1 would not be so presumptuous as to name 
 1 ttiy own wishes in my prayers to the Creator." 
 i "No ; leave it to His wisdom to arrange our weal or woe in 
 this world ; satisfied with this, that He has promised us happi- 
 ness in the world which is to come." 
 
 " I must leave you on Monday, dearest," continued he, after 
 n pause, during which he sat with his wife's hand within his 
 own. 
 
 " So soon, Charles ! " 
 
 *' Yes, dearest, on Monday. Henri and Adolphe, and others, 
 will be here on Sunday; and our different duties will commence 
 immediately." 
 
 "And will yours keep you altogether away from Clisson ? " 
 
 " Very nearly so ; at any rate, I could not name the d.ay or 
 the week when I might be with you. You and Marie will be 
 
De Lescure, y^ 
 
 nil in all to each olhcr now •, do not let hci tlroop and grow sad, 
 Viclorinc." 
 
 " Nay, Charles, it is she should comfort me ; she loves no 
 dear husband. Marie dotes on you ; but 9iie can never feel 
 for a brother as I must feci for you." 
 
 " She is younj;cr than you, Victorine, and has not your 
 strength of mind." 
 
 " She has fewer cares to trouble her ; but we will help each 
 other ; it will be much to me to have her with me in your 
 absence. I know she is giving up much in returning to Clisson, 
 and she does it solely for my sake." 
 
 " How I what is she giving up ? Will she not be better in 
 her own home than elsewhere in such times as these." 
 
 " She might choose to change her home, Charles ; I had a 
 happy, happy home, but I should not have been contented to 
 remain there till now. I found that something more than my 
 own old home was necessary to my happiness." 
 
 " You have made but a sad exchange, my love." 
 
 "Would I for all the world recall what I have done? Have 
 I ever repented .'* Shall I ever repent ? No ; not though your 
 body were brought breathless to your own hall door, would I 
 exchange my right to mourn over it, for the lot of the happiest 
 bride just stepping from the altar in all the pride of loveliness 
 and rank ? " 
 
 " My own true love. But tell me, what is this you mean 
 about Marie. Surely she is not betrothed without my know- 
 ledge." 
 
 " Betrothed ! Oh, no ! Nor won, nor wooed, as far as I 
 believe ; but wc women, Charles, see through each other's little 
 secrets. I think she is not indifferent to Henri Larochejaquelin; 
 and how should she be ! How few she sees from whom to 
 choose ; and if all France were before her feet, how could she 
 make a better choice than him." 
 
 " Poor Marie, from my heart I pity her ; in any other times 
 than these, how I would have gloried to have given Henri my 
 sister ; but now, these arc no times to marry, or to give in 
 marriage. Henri has stern, hard work to do, and he is bent on 
 doing it ; ay, and he will do it. No one will carry the standard 
 of his King further into the ranks of the republicans than Henri 
 I-arochejaquelin." 
 
 " I know one, Charles, who will, at any rate be beside him." 
 
 "But he is so full of glorious confidence — so • certain of 
 success. He will go to battle with the assured hope of victory, 
 I shall fight expecting nothing but defeat." 
 
 " You are melancholy, to-night, my love : something ails you 
 beyond your dread of the coming struggle." 
 
 ** Can I be other than melancholy ? I have no hope.* 
 
$4 La VtndU, 
 
 ** No hope, Charles. Oh ! do not say you have no hope.** 
 
 "None in this world, Victorine. The Indian widow, when 
 she throws herself on the burning pile, with a noble courai^e 
 does what she has been taugiit to look upon as a sacred 
 duty, but she cannot but dread the fire which is to consume 
 her." 
 
 " You would not liken yourself to her ? ** 
 
 "Through the mercy of our blessed Saviour 1 am not so 
 mistaken in my creed ; but I am hardly less calamitous in mv 
 fate; but it is not the prospect of my own sufferings which 
 disturb me ; I at any rate may be assured of an honourable, 
 even an enviable death. It is my anxiety for you — for our little 
 one --and for dear Marie, which makes my spirit sad." 
 
 "God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb," said Madame 
 de Lescure. " Our trtalywtlt'Tiol be harder than we can 
 bear." 
 
 " God blcis you for those wOrds, dearest : there is comfort in 
 them — real, true comfort. But remember them yourself, 
 Victorine ; remember them when you will most want them. 
 When great sorrow comes home to your bosom, as it will do ; 
 when atHiction is heavy on you, when worldly comforts are 
 leaving you, when enemies arc around you, when the voices of 
 cruel men are in your ears, and their cruel deeds before your 
 eyes, then remember, my love, that God will temper the wind to 
 the-shorn lamb." ^ 
 
 " I will, my own Charles, I will," said she, now kneeling at 
 hij feet, and burying her face in her hands upon his knees } 
 " if I am called upon to bear these miseries, I will remember 
 it." 
 
 "And look up, Victorine; look up, dearest. I would have 
 you prepared for the worst. Listen to me now calmly, love, 
 and then I need not harrow you with these thoughts again. It 
 may be God's pleasure that 1 should outlive this war ; but as, 
 with His will, 1 am determined that I will never lay down my 
 sword till the soldiers of the Republic are driven from the 
 province, it is moAt improbable that I should do so. You must 
 teach yourself, Victorine, to look for my death as an event 
 certain to occur, which any day may bring forth ; and when the 
 heavy news is brought to you, bear it as a Christian woman 
 should bear the afflictions of this world. I do not ask you not 
 to weep for me, for that would be putting too violent a con* 
 btraint ui)on your nature, but do not weep over muchi Above 
 all, Victorine, do not allow your sorrow to paralyse your 
 actions. You will have to act then, not only for yourself, 
 but for your child — for my daughter ; and if you then give 
 way to the violence of sorrow, who shall think and care for 
 her f ■* 
 
 ••• . 
 
De Lescure, 55 
 
 She laid her beautiful head upon his. bosom, and wept, and 
 promised, and prayed for him. And when he had finished 
 what he felt he had to say, what he wished to say once, and 
 but once, before he left her, he became more cheerful, and 
 seemed to have more spirit for his work than he had hitherto 
 shown. 
 
 " And so," he said, after a while, " poor Marie is in love." 
 
 " Nay ; I did not say she was in love — not in the deep depth 
 of absolute love — but I think she is not indifferent to Henri : 
 were she truly and earnestly in love, she would have told 
 me so." 
 
 " Not indifferent to him, and yet not in love. Faith, Victorine, 
 I know not the difference ; but you women are such adepts 
 in the science, that you have your degrees of comparison 
 in it." 
 
 ** Marie, then, has not yet reached the first degree, for hers is 
 not even downright positive love ; but I am sure she is fond of 
 Henri's society ; and now, poor girl, she must give it up — and 
 probably for ever." 
 
 "As you said a while since, Victorine, how should she not like 
 his society? I can fancy no man more fit to be the cynosure 
 of a woman's eye than Larochejaquelin. He has that beauty 
 which women love to look on : the bold bright eye, the open 
 forehead, the frank, easy smile, and his face is only a faithful 
 index to his heart ; he is as frank as brave, and yet as tender- 
 hearted as he looks to be ; he is specially formed to love and to 
 be loved," 
 
 " Poor Marie ! I grieve that you brought her from Dur« 
 bcllicre.". ^ 
 
 " Not so. Victorine ; this is the place for Marie now ; indeed, 
 dear girl, she knew that well herself. The Marquis pressed her 
 hard to stav, and I said nothing ; but Marie insisted on coming 
 home. I tnought Henri looked somewhat more sombre than is 
 his wont, as he was leading her down the steps : but he cannot, 
 must not, think of love now, Victorine, La Vendue now wants 
 all his energies." 
 
 ** But you would not forbid him to love her, Charles ? " 
 
 " I could forbid him nothing, for I love him as Joseph loved 
 his younger brother Benjamin." 
 
 " And he will be here now backwards and forwards, will ho 
 not?" 
 
 ** Probably he will — that is as circumstances rhay arise — he 
 is, at any rate, as I'kely to be at Clisson as Durbelli^re." 
 
 " He will be more likely, Charles, take my word for it ; you 
 cannot prevent their meeting ; you cannot hinder them from 
 loving each other." 
 ** Were the King upon his throne, it would be my greatest joy 
 
56 La Vendue. 
 
 to give my sister to my friend, but now— it is the same for all of 
 US— we must take the chance of these horrid times ; and could 
 they be taught to quench the warm feelings of their young 
 hearts, it were well for both of them, The cold, callous dis- 
 position would escape much misery, which will weigh down to 
 the grave the loving and the generous." 
 
 On the next morning, Madame de Lcscure spoke to her 
 sister-in-law on the same subject. She could not bring herself 
 to look on things around her quite so darkly as her husband 
 did. She could not think that there was no longer any hope in 
 their once happy country for the young and the generous, the 
 beautiful and the brave ; of herself and her own lot, her 
 thoughts were sombre enough. De Lescure had imbued her 
 with that presentiment, which he himself felt so strongly, that 
 he should perish in the conflict in which he was about to 
 engage ; but all would not surely be doomed to share her cup 
 of sorrow. She loved Marie dearly, and she loved Henri, not 
 only from what her husband so often said of him, but from 
 what she knew of him herself ; and she longed in her woman's 
 heart that they should be happy together. 
 
 It was still March, but it was on a bright warm spring morn- 
 ing that Madame de Lescure was walking with her sister-in- 
 law in the gardens at Clisson. Marie was talking of her brother 
 — of the part he was to take in the war— of the gallant Cathe* 
 lineau, and of the events which were so quickly coming on 
 them ; but Madame de Lescure by degrees weaned her from 
 the subject and brought her to that on which she wished to 
 speak. 
 
 " M. Larochejaquclin will be much here as long as this 
 fighting lasts, and M. Denot : we shall have plenty of brave 
 knights coming to and fro to lay their trophies at your feet." 
 
 " Poor M. Dcnot — his trophies, if he gets any, will be taken to 
 l)urbcllicre ; and I fear me, when he offers them, they will not 
 be welcomed. Agatha loves him not ; she thinks he shares his 
 adoration too equally between her and his looking-glass." 
 
 " I do not wonder at it ; no one can deny that M. Dehot is 
 attractive, but he' attracts without retaining ; were I ever so 
 much in want of lovers, I could not endure M. Denot's atten- 
 tions for more than one evening at the utmost ; but our other 
 knight — our Q\\i^x preux chevalier^ sans pair et sans reproche — 
 at whose feet will he lay his trophies, Marie? who is to wreath a 
 crown of bay leaves for his brow } " 
 
 *' His countrywomen should all unite to do it, Victorine — for 
 he is going to kittle for them all — every village girl, whose 
 -lover is still left to walk with her on the Sabbath evening— 
 every young wife, who can still lay her baby in her husband's 
 arms— every ♦r«other, who still rejoices in the smile of her 
 
De Lescurc, 57 
 
 sliiKvart son ; they should all unite to wreath a crown for the 
 brow of Henri Larochcjaquclin." 
 
 "And so they shall, Marie; but there will be others also, 
 whose valour will claim a token of admiration from the gratitude 
 of their countrywomen ; we will all do this for Henri and our 
 other brave defenders ; but if I know his character, the gratitude 
 of many will not make him happy without the favour of one, 
 and she will be the lady of his love ; the remembrance of whose 
 smiles will bear him scat4ieless through the din of the battle." 
 
 " I should be vain, Victorine, if I pretended to misunderstand 
 your questions," said Marie; "but why you should mix my 
 name with that of M. Larochejaquelin, without vanity I do not 
 know." 
 
 " It does not offend you, Marie ?" 
 
 " OfTend me, dearest Victorine ! how should I be offended 
 with anything you could say ? '' 
 
 " But would it offend you to see Henri Larochejaquelin at 
 your feet." 
 
 "Is there any girl in France who would have a right to 
 be offended at seeing him there, if he came with a tale of 
 true love } " 
 
 " You may be sure at least that Henri will never sully his lips 
 with false vows," said Madame de Lescure. 
 
 " He has at any rate made no vows to me, Victorine, nor given 
 me cause to suppose he ever will." 
 
 " lUit should he do so, Marie ?" 
 
 " Now you ask me questions which you know it only becomes 
 me to answer in one way." 
 
 "Why, Marie, I declare you and I have changed characters 
 this morning. You are all sobriety when I make a poor attempt 
 at joking with you. Were I, as usual, talking of my sober cares, 
 you would be as giddy as a girl of fifteen, and talk to me of 
 twenty lovers that you have." 
 
 " It is very different talking of twenty lovers, and of one." 
 
 "Then you own there is one lover in the case — eh, Marie?" 
 
 "Now you are crafty, Victorine, and try to trap me into con- 
 fessions. You know I have no confession to make, or I should 
 have made it long ago to you." 
 
 "I know, Marie, that Larochejaquelin is sad when you are. 
 not by, and that he has a word for no one else v/hen you are 
 present ; but I know not whether that means love. I know also 
 that your bright eyes brighten when they rest on him, and that 
 your heart beats somewhat faster at the mention of his name ; 
 but I know not whether that means love," 
 
 "Victorine," said Marie, turning round upon her companion 
 her beautiful face, on which two lustrous tears were shining, 
 ** Victorine. vou arc treating your poor sister unfairly, I know 
 
not that my eyes are turned oftener on him than on others { «nd 
 when my heart would play the rebel within me, I always try to 
 check it." 
 
 " Nay, Marie, dear Marfe, I did but joke ! You do not think 
 I woi^d accuse you of unmaidenly partiality ; if it grieves you 
 we will not mention Henri's name again, though I remember 
 when you did not spare me so easily ; when Charles's name was 
 always in my ear, when you swore that every dress I wore was 
 his choice, that every flower I plucked was for his eye | and 
 there had been no more then between Charles and me, than 
 there has now between you and Henri ; and yet you see what 
 has become of it. You thought yourself wonderfully clever 
 then, Marie } you were quite a prophetess then. Why should 
 hot I now foresee a little. Why should not I also be clever ? " 
 
 " Well, Victorine, time will show," said Marie, smiling through 
 her tears ; " but do not teach me to love him too dearly, till I 
 know whether he will value my love. If he would prize it, I fear 
 he might have it for the asking for ; but I will not throw it at 
 his feet, that he should keep it loosely for awhile, and then scorn 
 It, and lay it by." 
 
i' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 RECRUITING. 
 
 N the Monday following the meeting at Diirbclli^re, 
 Larochciaquclin, Dcnot, the Curd of St. Laud's, Foret, 
 and Cathclincau joined M.de Lcscurc at Clisson,nnd 
 on the day afterwards, the soldiers of the Republic, 
 when attempting to collect the conscripts at a small town near 
 Clisson, were resisted and treated as they had been at St. 
 Florent. There was not quite so much of a battle, for the 
 officer in command' knew what was likely to occur, and not 
 having received any reinforcement of troops, thought it advisable 
 to give in early in the day, and capitulate with the honours of 
 war. He was allowed to march his men out of the town, each 
 man having stipulated that he would not again serve in any 
 detachment sent into La Vendee for the collection of conscripts ; 
 but they were not allowed to take their arms with them, muskets, 
 bayonets, and gunpowder being too valuable to the insurgents 
 to be disregarded. So the soldiers marched unarmed to Nantes, 
 and from thence returned, before two months were over, in spite 
 of the promises they had given, and requited the mercy of the 
 V'cndcans with the most horrid cruelties. 
 
 The people were equally triumphant in many other towns. In 
 Deaupricu, Coron, Chatillon, and other places, the collection of 
 conscripts wa:j opposed successfully, and generally speaking, 
 without much bloodshed. In Coron, the military fired on the 
 people, and killed three or four of them, but were ultimately 
 driven out. In lieauprieu, they gave up their arms at once, 
 and marched out of the place. In Chatillon, they attempted to 
 defend the barracks, but they fou«d, when too late, that they 
 had not a single day's provisions ; and as the townspcopk also 
 kiiew this, they were at no pains to besiege the stronghold of 
 the soldiers. They knew that twentvrfour hours -.vould starve 
 
6o la Vendue. 
 
 them out. As it was, the lieutenant in command gave up, half- 
 an-hour after his usual dinner time. 
 
 These things all occurred within a week of the revolt at 
 St. Florcnt Bcaupricu and Chdtillon were carried on the 
 Wednesday. Coron was victorious on the Thursday ; and on 
 the Friday following, a strong detachment of soldiers marched 
 out of Cholct, of their own accord, without attempting to collect 
 their portion of the levy, and crossed the river Loire at the Pont 
 de CC;, thus retreating from La Vcndc'e. 
 
 These triumphs inspired the insurgents with high hopes of 
 future victories ; they gave them the prestige of success, made 
 them conlident in the liour of l>;Ulle,and taught them by degrees 
 to bear, uiuhuiiUed, the fire of their enemies. The officers of 
 the Republic were most injudicious in allowing their enemies to 
 gather head as they did ; had they brought a really formidable 
 force of men, in one body, into the province of Anjou, imme- 
 diately upon the revolt of St. Florent, they might doubtless have 
 driven the \'endcans, who were then unarmed and undisciplined, 
 back to their farms ; but they affected to despise them, they 
 neglected to take vigorous measures, till the whole country was 
 in arms ; and they then found that all the available force which 
 they were enabled to collect, was insufficient to quell the spirit, 
 or daunt the patriotism of the revolted provinces. 
 
 Towards the end of April, the first attempt was made by the 
 Vendcan chiefs to collect a body of men under arms, and to put 
 them into motion, for the purpose of performing service at a 
 distance from their own homes ; and though considerable 
 difficulty was felt in inducing them to follow the standards, their 
 first attempts were successful. In the early part of May, they 
 altogether succeeded in driving the soldiers out of Thouars. A 
 few days later, they did the same at Kontenay, though here they 
 met with a violent opposition, and much blood was shed. At 
 these two latter places, the cannon which Cathelineau had taken 
 in so gallant a manner at St. Florent, was brought into action, 
 and quite supported its character as a staunch royalist. At 
 Fontcnay, with its aid, they took three or four other pieces of 
 cannon, but none which they prized as they did Marie Jeanne. 
 It was universally credited among the peasantry, that at Cathe- 
 lineau's touch, this remarkable piece of artillery had positively 
 refused to discharge itself against the Vendeans ; and their 
 leaders certainly were at no pains to disabuse them of a belief 
 which contributed so strongly to their enthusiasm. 
 
 Some of the more astute .among the |X!ople had certainly 
 thought for a while that the cannon was a humbug, that it was 
 useless either to royalist or to republican, in fact, that it would 
 never go off at all. But these sceptics were cured of their 
 infidelity at Th^^-^nrs, when they saw the soldiers as well as the 
 
republicans of the town fall in heaps beneath the thunders of 
 Marie Jeanne. 
 
 Durinj; April and the three weeks of May, Larochejaquelin 
 and I)e Lescuie, together with Cathelineau, Denot, and M. Bon- 
 champs, were actively engaged in collecting and exhorting the 
 P'.'oplc, planning what they should do, and preparing themselves 
 to l)ear that burst of republican fury which they knew would, 
 sooner or later, fall upon them. 
 
 Much of this time was spent at Clisson, as that place was 
 centrically situated for their different manoeuvres ; and there 
 certainly appeared reason to suppose that Madame dc Lescurc 
 WPS not altogether wrong in her surmises respecting Marie. 
 Here also, at Clisson, Cathelineau frequently joined the party, 
 and though he showed by his language and demeanour that he 
 had not forgotten that he was a postillion, he gradually acquired 
 a confidence and case of manner among his new associates, and 
 jli^played a mixture of intelligence and enthusiasm, which 
 induced his confederates generally to acknowledge his voice as 
 tlie first in their councils. 
 
 They were occasionally at Durbclli^re ; but there Cathelineau 
 v/as again abashed and confused. He could not calmly endure 
 the quiet loveliness of Agatha's face, or the sweet music of her 
 voice. He himself felt that his brain was not cool when there ; 
 that his mind was gradually teaching itself to dwell on subjects, 
 which in his position would be awfully dangerous to him. He 
 never owned to himself that he was in love with the fair angel, 
 whom he considered as much above him as the skies are abovo 
 the earth ; but he would walk for hours through those eternal 
 paths in the chateau garden, regardless of the figures, 
 regardless of the various turns and twists he took, dream- 
 ing of the l)liss of being beloved by such a woman as 
 Agatha Larochejaquelin. He built for hmiself splendid castles 
 in the air, in which he revelled day after day ; and in these ^ 
 dreams he always endowed himself with that one gift which no 
 talents, no cburage, no success could give him — high birth and 
 noble blood, for he strongly felt that without these, no one might 
 look up to the goddess of his idolatry j it was his delight to 
 imagine to himself with what ecstacy he would receive from her 
 lips the only adequate reward of his patriotism ; he would 
 quicken his pace with joy as he dreamt that he heard her sweet 
 voice bidding him to persevere, and then he would return to hei 
 after hard lighting, long doubtful but victorious battles, and lay 
 at her feet honours worthy of her acceptance. 
 
 It can hardly be said that he himself was the hero of his own 
 reveries ; he was assured beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the 
 proud happiness which he pictured to his imagination was as 
 much beyond his own reach, as though his thoughts were turned 
 
 \ 
 
6i La Vendue, 
 
 on some celestial being. No, it was a creation of his bratt), in 
 which he dwelt awhile, till his own strong good sense reminded 
 him that he had other work before him than the indulgence in 
 such dreams, and he determined that he would be at DurbelTi^re 
 as little as was possible. 
 
 It was singular though, that hc contrived, while his imagina- 
 tion was thus rambling, to mingle in his thoughts the actual and 
 the ideal. The revolt of La Vcndde» the struggle of his brother 
 royalists for the restoration of their King ; the annihilation ot 
 republicanism, and re-cstablishmcnt of the old clergy, were still 
 the subjects of his meditations ; and the bold plans which his 
 mind then suggested to him, were those which were afterwards 
 put into effect. 
 
 He still insisted on attacking the strongly fortified citadel of 
 Saumur, and after their success at Fontenay, the chiefs agreed 
 at once to make arrangements for that great undertaking. Tht- 
 tenth of June was settled on as tlic day on which the atta^;: 
 should be commenced, and their utmost efforts in the meantime 
 were to be employed in raising recruits, arming and drilling 
 them, and collecting ammunition and stores of war sufficient for 
 so serious an operation. 
 
 For this purpose Cathelineau returned for a while to St« 
 Florent. M. Charette was requested to bring up all the men he 
 could collect from the Marais, a part of La Vendee which lies 
 close upon the sea. M. lionchamps was invited to join them 
 from Angers, Ue Lescure returned to Fontenay, to ask the 
 assistance of those who had been so successful there against the 
 republicans; v/hile Henri Larochejaqueliri was left at home in 
 the Bocage, to secure the services of every available man from 
 every village. 
 
 He had two comrades with him in hii; recruiting party ; and 
 though they were of very different characters, they were almost 
 equally servicable. One was his friend a;nd priest, the Curd of 
 St. Laud, and the other was his servant Jacques Chapeau. The 
 Curd had no scrupulous compunction in using his sacerdotal 
 authority as a priest, when the temporal influence of Laroche* 
 jaquelin, as landlord, was insufficient to induce a countryman to 
 leave his wife and home to seek honou.r under the walls of 
 Saumur. The peasants were all willing; to oppose the re- 
 publican troops, should they com*; into their own neighbour- 
 hood to collect conscripts ; th'ey were rciuiy to attack any town 
 wliere republican soldiers were quarteretfi, providing they were 
 not required to go above a day's march from their own homes ; 
 but many objected to enrol themselves for any length of time, to 
 bind themselves as it were to a soldier's trade, and to march 
 under arms to perform service at a dist mce from their farms, 
 which to them seemed considerable. With sucn men as these, 
 
Recruiting, 63 
 
 and with their wives and sisters, Henri argued, and used his 
 blandest eloquence, and was usually suctessful ; but when he 
 Tailed, the Curd was not slow in having recourse to the irresist- 
 ible thunders of the church. 
 
 No one could have been fitter for the duties of a recruiting- 
 sergeant than Jacques Chapeau ; and to his great natural 
 talents in that line, he added a patriotic zeal, which he copied 
 from his master. No one could be more zealous in the service 
 cif the King, and for the glory of La Vendue, than was Jacques 
 Chapeau. Jacques had been in Paris with his master, and find- 
 ing that all his fellow-servants in the metropolis were admirers 
 of the revolution, he had himself acquired a strong revolutionary 
 tendency. His party in Paris had been the extreme Ultra- 
 Democrats : he had been five or six times at the Jacobins, three 
 or four times at the Cordeliers ; lie had learnt to look on a lamp- 
 rope as the proper destination of an aristocrat, and considered 
 himself equal to anybody, but his master, and his master's 
 friends. On Henri's return to La Venddc, he had imbued him- 
 self with a high tone of loyalty, without any difficulty or con- 
 straint on his feelings ; indeed, he was probably unaware that 
 he had changed his party : he had an appetite for strong politics, 
 was devotedly attached to his master, and had no prudential 
 misgivings whatsoever. He had already been present at one or 
 two affairs in which his party had been victorious, and war 
 seemed to him twice more exciting, twice more dehghtful than 
 the French Opera, or even the Jacobin Clubs. 
 
 Jacques Chapeau was about five years older than his master, 
 and was as active and well made a little Frenchman, as ever 
 danced all night at a ball outside the barriers of Paris. He was 
 a light-hearted and kind-hearted creature, although he always 
 considered it necessary to have mortal enemies — horrid, 
 blasphemous, blood-thirsty fellows, men devoid of feeling, 
 without faith, hope, or charity, who would willingly slaughter 
 women and children for the mere pleasure of doing so. Such, 
 in Chapeau's imagination, were all his enemies ; — such had been 
 the aristocrats during the time of his revolutionary fervour ; — " 
 such now were the republicans. Chapeau loved his own side 
 truly and faithfully, without any admixture of self in his calcula- 
 tions, but I certainly cannot say for him that he was a good 
 Christian, for all the clergymen in Anjou could not have taught 
 him to love his enemies. 
 
 On a beautiful summer's morning, on the 2nd of June, this 
 remarkable recruiting party rode from Durbelliere to the little 
 village oi Echanbroignes ; the distance was about four leagues, 
 and their road lay, the whole way, through the sweet green leafy 
 ianes of the Bocage. The aspect of this province is very 
 singular, and in summer most refreshing. The country i» 
 
64 /'rt Vttith'i, 
 
 divided into small farms, which arc almost entirely occupied 
 with pasture 5 the farms are again divided into small fields, and 
 each field is surrounded by a belt of trees, growing out of high 
 preen, rtewering hedges. The face of the country is like a 
 thickly wooded demesne, divided and subdivided into an infinity 
 of little paddocks. The narrow lanes of the country, which arc 
 barely broad enoiij;h for the wheels of a carriaj^e, ana are seldom 
 visited by such a vehicle, lie between thick, high hedges, which 
 completely overshadow them ; the wayfarer, therefore, never has 
 before him that long, straight, tedious, unsightly line of road, 
 which adds so greatly to the fatigue of travelling in an open 
 country, and is so painful to the eye. 
 
 Through such n lane as this our party rode quickly and 
 cheerily ; quickly, for they had much work before them for that 
 day ; and cheerily, for they knew that the people among whom 
 they were goiii;.: would join thorn with enthusiasm. They were 
 all well mounted, for they rode the best horses from the stables 
 of Durbcllierc : the old Marquis would have blushed to have 
 given less than the best to the service of his King. 
 
 Chapeau was peculiarly elated at the prospect of his day's 
 work ; but his joy was not wholly professional ; for Jacques now 
 accounted himself a soldier by j)rofession. lie had another 
 reason for the more than ordinary gaiety with which he trotted 
 on towiirdn Mchanbroli^ncs. There Wiwj there n certain smith, 
 named Michael Stein, who had two stalwart sons, whon\ Jac<|(U'H 
 burnt to v\\\'u\ in his loyal band of warrior.s ; this smith h.ul aUo 
 one dau^'hter, Annot Stein, who, in the eyes of Jacques Chapeau, 
 combined every female charm ; she was young and rosy ; she 
 had soft hair and bright eyes ; she could dance all nignt, and 
 was known to possess in her own right some mysterious little 
 fortune, left to her by nobody knew what grandfather or grand- 
 inoiher, and amounting, so said report, to the comfortable sun\ 
 of live hundred francs. When Chapeau had risen to some high 
 military position, a field-marshal's baton, or the gold-laced cap of 
 a sergeant-major, with whom could he share his honours better 
 than with his dear little friend, Annot Stein ? Jacques wanted 
 her advice upori this subject, and he therefore rejoiced greatly 
 that the path of duty was leading him this morning to Kchan- 
 broigncs. 
 
 "Wo may be sure. Father Jerome," said Henri, " of those men 
 from St. Michael?" 
 
 " Of every man. You will find there will not be a 
 defaulter." 
 
 " God send it ; one traitor makes many, as sheep follow each 
 other through a hedge row." 
 
 *' Do not fear them, my son. Father Franqols has the li^t af 
 them ; he will have every man collected by daylight on the 7th, 
 
Rccfuitin/r, 65 
 
 and he will come on with them himself as far as the cross-roads ; 
 they will there meet my own children from St. Laud." 
 
 " There were to be one liundred and seventy-five from St. 
 Michael." 
 
 " Yes ; and one hundred and forty from St. Laud ; and thirty 
 will have joined us from Petit Anr^c de Poitou before we reach 
 the turn from St. Michael." 
 
 " And have you positively determined you will start with them 
 from St. Laud's yourself, Father Jeiomc." 
 
 " With God's will, my son, I most assuredly shall do so ; and 
 from that to the walls of Saumur, they shall sec before them my 
 tattered Curd's frock, and the blessed symbol of their hope. I 
 will carry the cross before them from the porch of the little 
 church which shall once more be my own, till I plant it on the 
 citadel of Saumur beside the standard of the King." 
 
 " Oh I if we had a few more Father Jeromes ! " said Henri. 
 
 "There might perhaps be more soldiers in La Vendue than 
 at present ; but perhaps also there would be fewer Christians," 
 said the priest. " May God forgive me if, in my zeal for my 
 King, I am too remiss in His service." 
 
 They rode on a little way in silence, for Father Jerome felt a 
 slight qualm of conscience at his warlike proceedings, and Henri 
 did not like to interrupt his meditations ; but the Curd soon 
 recovered himself. 
 
 " I shall have a goodly assemblage of followers," said he, 
 " before I reach Coron. Those from Echanbroignes will join us 
 half-a-mile from the town. There will be above two hundred 
 from Echanbroignes." 
 
 *' Will there } So many as that, think you ? " 
 
 "They will muster certainly not short of two hundred. Neir 
 seven hundred men will follow me into Coron on the evening of 
 the 7th." 
 
 "They shall find provisions there in plenty — meat, bread, and 
 wine. The are not used to lie soft ; they will not grumble at 
 having clean straw to sleep on." 
 
 " They shall grumble at npthing, my friend ; if your care can 
 supply them with food, well ; if not, we will find bread enough 
 among the townsfolk. There is not a housewife in Coron who 
 would refuse me the contents of her larder." 
 
 " The bullocks are ready for the butcher's axe in the stalls at 
 Durbelli^re, please your reverence," said Chapeau, who rode 
 near enough to his master to take a part in the conversation as 
 occasion offered. " And the stone wine-jars are ready corked. 
 Momont saw to the latter part himself. May the saints direct 
 that the drinking have not the same effect upon our friends that 
 the corking had on Momont, or there will be many sick hcati" 
 aches in Coron on ]the next morning." 
 
56 ^(^ VdUiUi, 
 
 "There will be too many of us for that, Jacques five Hun* 
 dred throats will dispose of much good wine, so as to do but 
 little injury." 
 
 " That would be true, your reverence, were not some tliroats 
 so much wider than others. You will always see that one porker 
 half empties the trough before others have moistened their 
 snouts in the mess." 
 
 "We will see to that, Jacques. Wc will appoint some 
 temperate fellow butler, or rather some strong-fisted fellow, 
 whose thick head much wine will not hurt ; though he may swill 
 himself, he will not let others do so." 
 
 "If it were not displeasing to yourself and to M. Henri, I 
 would undertake all that myself. Each man of the five hutultcd 
 should have his own share of meat and drink at Coron, and the 
 same again at Doui5." 
 
 "Will not Jacques be with you?" said the priest, turning 
 round to Henri, " What should bring him to Coron among my 
 men?" 
 
 " He says he has friends here in Echanbroignes, and he has 
 begged that he may be here with them on the evening of the 
 r)ih, so as to accompany them into Coron on the 7th. Wc shall 
 all meet at Douc on the 8th." 
 
 " I was thinking, your reverence, if any here were loiterers, as 
 there may be some, I fear ; or if there should be any ill inclined 
 to leave their homes, my example might encourage them, 1 
 have a liking for the village, and I should feel disgraced were a 
 single able-bodied man to be found near it after the morning of 
 the 7th." 
 
 " I trust they will not need any one to remind them of their 
 promise, when they have once pledged themselves to the service 
 of their King,'' said the priest. " However, you will be, doubt- 
 less, useful to me at Coron. Dut, Henri, what will yo.i do with- 
 out him ? " 
 
 "Adolphe and I will be together, and will do well We shall 
 have an absolute barrack at Durbelli^re. We shall have above 
 one hundred men in the house. Agatha and the women are nt 
 work night and'day." 
 
 "You have the worst part of the whole affair— the ammu- 
 nition." 
 
 " It is all packed and ready for the carls ; a fe\v days since 
 the cellars were half-full of the lead and iron which we have 
 been casting ; they are now, I trust, half-way to Saumur, under 
 Forct's care." 
 
 " How mai\y men has he with him ?" asked the priest, 
 
 " He has all the men from Clisson, from St. Paul's and St. 
 liriulph's— except a few of Charles's own tenants, who went on 
 forward to joia him at Doud, and who have our supply of tlags 
 
with them, made in the chfttcmi at Clisson. MaJame dc "Lcscuro 
 and poor Marie have worked their finger^ to the bone." 
 
 " God bless them ! God will bless them, tor they are working 
 in the spirit which He loves." 
 
 "Agatha and Annette, between them, have packed nearly 
 every ounce of gunpowder," said Henri, who could not help 
 boasting of his sister. " Night and day they have been handling 
 it without regarding for a moment the destruction which the 
 slightest accident might bring upon them." 
 
 " It is that spirit, my son, which will enable us to beat twice 
 our own strength in numbers, and ten times our own strength 
 in arms and discipline. How many men has Foret with him ?" 
 
 "Above six hundred. I do not know his exact numbers," 
 said Henri. 
 
 "And you, yourself?" 
 
 " I shall muster a thousand strong, that is for a certainty ; I 
 believe I shall be nearer twelve thousand." 
 
 " Let me sec— that will be, say two thousand five hundred 
 from the Bocage." 
 
 "Oh! more than that, your reverence," said Chapeau, "you 
 are not counting M. de Lescure's men, who have gone on with 
 the flags — or the men from Beauprieu who will follow M. 
 d'Elbde, or the men from St. Florent, who will come down with 
 Cathelineau." 
 
 " I don't count Beauprieu, or Cholet, or St. Florent ; there will 
 be two thousand five hundred from our own country, out of three 
 thousand three hundred male adults, that is three men, Henry, 
 out of every four — they cannot at any rate say that the spirit of 
 the people is not with us." 
 
 As the priest spoke, they rode into the street of the little 
 village of Echanbroignes, and having stopped at the door of the 
 Mayor's house, Henri and the Curd dismounted, and giving their 
 horses up to Jacques, warmly greeted that worthy civic authority, 
 who came out to meet them. 
 
 The appointment of a mayor in every village in France had 
 been enjoined at an early time in the revolution, and after the 
 death of the King, these functionaries were, generally speaking, 
 strong republicans ; but the Vendeans in opposition to the spirit 
 of the revolution, had persisted in electing the Seigneurs, 
 wherever they could get a Seigneur to act as mayor; and, 
 where this was not the case, some person in the immediate 
 employment of the landlord was chosen. This was the case 
 at Echanbroignes, where the ageiit or intendant of the proprietor 
 was mayor. He expected the visit which was now paid to him, 
 and having twenty times expressed his delight at the honour 
 which was done him, he got his hat and accompanied his visitors 
 to the door of the church, where with his own bands he com* 
 
68 la Vendie, 
 
 menced a violent assault on the bell-rope, which hung down is 
 the middle of the porch. 
 
 He was ringing the tocsin, which was to call together the 
 people of the village. They also very generally knew who was 
 coming among them on that day, and the purpose for which 
 they were coming ; and at the first sound of the bell, all such as 
 Intended to show themselves came crowding on to the little 
 space before the church ; it was but few who remained at hon\c, 
 and they were mostly those to whom home at the present 
 moment was peculiarly sweet; one or two swains newly 
 married, or just about to be married ; one or two fathers, who 
 could hardly bring themselves in these dangerous times to leave 
 their little prattling children, and one or two who were averse 
 to lose the profits of their trade. 
 
 In spite of the speedy appearance of his townspeople, the 
 Mayor persisted in his operations on the bell-rope until the 
 perspiration ran down his face. He was sounding the tocsin, 
 and he felt the importance of what he was doing. Everyone 
 knew that a tocsin bell to be duly rung, should be rung long and 
 loud — not with a little merry jingle, such as befitted the announce- 
 ment of a wedding, but in a manner to strike astonishment, if 
 not alarm, into its hearers { and on this occasion great justice 
 was done to the tocsin. 
 
 "That will do, M. Mayor; that will do, I think!" said 
 the Curd, "it looks to me as though our friends were all 
 here." 
 
 The Mayor gave an awful pull, the bell leapt wildly up, gave 
 one loud concluding flourish, and then was quiet. 
 
 " Now, M. Mayor," said the Curd, " you have by heart the 
 few words I g.ive you, have you not ?" 
 
 " Indeed, Father Jerome, I have," said the Mayor, "and am 
 not likely to forget them. Let me see — let me see. Now, my 
 friends, will you be quiet a moment while I speak to you. 
 Ambrose Corvclin, will you hold your noisy tongue awhile — 
 perhaps M. de Larochcjariuclin, I had better get up on the wall, 
 they will hear me better?" 
 
 " Do, M. Mayqr, do," said Henri ; and the Mayor was lifted 
 on to the low wall which ran round the churchyard, and roared 
 out the following words at the top of his voice : — 
 
 "In the holy name of God, and by command of the King, 
 this y)arish of Echanbroignes is invitcvi to send as many men as 
 possible to Saumur, to be there, or at any other such place in 
 the neighbourhood as may be appointed, at three o'clock on the 
 afternoon of the 9th of June. And may God defend the right. 
 Amen 1" And having said this, the Mayor jumped off the wall, 
 nnd the crowd commenced shouting and cheering. 
 " Wjii* '"«4e moment, and hear me say a few words, my friends,'* 
 
Rccntitififi, 69 
 
 said Henri, springing to the place which the Mayor had just 
 left. " Most of you, I bdicvc, know who I am." 
 
 "We do, M. Henri," said they. "We do, M. Larochc- 
 jaciuciin. Wc all know who you arc. We know that you are 
 our friend." 
 
 " I am very glad you think so," continued he ; "for you will 
 know, that if I am your friend, I shall not deceive you. I have 
 come here to ask you to share with me the honour and the 
 danger of restoring his father's kingdom and his father's throne 
 to the son of your murdered King. I have come here to 'ask 
 you also to assist me and others, who arc your friends, in 
 protecting yourselves, your pastors, your houses, your wives 
 and daughters, from the tyranny and cruelty of the republicans." 
 
 " We will ! " shouted the crowd. " We will go at once. We 
 will be at Saumur on Wednesday. We will follow M. Laroche- 
 jaquelin wherever he would lead us." 
 
 " You all know Cathelincau," continued Henri ; "you all know 
 the good postillion of St. Florcnt 1 " 
 
 " We do, God bless him ! we do. We all know the Saint of 
 Anjou." 
 
 " Come and meet him, my friends, under the walls of Saumur; 
 or rather, I should say, come and meet him within the walls of 
 Saumur. Come and greet the noble fellows of St. Florcnt, who 
 have set us so loyal an example. Come and meet the brave 
 men of Fontenay, who trampled on the dirty tricolour, and 
 drove out General Coustard from his covert, like a hunted fox. 
 He is now at Saumur ; wc will turn him out from thence." 
 
 " We will ! wc will ! We will hang up Coustard by the heels." 
 
 *' We will strip him rather of his spurs and his epaulettes, of his 
 sword and blue coat, and send him back to the Convention, that 
 they may see what will become of the heroes whom they send 
 to seek for glory in La Vendde. Thanks, my friends ; thanks 
 for your kindness. I will lead you to no dangers which I will 
 not share with you. You shall suffer no hardship of which I 
 will not partake. I will look for no glory in which you shall not 
 be my partners.'' 
 
 During the time that the Mayor had been giving his invitation 
 to the people, and Henri had been speaking to them. Father 
 Jerome had been busily employed with Jacques Chapeau over 
 six or seven little lists which he held in his hand. These were 
 lists of the names of able-bodied men, which had been drawn 
 out by the Curd of the parish, and Jacques had already marked 
 those of one or two whom he had found to be absent, and among 
 them the names cf Michael Stein's two stalwart sons. Father 
 Jerome again handed the lists to Jacques, and as Henri 
 descended from the wall, amid the greeting of the populace, 
 he ascended it, and gave them a little clerical admonition, 
 
7© La Vtnddek 
 
 " My children/' said he, " it delights my heart to find that so 
 few of you are absent from us this morning— from the whole 
 
 fjarish there are but five, 1 believe, who have not readily come 
 orwiird to proclaim their seal for their God, their King, and 
 their Church: those five, I doubt not, will be here when we 
 proceed to check the names. Let it not be said that there was 
 one recreant in Echanbroignes—one man afraid to answer when 
 called for by his country. Is there danger in the bloody battle 
 wc have before us ?— let us all share it, and it will be lighter. Is 
 it a grievous thing for you to leave your wives and your children? 
 —let no man presume to think that he will be happier than his 
 neighbours, for that man shall assuredly be the most miserable. 
 It is possible that some of you may leave your bodies beneath 
 the walls of Saumur,— be it so ; will you complain because the 
 Creator may require from some of you the life which He has 
 given? Is it not enough for you to know, that He who falls 
 fighting with this blessed symbol before his eyes, shall that night 
 rest among the angels of Heaven?" and the Curd held up on 
 high, above the people, a huge cross, which he had had brought 
 to him out of the church. " God has blessed you, my children, 
 in giving you the sacred privilege of fighting in His cause. You 
 would indeed be weak— senseless as the brutes— unfeeling as 
 the rocks — aye, impious as the republicans, had you not replied 
 to the summons as you have done ; but you have shown that 
 you know your duty. I see, my children, that you are true 
 Vendeans. I bless you now, and on to-morrow week, I will be 
 omong you before the walls of Saumur." 
 
 Having finished speaking, the priest also jumped ofTthe wall, 
 and again the people shouted and cheered. And now they went 
 to work with tne lists : Henri, the Mayor, and the Curti each 
 took a pencil, and called the names of the different men, as they 
 were written down. There was of course much delay in gelling 
 the men as they were called ; but Chapeau had sworn in three 
 or four assistants, and he and they dived in among the crowd, 
 hurried this way and that, and shouted, screamed, and screeched 
 with great effect. The lists were made out with some regard to 
 the localities ; thO men from the lower end of the village were 
 to go to Henri's side ; those from the northern part to Father 
 Jerome's table ; and the inhabitants of the intermediate village 
 M'ere checked off by the Mayor. Chapeau and his friends were 
 most diligent in marshalling them ; to be sure, Jacques knew 
 the names of but few of them ; but he made them tell him 
 whether they were villagers, northerns, or lower-end men ; and 
 though the men in many instances couldn't answer this them- 
 selves, the divisions were effected, the names of all were called 
 ovtr, those who were there were checked off and informed what 
 was exoected of them, and where and by whom arms would be 
 
Kccnu'tifiq; 7 1 
 
 supplied to them : and those who were not there became the 
 unhappy victims of a black list. 
 
 Father Jerome, when he said that there were only five absent, 
 was something— but not much— out in his reckoning ; his object, 
 however, had been to make the people think that he knew 
 exactly who was there, and who was not there ; and in this he 
 was successful. During the calling of the lists, one or two 
 stragglers dropped in who hoped to escape detection ; rcspectinfr 
 a few others, some good ground of excuse was alleged ; but on 
 this head the Cure was most severe ; he would accept no plea 
 but that of absolute downright sickness, and of this he required 
 to have most ample testimony— even Henri sometimes pleaded 
 for the people, but unsuccessfully. The Republic by their pro- 
 scription would have decimated the men ; the Curd of St. Laud 
 insisted on taking them all. 
 
 The houses of those who had not presented themselves were 
 to be visited, and the two first on the list were Jean and Peter 
 Stein. 
 
 "Jean and Peter Stein," said Henri. "Why, Tacqucs. are 
 they not friends of yours ? arc they not sons of Michael Stein, 
 the smith?" 
 
 *• Quiet, M. Henri ; pray be quiet for a moment, and I will 
 explain." 
 
 "Arc they not strong active lads," said the Curd, turning 
 somewhat angrily on Chapeau, as though he were responsible 
 for the principles of his friends. 
 
 " They arc, they arc, your reverence, fine strong active lads af 
 you ever laid your eyes on." 
 
 "And they arc afraid to carry a musket for their King ?" 
 . " Not a bit, Father Jerome, not a bit afraid ; nor yet unwilling, 
 M. Henri. 1 will explain it all ; only let us be a little by our- 
 selves." 
 
 "There is a mystery, Father Jerome," said Henri, "and 
 Chapeau must have his own way in explaining it." 
 
 " Exactly, M. Henri : I will explain all." By this time ha 
 had got the priest and his master somewhat out of the crowd. 
 "You see, M. Henri, there arc not two young men in the 
 Bocage more determined to fight for the good cause this moment, 
 than Jean and Peter Stein." 
 
 " Why, Jacques, I do not see it yet, certainly." 
 
 " Oh I Sir, it's a fact ; they arc dying to have a musket in 
 their hands. I pledge for them my word of honour," and 
 Jacques laid his hand upon his heart. "You will find thc)' are 
 with Jie, your reverence, when I meet you at the cross-roads, 
 with-n half a mile of Coron, on Monday morning. But, M, 
 Henri, they have a father." 
 
 " Have a father I " said the Curd, " of course they have.** 
 
yi La VeHiUe, 
 
 *• You don't mean to tell me that Michael Stein, the smith, Is 
 a republican ? " 
 
 " A republican ! " said Jaqucs. " Oh ! no, the hcaveni 
 preserve us, he's nothing so bad as that, or his own son 
 wouldn't remain under his roof another night, or his daughter 
 cither. No ; Annot wouldn't remain with him another hour, 
 were he twenty times her father, if he turned republican." 
 
 " Why does he prevent his sons joining the muster, then?" 
 said Henri. 
 
 " He is very fond of money, M. Henri. Old Michael Stein 
 is very fond of money ; and every one in the country who owns 
 a franc at all, is buying an old sword or a gun, or turning a 
 reaping-hook into a sabre, or getting a long pike made with an 
 axe at the end of it ; so Michael Stein's smithy is turned into a 
 perfect armoury, and he and his two sons are at work at the 
 anvil morning, noon, and night ; they made Annot blow the 
 bellows this morning, till she looks for all the world like a 
 tinker's wife." 
 
 '* That alters the case," said Father Jerome ; " they are doing 
 good service, if they arc making arms for our men ; they arc 
 better employed than though they joined us themselves." 
 
 "Don't say so. Father Jerome," said Jacques, "pray don't 
 say so, Jean and Peter would die were they not to be of the 
 party at Saumur ; but Michael is so passionate and so head- 
 strong, and he swears they shall not go. Now go they will, 
 and therefore I supi)licato that my word may be taken, and that 
 I may be saved the dishonour of liearing the names of my friends 
 read out aloud with those of men who will disgrace their parish 
 and their country." 
 
 The request of Jacques was granted, and the names of Jean 
 and Peter Stein were erased from the top of the black list. 
 
 It was eight in the evening before the recruiting party had 
 finished their work, and it was not yet noon when they rode into 
 the little village. Henri and the Curd got their supper and slc|it 
 at the Mayor's house, and even there they were not allowed to 
 be quiet ; some of .those who were to be at Saumur were con- 
 tinually calling for new instructions ; one wanted to know what 
 arms he was to carry, another what provisions he was to bring, a 
 third was anxious to be a corporal, and a fourth and fifth begged 
 that they might not be separated, as one was going to marry the 
 sister of the other. None of these was turned away unanswered ; 
 the door of the Mayor's house was not closed for a moment, and 
 Henri, to be enabled to eat his supper at all, was obliged to give 
 his last military orders with a crust of bread in his hand, and hij 
 mouth full of meat. 
 
 As might be supposed, Jacques spent the evening with Annot 
 Stein, at least it was hi? intention to have done so ; but he had 
 
been so Icadini; a porson in the day's transactions that he also 
 was besieged liy the villagers, and was hardly able to whis])er a 
 v,(ird into his sweetheart's ear. There he sat, however, very 
 Iv.isy and supremely happy in the smith's kitchen, with a pipe in 
 Ins mouth and a bottle of wine before him. The old smith sat 
 opposite to him, while the two young men stood among a lot of 
 others round the little table, and Annot bustled in and out of the 
 room, now <;oing close enough up to her lover to enable hiiu to 
 pinch her elbow unseen by her father, and then leaning against 
 the dresser, and listening to his military eloquence. 
 
 " And so, my friend," said Chapeau, "Jean and Peter are not 
 to go to Saumur .'"' 
 
 "Not a foot, Chapeau," said the old man, "not a foot, 
 Chapeau ; let ye fight, we will make swords for you : is not that 
 fair, neighbour?" 
 
 " I have nothing to say against it, M. Stein, not a word ; only 
 such fellows as they would surely get promoted." 
 
 " Oh, ay ; you will all be sergeants, no doubt. I have nothing 
 to say against that ; only none of mine shall go waging wars in 
 di;.tant lands." 
 
 " Distant lands, say you ! is not Saumur in Anjou ? and is 
 not Anjou within three miles of you, here where you arc 
 sitting?" 
 
 "Maybe so, M. Chapeau; but still, with your leave, I say 
 Saumur v: distant. Can you get there in one day from here ? " 
 " Why no, not in one day." 
 "Nor in two?" 
 
 "Why, no again ; though they might do it in two. Tlvjy'll 
 start from here Monday morning with light, and they'll reach 
 Sauniur on Wednesday in time to look about them, and learn 
 what they have to do the next morning." 
 
 " Thc.t's three days going, and three coming, and Heaven only 
 knows how many da>s there ; and you don't call that distant ! 
 Who's to feed them all — I'd like to know ? " 
 
 " Feed them ! " said Chapeau. " I wish you could see all the 
 bullocks and the wine at Durbelli^re ; they'll have rations like 
 fighting-cocks. I only pray that too much good living make 
 them not lazy." 
 
 " Were I a man," said Annot, aa she put on the table a fresh 
 bottle of wine, which she had just brought in from the little 
 inn, " were I a man, as I would I were, I would go, whether 
 or no." 
 
 " Would you,' minx," said the father ; " it's well for you that 
 your petticoats keep you at home." 
 
 " Don't be too sure of her, Michael Stein," said Paul Rouel, 
 the keeper of the inn ; " she'll marry a soldier yet before th3 
 wars afe over." 
 
74 ^ Vendue. 
 
 ** Let her do as her mother did before her, and marry an 
 honest tradesman ; that is; if she can find one to take her." 
 
 " Find one ! " said Aiinot, " if I can't get a husband without 
 finding one, indeed, I'm sure I'll not fash myself with seeking : 
 let him find me that wants mc." 
 
 " And k won't be the first that finds you either, that'll be 
 allowed to take to you, will it Annot ? " said the inn-keeper. 
 
 " That's as may be, Master Rouel," said Annot. " Those who 
 ask no questions are seldom told many lies." 
 
 " I know Annot Stein loves a soldier in her heart," said 
 another old man, who was sitting inside the large open chimney. 
 "The girls think there is no trade like soldiering. I went for a 
 soldier when I was young, and it was all to oblige Lolotte 
 Gobelin ; and what think ye, when I was gone, she got married 
 to Jean Gcldcrt, down at Petit Angc. There's nothing for the 
 girls like soldiering." 
 
 " You give us great encouragement truly " said Jacques. " I 
 hope our swecthearls will not all do as Lolotte did. You would 
 not serve your lover so, when he was fighting for his King and 
 country— would you, Annot ?" 
 
 " I might, then, if I didn't like him." said she. 
 
 " She's no better than her neighbours, M. Chapeau," said 
 one of her brothers. " There was young liouUin, the baker, at 
 St. Paul's. Till we heard of these wars, Annot was as fond of 
 him as could be. It was none but he then ; but now, she will 
 not as much as turn her head if she sees his white jacket." 
 
 " Hold thine unu\anncrly, loutish, stupid tongue, wilt thoa» 
 thou dolt," said Annot, deeply offended. " Boullin indeed ! I 
 danced with him last harvest-home ; I know not why, unless 
 for sheer good-nature ; and now, forsooth, I am to have Boullin 
 for ever thrust in my teeth. Bah ! I hate a baker. I would as 
 lieve take a butcher at once." 
 
 Jacques Chapeau also was offended. 
 
 " I wonder, Jean Stein," said he, " that you know not better 
 than to liken your sister to such as young Boullin — a very good 
 young man in his way, I have no doubt. You should remember 
 there is a difference in these things." 
 
 "I don't know," said Jean, "why a smith's daughter should 
 not marry a baker's son ; but I did not mean to vex Annot, and 
 will say no more about him ; only good bread is a very good 
 thing to have in one's house." 
 
 " And a butcher is a good trade too," said the old man inside 
 the chimey. ''Jean Geldert, he that Lolotte Gobelin ran oil 
 v/ith; he was a butcher," 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SUNDAY IN THE BOCAGE. 
 
 HE remainder of that week was spent by Henri and 
 the Cure as actively aad as successfully as the day in 
 which they visited Echanbroignes. The numbers 
 they enrolled exceeded their hopes, and they found 
 among the people many more arms than they expected, though 
 •mostly of a very rude kind. The party separated on the 
 Saturday night, with the understanding that they were to meet 
 together at Doud on the Tuesday evening, to proceed from 
 thence to the attack of Saumur. Henri Larochejaquelin returned 
 to Durbcllitire. The Curd of St. Laud went to his own parish, 
 to perform mass among his own people on the following morn- 
 ing, and Jacques Chapeau, according to agreement, took up his 
 quarters at the smith's house in Echanbroignes. 
 
 On the following morning, he and Annot, and most of the 
 young men and women of the village walked over to St Laud's 
 to receive mass from Father Jerome, and to hear the discourse 
 which he had promised to give respecting the duties of the 
 people in the coming times. 
 
 The people, as in olden days, were crowded round the church 
 about half-past ten o'clock ; but the doors of the church were 
 closed. The revolt in La Vendue had already gone far enough 
 to prevent the possibility of the constitutional priests ofBciating 
 in the churches to which they had been appointed by the 
 National Assembly ; but it had not yet gone far enough to 
 enable the old nonjuring curds to resume generally their own 
 places in their own churches : the people, however, now crowded 
 round the church of St. Laud's till they should learn where on 
 that day Father Jerome would perform mass. 
 
 The church of St. Laud's did not stand in any village, aor 
 was it surrounded even by a cluster of cottages. It stood by 
 
76 La VenJ/e, 
 
 Itself on the side ol a narrow little road, and was so com- 
 pletely surrounded by beech and flowering ash trees, that a 
 stranger would not know that he was in the neighbourhood of 
 a place of worship till it was immediately in front of him. 
 Opposite to the door of the church and on the other side of the 
 road, was a cross erected on a little mound ; and at its foot, a 
 Capuchin monk in his coarse brown frock, with his hood thrown 
 back, and his eyes turned to Heaven, was always kneeling : the 
 effigy at least of one was doing so, for it was a painted wooden 
 monk that was so perpetually at his prayers. 
 
 The church itself was small, but it boasted of a pretty grey 
 tower ; and on each side of the door of the church were two 
 works of art, much celebrated in the neighbourhood. On the 
 left side, beneath the window, a large niche was grated in with 
 thick, rusty iron bars. It occupied the whole extent from the 
 portico to the corner of the church, and from the ground to 
 the window ; and, within the bars, six monster demons — spirits 
 of the unrepentant dead, the forms of wretches who had died 
 without owning the name of their Saviour, were withering in 
 the torments of hell-fire ; awful indeed was the appearance of 
 these figures ; they were larger than human, and twisted into 
 every variety of contortion which it was conceived possible 
 that agony could assume. Their eyes were made to protrude 
 . from their faces, their fiery tongues were hanging from their 
 scorclicd lips ; the hairs of each demon stood on end and 
 looked like agonised snakes ; they were of various hideous 
 colours ; one was a dingy blue ; another a horrid dirty yellow, 
 ns though perpetual jaundice were his punishment ; another 
 was a foul unhealthy green ; a fourth was of a brick-dust 
 colour ; a fifth was fiery red, and he was leaping high as though 
 to escape the flame ; but in vain, for a huge blue flake of fire 
 had caught him by the leg, and bound him fast ; his fiery red 
 hands were closed upon the bars, his tortured face was pressed 
 j against them, and liis screeching mouth was stretched wide 
 1 open so as to display two awful rows of red-hot teeth ; the sixth 
 ' a jet black devil, cowered in a corner and grinned, as though 
 i even tliere he had some pleasure in the misery of his com- 
 \ panions. 
 
 \ The space occupied on the other side was much larger, for it 
 \ was earned up so far as to darken a great portion of the window. 
 That on the left represented the misery of hell—torment with- 
 out hope. That on the right contained two tableaus : the lower 
 / one was purgatory, here four recumbent figures lay in the four 
 / corners, uncomfortably enough ; for the bed of each figure was 
 I six sharp spikes, each of which perforated the occupier of it. 
 Ihit yet these dead UK'n were not horrible to look at as those 
 six other wretches ; their eyes were turned on a round aperture 
 
Sunday in the Bocage, 77 
 
 above, the edge of which was all gilt and shining, for the glory 
 of Heaven shone into it. This aperture entered into paradise. 
 Through the aperture the imaginative artist had made a spirit 
 to be passing — his head and shoulders were in paradise ; these 
 were also gilt and glorious, and on his shoulders two little 
 vSeraphims were fixing wings ; his nether parts below the aperture, 
 were still brown and dingy, as were the four recumbent spirits 
 who rested on their gridirons till the time should come that they 
 also should be passed through. 
 
 Above the aperture was to be seen paradise in all its blazon 
 of glory, numberless little golden-headen cherubims encircled a 
 throne, on which was seated the beneficent majesty of Heaven. 
 From the towers and roofs projected numerous brazen-mouthed 
 instruments, which welcomed into everlasting joy the purified 
 spirit which was ascending from purgatory. 
 
 Thus were paradise, purgatory and pandemonium represented 
 at St. Laud's, and abominable as such representatiDns now 
 appear to be, they had, to a certain extent, a salutary effect 
 with the people who were in the habit of looking at them. 
 That they were absolute accurate representations of the places 
 represented, they never for a moment presumed to doubt ; and 
 if the joys of heaven, as displayed there, were not of much 
 avail in adding to the zeal of the faithful, the horrors of hell 
 were certainly most efficacious in frightening the people into 
 compliance with the rules laid down for them, and in preventing 
 them from neglecting their priests and religious duties. 
 
 The people were crowded round the church, some were 
 kneeling with the wooden monk at the foot of the cross, and 
 some round the bars of purgatory. Others were prostrated 
 before the six condemned demons, and some sat by the road- 
 side, on the roots of the trees, telling their beads. Many men 
 were talking of the state of the times, and of the wars to come ; 
 some were foretelling misery and desolation, and others were 
 speaking of the happy days about to return, when their King 
 and their priests should have their own, and La Vendue should 
 be the most honoured province in France. 
 
 They made a pretty scene, waiting there beneath the shade 
 till their priest should come to lead them to some rural chapel. 
 The bright colours worn by the women in their Sunday clothes, 
 and the picturesque forms of the men, in their huge broad- 
 brimmed flapping hats, harmonised well with the thick green 
 foliage around them. They 'showed no sign of impatience, they 
 were quite content to wait there, and pray, or gossip, or make 
 love to each other, till such time as Father Jerome should 
 please to come ; they had no idea that their time was badly 
 spent in waiting for so good a man. 
 
 At any rate he came before they were tired, and with him 
 
78 La VetuUi. 
 
 came a man who was a stranger to them all, except to Jacques 
 Chapeau, This man was but little, if anything, better dressed 
 than themselves ; he looked like one of their own farmers of the 
 better days \ certainly from his dress and manner he had no 
 pretensions to be called a gentleman, and yet he walked and 
 talked with Father Jerome as though he were his ccjual. 
 
 " God bless you, my children, God bless you," said the Curt*, 
 in answer to the various greetings he received from his flock. 
 *' Follow me, my children, and wc will worship God beneath the 
 canopy of his holy throne," and then turning to the stranger, 
 ho added : " the next time vou visit mc at St, Laud'n, M. 
 d'KlbtJc, wc shall, I doubt not, luivc our church n;,'uin. 1 could 
 now desire the people to force the doors for mo, and no one 
 would dure to hinder then) ; but 1 have been thrust from my 
 altar and pulpit by a self-constituted vain authority ;— -but yet 
 by authority ; and 1 will not resume them till I do so by the order 
 of the King or his servants." 
 
 "I reverence the house of God," replied M. d'Elbde, "be- 
 cause Ilia spirit has sanctified it ; but walls and pillars are not 
 necessary to my worship ; a cross benc.'\th a rock is as perfect 
 a church to them who have the will to worship, as though they 
 had above them the towers of Notre Darne^ or the dome of 
 St. Peter's." 
 
 " You are right» my son j it is the heart that God regards ; 
 and where that is in earnest, His mercy will dispense with the 
 outward symbols of our religion ; but still it is our especial duty 
 to preserve to His use everything which the piety of former ages 
 has sanctified ; to part wilhngly with nothing which appertains 
 in any way to His church. The best wc have is too little for 
 His glory, It hhouUl be our greatest lu»nour to give to Him ; it 
 is through His great mercy that He receives our unworthy 
 offerings. Come, my children, follow me ; our altar is prepared 
 above." 
 
 The priest led the way through a little shaded path at the 
 back ot the church ; behind a farm-house and up a slight 
 acclivity, on tixe side of which the rocks in different places 
 appeared through the green turf, and the crowd followed him at 
 A respectful distance. 
 
 "And who is that with Father Jerome— who Is the stranger, 
 M. Chapeau ? " said one and another of them, crowding round 
 Jacques,— for it soon got abroad among them, that Jacques 
 Chapeau had seen the stranger in some of his former military 
 movements in La Vendde. Chapeau was walking beside his 
 mistress, and was not at all sorry of the opportunity of showing 
 
 ofC 
 
 " Who is he, indeed ? " said Jacques. " Can it be that none 
 of you know M. d'Klbce?'* . 
 
Sunday in the Became, y^ 
 
 " D'Elbde l—D'ElWc !— indeed ; no, then, I never heard the 
 name till this moment," said one, 
 
 "Nor I," said another; "but he must be a good man, or 
 Father Jerome would not walk with him just before performing 
 mass." 
 
 "You are right there, Jean," said Jacques, " M. d'Elbdc is a 
 good man ; he has as much religion as though he were a priest 
 himself." 
 
 "And he must be a thoroujgh royalist," said another, "or 
 Father Jerome wouldn't walk with him at all." 
 
 " You are right, too, my friend ; M. d'Elbc^e is a great royalist. 
 He is the especial friend of our good Cathclineau." 
 
 "The friend of Cathelineau and of Father Jerome," said a 
 fourth, "' then" I am sure M. d'Elbde must be something out of 
 the common way." 
 
 " You are right again, he is very much out of the common 
 way, he is one of our great generals," said Chapcau. 
 
 " One of our gteat generals, is he," said two or three at once, 
 " I knew he was going to Saumur," said Jean, " or Father 
 Jerorne wouldn't have walked so peaceable with him, great as 
 he may be." 
 
 "But if he is a great general," said Annot, " why has he no 
 lace upon his coat ; why doesn't he wear a sword and look 
 smart like M. Larochejaquelin? At any rate he is a very shabby 
 general." 
 
 "He has a terrible long nose, too," said another girl. "And 
 he has not a morsel of starch in his shirt rufilcs, I declare," said 
 a third, who officiated as laundress to the Mayor of Echan- 
 broignes. 
 
 "I'm sure the republicans will never be afraid of such a 
 general as he is. You are joking with us now, Jacques. I ani 
 sure he is not a general ; he is more like a grocer from Nantes." 
 
 "And is not Cathelineau like a postillion?" said Jacques, "and 
 1 hope you will allow he is a great soldier. You know nothing 
 of these things yet, Annot. M. Larochejaquelin is so smart 
 because he is a young nobleman ; not because he is a general.'* 
 
 " And is not M. d'Elbde a nobleman }" said one of the girls. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said Chapeau. 
 
 "Well, I think the generals should all be noblemen ; I 
 declare," said the laundress, " M. Larochejamielin did look so 
 nice last Wednesday, when he was getting off his horse." 
 
 " That is all ; but Cathelineau," sai(\ Annot, " he is the 
 finest fellow of them all I'd sooner have Cathelineau for 
 my lover, than the Due de Chartres, and he's the King's 
 cousin." 
 
 ** You are a foolish girl, Annot," said Chapeau. " You might 
 as wel) want the picture of St. John out of the church window 
 
So La Vendue. 
 
 down yonder, and take that for your lover, as Cathelineau» 
 Don't you know he's the Saint of Anjou ?" 
 
 " He might marry a wife, and have a house full of children, 
 for all that ; that's the difference between being a saint and a 
 priest; there's no harm in being in love with a saint, and 1 am 
 very much in love with Cathelineau.'* 
 
 " Why, you little ninny, you never saw him,** said Chapcau. 
 
 " No matter," said Annot ; " ninny, or no ninny, I'll go where 
 I'm like to see him ; and I'm sure I'll never bear the sight of 
 another man afterwards ; the dear, good, sweet Cathelincau, 
 with his curly hair, and fine whiskers, and black bright eyes ; 
 he's better than all the noblemen : I declare I dreamed of him 
 these last two nights." 
 
 Chapeau left the side of his mistress, muttering something 
 about stupid foolish chits of girls, and continued his description 
 of M. d'Elbdc to the men. 
 
 " Indeed he is a very great general. I don't know very well 
 vhere he came from, but I believe somewhere down in the 
 Marais, from his being such a friend of M. Charette ; but he 
 has been fighting against the republicans this long time, evcA 
 before Cathelincau began, 1 believe, though I don't exactly 
 know where. I know he was made a prisoner in Paris, and 
 nearly killed there by some of those bloody-minded rebels ; then 
 he escaped, and he was at the siege of Machccoult, and got 
 honourably wounded, and was left for dead : and then he was at 
 Thouars— no, not at Thouars ; we heard he was coming, but he 
 didn't come ; but he was at Fontenay, and that's where I first 
 saw him. M. IJonchanips brought him in and introduced him 
 to M. de Lescure, and our M. Larochcjaquelin, and I was 
 astonished to sec how much they made of him, for he was 
 dressed just as he is now, and had no sword or anything. Well, 
 as soon as he came in they all went to work talking, and 
 settling how Fontenay was to be attacked, for though its a little 
 place, and not walled and fortified like Saumur, we had a deal 
 of trouble with it ; but before a word was spoken, M. d'Elbc^e 
 stood up and said, "Brethren," said he, 'Met us ask the 
 assistance of our Saviour :" so down they went on their knees, 
 and he said an awful long prayer, for all the world like a priest. 
 And then again before we fired a shot, he bade all the soldiers 
 kneel down, and down we went, the republicans firing at us all 
 the time. The soldiers call him Old Providence, for the say 
 he talks a deal about Providence when he is fighting." 
 
 " You may be sure that's what makes Father Jerome so fond 
 of him," said Jean. " I knew he was a good man." 
 
 " And he was a desperate fellow to fight afterwards," continued 
 Chapeau. " But he walked into the thick of the fighting just at 
 he is now." 
 
Sunday in the Bocage, 8 1 
 
 " But he had a sword, or a gun, or a spear ? " said Jean. 
 
 ** Neither the one or the other ; he was just as he is this 
 minute, giving orders, and directing some of the men there who 
 knew him well. Presently he said to a young gentleman who 
 was near him : * Lend me that sword a moment, will you ? * and 
 he took it out of his hands, and made a rush through the gate 
 of Fontenay, and I saw no more of him that day." 
 
 " Why did you not rush after him, then, M. Chapeau ? " 
 
 " Rush after him ! Why, you simpleton ; do you think in 
 wars like that every man is to rush just where he pleases ; you'il 
 soon be taught the difference. M. d'Elb^e was a general, and 
 might go where he liked ; but I was a corporal under M. Henri, 
 with ten men under me. We had to remain where we were, and 
 cut off the republicans, if they showed their noses at a point in 
 the street which we covered ; it's only the generals that go rush- 
 ing about in that way. But here we are at Father Jerome's 
 altar. W^ell ; I'm very hot. I'm sure it's nearly half a league 
 up here from the church." 
 
 They had now come to a rude altar, constructed on a piece of 
 rock, in front of which was a small space of green turf : the 
 whole spot was closely surrounded by beach and ash-trees ; so 
 closely, indeed, that the sun hardly made its way into it, and 
 the rocks around it rising up through the grass afforded ample 
 accommodation for the people. In a moment, they were on 
 their knees on the grass ; some almost immediately belore the 
 altar ; others kneeling against the rocks , oihers again with 
 their heads and hands resting against the trunk of a huge 
 bccch-tree. 
 
 Hither had been brought the necessary appurtences for the 
 performance of mass. A small, but beautifully white cloth was 
 spread upon a flat portion of the rock ; bread v/as there, and a 
 small quantum of wine : a little patina and a humble chalice, 
 M. d'Elbee took his place among the crowd before the altar, 
 and Father Jerome, having dressed himself in his robes, per- 
 formed, with a fine, full, sonorous voice, the morning service of 
 his church. When so occupied, he had no longer the look of 
 the banished priest : his sacred vestments had not shared the 
 decay which had fallen on his ordinary clothes. No bishop 
 rising from his throne to bless the congregation assembled in his 
 cathedral, could assume more dignity, or inspire more solemnity 
 than the Cur^ of St. Laud, as he performed mass at his sylvan 
 altar in La Vcnddc. 
 
 After mass was finished, the priest gave them an extempore 
 discourse on the necessity of their absolutely submitting them- 
 selves to their teachers, spiritual masters, and pastors ; and 
 before he had finished, he turned their attention to the especial 
 necessity of their obeying their leaders, now among them, in 
 
83 f.a Vemt^i, 
 
 carrying on the war against the Republic, and as he concluded) 
 he said : — 
 
 " I rejoice at all times, my children, that you are an obedient 
 and a docile people, content to accept the word of God from 
 those whom he has sent to teach it to you—that you are not a 
 stiff-necked generation, prone to follow your own vain conceits, 
 or foolish enough to conceive that your little earthly knowledge 
 can be superior to the wisdom which comes from above, as 
 others are. I have always rejoiced at this, my children, for in it 
 1 have seen hope for you, when I could see none for others ; but 
 now also I rejoice greatly to see that you unite the courage of 
 men to the docility of babes. Hitherto your lot as been that of 
 peace, and if you have not enjoyed riches, you have at any rate 
 been contented : another destiny is before you now — peace and 
 content have left the country, and have been followed by robbery, 
 confusion, and war. My children, you must, for a while give 
 over your accustomed peaceful duties ; your hands— vour hearts 
 — all your energy, and all your courage, are required by God for 
 His own purposes ; — yes, required by that Creator who gave you 
 strength and energy — who gave you the power and the will to do 
 great deeds for His holy name. 
 
 " His enemies are in the land : impious wretches — who do not 
 hesitate to wage war against His throne — are endeavouring to 
 destroy all that is good, and all that is holy in France. Do you 
 not know, my children, that they have murdered your King?— and 
 that they have imprisoned your Queen, and her son, who is now 
 your King ? Would you be content to remain quiet in your 
 homes, while your King is lying in a prison, in hourly danger of 
 death ? They have excluded you from your churches, they have- 
 caused God's holy houses to be closed ; they have sent among 
 you teachers who can only lead you astray — whose teaching can 
 only bring you to the gates of hell. The enemies of the Lord 
 are around you ; and you are now required to take arms in your 
 hands to go out against them, and if needs be to give your blood 
 —nay your life for your country, your King, and your Church. 
 
 " I greatly rejoice, my childrer., that you are an obedient 
 people ; I know that you will now do your utmost, and I know 
 that you will succeed. The Lord will not desert His people 
 
 ^hcn they combat for His glory, when they faithfully turn to 
 Him for victory. You have been taught how He chose the 
 
 Israelites as an especial people — how He loved and favored 
 them ; as long as they were faithful and obedient He never de- 
 serted them. They conquered hosts ten times their numbers— 
 they were victorious against armed warriors and mighty giants* 
 The Lord blinded their enemies so that they saw not ; He 
 blunted their weapons ; He paralysed their courage : chariots 
 and horses did not avail them ; nor strong walls, nor n\ighty 
 
Sunday in the Became, 83 
 
 men of battle. The Lord loved the Israelites, and as lonij as 
 they were faithful and obedient, they prevailed against all their 
 enemies. 
 
 "You, my children, are now God's people; if you arc truly 
 faithful, you shall assuredly prevail ; if you go out to battle 
 lirmly, absolutely, entirely trusting in the strength of His right 
 hand— that right hand, that Almighty arm shall be on your side. 
 And who then shall stand against you?— though tens, and 
 hundreds of thousands swarm around you, they shall yield 
 before you— they shall fall before you as the giant Coliath fell 
 before the shepherd David. 
 
 '* Be not afraid, therefore, my children ; wc will go together ; 
 we will remember that every man who falls on o\ir side in this 
 holy war, falls as he is doing Christ's service, and that his death 
 is to be envied, for it is a passport into Heaven. We will re* 
 member this in the hour of battle, when our enemies are be- 
 fore us, when death is staring us in the face ; and remembering 
 it, we shall not be afraid. If we die fighting truly in this cause, 
 our immortal souls will be wafted off to paradise — to everlasting 
 joy : if we live, it will be to receive, here in our own dear fields, 
 the thanks of a grateful King, to feel that we have done our duty 
 as Christians and as men, and to hear our children bless the 
 days when the courage of La Vendde restored the honour of 
 France." 
 
 Father Jerome's exhortation had a strong effect upon the 
 people ; he knew and calculated their strength and their weak- 
 ness — they were brave and credulous, and when he finished 
 speaking, there was hardly one there who in the least doubted 
 that the event of the war would be entirely successful : they felt 
 that they, were a chosen people, set apart for a good work— that 
 glory and victory awaited them in the contest, aud especially 
 that they were about to fight under the immediate protection of 
 the Almighty. 
 
 As soon as the service was over, they all left the little sylvan 
 chapel by different paths and in different directions ; some went 
 back to the church, some went off across the fields, some took a 
 short cut to the road, but they all returned home without delay. 
 Every man was to set out early on the morrow for the rendezvous, 
 and the women were preparing to shed their tears and say their 
 last farewell to their lovers, brothers, and husbands, before they 
 started on so great an enterprise. They 'had all been gay 
 enough during the morning— they became a little melancholy on 
 their return home, but before the evening was £ar advanced 
 nothing was to be heard but sobs and vows, kisses and 
 blessings. 
 
 Jacques Chapeau returned to Echanbroignes with the party of 
 villagers who had gone from thence to hear Father Jerome, but 
 
84 La Vettdh. 
 
 he did not attach himself expressly to Annot, indeed he said not 
 a word to her on the way, but addressed the benefit of his con- 
 versation to his male friends generally ; to tell the truth, he was 
 something offended at the warm admiration which his sweet- 
 heart had expressed for Cathelineau. He wasn't exactly 
 jealous of the postillion, for Annot had never seen him, and 
 couldn't, therefore, really love him ; but he felt that she ought 
 not to have talked about another man's eyes and whiskers, even 
 though that other man was a saint and a general. It was 
 hearilcss, too, of Annot to say such things at such a time, just as 
 lie was going to leave her, on the eve of battle, and when he had 
 left his own master, and all the glorious confusion and good 
 living in — at Durbelli^re, merely that he might spend his last 
 quiet day in her company. 
 
 It was base of her to say that she had dreamed twice of 
 Cathelineau ; and sh« was punished for it, for she had to walk 
 home almost unnoticed. At first she was very angry, and kicked 
 up the dust with her Sunday shoes in fine style ; but before long 
 her heart softened, and she watched anxiously for some word or 
 look from Jacques on which she might base an attempt at a re- 
 conciliation. Jacques knew what she was about, and would 
 not even look at her ; he went on talking with Jean and Peter 
 and the others about the wars, and republicans, and royalists, as 
 though poor Annot Stein had not been there at all. From the 
 chapel of St. Laud to the village of Echanbroignes he did not 
 speak a word lo her, and when the four entered the old smith's 
 house, poor Annot was bursting with anger, and melting 
 with love ; she could not settle with herself whether she hated 
 Chapcau or loved him most ; she felt that she would have liked 
 to poison him, only she knew that she could not live without 
 him. 
 
 She hurried into her little sleeping place, and had a long 
 debate with herself whether she should instantly go to bed and 
 pray that Jacques might be killed at Saumur, or whether she 
 should array herself in all her charms, and literally dazzle her 
 lover into fondness and obedience by her beauty and graces- 
 after many tears "the latter alternative was decided on. 
 
 It was a lovely summer evening, and at about eight o'clock 
 hardly a person in the whole village was to be found within 
 doors ; the elderly were sitting smoking at their doors, husbands 
 were saying a thousand last words to their weeping wives, young 
 men were sharpening their swords, and preparing their little kit 
 for the morrow's march, and the girls were helping them ; but 
 everything was done in the open air. Jean and Peter Stein 
 were secretly preparing for a stolen march to Saumur ; for their 
 father was still inexorable, and they were determined not to be 
 left behind when all the world was fighting for glory Old Michael 
 
Sunday in the Socage, 85 
 
 was smoking at his ease, and Jacques was standing tall<ing to 
 him, wondering in his heart whether Annot could be really 
 angry with him, when that young Iddy reappeared in the 
 kitchen. * 
 
 "Where have you been, Annot?" said Michael Stein, "you 
 didn't get your supper yet, child." 
 
 " I was sick with the heat, father ; walking home from St. 
 Laud's." 
 
 " I would not have you sick to-night, Annot, and our friends 
 leaving us before sun-rise to-morrow. Here is M, Chapeau com- 
 plaining you are a bad hostess." 
 
 ** M. Chapeau has enough to think of to-night, without my 
 teasing him," said Annot ; " great soldiers like him have not 
 time to talk to silly girls. I will walk across the green to Dame 
 Kouel's, father ; I shall be back before sunset." 
 
 And Annot went out across the green, at the corner of which 
 stood the smith's forge. Jacques Chapeau was not slow to 
 follow her, and Dame Roucl did not see much of cither of 
 them that evening. 
 
 "Annot," said Jacques, calling to his sweetheart, who per- 
 severingly looked straight before her, determined not to know- 
 that she was followed. "Annot, stop awhile. You are not in 
 such a hurry, are you, to see Dame Rouel ? " 
 
 " Ah, M. Chapeau, is that you ?— in a hurry to see Dame 
 Roucl. No — I'm in no particular hurry." 
 
 "Will you take a turn down to the mill, then, Annot? 
 Heaven knows when you and I may walk to the old mill again ; 
 it may be long enough before I see Echanbroignes again." 
 
 Annot made no answer, but she turned into the little path 
 which led through the fields to the mill 
 
 " I suppose it may," said she, determined, if possible, that the 
 amende should be made by Jacques and not by herself. 
 
 " I see you are indifferent aoout that," said Jacques, with a 
 soft and sentimental look, which nearly melted Annot ; "well, 
 when you hear of my death, you will sometimes think of me, will 
 you not?" 
 
 " Oh, I will, M. Chapeau ! Of course I'll think of you, and of 
 all my friends." 
 
 Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off 
 the heads of the blue-bells with his little cane. " I am not 
 different to you then from anyone else, eh, Annot ? " said he. 
 
 " How different, M. Chapeau ?" 
 
 " You will think as much of young Boullin, the baker ?" 
 
 " I don't like young Boullin, the baker, and I don't thank you 
 for mentioning his name one bit." 
 
 " Well ! people say you are very partial to young Boullin.** 
 
 ** People lie — they always do : everybody tries to tease and 
 
86 La Vendtfe, 
 
 plague me now. You and Jean, and father, and that old fool 
 Rouel, are all alike," and Annot gave symptoms of hysterical 
 tears. 
 
 Jacques was again silent for awhile, but he had commenced 
 walking very near to his companion, and she did not appear to 
 resent it. After a while he said : " You are not glad that I'm 
 goinp, Annot?" 
 
 '* You would not have me sorry that you arc going to fight with 
 all the other brave men, would you ? " 
 
 "Is that all 1 am to get from you, after all ? is that all the 
 regard you have for me ? very well, Annot ; — it is well at any 
 rate we should understand each other. They were right, I find, 
 when they told me that you were such a coquette, you would 
 have a dozen lovers at the same time." 
 
 " And they were right, I find, when they told me you were too 
 fond of yourself ever to love any girl truly." 
 
 •• Oh, Annot ! and is it come to this ? I'm sorry I ever came 
 to Echanbroignes, " I'm sorry I ever saw you." 
 
 " And if you are, M. Chapeau, I'm sure I'm sorry enough I 
 ever saw you ;" and Annot again increased the distance between 
 her and her lover. 
 
 They walked on from hence in silence till they came to the 
 little mill, and each.stood gazing on the stream, which ran gurg- 
 ling down beneath the ash and willow-trees which dipped their 
 boughs in its waters. 
 
 " How kind you were, the last time we were here together,'* 
 said Jacques ; " how kind and generous you were then ; you are 
 very different now." 
 
 " And you are very different, too, M. Chapeau } much more 
 different than I am ; it's all your own fault ; you choose to give 
 yourself airs, and I won't put up with it, and 1 believe we may as 
 well part." 
 
 '* Give myself airs 1 No } but it's you give yourself airs, and 
 say things which cut me to the heart — things which I can't bear; 
 and, therefore, perhaps, we may as well part : " and Jacques 
 assumed a most melancholy aspect as he added, "So, good-bye, 
 Annot ; there's my hand. I wouldn't, at any rate, part anything 
 but friends after all." 
 
 " Good-bye," said poor Annot, putting out her hand to her 
 lover, and sobbing violently. " Good-bye ; I'm sure I never 
 thought it would come to this. I'm sure 1 gave up everybody 
 and everything for your sake." 
 
 "Well; and didn't I give up everybody, too. Haven't 1 come 
 all the way over here week after week, when people wondered 
 what made me leave Durbelli(^re so much ; and wasn't it all for 
 love of you ? Oh, Annot ! Annot ! " and even the manly dignity 
 of M. Chapeau succumbed to tears. 
 
Sunday in the Bocagc. 87 
 
 " It's no good talking," said she, greatly softened ; " for you 
 can't have loved me, and treated me as you did this day, letting 
 me walk all alone from 5t. Laud, without so much as a word or 
 a look ; and that before all the people : and I that went merely to 
 walk back with you. Oh ! I could have died on the roadside to 
 find myself treated in such a way." 
 
 " And what must I have felt to hear you talking as you did 
 before them all ? Do you think I felt nothing?" 
 
 " Talking, Jacques ; what talk ?" 
 
 " Why : saying that you loved Cathelineau better than any 
 one. That he was the only man you admired ; that you dreamed 
 of him always, and I don't know how much more about his eyes 
 and whiskers." 
 
 *' Why now, Jacques ; you don't mean to be jealous?" 
 
 *' Jealous ; no, I'm not jealous." ^ 
 
 " Jealous of a man you know I never saw," said Annot, smiling 
 through her tears. 
 
 "Jealous. No, I tell you I'm not jealous; but still, one 
 doesn't like to hear one's mistress talking of another man's eyes, 
 and whiskers, and those sort of things ; no man would 
 like it, Annot ; though I care about it as littlii myself as any 
 man." 
 
 *' But don't you know Cathelineau is a saint, Jacques ?" 
 
 " Oh ! but you said saints might marry, and have a lot of 
 children, and so they may." 
 
 " But I never saw Cathelineau, Jacques/' and she put her hand 
 upon his arm. 
 
 " And you are not in love with him, Annot ? " 
 
 *' How can I be in love with a man I never put eyes on ? " 
 
 " And you won't say again, that you'd like to have him for a 
 lover?" 
 
 " That was only my little joke, Jacques. Surely, a girl may 
 joke sometimes." 
 
 " And you do love me, don't you ? " and Jacques now got very 
 close to his mistress. 
 
 " Ah ! but why did you let me M-alk home all the way by 
 myself? You know I love you dearly ; but you must beg my 
 pardon for that, before I'll ever tell you so again." 
 
 And Jacques did beg her pardon in a manner of his own 
 twenty times, sitting by the gurgling mill-stream, and to tell 
 the truth Annot seemed well pleased with the way in which 
 he did it ; and then when the fountain of her love was opened, 
 and the sluice gate of her displeasure removed, she told him 
 how she would pray for him till he came back safe from the 
 wars ; how she would never speak word to mortal man in the 
 way of courting, till he came back to make her his wife ; how 
 she would grieve should he be wounded ; bow she would die. 
 
88 La Vindii, 
 
 shoutd he be kilted in battle : and then she gave him a little 
 charm, which she had worked for him, and put it round bit 
 neck, and told him she had taken it with her to St. Laud, to 
 give it him there beneath the cross, only he had gone away 
 from her, so that she couldn't do so : and then Jacques begged 
 pardjn again and again in his own queer way ; and then, 
 having sat there by the mill-stream till the last red streak of 
 sunlight was gone, they returned home to the village, and 
 Annot told her father that Dame Rouel had been so very press- 
 ing, she had made them stay there to eat bread and cheeso. 
 And so Annot at last went to bed without her supper, and 
 dreamed not of Cathelineau but o*" her own lover, Jacques 
 Chapea 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AGATHA LAROCHFJAQUELIN 
 
 S Chapcau had said, great preparations were made 
 at Durbelli^rc for the coming campaign. The old 
 Marquis had joined with his son in furnishing every- 
 thing which their limited means would admit of, for 
 the wants of the royalists. Durbelli^re had become quite a 
 depot ; the large granaries at the top of the house were no 
 longer empty ; they were stored with sacks of meal, with pikes 
 and muskets, and with shoes for the soldiers. Agatha's own 
 room looked like an apartment in an hospital ; it was filled 
 with lint, salves, and ointments, to give ease to those whom 
 the wars should send home wounded ; all the contents of the 
 cellars were sacrificed ; wine, beer, and brandy, were alike 
 given up to aid the spirits of the combatants ; the cattle were 
 drawn in from the farms, and kept round the house in out-houses 
 and bams, ready to be slaughtered as occasion might require ; 
 an abattoir was formed in the stable yard, and a butcher kept 
 in regular employment ; a huge oven was built in an out- 
 house attached to the stables, and here bakers from neighbour- 
 ing parishes were continually kept at work : they neither 
 expected or received wages ; they, and all the others employed 
 got their meals in the large kitchen of the chdteau, and were 
 content to gtN'C their work to the cause without fee or reward. 
 Provisions, cattle, and implements were also sent from M. de 
 Lescure's house to DurbelliCire, as it was considered to be more 
 central, and as it was supposed that there were still some re- 
 publicans in the neighbourhood of Bressuire, whereas, it was 
 well known that there were none in the rural districts ; the more 
 respectable of the farmers also, and other country gentlemen 
 sent something ; and oxen, sheej), and loads of meal : jars of 
 oil, and casks of wine were coming in during the whole week 
 
f^ La Vendit* 
 
 before the siege of Saumur, and the same horses took them out 
 again in the shape of bread, meat, and rations, to the different 
 points where they would be required. 
 
 As soon as M. de Lescure had left home on his recruiting 
 Service in the south of La Vendde, the ladies of his house went 
 over to Durbelli6re, to remain there till Henri Larochejaouelin 
 should start for Saumur, and give their aid to Agatha in all her 
 work. Adolphe Denot was also there : he, too, had been 
 diligently employed in collecting the different sinews of wars ; and 
 as far as his own means went had certainly not begrudged them. 
 There was still an unhappy air of dissatisfaction about him, 
 which was not to be observed with anyone else ; his position did 
 not content his vanity ; the people did not talk of him as they 
 did of Cathelineau and Henri Larochejaquelin ; he heard 
 nothing of La Vendde relying on his efforts ; the names of 
 various men were mentioned as trustworthy leaders, but his own 
 was never among them. De Lescure, Charette, D'Elbde, Stofflct, 
 were all talked of ; and what had they done more than he had ; 
 or what, indeed, so much : the two latter were men of low origin, 
 who had merely shown courage in the time of need : indeed, 
 what more had Cathelineau done ; whereas, he had never failed 
 in courage, and had given, moreover, his money and his pro- 
 perty ; yet he felt that he was looked on as a nobody, Jacques 
 Chapcau was almost of more importance. 
 
 And then, again, his love for Agatha tormented him. He had 
 thought to pique her by a show of indifference himself, but he 
 found that this plan did not answer ; it was evident, even to him, 
 that Agatha was not vexed by his silence, his altered demeanour, 
 ac,d r^^ddcn departure. He had miscalculated her character, 
 and now found that he must use other means to rouse the - 
 affection in her heart, without which he felt, at present, that he 
 could not live happily. He thought that she could not have 
 seen with indifference the efforts he was making in the cause 
 which she loved so well ; and he determined to throw himself 
 at her feet before he started for Saumur, and implore her to give 
 him a place in her affections, while her heart was softened by 
 the emotions which the departure of so many of her friendi, on 
 the eve of battle, would occasion. 
 
 Agatha had had but little conversation with him since his 
 last arrival at Durbelli^re, but still she felt that he was about to 
 propose to her. She shunned him as much as she could ; she 
 scrupulously avoided the opportunity which he anxiously sought ; 
 she never allowed herself to be alone with him ; but she was 
 nevertheless sure the evil hour would come ; she saw it in 
 his eye as they sat together at their meals — she heard it in the 
 tones of his voice every time he spoke. She knew from his 
 manner that he was preparing himself for the interview, and she 
 
Agatha Larochejaquelin^ 91 
 
 also knew that he would not submit tamely to the only answer 
 she could bring herself to give him. 
 
 " Marie," said she to her cousin, on the Saturday evening, 
 " I am in the greatest distress, pray help me, dearest, I am 
 sure you know what ails me." 
 
 " In distress, Agatha, and wanting help from me ! — ycu tha* 
 are wont to help all the world yourself ! But I know, from youi 
 face, you arc only half in earnest.'' 
 
 " Indeed, and indeed, I never was much more so. I ne'cr 
 was more truly in want of council. Can you not guess what my 
 sorrow is ?" 
 
 " Not unless it is, that you have a lover too much ? — or per- 
 haps you find the baker's yeast runs short?" 
 
 " Ah, Marie, will you always joke when I am serious ! " 
 " Well then, Agatha, now I am serious — is it that you have a 
 lover too much ? " 
 " Can any trouble be more grievous ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes ! ten times worse. My case is ten times 
 worse : and alas, alas ! there is no cure for that," 
 " Your case, Marie ? " 
 " Yes, my case, Agatha — a lover too few ! " 
 "Ah, Marie, do not joke with me to-night. I want your 
 commonsense, and not your wit, just now. Be a good, dear 
 girl, and tell me what I shall say to him. I know he will not 
 go to Saumur before — before he has proposed to me." 
 
 " Then, in the name of commonsense, dear Agatha, tell him 
 the truth, whatever it may be." 
 
 " You know I do not — cannot love him." 
 " Nay, I .know nothing. You have not said yet who * him * 
 is; — but I own I can give a guess. I suppose poor Adolphe 
 Denot is the man you cannot love ? Poor Adolphe ! he must 
 be told so, that is all." 
 
 " But how shall I tell him, Marie ? He is so unlike other 
 men. Henri is his friend, and yet he has never spoken to hini 
 about me, nor to my father. If he would ask my hand from 
 Henri, as another would, Henri would talk to him, and explain 
 to him that it could not be— that my heart is too m".ch occupied 
 with other cares, to care for loving or being loved.' 
 "That meani, Agatha, till the right lover corr.es." 
 " No, Marie ; but till these wars are over. Not that I could 
 ever love Adolphe Denot ; but now, at present, methinks love 
 should be banished from the country, and not allowed to return 
 till the King is on his throne again." 
 
 " Well, Agatha, I don't know. That would be somewhat hard 
 upon us poor girls, whose lovers are more to our taste than M. 
 Denot is to yours. I know not that our knights will fight the 
 worse for a few stray smiles, though the times be so frightful" 
 
9i La Vendue, 
 
 • Do you smile on yours then, Marie \ and 1 will smile to see 
 you happy. But tell mc, dearest, what shall I say to Adolphe ? 
 You would not have me give him hope, when I feel I can never 
 love him ? " 
 
 " God forbid !— why should you ? But has he never spokea 
 to Henri on the subject, or to the Marquis ? " 
 
 "Never a word. I'm sure he never spoke of it to my 
 father, and Henri told me that he had never said a word 
 to him." 
 
 " Then you have spoken lo your brother on the subject ? And 
 what did he say ? " 
 
 " 1 Ic said just what a dear, good brother should have said. 1 Ic 
 said he was sorry for his friend, but that on no account whatever 
 %vuuld he sacrlticc his siiitcr's happiness." 
 
 " M. Larochcjaquelin always docs just what he ought to do. 
 He is as good and kind to you as Charies is to me." 
 
 " Henri and I are so ncariy of an age ; we were always com* 
 panions to^'cthcr. I do not think any lover will be agreeable to 
 me as lon^' as he is wiih mc." 
 
 •* But if he should take a love of his own, Agatha ? It won't 
 do, you know, for sisters to monopolise their brothers ; or what 
 shall wo spinsters do ?" 
 
 •* He shall bring his love here, and she shall be my own sister. 
 If he makes the choice I think he will, I shall not have to open 
 a new place in my heart for her, shall I, Marie ?" 
 
 "Nay, I know not. Now it is you that wander from the 
 subject." 
 
 " And it is cruel In yoU to bring me back to it. If he proposes 
 to me to-morrow, Marie, what shall I say to him ?" 
 
 "Keep out of his way to-morrow. He goes on Monday 
 tnornlng." 
 
 '•It is very well to say, 'Keep out of his wayj' but if he 
 formally demands an int::rview, I cannot refuse it." 
 
 " If he formally desires an interview, do you give him a formal 
 reception ; if ho' formally offers you his hand, do you fom\ally 
 dcclmc the hondur." 
 " I wouUi ;♦ were you, Marie, that he lovcJ." 
 "A tliousarii! thanks to you, Mademoiselle \arochcjaquelln. 
 1 appreciate your generosity, but really I have no vacancy for 
 M. Denot, just at present." 
 
 "Ah! but you would reject him with so much more ease 
 than I can do it." 
 
 " Practice, mv dear, is everything : this time you may feel a 
 little awkward, but you will find you will dispose of your second 
 lover without much difficulty, and you will give his congd to 
 your third with ai nuich case a» though you were merely dl»« 
 mlskln" 1 disobedient kitchcn'maid." 
 
/igalha Larochcjaquelhu 93 
 
 *' I cannot bear to give pain ; and Adolphe will be pained ; 
 his self-love will be wounded at the idea of being rejected." 
 " Then spare his self-love, and accept him." 
 « No ; that I will not do." 
 " Then wound his self-love, and reject him." 
 " Would I could do the one without the other : would I could 
 persuade him I was not worthy of him." 
 
 " Nay, do not attempt that ; that will be direct encourage^ 
 ment." 
 
 *' I will tell him that I am averse to marriage ; in truth, that 
 will be no falsehood. I do not think that my heart is capable 
 of more love than it feels at present." 
 
 " That may be true now, Agatha ; but suppose your heart 
 should enlarge before the autumn, at the touch of some 
 
 gallant wizard ; take my advice, dear girl, make no rash 
 
 promises." 
 
 " I will tell him that I cannot think of love till the King is on 
 the throne once more." 
 
 "If you say so, he will promise valiantly to restore his. 
 Majesty, and then to return to you to look for his reward. Shall 
 1 tell you, Agatha, what I should say?" 
 
 " Do, dearest Alarie ; tell me in sober earnest ; and if there 
 be ought of sobriety mixed with your wit, I will take your 
 advice." 
 
 "I would say to him thus : * M. Dcnot,' or 'Adolphe,' just 
 *s your custom is to address him — but mind, mark you, luake 
 him speak out firmly and formally first, that vour answer may 
 be equally firm and formal. * M. Dcnot, you nave paid me the 
 greatest honour which a gentleman can pay a lady, and I am 
 most grateful for the good opinion which you have expressed. 
 1 should be ungrateful were I to leave you for one moment in 
 doubt as to my real sentiments : I cannot love you as I ought 
 to love my husband. I hope you will never doubt my true 
 friendship for you : but more than sincere friendship I cannot 
 give you.' There, Agatha, not a word more, nor a word less 
 than that ; sit quite straight on your chair, as though you were 
 nailed to it ; do not look to the right or to the left ; do not 
 frown or smile." 
 
 "There will not be the least danger of my smiling, Marie." 
 " But do not frown neither ; fancy that you are the district 
 judge, giving sentence on a knotty piece of law ; show neither 
 sentiment, pride, nor anger. Be quite cold, inflexible and 
 determined ; and, above all things, do not move from your 
 seat ; and I think you will find your lover will take his answer ; 
 but if he do not— repeat it all over again, with a little more 
 emphasis, and rather slower than before. If it be necessary, 
 you roay repeat it a third time, or indeed till he goes away, but 
 
 O 
 
hi 
 
 94 La Vendif, 
 
 never vary tlie words. He must be a most determined man If 
 he requires the third dose. I never heard of but one who wasn't 
 saiirtlied with the second, and he was an Irishman." 
 
 *' If I could only insist on his sitting still and silent to hear 
 me make my formidable speech, your advice might be very 
 good." . .^, 
 
 " That, my dear, is your own strong pomt : if he attempts to 
 interrupt you, hear what he says, and then begin again. I3y the 
 time you have got to your * real sentiments,' 1 doubt not he will 
 bo in his tantrums : but do you not get into tantrums too, or . 
 cIhc you arc ns good as lost i let nothing tompt you to put in 
 an unpremeditated word j one word might be fatiU j but, above 
 all, do not move j nothing but an awful degree of calm on your 
 part will frighten him into quiescence ; if you once but move, 
 ou will find M. Denot at your feet, and your hand pressed to 
 lis lips. You might as well have surrendered at once, if any- 
 thing like that occur." 
 
 " Well, Marie, let what will happen, at any r.ite I will not 
 surrender, as you call it. As to sitting like the district judge, 
 and pronouncing sentence on my lover as you advise — I fear I 
 lack the nerve for it." 
 
 Agatha was quite right in her forebodings. Adolphe Denot 
 had firmly made up his mind to learn his fate before he started 
 for Saumur, and immediately on rising from breakfast, he 
 whispered to Agatha that he wished to speak to her alone for 
 a moment. In her despair she proposed that he should wait 
 till after mass, and Adolphe consented ; but during the whole 
 morning she felt how wealc she had been in postponing the evil 
 hour; she had a thousand last things to do for her brother, a 
 thousand last words to say to him ; but she was fit neither to do 
 or say anything ; even her prayers were disturbed ; in spite of 
 herself her thoughts clung to the interview which she had to 
 go through. 
 
 Since the constitutional priests had been sent into the country, 
 and the old curds silenced, a little temporary chapel had been 
 fitted up in the chateau at Durbelli6re, and here the fonner 
 parish priest officiated every Sunday ; the peasants of the parish 
 of St. Aubin were allowed to come to this little chapel ; at first 
 a few only had attended, but the number had increased by 
 degrees, and at the time when the revolt commenced, the greater 
 portion of the pastor's old flock crowded into or round the 
 chdteau every Sunday ; so that the Sabbath morning at 
 Durbelli^re was rather a noisy time. This was especially the 
 case on the 6th of June, as the people had so much to talk 
 about, and most of the men wished to see either the old or the 
 young master, and most of the women wanted to speak to one 
 of the ladies ; by degrees, however, the ch&teau was cleared* 
 
Aji^atha Larochejagueiin, 95 
 
 and Agatha, with a trembling heart, recreated to her own little 
 sitting-room upstairs to keep her appointment with Adolphe 
 Denot. 
 
 She had not been long there, when Adolphe knocked at the 
 door : he had been there scores of limes before, and had never 
 knocked ; but, although he was going to propose to make 
 Agatha his wife, he felt that he could no longer treat her with 
 his accustomed familiarity. 
 
 lie entered the room and found Agatha seated ; so far she 
 had taken her friend's advice ; she was very pale, but still she 
 looked calm and dignified, and was certainly much less confused 
 than her lover. 
 
 ** Agatha," said he, having walked up to the fire-place, and 
 leaning with his arm upon the mantle-piece, " Agatha, to-morrow 
 I start for Saumur." 
 
 He was dressed x^ry pot fit -de-vice; the frills of his shirt were 
 most accurately starched ; his long black hair was most 
 scrupulously brushed ; his nands were most delicately white ; 
 his boots most brilliantly polished ; he appeared more fit to 
 adorn the salon of an ambassador, than to take a place as a 
 warrior beneath the walls of a besieged town. Adolphe was 
 always particular in his dress, but he now exceeded himself; 
 and he appeared to be the more singular in this respect at 
 Durbclli6re just at present, as the whole of the party except 
 himself, women included, had forgotten or laid aside, as un- 
 important, the usual cares of the toilet. 
 
 ^ You, at any rate, go in good company, Adolphe," said 
 Agatha, attempting to smile. " May you all be successful, and 
 return as heroes — heroes, indeed, you are already ; but may you 
 gather fresh laurels at Saumur. I am sure you will. I, for one, 
 am not in the least despondent," 
 
 " Yes, Agatha, I shall go to Saumur, determined at any rate 
 not to lose there any little honour I may yet have won. If I 
 cannot place the white flag of La Vendue on the citadel of 
 Saumur, 1 will at any rate fall in attempting it." 
 
 " I am very sure that if you fail, it will not be for lack of 
 courage, or of resolution. You and Henri, and M. de Lescure 
 and our good friend Cathelineau, have taught us to expect victory 
 as the sure result of your attempts." 
 
 " Ah ! Agatha, one word from your lips, such as I long to 
 hear, would make me feel that I could chain victory to ir^* 
 sword, and rush into the midst of battle panoplied against evei^ 
 harm." 
 
 " Your duty to your King should be your best assurance of 
 victory ; your trust in your Saviour, your panoply against harm ; 
 if these did not avail you, as I know they do, the vain word of a 
 woman would be of little service.'' 
 
96 ^ii Vendii. 
 
 ** You speak coldly, Agatha, and you look coldly on me, X 
 trust your feelings are not cold also." 
 
 " I should have hoped that manv years of very intimate ac- 
 quaintance between us, of friendship commenced in childhood, 
 and now cemented by common sympathies and common 
 dangers, would have made you aware that my feelings arc not 
 cold towards you." 
 
 " Oh no ! not cold in the ordinary sense. You wish me well, 
 I doubt not, and your kind heart would grieve, if you heard that 
 I had fallen beneath the swords of the republicans ; but you 
 would do the same for Cathelineau or M. de Bonchamps. If I 
 cannot w.ike a warmer interest in your heart than that, I should 
 prefer that you should forget me altogether." 
 
 Agatha began to fear that at this rate the interview would 
 have no end. If Adolplie remained with his arm on the marble 
 slab, and his head on one side, making sentimental speeches, 
 till she should give him encouragement to fall at her feet, it 
 certainly would not be ended by bed-time. She, therefore, 
 summoned all her courage, and said, 
 
 " When you asked me to meet you here, your purpose was 
 not to reproach me with coldness— was it Adolphe ? Perhaps 
 it will be better for both of us that this interview should terminate 
 now. We shall part friends, dear friends ; and I will rejoice at 
 your triumphs, when you are victorious ; and will lament at your 
 reverses, should you be unlucky. I shall do the same for my 
 own dear Henri, and I know that you two will not be separated. 
 There is my hand," she added, thinking that he appeared to 
 hesitate; "and now let us go down to our friends, who are 
 expecting us." 
 
 " Are you so soon weary of hearing the few words I wish to 
 say to you?" said Adolphe, who had taken her hand, and who 
 seemed inclined to keep it. 
 
 " No, I am not weary. I will hear anything you wish to say.** 
 And Agatha having withdrawn her hand, sat down, and again 
 found herself in a position to take advantage of Marie's good 
 advice. 
 
 Adolphe remained silent for a minute or two, with his head 
 supported on his hand, and gazing on the lady of his love with 
 a look that was intended to fascinate her. Agatha sat perfectly 
 still ; she was evidently mindful of the lesson she had received : 
 at last, Adolphe started up from his position, walked a step or 
 two into the middle of the room, thrust his right hand into his 
 bosom ; and said abruptly, *' Agatha, this is child's play ; we 
 are deceiving each other ; we are deceiving ourselves ; we would 
 appear to be calm ^vhen there is no calm within us." 
 
 " Do not say we. I am not deceiving myself ; I trust I am 
 •*Qt deceiving you." 
 
Agatha Larochejaqucliu, 97 
 
 "And is your heart really so tranquil ?" said he. " Docs that 
 fair bosom control no emotion ? -Is that lovely face, so 
 exquisitely pale, a true index of the spirit within ? Oh ! 
 Agatha ! it cannot be ; while my own heart is so torn with 
 love ; while I feel my own pulses beat so strongly ; while my 
 own brain burns so fiercely, I cannot believe that your bosom is 
 a stranger to all emotion ! Some passion akin to humanity 
 must make you feel that you are not all divine ! Speak, Agatha ; 
 if that lovely form has within it ought that partakes of the weak- 
 ness of a woman, tell me, that at some future time you will accept 
 the love I offer you ; tell me, that I m;:y live in hope. Oh, 
 Agatha ! bid me not despair," and M. Dcnot in bodily reality 
 fell prostrate at her feet. 
 
 When Agatha had gone up to her room, she had prepared 
 herself for a most disagreeable interview, but she had not 
 expected anything so really dreadful as this. Adolphe had 
 not contented himself with kneeling at her feet on one knee, 
 and keeping his head erect in the method usual in such cases ; 
 but he had gone down upon both knee?, had thrown his head 
 upon her feet, and was now embracing her shoes and stockings 
 in a very vehement manner ; her legs were literally caught in a 
 trap ; she couldn't move them ; and Adolphe was sobbing so 
 loudly that it was difficult to make him hear anything. 
 
 "Adolphe, Adolphe, get up ! " she almost screamed, " this is 
 ridiculous in the extreme ; if you will not get up, I must really 
 call for some one. I cannot allow you to remain there ! " 
 
 " Oh, Agatha, Agatha !" sobbed Adolphe. 
 
 " Nonsense, Adolphe," said Agatha. " Arc you a man, to lie 
 grovelling on the floor like that? Rise up, or you will lose my 
 esteem for ever, if that be of any value to you." 
 
 " Give me one gleam of hope, and I will rise," said he, still 
 remaining on his knees, but now looking up into her face ; " tell 
 me not to despair, and I will then accomplish any feat of man- 
 hood. Give me one look of comfort, and I will again be the 
 warrior ready for the battle ; it is you only who can give me 
 back my courage; it is you only who can restore to me the 
 privilege of standing erect before all mankind." 
 
 " I can tell you nothing, Adolphe, but this— that, if you continue 
 on your knees, I shall despise you ; if you will rise, I will give 
 you at any rate a reasonable answer." 
 
 " Despise me, Agatha ! no, you cannot despise me ; the un- 
 utterable burning love of a true heart is not despicable ; the 
 oi^aracter which 1 bear before mankind is not despicable. Man 
 . not despicable when he kneels before the object which he 
 
 orships ; and, Agatha, with all my heart, I worship you I '* 
 
 " Now you are profane as well as contemptible, and I shall 
 *avc you," and she walked towards the door. 
 
9* Ln Vend/i, 
 
 •* Stay then/' said he, ** stay, and I will rise,** and, suiting tlio 
 action to the word, he got up. " Now speak to me in earnest, 
 Agatha ; and, since you will have it so, I also, if possible, will 
 be calm. Speak to me { but, unless you would have the 
 misery of a disturbed spirit on your conscience, bid me not 
 despair ! " 
 " Is that your calmness, Adolphe?" 
 
 " Can a man, rushing towards the brinlc of a precipice, be 
 calm ? Can a man be calm on the verge of the grave ? I love 
 you, Agatha, with a true and holy love ; but still with a love 
 fierce and untameablc. You reviled me when I said I wor- 
 shipped you, but I adore the ground you tread on, and the air 
 you breathe. I would shed my last drop of blood to bring vou 
 ease ; but I could not live and sec you give that fair hand to 
 another. My joy would be to remain ever as your slave j but 
 then the heart that beats beneath your bosom must be my own. 
 Agatha, I await your answer; one word from your lips can 
 transport me to paradise ! " 
 
 "III am to understand that you are asking me for love— for 
 a warmer love than that which always accompanies true friend- 
 ship— I am obliged to say that I cannot give ic you." Adolphe 
 remained standing in the middle of the room, with his hand 
 still fixed in his bosom, and with a look intended to represent 
 both thunder and lightning. He had really thought that the 
 little scene which he had gone through, very much to his own 
 satisfaction, would have a strong effect on Agatha, and he was 
 somewhat staggered by the cool and positive tone of her reply. 
 " It grieves me that I should give you pain," she continued, 
 " if my answer does pain you ; bat I should never forgive 
 myself, were I not to speak the truth to you plainly, and at 
 once." 
 
 " And do you mean that for your final, and only answer to 
 me?" 
 
 " Certainly, my only answer ; for I can give you no other. 1 
 know you will be too kind, too sensible, to make it necessary 
 that I should repeat it." 
 
 "This is dreadful," said Denot, putting his hand to his brow, 
 " this is very dreadful I " and he commenced pacing up and down 
 the room. 
 
 "Come," said she, good-naturedly, "let us go down— let us 
 forget this little episode— you have so much of happiness and 
 of glory before you, that I should grieve to see you mar your 
 career by a hopeless passion. Take the true advice of a devoted 
 friend," and she put her hand kindly on his arm, " let us both 
 forget this morning's scene — let us only remember our child- 
 hood's friendship ; think, Adolphe, how much you have to do 
 lor your King and your country, and do not damp your glorious 
 
Agatha Larocltejaqueliii, 99 
 
 exertion by fostering a silly passion. Am not I the same to you 
 as a sister? Wait till these wars are over, and then I will 
 gather flowers for you to present to 'some mistress who shall 
 truly love you." 
 
 " No, Agatha, the flowers you gather for me shall never leave 
 my own bosom. If it be the myrtle, I will wear it with joy to 
 my dying day, next my heart : if it is to be a Cyprus branch, it 
 shall soon be laid with me in the tomb." 
 
 " You will think less sadly in a short time," said Agatha ; 
 "your spirits will recover their proper tone amid the excitement 
 of battle. We had better part now, Adolphe ; " and she essayed 
 to leave the room, but he was now leaning against the door, and 
 did not seem inclined to let her depart so easily. 
 
 " You will not, 1 hope, begrudge me a few moments," said he, 
 •speaking between his teeth. " You may reject me with scorn, 
 but you can hardly refuse me the courtesy which any gentleman 
 would have a right to expect from your hands." 
 
 "You know that I will refuse you nothing which, either in 
 courtesy or kindness, I can do for you," said she, again sitting 
 down. He, however, seeing her once more seated, did not 
 appear much inclined to conclude what he had to say to her, for 
 he continued walking up and down the room, in a rather dis- 
 turbed manner ; " but you should remember," she added, " how 
 soon Henri is going to leave me, and how much we have all to 
 think and to talk of." 
 
 ** I see my presence is unwelcome, and it shall not trouble yoii 
 long. I would soon rid your eyes of my hated form, but I must 
 first say a few words, though my throat be choked with speaking 
 them. My passion for you is no idle boyish love ; it has grown 
 with my growth, and rr.itured itself with my manhood. I 
 Cannot now say to myself that it shall cease to be. I can- 
 cannot restore calmness to my heart or rest to my bosom. My 
 love is a fire which cannot now be quenched ; it must be 
 nourished, or it will destroy the heart which is unable to 
 restrain it. Think, Agatha, of all the misery you are inflict- 
 ing ; think also of the celestial joy one word of yours is 
 capable of giving." 
 
 " I have said before that I grieve to pain you ; but I cannot 
 speak a falsehood. Were it to save us both from instant death, 
 I could not say that I love you in the sense you mean." 
 
 " Oh, Agatha I I do not ask you to love me— that is, not to 
 love me now ; if you will only say that yrirur heart is not for ever 
 closed against my prayers, I will leave you contented." 
 
 " I can say nothmg which would give you any hope of that 
 which can never happen." 
 
 " And that is all I am to expect from you in return for as true 
 a love as mai ever bore to woman ? " 
 
100 La Vendit* 
 
 *' I cannot make you the return you wish* I can give you n) 
 
 other answer." 
 
 " Well, Agatha, so be it. You shall find now that I can be 
 calm, when my unalterable resolve reauires it. You shall find 
 that I am a man ; at any rate, you shall not again have to tell 
 me that ^ I am despicable," and he curled his upper lip, 
 and showed his teeth in a very ferocious manner. "You 
 shall never repeat that word in regard to Adolphe Denot. 
 Should kind fortune favour my now dearest wish, you will soon 
 hear that my bones are whitening under the walls of Saumur, 
 You will hear that y onr {it's-pi'Ca-ble\o\Qr" and he hissed out the 
 offending words, syllable by syllable, between his closed teeth, " has 
 perished in his attempt to be the first to place the white flag of 
 La Vendde above the tri-colour. If some friendly bullet will send 
 me to my quiet home, Adolphe Denot shall trouble you no 
 longer," and as he spoke the last few words, he softened his 
 voice, and re-assumed his sentimental look ; but he did not 
 remain long in his quiet mood, for he again became furious, as 
 he added : "But if fortune should deny me this boon, if I cannot 
 find the death I go to seek, I swear by your own surpassing 
 beauty, by your glorious unequalled form, that I will not live 
 without you. Death shall be welcome to me," and he raised his 
 hands to heaven, and then dashed them against his breast. 
 " Oh ! how dearly welcome ! Yes, heroic death upon the battle- 
 field shall calm this beating heart— shall quell these agonised 
 pangs. Yes, Agatha, if fortune be but kind, death, cold death, 
 shall soon relieve us both ; shall leave you free to bestow upon 
 a colder suitor the prize you have refused to my hot, impatient 
 love ; but if," (and here he glanced very wildly round him), 
 *' my prayers are not heard, if after Saumur's field, life be still 
 left within my body's sanctuary, I will return to seize you as my 
 own, though hosts in armour try to stop my way. I will not live 
 without you. I will not endure to see another man aspire to the 
 hand which has been refused to me. Adieu, Agatha, adieu ! I 
 trust we shall meet no more ; in thinking of me, at any rate, 
 your memory shall not call me despicable," and he rushed out of 
 the door and downstairs, without waiting to hear whether 
 Agatha intended making any answer to this poetical expres* 
 sion of his fixed resolution. 
 
 In the commencement of his final harangue, Agatha had 
 determined to hear him quietly to the end ; but she had not 
 expected anything so very mad as the exhibition he made. 
 However, she sat quietly through the whole of it, and was glad 
 that she was spared the necessity of a reply. 
 
 Nothing more was seen of Adolphe Denot that night. Henri 
 nsked his sister whether she had seen him, and she told him 
 that he had made a declaration of love to her, and had expressed 
 
Agoiha LarochcjaqucUu, loi 
 
 himself ill-satisfied with the only answer she had been able to 
 give him. She did not tell her brother how like a demoniac his 
 friend had behaved. To Marie she was more explicit ; to her 
 she repeated as nearly as possible the whole scene as it had 
 occurred ; and although Agatha was almost weeping with 
 sorrow, there was so much that was ludicrous in the affair, that 
 Marie could not keep herself from laughing. 
 
 " He will trouble you no more," said she. " You will find 
 that he will not return to Durbclli^re to carry you off through 
 the armed hosts. He will go to England or emigrate; and in a 
 few years' time, when you meet him again, you will find him 
 settled down, and as quiet as his neighbours. He is like new- 
 made wine, my dear — he only wants age." 
 
 On the following morning, by break of day, the party lef^ 
 Durbelli^re, and Adolphe Denot joined his friend on the 
 gra> elled ring before the house ; and Agatha, who had been 
 with her brother in his room, looking from the window siLW 
 her inmanageable lover mount his horsf io a quiet, decent 
 way like the rest of the party, 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 tE MOUCIfOIR ROUGE* 
 
 lOTHlNO interfered to oppose the advance of the 
 royalist troops towards Saumur. At Coron, as had 
 been proposed, Larochejacjuelin and Denot joined 
 Father Jerome; and Cathelineau also, and M. d'Elbde 
 joined them there. Every house in the town was open to them, 
 and the provisions, which by the care of M. de Larochejaquelin 
 had been sent there, were almost unneeded. If there was any 
 remnant of republican feeling in Coron, at any rate it. did not 
 dare to show itself. The road which the royalists intended to 
 take ran from Cholet, through Coron, Vihiers, and Doud, to Saumur. 
 The republicans, who were now in great force at Saumur, 
 under Generals Coustard and Quetineau, had sent small parties 
 of soldiers into the town of Vihiers and Doud, the inhabitants 
 of which were mostly republican. Before the arrival of M. de 
 Larochejaquelin, the blues, as the republican troops were called 
 by the Vendeans, had been driven out of Vihiers by a party of 
 royalists under the direction of Stofflct, who had raised himself 
 to distinction soon after the commencement of the revolt. Thi* 
 man was a gamekeeper in the employment of an emigrant 
 nobleman, and though he was a rough, harsh, uneducated, 
 quarrelsome man, nevertheless, by his zeal and courage, he hai 
 acquired great influence among the people, and was now at the 
 head of a numerous, and for La Vendde, well-armed body of 
 men. 
 
 Our friends accordingly found the road open for them as far 
 as Uoud. After their Junction with Stofflet, their army amounted 
 to about 7,500 men ; and at Doud they were to meet M. 
 Bonchamps and M. de Lcscure, who, it was supposed, would 
 bring with them as many more. They marched out of Vihiers 
 early on the Tuesday morning, having remained thers only 
 
Le Mouchoir Rouge, 103 
 
 about a couple of hours, and before nightfall they saw the spire 
 of Doud church. They then rested, intending to force their way 
 into the town early on the following 'morning ; but they had 
 barely commenced their preparations for the evening, when a 
 paity of royalists came out to them from th€ town, inviting them 
 m. M. de Lescure and M. 13onchamps were already there. 
 The republican soldiers had been attacked and utterly routed ; 
 most of them were now prisoners in the town ; those who had 
 escaped had retreated to Saumur, and even they had left their 
 arms behind them. 
 
 All this good fortune greatly inspirited the Vendeans. The men 
 talked with the utmost certainty of what they would do when 
 they were masters of Saumur. Cathelineau had brought with 
 him the celebrated cannon of St. T lorent, " Marie Jeanne," and 
 she now stood in the market place of Dou(5, covered with 
 ribbons and flowers. Many of the men had never hitherto seen 
 this wonderful piece of artillery, and they hastened to look at it, 
 " Marie Jeanne" that night was patted, kissed, and caressed by 
 thousands. Cathelineau was equally the object of their admira- 
 tion ; every peasant who had not yet seen him, hurried to gaze 
 on him ; and after his arrival in Doud, he was two hours 
 employed in a military operation, hitherto undertaken, I believe, 
 by no other general : he was endeavouring to shake hands with 
 every man in the army. Chapeau here was again of great use, 
 for he stood at Cathelineau's elbow, and hurried the men away 
 as soon as they touched his hand. But for this precaution, the 
 work could never have been done ; and as it was, some of the 
 men were discontented, and declared their intention of returning 
 home, for Cathelineau was called away before he had completed 
 his task : he was obliged to go to the Town Hall to attend a 
 council that was held there of the different Vendean chiefs. 
 
 The arms which they had taken in Vihiers and Doud were of 
 the greatest use to them ; in both places they had found a 
 cannon ; they had taken nine or ten from Fontenay, and others 
 from Thouars. Most of the men among them now had muskets, 
 and they were able to take to Saumur >vith them twenty-four 
 pieces of heavy artillery. What could the infamous blues expect 
 to do against a force so numerous, so well armed, and so well 
 officered ! 
 
 That evening a council of war was held by the different chiefs 
 of the Vendeans in the Town Hall of Doud. Lescure, Laroche- 
 jaquclin, Cathelineau, D'Elbdc, and Stofflet were there. M. 
 Uonchamps, who had been very severely wounded at Fontenay, 
 but who had insisted on being carried along with his own men, 
 was brought in on a litter. Father Jerome was there, and 
 another priest who had come with M, Bonchamps. There were 
 a couple of old royalist noblemen, not sufficiently active to taice 
 
I04 La Vend/e, 
 
 a part in the actual fighting, but sufficiently zealous in the cause 
 to leave their homes lor the purpose of giving the youn^ com- 
 manders the benefit of their experience. Foret also, Cathelineau's 
 friend, was present, and Adolphe Denot : indeed many others, 
 from time to time, crowded into the room, for the door was not 
 well kept, nor were the councils of the generals in any way a 
 a secret. Jacaues Chapeau, as a matter of course, managed to 
 make his way mto the room, and took upon himself the duties of 
 doorkeeper. 
 
 The Mayor's arm-chair stood at the head of the table, as the 
 leaders dropped into the room one after another, but no one 
 appeared willing to occupy it. Hitherto there had been no 
 chief among the Vendeans ; this was the first meeting which 
 had been held with anything approaching to the solemnity of a 
 general assembly, and it occurred to each of them that who- 
 ever should then seat himself in the Mayor's chair, would be 
 assuming that he was the chief leader of the revolt. 
 
 " Come, M. de Lcscure," said Stofllet, *' we have much to do, 
 and but little time ; let U3 make the most of it : do you take 
 tlie President's seat, (ientlemen, I am sure we could have no 
 better President than M. de Lcscure?" 
 
 They all agreed, with the exception of the chosen leader. 
 " By no means," said he. " 1 was the last here who joined the 
 cause, and 1 certainly will not place myself first among those 
 who have led the \wy in the work we have taken up. No *, 
 here is the man who shall be our President," And as he snokc 
 he caught hold of Cathelincau, who was immediately behind 
 him, and absolutely forced him into the chair. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, M. de Lcscure — " said Cathelincau, en* 
 dcavouring to extricate himself from the seat ; but both his 
 voice and his exertions were stopped, for three or four of them 
 united to hold him where he was, and declared that he should 
 be the President for the evening. 
 
 " Indeed, and indeed you will not stir," said Henri, who stood 
 behind his chair, and placed his hands heavily on the postillion's 
 shoulders. 
 
 *' It was you that brought us here,'* said De Lcscure, " and 
 you must not now avoid the responsibility." 
 
 "Ah ! M. de Lcscure," said he, "there are so many moie 
 fitting than me." 
 
 " Not one in all La Vendde," said M. Bonchamps: "sit where 
 you are, Cathelincau." 
 
 "You must do it, Cathelincau ;" whispered his friend Forct ; 
 "the peasants would not endure to sec any man put abov^ 
 you." 
 
 " Cathelincau will not shrink from the burden which the Lgrtf 
 has called upon him to bear," said Father Jerome. 
 
Lc ^toiichoir Rouge, 105 
 
 " Providence," said D'Elbdc, " has summoned the good Calhe* 
 lineau to this high duty ; he will not, I am sure, oppose its 
 decrees." 
 
 And thus Cathehncau found himself seated in the Mayor's 
 chair at the head of the table, whilst the highest noblemen and 
 gentry of the country took their places around it, and from that 
 moment Cathelineau became the General-in-Chief of the 
 Vcndeans. 
 
 Each leader then gave in the numbers of the men who had 
 come with him, and it was found that the army consisted of 
 above fifteen thousand men. Lists were then made out of the 
 arms and accoutrements which they possessed, and the men in 
 a rude way were drafted into regiments under the command of 
 the leaders who had brought them. There was a small body 
 of cavalry equipped in most various manners, and mounted ork 
 horses, which resembled anything rather than a regular squadron 
 of troopers : these were under the immediate command of Henri 
 Larochejaquelin. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Cathelineau, " we have, you know, three 
 different attacks to make, three positions to carry, before we can 
 be masters of Saumur." 
 
 " Yes," said Bonchamps, " there in the camp at Varin on the 
 right, and the redoubts of Bournan on the left ; the fortifications 
 of the town itself lie between them, and a Httle to the rear of 
 both." 
 
 " Exactly, M. Bonchamps ; the town itself, I take, is the 
 easiest task of the three ; but as we arc situated it must be the 
 last." 
 
 " I think you will find that Varin is their strongest point," 
 said De Lescure. 
 
 " M. de Lescure is right," said Cathelineau. " We shall find 
 them very strong in their camp. I had with me, yesterday, two 
 men from Saumur ; they knew nothing of General Quetineau's 
 intentions, but they had seen detachments of men constantly 
 going to and fro between Saumur and the camp ; they calculate 
 that we shall think that the weaker side." 
 
 ** Bournan is right on our way," said Bonchamps ; " but the 
 ground lies so advantageously for them, that they will cut us to 
 pieces if we attempt to push our way up the hill against the 
 heavy artillery they will have there." 
 
 •* M. Bonchamps is quite right there," said Cathelineau. " I 
 think we should not attack Bournan till we can do so from the 
 side of the town. I think Bournan should not be our first 
 object ; but nevertheless, we must be prepared to meet at Varin 
 the great body of the army ; we must drive them from thence 
 back into the town." 
 
 "Yes,* said Henri, "and foUo^v them in, as we are driving 
 
to6 l^ Vend^iJ 
 
 them, 'ihe sight of their comrades In disotuer will Itself 
 conquer the men in the citadel ; it is always so with the 
 blues." 
 
 "We must rcn:erb:r, Henri," said Da Lescure, "these are 
 not conscripts, nor yet merely the Marsellaise we have to deal 
 with : the men who fought at Jcmappes and at Valmy are here; 
 the old cuirassiers of the French army." 
 
 •'They are cowards, Charles," said Henri, "or they would not 
 have deserted their King." 
 
 ** They are good soldiers, nevertheless " said Bonchamps. " I 
 have fought among them, and know it." 
 
 " They are the better worth our fighting then," said Henri. 
 
 *•' Providence can give us the victory over tried veterans as 
 well as over untried conscripts ; it were a sin to doubt it," said 
 M. d'Elbde. 
 
 " That would be a good subject for a sermon to the soldiers, 
 but a bad argument in a council chamber," said Bonchamps. 
 " We shall find the cuirassiers tough fellows to deal with." 
 
 " We must take our enemies as we find them," said Cathe- 
 lineau ; " but if you will allow me, gentlemen, and as you have 
 placed me here, I will tell you what I would propose." 
 
 " Do, Cathelineau, do !" said Henri ; **let us have one plan, 
 and then make the best we can of it j we can at any rate do our 
 duty like men." 
 
 " I^ think we should leave this early to-morrow morning, and 
 move across the country as though we were going to Montreuil; 
 we shall so come on the Montreuil road about a league from 
 Saumur, and not very far, that is about half a league, from the 
 camp at Varin." 
 
 *' And then, Cathelineau, will you attack the camp to-morrow 
 evening?" said De Lcscure. 
 
 " I think not, M. de Lcscure ; but I would make a feint to do 
 so, and I would thus keep the republicans on the alert all night ; 
 a small body of our men may, I think, in that way fatigue the 
 masses of the republicans in the camp — we might harrass them 
 the whole night, which will be dark from eleven till near three ; 
 and then with the earliest sunrise our real attack should be 
 made." 
 
 *' Bravo, Cathelineau ! " said Henri ; " and then fall on them 
 when they are in want of sleep." 
 
 " Yes," said De Lescure, " and they will have learnt to think 
 that our attacks in that quarter are only feints." 
 
 "Such may be our good luck, M. de Lescure ; at any rate, if 
 you think of nothing better, we may try it." 
 
 It was thus decided, and arranged that Larochejaquelin 
 should, on the following evening, leave the main body of the 
 army with all the mounted men belonging to it, and ad/ance 
 
Le ^fouchoir Rouge, 107 
 
 near enough to the camp at Varin to allow 0/ his "being seen 
 and heard by the republicans, and tiiat he should almost 
 immediately retreat : that a body of infantry should then move 
 on, and take up a position near to the camp, which should also 
 return after a while, and that as soon as darkness had come 
 on, a third advance should be made by a larger body of men, 
 who should, if possible, approach within musket shot of the 
 trenches, and endeavour to throw the republicans into disorder. 
 At four o'clock in the morning, the real attack was to be made 
 by the combined Vendean forces, of which Cathelineau was to 
 lead the centre, De Lescure the left, consisting of the men 
 brought by himself and Larochcjaquelin from the centre of the 
 Bocage ; and D'Elbde the right, which was formed of men 
 chiefly brought by M. Bonchamps from the province of Anjou. 
 M. Bonchamps was himself too ill from the effects of his 
 wounds to accompany the army beyond Doud. 
 
 Early on the following morning the whole army, with the 
 exception ol the men left with Foret, defiled out of Doud, and 
 crossed over to the Montreuil road, dragging with them their 
 cannons, baggage-waggons, and ammunition ; their movements 
 were not made with very great order, nor with much celerity ; 
 but, about six o'clock in the evening, on the loth of Jutie, 
 Cathelineau took up his position about a league from Saumur. 
 They got possession of one or two farm-houses, and were not 
 long in making their arrangements for the night ; the men were 
 accustomed to sleep out in the open air since the war com- 
 menced, and were well content to remain in clusters round the 
 cannons and the waggons. 
 
 At eight o'clock, Larochcjaquelin had his little troop of 
 calvalry ready mounted, and started with them for the camp 
 of Varin. As he and his companions dashed along through 
 the waggons and by the cannons, the peasants who were 
 preparmg to lay down for the night, and who knew nothing 
 of the plans of their generals, rose up one after another 
 wondering. 
 
 "There goes *le Mouchoir Rouge,'" said one, alluding to 
 Henri's costume ; for when in action he always wore a red 
 handkerchief round his waist, and another round his neck. 
 
 " Yes ; that is * le Mouchoir Rouge,' " said another, " he 
 is off for Saumur ; the horsemen are already starting for 
 Saumur." 
 
 " Come, then ; they shall not go alone," said another. " We 
 will start for Saumur. We will not lie here while others are in 
 the battle." 
 
 These were men from the neighbourhood of Durbelli^re, who 
 were now placed under the orders of M. de Lescure ; but who 
 conceived that, as their lord and master was gone before them, 
 
I08 Zm Veiuiie. 
 
 It must be their duty to follow. The word was passed from one 
 to another, and the whole body of them was soon in motion. 
 It must be remembered that they were, in no respect, similar to 
 disciplined troops ; they had received no militar)r instruction, 
 and did not therefore, know, that they were doing wrong in 
 following their own master ; they were in receipt of no pay ; 
 amenable to no authority, and consequently afraid of no 
 penalties ; their only idea was to do the best they could for the 
 cause, to fight with courage and perseverance, and to trust to 
 God for the result : it was not, therefore, wonderful that, in the 
 present Instance, they so completely mistook their duty. 
 
 Cathelineau's men, who were intended to form the centre of 
 the attack on the next morning, were phiccd just to the right of 
 the road, but their baggage and cannons had not been moved 
 from it ; in fact, they were nearly mixed with M. dc Lcscure's 
 men ; whereas M. d'Elbde's portion of the army was removed a 
 pood deal further to the right, and was placed immediately on the 
 banks of the river Thoud. The camp at Varin, which was to be 
 attacked, was situated between th«: river and the road to Saumur. 
 In Cathelineau's division there were some few who understood 
 the plan which had been decided on, and some others who knew 
 that they hhould not move without orders, and they did what they 
 could to prevent their companions from joining the rush made 
 by M. de Lcscure's party ; but their efforts were nearly in vaini 
 Every man learnt in the confusion that the attack was to be 
 made on Saumur that night, and no man wished to be left 
 behind. 
 
 "Come friends, let us follow Me Mouchoir Rouge;* he never 
 meant, I am sure, to leave us here,*' said the spokesman of one 
 partv. 
 
 " The Saint of Angers is on before us," said the others \ '* he 
 would let no man see the enemy before himself. The good 
 Cathelineau is gone to Saumur, let us follow him ! " 
 
 In this way they soon learnt to believe that both Cathelineau 
 and Larochejaquelin were on before them, and they were not 
 long in hurrying after them. Within twenty minutes, about six 
 thousand men started off without a leader or any defined 
 object, to bescige the walls of Saumur ; they did not even know 
 that u vast entrenched cncampntent of the enemy'u troops lay 
 directly in their way. The men had, most of tnem, muskets 
 with three or four rounds of powder and ball each ; many of 
 them also had bayonets. They were better armed than they 
 had hitherto ever been, and they consequently conceived them- 
 selves invincible. Cathelineau's men, however, would not stir 
 without • Marie Jeanne,' and that devoted, hard-worked cannon 
 was seized by scores, and hurried off with them towards 
 baumur. 
 
Le Mouchoir Rouge, 109 
 
 De Lcscure and Caihclincau were toj^-ctncr in :i farmhoujc, 
 within five hundred yards of the place* whore the baggage had 
 been left, and within half a mile of the most distant of the men 
 who had thus taken upon themselves to march, or rather to 
 rush, away without orders ; and some of those who stiil had 
 their senses about them, soon let their generals know what was 
 going forward. 
 
 They were seated together, planning the attack for the next 
 morning. Denot was with Larochejaquelin, and D'Elbde and 
 Stofflet were together with the detachment on the banks of the 
 river ; they were, therefore, alone when Father Jerome rushed 
 into the room. 
 
 " The men are off, M. dc Lcscure," said he : " do you not 
 hear them ? For Heaven's sake go down to them, Cathe- 
 lincau ; some one has told them that you and Larochejaquelin 
 were gone to Saumur ; and they are all preparing to follow 
 you." 
 
 "Heaven and earth!" said De Lescure, ''they will be 
 destroyed." 
 
 ** Unless you stop them they will," said Father Jerome, " they 
 will all fall upon the camp just as the republicans are under 
 arms, and prepared to receive them. Hurry, Cathclineau, you 
 alone can stop them." 
 
 Cathclineau, without uttering a word, seized his sword, and 
 rushed out of the room without his cap ; and followed by M. 
 De Lescure, hurried through the farm-yard, leapt a little gate, 
 and got upon the road a few yards from the place where the 
 waggons had been left. The whole place was in the utmost 
 confusion : the men were hurrying to and fro, hardly knowing 
 what they were doing or going to do ; the most ardent of them 
 were already a quarter of a mile advanced on the road to 
 Saumur ; others were still following them ; those who knew 
 that they should have stayed quiet during the night were in the 
 utmost distreis ; they did not know whether to support their 
 comrades, or to remain where they were. 
 
 " What ails them, Peter?" said Cathclineau, catching hold of 
 the arm of a man who had followed him from St. Florent, "if 
 they advance they will be destroyed at Varin ;" and as he 
 spoke, he leapt upon the top of one of the waggons laden with 
 provisions, which had come from Durbelli^re. 
 
 It was a beautiful warm evening in June, and the air was 
 heavy with the sweet scent of the flowering hedges ; it was now 
 nearly nine o'clock, and the sun had set ; but the whole western 
 horizon was gorgeous with the crimson streaks which accom- 
 panied its setting. Standing in the waggon, Cathclineau could 
 see the crowds of hurrying royalists rushing along the road, 
 wherever the thick foliage of trees was sufficiently broken to 
 
110 La Vendt*€» 
 
 leave any portion of It visible, and he could heat ihe eager hum 
 of their voices both near him and at a distance. 
 
 " No power on earth could brin^ them back," said he. " Now, 
 Peter, run to the stable for your hfo { my hor»o is there and M. 
 De Lescure's—bring them both. They are both saddled. Run 
 my friend ; a moment lost now will cost a hundred lives." 
 
 It was Peter Berrier to whom he spoke, and in spite of his 
 evil treatment at Durbelliire, Peter ran for the horses, as though 
 he was running for the King's crown. 
 
 " It is impoasible to stop them," said Cathclineau. still stand* 
 ing on the w.'vkko"» an^l speaking to Dc Lcscurc, whom he had 
 outran. "All La Vendde could not stop them ; but we may head 
 them, M. Dc Lcscure, and lead them on ; we must attack the 
 
 camp to-night." _ , 
 
 " Our loss will be terrible if we do," said De Lcscure, 
 " It will, it will be terrible, and we shall be repulsed ; but that 
 will be better than letting them rush into positive destruction. 
 In an hour's time they will be between the camp, the town, and 
 the heights of Bournan, and nothing then could save them." 
 
 " Let us go, then," said De Lescure \ " but will you not send 
 toD'Elb(^e?» 
 
 ** Yes ; but do not desire him to follow us. In two hours time 
 he will have enough to do to cover our retreat." 
 
 " We shall, at any rate, have the darkness in our favour,** said 
 De Lescure. 
 
 " We shall ; but we have two dreadful hours of light before 
 that time comes : here are our horses— let us mount ; there is 
 nothing for us now but a hard ride, a good drubbing— and then, 
 the best face we can put upon it to-morrow." 
 
 Orders were then given to Peter Berrier to make the best of ' 
 his way across to ^L d'Elbde, and to explain to him what had 
 occurred, and bid him keep his men in reserve under arms, and 
 as near to the waggons as he could. "And be sure," said 
 Cathclineau, " be sure, Peter, to make him understand, that he 
 is at once to leave the river and come across to the road, to 
 keep his men, you know, immediately close to the waggons." 
 
 " I understand," said Peter, " I understand," and he at once 
 Started off on his important errand. 
 
 " It is a bad messenger, I fear," said Cathclineau ; " but we 
 have no better ; indeed we are lucky even to find him." 
 
 " I wonder," said Peter Berrier to himself, as he ran across 
 the fields, " I wonder whether they'll make nothing of this job, 
 too, as they did of that day at St. Florent. I suppose they will \ 
 some men haven't the luck ever to be thought much of." 
 
 Notwithstanding his gloomy presentiments, Peter made the 
 best of his way to M. d'Elbde, and having found him, told him 
 how the men had started by themselves for Saumur t hqw jr># 
 
Le Mouchoiy Rouge, \ \ \ 
 
 Lescure and Cathelineau had followed them ; how theylntended 
 to attack the camp at Varin that night, and he ended by saying, 
 «• And you, M. d'Elbde " 
 
 "Of course we must follow them," said D'Elbde. 
 
 "Not a foot," said Peter; "that is just why they sent me, 
 instead of any common messenger ; that I might explain it all 
 10 you properly. You are not to stir a foot after them ; but are 
 to remain here, just where you are, till they return." 
 
 " That is impossible," said D'Elbde. " What good on earth 
 can I do, remaining here ?" 
 
 "Why, Cathelineau will know where to find you, when he 
 wants you." 
 
 "You are mistaken, Peter Berrier," said D'Elbde. "You 
 must be mistaken. Perhaps he meant that I should go over to 
 the road, to cover their retreat. God knows they will want 
 someone to do so," 
 
 "That is just it," said Peter. "They mean to retreat down 
 the river, and you jjire to remain just where you are." 
 
 As might be expected, M. d'Elbe'e was completely puzzled, 
 and he sent off three or four men, to endeavour to get fresh 
 orders, either from Cathelineau or from De Lescure ; and while 
 waiting to receive them, he kept his useless position by the river 
 side. 
 
 In the meantime, Cathelineau and De Lescure had hurried 
 off, at the top of their horses' speed, to endeavour to head the 
 column of madmen who were rushing towards almost certain 
 destruction. " They will, at any rate, meet Larochejaquelin on 
 his return, and he will stop them." This thought occurred to 
 both of them, but neither of them spoke; indeed, they were 
 moving too quickly, and with too much trouble to be able to 
 speak. Their object now was not to stop the men who thronged 
 the roads ; they only wanted to head them before they came to 
 the portion of the road which passed close by the trenches of 
 the camp at Varin. 
 
 They were so far successful, that they found themselves nearly 
 at the head of the column by the time they came within sight 
 of the great banks which the republicans had thrown up. It was 
 still light enough for them to see the arms of the republican 
 troops, and they were near enough to the camp to hear the 
 movements of the men within it, in spite of the increasing noise 
 of their own troops. 
 
 " They are ready to receive us," said De Lescure to himself, 
 ** and a warm reception they are likely to give us." 
 
 He now separated himself from Cathelineau, and galloped 
 before the trenches to an open space where Larochejaquelin had 
 stationed himself with the cavalry. Henri had completely 
 surprised the sentinels on duty in the camps ; he and about 
 
ti9 Ld Vtndit, 
 
 twenty others had dismounted, had shot four or five sentries at 
 their posts, and had again retreated to their horses before the re* 
 publicans were able to return his fire. But what was his surprise 
 on preparing to remount his horse, to hear the rush of his own 
 men coming along the road, and to see the cloud of dust which 
 enveloped them. Henri tried to speak to them, and to learn 
 what new plan brought them there ; but the foremost men were 
 too much out of breath to speak to him } however, they shouted 
 and hurrahed at seeing him, and slackened their pace a little. 
 They were then almost within musket shot of the republicans, 
 and the balls from the trenches began to drop very near them. 
 Henri was still in an agony of suspense, not knowing what to do 
 or to propose, when De Lescure emerged from out of the cloud 
 of dust, and galloped up to him. 
 
 " What on earth has brought you here, Charles?" said Henri. 
 " Why have the men come on in this way ? Every man within 
 the camp will have a musket in his hand in five minutes' time." 
 
 ** It is too late now to help it," said De Lescure ; " if we both 
 live over this night, I will explain it to you. Cathelineau is 
 behind there ; we must lead the meii to the attack 5 he will be 
 in the trenches immediately." 
 
 " Lead on," said Henri, jumping off his horse, " or rather I 
 will go first ; but stop, the men must have five minutes to get 
 their breath ; they are all choked with running. Come, my 
 men," said he, turning to the crowds who were clustering round 
 them, " we will disturb the dreams of these republicans ; the 
 blues are not fond of fighting by night, but if they are asleep I 
 think we will soon wake them," and accompanied by his friend, 
 ( he rushed down into the trenches, and the men followed him by 
 hundreds, covered with dust, choked with thirst, breathless with 
 their long run, and utterly ignorant what they were going to do, 
 or how they were to force an entrance into the camp, 
 
 At the same moment, Cathelineau leapt into the trench at the 
 point nearest to the road by which he had come, and his men 
 followed him enthusiastically, shouting at the top of their voices 
 *' Vive le Roi ! " " A basla Rdpubliquc." Hitherto they had been 
 successful in every effort they had made. The republican 
 troops had fled from every point which had been attacked ; 
 the Vendeans had, as yet, met no disasters, and they thought 
 themselves, by the special favour of the Almighty, invincible 
 when fighting against the enemies of the King. 
 
 Thecamp at Varin wa«. not a regularly fortified position ; but 
 it was surrounded by a deep trench, with steep earth-works 
 thrown up inside it. These were high enough to afford great 
 protection to those within, and steep enough to offer a consider* 
 able obstacle to any attacking party ; but the earth was still soft, 
 and the foremost among the Vendeans were not long in finding 
 
Le Mouchoir Rouge, 1 13 
 
 themselves withm the cnlrenchnient ; but when there they met 
 a terribly hot reception. 
 
 The feigned attack made by Larochcjaquclin had just served 
 to warn the republicans, and by the time the real attack was 
 made, every man was under arms. As De Lcscure had said, 
 the old soldiers of Valmy and of Jemnppes were there. Men 
 accustomed to arms, who well knew the smell of powder, and 
 who were prepared to contest every inch of ground before they 
 gave it up. These men, too, wore defensive armour, and the 
 Vendcans, unaccustomed to meet enemies so well prepared, 
 were dismayed when they perceived that their enemies did not 
 as usual give way before them. 
 
 The slaughter in the trenches was tremendous : the first 
 attack had been made with great spirit, and about four hundred 
 of the Vendeans were in the camp before the murderous fire of 
 the republicans commenced : among these were De Lescure, 
 Larochejaquelin and Cathelineau ; and they made their way 
 even to the centre of the camp ; but those who had not made a 
 portion of the first assault, fell back by twenties and thirties 
 under the nre cf the republicans ; twice Larochejaquelin re- 
 turned and nearly cleared the top of the trench s, in order to 
 «Tiake way for the men below to come up ; but they were 
 frightened and intimidated ; their powder was all gone, and 
 they perceived that their first attempt had failed .'* their friends 
 and comrades were falling on every side of them ; and, after 
 awhile, they retreated from the trenches beyond reach of 
 musket shot. Cathelineau had expected that this would be the 
 case, and though he had been one of the first within the camp, 
 he was prepared to leave it again as soon as he could make 
 the men, who were with him, understand that it was necessary 
 they should do so. It was now dusk, and the uncertain light 
 favoured his intention. 
 
 "Where is your master?" said he to Jacques, whom he 
 chanced to find close to him ; "tell him to lead his men down 
 the trenches again, back to the road, at once, at once ; beg 
 him to be the first to leap down himself? they will not go 
 unless he leads them." 
 
 Jacques did as he was bid, and Larochejaquelin led the 
 men back to the trenches. 
 
 •* Come, my friends," said he, "we have given them enough 
 for to-night— we have broken their sleep ; come, we will visit 
 them again to-morrow." And he dashed through a body of 
 republicans who were now firing from the trenches, and about 
 pne hundred of his own men followed him. 
 
 The republicans had stuck huge pine>wood torches into the 
 ereen soas a-top of the trenches, which gave a ghastly glaring 
 fight immediately in their own vicinity, though they did not 
 
114 ^ VenO^i, 
 
 relieve the darkness at a few paces distant. As Henri rushed 
 through them, some of the soldiers observed his peculiar costume 
 and halloaed out, "fire upon the red scsixi" {tires sur ie mouchoif 
 rouge\ but the confusion was too great to allow of this friendly 
 piece of advice being followed, or else the musketeers were bad 
 marksmen, for Henri went safely through the trench, though 
 many of his men were wounded in following him. 
 
 Cathelineau's men soon followed, as did also Cathelineau 
 himself; the last man who leapt into the trenches was De 
 Lescure ; but he also got safely through them — not above 
 twenty-five or thirty of those who had forced their way into 
 the camp, fell ; but above three hundred of those who had only 
 attempted it, were left dead or wounded in the trenchesi And 
 now the retreat commenced, and Cathelineau found it impossible 
 to accomplish it with anything like order ; the three leaders 
 endeavoured to make the men conceive that they had been 
 entirely successful in all which it had been thought desirable to 
 accomplish, but they had seen too much bloodshed to be de- 
 ceived—they were completely dismayed and disheartened, and 
 returned back towards Montreuil, almost quicker than they had 
 come. 
 
 The men had brought " Marie Jeanne" with them; but in the 
 species of attack which they had made, the cannon was not of 
 the slightest use ; it had not been once discharged. A great 
 effort was now made to take it back with them, but the attempt 
 was unsuccessful : they had not dragged it above five hundred 
 yards, when they heard that the republicans were following them ; 
 and then, as every man was obliged to think of himself, poor 
 " Marie Jeanne" was left to her fate. 
 
 It was soon evident to Cathelineau and De Lescure that they 
 were pursued ; but the night was dark, and they calculated that 
 M. d'Ellxfe's men would be drawn up at the waggons ; it was 
 more than probable that they would then be able, not only to 
 stop the pursuit, but to avenge themselves on their pursuers. 
 What then was their surprise on reaching the waggons, to find 
 them utterly deserted — there was not a single man with them. 
 
 This was a great aggravation to the misery of their predica- 
 ment. They had no resource but to fly on to Montreuil, which 
 was still above two leagues distant from them ; and should the 
 republican troops persevere in the pursuit, their loss upon the 
 road would be terrific. The darkness was their only friend, and 
 on they went towards Montreuil. 
 
 The republican soldiers were stopped by the waggons and 
 cannons ; it was then as dark as a night in June ever is ; it was 
 well known also that the Republic had no friends in Montreuil ; 
 the troops had been driven from the place by M. de Lescure, on 
 his road to Doue, and the royalists would be able to make a 
 
Li lilouaioir Roit^e. 1 15 
 
 very strong stand in the streets of the town ; the pursuit was, 
 therefore, given up, and the blues returned to tlie camp at 
 Varin, with all the artillery and the baggage belonging to the 
 royalists. 
 
 M. d'Elb^e remained all the while in his position by the river; 
 he heard the firing, — he also heard the confused noise of the 
 retreat, but he felt that it was impossible for him, at that hour 
 of night, to take any steps without knowing what had been done, 
 or what he had better do : at about four in the morning, he 
 learnt exactly what had occurred, and then he rejoined Cathe- 
 lincau at Montreuil. 
 
 The Vendeans, during the night, lost every cannon they 
 possessed ; all their baggage, consisting of provisions, wearing 
 apparel, and ammunition ; they lost also about five hundred 
 men, in killed, wounded and prisoners ; but all this was not of 
 so much injury as the loss of the prestige of victory. The 
 peasants had conceived themselves invincible, and they were 
 struck with consternation to find \.\\Qy were liable to repulse and 
 defeat. Early on the following morning, another council of war 
 was held, but the spirits and hopes o the generals had bcctt 
 greatly damped 
 
 *" t 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE DISHOP OP AGRA. 
 
 |N thts occasion the meeting of the leaders was kept 
 strictly secret ; none were admitted but those who 
 were known to be the chosen chiefs of the Vendeansj 
 it consisted of Cathelineavi, De Lcscure, Laroche* 
 aquelin, D'Elbde, Stofflet, and Father Jerome. They had been 
 closeted together about an hour and a half, when Father Jerome 
 left the room, and rode off towards Thouars, on the best horse 
 which could be found for him ; no one seemed to know where 
 or for what he was going, though much anxiety was expressed 
 on the subject. Those who knew him were well aware that he 
 was not about to desert the cause in its first reverse. In the 
 meantime, the generals tried to reassure the men. Cathelineau 
 explained to them that they had brought on themselves the evils 
 which they now suffered by their absurd attempt to act without 
 orders ; and De Lcscure and Larochejaauelin endeavoured to 
 rouse their energies by pointing out to them the necessity of 
 recovering their favourite cannon. 
 
 "Ah! M. Henri," said one of the men from Durbelli^re, 
 " how can we get her again when we have lost our guns, and 
 have got no powder ? " 
 
 " How !" said Henri, "with your sticks and your hands, my 
 friends— as your neighbours in St. Florent took her, at first, 
 from the blues ; we all think much of the men of St. Florent, 
 because it was they first took Marie Jeanne ; let us be the men 
 who rescue her from these traitors, and these people will think 
 much of us." 
 
 About two o'clock in the day a closed carriage was driven 
 into Montrcuil very fast, by the road from Thouurs ; the blinds 
 were kept so completely down, that no one could see who was 
 within it ; it was driven up to the door of the house in which 
 
The. Bishop of A^rd. 1 1 7 
 
 the council had been held ; the doors of the carriage and of the 
 house were opened, and two persons alighted and ran into the 
 house so quickly that their persons could hardly be recognised, 
 even by those who were looking at them. 
 
 "That last is Father Jerome, at any rate," said a townsman. 
 
 "Who on earth had he with him?" said another ; "he must 
 be some giant," said a third, "did you see how he stooped going 
 into the door." 
 
 " A giant, stupid ; " said a fourth, " how could a giant gel out 
 of such a carriage as that ; besides, where could Father Jerome 
 find giants in these days." 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said the other, "but I am sure he was 
 eight feet high ; didn't you see his back as he ran into the 
 house." 
 
 Soon after the mysterious entry into the house, Henri left it, 
 and went out to the fields beyond the town, where most of the 
 men were still resting after the long fatigue of the night ; much 
 discontentment had been expressed by them, and many had 
 already declared their intention of returning home. Every 
 measure had been taken to comfort them ; they had been 
 supplied with provisions and tobacco from the town, and every 
 effort had been used to renew their hopes and courage. Calhc- 
 lineau had passed the greater portion of the morning among 
 them, going from one guarter to another, assuring the men that 
 their loss was most trifling, that their future victory was certain 
 —it was nearly in vain ; they declared that they could do nothing 
 without Marie Jeanne. 
 
 Henri now went among them, and as he did so, Jacques 
 Chapeau proceeded through the town, imploring all the men 
 who wero in it, to go out and join the rest of the army, as a holy 
 man had been sent direct from Rome by the Pope, to tell the 
 people of La Venddc what it was their duty to do. 
 
 Henri did not say quite so much as this, but he told the men 
 that a friend of theirs— a bishop of the Church — one especially 
 appointed by the King before he died to provide for the spiritual 
 comfort of his poor people in the west of France, was now among 
 ihem, and would soon address them. He directed them to stay 
 where they were till this man of God should be among them, 
 and he besought them strictly to follow any advice which he 
 might give them. 
 
 Everyone in the town flocked out to the army — men, women 
 and children were soon in the fields, and the report was spread 
 abroad through them all, that the mysterious carriage which 
 had rattled through the streets of Montreuil, had brought to 
 that favoured town a holy bishop, sent expressly by their faihcr 
 the Pope to give good advic<; *o his dear children in La 
 Vendue 
 
Ii8 La Vendue, 
 
 About four o'clock in the afternoon the stranger walked 
 among them. Father Jerome walked on his right hand, and 
 Cathelineau on his left. M. de Lescure followed immediately 
 behind them. He was a very tall man — nearly seven feet high ; 
 and his peculiar costume added in appearance to his real height 
 —he was dressed in the gorgeous robes of a bishop* of the 
 Church of Rome as he would appear at the altar of his cathedral 
 when about to celebrate high mass ; he had his mitre on his 
 head and his crozier in his hand ; and as he walked through the 
 crowd, the men and women everywhere kneeled down and 
 bowed their heads to the earth; the people were delighted to 
 have so holy a man among them — to see a bishop in La Vendde. 
 The bells were all rung, and every sign of joy was shown ; the 
 peasants were already beginning to forget their defeat of the 
 previous night. 
 
 As he walked through the kneeling crowd, he stood still a 
 moment or two, from time to time, and blessed the people ; his 
 voice was full and deep, but very musical ; his face was 
 supremely handsome, but devoid of all traces of passion. As 
 he lifted his hands to Heaven, and implored the Almighty to 
 
 {)rotect the righteous arms of his poor children in La Vendde, 
 le certainly looked every inch a bishop ; the peasants con- 
 gregated round him, and kissed his garments — if they could 
 even touch the shoes on his feet, they thought themselves 
 happy. 
 
 It took the little procession two hours to move in this way 
 through the whole of the army, during which time the bishop's 
 companions did not speak a word ; they merely moved on, with 
 their eyes turned towards the ground. At length they reached 
 a temporary altar, standing on a platform raised five steps above 
 the ground, which had been erected under the care of M. d'Elbde 
 since the arrival of the bishop in Montrcuil. Here were collected 
 M. d'Elbde, Stofflct, Larochejaquelin, Adolphe Denot, and the 
 other principal leaders of the army, and as the little procession 
 drew near, they knelt upon the top step of the platform, and 
 Cathelineau, De Lescure, and Father Jerome knelt with them. 
 The bishop then blessed them each separately, commencing 
 with Cathelineau ; he placed his crozier on the altar, and putting 
 
 * The mysterious appearance In La Vendee of a clergyman calling himself 
 the Bishop of Agra, was one of the most singular events of the war. That 
 the iGi-dhant bishop was an imposter is all that we certainly know, except 
 f*iat the people generally most devoutly believed in his lordship, and that 
 his advent among them greatly enhanced their zeal and belief in their own 
 u»vincibility. It appears rational to suppose that the deceit was a scheme ot 
 the royalilt leaders, but Madame de Larochejaquelin, the historian of the 
 Vcndeans, most itouUy denies that they were a party to the fraud, and 
 positively states th^t they were themielves deceived as well as the peasants. 
 
The Bishop of Ai^ra, 1 19 
 
 both his hands on the head of the kncchng general, he said in a 
 loud and solemn voice : 
 
 "May the Lord bless you, my son ! may He enable you to 
 direct the arms of His faithful people, so as to show forth His 
 glory, and magnify His name ; may He help your endeavours to 
 restore to a suffering people their Church and their King ; may 
 His dear Son preserve you in danger, comfort you in affliction, 
 be near you in the hour of death, and reward you in heaven." 
 He then went round to them all, and blessed them each, though 
 in a somewhat shorter form ; and, at last, standing on the top step, 
 in the front of the whole army, so that every one could see him, 
 he uttered a general benediction on the people, and a prayer for 
 their success ; and while he did so, boys dressed in surplices 
 made their way through the crowd, swinging censers filled with 
 burning frankincense, and loading the air with that peculiar 
 scent, which always fills the mind with devotional ideas. 
 
 As soon as this was over, and the people had risen from their 
 knees, Cathelineau spoke to them, and told them that the bishop 
 of Agra had been especially appointed by their King to watch 
 over and protect their spiritual interest ; that Monseigneur had 
 heard with great grief of the misfortune which had happened to 
 them the preceding evening, and that he would now tell them 
 how, with God's assistance, they might hope in future to avoid 
 such calamities. 
 
 The bishop then addressed them, and said : " My children, 
 I rejoice that Providence has given me the privilege of seeing 
 60 many of you collected here to-day. You have been brought J 
 together for a great and holy purpose; the enemies of the -^ 
 Almighty God are in your country — enemies who can never \ 
 prevail to the breadth of one hair against His omnipotence ; but i 
 who may, and who will prevail to the destruction of your I 
 famihes here, and the perdition of your souls hereafter, if you 1 
 fail in performing the duties which are before you. You are now ' 
 called, my children — called especially from on high, to deliver 
 your land from these enemies ; to go out to the battle, and to 
 light in God's name, till you have restored the King to his 
 throne, and your pastors to their churches j and I rejoice to 
 learn that you have so readily undertaken the task which is 
 before you. Till yesterda)r your success was most wonderful ; 
 your career has been glorious. You unhesitatingly obeyed the 
 leaders who commanded you, and they led you from one victory 
 to another : but yesterday you were driven back — yesterday 
 evening, for the first time, you found your enemy too strong for 
 you ; they did not fall beneath your bullets ; they did not feel 
 your swords ! Why was this, my children ? Why was it that 
 on yesterday evening the protecting ha.nd of Heaven was with- 
 drawn from you ? " Here the bishop paused in his address, as 
 
120 La /iVfc.Vi.'. 
 
 though expecting a reply, and then, after waiting a minute, 
 during which the whole army remained in most perfect quiet, 
 answered the question himself. " Because, my children, vou 
 yesterday followed no accustomed leader ; you obeyed no order ; 
 you went out to battle with self-proud hearts, and a vain con- 
 fidence in yourselves, rather than in the Almightv. It is not by 
 such efforts as that, that the chosen soldiers of La Vendde can 
 expect to conquer the enemies of France. You were vain in 
 your own conceits ; you trusted in your own strength ; you were 
 puffed up with worldly glory : and your strength has proved 
 weakness, and your glory has been turned to disgrace. 1 trust, 
 my children, you will not require another such a lesson ; I trust 
 you will not again forget your God and your Saviour, as you 
 did on yesterday evening. To-morrow morning the general 
 under whom the hand of Providence has placed you, the gooU 
 Cathelineau, shall again lead you against your enemies ; and, if 
 you confidently trust in God for the result, he shall assuredly 
 lead you to victory." 
 
 The bishop thjn again blessed the army, and walked off the 
 _^ field, surrounded by the different leaders of the army, and left 
 ""■ the town without being again seen by the multitude. 
 
 The effect which this singular visit had upon the people was 
 almost miraculous. Their faith was so perfect, that it never 
 occurred to them to doubt the truth of anything which fell 
 from consecrated lips. The word of a priest with them was 
 never doubled, but the promises of a bishop were assurances 
 direct from heaven : they would consider it gross impiety to 
 have any doubt of victory, when victory had been promised 
 them by so holy a man as he who had just addressed them. 
 After the bishop of Agra had left the town, Larochejaquclin and 
 De Lcscure went through the army, talking to the men, and 
 they found them eager to renew the attack on the cxmp of 
 Varin. Though Varin was nearly three leagues from them, 
 and though they had been up nearly the whole previous night, 
 they would willingly have returned to the attack that evening, 
 had they been allowed to do so. 
 
 This was not considered expedient ; but it Was resolved that the 
 attack on the camp should be renewed as early as possible on the 
 following morning, as it was considered that the republicans 
 would not expect so quick a return of an army which had been 
 completely routed ; and might, therefore, to a certain extent, be 
 taken by surprise. 
 
 " We must run fast, friends," said Chapeau to his allies from 
 Durbelli6re and Echanbroignes, " for the first men who reach 
 Varin, will retake * Marie Jeanne ;' we will have a share in her, 
 as well as the men of St. Florent." 
 
 With sunrise the next morning, the army was again on the 
 
Th€ Bishop of Ai^ra^ 1 2 1 
 
 move towards Saumur : it was arranged that Cathclincau, Dc 
 Lcscurc, Dcnot, and Larochcjaqucfin should lead thv* men 
 through the trenches and into the camp ; and that D'Elbde 
 should remain on the road, prepared, if necessary, to second the 
 attack, but ready, should the first attempt be successful, to fall 
 on ihc republicans as they retreated from the camp to the town, 
 and, if possible, to follow them within the walls. Stoftlet was to 
 lead a division of fifteen hundred men past the camp, between 
 the heights of Bournan and the town, so as to intercept the 
 republicans, should they attempt from that position to relieve 
 their comrades when retreating from the camp. There was a 
 bridge over the Thoud, close to the town of Saumur, called the 
 bridge of Fouchard. This bridge was between Bournan and the 
 town, as also between the camp and the town, and the posses- 
 sion of this bridge would be of great advantage to the royalist 
 army. Stoftlet was charged to obtain this advantage, if he did 
 not find that the cannons from the town prevented him. 
 
 About four o'clock the army was on the move from Montrcuil, 
 and by eight they were again in front of the camp at Varin ; the 
 portion of the road which they had passed in such confusion 
 the night but one before, and where they had left their cannon 
 and their waggons, was now stripped of all signs of the encamp-^ 
 mcnt which had been made there, nothing but the deep nits, 
 made by the cannon wheels, were to be seen ; everything which 
 they had brought with them, the trophies of all their victories, 
 the white flags which the ladies of La Vendde had worked for 
 them ; the provisions, the wine and meat, which the kindness of 
 their landlords had sent with them, were all gone— were'iinho 
 -hands of' the republicans ; these reflections served to rouse the 
 anger of the peasants, and made them determined to get back 
 what they had lost, though they pulled down the walls of 
 Saumur with their nails. 
 
 At a few mon\cnts after eight, the attack commenced ; the 
 first assault was headed by Cathelineau, who rushed into the 
 trenches, accompanied by the Curd of St. Laud. Father Jerome 
 held a large crucifix in his hands, and as he followed Cathelineau, 
 he lifted it high above his head, to encourage the men who were 
 about to make the assault ; hundreds of them were on the verge 
 of the trench as he did so ; others were following them closely ; 
 they were already within fire of the republican batteries, the 
 balls from which were falling among them ; but, regardless of 
 the firing, they all fell on their knees, with their faces towards 
 the earth, as soon as they saw the crucifix in the hands of their 
 priest ; and there, on the very field of battle, offered up a prayer 
 that they might that day be victorious. 
 
 "They will be cut down like grass, simpletons that they 
 we," said Stofflet ; ** besides, the first moment is everything ; 
 
taa /rt Vendue* 
 
 two hunar^d should by this time have been within the 
 camp." 
 
 *' Let them alone," said M. d'Elbde, " they are quite right 
 as they are | they will not fight the worse for saying their 
 prayers." 
 
 As he finished speaking, the men rose again, and rushed 
 against the earth-work. 
 
 Their attempt of the preceding evening had had one good 
 effect,--it had taught the peasants that those who l\|;sitated 
 were in five times more imminent danger than those who at 
 once got into the trench ; and that the men climbing up the 
 embankment, or at the top of it, were not nearly so liable to 
 be struck, as the men at the bottom of the trench, or as those 
 beyond it ; they therefore eagerly stuck their hands and feet 
 into the earth, and made the best of their way into the en- 
 campment. 
 
 It had been expected by the republicans that the next attack 
 of the royalists would probably be made at Bournan, and they 
 had consequently moved most of the cuirassiers from Varin to 
 strengthen that important place ; the men left in the encampment 
 consisted chiefly of those tribes of republicans who were enrolled 
 into the French army under the name of Marseillaise — men who 
 were as ferocious in the hour of victory, as they were prone to 
 fly at the first suspicion of defeat — men who delighted m blood- 
 shed, but who preferred finding their victims ready bound for 
 the slaughter. It was the abject cowardice of these troops, 
 which gave so wonderful a career of success to the Vendeans ; 
 it was their diabolical cruelty which has made the sufferings of 
 the royalists more notorious even than their bravery. 
 
 De Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Adolphe Denot led their 
 men further along the road to the point at which Henri had 
 been standing when he first saw the crowd of royalists coming 
 towards him on the former evening, and from thence they also 
 got into the encampment. As has been said, they had no 
 powder ; the men who commenced the assault were armed with 
 muskets and bayonets, but the greater number of the assailants 
 had no bayonets at all, and many of them nothing but sticks ; 
 still they forced their way into the centre of the camp ; here a 
 very strong opposition was made to them : the republicans were 
 so well armed, that the royalists were unable to disperse them 
 when any number of them made a stand together ; when they 
 moved from their ground, however, the Vendeans uniformly 
 succeeded in driving them before them. 
 
 Cathelineau's men also made their way through the camp, 
 and there Cathelineau and Larochejaquelin met each other. 
 
 " Well done, my friend ; well done," said Henri, seizing 
 the postillion by the hand, " this is a glorious meeting ; 
 
Tht Bishop of A^ra, 1 23 
 
 the blues arc beaten; we have only now to drive them into 
 the river." 
 
 " Or into the road," said Jacques, who as usual was close to 
 his master, " when once there, M. d'Elb^e will not be long in 
 handing them over to providence." 
 
 " Once more, my children, once more 1 " said the priest, 
 ** drive them out, drive them out, vive le Roi quand vieme! 
 and as he spoke, he brandished the crucifix over his head 
 like a tomahawk ; the sacred symbol was covered with gore, 
 which appeared to have come from the head of some unfortunate 
 republican. 
 
 " Ah, my friends ! " hallaoed Cathelineau, advancing on before 
 the others, "look, — look there; there is our 'Marie Jeanne;* 
 hurry then, hurry ; " and there, immediately before them, was 
 their own sacred trophy ; their favourite cannon : they wanted 
 no further incentive ; the men who had followed Laroche- 
 jaquelin, and the men of St. Florcnt who had come with 
 Cathelineau, saw it at the same time, and vieing with each 
 other, rushed onwards to gain the prize. 
 
 The republicans were amazed at the impetuosity of their 
 enemies, and at last fled before them ; when once these newly- 
 levied troops were turned, their officers found it impossible to 
 recover them ; it was then sauvc qui pcut^ and the devil take 
 the hindmost. The passage from the camp towards the town 
 was still open ; no attack having been made from that quarter ; 
 and through the wooden gate, which had been erected there, 
 the valiant Marseillaise rushed out as quick as their legs could 
 carry them ; the officers of the \'endeans offered quarter to all 
 who would throw down their arms, and many of them did so, 
 but most of them attempted to gain the town; they knew that 
 if once they could cross the bridge at Fouchard they would be 
 within the protection afibrded by the castle guns — but not ona 
 of them reached the bridge. 
 
 M. d'Elbcc had found that he could not himself take the 
 position which had been pointed out to him, as, had he done so, 
 liis men would have been cut to pieces by the cannons from 
 the castle, but he effectually prevented anyone else from doing 
 so ; not thirty men from the whole encampment got into the 
 town of Saumur, and those who did so, made their way through 
 the river Thoud. 
 
 The success of the Vendeans, as far as it went, was most 
 complete ; they recovered their baggage and their cannons- 
 above all, their favourite "Marie Jeanne;" they took more 
 prisoners than they knew how to keep ; they armed themselves 
 again, and again acquired unmeasured confidence in their own 
 invincibility ; they wanted immediately to be led out to attack 
 the walls of Saumur, but Cathelineau and De Lescure knew that 
 
124 ^^ Vtnd^e* 
 
 Ibis would be mnning into useless danger. The> . had noid 
 once more plenty of ammunition ; they had artillery, and were 
 in a position to bon hard the town ; they would at any rate 
 make a breach in the walls before they attempted to enter the 
 streets ; it was therefore decided that they would that evening 
 remain where they were, and commence the attack on the 
 citadel itself with daylight on the following morning. 
 
 " It grieved me to think," said Jacques Chapeau, as he pulled 
 the huge baskets down from the carts, from which the re- 
 publicans had not yet had time to move them, " it grieved my 
 very heart to think, M. Henri, that this good wine from the 
 cellars of Durbelli6re should have gone down republican 
 throats ; the thoughts of it lay heavy on my heart last night, 
 so that 1 could not sleep. Thank Heaven, I am spared that dis- 
 grace." 
 
 It was with the utmost difficulty that Cathelineau and De 
 Lescure were able to get sentries to remain at the necessary 
 positions during the night ; the peasants had gained the battle, 
 and were determined to enjoy themselves that evening ; they 
 would be ready they said to fight again, when the sun rose the 
 next morning. The ofticers themselves had to act as sentinels ; 
 and after having been the first during the day to rush into every 
 danger, and after having led the attack and the pursuit, and 
 having then arranged the operations for the morrow, they had 
 to remain on the watch during the night, lest the camp should 
 be sacrificed by an attack from the republican forces, stationed 
 at Bournan, or in the town,-- such is the lot of those who take 
 upon themselves the management of men. without any power to 
 ensure obedience to their orders. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 SAUMUR, 
 
 ,g;N the next three days the Vcndcans bombaraed the 
 ^ town, and during that time fired a<;ainst it everything 
 they could cram into their cannons in the shape of 
 ■JjT^ U warlike missiles; and they did not do so in vain, for 
 the walls, in portions, began to give way and to crumble into the 
 moat, which ran round the town, and communicated with the 
 river Loire on each side of it. The town is built on the Loire, 
 and between the Loire and the Thoud. After passing over 
 the latter river at the bridge of Fouchard, the road in a few 
 yards came to the draw-bridge over the moat ; and from the 
 close vicinity of the two rivers, no difficulty was found in keep- 
 ing the moat supplied with water in the driest weather, About 
 a mile below the town, the Thoud runs into the Loire. 
 
 Cathelineau found the men very impatient during the bom- 
 bardment ; they did not now dream of going home till the work 
 was over, and Saumur taken ; but they were very anxious to 
 make a dash at the walls of the town ; they could not under- 
 stand why they should not clamber into the citadel, as they had 
 done over the green sods into the camp at Varin. On the 
 fourth morning they were destined to have their wish. A 
 temporary bridge over the Thoud had been made near Varin, 
 over which a great portion of the cannon had been taken to a 
 point near the Loire, from which the royalists had been able to 
 do great damage to the walls ; they had succeeded in making a 
 complete breach of some yards, through which an easy entrance 
 might be made, were it not for the moat ; much of the rubbish 
 from the walls nad fallen into it, so as considerably to lessen the 
 breadth ; but there was still about twenty feet of water to be 
 passed, and it was impossible, under the immediate guns of th« 
 castle, to contrive anything in the shape of a bridge. 
 
 I 
 
126 La Vendif^, 
 
 Notwithstanding the difficulties of the place, it was decided 
 that Larochejaquelin should take two hundred of his men and 
 endeavour to make his way through the water, and while he 
 was doing this, De Lescure was to force his passage over the 
 bridge at Fouchard, and if possible, carry the gate of the town ; 
 in doing this he would pass under the heights of Bournan, and 
 to this point M. d'Elbde was lo accompany him with the great 
 bulk of the army, so as to secure his flank from any attack from 
 the republican force, which still retained their position there, and 
 which had hitherto kept up an intercourse with the town across 
 the bridge of Fouchard. 
 
 At five o'clock the greater portion of the army left the camp 
 with D'Elbde and De Lescure. When they came within two 
 furlongs of the bridge, the army separated, the chief body re- 
 maining with M. d'Elbde and the remainder going on with 
 M. de Lescure towards the town. The road turns a little 
 before it reaches the bridge over the Thoud, and up to this 
 point, the Vendeans, in their progress, were tolerably protected 
 from the guns of the town ; but immediately they turned upon 
 the bridge, they became exposed to a tremendous fire. The 
 men at once perceived this and hesitated to cross the river ; two 
 of the foremost of their men fell as they put their feet upon the 
 bridge. 
 
 De Lescure had marched from the camp at the head of his 
 men. Father Jerome was on his right hand, and Stofflct and 
 Adolphe Denot on his left. Henri had asked his friend to 
 accompany him in the attack which he was to make near the 
 river, but Adolphe had excused himself, alleging that he had a 
 great dislike to the water, and that he would in preference 
 accompany Charles de Lescure. Henri had not thought much 
 about It, and certainly had imputed no blame to his friend, as 
 there would be full as much scope for gallantry with his cousin 
 as with himself. When De Lescure saw that his men hesitated 
 he said, " Come r»y men, forward with ' Marie Jeanne,' we will 
 soon pick their locks for them," and rushed on the bridge 
 alone ; seeing that no one followed him he returned, and said to 
 Denot: 
 
 " We must show them an example, Adolphe ; we will run to 
 the other side of the bridge and return \ after that, they will 
 follow us." 
 
 De Lescure did not in the least doubt the courage of his 
 friend, and again ran on to the bridge. Stofflet and Father 
 Jerome immediately followed him. but Adolphe Denot did not 
 stir. He was armed with a heavy sabre, and when De Lescure 
 spoke to him, he raised his arm as though attempting to follow 
 him, but the effort was loo much for him, his whole body shook, 
 his face turned crimson, and he remained sta^'-dinji where be 
 
Saumur, 127 
 
 was. As soon as De Lescurc found ^hat Adolphe did not follo\r 
 him, he immediately came back, and taking him by the arm, 
 shook him slightly, and whispered in his ear : 
 
 "Adolphe, what ails you ? remember yourself, this is not the 
 time to be asleep," but still Dcnot did not follow him; he again 
 raised his arm, he put out his foot to spring forward, but he 
 found he could not do it ; he slunk back, and leant against the 
 wall at the corner of the bridge, as though he were fainting. 
 
 De Lescure could not wait a moment longer. He would have 
 risked anything but his own reputation to save that of his friciid : 
 but his brave companions were still on the bridge, and there 
 he returned for the third time ; his cap was shot away, his boot 
 was cut, his clothes were pierced in different places, but still he 
 was not himself wounded. 
 
 " See, my friends," said he aloud to the men behind him, 
 him, " the blufes do not know how to fire," and he pointed to his 
 shoulder, from which, as he spoke, a ball bad cut the' epaulette. 
 
 He then crossed completely over the bridge, together with 
 Stofflct and the priest ; the people with one tremendous rush 
 followed him, and Adolphe Dcnot was carried along with the 
 crowd. 
 
 As soon as they found themselves immediately beneath the 
 walls of the town, they were not exposed to so murderous a firo 
 as they had been on the Dridgc itself, but still the work w^as hot 
 enough. "Marie Jeanne" had been carried across with them, 
 and was soon brought into play ; they had still enough 
 ammunition left to enable their favourite to show her puis- 
 sance in battering against the chief gates of Saumur. The 
 men made various attempts to get into the town, but they were 
 not successful, though the gates were shattered to pieces, and 
 the passage almost free ; the republican troops within were too 
 strong, and their firing too hot. At last the blues made a sortie 
 from the town, and drove the Vendeans back towards the 
 bridge ; M. de Lescure still kept his place in the front, and was 
 endeavouring to encourag- his men to recover their posit'on, 
 when a ball struck his arm and broke it, and he fell with his 
 knee upon the ground. As soon as the peasants saw him fall, 
 and found that he was wounded, they wanted to take him in 
 their arms, and carry him at once back across the bridge, but 
 he would not allow them. 
 
 " What ails you, friends ? " said he ; " did you never see a 
 man stumble before ? Come, the passage is free ; now at 
 length we will quench our thirst in Saumur," and taking his 
 sword in his left hand, he again attempted to make good his 
 ground. 
 
 M. d'Elb^ had seen the Vendeans retreating back towards 
 the bridge, and knowing that victory with them must be how or 
 
taS Lti Vendue. 
 
 never (for it would have been imoosslble to have .nduced the 
 peasants to remain longer from tneir homes, had they been 
 repulsed), he determined to quit his post and to second De 
 Lescure at the bridge. T\i<i firing from the town had ceased, 
 for the republicans and royiilists were so mixed together, that 
 the men on the walls would have been as likely to kill their 
 friends as their enemies ; and as the first company, fatigued, 
 discouraged and overpowered, were beginning to give way^ 
 D'Elbde, with about two thousand men, pushed across the 
 bridge, and the whole mass of the contending forces, blues and 
 Vendeans together, were hurried back through the gateway 
 into the town ; and De Lescure, as he entered it, found that it 
 was already in the hands of his own party— the white flag was 
 at that moment rising above the tricolour on the ramparts. 
 
 Adolphe Denot was one of the first of the Vendeans who 
 entered the town through the gate. This showed no great 
 merit in him, for, as has been said, the men who had made 
 the first attack, and the republicans who opposed it, were 
 carried into the town by the impulse of the men behind them ; 
 but still he had endeavoured to do what he could to efface the 
 ineffable disgrace which he felt must now attach to him in the 
 opinion of M. de Lescure. As they were making their way up 
 the principal street, still striking down the republicans wherever 
 they continued to make resistance, but more often giving 
 quarter, and promising protection, De Lescure with a pistol 
 held by the barrel in his left hand, and with his right arm 
 hastily tied up in the red handkerchief taken from a peasant's 
 neck, said to the man who was next to him, but whom he did 
 not at the moment perceive to be Denot : 
 
 " Look at Larochejaquelin, the gallant fellow ; look at the 
 red scarf on the castle wall. I could swear to him amonj at 
 thousand." 
 
 " Yes," said Adolphe, unwilling not to reply when spoken to,, 
 and yet ashamed to speak to De Lescure, '* yes, that is Henri. 
 I wish I were with him." 
 
 "Oh, that is you, is it?" said De Lescure, just turning to look 
 at him, and then hurr>'ing away. But before he had moved on 
 five paces, he returned, and putting his pistol into his girdle, gave 
 Adolphe his left hand, and whispered to him : 
 
 " No one shall eve- hear of it, Adolphe," said he, "and I will 
 forget it. Think ol your Saviour in such moments, Adolphe, 
 and your heart will not fail you again." 
 
 The tears came into Denot's eyes as De Lescure left him. 
 
 I He felt that he must be despised ; he felt grateful for the 
 
 \ promise which had been given him, and yet he felt a kind of 
 
 \ hatred for the man to whom he had afforded an opportunity of 
 
 ^'forgiving him. Hc^ f^U that he never could like De Lescur^ 
 
Saumur. 129 
 
 again, never be happy in his cortipany ; he kncv that De 
 Lcscure would rchgiously keep his word, that he would never 
 mention to human being that horrid passage at the bridge ; but 
 he knew also that it could never be forgotten. Adolphe Denot 
 was not absolutely a coward ; he had not bragged that he would 
 do anything which he knew it was contrary to his nature to do, 
 when he told Agatha that he would be the first to place the 
 white flag on the citadel of Saumur ; he felt then all the aspira- 
 tions of a brave man ; he felt a desire even to hurry into the 
 thick of the battle ; but he had not the assured, sustained 
 courage to siipport him in the moment of extreme danger. As 
 De Lcscure said, his heart failed him. 
 
 We must now return to Henri Larochtjaquelin. He had 
 taken with him two hundred of the best men from the parishes 
 of St. Aubin, St. Laud and Echanbroigncs ; four or five officers 
 accompanied him, among whom was a young lad, just fourteen 
 years of age ; his name was Arthur Mondyon, and he was a 
 cadet from a noble family in Poitou ; in the army he had at first 
 been always called Le Petit Chevalier. His family had all 
 emigrated, and he had been left at school in Paris ; but on* the 
 breaking out of the war, he had run away from school, had 
 forged himself a false passport into La Vendde, and declared 
 his determination of fighting for his King. De Lescure had 
 tried much to persuade him to stay at Clisson, but in vain ; he 
 had afterwards been attached to a garrison that was kept in the 
 town of Chatillon, as he would then be in comparative safety ; 
 but the little Chevalier had a will of his own ; he would not 
 remain within walls while fighting was going on, and he had 
 insisted on accompanying Lardchejaquelin to Saumur. He was 
 now installed as Henri's aide-de-camp. 
 
 Jacques Chapeau also accompanied the party who were to 
 make their way into the town through the water. The men 
 were all armed with muskets and bayonets, but their muskets 
 were not loaded, nor did they carry any powder with them ; it 
 would have been useless in the attack they were about to make, 
 and was much wanted elsewhere. 
 
 Henri was at his post about the time at which De Lescure 
 was preparing to cross the bridge at Fouchard. It was an 
 awful looking place at which he had to make his entrance ; 
 there was certainly a considerable breach in the wall, and the 
 fragments of it had fallen into the fosse, so as to lessen its 
 width ; but, nevertheless, there was full twenty feet of running 
 water to cross, which had more the appearance of a branch of 
 the river Loire, than of a moat round a town. 
 
 Henri saw that his men looked a little alarmed at what they 
 had to ^o through ; he had a light straw hat on his head, and 
 taking it off, ^ threw it into the water, a little above the point 
 
130 La Vemfife. 
 
 he had to pass, and as the running water carried it down be 
 said : 
 
 " Whoever gives me that on the other side will be my friend 
 for life." And as he spoke he himself leapt into the water, and 
 swam across. 
 
 Jacques made a plunge for the hat : had it been in the middle 
 of the Loire he would have gone after it under similar circum- 
 stances, though he couldn't swim a stroke ; he did not go near 
 the hat however, but went head over heels into the water ; the 
 impetus carried him through, and he was the second to scramble 
 upon the broken mortar on the other side. The Chevalier was 
 more active ; he leapt in and seized the hat as it was goin.^ 
 down the stream, and swimming like a /oung duck, brought it 
 back to its owner. 
 
 "Ah I Chevalier," said Henri, reproaching him playfully, and 
 helping him vip out of the water, " you have robbed some poor 
 fellow of a chance ; you, you know, cannot be more my friend 
 than you already are." 
 
 The men quickly followed : they all got a ducking ; some few 
 lost their arms, one or two were slightly wounded by their 
 comrades, but none of them were drowned. Henri soon made 
 his way over the ruins into the town, and carried everything 
 before him. The greater part of the garrison of the town were 
 endeavouring to repulse the attack made by De Lescure ; others 
 had retired into the castle, in which the republican general 
 thought that he might still hold out against the Vendeans. 
 Many were already escaping out of the town by the bridge over 
 the Loire, and throwing down their arms, were hurrying along 
 the road to Tour.-. 
 
 It was in this manner, and almost vrithout opposition, that 
 Larochcjaquclin found himself, together with his brave followers, 
 in the middle of Saumur ; their own success astonished them ; 
 hardly a shot w;is fired at them in their passage ; ihey went 
 through the town without losing a man ; the republican soldiers 
 whom they dl I sec threw down their arms and fled ; the ver\' 
 sight of the Vendeans in the centre of the town overwhelmed 
 them with panic. The appearance of Henri's troop was very 
 \^ singular ; every man wore round his neck and round his waist 
 ; a red cotton handkerchief ; this costume had been adopted to 
 j preserve Larochejaquelin from the especial danger of being 
 made the butt of republican marksmen. There was now no 
 especial mouchoir rouge among them. They certainly had a 
 frightful appearance, as they hurried through the streets with 
 their bayonets fixed, dripping with mud and water, and con- 
 spicuous with their red necks and red waists ; at least so 
 thought the republicans, for they offered very little opposition 
 to them, 
 
Sauvnir, 13! 
 
 Henri had ju?t time to sec that his friends had entered the 
 lown by the gate on the Done roacl, but he did not wait to 
 speak to thcni. The rcpubhcan soldiers uerc escaping from 
 the town in the opposite direction, and he could not resist the 
 temptation of following them. He was at the head of his men, 
 just passing over the Loire by a wooden bridge, called the 
 bridge of the Green Cross, and having possessed himself of a 
 sword in his passage through the town, was making good use 
 of it, when a dragoon turned suddenly round, and fired a pistol 
 ahnost in his face : near as the man was to him, in his hurry he 
 missed him, and the bullet merely grazed Henri's cheek, without 
 even raising the skin. "Ah, bungler," said Henri, raising his 
 sword, "you are no good for cither King or nation,'' and he 
 struck the unfortunate man dead at his feet. 
 
 Not only the soldiers, but the inhabitants of the town were 
 escaping by hundreds over the bridge, and Henri saw that if he 
 pursued them further, he must, sooner or later, find himself 
 surrounded and overpowered by numbers ; he returned, there- 
 fore, and destroyed the bridge, so as to prevent the return of the 
 soldiers who had fled in their first panic, and also to prevent 
 any more of the inhabitants from leaving their homes. 
 
 " God has certainly fought on our side to-day," said he to one 
 of his friends : "with barely two hundred men, all dripping like 
 drowned rats, we have made our way, ahnost without opposition, 
 through the town, and thousands of soldiers arc even yet flying 
 before us." 
 
 "Ah! M. Henri," said the little Chevalier, "it is a great 
 honour to fight for one's King ; one fears nothing then : a 
 single royalist should always drive before him ten republicans." 
 • Henri now returned and joined De Lescure, who was in 
 possession of the town, though the citadel was still in the 
 hands of General Quetineau, who held the command of the 
 garrison. It was not till the cousins had embraced each other 
 that Henri saw that De Lescure was wounded. 
 
 "Yes," said De Lescure, "I have at length acquired the 
 privilege of shedding my blood in the cause ; but it is only a 
 broken ami ; Victorine will have a little trouble with me when I 
 return to Clisson." 
 
 " And Adolphe, my bravs Adolphe, you are wounded, too ? '* 
 said Henri. 
 
 Denot muttered something, and turned away; he did not 
 dare to iook his friends in the face. 
 
 •*He envies me my honour," said De Lescure ; "but it might 
 have been his chance as well as mine, for he was not two feet 
 from me when I was wounded." This was true, for De Lescure 
 had been struck after Denot had crossed the bridge with the 
 other men, I 
 
133 La ItfHif/et 
 
 A flag of truee was no>v sent out by General Quttineau to the 
 toyalists, with a proposal that he would give up the castle, and 
 lay down his arms, on being allowed to march out with all his 
 men, and take the road to Angers ; but this proposition was not 
 acceded to. 
 
 "No!" said De Lescure to the General's messenger: "tell 
 M. Quetineau that the Vendeans cannot accede to those terms 
 — we cannot allow his soldiers to march to Angers, and to return 
 within a week to inflict new cruelties on our poor peasants. M. 
 Quetineau must surrender without any terms : the practices of 
 our army must be his only guarantee, that his men will not be 
 massacred in cold blood, as the unfortunate rovalists arc 
 inasHacrcd when tlu-y f.ill Into tlio handi of the ropubliciUiH,'' 
 
 'I'hc republicans were not in a cotuiiiiun to iuHist upon any- 
 thing { as M. do Lescure had said, the practices of the Vendeans 
 were a guarantee that no blood would be unnecessarily shed, 
 and relying on this assurance alone, M. Quetineau surrendered 
 the castle and gave up his sword. Do Lescure took possession 
 of it till he should be able to hand it over to his General, and 
 the Vendeans found themselves complete masters of Saumur. 
 
 There was, however, still a very strong detachment of 
 republican troops on the heights of IJournan, who were watched 
 on one side by Koret and his detachment, and on the other by 
 a portion of M. d'Elbdc's army. These men had done some 
 execution, as they covered with their cannon a portion of the 
 road over which the Vendeans had passed, but they had 
 taken no active part whatever in the engagement. What made 
 this the more singular, was that the garrison at Bournan was 
 composed of the very best soldiers of the French republican 
 armv. They were under the command of (Jcneral Coustard, 
 who kept his position during the whole attack, inactive and un- 
 m'il.-^sted ; had he attacked M. d'Elbde's army in the rear, when 
 th^ officer advanced to support De Lcscure's division, the 
 Vendeans would probably have been destroyed between the 
 two republican armies. Whether the two generals of the 
 Convention misunderstood each other, or whether the soldiers 
 at IJournan were unwilling to rout the royalists, it Is impossible 
 to say ; but they remained at Hournan till the night, and then 
 leaving their post during the darkness, made good their retreat 
 to Angers. 
 
 As soon as the white flag was seen on the walls of Saumur, 
 Cathelineau left the position which he had held, and entered 
 the town. It was greatly in opposition to his own wishes that 
 he had been induced to remain at a distance from the absolute 
 attack, and now he felt almost ashamed of himself, as the officers 
 and men crowded round him to congratulate him on tb *•»• ♦<jry 
 which he had gained. 
 
Saumur, T3^ 
 
 " No, ^f. de Lcscure," he said, as that officer tendered him 
 General Qiictincau's sword, " no, I will never take it from him 
 who has won it with so much constancy and valour, I must 
 ov.n I envy you your good fortune, but I will not rob you of the 
 fruits of your exertions." 
 
 *' But Cathclineau," said the other, "you are our general, the 
 customs of war require " 
 
 •• The customs of war are all changed," replied Cathelineau, 
 *'\vhcn such as you and M. de Larochejaquelin make yourselves 
 second to a poor postillion ; at any rate," he added, pressing 
 between his own, the left hand of M. de Lcscure, which still 
 held the sword, " if I am to be the commander, I must be 
 obeyed. M. de Lcscure will not set a bad example when I tell 
 him to keep General C2uetincau's sword." 
 
 "And you, General Quetineau," said Cathelineau, " what are 
 your wishes — your own personal wishes, I mean ? I have nol 
 forgotten that you alone of the republican leaders have shown 
 mercy to the poor royalists, when they were in your power ; you 
 at any rate shall not say that the Vendean brigands do not know 
 how to requite kind services." Cathelineau alluded to the name 
 which the republicans had given to the royalists at the com- 
 m'encement of the war. 
 
 " It little matters to me," said Quetineau, " what becomes of 
 me ; were you to give me unconditional liberty, I should go to 
 Paris — and the Convention would accuse me of betraying 
 my trust, and I should become another victim of the guillotine." 
 
 "Of the guillotine !" said Henri; "why, what bloody monsters 
 are those you serve ! they send you soldiers who know nothing 
 but how to run ; do they expect that with such troops as these 
 you should be victorious, when opposed to men who are in- 
 dividually striving for everything that is dear to them ?" 
 
 " The Convention," said Quetineau, " would ensure success 
 by punishing defeat. You will find in the end that they are 
 politic ; there will, however, be many victims, and I am fated to 
 oe one of them." 
 
 " Stay with us, General Quetineau," said De Lcscure, "join 
 our forces, and here you will find that honesty and courage are 
 respected. You cannot, you, do not approve of the tyranny oi 
 the Convention. We know each other of old, and I know 
 that in joining the army, you never intended to serve under a 
 Republic. You cannot say that in your heart you are a re- 
 publican." 
 
 " Did I wish to show myself a royalist, it would not now become 
 me to proclaim myself one," answered Quetineau. " I entered 
 the aimy of the King, but I have chosen to remain a soldier oi 
 the Republic* Whatever may be my feelings, adversity shall 
 not make me false to the colours I have carried ; besides. 
 
134 ^ Vtndit* 
 
 rentlemen. if 1 escaped the anger of the Convention myself, I 
 nave a wife in Paris, whose life would be made to satisfy it ; 
 under such circumstances, I presume you would not counsel me 
 to become a royalist." 
 
 This was an argument which It was Impossible to answer. 
 General Quetineau accepted the present of his liberty, and soon 
 as he was free, he returned to Paris ; he was immediately sent 
 to the revolutionary tribunal and tried for his life ; and as he 
 himself had predicted, was guillotined by the Convention for 
 the cowardice of the troops whom he had been called upon to 
 t.ikc under his command. In the old davs of CJrccce, when 
 the KingH hlni\cd, the people suffered for it 5 this law wan ix- 
 versed under the firbt French Republic j when the boUliers ran 
 away, tlie generals were beheaded. 
 
 The joy of the Vendeans, when they found themselves 
 masters of Saumur, knew no bounds, but they were grotesque 
 rather than unruly in their demonstrations ; they plundered 
 nothing from the poor people, or even from the shopkeepers ; 
 the money that was found in the republican chest was divided 
 among them, but as this consisted almost entirely of assignats, 
 it was of but little value. The shopkeepers were surprised at 
 the liberally of their enemies and conquerors, who were willing 
 to dispose of these assignats for anything they would fetch — a 
 little wine, or a few ounces of tobacco ; whereas, their own 
 friends, the republicans, had insisted that they should be 
 taken at their nominal value as money, for all goods exposed 
 for sale. 
 
 An enormous poplar had been planted by the townspeople 
 in the centre of the market-place, which they called the tree of 
 liberty. This was now a doomed tree. On the evening of the 
 day in which they took the town, the royalist peasants went in 
 procession, and with many cheers hewed it to the ground ; it 
 was then treated with every possible contumely— it was chopped, 
 and hacked, and barked ; it was kicked, and cuffed, and spat 
 upon ; the branches were cut off, and on the bare top was 
 placed a large tattered cap of liberty ; the Vendean marksmen 
 then turned out, and fired at the cap till it was cut to pieces ; 
 after that, all the papers and books which had belonged to the 
 municipality, every document which could be found in the 
 Town- hall, were brought into the square, and piled around the 
 roots of the tree ; and then the whole was set on fire, — and tree, 
 papers, and cap of liberty, were consumed together. 
 
 On the next morning, considerable difficulty was experienced 
 in disposing of the prisoners ; there were about two thousand 
 in the town, and the Vendeans knew that they had no means 
 of keeping them, nor did they wish to be at the great expense 
 of feeding them \ it was contrary to their inclination, their 
 
Saumur, 135 
 
 practice, and their consciences, to kill them in cold blood : and 
 they knew from experience, that if tliey gave them their liberty, 
 the same men would return within a fortnight, ncwly-armcd to 
 carry on the war against their liberators, in spite of any oaths 
 they might take to the contrary. 
 
 "Til tell you what we will do, M. Henri," said Chapeau, 
 speaking to his master, " we will put a mark upon them, so that 
 if we catch them again, we may know them ; and then I do 
 think it would be all right to hang them ; or perhaps for thcj 
 second time wc might cut off their cars, and hang them the 
 third time." • 
 
 " But how would ypu mark them, Jacques ; men are not like 
 cattle that you can bmnd them." 
 
 *' 1 will tell you what," said the little Chevalier, " shave them 
 all like pigs ; they cannot aU buy wigs, and we shall know them 
 by their bald sconces." 
 
 " That is the very thing, M. Arthur," said Chapeau delighted, 
 *' we will shave their heads as clear as the palm of my hand. 1 
 ,im an excellent barber myself, and I will even get a dozen or 
 two assistants ; hair shall be cheap in Saumur to-morrow ; 
 though I fear soap and razors will be scarce," 
 
 Chapeau was so delighted with the proposal that he at once 
 hurried away to carry it into execution ; and Arthur, though he 
 felt that his dignity as an officer would be somewhat com- 
 promised, could not resist the boyish temptation to follow him 
 and see the fun. 
 
 He and Chapeau were not long in raising an efficient corps 
 of barbers and assistant barbers ; and few of the shopkeepers, 
 when called upon, thought it advisable to refuse the loan of a 
 razor and a shaving dish. They established themselves in the 
 large room of the Town-hall, and had the prisoners brought in 
 by a score at a time ; vehemently did the men plead for their 
 hair, and loud did they swear that if allowed to escape free, 
 ihey would never again carry arms against the Vcndeans ; but 
 neither their oaths or their prayers were of any avail, ncr yct 
 tlie bribes which were offered by those who had ought to give ; 
 the order to sit down was given imperatively, and if not 
 i^rmiediately obeyed, the command was somewhat roughly en* 
 forced. 
 
 They were shaved by twenty at a time, and while one lot was 
 being operated on, another twenty, who were next destined to 
 fill the chairs, were kept standing against the wall. The long 
 hair was first cut otf with scissors, and then the head and 
 whiskers were closely shaved. The first candidates for the 
 soap-dish were very unruly under the operation, but they only 
 got their ears snipped and their skin chipped, and had to 
 return to their prisons with their polls all bloody as well as 
 
136 lit Vendie. 
 
 halJ. Those who looked on, took a lesson from the folly ol 
 tlicir comrades, and most of them remained quiet. The 
 manceuvres of the men however were very different during the 
 
 f)roccss ; some took it with good humour, and endeavoured to 
 augh as their locks were falling ; some sat still as death ; 
 others looked fierce and warlike ; some were even moved to 
 tears ; some fought, and kicked and scratched, and at hst had 
 to be corded to tneir seats. One unfortunate went down upon 
 his knees, and implored Chapeau by the memory of his mistress, 
 if ever he had been in love, by his regard for his wife, if he 
 chanced to be married, not to shave his head. He was en^n^cd 
 to be married, he said, to a young girl at Angers, who had 
 many lovers ; she had preferred him for the beauty of his hair: 
 if he returned back bald, he knew that he would be rejected. 
 Chapeau for a time was moved, but the patriot and the royalist 
 triumphed over the man, and Jacques, turning away his face on 
 which a tear was gleaming, with a wave of his hand motioned 
 the young man to the chair. 
 
 Insult was added to injury, for the Chevalier stood at the 
 door with a brush, and a large jar of red paint, and as each 
 man went out of the room, Arthur made a huge cross upon his 
 bare pate. The poor wretches in their attempt to rub it off, 
 merely converted the cross into a red patch, and as they were 
 made to walk across the market-place with their bald red heads, 
 they gave rise to shouts of laughter, not only from the royalists, 
 but from the inhabitants of the town. 
 
 For three days the shaving went on, and as the men became 
 experienced from practice, it was conducted with wonderful 
 rapidity. At last, the prisoners were all deprived of their hair, 
 and set at liberty— a temporary bridge was thrown across the 
 Loire, near the Green Cross, and the men were allowed to 
 march over. As soon as they found themselves on the other 
 side of the Loire, they were free. 
 
 " Come, my bald pates, come my knights of the ruddy scalp,** 
 Said Jacques, standing at the corner of the bridge as they 
 passed over, " away with you to the Convention ; and if your 
 friends like your appearance, send them to Saumur, and they 
 shall be shaved close, and the barber shall ask for no fee ; but 
 remember, if you return again yourselves, your ears will be the 
 next sacrifice you will be called on to make for your country/' 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 COUNCIL OF WAR. 
 
 'HE taking of the fortified town of Saumur, and tho 
 I total dispersion of the large army which had been 
 jl collected there by the Republic, was an enterprise of 
 *) much greater magnitude than anything which had 
 previously been undertaken by the Vendeans : it gave them 
 great advanta;;cs, it supplied them plentifully with arms, 
 ammunition and clothes for their soldiers, and greatly inspirited 
 the peasants ; but it made the Convention feel that it had no 
 contemptible enemy to deal with in La Vcndde, and that the 
 best soldiers of France would be required to crush the loyalty 
 which inspired the peasants of Anjou and Poitou. 
 
 The Vcndcan leaders felt that their responsibilities were greatly 
 increased, and that very much depended on the decision to 
 which they might now come as regarded their further operations. 
 A general council of war was accordingly held in Saumur, at 
 which the matter was debated among them. Twelve of the 
 Vendeans were admitted to this consultation, and all ethers 
 were strictly excluded ; they were Cathelineau, Bonchamps, who 
 though badly wounded, had caused himself to be brought thither 
 from Doud, De Lescure, who had remained in action for eight 
 hours after his arm was broken, and had consequently suflfered 
 much from it, Larochejaquclin, D'Elbde, Stofilet, Adolphe Denot, 
 Father Jerome, Foret, M. Donnessan, Lescure's father-in-law, 
 Marigny, and the Prince de Talmont. 
 
 The first question was the selection of a chief officer. Cathe- 
 lineau had been named before the battle of Saumur ; but, as he 
 himself alleged, his command was to last only during that 
 sie^e; he had been, he said, selected for a special purpose, 
 which purpose, by the grace of God, was accomplished, and he 
 
138 it J Vendue* 
 
 was now ready to resign his commission into the hands of those 
 who had given it to him. 
 
 " I am not so foolish," said he, " as to suppose that I am 
 qualified to taVe the command in the war which we have now to 
 carry on. No; one privilege I beg to exercise on retiring from 
 my command. I will name a successor ; let anyone who pleases 
 name another ; we will then put it to the vote, and let him who 
 has most votes be our general." 
 " So be it." said Henri. " Nothinj* can be better.'* 
 
 " I name M. de Lescure," said Cathelineau. " Some of us are 
 beloved by the people, but are not educated {others are highly 
 educated, but are not yet known to the peasants. We are all, I 
 am sure, brave men : but M. de Lescure is beloved by all ; his 
 knowledge fits him for his high position, and his cool, constant, 
 determined courage, no man who has seen him in the hour of 
 battle will doubt. I name M. de Lescure." 
 
 De Lescure was about to rise, when Henri put his hand upon 
 his friend's arm, and said : " Let me speak, Charles. We all 
 know that what Cathelineau has said of my cousin is no more than 
 the truth. Be still, Chailes : when I have spoken you can then 
 say what you please, but I am sure you will agree with me. 
 Nevertheless, I will not give my vote that he be our chief 
 general. Cathelineau has desired that anyone differing from 
 him should name another, and that the question should then be 
 put to the vote. I differ from him, and, therefore, I name 
 another. I name the good Cathelineau, the Saint of Anjou." 
 
 " Now let us vote," said the Prince de Talmont. " Come, 
 Conchamps, do you begin." 
 
 " I never heard of deposing a Commander-in-Chief in con* 
 sequence of a complete victory," said Bonchamps. "The Con- 
 vention murders their Generals when they are defeated, but 
 even the Convention rewards them for victory, I vote for 
 Cathelineau." 
 
 " And you, Foret," said the Prince. 
 
 " I say Cathelineau," said Foret : " the peasants generally 
 would be disappointed to see any put above him." 
 
 " I certainly vote for Cathelineau,* said Father Jerome, who 
 came next. 
 
 "We should bo offending our Creator," said M. d'Elb^e, 
 "were wc to reject the great and good commander whom His 
 gracious providence has sent us. I vote for Cathelineau." 
 
 " And you M. Dcnot," said the Prince. 
 
 Adolphe Dcnot especially disliked Cathelineau : he was 
 jealous of his reputation and popularity : he could not bear to 
 feel himself in any way under the control of a man so much his 
 inferior in rank; he fancied, moreover, that Cathelineau 
 regarded Agatha Larochejaquelin ; he had been ouick cnoiigh 
 
Council of War, \ 39 
 
 to perceive that the ineffable grace a«d beauty of his mistress 
 haa filled the heart of the poor postillion with admiration, and 
 he feared that his own rejection had been caused by some 
 mutual feeling in Agatha's breast, which future events might 
 warm into love. Adolphe, therefore, hated Cathelineau, and 
 would have delighted, had he dared to do so, to express his dis- 
 approbation of the choice ; but, after pausing for a few moments, 
 he found that he did not dare ; so he merely said, — 
 
 " Oh, Cathelineau, of course. When you are all resolved, 
 what's the use of voting about it ?" 
 
 ** To show that we all are resolved, said De Lescure ; " to 
 make Cathelineau understand that it is positively his duty to 
 take the position we wish him to fill." 
 
 And so, one after another, they all recorded their votes that 
 Cathelineau should be the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean 
 army ; and they all declared that they would, without reserve, 
 obey any military orders which he might give them. 
 
 " Well, gentlemen," said he, again seating himself at the head 
 of the table, " I should pay but a bad compliment to your 
 understanding, were I any further to insist on my own un- 
 wortlftness. I will not, at any rate, be wanting in zeal for the 
 good cause, and I will trust to Him who directs us all, for assist' 
 ance in the difficult duties which you have imposed on me." 
 
 They then debated on the all-important question of what 
 should be their next movement, and on this subject there was 
 much difference of opinion. Bonchamps was again asked to 
 speak first, and he advised that they should at once proceed to 
 Paris. 
 
 " We can do nothing," said he, " while the present Convention 
 sits in Paris ; it has but one head, but it has ten thousand 
 bloody hands. There can be no peace, no rest in France, while 
 Danton, Robespierre and Barr^re are omnipotent. Let us at 
 once start for Paris : Brittany will join us, and parts of 
 Normandy ; the Southerns will follow ; the men of Bordeaux 
 and of the Gironde : have not their own orators, the leaders of 
 the Revolution, been murdered in their seats, because they were 
 not willing that all France should become one Golgotha.^ 
 Lyons, even, and Marseilles, are now sick of the monsters who 
 have crawled forth from the haunts of the Jacobins to depopulate 
 the country, and annihilate humanity. There is new but a small 
 faction, even in Paris, to whom the restoration of order would 
 not be acceptable. The intensity of their cruelty is the only 
 strength of the governing faction ; the extent of their abomina- 
 tions alone makes them terrible. Hundreds will fly from one 
 Indian snake, so potent is its venom, so sure to inflict death : 
 but let one brave man set his heel upon its head, and the noxious 
 animal is destroyed for ever : so it is with the part/ who now 
 
I40 ^ Vcnd^ik 
 
 rules the Convention. Now that we have with us the all* 
 powerful prestige of victory, let us march at once to Paris; 
 Hundreds will join us on the way, and what force can at the 
 moment be collected to stop us ? Let us proceed at once to 
 Paris, and proclaim at the door of the Convention, in the 
 gardens of the Tuilleries, in the Place Louis Quinze, where our 
 samted monarch so nobly shed his blood, that France again 
 submits herself to her King." 
 
 " Would that we could ! " said De Lescure ; " would that the 
 spirit of revolution was yet sufficiently quenched in France to 
 allow us to follow your advice ; but there is much, very much 
 to be done before a royalist army can march from La Vendue to 
 Paris ; unthought of sufferings to be endured, the blood of 
 thousands to be sacrificed, before France will own that she has 
 been wrong in the experiment she has made. We must fight 
 our battles by inches, and be satisfied, if, when dying, we can 
 think that we have left to our children a probability of final victory. 
 Normandy and the Gironde may be unwilling to submit to the 
 Jacobin leaders, but they are as yet as warmly attached to the 
 Republic as Paris itself. And, Bonchamps, you little know the 
 dispositions and character of the men, who at our bidding have 
 left their homes and come to Saumur, if you think that at our 
 bidding they will march to Paris ; they are even now burning to 
 return home, to recount to their wives and children what they have 
 done. Not half the number that came to Saumur would leave 
 the town with us on the road to Paris ; and before we could 
 reach Tours, the army would have melted away from us like snow 
 from a mountain top when the sun begins to shine. It is here, 
 in our own locality, that we should endeavour to extend our 
 influence. In Southern Brittany the people, I believe, are with 
 us, but the towns are full of the troops of the Republic. Let us 
 drive them out of Angers, Ancenis, and Nantes, as we have 
 driven them from Saumur. Let us force them from the banks 
 of the Loire, and become masters of the coast of Southern 
 Brittany. Then we may expect men and money from England, 
 Then we may fairly hope for such foreign aid as may enable us 
 to face the Republic ; but at present, if we march to Paris, we 
 march to certain destruction." 
 
 " M. de Lescure is right," said Stofflct, "our men would not 
 go far from their homes ; we must remember that they are not 
 paid, nor have we the means of paying them ; if we had English 
 gold we might perhaps make our way to Paris." 
 
 " Our men are not so mercenary, Stotflet," said Bonchamps, 
 " I do not think they have shown any great desire for 
 plunder." 
 
 ** No," said StofHet, "but they must live ; if they are to have 
 ocither pay nor plunder, how are they to get to Paris?'* 
 
Council of I Far, l^ i 
 
 ■"I agree with you, Bonchamps," said Ilcnri, " come wliat, 
 come may, I would make a dash at 'Paris ; wc shall be cut to 
 pieces here, while we are waiting for Enj^lish aid ; sonic of the 
 men would follow us — most of them, I believe ; where we met l 
 with friends, they will give us provisions ; where wc find 
 fncmies, we will take them, and pay the owners in republican 
 assij^nats ; they would get no other payment in the market- 
 towns. I am sorry to disagree with you, Charles, but my voice 
 is for Paris." 
 
 " And mine also, certainly," said Adolphe, " let our career be 
 short, at any rate let it be glorious ; let us march to Paris, and 
 strike terror into the tyrants of the Convention." 
 
 "It is difficult to strike terror into tyrants," said De Lescurc 
 quickly, ** when the number of their supporters is ten times 
 greater than that of their opponents." 
 
 " Well, Cathelineau," said Bonchamps, " what do you say? it 
 is for you to settle the question between us ; are we to go 
 forward to Paris, or march back to Nantes?" 
 
 " I would wish to hear what others say; for myself, I fear that 
 M. de Lescure is right. I fear the peasants would not follow 
 us so far from their own homes. What does the Prince de 
 'i'almont say ? " 
 
 " I will have no voice in the matter," said the Prince. " I have 
 joined you but lately, and as yet am only fit to follow where 
 others lead." 
 
 "And you, M. d'Elbt^e ?" said Cathelineau. 
 
 " I hardly know how to speak," said D'Elb»5e, " where the 
 subject is so important." 
 
 " M. d'Elbde is not wont to be so modest," said Stofflet ; 
 "does he not trust that Providence will inspire him with 
 wisdom, when he opens his mouth to give his opinion ?" 
 
 " Certainly, Stofdct ; I trust in that all-seeing eye, at which 
 you are so willing to scofT ; but I do not expect that I am to 
 be allowed to see further into futurity than another ; however, 
 if I am to express an opinion, I think we should endeavour 
 to march on Paris ; if we find that the men desert us, and 
 that others do not join our standards, we must return." 
 
 "And how are wc to return," said De Lescurc, "and to 
 whom? think you that we can collect another army in La 
 Vcndde, when one has deserted us on the road? will the peasants 
 again trust in us, after they have once left us ? Never ! If the 
 army dissolves itself in despair, you will never be able to 
 establish it again." 
 
 "Who talks of despair, Charles ?" said Henri, " you did not 
 despair when you were thundering against the gates of Saumur 
 with four republicans to one royalist opposed to you ; why 
 should you despair now; or why should the army despair • I 
 
 K 
 
141 La Vendie. 
 
 believe they would go anywhere at the command of their priests, 
 and with the hope of restoring the King to his throne." 
 ► The question was then put to the vote. Dc Lescure and four 
 others voted for attacking Nantes. lionchamps, and five others, 
 declared for proceeding at once to Paris, with a view of arrest- 
 ing the present leaders of the Convention. Cathclineau was 
 then called on to express his opinion, which would of course be 
 decisive. • ^ 
 
 "I think M. de Lescure is right/' said he, " I think we arc not 
 in a position to advance to Paris. I have not the heart to ask 
 the men to follow me into a strange country so far from their 
 own homes." 
 
 The numbers were now equally divided, but as Cathelineau 
 was the Commander-in-Chief, his voice turned the scale ; and 
 the expedition to Paris was postponed. 
 
 " So be it," said Bonchamps ; " let us prepare then for 
 Nantes j it is not fortified like Saumur, but the troops there 
 are very numerous." 
 
 It was then decided that Cathelineau should name six 
 lieutenants under him, to take command of the different 
 districts from which the army was collected, and to which 
 the men would be sure to return ; and also appoint an officer 
 in command of the artillery, and another in command of the 
 cavalry. Cathelineau would have willingly dispensed with the 
 task of selecting his officers— a work in which he could hardly 
 fail to give offence to some, and in which he might probably 
 give entire satisfaction to none ; but it was to be done, and ho 
 felt that it was useless for him to shrink from it. 
 
 **M. Bonchamps," said he, "will of course take the command 
 of the men of Anjou, and M. de Lescure of those from the 
 southern parts of the Bocage, and they will assist me, I hope, 
 in selecting the others. It is very difficult to select, where so 
 many are fit." 
 
 " Rather say," said Henri, laughing, '• where so many are 
 equally unfit. Why, Bonchamps and Marigny are the only 
 soldiers by profession we have among us." 
 
 " You'll all be soldiers shortly," said Father Jerome. "You 
 are at any rate going the right way to learn the trade." 
 
 " Marigny of course will take the artillery," said Bonchamps. 
 ** We are very lucky in having so good an artillery officer among 
 us." 
 
 ** There Is no one, at any rate, to dispute your claim, Marigny,'" 
 said De Lescure. 
 
 ** So he's president over 'Marie Jeanne* and the gunpowder," 
 said Henri ; "that's settled, isn't it, Cathelineau?" 
 
 "Unless M. Marigny refuses," said Cathclineau. 
 
 •* I am not modest enough for that, General," said Marigny, 
 
Council of ]Vat\ 143 
 
 ** Do you furnish me with guns, an^ HI fight them. Do you 
 collect the gunpowder, and I'll consume it." 
 
 "And the Prince de Talmont will take the cavalry?" said 
 Cathelincau. 
 
 " No, indeed," said the Prince, " I will not interfere with 
 Henri Larochejaquelin." 
 
 "Henri Larochejaquelin is much obliged to you. Prince," 
 said Henri, "but he is not ambitious of making a fool of him- 
 self: nor docs he wish to be made a fool of. Moreover, Henri 
 Larochejaquelin docs not wish to quarrel with an old friend like 
 you, Prince ; but he might be tempted to do so, if you take any 
 liberties with his name." 
 
 " But, Cathelineau," said the Prince, " Henri has been at the 
 head of the cavalry all through." 
 
 " Don't set a bad example, Prince," said Dc Lescurc. " Let 
 every man coincide with Cathelineau's directions without a 
 word ; so shall we be spared the ill effects of over modesty, and 
 of too much assurance." 
 
 "Besides," said Cathelineau, "M. Larochejaquelin will be 
 much wanted elsewhere. As a matter of course, he will be the 
 leader of all the parishes round Chdtillon ; I doubt if the men 
 would follow anyone else." 
 
 " Dear Cathelincau," said Henri, " if you will take my advice, 
 you will not make leaders of us youngsters at all. Adolphe and 
 i will be well contented to be hussars for awhile. Let these 
 gray-headed seniors be our leaders," and he pointed to D'Elbde, 
 whose hair was grizzled. 
 
 Henri had seen that the spirit of jealousy was already rising 
 in Adolphe Denot's face. No allusion had been made to his 
 sers'iccs ; his advice had never been asked in the council ; there 
 was no probability that he would be named as one of the 
 leaders ; he had hardly spoken a word since they had 
 assembled in the council-room. Henri, though his own heart 
 was a stranger to the jealousy and dread of neglect which 
 tormented Adolphe, sympathised with, and felt for his friend ; 
 and he thought that if 'they were both together excluded from 
 command at his request, the blow would be less keenly felt. 
 They were the two youngest in the room, and their youth was a 
 good reason why they should not be named ; but Henri was the 
 younger of the two, and he knew that if he were selected as one 
 of the chiefs, Adolphe would be miserable at finding himself left 
 out 
 
 De Lescure, however, would not allow of this. He had 
 promised that he would not disgrace Denot, by telling of the 
 cowardice he had shown at the Bridge of Fouchard, and he was 
 determined to keep his word ; but he would not allow his cousin, 
 his pupil, his bosom friend, the maa whom he loved with the 
 
144 ^ Vendue, 
 
 afTcclion of a brother an<! a father, to sink hhnself to the lame 
 level as a coward. 
 
 " How absurd is this !" said he, angrily. " I wonder, Henri, 
 that you should be the first to create such foolish difficulties, 
 when our very existence depends on perfect unanimity. In pro- 
 portion as our means of enforcing obedience is slender, should 
 our resolution be firm, implicitly to obey the directions of those 
 who are selected as our leaders. We have made Cathelineau 
 our General, and desired him to select his officers, .ind when he 
 selects you as one, you object. If you object from a proper 
 modesty, it argues that those who accept show an improper 
 degree of assurance. You should think of these things, Henri.'* 
 
 " I resign myself to my dignity, and am dumb," said Henri, 
 laughing. " Go on, Cathelineau, and if the men you name say 
 but one word, one syllable, against your choice— I'll slay them." 
 
 Cathelineau knew that all his difficulty still lay before him ; 
 those whom he had already chosen would as a matter of 
 course be among the number ; but who were to be the other 
 three? 
 
 " M. Donncssan," said he, in a whisper to De Lescurc, who 
 was sitting next to him. " 1 do not know what his wishes might 
 be." 
 
 "My father-in-law feels himself too old," answered I)e 
 Lescure ; " D'Elbde would be a much fitter person ; he is thought 
 so much of at Beauprieu." 
 
 "And the other two?" asked Cathelineau. 
 
 "Name one yourself, ani ask lionchamps to name the 
 other." 
 
 " M. d'Klbc^c," said, Cathelineau, aloud, " you will not, 1 rm 
 fcurc, refuse to take your portion of our labours." 
 
 "S'ou \vill fmd," whispered Stofilet to his neighbour, "that as 
 I'rovidcncc has called U|)on him, he will be willing enough." 
 
 "I will do my best," said D'Elbi5o, "as I am called upon; 
 and may the Lord direct mo, that I may fight His battle so as 
 to do honour to His name." 
 
 " I think I will name Stofilet," said Cathelineau, consulting 
 with Bonchamps and Do Lescure; "he is a brave man, and 
 though rude in his manner, he will make perhaps the best soldier 
 among us ; already the men obey \\\\\\ almost more implicitly 
 than anyone.* 
 
 " Do— do ! " said Bonchamps ; " you cannot do better.** 
 
 " I think you will be riglit to do so," said De Lescure, 
 "though 1 do not like the man; but the peasants know him, 
 and he is one of themselves. Yesterday morning I had ample 
 proof of his courage. As you say, he is a brave man and a good 
 goldicr." 
 
 fcJtofilct was then informed that he had bce« named, and 
 
Council of War, 145 
 
 thougli he muttered some expressions as to his own want of tlie 
 necessary qualifications, he was evidently well pleased that the 
 choice had fallen on luni. 
 
 And now the last of the lot was to be chosen. As the two 
 Inst names had been mentioned, Denotes brow had grown 
 blacker and blacker. Henri Larochejaquclin, during the whole 
 proceeding, had been walking about the room, silling now in 
 one place, and now in another. At the present moment, he was 
 sitting next to Adolphe, who, when Stofflct's name was men- 
 tioned, whispered to him, but almost audibly : 
 
 " Gracious heaven ! Stofilct !— the whole affair is becoming 
 discreditable. I^Iow can any gentleman serve under such a man 
 as that?" 
 
 *' Vou think too much of rank, Adolphe," said Henri; "we 
 should entirely forget all distinctions of person now ; unless we 
 do so we can never succeed." 
 
 " But do you think we are more likely to set the King upon 
 his throne, by making such a brute as that a general } I 
 wonder whom our Commander-in-Chief will choose next — P'orct, 
 I suppose. 
 
 After having again consulted for some time, Bonchamps said 
 to Cathelincau : " I do not think you can do belter than name 
 Adolphe Denot." 
 
 This was said in a low voice, but Adolphe's ears were not 
 slow to catch his own name, and he was once more happy. 
 Though he was named last, he would be equal wiih the others. 
 
 " Not so," said Dc Lescurc, who had no idea that Denot had 
 overheard the mention of his name, "Adolphe is not yet suffi- 
 ciently known to the people ; besides we have hitherto forgotten 
 one, wild though absent, we must not forget— one who was the 
 first in the field against the Republic, who is already at the head 
 of an army, and who has on various occasions shown himself 
 capable to lead an army. We must not forget Charette." 
 
 The last words were spoken out loud, and though they were 
 eagerly responded to by everyone else, they fell with a heavy 
 sound on Adolphe Denot's ear. To know that he was excluded 
 after he had been named, to feel that he had been proposed 
 merely to be rejected ; it was more than he could bear ; and 
 as soon as Cathelineau had formally announced the name of 
 M. Charette as one of their leaders, he started abruptly from his 
 chair and said : 
 
 "Oh, of course, gentlemen, if you prefer Charette, so be it ! 
 He, doubtless will be better able to assist your endeavours than 
 I should ; but you might have spared me the mortification of 
 putting my name on your list of ofificcrs, merely to scratch it of! 
 again." 
 
 ** What matters it, A iolphe," said Larochcjaquclin, blushing 
 
146 l^ Vend/e, 
 
 for his friend, "will you not share my command? Will not 
 your word be as influential in the parishes of Chatillon as my 
 own?" 
 
 " I sincerely beg your pardon, M. Dcnot/* said Catheline^u, 
 "if I have hurt your feelings, but you arc as much aware as we 
 nro that wc should be very wrong to neglect the merits of M. 
 Cliarcttc ; his achievements claim from us this distinction, and 
 his power and influence would probably be lost to La Vendde, if 
 we did not now incorporate his army with ours." 
 
 " I have nothing further to say," said Dcnot. " I must own 
 I do not altogether admire the selection which has been made ; 
 but I have nothing further to say on the subject." 
 
 " I am sorry, Adolphc, that you have said so much," said Dc 
 Lcscurci 
 
 •• You would have been apt to say riorc ).'oursclf If you had 
 been passed over," said Adolphe, forgetting in his passion how 
 he had disgraced himself before De Lescure at the Bridge of 
 Fouchard. 
 
 " 1 fear you misunderstand the purpose which has collected 
 here in Saumur so many men in arms," said he. " I fear that 
 you think the ncas.iiUs of our country have turned themselves 
 Into MoUlicin, that wc \\\\\\\\\. Iiccome j;cni'ri\N, and pliw at W\\\^ 
 grcMt mil). iuiU'i'd, hucU in not llic ca<»c ; if pci'^ioiial an\bltiun 
 na)i brought yuu Iumc, you had better leave us. We have come 
 here to fight, and very probably to die for our .King and our 
 religion ; and, being called upon to act as leaders, we must bear 
 a heavier share of the burden, and undergo greater perils than 
 others ; but we seek no especial dignity, we look for no other 
 pre-eminence, than that of suffering more than others. I fear 
 these are not the feelings that influence you." 
 
 " My feelings, Sir, are as pure as your own !" said Denot. 
 
 " If so," said Father Jerome, "you had better teach us all to 
 think so, by taking care that your conduct is also as pure as 
 M. de Lescure's." 
 
 " Oh, Father Jerome, do not anger him !" said Henri. "Come 
 with me, Adolphe, and we will quietly talk over this ; they don't 
 exactly understand what you mean yet." 
 
 " But they shall understand what I mean," said Denot, whose 
 anger was now beyond control, "and they shall know that I will 
 not remain here to be rebuked by a priest, who has thrust him- 
 self into affairs with which he has no concern ; or to make myself 
 subservient to men who are not fit to be my equals, I will not 
 deign to be a common soldier, when such a man as Stofflet is 
 made an officer." 
 
 And he got up from the chair in which he had again seated 
 himself, and stalked out of the room. 
 
 " He has at any rate proved to us," said Bonchamps, " that I 
 
Council of IViir, 147 
 
 was wrong to nominate him, and ^hat you were right not to 
 accept the nomination. " 
 
 . " I grieve that he should be vexed with me," said Stofilet j 
 "but I did not seek to put myself above him." 
 
 " Time and experience will make him wise," said De Lescure ; 
 *Met us pity his folly and forgive it." 
 
 The council was then broken up, and the different officers 
 went each to perform his own duties. When Denot left the 
 room, Henri immediately followed him. • 
 
 " Adolphc," said he, as he overtook him in the market-place, 
 **Adolphe, indeed you are wrong, no one meant to show you 
 any indignity." 
 
 " And'have you a!so followed me to tell me I am wrong — of 
 course I am wrong — I am wrong because I will not submit, as 
 vou and^Charles do, to ignorant boors like Stofdet and Cathe- 
 iineau, Ibecause " 
 
 " Like Cathelineau ! why, Adolphe, you are mad," said Henri, 
 "why you yourself voted that Cathelineau should be our 
 General." 
 
 " Voted I Why, Henri, what a child you arc \ Do you call 
 that voting when all was arranged beforehand ? You arc blind, 
 I tell you. You will vote next, I suppose, that your, great 
 general's valour shall be rewarded with your sister's hand ! " 
 
 " My sister's hand ! what is it you are speaking of?" 
 
 "Yes, Agatha's hand ! think you that when you make a 
 general of such as him, that his ambition will rest there ? if you 
 are content to be lieutenant to a postillion, I presume you will 
 feel yourself honoured by a nearer connexion with him." 
 
 " Denot, you are raving mad I Cathelineau looking for my 
 sister's hand?" 
 
 " Yes, Agatha's hand, the postillion looking for your sister's 
 hand ; and, Sir, you will find that I am not mad. Before long, 
 Cathelineau will look for Agatha's hand : her heart he has 
 already," and without waiting for any further answer, he hu*ricdf 
 away. 
 
 " He must be raving mad," said Henri, " unlucky in love, 
 and thwarted in ambition, he is unable to bear his griefs like al 
 man. What a phantasy has jealousy created in his brain ! But 
 Agatha was right j a man who could speak of her, even in hia 
 madness, as he has now spoken, was not worthy of her. Cathei 
 lineau ! were he ten times lower than a postillion by birth, ha ' 
 would still J>e twenty times made noble by achievements and by\ 
 character, and vet I would not wish — but nonsense i he Uunkft^ 
 no more of wedding Agatha than I of Diana." \ 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 / 
 
 RETURN TO pURBELLIERE. 
 
 HEN Adolpbe Dcnot left his friend Henri in the 
 street of Saiimur, and ran olT from him, Henri was 
 BO completely astonished by his parting words, so 
 utterly dumbfounded by M-hat he saia respecting 
 Agatha, that he made no attempt to follow him, but returned 
 after awhile to the house in which he, Charles, and Adolphe 
 were lodging, and as he walked slowly through the streets, he 
 continued saying to himself, " Poor fellow, he is mad ! he is 
 certainly raving mad ! " 
 
 From that time no tidings whatsoever were heard of Dcnot. 
 He had never returned to his lodging, nor been seen anywhere, 
 except in the stable, in which his horse had been put to stand 
 —he had himself saddled his horse, and taken him from the 
 stall, and from that moment nothing further could be learnt of 
 him in Saumur. De Lcscure and Henri made the most minute 
 inquiries — but in vain ; had he destroyed himself, or hid himself 
 in the town, his horse would certainly have been found ; it was 
 surmised that he had started for Paris on some mad specula- 
 tion ; and though his friends deeply grieved at his misconduct, 
 his absence, when they had so much to do and to think of, was 
 in itself felt as a relief. 
 
 After remaining about a week in Saumur, the army was dls» 
 banded — or rather disbanded itself, for every effort was made 
 to keep together as great a body of men as possible. An 
 attempt was made to garrison the town ; and for this purpose 
 the leaders undertook to pay about one thousand men, at a 
 cert;*in rate per day, for their services, while they remained 
 under arms in Saumur, but the idea, after a very short time, 
 was abandoned ; the men would not stay away from their 
 hom':s, and in spite of the ccmforts which were procured for 
 
Return to Durbellilrc, 1 49 
 
 them, and the. piy wl ich wis p omised, the garrison very 
 quickly dissolved. 
 
 Cathclincau succeeded in taking back with him to St. 
 Florcnt nearly ail the men who had accompanied him ; his 
 next object was the attack of Nantes, and as St. Florent is 
 between Saumur and that town, his men were able to return 
 to their homes, without going much out of their direct way. 
 lie marched through the town of Angers on his return, and 
 took possession of the stores which he found there, the re^ 
 publican garrison having fled as soon as they heard of his 
 approach ; many of IJonchamps' men accompanied him, and 
 rome of those who had come to Saumur with De Lescure 
 and Henri Lsirochejaquelin, young men who had no wives or 
 families, and who literally preferred the excitement of the 
 campaign to their ordinary home employments ; all such men 
 joined Cathelineau's an-ny, but by far the greater number of the 
 peasants of the Bocage returned with De Lescure and Laroche- 
 jaquelin. 
 
 Charette had been invited to assist Cathclincau m his attack 
 on Nantes, and he had promised to do so ; De Lescure found 
 it absolutely necessary to go home, on account of his wound, 
 and Larochcjaquelin went with him. They had already heard 
 that the Convention had determined to invade La Vendde on 
 every side with an overwhelming force, and it was necessary to 
 protect the Southern portion of the province ; this duty was 
 allotted to our two friends, and they therefore returned home 
 from Saumur, without expecting to enjoy for any length of time 
 the fruits of their recent victory. 
 
 A litter was formed for De Lescure, for at present he found 
 it impossible to bear the motion of riding, and Henri, the little 
 Chevalier, Father Jerome and Chapeau, accompanied him on 
 horseback. Many of the peasants had started from Saumur, 
 before their party, and the whole road from that town through 
 Douc and Vihiers to Durbclliiire was thronged with crowds of 
 these successful warriors, returning to their families, anxious to 
 tell to their wives and sweethearts the feats they had accom- 
 plished. 
 
 They were within a league of Durbellilrc, and had reached a 
 point where a cross- road led from the one they were on to the 
 village of Echanbroignes, and at this place many of the cortige^ 
 which was now pretty numerous, turned off towards their own 
 homes. 
 
 "M. Henri," said Chapeau, riding up to his master, from 
 among two or three peasants, who had been walking for some 
 lime by his horse's side, and anxiously talking to him, "M, 
 Henri?" 
 
 ** WeAL JacQues ; what is it now ?" said Henri. 
 
t5o La VtndJe* 
 
 [ " I have a favour to ask of Monsieur.'* 
 
 / "A favour, Chapeau ; I suppose you want to go to Eclnn- 
 \ broignes already, to tell Michael Stein's pretty daughter of all 
 the gallant things you did at Saumur." 
 
 " Not till 1 have v/aited on you and M. de Lcscurc to the 
 chateau. Momont would be dying if he had not someone to 
 give him a true account of what has been done, and I do not 
 know that anyone could give him a much better history of it, 
 than myself— of course not meaning such as you and M. de 
 Lcscurc, who saw more of the fighting than anyone else ; but 
 then you know, M. Henri, you will have too much to do, and 
 too much to say to the Marquis, and to Mademoiselle, to be 
 talking to an old man like Momont." 
 
 " Never fear, Chapeau. You shall have Moment's ears all to 
 yourself ; but what is it you do want ? " 
 
 " Why, nothing myself exactly, M. Henri ; but there are two 
 men from Echanbroignes here, who wish you to allow them to 
 go on to Durbelli^re, and stay a day or two there : they are two 
 of our men, M. Henri ; two of the red scarfs." 
 
 " Two of the red scarfs !" said Henri. 
 
 " Yes, M. Henri, two of the men who went through the water, 
 and took the town ; we call ourselves red scarfs, just to distinguish 
 ourselves from the rest of the army : your honour is a red scarf, 
 that is the chief of the red scarfs ; and we expect to be especially 
 under your honour's protection." 
 
 " I am a red scarf, Henri ; " said the little Chevalier. " There 
 are just two hundred of us, and we mean to be the most dare- 
 devil set in the whole army ; won't we make the cowardly blues 
 afraid of the Durbelli6re red scarfs !" 
 
 " And who are the two men, Jacques ?" said Henri. 
 
 "Jean and Peter Stein," said Jacc^ues : "you sec, M. Henri, 
 they ran away to the battle, just in direct opposition to old 
 ^Iichae^s positive orders. You and the Curtf must remember 
 how I pledged my honour that they should be at Saumur, and 
 so they were : but Michael Stein is an awful black man to deal 
 with when his back is up : he thint^s no more of giving a clout 
 with his hammer, than another man does of a rap with his five 
 knuckles." 
 
 " But his sons are brave fellows," said the little Chevalier, 
 "and dashed into the water among the very first. Michael Stein 
 can't but be proud that his two sons should be both /ed scarfs : 
 if so, he must be a republican." 
 
 " lie is no republican, Chevalier," said Chapeau, "that's quite 
 certain, nor yet any of the family ; but he is a very black man, 
 and when once angered, not easy to be smoothed down again ; 
 and if M. Henri will allow Jean and Peter to come on to 
 Durbelliere, I can, perhaps, manage to go back with them on 
 
Return io Durhellilre, 151 
 
 Sunday, and Michael Stein will mind 111c more than he will 
 them : I can knock into his thick head better tlian they can do, 
 the high honour which has befallen the lads, in their chancing 
 to have been among the red scarfs." 
 
 " Well, Chapeau, let them come," said Henri. " No man that 
 followed rnc gallantly into Saumur, shall be refused adrnittance 
 when he wishes to follow me into Durbelli6rc." 
 
 " \Vc were cool enough, weren't we, Henri, when uc marched /' 
 into the town ?" said the Chevalier. 
 
 " We'll have a more comfortable reception at the old chateau,'* 
 said Henri ; "at any rate, we'll have no more cold water. I '^\\ 
 must say, Arthur, I thought the water of that moat had a \ "^'^ 
 peculiarly nasty taste." v ^'' 
 
 They were not long in reaching the chdteau, and Herri soon 
 found himself in his sister's arms. A confused account, first of 
 the utter defeat of the Vendeans at Varin, and then of their 
 complete victory at Saumur, had reached Durbelli6re ; and 
 though the former account had made them as miserable as the 
 latter had made them happy, neither one nor the other was 
 entirely believed. De Lescure had sent an express to Clisson 
 immediately after the taking of the town, and Madame de 
 Lescure had sent from Clisson to Durbellicre ; but still it was 
 delightful to have the good news corroborated by the conquerors 
 themselves, and Agatha was supremely happy. 
 
 " My own dear, darling Henri," she said, clinging round his 
 neck, "my own brave, gallant brother, and were you not 
 wounded at all — are you sure you are not wounded ?" 
 
 "Not a touch, not a scratch, Agatha, as deep as you might 
 give me with your bodkin." 
 
 , " Thank God I I thank Him with all my heart and soul : and 
 I know you were the first everywhere. Charles wrote but a 
 word or too to Victorine, but he said you were the very first to 
 set your foot in Saumur." 
 
 " A mere accident, Agatha ; while Charles had all the fight- 
 ing—the real hard, up-hill, hand to hand v/ork — I and a few 
 others walked into Saumur, or rather we swam in, and took 
 possession of the town. The Chevalier hero was beside me, and 
 was over the breach as soon as I was." 
 
 " My brave young Arthur ! " said Agatha, in her enthusiasm 
 kissing the forehead of the blushing Chevalier, " you have won 
 your spurs like a knight and a hero ; you shall be my knight and 
 my hero. And I will give you my glove to wear in your cap. But, 
 tell me Arthur, why have you and Henri those red handker- 
 chiefs tied round your waist ? Chapeau has one too, and those 
 other men, below there." 
 
 " That's our uniform," said Arthur. " We are all red scarfs ; 
 all the men who clambered into Saumur through the water, are 
 
153 La VendU 
 
 to wear rcil scarfs till the war is over ; and they are to be seen 
 in the front, at every battle, sei;;e and skirmish. Mind, Agatha, 
 when you sec a red scarf, that he is one of Henri Laroche- 
 iaquclin's own body-guard ; and when you see a bald pate, it 
 oelongs to a skulking republican." 
 
 " Are the republicans all bald then ? " said Agatha. 
 
 *' We shaved all we caught at Saumur, at any rate. We did 
 not leave a hair upon one of them," said Arthur, rejoicing. " The 
 iccl scarfs arc fme barbers, when a republican wants shaving." 
 
 " Is Charles badly wounded?" asked Agatha. 
 
 "His arm is broken, and he remained in action for eight 
 hours after receiving the wound, so that it was difficult to set ; 
 but now it is doing well-," said Henri. 
 
 " I should have offered him my services before this : at any 
 rate I will do so now ; but Henri, 1 have a thousand things to 
 say to you ; do not expect to go to bed to-night, till you have 
 told me everything just as it happened," and Agatha hurried 
 away to give her sweet woman's aid to her wounded cousin, 
 while Henri went into his father's room. 
 
 " Welcome, my hero ! welcome, my gallant boy ! " said the 
 old man, almost rising from his chair, cripple as he was, in his 
 anxiety to seize the hand of his beloved son. 
 
 " 1 have come home safe, falheiV said Henri, " to lay my 
 sword at your feet."' 
 
 *' You must not leave it there long, Henri, I fear you must not 
 leave it there lon^; ; these traitors are going to devour us alive ; 
 to surround us with their troops and burn us out of house and 
 home ; they will annihilate the people they say, destroy the 
 towns, and root out the very trees and hedges. We shall, scr, 
 Henri— we shall scc« So they made a bad fight of it at 
 Saumur?'* 
 
 " They had two men to one against us, besides the advantage 
 of position, discipline and arms, and yet they marched the best 
 part of their troops off in the night without striking a blow.** 
 
 "Thanks be to the Lord, we will have our King again ; we 
 will have our dear King once more, thanks be to the Almighty," 
 said the old man, eager with joy, " And they fled, did they, 
 without striking a blow ? " 
 
 " Some of them did, father ; but some fought well enough ; it 
 was desperate sharp work when poor Charles was wounded." 
 
 "God bless him ! God bless him ! I didn't doubt it was sharp 
 work ; but even with valour, or without valour, what could sedition 
 and perjury avail against truth and loyalty I they were two to one ; 
 they had stone walls and deep rivers to protect them ; they had 
 arms and powder, and steel cuirasses ; they had disciplined troops 
 and all the appendages of war, and yet they were scattered like 
 chaff; driven from their high walls and deep moats, by a few half. 
 
Return to DuihcUilre, 153 
 
 armed peasants; and why? v.ly hav« our batons been more 
 deadly than their swords ? because wc have had truth and 
 loyalty on our side. Why have our stuff jackets prevailed 
 against their steel armour? because they covered hones., heart » 
 that were fighting honestly for their King. His Majesty shall 
 enjoy his own again, my boy. ' Vive le Roi ! Vive Ic Ro: ! " 
 
 *' I trust he may, father ; but, as you say, wc shall have some 
 hard work to do first. Cathclineau and Charelte will be before 
 Nantes in a week's time. I sliould have been with them had 
 we not heard that a strong body of republican troops is to be 
 stationed at Parthenay. They say that Santerrc is to command 
 a party of Marseillaise, commissioned to exterminate the 
 N'endeans." 
 
 " What, Santerre, the brewer of the Faubourgs ? " 
 
 *' The same, Danton's friend, he who used to be so loud at the 
 Cordeliers ; and Westerman is to assist him," said Henri. 
 
 " Worse again, Henri, worse again ; was it not he who headed 
 the rebels on the tenth of August, when our sainted King was 
 driven from his home?" 
 
 "Yes, the same Westerman is now to drive us from our 
 homes ; or rather to burn us, our homes, and all together — such 
 at least is the task allotted to him." 
 
 " God help our babes and our women !" said the old Marquis 
 shuddering, if they fall into the clutches of Santerrc, and that 
 other still blacker demon ! " 
 
 '* Do not fear, father ; have wc not shown that wc arc men ? 
 S.\nterrc wiU find that he has better soldiers to meet than any he 
 brings with hijii." 
 
 ", Fear, Henri ! no, for myself I fear nothing. What injury 
 can they do to an old man like me ? I do not even fear for my 
 own children ; if their lives arc required in the King's service, they 
 know how to part with them in perfect confidence of eternal 
 happiness. hereafter ; but, Henri, 1 do feel for our poor people : 
 they arc now full of joy and enthusiasm, for they are warm from 
 victory, and the grief of the few who are weeping for their 
 relatives, is lost in the joy of the multitude. But this cannot 
 always be so, we cannot expect continual victory, and even 
 victory itself, when so often repealed, will bring death and 
 desolation into every parish and into every family." 
 
 " I trust, father, the war will not be prolonged so distantly 
 as you seem to think ; the forces of Austria, England, 
 and Prussia already surround the frontiers of France : and \yo 
 have every reason to hope that friendly troops from Britain will 
 soon land on our own coast. I trust the autumn will find L* 
 Vendue crowned with glory, but once more at peace." 
 
 ** God send it, my son ! " said the Marquis. " I do not doubt 
 ihe glor>'-— but I do doubt the peace." 
 
154 ^ Vittd/i, 
 
 " We cannot go back now, father/' said Henri 
 
 " Nor would I have you do so ; we have a duty to do, and 
 though it be painful we must do it. * God will temper the wind 
 to the shorn lamb,* and give us strength to bear our sufferings ; 
 but my heart shudders when I am told that the Republic has 
 let loose those wolves of Paris to shed the blood of our poor 
 people." 
 
 The prospect of a prolonged civil war, of continued strife, and 
 increased bloodshed, somewhat damped the joy with which the 
 victory at Saumur was discussed in the aristocratic portion of 
 the cMtcau ; but no such gloomy notions were allowed to 
 interfere with the triumph which reigned in the kitchen. Here 
 victory was clothed in robes all couUur de rose^ and it appeared 
 that La Vendue, so happy in many other respects, was chiefly 
 blessed in being surrounded by republicans whom she could 
 conquer, and in having enemies who gave her the means of 
 acquiring glory, 
 
 " And our own young master was the first royalist who put 
 his foot in Saumur ? " asked Moment, who had already received 
 the information he required four or five times, and on each 
 occasion had drunk Henri's health in about half-n-pint of 
 wine. 
 
 "Indeed he was," said Chapeau, " the very first. You don't 
 think he'd have let anyone go before him." 
 
 " Here's his health then, and God bless him I" said Momont. 
 " It was I first showed him how to fire a pistol ; and. very keen 
 he was at taking to gunpowder." 
 
 " Indeed, and indeed he was," said the housekeeper. " When 
 he was no more than twelve years old, not nigh as big as the 
 little Chevalier, he let off the big blunderbuss in my bed-room, 
 and I on my knees at prayers the while. God bless his sweet 
 face, I always knew he'd make a great soldier." 
 
 "And don't you remember," said the laundress, "how he blew 
 lip Mademoiselle Agatha, making her sit on a milk-pan turned 
 over, with a whole heap of gunpowder stuffed underneath, and 
 she only six or seven years old ?" 
 
 "Did he though," said the page, "blow up Mademoiselle 
 Agatha?" 
 
 " Indeed he did, and blew every scrap of hair off her head and 
 fcyebrows. It's no wonderhe's such a great general." 
 
 " And the Chevalier was second, wasn't he ? " said the 
 cook. 
 
 " Dear little darling fellow ! " said the confidential maid ; 
 ** and to think of him going to the wars with guns and swords 
 and pistols ! If anything had happened to him I should have 
 tried my eyes out." 
 
 " And was the Chevalier the first to follow M, Henri into the 
 
Return to Durbelirere. 155 
 
 town?" asked the page, >vho was a year older than Arthur 
 Mondyon, and consequently felt himself somewhat disgraced at 
 not having been at Saumur. 
 
 ** Why," said Jacques, with a look which was intended to show 
 how unwilling he was to speak of himself, " I can't exactly say 
 the Chevalier was the first to follow M. Henri, but if he wasn't 
 the second, he was certainly the third who entered Saumur." 
 
 " Who then was the second?" said one or two at the samo 
 time. 
 
 '' Why, I shouldn't have said anything about it, only you ask 
 ino so very particularly," said Jacques, " but I believe I was 
 second myself ; but Jean Stein can tell you everything ; you 
 weren't backward yourself, Jean, there were not more than three 
 or four of them before you and Peter." 
 
 " I don't know about that," said Jean, " but we all did the best 
 we could, I believe." 
 
 " And was Chapeau really second ? " said Moment, who was 
 becoming jealous of the distinction likely to be paid to his junior 
 fellow servant. " You don't mean to say he went in before all 
 the other gentlemen ? " 
 
 "Gentlemen, 'indeed !" said Chapeau. " What an idea you 
 have of taking a town by storm, if you think men arc to stand 
 back to make room for gentlemen, as though a party were going 
 in to dinner." 
 
 " But tell us now, Jean Stein," continueil Monont, " was 
 Chapeau really second ?" 
 
 "Well then," said Jean, "he was certainly second into the 
 water, but he was so long under it, I doubt whether he was 
 •second out — he certainly did get a regular good ducking, did 
 Chapeau. Why, you came out feet uppermost, Chapeau." 
 
 " Feet uppermost ! " shouted Momont, "and is ihsityour idea 
 of stonning a town, to go into it feet uppermost ?" 
 
 " But do you really mean to say that you were absolutely wet 
 through when you took Saumur ?" said the laundress, 
 
 " Indeed we were," answered Chapeau, " wringing wet, every 
 man of us." 
 
 " Lawks ! how uncomfortable," said the cook, " And M, 
 Henri, was he wet too ?" 
 
 " Wet, to be sure he was wet as water could make him." 
 
 " And the little Chevalier, did he get himself wet ? " said the 
 confidential maid, "poor little fellow! it was like to give him his 
 death of cold." 
 
 " But, Chapeau, tell me truly now : did you kill any of those 
 bloody republicans with your own hand?" asked the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 " Kill them," said Chapeau, " to be sure I killed them when 
 we were fighting " 
 
155 La VemUi, 
 
 " And how many Chapeau ; how many did you positively kill 
 dead, you know ? " said the confidential maid. 
 
 "What nonsense you do talk !" answered he, with a great air of 
 military knowledge, " as if a man in battle knows when he kills 
 and when he doesn't. You're not able to look about you in 
 that sort of way in the middle of the smoke and noise and 
 confusion." 
 
 " You don't mean to tell me you ever kill a man without know* 
 ?n;,' it ! " said the housekeeper. 
 
 "You don't understand what a battle is at all,** answered 
 Chapeau, determined to communicate a little of his experience on 
 the matter. " One hasn't time to look about one to see anything. 
 Now supposing you had been with us at the taking of Saumur." 
 
 " Oh, lijc Lord forbid ! " said the housekeeper. " I'd sooner 
 be in my grave any day, than go to one of those horrid bloody 
 battles.'^ 
 
 " Or you, Momont ; supposing you'd been there ? " 
 
 " Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I 
 look," replied the butler. 
 
 " I'm sure you'd have done well, Momont. I'm sure you'd have 
 done very well," endeavouring to conciliate hirfi into listening ; 
 **but supposing you had been there, or at the camp of Varin, — 
 v.c'll say Varin, for after all, we had more fighting there than at 
 Saumur. Supposing you were one of the attacking party ; you find 
 yourself close wedged in between your two comrades right op- 
 posite the trenches ; you have a loaded musket in your hand, with 
 a bayonet fixed to it, and you have five or six rounds of cartridges 
 in your belt ; you know that you are to do your best, or rather 
 your worst with what you've got. Well, your commander gives 
 the word of allack. We'll suppose it's the good Cathelineau. 
 * Friends,' he will say ; *dcar friends ; now is the time to prove 
 ourselves men ; now is the moment to prove that we love our 
 King ; we will soon show the republicans that a few sods of turf 
 are no obstacles in the way of Vendean royalists,' and then the 
 gallant fellow rushes into the trenches ; two thousand brave 
 men follow him, shouting ' Vive U Roi/' and you, Momont, are 
 one of the first. All of a sudden, as you nie just in motion, 
 prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush of air passes 
 close to your face, and nearly blinds you ; you feel that you can 
 hardly breathe, but you hear a groan, and a stumble ; your next 
 neighbour and three men behind him have been sent into 
 eternity by a cannon-ball from the enemy. Do you think then 
 that the man who fired the cannon knows or cares who he has 
 killed ? Well, on you go ; had you not been in a crowd, the 
 enemy's fire, maybe, might have frightened you ; but good 
 compuny makes men brave : on you go, and throw yourself into 
 the trench. You find a more active man than yourself just 
 
Return to Durbcllitrc^ 1 57 
 
 above you ; he is already nearly at the top of the bank, his feet 
 are stuck in the sods above your head ; he is about to spring 
 upon the rampart, when the bayonet of a republican passes 
 through his breast, and he falls at your feet, or perhaps upon 
 your head. You feel your heart shudder, and your heart runs 
 cold, but it is no time for pausing now ; you could not return if 
 vou would, neither can you remain where you are : up you go, 
 ,'rasping your musket in one hand and digging the other into 
 the loose sods. Your eyes and mouth are crammed with dust, 
 your face is bespattered with your comrade's blood, your ears 
 arc full of strange noises ; your very nature changes within you ; 
 the smell of gunpowder and of carnage makes you feel like a 
 beast of prey. You do not think any longer of the friends who 
 have fallen beside you ; you only long to grapple wiih the enemy 
 who are before you." 
 
 " Oh, mercy me ! how very shocking ! " said the housekeeper. 
 " Pray don't go on, Chapeau ; pray don't, or I shall have such 
 horrid dreams." 
 
 " Oh ! but you must go nn, Chapeau," said the confidential 
 maid, " I could never bear that you should leave off; it is very 
 horrid, surely ; but as Mademoiselle says, we must learn to look 
 at blood and wounds now, and hear of them, too." 
 
 "Do pray tell us the rest," said the page, who sat listening 
 intently with his mouth wide open. " I do so like it ; pray tell 
 U5 what Moment did after he became a beast of prey ?" 
 
 Chapeau was supremely happy ; he felt that his military ex- 
 perience and his descriptive talents were duly appreciated, 
 and he continued : " Well, you are now in the camp, on the 
 enemy's ground, and you have to fight every inch, till you drive 
 them out of it ; six or seven of your comrades are close to you, 
 and you all press on, still grasping your muskets and pushing 
 your bayonets before you : 4he enemy make a rush to drive you 
 back again ; on they come against you, by twenties and by 
 thirties ; those who are behind push forward those who are in 
 front, and suddenly you find a heavy dragging weight upon your 
 hands, and again you hear the moans of a dying man close to 
 you — almost in your arms. A republican soldier has fallen on 
 your bayonet. The i-truggles of the wounded man nearly over- 
 power yoa ; you twist and turn and wrench, and drag your 
 musket to and fro, but it is no use ; the weapon is jammed 
 between his ribs ; you have not space nor time to extricate it ; 
 you are obliged to leave it, and on you go unarmed, stumbling 
 over the body of your fallen enemy. Whether the man dies or 
 lives, whether his vound be mortal or no, you will never hear. 
 And so you advance, till gradually you begin to feel, rather than 
 to see, that the blues are retreating from you. You hear un- 
 arracd men asking for quarter, begging for their lives, and th« 
 
158 La Vendie, 
 
 sound of entreaty again softens your heart \ you think of sparing 
 life, instead of taking it ; you embrace your friends as you meet 
 them here and there ; you laugh and sing as you feel that you 
 have done your best and have conquered; and when you 
 once more become sufficiently calm to be aware what you are 
 yourself doing, you find that you have a sword in your hand, 
 or a huge pistol ; you know not from whom you took them, or 
 where you got them, or in what manner you have used them. 
 How can a man say, then, whom he has killed in battle, or 
 whether he lias killed any man? I do not recollect that I 
 ever fired a shot at Varin myself, and yet my musket was dis- 
 charged and the pan was up. I will not say that I ever 
 killed a man ; but I will say that I never struck a man who 
 asked for mercy, or fired a shot even on a republican who had 
 thrown down his arms.'* 
 
 Henri's voice was now heard in the hall, loudly calling for 
 Jacques, and away he ran to join his master, as he finished his 
 history. 
 
 "It makes my blood run cold,'* said the housekeeper, "to 
 think of such horrid things." 
 
 "Chapcau describes it very well, though," said the confi- 
 dential maid ; "I'm sure he has seen it all himself. I'm sure 
 he's a brave fellow." 
 
 " It's not always those who talk the most that arc the bravest,'* 
 said Momont. 
 
 Henri and his sister sat talking that night for a long time, 
 after the other inhabitants of the chateau were in bed, and 
 though they had so many subjects of interest to discuss, their 
 convcrialion was chiefly respecting Adolphc Denot. 
 
 " I cannot guess what has become of him," said Henry ; " I 
 made every possible incjuiry, short of that which might seem to 
 compromise his character. I do not think he can have returned 
 to the Bocagc, or we should have heard of him." 
 
 " He must have gone to Floury," said Agatha, " I am sure 
 you will not find that he is at his own house." 
 
 " Impossible, my love ; we must have heard of him on the 
 way ; had he gone round by Montreuil, he must still have passed 
 over the bridge of Fouchard, and we should have heard of him 
 there." 
 
 " He must have ridden over in the night ; you see he so 
 evidently wanted to conceal from you where he was going.*' 
 
 " My own impression is, that he is gone to Paris," said Henri ; 
 ** but let him have g<Mic where he may, of one thing I am sure ; 
 he was not in his ri^ht senses when lie left the council-room, 
 nor yet when he was speaking to mc in the street ; poor Adophe ! 
 I pity him with all my heart, I can feel how miserable he 
 must be." 
 
Return to Durbdlilre, 159 
 
 <'\Vli> slioiilcl he be miserable, Henri? The Iriilh is, you 
 mistake his character. 1 do not \vish -to make you think ill of 
 your friend ; but Adolphc is one of those men whom adversity 
 \vill improve. You and our father have rather spoilt him 
 between you ; he is loo proud, too apt to think that everything 
 should bend to his wishes ; he has yet to learn that in this world 
 he must endure to have his dearest wishes thwarted ; and till 
 adversity has taught him that, his feelings will not be manly, nor 
 his conduct sensible." 
 
 *♦ Poor fellow !" said Henri, "if adversity will teach him, he 
 ia likely to get his lesson now. Did he part quietly with you, 
 Agatha, on the day before we started to Saumur?" 
 
 " Anything but quietly," said she. " I would not tell you all 
 he said, for on the eve of a battle in which you were to light side 
 by side, I did not wish to make you angry with your friend and 
 companion ; but liad a raging madman, just escaped from his 
 keepers, come to offer me his hand, his conduct could not have 
 been worse than Adolphe Dcnot's."' 
 
 ♦' Was he violent with you, Agatha } " 
 
 " He did not offer to strike me, nor yet to touch me, if you 
 mean that ; but he threatened me ; and that in such awful 
 sounding, and yet ridiculous language, that you would hardly 
 know whether to laugh or to be angry if I could repeat it." 
 
 " What did he say, Agatha ? " 
 
 ** Say ! it would be impossible for mc to tell you ; he swung 
 his arms like a country actor in a village barn, and declared that 
 If he were not killed at Saumur, he would carry me away in spite 
 of all that my friends could do to hinder him." 
 
 *' Poor fellow ! poor Adolphe !" said Henri. 
 
 "You arc not sorry I refused him ? ' You would, indeed, havo 
 hud to say, poor Agatha ! had I done otherwise." 
 
 " I am not sorry that you refused him, but I am sorry you 
 could not love him." 
 
 " Why you say yourself he is mad : would you wish me to 
 l6ve a madman ? " • 
 
 '< It is love that has made him mad. Adolphe is not like other 
 men ; his passions arc stronger j his feelings more acute ; his 
 regrets more poignant." 
 
 " He should control his passions as other men must do," said 
 Agatha : " all men who do not, are madmen." She remained 
 silent for a few moments, and then added, " you are right in 
 saying that love has made him mad ; but it is the meanest of all 
 love that has done so— it is self-love." 
 
 " I think you are too hard upon him, Agatha ; but it is 
 over now, and cannot be helped." 
 
 "What did he say to you, Henri, vi^hcn he left you in 
 Sau) Aur ? '* 
 
t6o l^i Vendie^ 
 
 " His name had been mentioned, you know, in th< council as 
 one of thi leaders: Bonchamps, I believe, proposed it; but 
 Charles objected, and named Charctte in his place, and 
 Cathelineau and the rest agreed to it. This angered Adolphe, 
 and no wonder, for he is ambitious, and impatient of neglect. 1 
 wish they would have let him been named instead of me, but 
 they would not, and when the list was finished, he was not on it. 
 He got up and said something ; I hardly know what, but he 
 complained of Stofflet being one of the generals ; and then 
 Charles rebuked him, and Adolphe in a passion left the room " 
 
 "And you followed him?" asked Agatha. 
 
 " Yes, 'l followed him i but he was like a raging madman. 
 1 don't know how it was ; but instead of complaining about 
 the generals, he began complaining about you. I don't know 
 exactly whether I ought to tell you wliat he said — indeed I had 
 not intended to have done so." 
 
 •' Nay, Henri ; now you have raised my woman's curiosity, 
 and you positively must tell me." 
 
 *' I hardly know how to tell you," s:iid Henri, " for I really 
 forget how he said it. I don't know on earth how he introduced 
 your name at all ; but he ended in accusing you of having a 
 more favoured lover." 
 
 Agatha blushed slightly as she answered : "//<f has no right 
 whatever to ask the question ; nor if I have a favoured lover, 
 should it be any ground of complaint to him. Hut to you, Henri, 
 If you wish a promise from me oi\ the subject, I will readily and 
 willingly promise, that I will receive no man's love, and, far as 
 1 can master my own heart, I will myself entertain no passion 
 without your sanction : and you, dear brother, you shall make 
 me a return for my confidence? you shall ask me to marry no 
 mm whom 1 cannot love." 
 
 *' Don't for a moment think, dearest, that what he said mad * 
 me uneasy as regarded you : but whom do you think he selected 
 for you — of whom do you think he is jealous ? " 
 
 " I cannot attempt to guess a madman's thoughts, Henri.'* 
 
 " I will tell you then," said he ; " but you will be shocked as 
 Weil as surprised. He is jealous of Cathelineau ! " 
 
 " Cathelineau ?" said Agatha, blushing now much more deeply 
 than she had done before. 
 
 " Yc5, Cathelineau the postillion." 
 ) "No, not Cathelineau the postillion; but Cathelineau the 
 ' Saint of Anjou,aiul the hero of St. Plorent, and of .Saumur. He 
 at any rate has linked my name with that of a man worthy of a 
 woman's love." 
 
 '' Worthy, Agatha, had his birth and early years been different 
 from what they were." 
 " Worthy as he is of any woman's love," sa.d .Agatha. " Qjva^ 
 
Ketmn to Durbellih-e, l6l 
 
 deeds and noble conduct make birth of* no avail, to give cither 
 honour or disgrace." 
 
 " But, Agatha, surely you would not wed Cathelineau, were he 
 to ask you ? " 
 
 *' Why should you ask that question, Henri ? " said she ; " are 
 the words which Adolphc Dcnot has uttered in his wild insanity 
 of such weight, as to make you regard as possible such an 
 event ? Have I not told you I would wed no one without your 
 sanction ? Do you not know that Cathelineau has never spoken 
 to ine but the coldest words of most distant respect ? Do you 
 not know that his heart and soul are intent on other things than 
 woman's love ? I, too, feel that this is not the time for love. 
 While I live in continual dread that those I most value may fall 
 in battle ; while I fear that every messenger who comes to me 
 in your absence may have some fatal news to tell, I do not wish 
 to take upon me a fresh burden of affection. Am I not best as 
 I am, Henri, at present?" And she put her arm affectionately 
 through his. " When the wars are over, and the King is on his 
 throne, you shall bring me home a lover; some brave friend of 
 your's who has proved himself a gallant knight." 
 
 " I would have him be a gallant knight, certainly," said Henri, 
 '' but he should also be a worthy gentleman." 
 
 "And is not Cathelineau a worthy gentleman?" forgetting in 
 her enthusiasm that she was taking the cause of one who was 
 being spoken of as her lover. " Oh, indeed he is ; if valour, 
 honesty, and honour, if trust in God, and forgelfulness of seK, 
 if humanity and generosity constitute a gentlcma-.i, then is 
 Cathelineau the prince of gentlemen : but do not, pray do not 
 mistake me, Henri : a lover y^i scenery admires the tops of 
 distant mountains, and gazes on their snowy peaks with a 
 pleasure almost amounting to awe ; but no one seeks to build 
 his house on the summit : so do I admire the virtues, the 
 devotion, the courage of Cathelineau ; but my admiration is 
 mixed with no love which would make me wish to join my lot 
 with his. I only say, that despite his birth and former low 
 condition, he is worthy of any woman's love." 
 
 Henri did not quite like his sister's enthusiasm, though he 
 hardly knew why it displeased him. He had thought of Cathc-\ 
 lincau only as a soldier and a General, and had found nothing ) 
 in him that he did not approve of ; but he felt that he could not 
 welcome him as his darling sister's husband ; "If Adolphc 
 should have prophesied rightly," said he, to himself, as he went 
 from his sister's room to his own chamber, ** but no ! whatever 
 her feelings may be, she is too good to do anything that wouU 
 displease me." 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MICHAEL STEIN. 
 
 the Sunday morning after Henri's return to 
 Durbelli6rc, Jacques Cbapcau, with Jean and Peter 
 Stein, left the chlteau very early, and started for 
 Echanbroignes. Word had been sent to the old 
 smith by some of the neighbours, who had been at Saumur, 
 that his two sons were safe and sound, and that they had 
 behaved well at the siege, and a message at the same time 
 reached Annot, informing her that Jacques meant to spend 
 his next Sunday at the village ; the party was therefore ex- 
 pected, and great preparations were made for a fete at Echan- 
 broignes. The heroes of that place considered that they had 
 somewhat cclcbratca themselves ; in the first place, on final 
 inquiry, it appeared that not one person from tne village who 
 was at all able to goto Saumur, had neglected to do so. In 
 the next place, many of the villagers were among the number of 
 the red scarfs, and they claimed to themselves the privilege of 
 being considered peculiarly valiant and particularly loyal ; and 
 lastly, though many of them had gone to Saumur without arms, 
 every man on his return had a musket with him, which the old 
 men and women regarded as absolute trophies, taken by each 
 man individually from some awful rebel whom he had slain in 
 single combat. There were to be great rejoicings, therefore, at 
 Echanbroignes, which were postponed for the arrival of Chapcau 
 and the two Steins. 
 
 The old smith was very angry at his sons' behaviour. As 
 Chapeau had said, he was a very black man, and when he was 
 angered, it wasn't easy to smooth him ; the operation, however, 
 was attempted by some of his neighbours, and though they were 
 not altogether successful, they succeeded in making the old man 
 a little proud of his family. 
 
Michael stem, . 163 
 
 "Yes, Paul kouel;" he said to the village innkeeper, who 
 was an ancient crony of his, "it's very well to talk of Kinfj and 
 Church ; but if King and Church are to teach sons to fly against 
 their fathers, we may, I think, have a little too much of them ; 
 didn't I again and again tell the boys not to go?" 
 
 " But, Michael Stein, how could you expect them to stay 
 here, with a score of old men like us, and a number of women 
 and girls, when every young fellow in the parish had gone to the 
 v/ars? besides, they say they did gallantly at ihc wars, and 
 gained great honour and glory." 
 
 " Gained a great fiddle-stick," said the smith. 
 
 " But, Michael Stein," said another old friend, named Gobelin, 
 "you wouldn't have your children disgraced, would you .'' think 
 how sheepish they would have looked, hiding themselves in the 
 smithy here, when all the other young men were parading round 
 the green with the guns and swords they have taken from 
 the rebels, and the women and girls all admiring them. 
 Why, neighbour, not a girl in the parish would have spoken 
 to them." 
 
 "Girls spoken to them, indeed ! I tell you, Gobelin, in the 
 times now coming, any girl will be ready enough to sj eak to a 
 young man that has a house over his head, and a I'lve-franc 
 piece in his pocket. No, neighbour Gobelin ; 1 gave my boys 
 a good trade, and desired them to stick to it ; they have chosen 
 instead to go for soldiers, and for soldiers they may go. They 
 don't come into my smithy again, that's all." 
 
 "You don't mean you won't speak to the lads, and after 
 , their fighting so bravely and all !" said Paul Rouel, in a voice 
 c( horror., . 
 
 " I didn't say I wouldn't speak to them, Rouel," said the 
 father, " I am as fond of my sons as another man ; and as they 
 were resolved to disobey my commands, and go fighting, why 
 I'll not say but I'm glad they didn't disgrace themselves. I'd 
 have been sorry to hear that they'd run away, or been the last 
 to face the enemy ; but they had no right to go, when there was 
 work for them to do at home ; they are welcome now to come 
 and take the best I can give them, till their new trade calls 
 them away again, and then they'll be welcome to go soldiering 
 again ; not a hammer shall they raise on my anvil, not a blast 
 shall they blow in my smithy, not an ounce of iron shall they 
 turn in my furnace." 
 
 "You'll think better of these things after a day or two, neigh* 
 hour," said Gobelin. 
 
 "When I think once about a thing, Gobelin, I'm not much 
 j;-iven to think again. But I tell you, 1 wish the boys no harm ; 
 L t them be soldiers now, and I pray God they may be good 
 } oldiers ; only, if I save a little money by hard work, I won't 
 
l64 ^ Vendue. 
 
 have them spend it among their comrades in strong drink ; itil 
 be ill the better for Annot, when I die, that's all." 
 
 In this resolution he remained fixed, and in this frame of 
 mind he received his truant sons on their return to Echan- 
 broignes on the Sunday morninjj. They entered the village 
 together with Chapeau, about nine in the morning, having been 
 met about a mile from the town, by four or five friends, who 
 escorted them back, Annot was not there, for she was very 
 busy at home, preparing breakfast for her brothers and lover. 
 She, at any rate, was determined that the prodigal sons should 
 be received with a fatted calf. 
 
 Chapeau marched up throu^jh the village at the head of the 
 little procession to bear the brant of the father's anger, as his 
 station in life, and standing in the army, made him feel superior 
 even to the fury of old Michael Stein. As the>[ approached the 
 door of the smith's house, they saw him sitting in the little porch 
 with a pipe in his moutli, for Michael was never found without 
 one or two implements ; he had always cither his hammer or 
 his pipe in full activity. 
 
 "Welcome back to Echanbroignes, M. Chapeau, welcome 
 back," said the old man. " I am heartily glad to see so brave 
 a soldier in my poor cabin !" and he gave his hand to Jacques. 
 " And here be two other brave soldiers, Michael Stein, who, 
 1 hope, are also welcome to Echanbroignes ; and this I will say, 
 any father in Poitou might be proud to own them for his sons : 
 for gallanter fellows there arc not in tlic whole army of La 
 Vendde, and that is saying a long word." 
 
 There was a little crowd round the smith's house, and in spite 
 of his unmilitary predilections, he could not help feeling proud 
 at the public testimony that was paid to his sons' merits : he 
 ihowed this by the tear that stood in his eye, as he said : 
 
 "They are welcome too, M. Chapeau ; they are very welcome 
 too. I am glad to see ye, safe and sound from the wars, lads. 
 1 am glad to see thee, Jean : I am glad to see thee, Peter," and 
 he gave a hand to each of the two young men, who were de- 
 lighted with their unexpected kind reception, "And this I will 
 say before the neighbours here, as ye would go to the wars, and 
 make soldiers of yourselves, I am well pleased to hear ye 
 behaved yourselves like gallant brave men should do. I'd 
 sooner that your friends should have had to tell me that ye 
 were both stiff and cold, than that ye should have returned 
 yourselves with shamed faces to own that ye had disgraced the 
 trade ye have chosen to take up with " 
 
 ''Bravo! bravo!" said Chapeau, "I am glad in my heart, 
 Michael Stein, to hear you speak so kindly to the lads ; and so 
 will M. Henri be glad to hear it, for they are two of his own 
 especial troop — they are two of the gallant red scarfs, who 
 
Michael Stein, 1 65 
 
 swam into Saumur with their musjccts tucked under their 
 arms." 
 
 *' But understand me, boys," continued the smith, still speak- 
 ing so that the neighbours standing round could hear him. " I 
 am right glad to see both of you, as I am to see M. Chapeau, 
 or any other gallant friend who is kind enough to visit mr and 
 Annot. But mind, it is as visitors I receive you ; in a few da>3, 
 doubtless, you must go away to the wars again \ till then yc 
 shall have the best I can give, both to eat and to drink. Ye 
 shall have your own way, and never be asked to do a turn of 
 work. Ye shall have gay holyday times, and holyday fare, and 
 anything the old man can do, and anything the old man can 
 give to make you merry, he will do, and he will give, because 
 you have come back gallantly, and have not brought dishonour 
 to the roost where yc were hatched— but more than this I will 
 not agree to. Ye would not abide at home, as I desired, and 
 this therefore is no longer a home for you ; ye would not be 
 content to be forgers of weapons, but ye must e'en use them too, 
 and ye have had your way. Now, lads, I must have my way ; 
 and for the rest of the time I must have it alone. This is no 
 longer your home, lads, and I am no longer your master. Ye 
 would be soldiers when I did not wish it ; now let yc be soldiers, 
 and I'm the less sorry for it, as it seems like that you'll prove 
 good soldiers. And now, Peter and Jean, you're welcome both 
 of you. Jacques Chapeau, you are most heartily welcome — 
 come Annot, let the lads have a swinging breakfast, for I know 
 these soldiers fight not well unless they be fed well," and so 
 finishing his speech, he led the way into the cottage. 
 
 The three men were too well pleased with their reception to 
 grumble at the smith's mode of expressing his feeling. Jean 
 and Peter were delighted to find that they were to be entertained 
 with the best their father could afford, instead of with black 
 looks and hard words, and that the only punishment to be im- 
 mediately inflicted on them, was that they were to do no work ; 
 the party, therefore, entered the cottage tolerably well pleased 
 with each other. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that Annot remained in the back* 
 ground during the whole of her father's oration. She had come 
 out of the cottage, and kissed her two brothers, and shaken 
 handr* with her lover ; she then returned in again, and Chapeau 
 had followed her, and as the two were left alone together, for a 
 minute or two, I think it very probable that she kissed him 
 aiso ; but I cannot speak positively on this point. 
 
 Then they all sat down to breakfast, and Paul Rouel and old 
 Gobelin, who had contrived to be of the party, were greatly 
 surprised to hear and to see how civil Michael was to his sons. 
 He pressed them to eat of the very best, as he did to Chapeau, 
 
i66 La Vendie. '^ 
 
 nnd talked to them about the war, listened to all their tftiCS, antt 
 had altogether lost the domineering authoritative tone of voice 
 with which he usually addressed his own family ; It was only in 
 talking to Annot that he was the same hot-tcmoered old man 
 as ever. The two young men themselves were liardly at their 
 CIRC \ but they cat their breakfast, and made the best they could 
 of it. 
 
 "Smothered fire burns longest, neighbour Gobelin," said 
 Rouel, as he left the house. "Take my word, Michael will 
 never forgive those two boys of his the longest day he has to 
 live." 
 
 After breakfast, Michael Stein and his whole party went to 
 mass, as did all the soldier peasants, who had returned from 
 Saumur ; and the old Curd of the parish, who had now recovered 
 possession of his own church, with much solemnity returned 
 thanks to God for the great victory which the Vendeans had 
 gained, and sung a requiem for the souls of the royalists who 
 had fallen in the battle. When they left the church, the 
 peasants all formed themselves into a procession, the girls 
 going first, and the men following them ; and in this manne. 
 they paraded round the green, carrying a huge white flag, which 
 had been embroidered in the village, and which bore in its 
 centre, in conspicuous letters of gold, those three words, the 
 loyal shibboleth of La Vendde, " Vive Ic RoiP^ 
 
 This flag they fixed on a pole erected in the centre of the 
 green, and then they set to work to amuse themselves with 
 twenty diiTerent games, Tlic games, however, did not flourish 
 — the men were too eager to talk of what they had done, and the 
 girls were too willing to listen— they divided themselves into 
 fifty little parties, in which fifty different accounts were given of 
 the taking of Saumur, and in each party three or four different 
 warriors were named as having been the most conspicuous 
 heroes of the siege. Each narrator had some especially 
 esteemed leader or chief, who in his eyes greatly exceeded the 
 other leaders, and the prodigious feats of valour performed by 
 this favoured warrior was the first and most wonderful subject 
 of discourse. Then, but at a modest distance, as regards the 
 glory of the achievements related, each peasant told what he 
 had done himself ; two or three probably made out their little 
 history together, and told of each other's valour : that homely 
 and somewhat vulgar Scotch proverb, "you scratch my back, 
 and I'll scratch yours," was certainly unknown to them, but 
 nevertheless they fully recognised the wise principle of mutual 
 accommodation which that proverb teaches. 
 
 " It's no use talking, but there isn't one of them able to hold 
 a candle to our M. Henri-^is there, Louis? that is, for a down* 
 right thundering attack*** 
 
Michael SUif$» 1 67 
 
 This was snid by Jean Stein to t\i'o. or three of tlic village 
 girls, by whom he vas looked on as a great hero, in consequence 
 of his having gone to the war in spite of his father's commands, 
 as well as on account of Chapcau'a honourable testimony in his 
 favour ; and the man referred to was one Louis l^ourdin, who, 
 as well as Jean, had been of the party who followed Henri 
 through the njoat. 
 
 " That there is not, Jean ; that is, for positive stand-up fight- 
 ing ; not one. And we ought to know, for we have seen most of 
 'cm. Tlierc's Cathelineau is a very good man at leadfng on the 
 men." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " said Jean, ** Cathelineaii is a fine fellow too, and 
 a very hdly man ; but somehow I don't think he's quite so for- 
 ward as iX, Henri, M. Henri is always the first." 
 
 " Rut doesn't he get dreadfully knocked about by the guns 
 and bullets?" asked one of the girls, 
 *' He doesn't matter that a pinch of snufif," said Louis, 
 '' No, not a pinch of snuff," said Jean. " Do you mind, Louis, 
 how he leapt off his horse, and dashed through the trenches, 
 that first night at Varin ? wasn't it beautiful ?" 
 
 " You may say that, Jean," answered Louis ; " it was beauti- 
 ful. And what a night that was— you were along with him, 
 Jean, and so was Chapeau, ^L Henri was up first, I can swear 
 to that ; but it would puzzle anyone to say who was second." 
 
 "Yourself, Louis, was as quick as .'\nyone — I marked you 
 well. Indeed, then, said I to myself, if all our men are as for- 
 ward as Louis Bourdin, the village will have a great name 
 before the war is over." 
 
 " Hut tell me truly now, Louis Bourdin," said a little girl, who 
 was listening intently all the time, " when you went up into that 
 place, were there real soldiers in armour, with guns and cannon 
 firing at you all the time ?" 
 
 " Truly then there were, Lolottc, hundreds of them,'* said 
 Bourdin, 
 " Well, that is horrible ! " said the girls all at once. 
 "And do you remember, Jean," continued Bourdin, "when 
 M. Henri dashed down again, how the traitor rebels halloaed 
 out, * Fire upon the red scarf !' Well, I did think it was all up 
 with him then. You were close to him, Jean ; nearer than 1 am 
 to Lolottc now." 
 
 " And that's quite near enough," said Lolotte, giving him a 
 push, 
 
 "Why I'm sure I was doing nothing ; I was only wanting to 
 show you. Jean Stein there, was, as I was saying, quite close 
 to M. Henri ; and as they leapt out of the camp together, 
 twenty voices roared out at once, * Fire upon the red scarf ! 
 fire upon the red scarf 1 ' Oh 1 that was a fearful evening ; it 
 
t68 In Viiuh'i. 
 
 was dark then, and ihe light of the imoklnff, glaring torchet 
 made it five times more horrible. I thought we were as guod 
 as dead men then. I'm sure I for one can't guess how wc ever 
 got out alive." 
 
 " And yet, M. Henri wasn't wounded," said Jean ; " well, it 
 was wonderful. After all, General d'ElWe must be right ; 
 Providence must give a shake to a rebel's arm, just as he'.-^ 
 firing, so as to send his bullet anywhere but where it's meant 
 to go." 
 
 "Yes," Said Bourdin, "and it directs the shot of a royalist 
 right into a rebel's heart." 
 
 " Well, if that be so,'' said Lololte, " I'm sure I for one 
 wouldn't like to fight on the rebel's side. They must be wonder- 
 ful brave men to hold out at all, when Providence goes against 
 them in that way." ^ 
 
 " But they don't hold out, girl," said Jean, "they always run 
 away; how they did run, Bourdin, when M. Henri led us into 
 the town, through the broken wall ; well, I believe they all 
 thouglit at that time, the devil himself was coming for them out 
 of the moat." 
 
 " Only think, girls, three or four thousand men running away 
 as fast as their feet could carry them, from two hundred 
 fellows, who hadn't a charge of dry powder among them, and 
 who were all themselves dripping w<!t through ; well, that was 
 fine." 
 
 Jacques Chapcau and Annot Stein had not Joined any of 
 these parties ; they had disappeared soon after mass, and were 
 not heard of for three or four hours afterwards ; they took a 
 long ramble by themselves, down by the mill-stream, and far 
 beyond the mill ; sitting down, every now and then among the 
 willows, and then getting up and strolling on a bit further; they 
 did not, this day, waste their time in foolish quarrels and fond 
 reconciliations ; but discoursed together sundry serious matters 
 of important business, as becomes people to do, when they 
 think of arranging a partnership concern, from which each 
 intends to get a comfortable means of living for the remainder 
 of his or her life ; upon the whole, they had but very few sub- 
 jects of difference, and by their return to the smith's house at 
 supper-tinie, they had fully agreed that no further time ought 
 to be lost, in establishing i» Hnn under the name of Jac(|Mcs and 
 Annot Cliapeau and Co. The Co. being left to come afierwarils 
 or not, as God might please. 
 
 After supper was over, Annot had no difficulty in inducing 
 her brothers to leave tlie house, and thus the coast was left 
 clear for Jaccjues to ask the father's consent to his intended 
 marriage. Neither he nor Annot expected much difficulty in 
 p-irHiiading Michael to accept of so promising a so*^, in-l.iw j 
 
Michael Stein, 169 
 
 but tlicy were both determined that if they could not marry 
 M'ith his consent, they woukl do so without it. So Chapeau 
 lighted his pipe, and sat himself down opposite the smith, and 
 Annot retired to her own little sloepin<; chamber, where she 
 nii^ht conveniently hear* what her father and lover said to each 
 other respecting her intended nuptials. 
 
 ♦* Well, Michael Stein, my old friend," said Jacques ; " these 
 are glorious times, arc they not "i The rebels beaten hollow, till 
 they hav'n't a face to show for themselves, and the King cominj; 
 to La Vendee, to enjoy his own again ; it will be a fine thing to 
 sec the King riding into the village of Echanbroignes to thank 
 the gallant peasants, with his own mouth, for what they have 
 done for him I " 
 
 " Yes, M,^ Chapeau ! those will be fine times when they 
 come ; pray God you, and other young fellows like you, may 
 live to see them ; an old fellow like me has little chance of such 
 happiness." 
 
 " And why not, my friend ? what is to make those days so far 
 off.? I tell you, Michael Stein, the rebels were dead beaten at 
 Saumur ; they are scattered like chaff ; their very best soldiers 
 arc altogether hors de combat j the war is as good as over. We 
 may have to make a little trip or two, just to receive the 
 English, who are coming to help us ; we may have to go and 
 meet them on the coast; or perhaps to Parthcnay, to ask 
 M. Santerre what he wants in that part of the world ; but 
 that is all, literally all ; I tell you the rebels are clean beaten." 
 
 " I only wonder then, M. Chapeau, why you want the English 
 to come and help you, if. as you say, you have conquered all the 
 republicans yourselves ? " 
 
 ** Just to pay their respects to the King, and, perhaps, to lend 
 us a hand in driving those Jacobins out of Paris — that's all. Till 
 th.it's done, the King is to live at Saumur." 
 
 " To live at Saumur, is he t ' 
 
 " That's what those say who know most about it, and you 
 know I'm in the way to know what's really going forward. He's 
 to hold his court at Saumur, and Henri Larochejaquelin is to 
 be commandant of the town, and have the command of all the 
 forces there. I tell you, Michael Stein, we that wear the red 
 scarfs, will not be the worse off then." 
 
 " 1 hope not ; in truth, M. Chapeau, I hope not ; though they 
 do say that they be not wise who put their trust in princes." 
 
 " Princes ! " said Jacques, ** I am not talking of princes, I am 
 talking of the King himself, God bless him 1" 
 
 " Well, perhaps, that does make a difference ; and I sa;*, God 
 bless him too, with all my heart." 
 
 " I suppose youVe heard, Michael Stein, that our young 
 Cjf^cral, M, Hwiri^ »5 going to be married ? '* 
 
170 /-'» Vt!fi<Ui, 
 
 " Is he then?" said Michael. " No» trul>, * did not hcai a 
 word of such a matter ; to some grand lady of the court, I 
 suppose?" 
 
 *' No, but to his own beautiful younjj cousin, Mademoiselle dc 
 Lcscurc, the sister of our other Gcnerat, you know." 
 
 " Well, may they be happy, both of them ; I mind their 
 fathers well ; the old Marquis is still alive, but greatly ailing, 
 they tell me. I have much to be thankful for, and I do thank 
 the Lord ! " and as he spoke, Michael Stein crossed himself. 
 •* Now, I'm as old in a manner as the Marquis himself, and 
 yet you sec I can still make the big hammer clink on the 
 anvil." 
 
 *' Indeed you can, Michael, and better too lh:in many a youn;.j 
 fclh)w. lJi»l» as wc were saying, here is M. Henri going to bo 
 married, and his lady will surely be wanting some nice, tidy, 
 h'lndy, good-looking, smart young woman to be about her, 
 more as a sort of companion, you know, than a servant ; in the 
 same way, you mind, as I am now to M. Henri : now, wouldn't 
 that be a nice berth for your dauj^Mucr, Annot Stein ?" 
 
 As Chapeau described tlie nice, tidy, smart, pretty young 
 woman, that the future Madame dc I.arochejaquelin would bo 
 sure to recjuire, Annot smoothed down her little apron with both 
 her handH, [\\\\(i a complainant glance at her own neat little feet, 
 and her briy;ht holiday bhoes, and then listened eagerly for her 
 father's answer. 
 
 " I am suie, M. Chapcau, that Annot Stein is very thankful 
 for your good wishes," said he, "and so is her father, very 
 thankful ; but she has not court-breeding enough for that sort 
 of work ; she has never learnt to speak smooth, and say pretty ' 
 little flattering sayings, such as ladies like to hear. Nor when 
 ^Iadame would be out of sorts and ruffled, as great ladies will 
 be sometimes, would she know how to say the right word just 
 at the right time ; and then Annot has too much of her father's 
 rough blood, and if Madame scolded at all, it's ten chances to 
 one but she would scold again, and that, you know, wouldn't 
 do. No, M. Chapeau, Annot had better remain as she is, and keep 
 her father's house, till she marries some honest tradesman, like 
 myself, when these deadly wars be over." 
 
 " Well, but my dear friend," said Chapeau, " I had another 
 little proposition 1 wanted to make, which would fit in so well 
 v.'ith what I suggested ; and I can assure you Madame Henri, 
 that is Mademoiselle de Lescure as she is now, you know, is the 
 softest, sweetest-tempered creature living — she wouldn't quarrel 
 with anyone, much less with such a little angel as your 
 daughter." 
 
 " I'm sure," said Michael, making a low bow to his guest, and 
 pressing the handle of his pipe to his breast. " I'm sure my 
 
Mich ael Stciu^ I jH 
 
 daughter will be very thankful for the great interest you take 
 respecting her." 
 
 ♦* But as I was saying, you know, about this other little proi 
 position of mine ? " 
 
 "Well, M. Chapcau, I'm listening with all my cars, and very 
 thankful for your kind friendship." 
 
 " You see," said Jacques, " M. Henri is going to change his 
 condition ; we've both been young fellows together ; we've had 
 our amusements and our pleasures like other young men, and, 
 maybe, been as fortunate as most. Well, my friend, M. Henri, 
 is going to settle down, and marry the girl of his heart, whom 
 he loves better than all the world ; and what can I do better 
 than follow his example ? The truth is, I mean to settle down 
 loo, Michael Stein." 
 
 "Well," said Michael, scratching his head, and listening for 
 the remainder of Chapeau's little proposition, 
 
 "And 1 want to marry the girl of viy heart, whom /lovo 
 better than all the world, and her name is Annot Stein, and 
 there's an end of it ; and now you know all about it." 
 
 Annot's heart beat quickly as she heard him make the last 
 important declaration ; and beautifully she thought he made it. 
 When Chapcau called her a little angel, she swore to herself 
 that he was the dearest fellow that ever lived ; and when he 
 finished by protesting that she was the girl of his heart, and 
 that he loved her better than all the world, she longed to run 
 out and throw her arms about his neck. 
 
 Michael Stein took a long pull at his pipe, and ble>v out a 
 huge cloud of tobacco before he made any answer, and then he 
 said : — 
 
 "M. Chapcau, I am sensible how great an honour you 
 propose to do me and my poor daughter ; but I am not a proud 
 man, no one can say that Michael Stein was ever proud or 
 ambitious ; my only wish is to see my little girl married to a 
 decent hard -working fellow like her father." 
 " Well, ain't I a hard-working fellow ?" 
 " Let me look at your hands, M. Chapcau ; the inside of your 
 hands. No, you are not a hard-working fellow ; your hand is as 
 soft as a lady's." 
 
 " What signifies my hand ? I sha*n't make a worse husband, 
 shall I, because mv hand is not as horny as your own ?" 
 
 " No, but a hard-fisted fellow is the only man that will suit 
 my daughter." 
 
 " But, Michael Stein, she herself thinks '» 
 
 "Whoever heard of asking a girl what she thinks herself? 
 Of course she'd sooner be a fine lady, and spend her time 
 walking about a big chateau than be milking cows and minding 
 goats," 
 
i7* La Vendit, 
 
 ** iiwit «ron i \>\\t be earning her living and hc! wng^os 
 honestly?" 
 
 *' Wages ! I don't like those sort of wages, M. Chapeau. I don't 
 mean to say anything uncivil, and I hope you won't take it amiss, 
 but there are two trades I don't fancy lor my children : the one 
 is that of a soldier, the other that of a great man's servant." 
 
 ** Gr.tcious me, Michael Stein 1 why I'm both," said Chapeau, 
 rather oflfended. 
 
 *' 1 bCfj your pardon again and again, and 1 really mean no 
 offence : clown as I am, I hope I know belter than to say any- 
 thing to hurt rny own guest in my own house." 
 
 Chapeau assured him he was not ©(Tended, and begged to 
 know why the old man objected to see his children become 
 soldiers or servants. 
 
 '• They've no liberty," said Michael, " though they usually take 
 a deal too much license. They never are allowed to call their 
 time their own, though they often misuse the time that ought to 
 bolo!ig to other people." 
 
 For a long time Chapeau combated such arguments as these, 
 but witliout avail ; the smith declared that now, as his two sons 
 had become soldiers, it would break his heart if his daughter 
 also were to marry one. He assured Jacques, with tears running 
 down his rough checks, that hc could not bring himself to give 
 his daughter his blessing, if she left his house without his leave 
 to marry a soldier. He declared that he also loved her better 
 than all the world) and that he could not bear to part with her ; 
 and his tears and kindly words had such an effect upon Annot 
 that she could not restrain herself, she burst into tears herself, 
 and running out of her little room, threw herself into her father's 
 arms. 
 
 " (ict up, thou simpleton ; get up, thou little fool," said he. 
 ** Why, Annot, what ails thee t " 
 
 " Oh, father ! dear father ! " said she. 
 
 "(ict up then, Annot, and I'll speak to thee. 1 never saw 
 thee in this way before." 
 
 "Oh, father!" she said, sobbing violently, "do you love 
 your poor daughter so very, very much ?" 
 
 " Love you, Annot ! why yes, I do love you. If you'll be a 
 good girl, that is, I will love you." 
 
 " I will be a good girl, dear father ; indeed I'll be a good girl ; 
 at any rate I'll try. But then " and she stood up, and com- 
 menced wiping her eyes with her little apron. 
 
 " Well, what then, Annot ?" said the smith. 
 
 " But then— I wouldn't anger you, father, for all the world ; 
 indeed I wouldn't, for you always are so good to me, and I know 
 I don't deserve it," and poor Annot continued sobbing and 
 rubbing her eyes with her apron. 
 
"Nonsense, glil, nonsense!" sai4 Michael; "I don't find 
 any fault with you. Don't think of getting yourself married 
 till these wars be over, that's all," and he kissed her forehead, 
 and patted her check as though all the difficulty were over. 
 
 *'But, father ?" continued Annot, with her apron still to 
 
 her face. 
 
 **\Vell, child, what is it? 15y the blessed mass, M. Chapcau, 
 I don't know what the girl's crying for." 
 
 ** Do you love your own little Annot so very, very much?" 
 said she, and she put her soft arm round his rough neck, and 
 placed her check quite close to his. 
 
 "There, Annot ; why what nonsense, girl! Don't you know 
 I love you ! didn't \ou hear me say so this minute? Leave off, 
 will you, you little slut ! why, what will M. Chapeau think of us/ 
 Well, I declare she's crying still I" 
 
 " Hut if you really, really love me, father " 
 
 " Bother the girl ! she knows I love her better than anything 
 else ; God forgive me." 
 
 " If you really love me," repeated Annot, nestling her head in 
 her father's bosom, " you must, you must, you must^— do some 
 thing that I'll ask you, father." 
 
 "And what is it, child? I doubt much it's nonsense." 
 
 "You must love Jacques Chapeau too, father," and having 
 uttered these important words, Annot clung fast to her father's 
 arms, as if she feared he was going to throw her off, and sobbed 
 and cried as though her heart were breaking. 
 
 The battle between the contending factions, namely, the fathet 
 on one side, and the daughter with her lover on the other, was 
 prolonged for- a considerable time, but the success was rJtogether 
 with Anriot. Chapeau would have had no chance himself 
 against the hard, dry, commonsensc of the smith ; but Annot 
 made her appearance just at the right moment, before the father 
 had irrevocably pledged himself, and the old man was obliged 
 to succumb ; he couldn't bring himself to refuse his daughter 
 when she was lying on his bosom and appealing to his love ; so 
 at last he gave way entirely, and promised that he would love 
 Jacques Chapeau also ; and then Chapeau, he also cried ; and, ^ 
 1 shudder as I write it, he also kissed the tough, bronzed, ol4 f ^ 
 wiry smith, and promised that he would be a good husband and y 
 son-in-law. 
 
 As soon as Annot had got her wish, and had heard Jacques 
 received as her betrothed husband, she also was wonderfully 
 dutiful and affectionate. She declared that she didn't want to be 
 inarricd till the \/ars were nearly over, and the country was a I 
 little more quiet ; that she would pever go away and leave her 
 father altogether, and that if ever she did go and live at 
 Duibclli^re, she would certainly make an agreement with her 
 
174 
 
 La VemUe. 
 
 master and mistress that she should be allowed to walk over to 
 eat her dinner with her father every Sunday, i 
 
 As soon as the smith found himself completely conquered, he 
 resigned himself to his fate, and became exceedingly happy and 
 good-humoured. He shook Chapeau's hand fifty times, till he 
 had nearly squeezed it off. He sent to the inn for two bottles of 
 the very best wine that was to be had ; he made Annot prepare 
 a second supper, and that not of simple bread and cheese, but 
 of poached eggs and fried bacon, and then he did all that he 
 possibly could to make Chapeau tipsy, and in the attempt he 
 got very drunk himself, and so the day ended happily for 
 them alL 
 

 ^•:V 
 
 CHAPTER XiV. 
 
 THE HOSPITAL OF ST. LAURENT. 
 
 ;;^E LESCURE only remained three clays at DurbelIi^ile 
 and then started again for his own house at Clisson, 
 aad Henri accompanied him. They had both been 
 occupied during these three days in making such ac- 
 commodation as was in their power for the sick and wounded, 
 who were brought back into the Bocage in considerable numbers 
 from Saumur. The safe and sound and whole of limb travelled 
 faster than those who had lost arms and legs in the trenches at 
 Varin, or who had received cuts aad slashes and broken ribs at 
 the bridge of Fouchard, and therefore the good news was first 
 received in the Bocage ; but those miserable accompaniments of 
 victory, low tumbrils, laden with groaning sufferers lying on 
 stray/, slowly moving carts, every motion of which opened anew 
 the wounds of their wretched occupants, and every species of 
 vehicle as could be collected through the country, crammed with 
 the wounded and the dying, and some even with the dead, were 
 not long in following the triumphal return of the victorious 
 peasants. 
 
 A kind of hospital was immediately opened at a little town 
 called St. Laurent sur Si:vrc, about two leagues from Durbclli6re, 
 at which a convent of sisters of mercy had long been established. 
 De Lescure and Larochejaquelin between them supplied the 
 means, and the sisters of the establishment cheerfully gave their 
 time, their skill, and tenderest attention to assuage the miseries 
 of their suffering countrymen. Agatha knew the superior of the 
 convent well, and assisted in all the necessary preparations. 
 She was there when the hospital was first opened, and for a 
 long time afterwards visited it once or twice a week, on which 
 occasions she stayed for the night in the convent ; had it not 
 been that she could not brinj herself to leave her father, she 
 
l;6 La VenifJe, 
 
 would have remained there altogether, as long as the war 
 continued to supply the little wards with suffering patients. 
 They were seldom, or rather never, empty ; as long as the 
 Vendeans kept their position in the country, the sick and the 
 wounded were nursed with the tenderest care at St. Laurent* 
 The sisters who had commenced the task never remitted their 
 le.il, nor did Agatha Larochejaquelin. The wards were by 
 degrees increased in number, the building was enlarged, surgical 
 skill was procured, every necessary for a hospital was obtained, 
 whatever might be the cost, and whatever the risk ; till at last, 
 in spite of the difficulties which had to be encountered, the 
 dangers which svirrQuadcd them, the slenderness of their means, 
 and the always increasing number of their patients, the hospital 
 of St. Laurent might have rivalled the cleanliness, care, and 
 comfort of the Hotel Dieu in its present perfection. 
 
 As soon as the first arrangements for the commencement of 
 this hospital had been made, De Lescure and Henri went to 
 Clisson. It may easily be supposed that Ue Lescure was anxious 
 to sec his wife, and that she was more than anxious to see him. 
 Henri also was not sorry to hear the praises of his valour sung 
 by the sweet lips of Marie. He stayed one short happy week at 
 Clisson, basking in the smiles of beauty, and they were the last 
 hours of tranquillity that any of the party were destined to enjoy 
 for many a long sad day. Dc Lescure's recovery was neither 
 slow nor painful, and before the week was over, he was able to 
 sit out on the lawn before the chilteau, with one arm in a sling, 
 and the other round his wife's waist, watching the setting of 
 the sun, and listening to the thrushes and nightingales. Every 
 now and again he would talk of the future battles to be fought, 
 and of the enemies to be conquered, and of the dangers to be 
 encountered ; but he did not speak so sadly of the prospects of 
 his party as he did when he had only just determined to take up 
 arms with the Vendeans. The taking of Thouars and Fontenay, 
 of Montreuil and Saumur, had inspirited even him, and almost 
 taught him to bclive that La Vcndde would be ultimately 
 successful in re-establishing the throne. ' 
 
 De Lescure was delighted to sec what he thought was a 
 growing attachment between his sister and his friend. Had he 
 had the power of choosing a husband for Marie out of all 
 France, he would have chosen Henri Larochejaquelin : ho 
 loved him already as he could only love a brother, .ind he 
 knew that he had all those qualities whith would most tend to 
 make a woman happy. 
 
 "Oh, if these wars were but over," said he to his wife, **how 
 I would rejoice to give her to him, he is such a brave and 
 gallant fellow— but as tender-hearted and kind as he is brave ! " 
 
 "These weary, weary wars !" said Madame de Lescure, with 
 
The Ilospitiil 0/ Si, La rait, 177 
 
 a sigh, "would they were over : woifkl, with all my heart, they 
 had never been begun. How well docs the devil do his work 
 on earth, when he is able to drive the purest, the most high- 
 minded, the best of God's creatures to war and bloodshed as the 
 only means of securing to themselves the liberty of worshipping 
 their Saviour and honouring their King ! " 
 
 Henri himself, however, had not considered the propriety of 
 waiting until the wars were over before he took a wife for hiui- 
 self, or at any rate before he asked the consent of the lady's 
 friends : for the day before he left Clisson, he deteruiined to 
 speak to Charles on the subject ; though he had long known 
 Marie so well, and had now been staying a week in the house, 
 he had never yet told her that he loved her. It was the custom 
 of the age and the country for a lover first to consult the friends 
 of the young lady, and though the peculiar circumstances of hia 
 position might have emboldened Henri to dispense with such a 
 practice, he was the last man in the world to take advantage of 
 his situation. 
 
 *' Charles," said he, the evening before his departure, as he 
 stood close to the garden seat on which his cousin was sitting, 
 and amused himself with pitching stones into the river, which 
 ran beneath the lawn at Clisson. " Charles, I shall be off to- 
 morrow ; 1 almost envy you the broken arm which keeps you 
 here." 
 
 " It won't keep me long now, Henri," said he ; ** I shall be 
 at Chdtillon in a week's time, unless you and D'Elb^e have 
 moved to Parthenay before that. Cathelineau will by that time 
 be master of Nantes, that is, if he is ever to be master of it." 
 . *• Don't doubt it, Charles. I do not the least : think of all 
 Charette's army. I would wager my sword to a case-dagger, 
 that Nantes is in his hands this minute." 
 
 " We cannot always have the luck wc had at Saumur, 
 Henri?" 
 
 " No," said Henri, " nor can we always have a De Lescure 
 to knock down for us the gates of the republicans." 
 
 ** Nor yet a Larochejaquelin to force his way through the 
 breach," said the other. 
 
 ♦* Now we are even," said Henri, laughing ; "but really, with- 
 out joking, I feel confident that the white flag is floating at this 
 moment on the castle at Nantes ; but it is not of that, Charles 
 that I wish to speak now. You have always been an elder 
 brother to me. We have always been like brothers, have we 
 not?" 
 
 ** Thank God, we have, Henri I and I do not ihink it likely 
 that wc shall ever be more distant to each other." 
 
 " No, that I'm sure we never shall. You are too good either 
 to quarrel yourself, or to let me quarrel with you ; but though 
 
178 La VendJe. 
 
 we never can be more distant, we may yet be more near to each 
 other. You know what I mean, Charles ?" 
 
 "I believe I do," said De Lescure ; "but why do you not 
 speak out ? You are not likely, I think, to say or to propose 
 anything that we shall not approve of — that Is, Victorine and 
 I." 
 
 " God bless you both ! " said Henri. "You are too kind to 
 me ; but can you consent to give me your own dear favourite 
 sister — your sweet Marie ? You know what I mean in saying 
 that I would be nearer to you." 
 
 De Lescure was in the act of answering his cousin, when the 
 quick fall of a horse's foot was heard in the avenue close to the 
 house, and then there was a sudden pause as the brute was 
 pulled up violently in the yard of the chdteau, and the eager 
 voices of domestics answering the rapid questions of the man 
 who had alighted. 
 
 Interested as the two friends were in their conversation, the 
 times were loo full of important matters to allow of their 
 remaining quiet, after having heard such tokens of a hurried 
 messenger. Larochejaquelin ran off to the yard of the chdteau, 
 and De Lescure followed him as quickly as his wounded arm 
 would allow. 
 
 Henri had hardly got off the lawn, when he met a couple of 
 servants coming from the yard, and between them a man booted, 
 spurred, and armed, covered with dust and spattered with foam, 
 whom he at once recognised as Foret, the friend and townsman 
 of Cathelincau. 
 
 "What news, Forct, what hews?" said Henri, rushing up to 
 him, and seizing him by the hand. " Pray God you bring with 
 you good tidings." 
 
 " The worst news that ever weighed heavy on a poor man's 
 tongue, M. Henri," said Foret, sorrowfully. 
 
 " Cathelineau is not dead?" said Henri, but the tone of his 
 inquiry showed plainly how much he feared what the reply would 
 be. 
 
 " He was not dead," answered Foret, "when 1 left him five 
 leagues on this side Nantes, but he had not many days to live." 
 
 The two had turned back over the lawn, and now met Do 
 Lescure, as he hastened to join them. 
 
 ^' Cathelineau," said Henri, " is mortally wounded ! Victory 
 will have been bought too dear at such a price ; but I know not 
 yet even whether the Vendeans have been victorious." 
 
 " They have not— they have not," said Foret. " How could 
 they be victorious when their great General had fallen ? " 
 
 " Mortally wounded ! Oh, Foret, you are indeed a messenger 
 of evil," said De Lescure, giving him his hand. 
 
 " Yes, mortally wounded," said Foret, " I fear before thii 
 
The Hospital of St. Laurent, 179 
 
 he may have ceased to breathe. IMcft him, gentlemen, a few 
 leagues this side Nantes, and at his own recjuest hurried on to 
 tell you these sad tidings. Oh, M. dc Lescure, our cause has 
 had a heavy blow at Nantes, and yet at one time we had almost 
 beaten them ; but when the peasants saw Cathelincuu tall, th^^v 
 would fi^^ht no longer." 
 
 "Where is he?" said Henri, "that is if he still lives.'* 
 " I crossed the river wiih him," answered Foret, "and brought 
 him on as far as Remouille. He wished to be carried to the 
 hospital you have opened at St. Laurent, and unless he has died 
 since 1 loft him, he is there now. I hurried on by Mortacui 
 and Tiffauges to St. Laurent ; and there, M. Henri, I sa.v 
 Mademoiselle Agatha, and told her what had happened. !f'> 
 there be an angel upon earth she is one ! When I told her that ; 
 the good Cathelineau was dying, every shade of colour le.'"t her, ) 
 beautiful cheek ; she became as pale as marble, and crossed hcr\ \ 
 liands upon her bosom ; she spoke to mo not a word, nor did lu 
 look for reply, for I knew that in her heart she was praying that H 
 [his soul might be taken up to heaven." 
 
 ^ Henri at that moment remembered the enthusiastic declara- 
 tion of his sister, that Cathelineau, despite his birth, was worthy 
 of any woman's love, and he did not begrudge her the only 
 means which now remained to her of proving her devotion, to 
 the character she had admired. 
 
 "I told her," continued Foret, "that if he lived so long, 
 Cathelineau would reach the hospital on the following day, and 
 then I hurried on to you. She told me I should find you here. 
 It was then dark, but I reached Chatillon that night, for they 
 sent a guide with me from St. Laurent. I left Chatillon again 
 at tie break of day, and have not lost much time in arriving 
 here." 
 
 " No, indeed, Foret ; and surely you must need rest and 
 refreshment," said De Lescure. *' Come into the cliateau, and 
 you shall have both." 
 
 " liut tell us, Foret, of this reverse at Nantes," said Henri. 
 "I will at once start for St. Laurent; I will, if possible, see 
 Cathelineau before he dies ; but let mc know before I go to 
 him how it has come to pass that victory has at last escaped 
 him." 
 
 " Victory did not escape him," said Foret : " he was victoricus 
 to the last—victorious till he fell. You know, gentlemen, it had 
 been arranged that Nantes should be attacked at the sam^ 
 moment by Charette from the southern banks of the Loire, and 
 by Catlielineau from the northern, but this wc were not able to 
 accomplish. Charette was at his post, and entered the town 
 gallantly over the Pont Rousseau, but we were unable to be 
 there at the appointed time. For ten hours m'c wer? detained 
 
i8o La VcmhU. 
 
 by a detachment of the blues at the little town of Nort, anj 
 though we carried it at last, without losing many of our men, 
 the loss of the precious hours was very grievous. We pushed 
 on to Nantes, however, without losing another minute, and 
 though we found the rebels ready to receive us, they could not 
 hold tlicir ground against us at all. We drove them from the 
 town in every direction. We were already in the chief square 
 of Nantes, assured of our victory, and loading our men to one 
 last attack, when a musket ball struck Cathelineau on the arm, 
 and passing through the flesh entered his breast. He was on 
 foot, in front of the brave peasants whom he was leading, and 
 tliey all saw him fall. Oh, M. de Lescurc, if you had heard the 
 groan, the long wail of grief, which his poor followers from St. 
 Florent uttered, when they saw their sainted leader fall before 
 them, your ears would never forget the sound. We raised him 
 up between us, and carried him back to a part of the town whicli 
 was in our hands, and from thence over the Pont Rousseau to 
 Pirmil, where I left him for a while, and returned to the town, 
 but I could not get the peasants to follow me again— that is, his 
 peasants ; and he was too weak to speak to them himself. It was 
 not till two hours after that he was able to speak a word." 
 
 "And you lost all the advantage you had gained?" asked De 
 Lescure. 
 
 "We might still have been successful, fof the blues would 
 always rather run than fight when they have the choice, but the 
 Prince de Talmont, in his eagerness, headed the fugitive rebels 
 who were making for Savenay, and drove them back into the 
 town ; when there, they had no choice but to fight ; indeed, 
 their numbers were so much greater than our own, that they 
 surrounded us, Our hearts were nearly broken, and our arms 
 were weak ; it ended in our retreating to Pirmil, and leaving the 
 town in the hands of the republicans." 
 
 " How truly spoke that General who said, 'build a bridge o! 
 gold for a flying enemy ! '" said De Lescure. 
 
 "And is Cathclincau's wound so surely mortal?" nsked 
 Henri. 
 
 "The surgeon who examined him in Pirmil said so ; indeed, 
 Cathelineau never ^oubted it himself. He told me, as soon as 
 he could speak, that he should never live to see the Republic at 
 an end. 'But,' added he, 'you, Forct, and others will j and it 
 delights me to think that I have given my life to bo good a 
 cause."* 
 
 Henri's horse was now ready, and he made no longer delay 
 than to say adieu to his hostess, and to speak one or two last 
 words to his Cousin Marie, and then he made the best of his 
 way to Chatillon and St. Laurent, hoping once more to sec 
 Cathelineau before he died. All his spurring and his hurrying 
 
The Hospital of St, Laurent, i S i 
 
 was in vain. A few hours before Henri could reach the hospital, 
 the Saint of Anjou had breathed his last, and Agatha Laroche- 
 jaquelin had soothed his dyinj; moments. 
 
 As Foret had related, Agatha, on hearing of Cathelineau's 
 wound, had turned deadly pale. It was not love that made her 
 feel that the world was darkened by his fall ; tliat from hence- 
 forward nothing to her could be bright and cheerful ; at least 
 not such love as that which usually warms a woman's heart, for 
 Agatha had never hoped, or even wished to be more to Cathe« 
 lineau than an admiring friend ; nor yet was it grief for the loss 
 of services which she knew were invaluable to the cause she had 
 so warmly espoused. These two feelings were blended together 
 in her breast. She had taught herself to look to Cathclineau .is 
 the future saviour of her country ; she loved his virtue, his 
 patriotism, and his valour ; and her heart was capable of no 
 other love while that existed in it so strongly. The idea of 
 looking on Cathelineau as a lover, of seeing him kneeling at her 
 feet, or listening to him while he whispered sweet praises of her 
 beauty, had never occurred to her ; had she dreamed it possible 
 that he could do so, half her admiration of him would have 
 vanished. No, there was nothing earthly, nothing mundane in 
 Agatha's love, for though she did love the fallen hero of La 
 Vendee, the patriot postillion of St. Florent, she did not shed a 
 tear when she heard that he was dragging his wounded body to 
 St. Laurent, that he might have the comfort of her tender care 
 in his last moments ; her hand did not shake as she wrote 
 a line to her father to say that she could not leave the hospital 
 that evening, or probably the next ; nor did she for one half 
 hour neglect the duties which her less distinguished patients 
 required her to perform ; but still she felt her heart was cold 
 within her, and that if God had so willed it, she could, without 
 regret, take her place in the grave beside the stricken idol of 
 her admiration, who had fallen at Nantes while fighting for his 
 fiod and his King. 
 
 Karly on the morning after Forct's departure for Clisson, the 
 litter which bore the wounded chief reached the hospital, and 
 Agatha's ami assisted him from the door-step to the death- bed, 
 which she had prepared for him. Agatha's feelings towards him 
 have been imperfectly described ; but what were his feelings 
 towards her? What was the nature of the mysterious love, 
 which no kind words had ever encouraged, which no look had 
 ever declared, which he had hardly dared to acknowledge to his 
 own heart, and which had yet induced the wounded man to 
 make so painful a journey, to travel over twenty long, long 
 leagues, that he might once more see the glorious face which 
 had filled his breast with such an unutterable passion ? Not for a 
 moment had he ever dreamt that Agatha regarded him difTcrentlj 
 
iSa La Veiid/et 
 
 than »hc did llic many others who had taken up nrms In the 
 service of their country. His name he knew must be familiar 
 to her cars, for chance had made it prominent in the stnijjgle ; 
 but beyond that, it had never occurred to his humble mind that 
 Agatha Larochejaquelin had given one thought to the postillion 
 of St. Florent. For some time, Cathclincau had been unable to 
 define to himself the passion which he felt, but had gradually 
 become aware that he loved Agatha passionately, incurably, and 
 hopelessly. Her ima^'e had been present to him continually ; it 
 l)ad been with him in the dead of night, and in the heat of day ; 
 in the hour of balllcj and at the council-table; in the agony ol 
 <lcfcat, and in the Inumph of victorv. When he found himself 
 Tilling in the s(iuarc at Nantes, and all visible objects scenu-d 
 to swim before his eyes, still he saw Agatha's beautiful pale 
 face, and then she seemed to smile kindly on him, and to bid 
 him hope. As soon as his senses returned to him, he was made 
 conscious that he was dying, and then he felt that he shouUl 
 die more happilv if he could sec once more the fair angel who 
 had illuminated, and yet troubk-d, the last fcwa daya of his 
 existence. 
 
 Calhelinean had heard that Agatha had taken tinder her own 
 kind care the hospital at St. Laurent, but he had not esnected that 
 she would be on the step to meet him as he was lifted out of his 
 litter ; but hers was the first face he saw on learning that his 
 painful journey was at an end. His wound had been pronounced 
 to be inevitably mortal, and he had been told that he might 
 possibly live U)V two or three days, but that in all probability liis 
 s;i(feringH wotild not be protrat.led so long. 'I'ho fatal bullet had 
 piHsed through his arm into liii breast, had perforated hin lungs, 
 and there, wiiljin the vitals of his body, the deadly missile wts 
 «till hidden. At some monients, his agony was extreme, but at 
 others, he was nearly free from pain ; and as his life grew nearer 
 to its clost, his intervals of ease became longer, and the periods 
 of his suffering were shortened. He had confessed, and 
 received absolution and the sacrament of his church at 
 Ucmouillo \ and when he reached .St. Laurent, nothing was 
 left for him but to die. 
 
 He tried to thank her, as A;.'atha assisted hln\ to the little 
 chamber which she had prepared for him ; but his own feelings, 
 and his exertions in moving, were at first too much for him. The 
 power of speech, however, soon returned to him, and he said : — 
 
 "How can I thank you, Maden>oiselle, what am I to say to 
 thank you for such care as this ?" 
 
 " You are not to thank us at all," said Ag.Mha, (there was one 
 of the sisters of mercy with her in the room). '* We ate only 
 doing what little women can do for the cause, for which yoJ 
 have done so much." 
 
The Hospital of St, Laurent, 1 83 
 
 Ajain he essayed to speak, but the sister stopped him with a 
 kind yet authoritative motion of her hand, and bade him rest 
 tranquil awhile, and so he did. Sometimes Agatha sat by the 
 window, and watched his bed, and at others, she stole quietly 
 out of the room to see her other patients, and then she would 
 return again, and take her place by the window ; and as long as 
 she remained in the room, so that he could look upon her faco, 
 Cathclineau felt that he was happy. 
 
 He had been at St. Laurent some few hours, and was aware 
 that his precious moments were fast ebbing. He hardly knew 
 what it was that he longed to say, but yet he felt that he could 
 not die in peace without expressing to the fair creature who sat 
 beside him the gratitude he felt for her tender care. Poor 
 Cathelineau ! he did not dream how difticult he would find it to 
 limit gratitude to its proper terms, when the heart from which 
 he spoke felt so much more than gratitude ! 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle !" he began, but she interrupted him. 
 
 *' Hush, hush, Cathelineau!" she said. "Did you not hear 
 sister Anna say that you should not speak." 
 
 "What avails it now for me to be silent ?" said he. " I know, 
 Mademoiselle, that I am dying, and, believe me, I do not fear 
 to die. Your kind care can make my last few hours tranquil 
 and easy, but it cannot much prolong them. Let me have the 
 pleasure of telling you that I appreciate your kindness, and that 
 I give you in return all that a dying man can give— my 
 prayers." 
 
 "And I will pray for you, Cathclineau," said Agatha. "But 
 will not evefy Vendean pray for the hero who first led them to 
 victory, who first raised his hand against the Republic?" 
 
 "How precious are the praises of such as you !" said he.. 
 " Pray for me and for your other poor countrymen wlio have* 
 fallen in this contest ; such prayers as yours will assuredly find 
 entrance into heaven." 
 
 He then again laid tranquil for a while, but his spirit was not 
 quiet within him ; he felt that there was that whicn""he longed 
 to say before he died, and that the only momentsj.rin'.which the 
 power of speaking would be left to him were fast'Jpassing from 
 him. 
 
 " Do not bid me be silent," he said ; " did 1 not know that no 
 earthly power could prolong my life, I would do nothing to 
 defeat the object of my kind nurses ; but as it is,'"a few 
 moments' speech are of value to me, but an extra hour or so of 
 torpid life can avail me nothing. Ah, Mademoiselle, though I 
 ctinnot but rejoice to see our cause assisted by the nobility and 
 excellence of the country, though I know that the angelic aio tt{ 
 such as thou art " 
 
 " Stop, stop," said Agatha, interruplinff him, i you M 
 
1 84 La VtHiUt^ 
 
 speak, at any rate do not flatter ; your last words arc too 
 precious to be wasted in such idleness. 
 
 " It does not seem to be flattery in me to pr&lsc you, 
 Mademoiselle ; Heaven knows that I do not wish to flatter ; but 
 my rude tongue knows not how to express what my heart feels. 
 1 would say, that valuable as is your aid to our poor peasants, 
 I almost regret to see you embarked in a cause which will bathe 
 the country in blood, and which, unless speedily victorious, will 
 bring death and desolation on the noble spirits who have given 
 to it all their energies and all their courage." 
 
 " Do you think so badly, Cathelineau, of the hopes of the 
 royalists t '* 
 
 "If we could make one great and glorious effort," said he, 
 and his eyes shone as brightly as ever while he spoke ; " if we 
 could concentrate all our forces, and fill them with the zeal 
 which, at different times, they all have shown, we might still 
 place the King upon his throne, and the white flag might still 
 wave for ages from our churches, as a monument to the courage 
 of La Vendde. But if, as I fear, the war become one of detached 
 efforts, despite the wisdom of de Lescure, the skill of Bon- 
 champs, the piety of D'Elbee, the gallant enthusiasm of Laroche- 
 jaquelin, and the devoted courage of them all, the Republic by 
 degrees will devour their armies, will consume their strength, 
 will desolate the country, and put to the sword even their wives 
 and children : neither high nobility, nor illustrious worth, nor 
 surpassing beauty will shield the inhabitants of this devoted 
 country from the brutality of the conquerors, who have abjured 
 1 religion, and proclaimed that blood alone can satisfy tlveir 
 ,' appetites." 
 
 "Surely God will not allow His enemies to prevail," said 
 Agatha. 
 
 "God's ways are inscrutable," answered Cathelineau, "and 
 His paths are not plain to mortal eyes ; but it is not the less our 
 duty to struggle on to do those things which appear to us to be 
 !i acceptable to Him. But should these sad days come, should 
 atheism and the love of blood stride without control through 
 our villages ; if it be doomed that our houses are to be burnt 
 and our women to be slaughtered, why should all remain to be 
 a prey to our enemies? Ah, Mademoiselle ! leave this devoted 
 country for a while, take your sweet cousin with you ; bid M. de 
 Lescure send away his young wife : it is enough that men 
 should have to fight with demons ; men can fight and die, and 
 suffer comparatively but little, but female beauty and female 
 worth will l3e made to suffer ten thousand deaths from the ruth- 
 less atrocities of republican foes." 
 
 Agatha shuddered at the picture which Cathelineau's words 
 conjurod up, but her undaunted courage was not shaken. 
 
The Hospital of St. Laurent. 1 3 ^ 
 
 "God will temper the wind to the 'shorn lamb," said she. 
 " Neither 1 nor Mane will leave our brothers, nor will Madame 
 de Lescure leave her husband ; it is little we can do to hasten 
 victor)', but we can lessen suffering and administer comfort 
 when comfort is most required. Had you, Cathelineau, loved 
 some woman above all others, and been loved by her ; had you 
 had with you in your struggle some dear sister, or perhaps still 
 dearer wife, would you have asked her to go from you, that you 
 might have battled on, and struggled, and at last have died 
 alone ? " 
 
 ** By God's dear love, I would," said he, raising himself, as 
 spoke, upon his bed. " My most earnest prayer to her should 
 have been to leave me." 
 
 " And when she refused to do so ; when she also swore by 
 God's dear love, that she would stay with you till the last; as 
 she would have done, Cathelineau, if she loved you as — as you 
 should have been loved ; would you then have refused the 
 comfort her love so longed to give you ?" 
 
 " I know not then what I would have done," said he, aftc) 
 lying with his eyes closed for a few moments without answering. 
 *' I have never known such love. Our women love thew 
 husbands and their brothers, but it is only angels love with 
 such a love as that." 
 
 " Such is the love a man deserves who gives his all for his 
 King and his country. If our husbands, and our brothers, and 
 our dear fiicnds, Cathelineau, are brave and noble, we will 
 endeavour to imitate them ; as long as there is an abiding- 
 place for thcin in the country, there are duties for us. If God 
 vouchsafed to spare you your life a while, that you migh^ live to 
 be the instrument of restoring His worship, do you think that I 
 would run from your bedside, because I heard that the rebels 
 were near you 1 Oh, Cathelineau ! you do not know the passive 
 courage of a woman's heart."' 7^ 
 
 Cathelineau listened to her with all his cars, and gazed on 
 her with all his eyes, as she spoke to him. It seemed to him 
 as though another world had opened to his view even before his 
 death ; as though paradise could give him no holi6r bliss than 
 to gaze on that face, and to listen to that voice. 
 
 " I never knew what a woman was till now," said he ; " and 
 how much better is it that I should die this moment, with your 
 image before me, than return to a world such as mine has been, 
 where all henceforward would be distasteful to me." 
 
 " Should you live, Cathelineau, you would live to be honoured 
 and valued. If it be God's pleasure that you should die, your 
 memory will be honoured— and loved," said Agatha. 
 
 He did not answer her for a while, but lay still, with his eyes 
 fixtd upon her, as she sat with her elbow leanin«i on th6 
 
i86 La Vendue. 
 
 window. Oh ! what an unspeakable joy it was to him to hear 
 »uch heavenly words spoken by her, whom he had almost 
 worshipped; and yet her presence and her words turned his 
 thoughts back from heaven to the earth which he had cill but 
 left. Could she really have loved him had it been his lot to 
 survive these wars ? Could she really have descended from her 
 high pinnacle of state and fortune to bless so lowly a creature 
 as him with her beauty and her excellence ? As these thoughts 
 passed through his brain, he began for the first time to long for 
 life, to think that the promised blessings of heaven hardly com- 
 
 Eensated for those which he was forced to leave on earth ; bi.t 
 is mind was under too strong control to be allowed to wander 
 long upon such reflections. He soon recovered his wayward 
 thoughts, and remembered that his one remaining earthly duty 
 was to die. 
 
 " It is God's will that I should die," said he at last, " and I 
 feel that He will soon release mc from nil worldly cares and 
 sufferings ; but you, Mademoiselle, have made the last momenta 
 of my life happy," and again he was silent for a minute or two, 
 while he strove to find both courage and words to express thai 
 which he wished to say. " How different have been the la.>: 
 few weeks of my existence since first I was allowed to look 
 upon your face ! " A faint blush suffused Agatha's brow as 
 Cathelineau spokCi " Yes, Mademoiselle," he continued, ** 1 
 know you will forgive, when coming from a dying man, words 
 which would have been insane had they been spoken at any 
 other time — my life has been wholly different since that 
 day when your brother led me, unwilling as 1 was, into 
 your presence at Durbelli^re. Since that time I have had no 
 other thought than of you ; it was you who gave me courage in 
 battle, and, more wonderful than that, enabled me to speas 
 aloud, and with authority among those who were all so infinitely 
 my superiors. It was your beauty that softened my rougli 
 heart, your spirit that made me dauntless, your influence th.:: 
 raised me up so high. I have not dared to love you as love ; > 
 usually described, for they say , that love without hope mako 
 the heart miserable, and my thoughts of you have made me moro 
 blessed than I ever was before, and yet I hoped for nothing : 
 but I have adored you as I hardly dared to adore anything thai 
 ^vas only human. I hardly know why I should have had mv - 
 *elf carried hither to tell you this, but I felt that I should d\: 
 more easily, when 1 had confessed to you the liberty which ni} 
 thoughts had taken with your image." 
 
 As he continued speaking, Agatha had risen from her sea'. 
 and she was now kneeling at the foot of his bed, hiding her fac. 
 between her hands, and the tears were streaming fast down h-.i 
 cheeks. 
 
The Hospital of St, Laurent, 187 
 
 " Tell mc, Mademoiselle, that you forgive me," said ho, " t<jP 
 me that you pardon my love, and above all, pardon nje ict 
 speaking of it. I have now but a few hours' breath, and in 
 them I feci that I shall be but feeble ; but tell mc that you for- 
 give mc, and, though dying, I shall be happy." 
 
 Agatha was too agitated to speak for a lime, but she stretched 
 her hand out to him, and he grasped it in his own as forcibly as 
 his strength would allow. 
 
 " I know that you have pardoned my boldness," said he, 
 ♦'May God bless you, and protect you in the dangers which are 
 coming." 
 
 •* May He bless you also, Cathelineau — dear Cathclineau," 
 said Agatlui, still sobliing. *' May lie bless you, and receive 
 you into His glory, and seat you among His angels, and make 
 you blessed and happy in His presence for ever and ever 
 through eternity." And she drew herself nearer to him, and^ 
 kissed the hand which she still held within her own, and bathed 
 it with her tears, and pressed it again and again to her bosom, 
 *' The memory of the words you have spoken to me shall be 
 dearer to me than the love of man, shall be more precious to/ 
 me than any homagc'a living prince could lay at my feet— to 
 remember that Cathelineau has loved me — that the sainted ■ / 
 Cathclineau has held my image in his heart, shall be love l/ 
 enougli for Agaiha Larochejaquciin." ^ 
 
 Cathclineau lingered on for the whole of that day, and th^ 
 greater portion of the night. Agatha did not leave his bedside 
 for a moment, but sat during most of the time still holding his 
 hand in hers. He spoke no further respecting the singular^ 
 passion lie had nursed in his heart, nor did she allude to it \\ 
 but when he spoke at all, he* felt that he was speaking to a 
 dear, and tried, and valued friend, and he spoke, therefore,' 
 without hesitation and without reserve. He desired her to give' 
 various messages from him to the Vendean chiefs, but especially 
 to Dc Lescurc, to whom he said he looked with most hope for a 
 successful issue to the struggle. He begged that they might be / 
 lold that his last breath was spent in advising that they should / 
 make one great, combined, and linal effort for the total over- / 
 threw of republicanism in France, and not fritter away their ( 
 strength in prolonged contests with an enemy so infinitely y 
 their superior in numbers. Agatha promised faithfully to be ap^ 
 true messenger of these last injunctions, and then she saw the]/!- 
 Vendean chief expire in perfect tranquillity, happy in an assured M 
 hope of everlasting joy. ^ M 
 
 He died about three in the morning, and before five, Henri 
 Larochejaquciin arrived at St. Laurent from Clisson. He had 
 ridden hard through the previous day and the entire night, with 
 thQ hope of once mor^ seeing the leader whom he had followed 
 
188 
 
 I A Vtnd^ti 
 
 with so much devotion, and valued so truly i but he was too 
 late. 
 
 He caught his sister in his arms as he tan up the hospital 
 stairs. " Where is he ?» said he j " is he sliU alive ? Is there 
 any hope ? " 
 
 " There is no hope for us," answered Agatha ; " but there Is 
 perfect certainty for him. The good Cathelineau has restored 
 his spirit to Him who gave it to avenee His glory." 
 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 COMMISSIONERS OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 -IE taking Saumur frightened the Convention much 
 more than any of the previous victories of the 
 Vendeans. The repubUcans lost a vast quantity of 
 mihtary stores, arms, gunpowder, cannons, and 
 soldiers' clothing ; and, which was much worse than the loss 
 itself, these treasures had fallen into the hands of an enemy 
 whose chief weakness consisted in the want of such articles. 
 The royalists, since the beginning of the revolt, had always 
 shown courage and determination in action ; but they had 
 never before been collected in such numbers, or combated with 
 forces so fully prepared for resistance, as those whom they had 
 so signally conquered at Saumur. The Convention began to 
 be aware that some strong effort would be necessary to quell 
 the spirit of the Vendeans. France at the time was surrounded 
 by hostile troops. At the moment in which the republicans 
 were flying from the royalists at Saumur, the soldiers of the 
 Convention were marching out of Valenciennes, that fortified 
 city having been taken by the united arms of Austria and 
 England. Condd also had fallen, and on the Rhine, the 
 French troops who had occupied Mayence with so much 
 triumph, were again on the pomt of being driven from it by 
 the Prussians, 
 
 The Committee of Public Safety, then the repository of the 
 supremo power in Paris, was aware that unless the loyalty of 
 La Vendde was utterly exterminated, the royalists of that district 
 would sooner or later join themselves to the allies, and become 
 the nucleus of an overpowering aristocratic party in France. 
 There were at the time thousands, and tens and hundreds of 
 thousands in France who would gladly have welcomed the 
 extinction of the fearful Republic which domineered over them. 
 
190 l^ Viudie. "*' 
 
 Bad riot every man feared to express his opinion. The Republic 
 had declared, that opposition to its behests, in deed, or in word, 
 or even in thought, as far as thoughts could be surmised, should 
 be punished with death ; and by adhering to the purport of this 
 horrid decree, the voice of a nation returning to its senses was 
 subdued. Men feared to rise against the incubus which 
 oppressed them, lest others more cowardly than themselves 
 should not join them ; and the Committee of Public Safety felt 
 that their prolonged existence depended on their being able to 
 perpetuate this fear. It determined, therefore, to strike terror 
 into the nation by exhibiting a fearful example in La Vendue. 
 After full consideration, the Committee absolutely resolved to 
 \ exterminate the inhabitants of the country— utterly to destroy 
 1 them all, men, women, and children— to burn every town, every 
 1 village, and every house — to put an end to all life in the doomed 
 district, and to sweep from the face of the country man, beast, 
 I and vegetable. The land was to be left without proprietors, 
 -J without a population, and without produce ; it was to be con- 
 verted into a huge Golgotha, a burial-place for everything that 
 had life within it ; and then, when utterly purged bv fire and 
 massacre, it was to be given up to new colonists, good children 
 of the Republic, who should enjoy the fertility of a land soaked 
 with the blood of its former inhabitants. Such was the deliberate 
 resolution of the Committee of Public Safety, and no time was 
 lost in commencing the work of destruction. 
 
 Barr^rejjOnc of the members of the Committee, undertook to 
 see the work put in a proper train, and for this purpose he left 
 Paris for the scene of action. Wcsterman and Santerre accom- 
 panied him, and to them was committed the task of accomplisli* 
 ing the wishes of the Committee. There was already a republican 
 army in La Vendue, under the command of General Biron, but 
 the troops of which it was composed were chiefly raw levies, 
 recruits lately collected by the conscription, without discipline, 
 and, in a great degree, without courage ; but the men who were 
 now brought to carry on the war were the best soldiers whom 
 France could supply. Westerman brought with him a legion of 
 German mercenaries, on whom he could rely for the perpetration 
 of any atrocity, and Santerre was at the head of the seven 
 thousand men whom the allied army had permitted to march 
 o\'t of Valenciennes, and to return to Paris. 
 
 It was in the beginning of July that this worthy triumvirate 
 met at Angers, on their road to La Vendde. Cathelineau had 
 driven the republican garrison OHt of this town immediately 
 after the victory at Saumur, but the royalists made no attempt 
 to keep possession of it, and the troops who had evacuated it at 
 their approach, returned to it almost immediately. It was now 
 thronged with republican soldiers of all denomii»«».tions, who 
 
Commissioners of the Republic, 19 X 
 
 exercised cvcr>' species of tyranny over the townspeople. Food, 
 drink, forage, clothes, and even luxuries were demanded and 
 taken, in the name of the Convention, from every shop, and the 
 slightest resistance to these requisitions was punished as treasoa 
 to the Republic. The Vendeans, in possession of the same town 
 only a fortnight before, had injured no one, had taken nothing 
 without paying for it, and had done everything to prevent the 
 presence of their army being felt as a curse ; and yet Angers 
 was a noted republican town ; it had shown no favours to the 
 royalists, and received with open arms the messengers of the 
 Convention. Such was the way in which the republicans re- 
 warded their friends, and the royalists avenged themselves on 
 their enemies. 
 
 One hot July evening, hvc men were seated in a parlour oftthe 
 mayor's house in Angers, but the poor mayor himself was not 
 allowed, nor probably did he wish, to be one of the party, 
 Glasses were on the table before them, and the empty bottles, 
 which were there also, showed that however important the sub- 
 jects might be which they were discussing, they still considered 
 that some degree of self-indulgence was compatible with their 
 duties. The air of the room was heavy with tobacco smoke, 
 and one or two of the number still had cigars between their lips. 
 They were all armed, though two of them were not in uniform, 
 and the manner in which they had their arms disposed, showed 
 that they did not quite conceive themselves to be in security in 
 these their convivial moments. The men were Barr^re, Wester- 
 man, and Santerrc, and two of the republican generals, Chouardin 
 and Bourbotte. 
 
 Wcsterman and the two latter were in uniform, and the fact 
 of' their htiving arms was only in keeping with their general 
 appearance : but the other two were in plain clothes, and their 
 pistols, which were lying among the glasses on the table, and 
 the huge swords which stood upright against their chairs, gave 
 a hideous aspect to the party, and made them look as though 
 they were suspicious of each other. 
 
 Barr6re alone had no sword. His hand was constantly play- 
 ing with a little double-barrelled pistol, which he continually 
 cocked and uncocked, the fellow of which lay immediately befor'a 
 him. He was a tall, well built, handsome man, about thirty 
 years of age, with straight black hair, brushed upright from his 
 forehead ; his countenance gave the idea of eagerness and im- 
 petuosity, rather than cruelty or brutality. He was, however, 
 essentially e§:otistical and insincere ; he was republican, not 
 from conviction, but from prudential motives ; he adhered to 
 the throne a while, and deserted it only when he saw that it was 
 totterinpj } for a time he belonged to the moderate party in the 
 R«pubhC| and voted with the Girondists } he gmdually Joined 
 
191 La Vettdh» 
 
 Hjc Jacobins, as he saw that they were triumphing over their 
 rivals, and afterwards was one of those who handed over the 
 leaders of the Reign of Terror to the guillotine, and assisted in 
 denouncing Robespierre and St. Just. He was one of the very 
 few who managed to outlive the Revolution, which he did for 
 nearly half a century. 
 
 His face was hardly to be termed prepossessing, but it certainly 
 did not denote the ruthless ferocity which the nature of the task 
 he had undertaken would require, and which he exercised in its 
 accomplishment. Nature had not formed him to be a monster 
 gloating in blood ; the Republic had altered the disposition 
 which nature had given him, and he learnt among those with 
 whom he had associated, to delight in the work which they 
 required at his hands. Before the Reign of Terror was over, 
 he had become one of those who most loudly called for more 
 blood, while blood was running in torrents on every side ; it was 
 he who demanded the murder of the Queen, when even 
 Robespierre was willing to save her. It was he who declared 
 in the Convention that the dead were the only enemies who 
 never returned ; and yet this same man lived to publish a 
 pamphlet, in which he advocated the doctrine that under no 
 circumstances could one human being be justified in taking the 
 life of another. 
 
 He was dressed in a blue dress-coat, which in spite of the 
 heat of the weather, was buttoned close round his body ; he was 
 rather a dandy in his costume, for his tightly-fitted breeches 
 were made to show the form of his well-formed leg, and his 
 cravat was without a wrinkle. Before the Revolution, Barr6re 
 had been a wealthy aristocrat. 
 
 Santcrre, who sat next to him, was In every respect unlike the 
 r/V^T '<?;;/ nobleman. He was a large, rough, burly man, about 
 forty years of age ; his brown hair was long and uncombed, his 
 face was coarse and hot, and the perspiration was even now 
 running down it, though drinkmg and smoking was at present 
 his hardest work ; his lips were thick and sensual, and his face 
 was surrounded by huge whiskers, which made him look uncouth 
 and savage ; his cravat was thrown off, and his shirt was open 
 at the neck, so as to show his brown throat and brawny chest ; 
 a huge horse pistol lay before him close to his glass, and a still 
 hugcr sword stood up against his chair. He was drinking hard 
 and talking loudly, and was evidently quite at ease with his 
 company ; he was as completely at home in the mayor's 
 parlour at Angers, as when rushing into the Tuilleries at the 
 head of his fellow citizens from the Faubourg St. Antoine. 
 
 Santcrre was of Flemish descent, and by trade a brewer. He 
 Was possessed of considerable wealth, which he freely spent 
 among the poor, while famine pressed sore upon them ; he was 
 
 V 
 
Commissioner^ of the Republic, igj 
 
 consequently loved, followed, and obeyed. He was the king of 
 the faubourr;s ; and though the most ruthless in his animosity 
 to the rosalists, he was not altogether a bad man, neither was 
 he by nature absolutely cruel. He had adopted the Revolution i 
 from a belief that the great mass of the people would be better | 
 off in the world without kings, nobility, or aristocrats ; and 
 having made himself firm in this belief, he used to the utmost 
 his coarse, huge, burly power in upsetting these encumbrances 
 on *hc nation. His love of liberty had become a fanaticism. He 
 had gone with the current, and he had no fine feelings to be 
 distressed at the horrid work which he had to do, no humanity 
 to be shocked ; but he was not one of those who delighted in 
 bloodshed and revelled in the tortures which he inflicted on 
 others. He had been low in the world's esteem, and the 
 Revolution had raised him to a degree of eminence ; this 
 gratified his ambition, and made him a ready tool in the 
 hands of those who knew how to use his well-known popu- 
 larity, his wealth, his coarse courage and great physical 
 powers. 
 
 Wcstcmian sat at the window a little away from the others, 
 He was a man of indomitable courage and undying perscvcr« 
 uncc. He was a German, who had been banished from Prussia, 
 and having entered the French army as a private soldier had 
 gradually risen to be an ofticer. A short time before the storm- 
 ing of the Tuilleries he had foreseen that the democratic party 
 was prevailing, and he had joined it. Danton and Santerre had 
 discovered and appreciated his courage and energy, and he 
 soon found himself a leader of the people. It was he who 
 directed the movements of th* populace on the loth of August, 
 when the Tuilleries was sacVed, and the Swiss guards were 
 massacred on the steps of the King's palac Since that time 
 Westerman had been a successful soldier in the republican army, 
 not that he was by any means a vehement democrat : his object 
 had been military success, and that only. He had neither 
 political theories or political ambition. Chance had thrown him 
 in^hc way of the Republic, and he had become a republican. 
 He was then attached to the army of Dumourier as aide-de- 
 camp to that General, and was in the confidence of him and of 
 Danton, at the moment that Dumourier was endeavouring to 
 hand over the armies of the Repub ic to the power of Prussia 
 and of Austria. He again, however, was wise in time. 
 Dumourier calculated too entirely on the affection of the army 
 to himself, and failed ; but before he failed, Westerman had left 
 ,him. He was now again a trustworthy servant of the Republic, 
 and as such was sent to assist in the fearful work which the 
 tyranny of the democrats required. 
 
 His unnatural rulhlcssncss and prompt obedience were of no 
 
194 -^rt Vendie. 
 
 avail to him. Soon after his return from the western provinces 
 he perished under the guillotine. 
 
 " And so the good Cathelineau is dead/* said Santerre. " The 
 invincible, the invulnerable, the saint I ha, ha ! What sweet 
 names these dear friends of ours have given themselves." 
 
 •* Yes," said General Bourbotte ; " the messenger who told 
 me had come direct from their hospital ; Cathelineau breathed 
 his last the day before yestcrd.iy at St. Laurent.'* 
 
 " Let U5. drink to his health, gentlemen ; his spiritual health," 
 said Santerre; "and to his safe journey;" and the brewer 
 raised Kis glass to his lips, and drank the toast which he had 
 proposed. 
 
 ^^ Bon voyage^ my dear Cathelineau," said Bourbotte, following 
 hisii\;implo. 
 
 •' Cathelineau was a brave man," said Chouardin. " I am 
 glad he died of his wounds ; I should have been sorry that so 
 gallant a fellow should have had to submit his neck to the sharp 
 embraces of Mademoiselle Guillotine." 
 
 " That is hardly a patriotic sentiment, citizen General," said 
 Barrtirc. " Gallantry on the part of an insurgent royalist is an 
 inspiration of the devil, sent to induce man to perpetuate the 
 degradation and misery of his feilow-mcn. Such gallantry, or 
 rather such frenzy, should give rise to anything but admiration 
 in the breast of a patriot." 
 
 " My t'ldelity to the Republic will not be doubted, I believe,'* 
 said Chouardin, " because, as a soldier, I admire high courage 
 when I tind it in a soldier." 
 
 "If your fidelity be unimpeachable, your utility will be much 
 questioned, if you wish to spare a royalist because he is a brave 
 man," said Barrtjre. " By the same argument, I presume, you 
 would refrain from knocking an adder on the head, because he 
 rose boldly in your path." 
 
 "Who talked of sparing?" said Chouardin. "I only sail 
 that I would sooner that a brave enemy should die in battle 
 than be handled by an executioner. Talk as you will, you can- 
 not disgrace such a man as Cathelineau." 
 
 " Cannot I, indeed, citizen General.^" said Westerman, rising 
 from his seat and coming into i;he middle of the room. " I do 
 then utterly despise, scorn, and abominate him, and all such as 
 him. I can conceive nothing in human form more deplorably 
 low, more pitiably degraded, than such a poor subservient slavji 
 as he was." 
 
 " There, Westerman, you are grossly wrong," said Santerfe. 
 **Your cowardly Marquis, running from the throne which he 
 pretends to reverence, but does not dare to protect ; whose 
 grand robes and courtly language alone have made him great ; 
 who has not heart enough. cv( n to>.love the gay puppets who 
 
Commissioners of the Republic^ 195' 
 
 have always surrounded him, or coujagc enough to fight for the 
 unholy wealth he has amassed ; this man I say is contemptible. 
 Such creatures are as noxious vennin, whom one loathes, and 
 loathing them destroys. You no less destroy the tiger, who 
 ravages the green fields which your labour wasi^adomcd ; who 
 laps the blood of your flocks, and threatens the life of your 
 children and servants, but you do not despise the tiger ; you 
 keep his hide, as a monument of your victory over a brave and 
 powerful enemy. Cathelincau was the tiger, who was destroying, 
 before it had ripened, the precious fruit of the Revolution." 
 
 "The tiger is a noble beast," said Wcstemian. "He is 
 hungry, and he seeks his prey ; he is satisfied, and he lays down 
 and sleeps ; but Cathelineau was a mean jackal, who strove for 
 others, not for himself. I can understand the factious enmity 
 of the born aristocrat, who is now called upon to give up the 
 titles, dignities, and so-called honours, which, though stolen from 
 the people, he has been taught to look upon as his right. He 
 contends for a palpable possession which his hand has grasped, 
 which he has tasted and long enjoyed. I know that he is a 
 robber and a spoiler of the poor ; I know, in short, that he is 
 an aristocrat, and as such I would have him annihilated, 
 abohshed from the face of the earth. I would that the aristo- 
 crats of P" ranee had but one neck, that with a grasp of my own 
 hand, I might at once choke out their pernicious breath," and 
 the republican laid upon the table his huge hand, and tighUy 1 
 clenched his fingers as though he held between them the im- , j 
 aginary throat of the aristocracy of France ;" but," continued | 
 he, "much as I hate a gentleman, ten times more strongly do i \ 
 hate, despise, and abhor the subservient crew of spiritless slaves j 
 who uphold the power of the masters, who domineer over them, '1 
 who will not accept the sweet gift of liberty, who are kicked, and I 
 trodden on, and spat upon, and will not turn again ; who will not 
 rise against their tyrants, even when the means of doing sc arc 
 brought to their hands ; who willingly, nay, enthusiastically, lay \ 
 their necks in the dust, that their fcUow-crcalures may put their \ 
 feet upon them. Of such was this Cathelineau, and of such I ) 
 understand are most of those who hound on these wretched / 
 peasants to sure destruction. For them I have no pity, and 
 with them I have no sympathy. Thcy^have not the spirit of 
 men, and I would rejoice that the dogs 'should lick their blood J 
 from off thc^walls, and that birdi of prey should consume their i 
 flesh." 
 
 r *'''Westerman is rights" said Barr^re ; "they are mean curs, 
 
 'these Vendeans, and like curs they must be destroyed ; 
 
 the earth must be rid of men who knew not how to 
 
 take possession of their property in that earth which nature 
 
 has Riven them. Believe me, citizen General, thp^ any 
 
196 I^ Vendh. 
 
 sympathy with such a reptile as Cathelineau is not compatible 
 with the feeling which should animate the heart of a true 
 republican, intending honestly and zealously to do the work of 
 the Republic." 
 
 General Chouardin made no reply to the rebuke which these 
 words conveyed ; he did not dare to do so ; he did not dare to 
 repeat the opinion that ther; was anything admirable in the 
 courage of a royalist. Much less than had now been said had 
 before this been deemed sufficient to mark as a victim for the 
 revolutionary tribunal some servant of the Republic, and few 
 wished to experience the tender mercies of Fouquicr Tinville, 
 the public accuser. Even Sc.nterre was silenced ; despite his 
 popularity, his well-known de\ otion to the cause, his hatred of 
 the aristocrats, and his aversion to royalty, so horridly displayed 
 at the execution of the Kin^j, even he felt that it might not be 
 safe for him to urge that the memory of Cathelineau was not 
 despicable. 
 
 " His death must have much weakened them," said Bourbotte. 
 " I know them well, the miscreants ! 1 doubt if they will follow 
 any other leader, that is in great numbers. The fools looked on 
 this man as a kind of god ; they now find that their god is dead. 
 I doubt whether there is another leador among them, who can 
 induce them to leave their parishes." 
 
 " If they won't come to us," said Barr^re, " we must go to 
 them ; they have gone too far now to recede. Whether they 
 return to their homes, or again take up arms, matters little ; 
 they must all be destroyed, for blood alone can establish the 
 Republic on a basis which can never be overturned." 
 
 " The name of a royalist should be as horrible in men's cars 
 as that of a parricide," said Santerre. 
 
 "But what will you do if you find no army to oppose you?" 
 said Bourbotte. " You cannot well fight without an enemy." 
 
 " Never fear," said Wcsterman, " your muskets shall not 
 grow rusty for want of use. We will go from parish to parish, 
 and leave behind us dead corpses and burning houses." 
 
 •' You will not ask soldiers to do the work of executioners ?*' 
 said Bourbotte. 
 
 " I expect the soldiers to do the work of the Convention,** 
 said Barr6re ; *' and I also expect the officers to do the same ; 
 these are not times in which a man can be chary as to the work 
 which he does." 
 
 " We must not leave a royalist alive in the west of France,** 
 said Westerman. " You may be assured. Generals, that our 
 soldiers will obey us, however slow your's may be to obey^ you." 
 
 " Perhaps so," said Bourbotte ; " my men have not yet been 
 taught to massacre unarmed crowds." 
 
 ** It is difficult to know what they have been taught," said 
 
Cotnmissioncrs of the Republic, 197 
 
 Westciman. " Whenever they have encountered a few peasant* 
 with clubs in their hands, your doughty heroes have invariably 
 ran away." 
 
 Wesicrman as he spoke, stood leaning on the back of a chair, 
 and liourbotte also rose as he answered him. 
 
 " I have yet to learn," said he, " that you yourself were ever 
 able to make good soldiers out of country clowns in less than a 
 month's time. When you have done so, then you may speak to 
 me on the subject without impertinence." 
 
 "I give you my word, citizen (General," answered Westerman, 
 " I shall say to you, then and now, whatever I, in the perform- 
 ance of my duty, may think fit, and if you deem me impertinent, 
 you may settle that point with the Convention, or, if you prefer 
 It, with myself." 
 
 "Westerman, you are unfair to General liourbolle,'^ said 
 Santerre ; "he has said nothing which need offend you.' 
 
 " It is the General that is offended, not I," said Westerman ; 
 " I only beg that he may not talk mawkish nonsenie, and tell 
 us that his fellows are too valiant, and too noble to put to the 
 sword unarmed royalists, when everybody knows they are good 
 for nothing else, and that they would run and scatter from 
 the fire of a few muskets, like a lot of plovers from a volley 
 of stones." 
 
 " I grant you," said Bourbotte, " that my soldiers are men 
 and not monsters. They are, as yet, French peasants, not 
 German cut-throats." 
 
 " Now, by Heaven, Bourbotte," said the Prussian, " you shall 
 swallow that word," and he seized a pistol from off the table. 
 " German cut-throat ! and that from you who have no other 
 qualities of a soldier than what are to be found in a light pair of 
 heels. You shall, at any rate, have to deal with one German, 
 whether he bs a cut-throat or not." 
 
 "In anyway you please," said Bourbotte, "that is, in any 
 open or honest way." And as he spoke, he stepped back one 
 step, and took his sword out of the scabbard. 
 
 The pistol which Westerman had taken from the table 
 belonged to Santerre, and when he saw it in the hand of his 
 friend, he leapt up and seized hold of the German's arm. 
 
 " Are you mad, Westerman," said he ; " do you wish to fight 
 here in the Mayor's house? I tell you, you were wrong in 
 taunting him as you did ; sit quiet till I make peace between 
 you." 
 
 " Taunting him ! now, by Heaven, that is good. I will 
 leave it to Barrere to say who first taunted the other. Non- 
 sense, Santerre, leave hold of me I say : you do not think I 
 am going to murder the man, do you ?" 
 General Chouardin also got up and put himself between the 
 
193 /<' Vendie, 
 
 two armed men. ** Put up your sword, Bourbotte,'* whispered 
 he, leading him off to the further window of the room j '* you 
 are no match for him here ; if Barr6re chooses he will have you 
 recalled to Paris, and your neck will then not be worth a month's 
 pui chase." 
 
 "Gentlemen,** said Barr6rc, "this will never do. You can 
 neither of you serve the nation well if you persist in quarrelling 
 between yourselves. General liourbotte, you should apologize 
 to our friend Westcrman for the insult which you offered to his 
 countrymen." 
 
 " My country is the country of my adoption," said Wester- 
 man. " I ceased to be a German when I took up the arms of 
 France } but my soldiers arc my children, and an insult to 
 them is an injury to myself." 
 
 "If your anger can wait till the revolt in La Vendde has been 
 quelled," said Chouardin, *' my friend Bourbotte will be ready 
 enough to satisfy your wishes as a citizen. BarrCirc truly says, 
 this is no time for private quarrels." 
 
 " So be it " said Westerman. " Let General Bourbottd re- 
 member that he owes me an apology or redress." 
 
 " You shall have any redress, which any arms you may be 
 pleased to name can give you," said Bourbotte. 
 
 "By my honour then, you are two fools," said Santerre \ "two 
 egregious fools, if you cannot at once forget the angry words 
 which you each have used. Have your own way, however, so 
 long as you do not fight here." 
 
 As the brewer was yet speaking, a servant knocked at the 
 door, and said that a young man wished to say a few words to 
 citizen Santerre on especial business, and on the service of the 
 Republic. 
 
 " On the service of the Republic ? '* said Santerre. ** Show 
 him in here then j I have no otliciul secrets from my 
 colleagues." 
 
 The servant, however, stated that the young man would not 
 m.iive his appeirancc in the room where the party were sitting, 
 and he declared he would go away if he could not sec Santerre 
 alone. The republican at length yielded, and followed the 
 servant into a small sitting-room, where he found our friend, 
 •Adolplic Dcnot. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 UArrLE OK AMAILLOL. 
 
 T will be remembered that Adolphe Dcnot left the coun- 
 cil-room of the royalist leaders at Saumur in anger ; 
 and that, after a few words with Henri Larochcjaqueiin, 
 departed no one knew whither, or for what purpose. 
 On leaving Henri in the street, he had himself no fixed resolve 
 as to his future conduct ; he was only determined no longer to 
 remain leagued with men among whom he felt himself to be 
 disgraced. De Lescurc had seen him hesitate in the hour of 
 danger, and had encouraged him in vain ; he knew that after 
 this he could never again bear to meet the calm grey eye of his 
 friend's cousin ; he had not only been not selected as one of the 
 generals, but he had even been rejected, and that by the very 
 man who had seen his cowardice. His love, moreover, had 
 been refused by Agatha, and he deemed this refusal an injury 
 which demanded vengeance from his hands ; from the moment 
 in which he left her room in Durbelli6re, schemes had floated 
 across his half-bewildered brain for the accomplishment of his 
 object. He still loved Agatha, though his love was, as it were, 
 mingled with hatred ; he still wished to possess her, but he did 
 not care how disagreeable, how horrible to herself might be 
 the means by which he accomplished his object. He entertained 
 ideas of seizing upon her person, taking her from Durbelli^re, 
 and marrying her during the confusion which the revolution 
 had caused in the country. At first he had no distinct idea of 
 treachery towards the royalists with whom he had sided ; 
 though vague thoughts of bringing the soldiers of the Conven- 
 tion to Durbellicre, in the dead of night, had at different times 
 entered his mind, he had never reduced such thoughts to a 
 palpable plan, nor had he ever endeavoured to excuse to him- 
 self the iniquity of such a scheme, as a man does when he re« 
 tolvcs to sacrifice his honour and bis honesty to his passions* 
 
too L<i Vouihx 
 
 It WAb In the council-room At SAumur thAt he (lift felt a 
 desire to betrAy the friends of his life \ it was in the moment 
 of his hot anger, after leaving it, that he determined to put 
 Into effect the plan which he had already conceived ; it was 
 then that insane ambition and selfish love prompted him to 
 forget every feeling which he had hitherto recognised as honour* 
 nblo, nnd to commit himsiclf to a deed which would make it im> 
 possible that he should ever be reconciled with the companions 
 of his youth. lie had no presentiment that he should ever rise 
 to honour or distinction in the army of the Republic ; he never 
 even thought of what his future life would be : revenge was his 
 object, and the sweet delight of proving to Agatha Laroche- 
 iaquelin that he was able to carry out the bold threats which he 
 knew that she had scorned and derided. 
 
 It would be too much to say that Adolphc Denot was insane, 
 for tliat would imply tliat he was not responsible for his own 
 actions ; but there certainly lacked somellung in his brain or 
 mind, which is necessary to perfect sanity. He was no fool 5 
 he had read, enjoyed, nnd perhaps written poetry ; he was, for 
 the times, well educated ; he could talk fluently, and, occasionally, 
 even persuasively \ he understood rapidly, and perceivcci 
 correclly» the arguments and motives of others ; but he could 
 not regulate his conduct, cither from the lessons he had Icarfit 
 from books, or front the doin>;» or nUsdoings of those around 
 him. He wished to be popular, powerful and dlsttinguished, but 
 he was utterly ignorant of the means by which men gain the 
 afficiion, respect, and admiration of their fellow-men ; ne pos- 
 sessed talent without Judgment, and ambition without principle. 
 As a precocious boy, he had been too much admired, he had 
 assumed at an early age the duty of a man, and had at once 
 been found miserably wanting. 
 
 On leaving Henri In the btrcets of Saumur, he went to his 
 lodging, took with him what money he h.id, got upon his horse, 
 nnd rode out of the town by the temporary bridge which had 
 been put up for the transit of the shaved prisoners. He had 
 wandered about the country for three weeks, remaining some- 
 times in one place, and sometimes in another, endeavouring to 
 mature his plans; and hearing of the arriva' of Santcrre in 
 Angers, had come thither to offer his services to the re- 
 publicans, in the invasion which he understood they con- 
 templated making into the Bocagc. 
 
 His appearance was not very attractive when first he 
 Introduced himself to the republican, for he was lean with 
 anxiety and worn with care ; his eyes were restless and blood- 
 shot, and his limbs trembled beneath him. Santerrc was not a 
 man who much regarded externals ; but, as he afterwards said, 
 ** he did not nrich like the han^ij-dog look of the royalist cur." 
 
/;« Utli of / J nti^iUo u, 20l 
 
 Dcnot, in .in nwkward way, got tliroiigh his story ; he liad 
 been one of the insurgent Vcndcans, he said, but he now wished 
 to serve the Republic. He was intimately acquainted with the 
 royalist leaders, especially the two most popular of them, De 
 Lcscure and Larochcja(iuclin. He knew and was willing to 
 betray their plans. He would accompany Santerre to the 
 residences of these Vcndean generals, and undertake to give 
 them, their families, and possessions, into the power of the 
 republicans, and for these services he asked but one favour ; 
 that he should be present at the contemplated burning of 
 Durbcllit;re, and be allowed to save the life of one female who 
 resided there. He represented that his animosity arose entirely 
 from the rejection of his love, and that his only object was to 
 carry off the sister of the Vcndean chief from the burning ashes 
 of her father's chateau. 
 
 "Are you aware, young man," said Santerre, with something 
 of generosity in the warning which he gave — a generosity 
 probably inspired by the wine he had drunk: **are you aware, 
 that should I agree to your proposal, every other member of her 
 family will be put to death before your eyes— her brother, her 
 old father, and every pestilent royalist we may find about the 
 place?" 
 
 " I suppose they will," said Denot, moodily. " At any rate, 
 they deserve no protection at my hands." 
 
 " You have probably eaten their bread and drank their wine. 
 You say, indeed, you have lived long in this rambling chateau, 
 and have fought side by side with this hot-headed young 
 brigand. Bethink you, my friend, you are angry now, but it 
 may turn your stomach, when you are cool, to see the blood of 
 those you know so well running like water ; besides, you are 
 taking but an unlikely road to the heart of the girl you say you 
 love. No one has heard your plot but myself : I advise you to 
 .ibandon it ; if you do so, I will forget that I have heard it. 
 You are angry now ; go home and sleep on it." 
 
 " Sleep on it ! I have slept on it these three weeks, No, I 
 did not come to you till I was fully resolved. As for these 
 people, I owe them nothing ; they have scorned and rejected 
 me ; and as for the girl's heart, it is not that I seek now. Let 
 me gain her person, and her heart will follow, A woman soon 
 learns to love him whom she is forced to obey." 
 
 "Well, be it as you will," said Santerre. " It is all a mattef 
 of taste ; only remember, that before I accede to your proposal, 
 1 must consult with my colleagues in the next room, and that 
 when once I have spoken to them it will be too late for me to 
 go back." 
 
 Denot declared that he had formed his resolution aflcjp 
 S&aturc consideration, and that he war ready and willitig t9 
 
S02 La Vendie, 
 
 carry through tlie work he had proposed for himself { and 
 Santerre, without making any further objection, rejoined his 
 friends in the next room, and explained to them the offer which 
 had been made to him. Barr^re at first opposed any treaty 
 with Denot He recommended that the young man should be 
 kept as a prisoner, and at once handed over to the revolutionary 
 tribunal 
 
 " What good can he do us ?" said he ; " we can find our way 
 to this Durbelli^re without his assistance ; let him and the girl 
 he wishes to kidnap pay the penalty of their crimes against the 
 Republic. She is, 1 suppose, one of those modem Joans of 
 Arc, who inspire the flagging spirits of these peasants. Should 
 she have beauty enough to make her worth preserving, let her 
 be the prize of some tnic republican. As for him, let him 
 stretch his neck beneath the guillotine.'* 
 
 Barrere, however, was over-ruled. The generals who were 
 with him knew too well the nature of the country they were 
 about to invade, not to appreciate the value of such a guide a3 
 they might find in Denot : a guide who not only knew the 
 nature of the country they had to traverse, and the position of the 
 places they wished to attack, but who was also intimate with the 
 msurgent chiefs, acquainted with their persons and their plan-, 
 and who would probably disclose, under proper management, 
 every secret of the revolt. It was accordingly agreed that his 
 offer should be accepted, and he was introduced by Santerre to 
 his four confederates. 
 
 " Sit down, my friend," said Barrere, " sit down. Our 
 colleague here informs us that you are sick of these mawkish 
 royalists, and are willing to serve the Republic. Is it so, young 
 man ? " 
 
 " I have told M. Santerre ^ said Denot. " Citizen 
 
 Santerre, if you please," said Barrere ; " or General Santerre, 
 if you like it belter. Monsieur and Monseigneur are a little 
 out of fashion just at present on this side of the Loire." 
 
 " Aa they soon also shall be on the other," said Westerman. 
 
 " Well, I have told him,'* and Denot pointed to Santerre, 
 " what it is I propose to do for you, and the terms on which I 
 will do it." 
 
 •* Terms indeed ! " said Barr6re. " The Republic is not 
 accustomed to make terms with her servants. Come, tell us 
 at once : are you a republican?" 
 
 Denot hesitated ; not that he was ashamed to own himself a 
 republican, but his blood was boiling with passion at. the 
 language and tone in which he was addressed, and yet he did 
 not dare to show his anger. 
 
 js"Of course he is a republican," said Santerre, "or why 
 would he come here ? Take a glass of wine, friend Denot, and 
 
liijiiie of Amaillou, aoj 
 
 f)luck up your'^courAj:^c," and Sanlcrrc .passed the winc-boUlc to 
 lim. *' If you arc true to us, you need not fear us." 
 
 " He must pronounce himself a republican," said Barr^rc, 
 **or we cannot deal with him. Come, young man, can you put 
 your mouth to so much inconvenience as to give us some slight 
 inkling of your present political principles ? All we know of you 
 as yet is, that three weeks since you were a pestilent royalist, 
 and a leader of royalists." 
 " I am a republican," said DcnoL 
 
 " The Republic is made happy by your adhesion," said 
 Barr^lire, bowing to him with mock solemnity across the 
 table. 
 
 " What surety do you mean to offer us, citizen Denot," said 
 Wcsterman, " that you are acting with us in good faith ?" 
 
 "Do I not give' you my life.?" said Denot. "What other 
 surety can I give, or can you require? What am I, or what are 
 the royalists to gain by my proving false ?" 
 
 *' You say truly," answered Westerman ; " you give us your 
 life as a surety for your good faith to us. You may be assured 
 that we will exact the penalty, if we have the slightest suspicion 
 of foul play." 
 
 Denot made no answer, and he was questioned no further. - 
 The party soon after broke up, and the young deserter wfts 
 handed over to the care of one of Santerre's sub-ofticcrs, with 
 injunctions that he should be well and civilly treated, but that 
 he should not be allowed to go abroad by himself; in fact, he 
 was to be regarded as a prisoner. 
 
 " Do not be disheartened," said Santerrc to him. "You can 
 understand that under the circumstances such precautions must 
 be necessary. The day after to-morrow we start on our march, 
 and you shall ride close to myself. When Clisson and Dur- 
 bellic'rc are in ashes,, you shall be free to take your own course j 
 in the meantime, no indignity shall be offered to you.'* 
 
 On the day named by Santerrc, the whole republican army 
 started from Angers, and commenced their march towards the 
 Bocage. They proceeded on their route for several days, with- 
 out finding any enemy to contend with. They kept on the 
 northern shore of the Loire till they reached Saumur, where 
 they remained a couple of days, and employed themselves in 
 punishing the inhabitants in whose houses the leaders of the 
 Vendeans had been entertained. It was in vain that these poor 
 men pleaded that they had not even opened their doors to the 
 royaUsts till after the republican general had capitulated ; that 
 they*had given nothing which they had been able to refuse, and, 
 in fact, that they had only sold their goods and let their rooms 
 to the Vendeans, when they could not possibly have declined to 
 do so. Their arguments were of no avail ; they were thrown 
 
TO4 ^ Vtndti* 
 
 into prison as criminals^ and left fur trial by the revoiuticnaf) 
 tribunal. 
 
 Although Saumur had so lately been besieged and taken by 
 the royalists, there was hardly a vestige of the conquerors left 
 in it. Their attempt to place a garrison in the town had proved 
 entirely a failure ; the peasants who had undertaken the work 
 had left the place by scores at a time, and before a fortnight 
 was over, the commandant found himself with about twenty-five 
 men, and consequently he marched back into La Vendde after 
 his army. The town was perfectly tranauil when the republicans 
 entered it, but the citizens were afflictcci and out of spirits ; their 
 shops were closed, and their goods hidden ; the bakers had no 
 bread, the butchers no meat, and the grocers had neither oil nor 
 sugar, They knew well what it was to sell their merchandise to 
 the troops ot the Convention, and to be paid for them by the 
 government in assignats. 
 
 Many of those who had formed the former garrison of Saumur, 
 were now wiiH the army ; men whom Chapeau and his assistants 
 had shaven, men still bald, and smarting from the indignity to 
 which they had been subjected. They wreaked their vengeance 
 on the scene of their disgrace, and on all those who had in any 
 way lent, or were suspected to have lent, their aid to its con- 
 summation. The furniture of the toWn-hall was broken in 
 pieces ; the barbers' shops were ransacked, and their razors, 
 brushes, and basins scattered through the street ; nor was this 
 the worst ; one poor wretch was recognised who had himself 
 wielded a razor on the occasion ; he was dragged from his little 
 shop by those on whom he had operated, and was swung up by 
 his neck from a lamp-iron in the sight of his wife and children, 
 who had followed his persecutors through the street. The poor 
 woman pleaded on her knees for the life of her husband, as a 
 wife can plead for the life of him whom she loves better than 
 the whole world. She offered all her little wealth and her 
 prayers ; she supplicated them with tears and with blessings ; 
 she seized hold of the knees of the wretch who held the rope, 
 and implored him by his remembrance of his father, by his 
 regard for his own wife, his love for his own children, to spare 
 to her the father of her infants ; but she asked in vain ; the 
 man, feeling that his legs were encumbered, spumed the 
 woman from him with his foot, and kept his hand tight upon 
 the lamp-rope till the dying convulsions of the poor barber had 
 ceased. 
 
 No notice was taken by the republican generals of ihis murder : 
 at any rate no punishment followed it ; the next morning the 
 army resumed its march, and left the town hated, cursed, 
 feared, and yet obeyed. The people were now royalists in their 
 hearts, but they did not dare to express their feelings even in 
 
Batth of Amaillou, 205 
 
 whispers to each other, so frightful to. them uas the vengeance 
 of the RepubUc. There was much pohcy in the fearful cruelty 
 of the Jacobins; it was the only means by which they could 
 have retained their power for a month. 
 
 The republicans marched on from Saumur to Montreuil, and 
 from Montreuil to Thouars, and still found no one in arms to 
 oppose them. Here they separated ; a small party, headed by 
 Santerre and Dcnot, penetrated at once from Thouars into the 
 Bocage, and made for the chateau of Durbellicrc. It was be- 
 lieved that both Dc Lescurc and Larochejaquelin were there, 
 and Santerre expected that by hurrying across the country with 
 a small force, he would be able to take them both and burn the 
 chateau, and afterwards rejoin Westerman at Chatillon. Barr6rc, 
 whose duties were not strictly those of a soldier, had not accom- 
 panied the army beyond Saumur. Westerman and the main 
 body of the army still continued southward till they reached 
 Parthcnay, from which place it was his intention to proceed 
 through the revolted district, burning every village ; utterly 
 destroying the towns which had not proved themselves devoted 
 to the Republic, and slaughtering the peasants, their wives, and 
 children wherever he could find them. 
 
 The Vendeans had not yet sufficiently matured their plans to 
 enable them to encounter successfully the republican army. The 
 ikatii of Cathelincau had had a great effect upon the peasants : 
 those who were with him had returned home in sorrow and 
 despair, and this feeling was general, even among those who 
 had not been at Nantes. Dc Lescurc and Henri, however, had 
 not despaired ; after having seen the body of his general 
 consigned to the dust, Henri had returned to Clisson, and ho 
 and his cousin were again busy in raising recruits, or rather in 
 collecting their men, when they heard that Westerman, with an 
 enormous army, was marching into Parthenay, and that it was 
 his intention to proceed from thence into the 13ocage, by way of 
 Amaillou and Bressuirc, 
 
 They had hardly heard this report, when the little village of 
 Amaillou was on fire ; it was the first place that was utterly 
 burnt down, and laid in ashes by the republicans ; not a house 
 was left standing, or hardly the ruined wall of a house. The 
 church itself was set on fire and burnt, with its pictures, its 
 altars, and all its sacred treasures ; the peasants ran from the 
 ruins, carrying with them their wives and children, the old, the 
 crippled, and infirm ; hundreds were left dead and dying among 
 the smoking ashes. This feat having been accomplished, 
 Westerman continued on towards Bressuirc, intending to bum 
 the chateau at Clisson, as he passed it on his way. 
 
 The district between Amailk)u and Bressuire is thickly studded 
 with trees. The roads, or rather lanes, are all lined by avenues 
 
fo6 La Vend/e, 
 
 of limes and beeches. The fields are small, and surrounded by 
 lofty hedges, which are also in a great measure, composed of 
 large trees, and the whole country in July, when* the foliage 
 is at the thickest, has almost the aspect of one continued 
 forest. 
 
 Westerman had obtained guides to show him the road to 
 Clisson. It was about six o'clock in the evening when the 
 advanced portion of his army, consisting of three thousand 
 men, had proceeded about a league from Amaillou. He was 
 himself riding nearly at the front of the column, talking to his 
 aide-de-camp and one of the guides, when he was startled by 
 hearing a noise as of disturbed branches in the hedge, only a 
 few feet in advance of the spot in which he was standing ; he 
 had not, however, time to give an order, or speak a word on the 
 subject, before a long sudden gleam of fire flashed before his 
 eyes ; it was so near to him that it almost blinded him : a 
 cannon had been fired oft* close to his face, and it was easy to 
 track the fatal course of the ball ; it had been directed right 
 along the road, and was glutted with carnage before its strength 
 was spent. 
 
 Nor did the cannon shot come alone : a fearful fire from 
 about five hundred muskets was poured from the hedge on 
 either side, directly into the road : the assailants were within a 
 few feet of their enemy at the moment they were firing, and 
 every shot took eff'ect. Out of the four hundred men who 
 headed the column, above half were killed, or so badly wounded 
 as to be incapable of motion. The narrow lane, for it was no 
 more than a lane, was nearly blocked up wth carcases. Wester- 
 man, who was possessed of a courage that was never shaken, 
 was nevertheless so thunderstruck, that he knew not what orders 
 to give. The republicans at the head of the column, who had 
 not themselves been struck, fired their fusils into the hedges, 
 but their fire did»no injury ; it was all lost among the leaves, for 
 the men who had' attacked them were kneeling on their knees 
 or lying on their bellies, and in the confusion which they had 
 occasioned, were reloading their muskets. 
 
 The guide, and the aide-de-camp to whom Westerman was 
 speaking, had both fallen, and the horse upon which he himself 
 was riding was so badly wounded, as to be unmanageable. He 
 got off, and ran along under the hedge till he met an officer, 
 " Give me your horse, Gerard," said he ; " but no, stay where 
 you are, gallop back and tell Bourbotte to bring up the men. 
 Quick, mind — so quick, that they can neither see nor hear what 
 has happened. Bid him force his way through the hedge to the 
 right, when he gets to the corner." 
 
 The young officer turned quickly to obey the command of his 
 general, and had already put his spur to the horse's flank, when 
 
BatiU ofAmaillou, ao7 
 
 another broad flash of light streamed through the hedge on the 
 left, and the horseman and horse fell to the ground, and were 
 mingled with a heap of wounded and dying. Young Gerard did 
 not live long enough to, be conscious of the blow which killed 
 him. Another volley of musketry followed the cannon shot, and 
 hardly left a man standing of those who had been the foremost 
 The attack had taken place so quickly, that the Vendeans had 
 not yet had time to load again ; but one of two cannons had 
 been kept as a reserve, and about a hundred muskets had not 
 been fired till De Lescure gave the word of command. The 
 first attack was made under the direction of Henri LarochC' 
 jaquelin. 
 
 Westerman was standing between the hedge and the mounted 
 officer, when the latter fell with his horse, and the blood from 
 the poor animal nearly covered him from head to foot. " Into 
 the field, my men," said he to those who were near enough to 
 hear him ; "follow me through the hedge," and with a consider- 
 able effort he forced his way through the underwood, and he 
 was followed and accompanied by all those who were still 
 standing near him ; but when he got there not one of the 
 Vendeans was to be seen ; there were traces enough of them in 
 the grass, and among the broken boughs, but the men had 
 retreated after the first fire, and were now again lying in 
 ambush behind the next hedge. 
 
 In about five minuter, there were two or three hundred 
 republicans in the fields to the right of the road, for the army 
 was still advancing ; but they did not know where to go or what 
 to do. They were looking about for an enemy, and in dread of 
 being fired on, not only from the hedges, but even out of the 
 trees. Westerman, however, got the men formed into some 
 kind of order, and bid them advance ; they did so, and on 
 coming near to the second hedge, received another murderous 
 fire, for every royalist had now had time to reload. 
 
 The combat continued for some time, for the republicans con- 
 trived to make their way into the second field ; but the royalists 
 again sheltered themselves behind the further hedge, and 
 repeated their fire from their lurking-place. It was in vain that 
 the republicans fired into the hedges ; their shot either passed 
 over the heads of the Vendeans, or were lost among the roots 
 and trunks of the trees. Every one of the royalists, on the other 
 hand, fired with a clear aim, and almost invariably with deadly 
 effect, • Westerman felt that it would be useless to pursue them ; 
 his soldiers, moreover, were already flying without orders. He 
 had not the least idea what was the number of the enemy with 
 whom he was engaged, what was their means of carrying on the 
 battle, or on what side of him the greater number of them were 
 situated ; he therefore determined to retreat, and led back. th9 
 
whole of his army over the still burning ashes of ihe mis crixble 
 villajge which he had destroyed that morning. The greater 
 portion of the men were forced to go back as far as Parthenay, 
 but he himself remained with a small detachment in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Amaillou. He ^vas determined, if possible, to 
 be revenged that same night for the defeat which he had 
 experienced. 
 
 The two cousins were at Clisson when they first heard that 
 Westerman was actually on his road towards Bressuire, and 
 they had lost no time in taking the best measures in their power 
 to stop his progress, but they had not even hoped that their 
 effort would have been so successful as it proved. The tocsin 
 had been rung in the three neighbouring parishes, and about 
 seven hundred men had been collected. These men all possessed 
 muskets, but they themselves had no ammunition, and the whole 
 supply which could be found in the district, including the little 
 depot at Clisson, only sufficed to give the men some three and 
 some four rounds each. When Westerman, with his ten 
 thousand men, retreated from about seven hundred, the 
 royalists had not one charge of powder to three muskets 
 among them. 
 
 About ten in the evening, Henri and De Lescure returned on 
 foot from the battle to the chdteau of Clisson. Henri still had 
 the red scarf round his neck and waist, and stuck in the latter 
 he had three or four pistols, of various sizes, all of which had 
 been used in the recent engagement. On his shoulder he held 
 a ride, which he carried like a fowling-piece) and he walked 
 home with the air and look of a man returning from a day's 
 sport, well contented with the execution he had done. 
 
 Not so De Lescure : he was thoughtful, if not sad { and 
 though he would not, either by a tone or a look, rebuke the 
 gaiety of his companion, it was very evident that he did not 
 share it. The peasants returned along the road, hurrying to 
 their homes, shouting with glee and full of triumph. As they 
 
 f)assed their leaders, they cheered the darling heroes who had 
 ed them to another victory, and would, had they been allowed 
 to do so, have carried them home upon their shoulders. They 
 had no thoughts of any further battle, or of future bloodshed 
 and misery. They had been victorious over the blues, and 
 that was sufficient for the present evening. They were able 
 to return home and tell their wives and sweethearts of 
 their triumph, and that without any drawback from friends 
 lost or wounded. In all their contests, the Vendeans had 
 never been victorious with so few calamities to themselves. 
 
 " I saw Westerman himself," said Henri to his friend. " I 
 am sure I did, and what's more I was within pistol shot of him, 
 t>ut I hadn't a pistol loaded at the moment, or 1 would have put 
 
Battle of Amaitlou, 209 
 
 an end to his career. I wonder how he likes his reception in 
 the Bocnge." 
 
 ♦• He is not the man to be easily daunted," said Do Lescure, 
 ** You'll find it will not be long before he advances again. If he 
 were to march to Bressuirc to-morrow, what is to stop him ?" 
 
 "Why not stop him to-morrow aswc have done to-day?" said 
 Henri. 
 
 *' The men arc all gone home," said the other. 
 
 " They will all assemble again to-morrow," said Henri ; " we 
 have only to have the bells rung at seven o'clock, or six, or five, 
 or when you will, and you will find that every man will be ready 
 for another day's work, and that without a murmur." 
 
 ** And will they bring powder with them, Henri ? '' 
 
 ** Why, we are rather short off for powder," said he. " Our 
 affair to-night was all very well, for the enemy lost an immense 
 number, and we lost none ; but yet it was unsatisfactory, for 
 the fellows have left nothing behind them. I'll tell you what, 
 Charles, we ought to follow them to Parthenay," 
 
 " Impossible," said De Lescure. 
 
 <' Why impossible, Charles ? Why is Parthcnay, which is not 
 better fortified than Clisson, be more unassailable than Saumur, 
 where everything appeared to be against us ?" 
 
 " We were all together then, and now we are scattered. I'll 
 tell you what, Henri," he continued, after walking on silent 
 for a few steps. " I'll tell you what we must do : we must 
 leave this district altogether ; we must leave it to be ravaged 
 by fire and sword ; we must leave it to Westerman, to wreak 
 his vengeance on it, and go to ChAtillon, taking with us every 
 armed man that will follow us. We cannot stand an invasion 
 here in the south." 
 
 " Heavens, Charles ! what do you mean "i Will you not 
 stay to protect the poor wretches who arc so ready to fight 
 for us?" 
 
 *' We can protect no one by staying here. We cannot hope 
 to contend single-handed with such an army as that which 
 Witf but just now advancing to Bressuire. We can have 
 given them a check, but you know we cannot repeat the effort 
 of this evening. D'Elbde and Stofflet are at Chatillon ; your 
 own followers are all in that vicinity. When there, we can 
 communicate with Bonchamps and Charette. We must eo to 
 Ch&tillon." 
 
 " And your wife, Charles, and Marie ! you will not leave them 
 in the chateau ? " 
 
 " If your father and Agatha will receive them, they shall go to 
 DurbeUi^re." 
 
 " There you are right," said Henri. " Whatever may be the 
 danger, let us have th^ni together ; we shall th^n at any rate b» 
 
910 La Vtndii* 
 
 able to feet that we know the point which is to be defende<l 
 
 most closely." 
 
 * We will start to-morrow, Henri ; to-morrow evening* May 
 God grant that that may be time enough. Westerman cannot 
 collect his men so as to force a march as far as Clisson to- 
 morrow ; but before a week is over, I know that the chateau will 
 be a ruin." 
 
 " Will you leave the furniture? »* said Henri 
 
 " Yes," answered De Lescure ; " furniture, horses, cattle, com 
 — everything but my wife and child. Let everything go ; am I 
 not giving it my King ?'^ 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 CLISSON. 
 
 E LESCURE had calculated wrongly with regard to 
 Westerman's return. It was true that he could not 
 have again put his ten thousand men in marching 
 order, and returned with his whole force the next day 
 from Brcssuire as far as Clisson, but Westerman himself did not 
 go back beyond Amaillou, and he detained there with him a 
 small detachment of mounted men, whom he had commanded 
 at Valmy, and whom he well knew. He kept no officers but 
 one cornet and two sergeants, and with this small force he 
 determined, if possible, to effect that night what his army of ten 
 thousand men had so signally failed in accomplishing. 
 
 About half a mile from Amaillou there was a large chdteau, 
 the owner of which had emigrated ; it had been left ta the 
 care of two or three servants, who had deserted it on the 
 approach of the republican army, and when Westerman and 
 his small troop rode up to the front gate, they found no one 
 either to admit them or to dispute their entrance. Here he 
 bivouacked for an hour or two, and matured his project, which, 
 as yet, he had communicated to no one. 
 
 He had entrusted the retreat of the army to General Bour- 
 botte, who, in spite of their quarrel at Angers, was ser/ing 
 with him ; and without staying even to ascertain what was 
 the amount of loss he had sustained, or to see whether the 
 enemy would harrass the army as it retreated, he had separated 
 from it at Amaillou, and reached the chateau about ten o'clock 
 in the evening. He had with him a couple of guides, who 
 knew the country well, and accompanied by these, he resolved 
 to attack Clisson that night, to bum the chateau of M. de 
 Lescure, and, if possible, to carry back wkh him to Bressuire 
 the next morning the two Vendcan chiefs, whom he knew were 
 suying there. 
 
tit La Vendie^ 
 
 Wcstcrman understood enough of the tactics of the 
 Vendeans to know that this was practicable, and he had the 
 quick wit and ready hand to conceive the plan, and put it 
 in practice : he knew that the peasants would not remain in 
 barracks, or even assemble together during the night, if ihcy 
 were near enough to their own homes to reach them ; he 
 knew that they would spend the remainder of their long summer 
 evening in drinking, dancing, and rejoicing, and that they would 
 then fcleep as though no enemy were within a hundred miles 
 of them ; he knew that nothing could induce them to take on 
 themselves the duties of sentinels, and that there would in all 
 probability, be but little to oppose him in attacking Clisson that 
 ni^lu. 
 
 Weslcrman first had the horses fed, and having then re- 
 freshed his men with meat, wine, and brandy, he started at 
 two o'clock. He was distant from Clisson about three leagues, 
 according to the measurement of the country, or a little better 
 than seven miles, There had hardly been any darkness during 
 the night, and as he and his troopers sallied out of the chateau- 
 yard, the dawn was just breaking in the East. 
 
 " Never mind," said he to the young cornet, who rode by his 
 side ; " the light will not hurt us, for we will make them hear 
 us before they see us. We will be back as far as this before 
 thirty men in the parish are awake. It will be best for them 
 who sleep soundest." 
 
 "Except for those in the chAteau, General," said the cornet: 
 "those who sleep there will wake to a warm breakfast." 
 
 " They will never eat breakfast more, I believe and trust," 
 said Westerman ; " for 1 do not think that we shall be able to 
 take the brigands alive. Their women, however, may receive 
 some of our rough republican hospitality at Bressuire. You had 
 better prepare your prettiest bow and your softest words, for this 
 sister of Dc Lescurc is, they say, a real beauty. She shall 
 ride to Bressuire before you on your saddle-cloth, if you choose 
 to lo.id your arms with such a burden ; but don't grow too 
 fond of her kisses, for though she was a second Venus, the 
 guillotine must have the disposal of her." 
 
 The cornet made no answer, but his young heart turned sick 
 at the brutality of his companion. His breast had glowed with 
 republican zeal at the prospect of a night attack on the two 
 most distinguished of the royalist chiefs. The excitement of 
 the quick ride through the night-air, the smallncss of the party, 
 •the importance of the undertaking, the probable danger and the 
 uncertainty, had all seemed to him delightful ; and the idea of 
 rescuing a beautiful girl from the flames was more delightful 
 ihan all ; but the coarseness and cruelty of his General had 
 destroyed the romance, and dissipated the illusion. He felt 
 
Utssou, 21 J 
 
 ihal he could not oficr a woman his protection, that he might 
 carry her to a scaffold. 
 
 At about two, Wcstcrman started on his expedition. Ilii 
 men carried their =abrcs, still sheathed, in their hands, to 
 prevent the noise which they would have made rattling against 
 their saddles ; but still their journey through the country was 
 anything but quiet. They only rode two abreast, as the roads 
 were two narrow to admit of more. Westerman himself and 
 one of the guides headed the column, and the young cornet 
 and veteran sergeant closed the rear. They went at a fast trot, 
 and the noise of their horses' hoofs sounded loudly on the hard 
 parched ground. In spite of their precautions, the-r sabres 
 rattled, and the curbs on their bridles jingled ; and the absence 
 of all other noises made Westerman fear that their approach 
 must be audible, even threugh the soundness of a peasant's 
 sleep. 
 
 On they ro^'e, and as they drew near to the chdtcau, Wester- 
 man put spurs to his horse, and changed his trot into a 
 gallop ; his troop of course followed his example, and as they 
 came to the end of their journey they abandoned all precau- 
 cautions ; each man dropped his scabbard to his side and 
 drew the bade ; each man put his hand to his holster, and 
 transferred his pistol to his belt, for he did not know how 
 soon he might have to leave his saddle 5 each man drew the 
 brazen clasps of his helmet tight beneath his chin, and prepared 
 himself for action. 
 
 " These are the Clisson woods," said the guide, almost out of 
 breath with the quickness of his motion. 
 
 '* How infernally dark they make it," said Westerman, 
 speaking to' himself, " W^e had light enough tiH we got 
 here." 
 
 "And there are the gates," said the guide. "That first 
 entrance which is open, goes to the back of the house ; a 
 little beyond, there is another, which leads to the front ; there 
 you will find a gate, but it is merely closed with a latch." 
 
 " Craucher" said Westerman, speaking to the second sergeant, 
 who was riding immediately behind him, " stand at the corner, 
 and bid the men follow me at a quick trot — all of them mind ; 
 .tell Cornet Leroy that I have changed my mind," and Wester- 
 man, followed by his troop, dashed up the narrow avenue 
 which led through the wood to the back of the house. 
 
 The chateau of Clisson was surrounded by largo woods, 
 through which countless paths and little roads were made in 
 h'ery direction for the convenience of the woodmen, and the 
 .<mall tumbrils which were used for bringing out the timber 
 md faggots. These woods came close up to the farm-yard 
 of -the chAteau, which was again divided from the bousg by 
 
2r4 Im Vindii, 
 
 large walled gardens, into which the back windows ooened. 
 The road up which Westerman had ridden led under the 
 garden-wall to the farm-yard, but another road from the front, 
 running along the gable-end of the house, communicated with 
 it. The door used by the servants was at the side of the 
 chMeau, and consequently the readiest way from the public road 
 to the servants* door, was that by which Westerman had, at the 
 last moment, determined to force an entrance into the chdteau. 
 { He trotted up till he faced the garden-wall, and then turned 
 short round to the house, and as he rode close up under the 
 gable-end, he gave Serjeant Craucher direction to take three 
 men and force the door ; but he and the sergeant soon saw that 
 this trouble was spared them, for the door stood wide open be- 
 fore them. 
 
 We will now go back to the inhabitants of the chdteau, 
 De Lescure and Henri had returned thither about eleven o'clock, 
 and although their safe return, and account of the evening's 
 victorious engagement for a while quieted the anxious fears of 
 'Marie and Madame de Lcscure, those ladies by no means felt 
 jinclined to rest quietly as though all danger were removed from 
 their pillows. They were in a dreadful alarm at the nearness of 
 the republicans : they knew well that their ruthless enemies 
 spared none that fell into their hands. I should belie these 
 heroines if I said that they feared more for themselves than 
 for those they loved so dearly, but they were not accustomed 
 yet to the close vicinity of danger ; and when they learned that 
 a battle had been lost and won that evening, within a mile or 
 two, in the very next parish to that in which they lived, they 
 looked at each other, and trembling asked what next was to 
 be done. 
 
 "You must not leave us, Charles, you must not leave us 
 again," said Madame de Lescure to her husband j "indeed 
 you must not leave us here." She paused a moment, and then 
 added, with an accent of horror which she could not control, 
 " What would become of us if these men came upon us when 
 you were away ? " 
 
 " Wherever you go, let us go with you," said Marie, forgetting 
 in her excitement her usual maidenly reserve, and laying her 
 little hand as she spoke upon her lover's arm j then blushing, 
 she withdrew it, and turned to her brother. 
 
 " Do not turn from him, Marie," said her sister-in-law. "You 
 will soon want his strong arm, and his kind, loving heart." 
 
 " Charles will not desert me, Victorine," said Marie, blushing 
 how more beautifully than ever, for though she knew that 
 Henri loved her, he had never absolutely told her so. " Though 
 you are his dearest care, he will always have a hand to stretch 
 to his poor Marie." 
 
Clisson. 2 1 S 
 
 Before she had finished speaking, -Henri held her :lose in 
 his embrace. It was perhaps hardly a fitting time for him to 
 make an avowal of his love ; but lovers cannot always choose 
 the most proper season for their confessions. He was still 
 hot from the battle which he had fought; his hands were still 
 black with powder ; the well-known red scarf was still twisted 
 round his belt, and held within its folds his armament of pistols. 
 His fair, long hair was uncombed, and even entangled with 
 his exertions. His large boots were covered with dust, and all 
 his clothes were stained and soiled with the grass and weeds 
 through which he had that night dragged himself more than 
 once, in order to place himself within pistol-shot of his enemies ; 
 and yet, soiled and hot as he was, fatigued with one battle, and 
 meditating preparations for another, there, in the presence of 
 De Lescure and his wife, he clasped Marie to his manly heart, 
 and swore to her that his chief anxiety as long as the war lasted, 
 should be to screen her from all harm, and that his fondest care 
 through his whole life should be to protect her and- make her 
 happy. ' 
 
 Unusual circumstances and extraordinary excitement often 
 cause the customary rules and practices of life to be abandoned ; 
 and so it was now. Marie received the love that was offered 
 her, frankly, affectionately, and with her whole heart. She 
 owned to her lover how well and truly she had loved him, 
 and there, before her brother and his wife, plighted to him 
 licr troth, and promised to him then the obedience and love, 
 which she soon hoped to owe him as his wife. Such declara- 
 tions arc usually made in private, but the friends now assembled 
 had no secrets from each other, and they all felt that strange 
 times made strange scenes necessary. 
 
 They then arranged their plans for the morrow. The day had 
 already been an eventful one, but they little dreamed how much 
 more was to be done before the morrow's sun was in the 
 heavens ; and yet even then they did not separate for the night ; 
 luckily for them all, they determined that too much was to be 
 done to allow them yet to retire to rest. 
 
 It was resolved that on the following day they should leave 
 Clisson for Durbelli^re, and hand over the chateau and all it con- 
 tained—the farm and all its well-filled granaries, the catde and 
 agricultural wealth of the estate, to the fire and plunder of the 
 republicans. The plate, however, they thought they could save, 
 as well as the ladies' jewels and clothes, and other precious 
 things which might be quickly packed and easily moved. They 
 went to work at once to fill their trunks and baskets ; and as the 
 means of conveyance were then slow, De Lescure went out into 
 the stables, and had the waggon prepared at once, and ordered 
 that the oxen which were to draw it should be readr "p start at 
 
«!6 L(! Vendie, 
 
 thn e o'clock, in order that the load, if possible, might rcacri 
 Dmbelli^re the same night 
 
 Master and mistress, servants and guests, worked hard, and at 
 about two o'clock, the hour at which Westerman and his troo:^ 
 were starting for their quick ride, they had completed their 
 task. 
 
 " you have killed yourself, dearest love,** said Henri, pressing 
 his arm round Marie's waist. 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said she, smiling, but still so weary that she 
 could hardly have stood unless he had held her : " / have no-. 
 fought and conquered ten thousand republicans ; but I don i 
 know how you must feel." 
 
 Henri, however, insisted that she should go to bed, and she. 
 delighted to show her first act of obedience to his will, did as he 
 desired her. She was soon undressed ; she ofl'ered her prayers 
 to Heaven for her brother and sister-in-law, but with a stronger 
 fervour for the dear companion and protector to whom she had 
 sworn to devote her life, and then she laid her head upon her 
 
 Eillow, intending to think over her happiness ; a few momcnt> 
 owever, were sufficient to change her half fearful thoughts c: 
 love and danger into blessed dreams of love and happiness. 
 Poor girl ! she did not long enjoy her happy rest. 
 
 De Lescurc and Henri determined to remain up till the 
 departure of the waggon. Madame de Lescure went up to her 
 room, and the two gentlemen went down towards the farm-yanl. 
 The waggon stood at the kitchen-door already packed, and the 
 two servants were bringing the oxen down the road to yoke 
 them to it. 
 
 " Go out at the front gate, Francois, and by the church at 
 Tcrves ; it is the better road. You will remain a couple of hour- 
 in Bressuire. We shall overtake you before you reach Beaulieu. ' 
 The servant acknowledged his master's commands, and 
 fastened the last rope which bound the oxen to their burden. 
 He spoke to his beasts, and accompanied his word with a gond 
 from a pointed stick he held in his hand, when his further pro- 
 gress was stopped by Henri's calling from a little distance down 
 the road. 
 
 " Stop, Francois, stop ! *' said he. " Charles, come here ; 
 someone is coming hither at the top of his speed. Don't you 
 hear the noise of hoofs upon the road ? " 
 
 De Lescure ran to him and kneeling down, put his ear to 
 the ground. " It's a donkey or a mule," said he ; "it is not a 
 horse's foot." 
 
 " Come down the avenue," said Henri, "and let us see who 
 it is. Whether mule or horse, the beast is going at his full 
 jpeed." 
 " Better stay where we are,** said De Lescure, " If he be 
 
CUsscfu a 17 
 
 comirtjr t<> 115, his news will reach the house quicker than by 
 our poing to meet him." 
 
 The rider grew nearer and nearer, and in a few momenls 
 turned up the road leading to the back of the house. The steps 
 of the tired brute became slower as he trotted up the avenue, 
 although the sound of a cudgel on his ribs were plainly audible. 
 Henri and De Lescure were standing under the garden wall, 
 and as the animal drew near them, they saw it was a jaded 
 donkey, ridden by a peasant girl. 
 
 ** Fly, for the sake of God ! " said the girl, even before she 
 dismounted from the donkey ; " fly for the sake of the blessed 
 Virgin. Take the ladies from the chiteau, or they will be burnt 
 —be burnt — be burnt ! " 
 
 .\s she screamed the last words she slipped from the donkey, 
 and almost fainted with the exertion she had undergone. She 
 \v.\5 the daughter of one of M. de Lescure's servants, and had 
 been sent from Clisson into service at the chateau, from whence 
 Westerman started on his expedition. When the republicans 
 made their appearance there, she had fled with the other 
 servants, but she had hung about the house, and about an hour 
 and a half before Westerman left the place she learnt, through 
 some of the soldiers, his intention of attacking Clisson that 
 night. 
 
 *' Who is coming to burn us, Marian ? " said De Lescure., 
 endeavouring by his own assumed coolness to enable her to 
 collect her thoughts and power of speech. 
 
 ** The blues— the blues ! " screamed the girl. " They had all 
 but overtaken me when I got to the short cut through the wood. 
 There they are, there they are," and the noise of the advancing 
 troop was distinctly audible through the stillness of the night. 
 
 The poor girl was quite exhausted, and fell to the ground 
 fainting. De Lescure and Henri had both stood still for a 
 moment, after having been made to comprehend that an im- 
 mediate attack was about to be made on the chdteau, but it was 
 only for a moment. 
 
 "We must carry them through the wood, Charles," said 
 Henri, whispering. " It is our only chance." 
 
 " True— true," said De Lescure. " Turn the oxen, Francjois, 
 turn them back through the yard into the fann-road, and then 
 keep to the left into the wood. We will meet you at the seven 
 limes." 
 
 " Take Victorine out through the garden," said Henri to his 
 cousin, who was now hurrying into the house, " and through the 
 iron gate, I saw the other day that the key was in it, and we 
 can turn it I tried it myself. I will bring Marie after you." 
 
 Henri stayed a moment to assist in turning the cumbrous 
 waiuroD. and ran back to open the farm gates. 
 
2i8 La VendU, 
 
 "Qose the gates after you, Francois,** said he, "and put the 
 
 tressels close against them. If you lose a minute in doing it, 
 
 you will gain five in delaying these devils. If you hear them 
 
 ' following you in the wood-road, draw the waggon across the 
 
 track and leave it." 
 
 He was only delayed two minutes by'going back to the yard 
 gates, but those two minutes were neaily fatal to him and 
 Marie* Marian also delayed him again as he returned to the 
 house. 
 
 "Where am I to go, M. Henri," said she; "what am I to 
 do ? they will be sure to kill me, for they saw me at Amaillou, 
 and will know that I gave the warning." 
 
 " Hide yourself, my girl," said Henri : " hide yourself, but not 
 in the house, for that will soon be a mass of ruins. Hide 
 yourself in the woods ; there cannot be many of these devils 
 here, and they will not remain long." 
 
 He hurried into the house as he ceased speaking, and at the 
 moment he did so Westerman and his thirty men turned the 
 corner of the avenue. He rushed from the back door through 
 the passages of the chateau into the hall, where he seized hold 
 of a large cloak belonging to De Lescure, which he threw over 
 his shoulder as he ran up stairs. On the stairs he met his cousin, 
 with Madame de Lescure and the nurse and child. 
 
 " Haste, Henri, for God's sake, haste," said she } " I heard 
 the tramp of their horses through my open window." 
 
 De Lescure had opened the summer door leading into the 
 garden as he came up stairs, to have it ready for his exit, and he, 
 and those under his care, escaped through it into the garden. 
 
 " Shut the garden door," roared Henri to him from the top of 
 the staircase. " Shut the door, whatever you do." De Lescure 
 could not understand his object, but he trusted his cousin, and 
 closed the door as he passed through It. Henri had perceived 
 \hat it would be impossible for him to regain the hall, and had 
 resolved to jump from the window of the staircase into the 
 'garden, with his precious burden in his arms. He foresaw thati 
 if the door were left open, pursuit through it would be both in-, 
 evitable and fatal. 
 
 Marie's room was close to the top of the stairs, and her lover 
 
 did not use much ceremony in opening the door. In going to 
 
 * and from his wife's chamber, De Lescure had not passed it, and 
 
 therefore the innocent girl slept soundly till Henri's sudden 
 
 entrance roused her from her dreams. 
 
 •' Who's that — who's that," said she, raising her head upon 
 her pillow. The window curtains of the room were hardly: 
 closed, and she recognised immediately Henri's tall figure and 
 singular costume. "Oh! Henri, what has happened? what 
 brings you here ? ** 
 
Clisson, 219 
 
 " Rise, dearest, we must fly," said he ; " we have not a 
 moinent~we fear the blues are coming»." He dreaded that she 
 would have lost all power of motion, had he told her that they 
 were already beneath the windows. 
 
 " Hav'n't I time to dress ? " said she ; " I won't be a moment 
 — not one minute." 
 
 *' No, darling," answered he, raising her from the bed, as 
 though she wore an infant, and folding her in her brother's 
 cloak. "We hav'n't one instant to throw away. Remember 
 who has you in his arms : remember that is is I, your own 
 Henri, who am pressing you to my heart." He took her up 
 from the bed in his left arm, and with his right hand arranged 
 the cloak around her person, and carrying her out into the 
 passage, hurried to the window which he had left open. 
 
 This window looked from the opposite end of the house to 
 that at which Westerman found the open door. It was on the 
 first landing of the staircase, and was therefore distant from the 
 ground but little more than half the height of the ground floor, 
 but a hard gravel path ran immediately under it ; and though 
 the leap was one which few young men might much hesitate to 
 take with empty arms, it was perilous with such a burden as 
 Henri had to carry. He however did not think twice about it, 
 and would have considered himself and his charge nearly safe 
 could he have reached the window unmolested, but that he was 
 not allowed to do. 
 
 As he began to descend the stairs the loud noise of the 
 troopers' boots, and the quick voice of Westerman giving his 
 commands in the hall, told him at once that the house was 
 already occupied by the blues.' Even then, at that awful 
 moment, he rejoiced at his precaution in having desired Do 
 Lescure to close the garden door. He took a large horse pistol 
 from his belt, and holding it by the barrel, jumped down three 
 stairs at a time, and already had his foot on the sill of the open 
 window, when Serjeant Craucher, who had been the first of the 
 blues to enter the house, rushing up the stairs, succeeded in 
 getting hold of the cloak which covered Marie. He pulled it 
 from off her neck and shoulders, and her beautiful dark cluster- 
 ing curls fell down over Henri's shoulder. Her pale face, an* 
 white neck and bosom were exposed ; her eyes were fast closed, 
 as though she expected instant death, but both her anns were 
 tightly fastened round her lover. 
 
 Craucher stumbled in his hurry in rushing up the stairs, but 
 he still held fast to the collar of the cloak. 
 
 " I must stop your further journey, my pretty dear," said he : 
 **the night air is not good for you—by heavens, it's the red 
 
 He never finished bis speech, or attempted to make anothcj; 
 
ii6 Lt VcmfJe. 
 
 0:\ entering the back door he had struck his brazen head-piece 
 against the lintel ; the shock had broken the clasp, and his head 
 was consequently bare. As he pulled at the cloak, Henri 
 i raised his right arm powerfully, and drove the butt-end of the 
 / pistol which he held, right through his skull, and scattered his 
 / brains upon the staircase. The grasp of the dying man was so 
 [ firm that he could not extricate the cloak from his fingers. He 
 saw that his only chance of escape was to relinquish it ; he did 
 so, and as he leapt from the window to the ground, poor Marie 
 ■ had nothing round her but her slight night dress. 
 \ Henri stumbled as he came to the hard gravel, but still he 
 allowed no portion of Marie's body to touch the ground. He 
 recovered himself in a moment, and made for the iron gate 
 leading from the garden to the wood, through which De Lescure 
 and his wife had escaped. As Henri leapt from the window, 
 Wcsterman's eye had caught sight of the red scarf, and he 
 knew that it was Larochejaquelin who was escaping. He 
 rushed himself to the window, though, had he known it, he 
 might have gone into the garden through the door, which was 
 close at his hand. He leapt on the path, and was immediately 
 on Henri's track* It v/as about three hundred yards from the 
 house to the iron gate, and when Wcsterman was again on his 
 feet, Henri had covered two thirds of the distance. 
 
 Run now, Henri, run your best, for the load you carry is 
 heavy, and the German is strong and light of foot ; his pistols, 
 too, are loaded, and he well knows how to use them ; but yours 
 are empty, and you will not find another bare skull opposed to 
 your heavy right hand ; run, dear friend, and loving cousin ; run 
 faster with that precious trembling burden of your's, or all you 
 have yet done will have been done in vain. 
 
 But what avails his running : he did run fast and well, laden 
 as he was, and fatigued with no ordinary day's work : he gained 
 the gate, while as yet his pursuer was above a hundred yards 
 behind him ; but of what avail would that be, if he were obliged 
 to leave the passage free for his enemy : it was impossible that 
 he should continue to hold his ground, while he carried the 
 fainting girl in his arms. It was then that that wonderful pre- 
 sence of mind, in the midst of the most urgent danger, of which 
 Henri Larochejaquelin showed so many instances during war, 
 stood him in stead, and saved two lives when salvation seemed 
 impossible. 
 
 In wandering about the place some days before, he had 
 passed through this gate, and obsening that the key stood in 
 the lock, he had idly turned it backwards and forwards, locking 
 and relocking the gate without an object ; he had then observed 
 that though the key worked easily, there was something wrong 
 about the wards which prevented him from drawing it out after 
 
C/iSSOft, 221 
 
 the lock was tunied. The gate was made of iron bars, which 
 were far enough asunder to allow of his hand and arm being 
 passed through, so that when outside the gate he could then 
 turn the key which was on the inside. 
 
 All these particulars he remembered in that moment of agony, 
 and resolved what he would do to overcome the difficulties 
 which they threw in his way. Having passed through the gate, 
 he dropped his now senseless companion beneath the shelter of 
 the wall, and passing his hands through the bars, turned the 
 key and locked it. He then took out a short hunting-knife 
 which he wore, and passing that also through the bars of the 
 gate, he inserted it in the handle of the key, and then wrenching 
 it round with all his force, broke the key in the wards : all the 
 smiths in Poitou could not have locked the gate closer, or made 
 it more impossible to open it. 
 
 Though the feat is tedious to explain, it did not take half a 
 minute in performance ; but still it allowed Westerman to come 
 within pistol shot of him before he could get beneath the shelter 
 of the wall. The German, however, in his anxiety to get 
 through the gate, omitted to Cue, though he had the pistol in his 
 hand ; he seized hold of the iron bars and shook them im- 
 potcntly : strong as he was, the gate was much too firm to be 
 moved by his strength ; the wall was twelve feet high, and 
 utterly beyond his power to scale without a ladder. He felt 
 that he waa foiled, and returned to the chAteau to wreak his 
 vengeance upon the inhabitants who might be left there, and on 
 the furniture and walls of the house itself. 
 
 Henri pursued his way unopposed, and at the appointed spot, 
 a little greensward surrounded by seven lime trees, he found his 
 cousin and the rest of the party waiting for him, as well as 
 Francois with the waggon. 
 
 ** Is she safe — is she alive?" asked Madame de Lescure, 
 almost frantic with grief and fear. 
 
 " She is alive, and I believe unhurt," said Henri ; " but I fear 
 she is senseless. She is quite undressed, too, as I was obliged 
 to leave the cloak in which I had covered her, in tlie dying 
 grasp of a trooper whom I killed." He gently laid her down, 
 with her head in the lap of her kind sister, and then turned his 
 back upon the party, that he might not gaze on the flir bosom, 
 which was all exposed, and the naked limbs, which her dis- 
 hevelled night dress did not suffice to cover. 
 
 Madame de Lescure and her nurse hastened to strip them- 
 selves of a p>ortion of their clothes ; it had been lucky that 
 neither of them were undressed at the time of the attack, and 
 though they were ill-prepared for a long journey, having neither 
 caps nor strong shoes, nor shawls of any kind, yet they contrived 
 between them to dress poor Marie decently. The nurse ga>'« 
 
•33 La Vend^i. 
 
 her shoes and stockings, declaring that going barefoot would nor 
 trouble her the least, and before many minutes had been wasted, 
 they were again ready to proceed. 
 
 De Lescure and Henri had not lost these precious moments : 
 the waggon was again put into motion : the three men carefully 
 armed themselves: they loaded their pistols, for among the 
 goods they were taking away was the little remnant of gun- 
 powder which was left among them : they decided that on hear- 
 mg the first sound of pursuit, they would leave the waggon, and 
 betake themselves to the thickest part of the woods ; but both 
 De Lescure and Henri were of opinion that they would not be 
 followed. 
 
 " There cannot be many of them," said Henri, " and what 
 there are, are all mounted. They are the German hussars; I 
 know them by their brazen helmets. They won't attempt to 
 follow us through the woods." 
 
 ♦ "They would have been after us before now had they 
 intended doing so," said De Lescure. " The way was clear for 
 them through the farm-yard, Frangois. was it not ? " 
 
 " No, Monseigneur," said Francois. " It was anything b'lt 
 clear. I turned the big bull out of his stall into the yard as I 
 came out, and closed the gate behind me : he would gore a 
 dozen of them before they could make their way through." 
 
 Whether the pursuit was arrested by the bull, or prevented 
 by any other cause, the fugitives were not interrupted. They 
 walked wearily and painfully, but yet patiently, and without a 
 complaint, above a league, before the women ventured to get 
 upon the waggon. They then got out upon the road to Bres* 
 Buire, at no groat distance from that town, and on reaching 
 Bressuire they got refreshment and proper clothes, and hired a 
 voiture for the remainder of their journey. 
 
 Marie had hardly spoken from the moment when Henri 
 dragged her from her bed, to that in which he helped her in the 
 waggon } but after she had been sitting for a while, she indulged 
 in a flood of tears, which she had restrained as long as she felt 
 her life depended on her exertions, and then calling Henri to 
 her side, she thanked him, as she so well knew how to do, for 
 all he had done for her. 
 
 ^ " You have saved my life, dearest, now,** said she, " and ten 
 times more than my life ; but I will not say that I love you 
 better than I did before. Had 1 not known that it was your 
 arms which were around me, I must have died when that horrid 
 countenance glared over me on the stairs. Have I dreamt 
 since, or was 1 really looking upon that face, when the agony of 
 death came across it ? " And as she asked the question, she 
 closed her eyes, and her whole body trembled violently. 
 
 * I will tell you all that happened another timci love/ said 
 
Clissoru aaj 
 
 lie ; "we will not talk of the^e things now. A day or two at 
 Durbelli^re will restore you to your spirits, and then we will 
 rejoice over our escape." 
 
 They got into a voiiure at Bressuire, and from thence 
 continued their journey in somclhing more like comfort, while 
 Francois with the waggon followed them ; but the two ladies 
 'were not destined to reach Durbelli^re that night. When they 
 were about half-way between Bressuire and the chdteau, they 
 nverc met by a man on horseback, who was already on his waj 
 to Clisson. It was Jean Stein, who was hurrying as fast as his 
 ^ast could carry him from Durbelli^re to M. Larochejaquelin ; 
 ^ut instead of explaining now what was the purport of his 
 errand, we will return to Clisson, and see how Westcrman 
 finished there the task he had undertaken. 
 
 1 When he found himself foiled at the gate, he returned as 
 quickly as possible to the house. His men had already 
 ransacked every room, and in their anxiety to find the more 
 distinguished inhabitants of the chdteau, allowed the domestics 
 to escape ; but few of them had been in bed, and even they 
 were overlooked in the anxiety of the troopers to find M. de 
 Lescure, They did not dream that any warning couid huve 
 been given to the chateau, nor could they conceive it possible 
 that at three o'clock in the morning the royalists should have 
 been up, and ready for instant flight It was not till nearly five 
 that they satisfied themselves that neither De Lescure nor his 
 wife, nor any of his family were in the house, and then, at the 
 command of their General, they commenced the work of 
 destruction, j 
 
 ;: The troopers got hay and straw from the farm-yard (not with- 
 ,oat some opposition from the loose bull), and piled them in 
 every room in the chateau ; they then took the furniture, beds, 
 curtains, wearing appeal, and every article of value they could 
 find, and placed them in heaps, in such a way as to render 
 them an immediate prey to the flames. They did the same to 
 barns and granaries, in which there were large stores of corn, 
 and also to the stables, in which stood the horses and cattle ; 
 the bull, which Francois had loosened, was the only animal 
 about the place that did not perish. Having systematically 
 prepared the chateau and outhouses for a huge bonfire, they put 
 a light to the straw in various places, and re-mounting their 
 horses, stood around it till they saw that no efforts which the 
 peasants might use could extinguish the flames. Westerman 
 then gave the word of command for their return ; they started at 
 a sharp trot, and he did not allow them to slacken their pace 
 till he had again passed the ruins of the little village of 
 Axnaillou. 
 • While the hoopers were thus preparinsr to set the chAteau iA 
 
ai4 . Zj Vend^i. 
 
 a blaie, the general himself was not idle ; he seated himself In 
 the salon, and having had pen, ink, and paper brought to him, 
 he wrote the following despatch to the president of the Conven- 
 tion, in which it wiU be observed, he studiously omitted all 
 mention of the defeat which he had incurred between Amaillou 
 and Clisson, and the retreat which his army had been forced to 
 make. The date is given in the denomination, which will be , 
 intelligible to the reader, as the Fructidors and the Messidors, ' 
 Brumaires and Nivoses, which had then been adopted by the 
 republicans, now convey no very defined idea to people, who 
 have not yet scrupled to call the months by their old aristocratic 
 names, or to count the year from their Saviour's birth. 
 
 " Chateau of Clisson, - - 
 "July, 1798. 
 «* Citizen t'resident, 
 
 »* I have the honour to acquaint you that 1 have already suc- 
 ceeded in carrying the arms of the Convention as far as the 
 residence of the most powerful of the rebel leaders. As I am 
 writing, my men are preparing to set fire to this den of aristo- 
 craiic infamy, and within an hour the stronghold of the redoubted 
 De Lescure will be level with the ground. 
 
 " This wretched country is so crowded with ravines and rocks, 
 and the roads are so narrow, so deep, and so bad, that I have 
 been forced to make my way hither with a small detachment of 
 thirty men only, but I have found that sufficient to drive the 
 tiger from his lair. He and the other rebel leader Larochc- 
 jaquelin, have fled into the woods, without either money, arms, 
 or even clothing ; and 1 doubt not soon to be able to inform the 
 Convention that, at any rate, they can never again put them- 
 selves at the head of a rebellious army. 
 
 " Citizen President, deign to receive from my hands tlie only 
 trophies which I have deemed myself justified in rescuing fiom 
 the flames which are about to consume this accursed chateau. 
 I enclose the will and a miniature portrait of the aristocrat, De 
 Lescure. 
 
 " I pray you to receive, and to make acceptable to the Con» 
 vcntion, the most uistinguished, 
 
 " &c, &c., &c , 
 
 " WESI ERAIAN.* 
 \ I • • 
 
CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 SANTERRE, 
 
 JANTERRE and Adolphe Denot left the main army 
 at Thouars, and made their way to Argenton with 
 about four thousand men. From thence, Durbclli^re 
 was distant about four leagues ; and Santerre lost no 
 time in making his preparations for destroying that chateau, as 
 Westcrman was at the same moment doing at Clisson. Generally 
 speaking, the people of the towns, even in La Vendt^e, sided with 
 the republicans ; but the people of Argenton were supposed to 
 be royalists, and Santerre therefore gave positive orders that 
 every house in it should be destroyed. He did not, however, 
 himself want to see the horrid work done, but hurried on to 
 Durbelli^re, that he might, if possible, surprise the Vendean 
 "chiefs wliom he believed to be staying there. About one 
 hundred and fifty men followed him, and the remainder of the 
 army was to march on to Bressuire, as soon as Argentine was 
 in ashes. 
 
 Santerre, since he had left the company of the other generals 
 at Thouars, had become more familiar and confidential with 
 Denot, and rode side by side with him from Argenton, talking 
 freely about the manners of the country, and the hopes of the 
 royalists, till he succeeded in getting the traitor into good 
 humour, and obtaining from him something like a correct idea 
 of the state of the country'. 
 
 "And this is the parish of St. Aubin?" said Santerre, as they 
 drew near to Durbelli^re. 
 
 " Yes,** said Denot, " this is the parish of St. Aubin ; and the , 
 estate of the Larochejaquelins." (^ 
 
 "And they are popular with the people?" said Santerrf. 
 " Thev must have been well loved, or tney would not have be«^. 
 so truly followed." , 
 
226 La Vtndie, 
 
 Denpt blushed at the heavy accusation against himself which 
 these words conveyed ; but he made no answer. 
 
 " And this old man, my friend ? " said Santerre, " this ancient 
 cripple that you tell me of? he is too old, too infirm, I suppose, 
 to care much about this revolt ? " 
 
 " Not at all," said Denot ; " no one in the country is more 
 anxious for success than the old Marquis." 
 
 " There you are again, friend," said Santerre, " I know you'll 
 get your neck into danger. Have I not told you that the 
 Republic knows nothing of the Marquises?" 
 
 *' I only called him by the name he goes by, as you'd call a 
 man Peter, if his name were Peter. 1 didn't mean to say he 
 was a Marquis," said Denot, excusing himself. 
 
 " But you mustn't say so at all, unless you speak of him as a 
 criminal, as you would speak of a perjurer, or a parricide. But 
 as to this foolish old man ; is he not doting? If I thought that, 
 I might perhaps be excused in sparing him." 
 
 " Doting ! " said Denot ; " not at all ; he has all his faculties 
 as much as you or I." 
 
 Santerre gave a look of disgust at the wretch, who would not 
 even follow his hint by giving such an account as might spare 
 the life of the old man who had been his host, his guardian, and 
 his friend. He said nothing further, however, but trotted on 
 Quickly, till the cherry groves of Durbelli^re were in sight, and 
 then he halted to give his final orders to his men, and make 
 arrangements that the house should be surrounded. 
 
 " You remember our bargain, citizen general ?" said Denot. 
 
 " What bargain ? " asked the brewer. 
 
 " Why, about the young lady ; the girl, you know," replied the 
 other. " No one is to interfere between me and Agatha Laroche- 
 jaquelin. She is to be my prize and my reward." 
 
 " I will be as good as my word," said Santerre, " as long as 
 you are true to yours ; but I own I pity the young lady the 
 treatment she is likely to receive from her lover," and as he 
 spoke, he rode up to the front door of the house, accompanied 
 by Denot and a company of men on horseback. 
 
 The immediate arrival of republican soldiers in the neighbour- 
 hood of Durbclliere was neither expected, or even feared by the 
 inhabitants of the chateau, or it would not have been left by 
 Henri, as it had been, perfectly undefended. The truth waa 
 this : the royalists had hitherto been so very generally successful 
 against the republicans ; and that, when every odds of number, 
 arms, and position had been in favour of their enemies, that 
 they had learnt to look with contempt upon the blues, as they 
 called them. Hitherto the royalists had always been the attack- 
 ing party ; the republicans had contented themselves with 
 endeavouring to keep their position within the towns; and when 
 
S ant err e, a 17 
 
 driven from thence, hai retreated altogether out of the revolted 
 district. Except lately at Nantes, the Vendeans had as yet in- 
 clined no great reverse ; they had not, therdore, learnt to fear 
 that their houses would be attacked and burnt ; their corn and 
 cattle destroyed ; and even their wives and children massacred. 
 The troops which had now been dispatched by the Convention 
 for the subjection of the country, were of a very different 
 character from those with whom the Vendeans had as yet 
 contended, and the royalists were not long before they 
 experienced all the horrors of a civil war, in which quarter was 
 refused them by their enemies, and mercy even to children was 
 considered as a crime. 
 
 When Santerre rode up to the door of the chdteau, ten men 
 might have taken possession of Durbelli^re. It was a fine July 
 evening, about seven o'clock. The old Marquis had been 
 wheeled in his easy chair out of the house, to the top of th'ji 
 broad steps which led from the back of the chdteau into the 
 garden. Agatha was sitting at his feet on the top step, reading 
 to him, and the little Chevalier Mondyon, who retained no 
 semblance of the soldier about his person, except the red scarf 
 round his waist, was seated straddle-legged atop of one of the 
 huge white lions which guarded the entrance. 
 
 •" Agatha, I hear horsemen," said the boy, jumping off his seat, 
 "There — there — quite plain ! " 
 
 "It is Henri and Charles coming from Clisson," said 
 Agatha, 
 
 "If it be, they have a troop of cavalry with them," said the 
 Chevalier. *' Perhaps it's the Prince de Talmont, for I think 
 they have not so many horsemen with them in the south," and 
 the little Chevalier ran out to greet, as he thought, his gallant 
 friends. 
 
 "Whoever they be, Agatha," said the old marquis, "give 
 them a warm welcome if they come in the King's name. They 
 will know that I cannot rise to meet them, but make them 
 welcome to everything in and about the chdteau." 
 
 Agatha had closed her book, and was rising to execute her 
 father's wishes, when Momont, the grey-haired butler, hurrying 
 round from the kitchen-door as fast as his old legs would carry 
 him, screamed out : " The blues ! the blues ! " 
 
 Agatha, who was in the act of entering the house as she 
 heard the fearful cry, turned instantly back to her father's side. 
 She was deadly pale, but she spoke not a word She grasped 
 her father's hand, and fixed herself close to his chair, determined 
 in that position to await the worst that her enemies could do 
 her. 
 
 " Run, Agatha, run,** said the Marquis, " into the garden, my 
 dear love* The gate will be open at the back. Run, Agatha, 
 
92S La VtndU, 
 
 for your life \* Agatha, however, did not stir, •* Do you henr 
 me, Agatha?" continued the old man, wildly supplicating her to 
 go from him. " Do you hear me, my daughter? If you would 
 5ave my blessing before I die, do as I bid you now. What are 
 my grew hairs to your young life, that you should sacrifice your- 
 self for me ? " 
 
 It was of no avail, for the daughter stood fast by her disabled 
 father's side, grasping his right hand so that nothing should tear 
 her from him, and turning her beautiful face towar/Js the house, 
 watching for the approach of her enemies. Nor had she to 
 watch long ; before tne Chevalier had been gone five minutes, 
 Santerre, with his sword drawn, tramped heavily through the 
 house, followed by Dcnot, and a score of his men. The door 
 from the salon to the garden steps was open, and without wail- 
 ing a moment in the house, he marched through and confronted 
 Agatha and her father, 
 
 " Here is your damsel safe, at any rate, friend Denot," said 
 Santtrrc, " and a pretty girl she is too, but a bitter royalist, no 
 doubt, by the proud turn of her white neck." 
 
 Dcnot did not immediately follow Santerre on to the steps. 
 He had firmly resolved to thrust himself upon Agatha as a 
 conqueror ; to rush upon her as an eagle upon its prey, and to 
 carry her off with a strong hand, disregarding her cries, as the 
 eagle disregards the bleating of the lamb ; but the first glance 
 he had got of his victim somehow startled his resolve, and 
 scared the blood from his cheek, and almost from his heart. 
 When Santerre, however, called to him, he was obliged to 
 follow ; and then, making fearful grimaces with his lips, and 
 scowling with his eyes, he stalked out before the astonislicd 
 father and daughter. 
 
 " Yes, Agatha,'' he said, looking full upon her, but not daring 
 to turn an eye upon the countenance of her much more indignant 
 father, " yes, Agatha, I have coaie as I told you 1 would come 
 — I have come to claim you, and no power shall now gainsay 
 me. I have come to seize you as my own ; to take you with a 
 strong hand, and an out-stretched arm. My prayers were of no 
 avail ; you shall find that my sword is more powerful. When 
 last I sought you, it was as a suppliant, I now come for you as 
 a conqueror. Come, Agatha, you are now mine. All the powers 
 of earth shall not rescue you from my arms." 
 
 " You appear to me. Sir, to come as a traitor," said Agatha. 
 
 *' A good republican, my dear," said Santerre : "he comes as 
 a good republican." 
 
 Agatha did not deign to make any further reply, but as 
 Santerre and the men had now left the steps and gone into the 
 house, Denot put his hand on her arm to lead her " vay rom 
 her father's side. 
 
" Leave her alone," shouted Ihe old man, now speaking for 
 Iho first time since his eyes had rested on the republican soldiers, 
 •' Leave her alone, thou false wretch, thou basest of all miscreants. 
 
 Touch her not, or — or ," and the poor Marquis strove in vain 
 
 to rise from his chair to his daughter's help. " Moment, Chapeau, 
 Arthur — Arthur," he halloed. " My daughter— my daughter, 
 oh ! my daughter ! " 
 
 No one, however, came to his aid, and Agatha, finding resist- 
 ance to be in vain, suffered Denot to lead her into the house, 
 without uttering another word. 
 
 Not the slightest resistance was made to Santerre and his 
 men ; he took possession of the chateau without a word even 
 being said to stop him. The servant girls hid themselves in the 
 garrets, but were soon brought down again, and bade to set 
 quiet in the hall, till their fate should have been decided on. 
 Momont attempted to conceal himself in the garden, but he was 
 soon found and brought back again, and stationed among the 
 women. Chapeau was not seen at all, and even the little 
 Chevalier was missing for a time, though he returned of his 
 own accord before Santerre had been long in possession of the 
 place. 
 
 Santerre seated himself with two of his officers in the largest 
 of the salons, and ordered that the old Marquis should be 
 brought before him. He was rather perplexed as to what ho 
 should next do ; his orders were to destroy everything — houses, 
 properly, and life ; to spare neither age, sex, nor imbecility ; anl 
 Santerre, undertaking the commission, had thought, in his rc' 
 publican zeal, that he would find no weakness in himself to 
 militate against the execution of such orders. He was mistaken 
 in himself, however. He had led the fierce mobs of Paris to 
 acts of bloodshed and violence, but in doing so he had only as- 
 sisted with an eager hand in the overthrow of those who he 
 thought were tyrannizing over the people. He had stood by at 
 the execution of a King, and ordered the drums to beat to 
 drown the last words of the dying monarch ; but the King had 
 been condemned by those whom Santerre looked on as the 
 wisest and best of the nation ; and in acting as he had done, he 
 had been carried on as well by ideas of duty as excitement. He 
 found his present a much more difficult task. Indeed, after 
 sitting still for some few minutes in that easy chair, meditating 
 what he would do next, he found that the work which he had 
 undertaken was one which he literally could not go through 
 with. 
 
 ** Is the old gentleman there ?" said he ; and as he asked, the 
 marquis, with his eves closed, and his hands crossed on his 
 breast, was wheeled into the room. Agatha was seated, or 
 rather was crouching, on a sofa in the comer, for Adolphe Dcnot 
 
ji30 Ztf Vendit*, 
 
 was standing over her uttering threats and words of love 
 alternately, the latter of which, however, sounded by far the 
 most horrible in poor Agatha's ears. 
 
 " Give me a pen and paper," said Santerre, and having got 
 them, he continued writing for a minute or twp. " Now, my old 
 friend," said he, addressing the Marquis, " I am given to under- 
 stand that you yourself, personally, have never Tent a hand to 
 this iniquitous revolt. Is it so ? " 
 " I am too old and too infirm to carry a sword,** said the 
 
 Marquis, " but what little I could do for my King, I ." 
 
 " Exactly— exactly," said Santerre, interrupting him, " you are 
 a cripple I see. There is no evidence wanting to show that you 
 hav'n't taken up arms. It is this pestilent son of your's has 
 brought you into trouble." 
 
 " He would have been no son of mine had he not acted as he 
 has done," said the old man indignantly. 
 
 " Will you hold your silly tongue, my friend," said Santerre. 
 " He is doting, quite doting, I see," and he turned round to his 
 brother officers, as though appealing to them to corroborate his 
 opinion. 
 
 " Either that, or else he must be very fond of Mademoiselle 
 Guillotine," said one of them. 
 
 " Well, now, old gentleman, answer me this question," said 
 Santerre, " do you want to die this evening ?" 
 
 " If I could but think that my daughter was safe, and out of 
 the power of that viper, whom I have warmed in my bosom, 
 death would not be unwelcome to me." 
 
 " Viper ! " said Denot, curling his lips, and speaking through 
 his closed teeth. " Warmed in your bosom I I have yet to 
 learn, old man, that I owe you aught ; but if it be a comfort to 
 you to know it, know that no worse evil awaits your daughter 
 than to become the wife of a true Frenchman." 
 
 " True ! " said the Marquis. " Yes, as true as the Prince of 
 Darkness." 
 
 " Come, old man," said Santerre, " wc know nothing about 
 Princes, nor yet about Marquises. You must be content now 
 to call the devil by his plain name, though I rather believe it has 
 already been decided in Paris, that the gentleman is nothing 
 but a foul fiction of the aristocrats. Come, if you wish to save 
 your neck, put your signature to this little document." 
 
 " I will sign nothing that is put before me in such a manner," 
 said the Marquis. 
 
 " Why you have not even read it Take the pen in your hand, 
 1 tell you ; it is only a proclamation of the truth, that you have 
 not taken up arms against the Republic." 
 
 Agatha understood the object of the republican General, 
 though her father did not. She sprang from the comer in which 
 
Sanierre, 231 
 
 Denot had placed her, and coming close to her father, whispeicd 
 to him. 
 
 "The gentleman means well to you, father, though his words 
 are rough. He wishes to save us. He will save both of us, 
 father, if he can. Read the paper, and if there be nothing 
 absolutely untrue in it, put your name to it." 
 
 '•■ Read it yourself, Agatha," said he, " and if you then tell 
 me to sign it, I will do so." 
 
 Agatha took up the paper which Santerrc had written, and 
 read, but not aloud, the following words : 
 
 " I hereby proclaim myself a true son of the Republic, and 
 a citizen brother of all free Frenchmen. I declare that I have 
 never carried arms against the Convention myself, and demand 
 that I may not be accounted responsible for any misguided 
 members of my family who may have done so." 
 
 Twice Agatha read the words, and as she did so, her father's 
 eyes rested anxiously on her face. " Well, my child," said he, 
 " your father's honour is in your hands ; tell me what I am to 
 do," and he mechanically held the pen within his fingers, which 
 Santerre had thrust into his hand. 
 
 "We will die, father," said she, "if these men please it,** 
 and she put down the document on the table on which it had 
 been written. " I cannot ask you to denounce our dear, our 
 gallant Henri. I cannot bid you to deny your King. Death at 
 any rate will not dishonour us. We will only beg of this gentle^ 
 man that in his mercy he will not separate us," and putting her 
 arm round her father's neck, she fastened her hand upon the 
 folds of his coat, as though determined that nothing should again 
 separate her from his side. 
 
 ** Denounce Henri !" said the old man ; " denounce my own 
 dear, gallant son, the most loyal of those who love their King — 
 the bravest of the brave ! No, Sir ! I give you no thanks for 
 your mercy, if you intended any. I, and my daughter. Sir, 
 cannot bear arms for our King ; she by reason of her sex, 
 and I from my infirmities j but, Sir, we can die for him ; we 
 can die for him as readily as the bravest who falls in the firs( 
 ranks of the battle. Had I still so much power in my own house 
 as to command a cup of wine, I would drink my last pledge to 
 my royal master — but it matters not ; the heart and the will arc 
 still the same," and taking off the tassclled velvet cap which he 
 wore, he waved it above his head, exclaiming, ** ViveURoif 
 Vive U Rot / " 
 
 " The accursed, pestilent old fanatic 1 " said Santerre^ spurn, 
 ing the table as he rose in his passion, and upsetting it mto ths 
 middle of the room ; and then he walked up and down the saloit 
 with rapid strides, trying to induce himself to give orders for tha 
 immediate execution of the suunch old royalist. 
 
'959 La VituUi, 
 
 •* What Is to be clone next, General ?** said one of his officers* 
 ^ho did not quite admire the evident clemency of tbe brewer. 
 
 " The accursed, pestilent old fanatic ! " he repeated between 
 his teeth ; and then he said, after drawing a lonjr breath ; 
 "they must k'O to Taris, and let Founuicr Tinvillc deal with 
 them. There may be secrets that I know »ot of. I think ii 
 better that thev should po to Paris." And ho felt relieved of a 
 heavy load in naving devised a scheme by which he could avoi«l 
 having himself to give the order for the execution. ** Let him he 
 locked up, and well treated, mind you. He shall go to Saumur 
 in his own carriage, and Barr^jre may send him to Paris how he 
 pleases, or to the devil if he chooses.'* 
 
 "And the servants, General ?" 
 
 " Oh I .-xh, yes, the servants ! " said Sanlcrre, walking out into 
 the hall to inspect them ; "women, ain't they? What, five, six, 
 seven, nine women, one old man, and a boy ; well, 1 suppose wt 
 must have them out in a row, and shoot them." 
 
 Down on their knees went the nine women and the boy, Im- 
 ploring that their innocent lives might be spared to them. 
 Moment, like his master, had still some spirit in his bosom, and 
 kept his scat, sayin;x to himself, but out loud, " 1 told him so— 
 1 told him so. 1 toUl him that wc who remained here needed 
 as much courage as those who went to the wars ; but now, he 
 that talked ho much, he'» the only one to rww away," The poor 
 buller alluded to Chapcau, who had certainly been in the house 
 a few minutes before the arrival of the republicans, and who as 
 certainly h!M not been seen since. 
 
 •• I suppose wc must have them out before the house, and ftrc 
 upon them ? " 
 
 And he turned to the officer who Was next to him, as though 
 asking his advice. 
 
 " 11 you ask n)y advice, General, I would make no different e 
 between the lot ; ten minutes should see the last of the whole 
 set of them— the old man, his daughter, and the rest. If we arc 
 to send every master of a family with his children up to Paris, 
 or even to Saumur, the tribunals can never do their work, nor 
 can the guillotines fall half fast enough for them." 
 
 •' When 1 ask your advice on one subject. Captain, I do not 
 expect you to gw«» It me on another," said Santerre. " Sergeant, 
 take those women out, and the old man, and the boy, staiul 
 them in a line upon the gravel plot there, and bring a file of 
 musketeers." And the republican General again began pacing 
 up and down the room, as though he did not at all like the 
 position in which his patriotic zeal had placed him. 
 
 The poor women were dragged by their limbs out before the 
 door, screeching as they went, and filling the air with their loud, 
 agonising cries. Moment walked after them, with his head 
 
S ant em, 333 
 
 hanginj; down, his knees shaking, and his back bent double j 
 but still he was walking himself; he was still able to save him- 
 self the dis;;race of being dragged out hke the women. When 
 he got to the front door, he attempted to totter back, but a re» 
 publican soldier stopped him. 
 
 •* My master ! my dear :naster ! " saJd Momont, " let me but 
 kiss his hand, and T '.vill come back." 
 
 The soldier let him pass in, and the old man in a moment 
 was at his master's feet. " God bless vou, Monscigncur !" said 
 he, " God bless you ! Say one word of kindness to your servant, 
 before he is shot for loving his master and his King." 
 
 The Marquis put his hand on the grey hairs of the old butler, 
 and moved his lips, but he said nothing : the power of speech 
 for the time failed him ; the energy he had displayed, and the 
 excitement he had felt, had been too much for him, and he was 
 unable to reply aloud to the blessing of his faithful servant. 
 
 *' God bless you, Momont ! " said Agatha, calmly, as she 
 stood close to her father, still holding to his coat, and supporting 
 his head against her body. " Let your last thoughts be of the 
 Saviour who died for you, and so shall your death be only the 
 end of all your troubles." 
 
 He was not allowed to remain longer on his knees, but was 
 hurried back to the spot where the women were awaiting their 
 doom. The soldiers could not get them to stand ; they were 
 crouching down on the ground in all positions, one or two with 
 their heads almost buried in the earth, one or two kneeling, and 
 still screaming for mercy. The old housekeeper had fallen on 
 her haunches, and was looking up to heaven, while she wildly 
 struck the ground with her hands ; the poor page had made a 
 last, but futile effort to escape with the aid of his heels, but 
 he had been at once caught, and was now bound by his waist 
 to a tree, which grew close to the road on which the wretched 
 party were huddled ; the poor boy had quite forgotten his 
 attempt at manhood and mingled his loud screams with those 
 of the women. 
 
 " General," said the sergeant, steppnng up to him, " the men 
 aje ready ; will you'give the word to fire?" 
 
 Two salons, one looking to the front of the house, and the 
 other to the back, communicated with each other by folding- 
 doors, which were now wide open. Santerre, the Marquis, 
 Denot, Agatha, and the other republican officer, were in the 
 back room ; the unfortunate wretches doomed to die were 
 collected on the gravel before the windows of the front room ; 
 the carabineers who were to fire on them stood in a double 
 file on the broad area before the front door, and above the 
 steps. Santerre, on being addressed bjr the sergeant, stalked 
 iqto tb9 front room to give the order ; his altered face plainly 
 
i$4 UVtndii. 
 
 Bhowed the strong passion which was at work within his heart. 
 As he passed from one room to the other, he threw his cap upon 
 the ground, and trampled on it ; then clenched his fist, and bit 
 his Up till the blood ran. The fatal word "Fire** was on his 
 tongue ; but, without intending it, he looked through the window, 
 and his eyes fell on the wretched creatures who were expecting 
 death, and he was unable to give the command. He sank back 
 upon a chair, and hiding his face in both his hands, he said to 
 the sergeant, in a low voice : — 
 
 " They must get some one else for this work, I am not the 
 man I thought 1 was." He then rose and said, in a voice he 
 vainly attempted should appear calm and dignified, " Sergeant, 
 keep the prisoners in custody this night ; I have clxinged my 
 mind. Be ready to march at four to-morrow morning, We 
 will have a bonfire to light us on our journey ; see that there are 
 plenty of faggots ready before you let the men sleep." 
 
 The poor women were unable to raise themselves and walk 
 away, when they were made to understand that they were not to 
 die that night. Some prayed, others screamed almost louder 
 than before : one or two of them fainted, and continued faint- 
 ing the greater part of the night : they were all of them taken 
 into the house, and kept together in the kitchen surrounded by 
 a guard. 
 
 "Citizen General !" said Dcnot to Santerre, stepping up to 
 him after this scene was over ; " I have performed my part of 
 my engagement, I believe." 
 
 "Well, man, supposing you have 5 what do you want? Are 
 you going to grumble because I have not slaughtered the 
 wretches you have betrayed to me ? " 
 
 " Not at all, General ; you know your own duty, doubtless. I 
 am going to return to Saumur, to which place I desire an escort 
 for myself and this young lady." 
 
 " By heaven I pity her ! " said Santerre. " I don't know what 
 has come to me to-night, that I should trouble myself with the 
 cares of a swarm of aristocrats." And then he said, addressing 
 Agatha, " Are you ready and willing, young woman, for a mid- 
 night ride with this hot young lover, who seems so fond of you ?" 
 " She must be ready. General Santerre," said Denot, taking 
 hold of Agatha's hand : " it is now my turn to command her ; 
 she must be ready, whether she be willing or no." 
 
 "You will not force me to leave my father?" said Agatha, 
 appealing to Santerre. " You will not deliver a poor unprotected 
 girl into the hands of such a maniac as that." 
 
 "Maniac!" said Denot. "But I care not; your words are 
 to me like the empty wind : the time had gone by for words 
 between you and me, when you refused to listen to those I 
 addressed to you upon my knees. Come, Agatha, come ; my 
 
Saniem^ 
 
 235 
 
 heart's treasure—for still you are so ; come, my love, my captive, 
 and my bride!" And Denot essayed to go, as though he 
 expected Agatha to follow him through the world like a tame 
 dog. 
 
 "Oh, Sir, protect me from him !" said Agatha, still appealing 
 to Santerre. " He is mad— you see and hear he is mad ! I have 
 not asked you for my life, nor do I so now ; but I pray you, I 
 beseech you, by the remembrance of the females who are dear 
 to yourself, save me from the power of that frantic man. Had 
 he not been mad, had he not utterly lost his senses, he would 
 have been the last to have brought you hither." 
 
 ** 1 have thought something like that myself, pretty one," said 
 Santerre. "" Come, Denot, you shall talk to the lady to-morrow ; 
 we will leave her with her father to-night." 
 
 "Your word, General!" said Denot, assuming his furious 
 look, " your plighted word and honour. Was she not to be my 
 prize, my captive, my reward. You dare not go back from the 
 promise you have made me." 
 
 " Nonsense, man alive," said Santerre. " You can't carry her 
 off to-night. I believe in my heart she's right, and that you're 
 as mad a man as ever roared in a hospital. Let go her arm, I 
 tell you ; you shall not drag her about in that way." 
 
 The Marquis, during this scene, was endeavouring to throw 
 his arms round his daughter, so as to protect her ; but his 'efforts 
 were but of little avail. Agatha herself still held to her father 
 by one hand, but the other she was unable to extricate from ner 
 persecutor's grasp. She did not scream or cry, for there was 
 something within her — a memory of Cathelineau's last moments, 
 of her brother's gallantry, and her father's loyalty, which strongly 
 urged her to repress her tears before a republican ; but her 
 strength was almost gone, her nerves were all but over strung, 
 when she heard a sudden noise behind her of some one rushing 
 into the room, and Adolphe Denot quickly dropped her hand, 
 and gave a yell of pain. He had received a sharp blow of a 
 cherry switch across his face, and the blood was running from 
 both his cheeks, 
 
 Santerre, and the other republican officers in the room, put 
 their hands to their pistols, and prepared to defend themselves, 
 but the only person who appeared was a young boy : to be sure 
 he had the dreadful red scarf round his waist ; but he had no 
 weapon but his cherry stick, after having given Denot the blow 
 across his face, he made no further use of that. It was the little 
 Chevalier who had arrived so opportunely ; he took Agatha's 
 hand in his, and pressed it closely, and took his place beside her 
 vithout speaking a word. 
 
 *'And who the deuce is this young bantam cock?'' said 
 Santerre. 
 
236 L(i Vendie* 
 
 "I amlhc little Chevalier Mondyon," said Arthur; "a tr.r' 
 royalist, and sworn knight to Agatha Larochejaq^uelin. And tiM 
 man there is a traitor and a false knave ; he is not fit to b 
 punished with a sword like a gentleman." 
 
 " Well crowed, my bantam," said Santerre ; " and be goo 
 enough to tell me where you come from. No, friend Denot, m 
 we'll have no dagger work just at present" And putting h 
 huge hand on the other's shoulder, he dragged him back a-s h 
 was about to plunge his krife into the little Chevalier. 
 
 " I came from the chernr wood there," said Arthur. " Mayb 
 vou think I ought not to have run away, and deserted my laG> 
 love. Maybe I'm rather ashamed of my own self, but at an . 
 rate when you speak of ic, say that I came back of my ow:. 
 accord. I'm not a bit afriiid to die now," and as he spoke h- 
 squeezed Agatha's hand. His heart was full of apprehension, 
 lest she should suspect for a moment that he had really (Ic . 
 from her through fear, but Agatha understood well his ready wi.. 
 and appreciated his more than boyish courage. 
 
 Santerre now made his arrangements for the night. All th 
 inhabitants of the chateau were kept under strict surreillance. 
 The Marquis, his daughter, and the Chevalier were allowed t » 
 remain together, and Denot was prevented from annoying their. 
 At day-break the following morning Durbelli^re was to be burnt, 
 and Santerre, with his prisoners, would then proceed to joii. 
 Westerman at Bressuire. 
 
 " Let him slaughter them if he likes," said he to himself, " i 
 don't care what he says of me. 1 am at any rate too well known 
 to be suspected. I don't know what came over me to-day, but 
 had the Republic depended on it, I could not have done it," and 
 he flung himself down on one of Agatha's sofas, and slept no: 
 the less soundly for having began his career of extermination in 
 10 vacillating a manner. 
 

 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE RF.SCUI-:, 
 
 ^-o^jHE lilllc Clicvalicr IkuI no intention of saving liimscif, 
 and deserting liis frierids,wiicn, on Santcrrc's approach, 
 he ran off, leaving Agatha and the Marquis at llic 
 fjaiden door of the cluitcau. He knew that Chapeau 
 was at the smith's forge, with his own pony. He had himself 
 sent him there ; and as soon as he perceived, on running round 
 the side of the house, that the whole front was occupied by the 
 blues, his first idea was to go after his pony, and ride as fast as 
 the animal could carry him to Echanbroignes, and bring the 
 royalists from thence to the rescue of their friends at Durbclli^rc. 
 With this object he clambered over the garden-wall, and well 
 knowing every foot of the ground, reached the forge in a few 
 nunutes. Chapeau and the smith were there, as was also the 
 pony, and a breathless countryman was already telling them 
 that the chateau was surrounded by the whole army of blues. 
 
 " Here's the Chevalier," said Chapeau, stopping the peasant 
 in his storv. " In the name of Heaven, M. Arthur, what is all 
 this?" 
 
 *' That traitor, Denot, has brought a parcel of blues down 
 upon the chateau," said the Chevalier. "The Marquis and 
 Mademoiselle Agatha are already in their hands ; they will bo 
 murdered before morning. What is to be done ? Oh ! Chapeau, 
 what arc we to do to save them ? " y • 
 
 "M. Denot!" said Chapeau. "You don't mean to say M/^ \ 
 Denot has turned blue " 
 
 " I saw him with my own eyes,* said the boy ; ** he was one 
 of the officers commanding the men ; but there waa another 
 over him, a big, clumsy, noisy man ; he it was I saw first of all, 
 and Denot was behind him ; and then there was a crowd of . 
 
838 JLa Vettdit* 
 
 horsemen following them. Both drawing-rooms were full before 
 we.kJiew they were in the house at all" 
 
 "And how did you get through them, M. Arthur?* said 
 Chapeau. 
 
 " I got over the wall behind the stables. ! never went into 
 the house at all. But what on earth are we to do, Chapeau ? 
 Can't we get the men from Echanbroigncs to come to the 
 rescue ? " 
 
 The matter was then discussed between them, and It was 
 decided that Chapeau should take the pony, and collect the 
 men at Echanbroignes and on the road thither, and that he 
 should return with them, if possible, during the night ; that the 
 smith should go off to St. Laud, and get Father Jerome to bring 
 with him the men from thence, and that Arthur should return to 
 the chateau. 
 
 " No," said he, when Chapeau pressed him to undertake the 
 mission to Echanbroignes, " I will not leave Mademoiselle 
 Agatha and the Marquis any longer. They will think 1 have 
 nm away. Besides, maybe, I can be of some service to them 
 there. At any rate, I will go and see what is going on ; but, 
 Chapeau, our lives depend on you. Don't lose one single 
 minute now, even though you should ride poor Bayard to death," 
 and he put his hand on the neck of the pony, whom he had 
 named after the flower of chivalry. 
 
 Chapeau and the smith started on their important missions, 
 and the Chevalier slowly, but manfully, walked back to the 
 chateau. No one stopped him as he walked through the open 
 gates, and in at the back door. On getting into the hall, he 
 heard the sound of the Marquis's voice, as he was praying 
 Santerre to preserve his daughter from Denot, and then hurry- 
 ing into the room, he made use of the little cherry stick which 
 he carried, in the manner which has been describcdi 
 
 None of the inhabitants of the chateau went to bed that 
 night ; indeed, the beds were all occupied by the troopers, who 
 threw themselves down to sleep, without taking off their boots, 
 wherever they could find any convenient place to lie down. To 
 do Santerre justice, he repeatedly pressed the Marquis to go to 
 his own room, assuring him that he should not be further dis- 
 turbed than by the presence of a sentinel ; but the old man 
 insisted on remaining in the salon, and Agatha and the 
 Chevalier sat with him. Santerre and Denot, and a cavalry 
 sergeant, remained in the same room, and a couple of sentinels 
 were stationed on the top of the steps at the back of the house, 
 and four at the front. None of the party in the salon slept, 
 excepting Santerre ; but they all sat silent ; neither Arthur nor 
 Agatha dared to speak to each other on the subject which at 
 that time filled their thoughts. The night seemed dreadfully 
 
The Rescue, 339 
 
 long to Arthur, and yet. hardiy long enough. He discovered 
 soon after his return, that it was Santcrre's purpose to burn the 
 chiteau early in the morning, and then to take the inhabitants 
 away with liim as prisoners ; and he greatly feared that Chapeau 
 would not be able to return in time to prevent the conflagration. 
 He anxiously watched the first break of day, and listened 
 intently, but for a long time in vain, for the noise of coming 
 feet. About half-past two a soldier came and whispered to the 
 sergeant, who then woke Santcrrc, and whispered to him, but 
 the general was sleepy, and did not wish I^ls dreams should be 
 disturbed. He muttered something to the serjcant, who again 
 left him, and resumed the seat in which he had sat since he first 
 entered the room. Dcnot had risen two or three times during the 
 night, 'Jl,t paced rapidly and uneasily about. Whenever he had 
 done so, Agatha had firmly grasped both her father's chair and 
 the Chevalier's hand, as though she feared he was about to 
 renew his attempts to drag her away, but he did not either 
 touch her or speak to her. He was jDrobably aware that the 
 Serjeant, who sat there without once closing his eyes through the 
 long hours, had orders to prevent him from doing so. 
 
 The Chevalier had no watch, and could not see how the hours 
 were going, but it seemed to him as though it were broad day. 
 He thought it must be five, six, nay seven o'clock ; and he could 
 not understand why the lazy republicans remained so passive 
 and so quiet, nor could he imagine why Chapeau was so long in 
 coming. The whole affair seemed to him so strange that he 
 could hardly help fancying that he was dreaming. There sat 
 close to him his dear friend Agatha, with her eyes wide open, 
 fixed on Denot, and she had been gazing in this way for hours 
 after hours, without speaking a word. There was the Marquis 
 close to her, equally silent, but also wide awake, though his eyes 
 were closed. Arthur was sure that he was awake. There was 
 Denot marching to and fro. Adolphe Denot, who but the other 
 day was in the house, not only as a friend, but as a comrade, 
 eager in the cause in which they were all embarked, as much at 
 home in the chateau as Henri Larochejaquelin himself: and 
 now he was the worst of traitors, and the most cruel of enemies r 
 — there was the sergeant of the republican army, sitting as 
 quiet and composed as though he were merely idhng his time 
 away in his own barracks ; and there was oanterre— the much 
 talked of republican brewer and general; the sanguinary, 
 remorseless, fanatic democrat ; the sworn enemy of all that 
 was noble, loyal, and gentle, the dreaded Santerre ; for the 
 Chevalier had now learned the name of the big, clumsy, noisy 
 man, whom he had seen leading his troops into the salon where 
 he was now sleeping — there he was, sleeping fast : while care, 
 auxiet/i or a sense of duty banished sleep from all the others, 
 
240 L*i Vt'tut'e^ 
 
 he, who had so much more need than others to be watciifu!, avj 
 snoring loud, and dreaming; of the denizens of the faubourg-., 
 who used to love him so well. All this seemed to Arthur like u 
 dream from which he could not awake :— there were his enemies, 
 his deadly enemies, before and around him. He knew that it 
 was the practice of the republican soldiers to massacre all whom 
 they took bearing arms against the Republic ; he had even heard 
 that it was now their horrid purpose to go further than this, and 
 to slau<j;lilcr the inhabitants of the whole district which had 
 revolted • at any rate his own doom would be death ; he was 
 certain that he had not many days, probably many hours, to 
 live, unless Chapeau should arrive in time, and with sufficient 
 force to rescue the whole party. Yet he felt no fear ; he could 
 not sufticieutly realize the position in which he found himself, to 
 feel the full effects of its danger. The republican sergeant sat 
 immediately in front of him, and each kept his eye fixed on the 
 other's face ; not that cither of them had any object in doing so, 
 any particular motive for watching the other's countenance, but 
 soon after day-break the gaze of each had become fixed, and it 
 seemed as though neither of them were able to turn away his 
 eyes. 
 
 Arthur occupied his mind in speculating on the character of 
 the soldier, in trying to guess from his features whether he were 
 a cruel or a kiiul-heartcd man ; whether he were a ferocious 
 democrat, eager for the blood of all who had l)eon bora in a 
 rank above him, or merelv a well-trained soldier, obeying the 
 behests of those under whose orders it was his duly to act. 
 The Chevalier had no idea that his own or his friends' fate 
 depended in any way on the man's disposition ; but such 
 thoughts came across his brain unwitiinj^ly, and he could not 
 restrain them. At last, he felt that he had a kind of intimacy 
 with the Serjeant ; that if he should chance to meet him after 
 three or four years had passed, he should greet him as an old 
 acquaintance, whom he had well known, and he was sure that 
 the sergeant nad the same feeling respecting him. 
 
 The day dawned soon after two o'clock, and as by degrees the 
 clear sun-light streamed in at the uncurtained windows, Arthur, 
 in his impatience, thought that the day was advancing ; but in 
 reality it was not yet five o'clock, when Santerre, waking with a 
 tremendous yawn, stretched his huge limbs, and then jumped up 
 from the sofa on which he had been lying. 
 
 "Now for a bonfire," said he, "and then for breakfast; or 
 perhaps we had better get our breakfast first, and have our bon- 
 fire afterwards. Old gentleman, 1 have no doubt mv men look 
 Grange hbcrliei with your ci'll.ir and l.irdcr lant nignt. I hone 
 they have left enough about the place to furnish you with the 
 Ian mcnl you will ever eat in this chateau." 
 
Thi' RtU-iti*. 241 
 
 " I know, Sir, what solHicrs arc in a house," said the oUl n»an. 
 *I will not say liiat your men arc welcome here, for that wouM 
 be falsehood ; l>ut 1 bci^rudj^c ll;em nothing that they cat and 
 lit ink." 
 
 " Well, that's kind of you ; but, considering that all which is 
 not now eaten and drunk, will be immediately wasted and spoilt, 
 you would certainly be foolish to allow the consumption of your 
 provisions to make you uneasy. Hero, sergeant," and then 
 Santerre spoke aside to the serijeant, and gave him various 
 orders, which the man departed to obey. 
 
 "And now, Ccncral Santerre,"' said Dcnot, marching close up 
 to him, " are you prepared to make good your promise to me ? 
 Arc you prepared to give me an escort for myself and this lady, 
 and to allow us to commence our journey from hence to 
 Saumur ?" 
 
 Denot's personal appearance had not been at all improved by 
 the blow which Arthur had given him across his face. Both 
 his cheeks were much swollen imnicdialcly beneath the eyes, 
 and one of them was severely cut. He felt that his looks were 
 against him, and he endeavoured to make up for the injury his 
 countenance had sustained by the sternness of his voice, and 
 the determined rigour of hi3 eye. " I presume, General 
 Santerre," added ho, "that your i>iightcd word is sufficient 
 warrant to me for your good faith." 
 
 *' There is the lady," said Santerre, pointing to Agatha. "I 
 did not undertake to protc ct you from the wrath of any rivals 
 you might have in her affections. It seems to me that at pre- 
 sent she prefers that young dare-devil slip of aristocracy to your 
 patriotic ardour. If she won't go to Saumur with you, I can't 
 make her." 
 
 '* By all the powers of heaven and hell, she shall go with 
 me ! " said Denot, advancing towards her. 
 
 "Beware the switch— beware the switch again, thou false 
 knave!" said the little Chevalier, jumping up, and standing 
 immediately before Agatha with his cherry stick in his hand. 
 Denot had no other arms about him but his dagger, and that he 
 drew, as he advanced towards the boy. 
 
 "No daggers — I will have no daggers," shouted Sanlcnc. 
 " Sergeant, take the dagger from him, unless he puts it up." 
 
 " Beware the switch, thou traitor ! beware the switch, thou 
 knave ! " continued the Chevalier, shaking the stick at Denot, 
 upon whose arm the strong hand of the scrjcant, who had 
 returned to the room, was now laid heavily, 
 
 " I will choke the Lrat as I would an adder," said Denot, 
 attempting to shake olT the sergeant's hand. "There, take the 
 dagger," and he dropped it on the ground, and rushing at the 
 boy, got inside the swing of his stick, and made a grasp at^hij 
 
941 La Ven(f/i, 
 
 throat. Arthur, however, wa§ too quicic for him. i\nd pushing 
 Awny his hand, fastened his own arms round nls adversary. 
 They were now close locked in each other's embrace, and 
 kickmg, plunging, and striving, each did his best to throw the 
 other to the ground. 
 
 *' Oh I Sir, kind Sir, for mercy's sake separate them ! ** said 
 Agatha, appealing to Santerre ; *' he is but a boy, a child, and 
 that wretched man is mad. He'll murder the boy before your 
 eyes, if you do not separate them." 
 
 " He won't find it so easy though," s.ild the Chevalier^ pant- 
 ing, and out of brctth } but still holding his own, and, mdccd, 
 more than his own ; for he had fixed his left hand in Denot's 
 hair, and was pulling his head backwards with such force, that 
 he nearly broke his neck. 
 
 " I think the young one has the best of it," said Santerre \ 
 ** but como, citizen Dcnot, your loves and your quarrels are 
 troublesome to us ; we have other work to attend to. Get up, 
 man, get up, 1 tell you." 
 
 Dcuot. by his jiiipcrior weight and strength, had succeeded in 
 getting the Chevalier to the ground, but Arthur still kept his 
 hold in his hair, and though Adolphc was on the top of his foe, 
 he did not find it very easy to get up. 
 
 "Get up, 1 say," said Santerre. "You'll gain nothing by 
 wrestling with that fellow { he's more than a match for yovi. 
 Well, Captain, what's the matter?" 
 
 The room in which tlie party had passed the night looked out 
 Into the garden at the back or the Iiouhc. The front room com- 
 municated with this by folding-doors, which during the night 
 had been closed. These doors were now violently thrown open, 
 and one of the officers, followed by about a dozen men, rushed 
 .Into the room. 
 
 " The road is crowded with men," said the officer } " thou- 
 sands of these brigands arc on us. The chateau will be sur* 
 rounded in five minutes." 
 
 "II and the d ," said Santerre between his teeth. 
 
 "This comes of plajing the fool here," and he hurried out of 
 the room in company with the officer. 
 
 "Hurrah I" said the Chevalier, jumping to his feet. "1 
 knew they'd be here soon— I knew they'd be here soon," and 
 running to Agatha's side he caught hold of her hand, and 
 covered it with kisses. 
 
 Dcnot iilso arose. He had also heard the officer say that the 
 
 t)easants were coining on them, and he felt that if he were taken, 
 le could expect no mercy from those who h.id so lately been his 
 friends, He did not, however, attempt to fly, but he stood still 
 on the spot where he got up, and after wiping his hot brow with 
 his handkerchief, he said slowlv and mournfully— 
 
The Rescue, 243 
 
 " Agatha Larochcjaquelin, you now see to what your conduct 
 has reduced me ; and with my last breath I tell you that I ovvvi 
 my disgrace, my misery, and my death— ay, and the loss of my 
 eternal soul, to you, and to you only. Ay, shudder and shake, 
 thou lovely monster of cruelty. Shake and grieve with remorse 
 and fear. You may well do so. My living form shall trouble 
 you no more, but dead and dying I will be with you till the last 
 trump sounds on the fearful day of judgment." 
 
 Agatha did not answer him. She felt assured that he was 
 mad, and she only pitied him. She had now too reason to hope 
 that she and her father, and their whole household, would be 
 relieved from their horrible position, and she no longer felt any- 
 thing like anger against the unfortunate wretch whom un- 
 controlled passions had absolutely maddened. Arthur, in his 
 anxiety to see what was going forward, was about to leave the 
 room, but Agatha laid her hand upon his arm to detain him, 
 merely looking towards Denot as she did so, 
 
 " And do you think," said Denot, "that puny boy could really 
 stop my way, if I chose to put out my right hand against him. 
 Boy, I despise and disregard you ! would before 1 die that it 
 might be allowed mc to measure arms with any man, who would 
 dare to say that he would advocate your cause I " 
 
 " Beware the switch, traitor— beware the switch ! " repeated 
 the Chevalier. 
 
 " Be quiet, Arthur, do not anger him," whispered Agatha. " It 
 is not generous, you know, to insult a fallen foe." 
 
 "There are no terms to be kept with a traitor, Agatha. If 
 we get the, better of this Santcrre, as I am sure we shall 
 now, you shall see that I know how to treat a generous .foe 
 generously." 
 
 When Santerre reached the front of the house, he at once 
 saw that any attempt on his part to oppose the crowd of armed 
 peasants who were now close upon him, would be futile. The 
 only mode of escape which appeared to him at all practicable, 
 was to attempt to ride through them. He gave the command 
 '* to horse," and got so far himself as to mount into his saddle ; 
 but it was of no use, he was surrounded by a crowd of peasants 
 before he got to the gate, and he soon found himself on foot 
 again, and unarmed. Some ten or twenty of his men, who were 
 ready to jump into the saddle at the moment when they were 
 first aware of the approach of the royalists, escaped, but the re- 
 mainder in a few minutes found themselves prisoners in the 
 chiteau. 
 
 The peasants were headed by Father Jerome, the priest of St. 
 Laud, and it was he who first mounted the steps leading 'ip to 
 the front door of the house. " Thank God," said he, speaking 
 more to himself, than to those around him. "^ Thank God 1. 
 
t44 La VenJh. 
 
 and he stood up ajjalnst the pedestal of une of the lions, the 
 hetAy wooden crucifix which he had carried in his hand as he 
 marched, or rather ran, to the succour of his friends at Dur- 
 belli6re ; and then he took off his cap, and with the sleeve of 
 his dusty grey coat he wiped the perspiration from off his brow. 
 "And tfie Marquis and Mademoiselle are unhurt? Thank God 
 —thank God ! we were just in time, but wc had a smart run 
 for it." 
 
 Chapeau had already dived into the kitchen through the 
 window, and had learnt that at any rate the republicans had as 
 yet shed no blood. 
 
 "And how did the Marquis bear it, Momont ?'* said he. " It 
 was enough to kill the old gentleman." 
 
 "Why, yes," said Momont. "We had to bear a good deal, 
 ))ut wc did bear it manfully and well. We were all led out to 
 be shot, you know." 
 
 "What, the Marquis, and Mademoiselle, and all?** said 
 Chapeau. 
 
 " No, not the Marquis and Mademoiselle ; they were to be 
 beheaded after us, but the rest of us were all taken out — the 
 muskets loaded — the men to shoot us all in a line." 
 
 " Oh ! Chapeau, it was so awfully dreadful," said the cook. 
 •* If I live a thousand years 1 shall never get over this night." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! most dreadfully awful," said the laundress. " I 
 Was carried in from the spot, and have not been able to move 
 limb since, I doubt I never shall put a foot to the ground 
 again." 
 
 " The muskets were to their shoulders." continued Momont. 
 " We heard them cocked : each man took deliberate aim ; the 
 women here were screeching and screaming." 
 
 " Of course we were," said the confidential maid. ** Hadn't 
 we good cause to scream, waiting to be killed every minute. 
 I'm sure I wonder I ever came to my senses again. I declare 
 when they came to pick me up, I thought it was all over, and 
 that I'd been shot already." 
 
 "Well, I don't think anybody heard me scream,'* said 
 Momont : "but there's a difference I know between a man and 
 \\ woman, * It's all for my King and my master,' said I to my- 
 self. Besides a man can die but once, and it's a great thing to 
 die honourably." The old man turned round to receive the 
 approbation which he considered was due to the sentiment he 
 l\ad expressed, and found that Chapeau was gone. The kitchen, 
 however, was filled with peasants, and in them Moment found 
 ready listeners and warm admirers. 
 
 Both Chapeau and the priest had spent the greater portion of 
 the night in collecting what they considered would be a sufficient 
 number of men to enable them to attack, with anv chance of 
 
the l^escui, ii; 
 
 tucccss, ihc republican Soldiers who had taken possession of 
 , DurbcUi^re. They had neither of then:i the slightest idea whur 
 amount of force hr.d been brouj^ht against the chateau, and, 
 consequently, wasted much time in procuring many more men 
 than were necessary for the purpose. The three hundred, who 
 were immediately got together on the sounding of the tocsin in 
 the village of Echanbroigncs, would have been sufficient to have 
 done the work without further assistance, for they were all well 
 armed, and, by this time, tolerably well trained in the use of 
 their arms. 
 
 There was ten times more confusion now in the chateau, than 
 there had been during the night : every room and passage was 
 crowded with peasants, who took up their positions there under 
 the plea of guarding their prisoners, and with the girls and 
 women of the neighbourhood who flocked to that place, as soon 
 as they heard that the horrible blues were all prisoners, and 
 that the Marauis and Mademoiselle were once more at liberty, 
 Agatha's troubles were by no means ended. Provisions of some 
 kind were to be procured for the friends who had come so far 
 and done so much to relieve them ; and she had no one on 
 whom she could depend \o assist her in procuring them : the 
 servants all considered themselves utterly unfitted for anything, 
 except talking of the events of the evening ; and though every 
 one was burning with affection and zeal for Monseigneur and 
 Mademoiselle, no one appeared willing to make himself useful. 
 
 The reaction on his feelings was too much for the poor 
 Marquis. . During the long evening and night in which he 
 had been a prisoner, and looking forward to nothing but death ; 
 in which he had sat beside his fondly-loved daughter, whose fate 
 he feared would be so much more horrible than death itself, he 
 had patiently and manfully borne his sufferings ; he had even 
 displayed a spirit for which few gave him credit, who were 
 accustomed to his gentle temper and mild manners ; but the 
 unexpected recovery of his own and his daughter's liberty upset 
 hiui entirely. As soon as he had pressed Father Jerome's hand, 
 and thanked Chapeau for what he had done, he begged that 
 he might be carried off to his bed, and left there quietly till the 
 return of his son, for whom, he was told, a messenger had been 
 sent. 
 
 Santcrrc and Denot were both kept under a strong guard in 
 the saloon in which they had passed the night ; and there the 
 priest, Chapeau, and the young Chevalier passed the greater 
 part of the day, anxiously waiting the arrival of Henri Laroche- 
 jaauclin. 
 
 "I never liked that man," said the priest, whispering to 
 Arthur and Chapeau, for the latter, from his exertion and zeal 
 wa^ looked upon rather as an officer in the rovalist arnr'v, thaa 
 
146 ta WPtdee* 
 
 as £1 servant. •' 1 never liked Adolphe Denot, but 1 could never 
 say why. The tone of his voice was disagreeable to me, and the 
 expression of his features aroused in me both dislike and distrust 
 It is not long since M. Henri'rebuked me for being hard on him, 
 and judging him harshly ; and I was angry with myself for having 
 done so. I knew, however, there was something wrong within 
 him. He has turned out to be as base a creature as ever trod 
 the earth." 
 
 "It will be a desperate blow to M. Henri,** said Chapeau^ 
 " for he loved him as though he were his brother." 
 
 " I will be his brother now," said Arthur ; ** he shall love me 
 in his place." 
 
 "Ah I M. Arthur," said Chapeau, "his heart is large enough 
 to love you both ; but when he hears how nobly you behaved 
 last night, how you stood by Mademoiselle Agatha, and protected 
 her, you will be his real brother indeed." 
 
 The little Chevalier's heart rose high within him, as' he 
 attempted to speak slightingly of his own services. " Oh ! " 
 said he, " I couldn't do much, you know, for I had only a stick ; 
 but of course we red scarfs will always stick to each other. 
 Denot, you know, never was a red scarf. Well, thank Heaven 
 for that ; but I tell you what, Father Jerome, that Santerrc is 
 not such a bad fellow ; and so I shall tell Henri ; he is not 
 a bad fellow at all, and he scorns Denot as he deserves to be 
 scorned." 
 
 y 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 ANNOT STEIN. 
 
 T will be remembered that the party escaping from the 
 Chateau of Clisson met Jean Stein, when they had 
 come within four or five leagues of Durbclli^rc. He 
 had been sent from Echanbroignes, by Chapeau, to 
 loll Henri what had happened, to assure him that every possible 
 effort would be made to rescue his father and sister from the 
 republicans, and if possible to save the chateau, and to beg him 
 to return home as speedily as he possibly could. Jean was 
 spared the greatest portion of his journey, and having told his 
 tale, added that perhaps " Messieurs would not think it prudent 
 to take the ladies with them to Durbelli^re just at present." 
 
 "Oh Heavens! what are we to do?" said Madame de 
 Lescure ; " we are running from one hostile army into the 
 middle of another. Poor Agatha ! my poor Agatha ! what will 
 become of her ? " 
 
 "Had we not better send them toChitillon?" said Henri, 
 speaking to De Lescure. " They will, at any rate, be safe there 
 for a time." 
 
 "We won't be sent anywhere — indeed we won't — will we, 
 Marie?" said Madame de Lescure. "Pray, Charles, pray do 
 not send us away. Let us go where you go. It cannot be 
 worse for us than it is for you." 
 
 " You cannot go to the chateau, dearest, when we have every 
 reason to suppose it is in the hands of the republicans, and more 
 than probably burnt to the ground by this time." 
 
 "Ohl don't send me back to Ch^tillon," said Marie; "it 
 would be hours and hours before we should hear what happens 
 to you, and what has happened to Agatha." 
 
 "If the ladies wouldn't think ill of going to Echanbroignes,** 
 said Jean Stein, " they would be safe there and near at hand to 
 
lc«irii all AS it i^ocs on at Durbelli^rtf. t atti sure fathet- i:»t 
 Annot would do tlieir best to make the ladies comfortable, as 
 long ai they might be pleased to stay there." 
 
 After considerable discussion this plan was adopted. Th/» 
 party travelled on together, till the roads to Durbellicrc an*! 
 Echanbroignes separated ; and then, with many charges, the 
 two ladies were entrusted to the care of the smith's son. 
 
 " We will come to you or send to you the moment we arc 
 able," said De Lescure, " whether our news be good or bad. I 
 trust we shall find them safe, and that we shall all be together 
 to-morrow at Durbelli^re." 
 
 Marie and Madame de Lescure reached the village safely late 
 in the evening, and found no one in the smith's house but Annot. 
 Even Michael Stein himself had been moved by hearing that the 
 republicans were absolutely in possession of the chateau, and, 
 old as he was, he had made his way over to Durbclliorc, and 
 had not yet returned. Annot, howc'vcr, received them with good 
 news ; she had heard different messages from the chateau during: 
 the day, and was able to tell them not only that the Marquis, 
 Agatha, and the house were safe, but that the republican 
 soldiers were all prisoners, and that Santerre— that object of 
 horror to many Vendean royalists, had himself been captured 
 by the strong hand and bold heart of Jacques Chapeau. 
 
 Neither of the ladies knew Annot Stein, or had even heard of 
 her ; but Annot, though at present she was rather doleful, was 
 not long in making herself known to them, and explaining to 
 them her own particular connexion with the chAteau. 
 
 She made up her own bed for one of them, and her father's 
 for tlie other. They were not, she said, such as ladies like 
 them were accustomed to sleep on, but the sheets were clean, 
 and perhaps for one night they would excuse the want of better 
 accommodation. Madame de Lescure and Marie declared that 
 they were only too happy in being able to rest quietly, with the 
 knowledge that their friends were in safely. Poor ladies ! they 
 were destined before long to encounter worse hardships than 
 Annot Stein's little bed and frugal supper. 
 
 " But, Madame," said Annot, as she sat demurely on the 
 corner of her chair, "this Santerre is not the sort of man at all 
 we all took him to be. Peter was over here, though he has 
 gone back again now, and Peter says he is quite a good fellow 
 in his way." 
 
 " What, Santerre ! " said Marie, shuddering. " Oh I he is a most 
 horrid monster ! It was he that led out our dear sainted King 
 to be murdered ; it was he that urged on the furious mob to 
 spill so much blood. They say that in all Paris there is, not a 
 greater wretch than this Santerre." 
 
 »• d )n I Know, NLademoiselle," said Annot, "but he certainly 
 
A unci Steiti. 249 
 
 wasn't £0 bad last nij^ht, for he might have killed ihcm all had 
 he chosen : and instead of that he didn't kill anyone, or let any 
 of his party kill them cither, only he frightened poor old Moment 
 nearly to death." 
 
 " God may have softened his heart," said Madame dc 
 Lescure ; " if he has really spared our friends, wc will not 
 speak ill of him." 
 
 " If he has done so," said Marie, "he will have his reward ; 
 for 1 am sure Charles and Henri will spare him now that he is 
 in their power." 
 
 "That's just what the people say," said Annot ; "they say 
 that it's M. Henri's turn to be generous now, and that they're 
 sure he won't hurt a hair of this Santerre. Only they're deter- 
 mined on one thing — and it was all Chapeau and Father Jerome 
 could do to stop them till M. Henri came home— they are deter- 
 mined to hang that horrid wretch Dcnot, the monster ! 1 
 shouldn't wonder if he were swinging by this time." 
 
 "And is it really true," said Madame de Lescure, "that it 
 was M. Denot who led the republicans to Durbelli'Ve;" 
 
 " Oh ! that's a positive fact," said Annot, " there's no doubt 
 on earth about that ; and behaved most brutally to Mademoiselle 
 Agatha. He would have killed her with his own hand, before 
 her father, only M. Santerre wouldn't let him. He had his 
 dagger out and all, and M. Santerre took it from him with his 
 own hand, and wouldn't let him speak another word. Oh ! 
 indeed, ladies, M. Santerre is not half so bad as he looks to 
 be." 
 
 " People say that the father of evil himself is painted blacker 
 than he really is," said Marie. 
 
 "I don't know about that. Mademoiselle, and I didn't hear 
 that this Santerre was painted black at all ; and if he were so, 
 I think Peter would have told me. But then, ladies, the little 
 Chevalier Mondyon came in in the middle. It was he that sent 
 Chapeau over here to bring the red scarfs to the rescue. He 
 is a little darling, is the Chevalier, I suppose you know him, 
 Mademoiselle?" 
 
 " Indeed I do, Annot, and love him dearly j he is an old sweet- 
 heart of mine." 
 
 " He's too young to have a sweetheart yet. Mademoiselle ; 
 but you'll see some of the ladies will be quarrelling for him yet, 
 when he's a year or two older. Well, after sending Jacques 
 over here, he went back as bold as possible into the middle of 
 the republicans, before Santerre and all. M. Denot was at his 
 worst then. He had hold of Mademoiselle Agatha, and was 
 dragging her away from the Marquis, in spite of Santerre and 
 5 he whole of them, when the Chevalier raises his stick, and 
 strikes him across the face. I warrant you he let go 
 
•50 La VituUe, 
 
 Mademolselle^s hand when he felt the sharp stick come across 
 his eyes.** 
 
 " It must have been a horrid sight for Agatha,* said Madame 
 de Lcscure. 
 
 " Oh ! indeed it was, Madame. Only fancy that traitor Denot 
 going on in that way, right before her eyes all night, and no one 
 to protect her but the little Chevalier ; for when it got late M. 
 Santerre threw himself on the floor, and slept and snored like a 
 hog. They say it was all for love. Mademoiselle. They say 
 this Denot was greatly in love with Mademoiselle Agatha, and 
 that she wouldn't look at him. Is it true, she was so very scornful 
 to him?" 
 
 " She was never scornful to anyone," said Marie ; " but if he 
 ever asked her for her love, I hiwe ho doubt she told him that 
 she could not give it to him.'* 
 
 "That's just what they say ; and that then he asked her more 
 and more, and went down on his knees to her, and prayed her 
 just as much as to look at him ; and kissed her feet, and cried 
 dreadfully ; and that all she did was to turn aside her face, and 
 bid him rise and leave her." 
 
 " What would you have had her say, Annot, if she felt that 
 she could not love him ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I'm not presuming to find fault with her, Mademoiselle; 
 Heaven forbid ! Of course, if she couldn't love him, she could 
 do nothing but refuse him. But, heigho ! it's a very dreadful 
 thing to think of, that a nice young man like him— for I'm told 
 that this Denot was a very nice young man — should be so 
 bewildered by love as he has been." 
 
 " Love couldn't make a man a. traitor,** said Marie, " nor yet 
 a coward." 
 
 " I don't know. Mademoiselle, love is i ver>- fearful thing 
 when it doesn't go right. Perhaps love never made you feel so 
 angry that you'd like to eat your lover's heart ?" 
 
 " Gracious goodness, no," said Marie; '"why, Annot, where 
 did you get such a horrid idea as that .-*" 
 
 "Ah! Mademoiselle, your lover's one in a hundred 1 So 
 handsome, so noble, so good, so grand, so amiable, so every- 
 thing that a young lady could wish to dream about : one, too, 
 that neverhas vagaries and jealousies, and nasty little aggravating 
 ways. Oh ! Mademoiselle, I look upon you as the happiest 
 young lady in the world." 
 
 " What on earth, Annot, do you know about my lover, or how 
 on earth can you know that I have a lover at all ? Why, child, 
 I and my Cousin Agatha are both going to be nuns at St. 
 Laurent." 
 
 "The blessed Virgin forbid it," said Annot. " Not but what 
 <Madcmoiscllc Agatha would look beautiful as a nun. She hat 
 
Artpwt Stan, 
 
 «Si 
 
 the pale face, and the long straight nose, and the calm melan- 
 choly eyes, just as a nun ought to have ; but then she should 
 join the Carmelite ladies at the rich convent of our Blessed 
 Lady at St. Maxent, where they all wear beautiful white dresses 
 and white hoods, and have borders to their veils, and look so 
 beautiful that there need hardly be any change in them when 
 they go to heaven ; and not become one of those dusty-mustv 
 black sisters of mercy at St. Laurent." 
 
 " That's your idea of a nun, is it } " said Madame de Lescure. 
 
 " I'm sure, Madame, I don't know why any giri should try to 
 make herself look ugly, i^ God has made her as beautiful as 
 Mademoiselle Agatha." 
 
 "And you think, tlien, Mademoiselle de Lescure is not fit for a 
 nun at all ? " 
 
 "Oh, Madame, we all know she is going to be married 
 immediately to the finest, handsomest, most noble young noble- 
 man in all Poitou. Oh ! I'd give all the world to have such a 
 lover as M. Henri just for ten minutes, to see him once kneeling 
 at my feet." 
 
 " For ten minutes," said Marie. " What good would that do 
 you } that would only make you unhappy when the ten minutes 
 were gone and past." 
 
 " Besides, what would you say to him in that short time i" 
 taid Madame de Lescure. 
 
 " Say to him ! I don't know what I'd say to him. I don't 
 think I'd say one word, but I'd give him such a look, so full of 
 affection and gratitude, and admiration, and— and—and down- 
 right real true love ; that, if he had any heart in him at all, I 
 don't think he'd be so base as to go away from me when the ten 
 minutes were over." 
 
 " That's what you call borrowing a lover for ten minutes, is 
 it ? " said Marie ; " and if, as you say, this young gentleman is 
 my property, what am I to do for a lover the while?" 
 
 " I was only wishing. Mademoiselle, and you know there's no 
 harm in wishing. Besides, the finest lady in the world couldn't 
 rob you of your lover, let alone a poor girl like me. He is so 
 true, and so noble, and so good." 
 
 " And have not you a lover of your own, Annot ? " 
 
 " Oh, indeed I have, and a very good one. For all my talk- 
 ing in that way, I was never badly off for lovers, and now I've 
 chosen one for good and all ; and 1 love him dearly, Madame ; 
 dote on him, and so docs he on me, but for all that there vas a 
 time when I really would have eaten his heart, if I could have 
 got at it." 
 
 " But that was before you had accepted each other." 
 
 ** Not at all, Mademoiselle ; not long since. I loved then as 
 dearly as I do now, but he let me walk home by myself three 
 
f53 Ln \'cntf^t» 
 
 long league* wiihajt speAinjj a word to mc, and all because ! 
 said that a man in a picture had fine whiskers." 
 
 "A man in a ]»icturc 1 why this lover of vour*s must be a 
 vcr>' jealous man, or else he must be very badly oft for whiskers 
 himself?" 
 
 " No he's not, Mademoiselle; he's as nice ft pair as you'd wir.h 
 to uee ; that is, be^'^jing your pardon, as nice a pair as I'd wish to 
 sec ; and he's not a jealous man either about other things.** 
 
 * And when do you mean to marry him, Annot ? " 
 
 " Oh, Madcmois'clle, we are only waiting for you." 
 
 " Waiting for me, child ! What on earth do you mean ? who 
 told you 1 was going to be married at all ?" 
 
 It'w.vH no wonilcr that Marie should be astonished at finding 
 her wedding ho conrulcnlly spokctA of by a nlrangcr In ICchan- 
 brolgnes, connldcrlng that It was not yet twenty-four hour* since 
 llcnri had declared his love for her at Clisson. 
 
 " Jiut vou arc going to be married to M. Henri, arc you not, 
 Mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " Who told you all this? how U It you come to know so much 
 nbout this young lady and M. Henri?" said Madame dc 
 l.csnirc. 
 
 *' Why, JacfiiU'M Chapcau luUl mo. My own husband, thai Is, 
 AS Is to be." 
 
 " Uh ! that csplains the mystery,** said Marie ; "and so 
 Chapeau is your lover is he ? Chapcau is the man who couldn't 
 bear the mention of the fine pair of whiskers you saw in the 
 picture? and did ho ttll you that his master was going to be 
 married immediately ? " and Mario blushed as she asked the 
 qut'iuion. 
 
 •' Indeed he did, MadLinnlsillo, and he oaid besides — — " 
 
 •• Well, what did he say l)c?.ideH ! ? 
 
 " Why, I hardly like to say now, Mademoiselle ; it will look 
 like asking a favour when 1 thought you could not well refuse 
 it ; and perhaps Jacques was wrong to say anything at all 
 about it." 
 
 M;\rio, however, was hot long In inducing .\nnot to reveal to 
 her Chapjau's litilc plan of taking hia own wife over to I3ur* 
 bellierc t() wait upon hU maHter'.i wife, and »he, moreover, 
 promised that, as far as she herself was concerned, she wouM 
 consent to the arrangement, //I which she expressly inserted, 
 »hc s)iould ever marry M. Larochejaquclin. 
 
 *' luit ain't you engaged to him. Mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " Well, Annot," answered she, •' as you have told me »0 
 Inuch, 1 don't mind telling you that I am'. lUit it will be Iona« 
 probably, before I am marncJ, if ever I am. McJ\ have othor 
 thing'j to think of now than marria;;e, and. n!as f woman lo«« 
 \S*c must wait till the wars arc over, Annot.'' 
 
Annot SteiH, 253 
 
 " Cut I thought the wars were over row, Mademoiselle. 
 Hav'n't they feot that Santerre prisoner up at Durbelli^re ?" 
 
 " There's much, very much, I fear to do yet, and to suffer, 
 before the wars will be really over," said Madame de Lescure. 
 ** He'.vcn help us, and guide us, and protect us ! Come, Marie, 
 let us go to rest, for I trust Charles will send for us early in the 
 morning." 
 
 Annot gave such assistance to her two guests as they remiired, 
 and was within her power, and then seating herself in her 
 father's large arm chair in the kitchen, pondered over the 
 misery of living in times when men were so busy fighting 
 with their enemies, that they had not even leisure to get 
 married. 
 
 " And what, after all, is the use of these wars ? " said she to 
 herself, " What do they get by taking so many towns, and 
 getting so many guns, and killing so many men ? I don't know 
 who's the belter for it, but I know very well who's the worse. 
 Why can't they let the blues alone ; and the blues let them 
 alone ? I worked my poor fingers to the bone making a white 
 flag before they went to Saumur, and all they did was to leave 
 it in the streets of Nantes. There's not so much as a bottle 
 of beer, and hardly a bushel of flour left in Echanbroignes. 
 There's the poor dear lovely Cathelineau dead and gone. 
 There's M. Henri engaged to the girl of his heart, and he can't 
 so much as stay a day from fighting to get himself married ; and 
 there's Jacques just as bad. If Jacques cares a bit for me, he 
 must take himself off, and me with him, to some place where 
 there's not quite so much fighting, or else I'll be quit of him 
 and go without him. I've no idea of living in a place where 
 girls are not to be married till the wars are over, Wars, wars, 
 wars ; I'm sick of the wars with all my heart," 
 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 SENTENCE OP DEATH. 
 
 IFTER parting with their companion, De Lescure and 
 Henri were not long in reaching Durbelli^re ; and on 
 the road thither they also learnt that Santerre, and 
 upwards of a hundred blue horsemen, were prisoners 
 in the chateau, or in the barns, out-houses, or stables belonging 
 to it ; and that the whole place was crowded with peasants, 
 guarding their captives. As they entered the chateau gates 
 they met Chapeau, who was at the bottom of the steps waiting 
 for them ; and Henri immediately asked after his father. 
 
 ** Monseigneur is much fatigued,'*- said Chapeau, "but 
 apparently well ; he is, however, still in bed." 
 
 '* And my sister ? " said Henri. 
 
 " Mademoiselle has of course been much fatigued, but she is 
 Well ; she is with your father, M. Henri." 
 
 **And tell me, Chapeau, is it true, is it really true that 
 M. Denot brought the blues here, and that since he has been 
 here he has treated my sister in the manner they describe?" 
 
 " It is true as gospel, M. Henri. I knew that this would be 
 the worst of the whole affair to you. 1 knew you would sooner 
 the chdteau should have been burnt than have heard this. We 
 are only waiting for you and M. de Lescure, to hang him as a 
 traitor from the big chestnut out on the road-side. You might 
 have seen as you came in that they have the ropes and every- 
 thing ready." 
 
 Henri shuddered as he followed his cousin into the house* 
 The steps were crowded with his own followers, who warmly 
 welcomed him, and congratulated him on the safety of his 
 father, his sister, and his property ; but he said very little to 
 
Stntence of Death, 25 5 
 
 them ; he w^3 thinking of the friend whom he had loved so 
 well, who had so vilely disgraced himself, and whose life he now 
 feared he should be unable to save. 
 
 " Where is he ? " said he to Chapeau. 
 
 <* Who— Monseigneur ? " 
 
 « No— M. Denot." 
 
 *' He is in the great salon, with Santerre, and Father Jerome, 
 and the Chevalier, and three or four of the lads from Echan- 
 broignes." 
 
 " Charles," said he, as he reached the door of the salon, " do 
 you go in. You are better able to say what should be said, and 
 to do what must be done, than I am. I will go up to my father. 
 But, Charles," and he spoke into his ear, so that no one else 
 should hear him, "save his life— for my sake, save his life, 
 He is mad, and does not know what he has been doing." De 
 Lescure pressed his cousin's hand, and as Henri ran up stairs 
 to his father, he entered the room where the party above- 
 mentioned were sitting. 
 
 The occupants of the room certainly formed a very remark- 
 able group. The first person whom de Lescure saw was 
 Adolphe Denot ; he was seated in a large arm-chair, placed 
 against the wall immediately opposite the door, and between 
 the stove and the folding-doors which opened into the other 
 room. His legs were stretched out to their full length before 
 him : his hands were clasped together between his legs ; his 
 head was bent down, so that his chin rested on his breast; he 
 was scowling awfully, his eyebrows nearly met above his eyes, 
 and he continued constantly curling and twisting his lips, some- 
 times showing his teeth, and sonrietimes completely covering his 
 under with his upper lip. He had sat twelve hours, since 
 Agatha had left the room in the morning, without speaking a 
 word, or once changing his position. He had refused food 
 when it had been brought to him, with an indignant shake of 
 the head ; and when Santerre had once half jocularly told him 
 to keep up his spirits, and prove himself a man, he had uttered 
 a horrible sound, which he had meant for a laugh of dcrii^ion, 
 such as is sometimes heard to proceed from dark-haired 
 diabolical, provincial tragedians. 
 
 There were three men from Echanbroignes in the room, 
 distinguished by the notable red scarf, acting as guards, to 
 prevent the escape of the prisoners ; but as the two objects of 
 their care during the whole day had made no attempt at 
 escaping, the guards had by degrees laid aside the eager watch- 
 fulness with which they had at first expressed their readiness to 
 pounce upon their captives, should they by any motion have 
 betrayed an intention to leave their seats, and were now resting 
 00 three chairs in a row, each man having his musket between 
 
156 Ia Vendue, 
 
 his legs, and looking as r/»ougli they were peculiarly lired of 
 their long inactive services. Santerre and Father Jerome were 
 seated together on a sofa, and the Chevalier occupied a chair 
 on the other side of a table on which the prisoner and the 
 priest were leaning. When Santerre found that he and his men 
 were in the hands of the royahst peasants, he at first rather lost 
 both his temper and his presence of mind. He saw at once 
 that resistance was out of the question, and that there was very 
 little chance that he would be able to escape ; he began to 
 accuse himself of rashness in having accepted from the 
 Convention the very disagreeable commission which had 
 brought him into his present plight, and to wish that he was 
 once more among his legitimate adherents in the Quarticr 
 St. Antoine. He soon, however, regained his equanimity. 
 Those whom he had in his rough manner treated well, re- 
 turned the compliment ; and he perceived that, though he 
 would probably be kept a prisoner, his life would not be in 
 danger, and that the royalists were not inclined to treat him 
 cither with insult or severity. 
 
 He by degrees got into conversation with the Chevalier ; and 
 before the day was over, even Father Jerome, much as he 
 abhorred a republican, and especially a leader of republicans, 
 and an infidel, as he presumed Santerre to be, forgot his disgust, 
 and chatted freely wiih the captive Commissioner. The three 
 dined together in the afternoon, and when Dc Lescure entered 
 the room, wine and glasses were still on the table. A crowd of 
 the royalist peasants followed De Lescure to the door of the 
 salon, and would have entered it with him, had not Chapeau, 
 with much difficulty, restrained them. They were most anxious 
 vo hear sentence pronounced on the traitor who had betrayed 
 their cause, and insulted the sister of their favourite leader ; 
 and could not understand why the punishment, which he had so 
 richly merited, should be delayed. All that Chapeau and Father 
 Jerome had ventured to ask of them was to wait till Henri 
 himself should arrive ; and now that he had come, they con- 
 ceived that judgment should at once be passed, and sentence of 
 death immediately executed. 
 
 When Dc Lescure entered the room, they all, except Denot, 
 rose from their chairs ; the three guards stood up, and shouldered 
 their muskets, the Chevalier ran up to him to shake hands with 
 him, and Father Jerome also came out into the middle of the 
 room to meet him. He looked first at Denot, who kept his eyes 
 steadily fixed on the ground ; and then at Santerre, whom he 
 had never, to his knowledge, seen before. Santerre, however, 
 knew him, for he immediately called him by his name. 
 
 '* My soldiers have met with a reverse. General de Lescure." 
 said he, " which has thrown me and them into the power c.f 
 
Sinfcmc of n..if/t, ?57 
 
 your fiicnd^. I lake the earliest opportunity of thanking you 
 lor l!)c kind treatment we have received." 
 
 *' If, at some future time, when our soldiers maybe in your 
 power, you will remember it, the Marquis dc Larochcjaquclin 
 will feel himself amply repaid for such attention as he has been 
 able to show you," said l)e Lcscurc. 
 
 " You know we were in General Santerrc's power last night," 
 said the Chevalier ; *' and he could have shot us all had ho 
 pleased it ; indeed we all expected it when the blues camo 
 upon us." 
 
 "They shall not find that we will be less merciful, Arthur/* 
 said De Lcscurc. *' General Santcrrc knows that the Vendcan 
 royalists have never disgraced themselves by shedding the 
 blood of the prisoners whom the chance of war may have thrown 
 into their hands. lie knows that tliey can be brave without 
 being cruel. 1 grieve to say that the republicans have hitherto 
 not often allowed us to repay mercy with mercy. We shall now 
 be glad to take advantage of the opportunity of doing so." 
 
 I' What will you do with him, M. de Lescure," said Father 
 Jerome in a whisper, pointing to Denot. "I never before saw 
 the people greedy for blood ; but now they declare that no 
 mercy should be shown to a traitor." 
 
 ** We must teach them, Father Jerome, that it is God's will 
 that those who wish to be pardoned themselves must pardon 
 others. You have taught them lessons more difficult to learn 
 than this ; and I do not doubt that in this, as in other things, 
 they will obey their priest." And as he spoke De Lescure laid 
 his hand on the Cure's shoulder, 
 
 "You won't hang him then ?" whispered the Chevalier, 
 ' *• You wouldn't have me do so, would you, Arthur ? " 
 
 "Who— I.^" said the boy. " No— that is, I don't know. I 
 wouldn't like to have to say that anybody should be hung ; but 
 if anybody ever did deserve it, he does." 
 
 "And you, Father Jerome.^" said De Lescure, "you agree 
 with me? You would not have us sully our pure cause with 
 a cold-blooded execution ?" 
 
 The three were now standing at an open window, looking 
 into the garden. Their backs were turned to Santerrc and 
 Denot, and they were speaking in low whispers ; but neverthe- 
 less Denot cither guessed or overheard that he was the subject 
 of their conversation. The priest did not immediately ans\/ei 
 De Lcscure's appeal. In his heart he thought tha^ the circum- 
 stances not only justified, but demanded the traitor's death ; but, 
 remembering his profession, and the lessons of mercy it was his 
 cliief business to teach, he hesitated to be the first to say that 
 he thought the young man should be doomed. 
 
 ♦* Well, Father Jerome," said Dc Lescure, looking into the 
 
95S Im VindA, 
 
 priest's face^ *' surely you have no difficulty In answering 
 me?** 
 
 The Cur^ was saved the necessity of answering the appea! ; 
 tor while he was still balancing between what he thought to be 
 his duty, and that which was certainly his inclination, Denot 
 himself interrupted the whisperers. 
 
 " M. de Lescure," said he, in the deep, hoarse, would-be 
 solemn voice, which he now always affected to use. De Lescurc 
 turned quickly round, and so did his companions. The words 
 of a man who thinks that he is almost immediately about to die 
 are always interesting. 
 
 "If you are talking about me,** said the unfortunate wretch, 
 "pray spare yourself the trouble. I neither ask, nor wish for 
 any mercy at your hands. I am ready to die." 
 
 As De Lescure looked at him, and observed the alteration 
 which a few weeks had made in his appearance —his sunken, 
 sallow cheeks ; his wild and bloodshot eyes ; his ragged, un- 
 combed hair, and soiled garments — as he thought of his own 
 recent intimacy with him — as he remembered how often he had 
 played with him as a child, and associated with him as a man- 
 that till a few days since he had been the bosom friend of his 
 own more than brother, Henri Larcchejaquelin, the tears rushed 
 to his eyes and down his cheeks. In that moment the scene in 
 the council-room at Saumur can\e to his mind, and he re- 
 membered that there he had rebuked Adolphe Denot for his 
 false ambition, and had probably been the means of driving him 
 to the horrid crime whicn he had committed. Though he Knew 
 that the traitor's iniquity admitted of no excuse, he sympathised 
 with the sufferings which had brought him to his present con- 
 dition. He turned away his head, as the tears rolled down his 
 cheeks, and felt that he was unable to speak to the miserable 
 man. 
 
 Had De Lescure upbraided him, Denot's spirit, affected and 
 unreal as it was, would have enabled him to endure it without 
 flinching. He would have answered the anger of his former 
 friend with bombast, and might very probably have mustered 
 courage enough to support the same character till they led him 
 out to death. But De Lescure's tears affected him. He felt 
 that he was pitied ; and though his pride revolted against the 
 commiseration of those whom he had injured, his heart was 
 touched, and his voice faltered, as the again declared that he 
 desired no mercy, and that he was ready to die. 
 
 " Ready to die ! " said the Curd, " and with such a weight of 
 sin upon your consccience ; ready to be hurried before the 
 eternal judgment seat, without having acknowledged, even in 
 your own heart, the iniquity of your transgressions ! " 
 
 " That, Sir, is my concern," said Denot. " I knew th« 
 
Sentence oj Death. 259 
 
 dangers of the task before I undertook it, and I can bear the 
 penalties of Taihire without flinclung. I fear them not, cither 
 m this world or in any other world to come." 
 
 De Lescure, overcome with distress, paced up and down the 
 room till Chapeau entered it, and whispered to him that the 
 peasants outside were anxious to know what next they were 
 to do, and that they were clamorous for Denot's execution, 
 " They are determined to hang him," continued Chapeau, who 
 had induced Dc Lescure to leave the room, and was now 
 speaking to him in tht hall. " They say that you and M. 
 Henri may do what you please about Santerre and the soldiers, 
 but that Adolphe Denot has betrayed the cause, insulted 
 Mademoiselle, and proved himself unfit to live ; and that they 
 will not leave the chateau as long as a breath of life remains in 
 his body." 
 
 "And you, Chapeau, what did you say to them in reply ?" 
 
 " Oh, M. de Lescure, of course I said that that must be as 
 you and M. Henri pleased." 
 
 "Well, Chapeau, now go and tell them this,'' said Dfc 
 Lescure : " tell them that we will not consent that this poor 
 wretch shall be killed, and that his miserable life has already 
 been granted to him. Tell them also, that if they choose to 
 forget their duty, their obedience, and their oaths, and attempt 
 to seize Denot's person, neither I nor M. Henri will ever again 
 accompany them to battle, and that they shall not lay a hand 
 upon him till they have passed over our bodies. Do you 
 understand ? " 
 
 Chapeau said that he did understand, and with a somewhat 
 melancholy face, he returned to the noisy crowd who v/erc 
 waiting for their victim in the front of the house. "Well, 
 Jacques," said one of them, an elderly man, whc had for the 
 time taken upon himself the duties of a leader among them, and 
 who was most loud in demanding that sentence should be 
 passed upon Denot. " We are ready, and the rope is ready, 
 and the gallows is ready, and we are only wailing for the 
 traitor. We don't want to hurry M. Henri or M. de Lescure, 
 but we hope they will not keep us waiting much longer." 
 
 " You need not wait any longer," said Chapeau, " for Adolphe 
 Denot is not to be hung at all. M. de Lescure has pardoned 
 him. Yes, my friends, you will be spared an unpleasant job, 
 and the rope and the tree will not be contaminated." 
 
 " Pardoned him — pardoned Adolphe Denot — pardoned the 
 traitor who brought Santerre and the republicans to Durbelli^re 
 —pardoned the wretch who so grossly insulted Mademoiselle 
 Agatha, and nearly killed M. le Marquis," cried one after 
 another immediately round the door. " If we pardon him, there 
 will be an end of honesty and good faith. We will pardon owr 
 
26c La VemUe. 
 
 enemies, because M. dc Lescure asks us. We will willingly 
 pardon this Santerre and all his men. We will pardon every- 
 thing and anybody, if M. Henri or M. de Lescure asks it, ex- 
 cept treason, and except a traitor. Go in, Jacques, and say that 
 we will never consent to forgive the wretch who insulted 
 Mademoiselle Larachcjaquelin. By all that is sacred we will 
 hang him ! " 
 
 "If you do, my friends," answered Chapeau, "you must kill 
 M. de Lescure first, for he will defend him with his own body 
 and his own sword." * 
 
 Chapeau again returned to the house, and left the peasants 
 outside, loudly murmuring. Hitherto they had passively obeyed 
 their leaders. Thev had gone from one scene of action to 
 another. They had taken towns and conquered armies, and 
 abstained not only from slaughter, but even from plunder, at the 
 mere request of those whom they had selected as their own 
 generals ; now, for the first time tley shewed a determination 
 to diiobey. The offence of which their victim had been guilty, 
 was in their eyes unpardonable. They were freely giving all— 
 their little property, their children, their blood, for their church 
 and King. They knew that they were themselves faithful and 
 obedient to their leaders, and they could not bring themselves to 
 forgive one whom they had trusted, and who had deceived 
 them. 
 
 Chapeau returned to the house, bat he did not go back to M. 
 de Lescure. He went up stairs to his master, and found him 
 alone with his sister, and explained to them what was going 
 on before the front-door. 
 
 "They will never go away, Mademoiselle, as long as the 
 breath is in the man's body. They are angry now, and they 
 care for no one, not even for M. Henri himself ; and it's no 
 wonder for them to be angry. He that was so trusted, and so 
 loved ; one of the family as much as yourself, M. Henri. 
 Why, if I were to turn traitor, and go over to the republicans, it 
 could hardly be worse. If ever I did, I should expect them to 
 pinch me to pieces with hot tweezers, let alone hanging." 
 
 " 1 will go down to them." said M. Henri. 
 
 " It will be no use," said Chapeau, "they will not listen to 
 you." 
 
 " I will try them at any rate, for they have never yet dis- 
 obeyed me. I know they love me, and I will ask for Adolphe's 
 life as a favour to myself; if they persist in their cruelty, if 
 they do kill him, I will lay down my sword, and never again 
 raise it in La Vendde." 
 
 " If it were put off for a week, or a oay, M. Henri, so that 
 Ihey could get cool ; if you could just consent to his being 
 hung, but say that he was to have fgur a,id twenty-hours to 
 
Sentence of Death, 26 1 
 
 prepare himself, and then at the end of that tiirie they wouldn't 
 care about it ; mightn't that do? Wouldn't that be the best 
 plan. Mademoiselle?" 
 
 " No," said Henri. " I will not stoop to tell them a falsehood ; 
 nor if I did so, would they ever believe me again." And he 
 walked towards the passage, intending to go down to the 
 front-door. 
 
 " Stop, Henri, stop a moment ! " said Agatha, " I will go dov.n 
 to them. I will speak to them. They are not accustomed 
 to hear me speak to them in numbers, as they arc to you, 
 and that of itself will make them inclined to listen to me. 
 I will beg them to spare the unfortunate man, and I think they 
 will not refuse me." 
 
 She got up and walked to the door, and her brother did not 
 attempt to stop her. 
 
 " Let me go alone, Henri," said she. " You may, at any rate, 
 be sure that they will not hurt me." And, without waiting for 
 Jiis reply, she descended the stairs, and walked into the hall 
 When Chap.eau left them, the crowd were collected immediately 
 in the front of the house and on the steps, but none of them had 
 yet forced their way into the chateau ; since he hr.d gone 
 up-stairs, however, they had pushed open the door, and now 
 filled the hall ; although their accustomed respect for tlie 
 persons and property of those above them, had still kept 
 them from breaking into the room in which they knew were 
 M. de Lescure and Adol-phc Denot. The foremost of them 
 drew back when they saw Agatha come among them, and. as 
 she made her way to the front-door, they retreated before her, 
 until she found herself, standing on the top of the steps, and 
 surrounded by what seemed to her a courvtless crowd of heads. 
 There was a buzz of many voices among them, and she stood 
 there silent before them a moment or two, t'll there should be 
 such silence as would enable them to hear her. 
 
 Agatha Larochejaquclin had never looked more beautiful than 
 she did at this time. Her face was more than ordinarily pale, 
 for her life had lately been one of constant watching and deep 
 anxiety ; but hers was a countenance which looked even more 
 lovely without than with its usual slight tinge of colour. Her beau- 
 tiful dark-brown hair was braided close to her face, and fastened in 
 a knot behind her head. She was dressed in a long white morning 
 wrapper, which fell quite down over her feet, and added in 
 appearance to her natural high stature. She seemed to the 
 noisy peasants, as she stood there before them, sad-looking and 
 sorrowful, but so supremely beautiful, to be like some goddess 
 who had come direct from heaven to give them warning and 
 encouragement. The hum of their voices soon dropped, ant*, 
 they stood as silent before her, as though no strong passion, »? 
 
363 LaVendii^ 
 
 revenge and thirst for blood had induced them, but a moment 
 before, all but to mutiny against the leaders who had led them 
 so truly, and loved them so well. 
 
 " Friends, dear friends," she began in her sweet voice, low, 
 but yet plainly audible to those whom she addressed ; and then 
 she paused a moment to think of the words she would use to 
 them, and as she did so they cheered her loudly, and blessed 
 her, and assured her, in their rough way, how delighted they 
 were to have saved her and the Marquis from their enemies. 
 
 " Dear friends," she continued, " I have come to thank vou 
 for the readiness and kindness with which you have hurried to 
 my protection— to tell you how grateful I and mine are for 
 your affection, and at the same time to ask a favour from your 
 hands." 
 
 " God bless you, Mademoiselle. We will do anything for 
 Mademoiselle Agatha. We all know that Mademoiselle is an 
 angel. We will do anything for her," said different voices in 
 the crowd. " Anything but pardon the traitor who has insulted 
 her," said the man who had been most prominent in demanding 
 Denot's death. "Anything at all — anything without exception. 
 We will do anything we are asked, whatever it is, for Made- 
 moiselle Agatha," said some of the younger men among the 
 crowd, whom her beauty made more than ordinarily enthusiastic 
 in her favour. " Mademoiselle will not sully her beautiful lips 
 to ask the life of a traitor," said another. " We will do any- 
 thing else ; but Denot must die." " Yes, Denot must die," 
 exclaimed others. " He shall die ; he is not fit to live. When 
 the traitor is hung, we will do anything, go anywhere, for 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 "Ah ! friends," said she, "the favour I would ask of you is 
 to spare the life of this miserable young man. Hear me, at any 
 rate," she continued, for there was a murmur among the more 
 resolute of Denot's enemies. " You will not refuse to hear what 
 1 say to you. You demand vengeance, you say, because he has 
 betrayed your cause, and insulted me. If I can forgive the 
 insult, if my brother can, surely you should do so too. Think, 
 dear friends, what my misery must be, if on my account you 
 shed the blood of this poor creature. You say he has betrayed 
 the cause for which you are fighting. It is true, he has 
 done so ; but it is not only your cause which he has betrayed. 
 Is it not my cause also? Is it not my brother's? Is it 
 not M. de Lescure's? And if we can forgive him, should 
 not you also do so too? He has lived in this house as 
 though he were a child of my father's. You know that my 
 brother has treated him as a brother. Supposing that you, 
 any of you, had had a brother who has done as he has 
 done, would you not still pray, in spite of his crimes, that he 
 
Sentence of Death. 263 
 
 might be forgiven? I know you all love my brother. He 
 deserves from* you that you should love him well, for he has 
 proved to you that he loves you. He — Henri Larochejaquelin 
 — your own leader, begs you to forgive the crime of his adopted 
 brother. Have we not sufficient weight with you— are we not 
 near enough to your hearts, to obtain from you this boon ?" 
 
 " We will, we will," shouted they; "we will forgive — no, we 
 won't forgive him, but we'll let him go ; only, Mademoiselle, let 
 him go from this — let him not show himself here any mor*;. 
 There, lads, there's an end of it. Give Momont back tho rope. 
 We will do nothing to displease M. Henri and Mademoiselle 
 Agatha," and then they gave three cheers for the inhabitants of 
 Durbelli^re ; and Agatha, after thanking them for their kind- 
 ness and their courtesy, returned into the house. 
 
 For some days after the attack and rescue, there was great 
 confusion in the chateau of Durbelli6re. The peasants by 
 degrees returned to their own homes, or went to Chatillon, at 
 which place it was now intended to muster the whole armed 
 royalist force which could be collected in La Vend(?e. Ch4«;illon 
 was in the very centre of the revolted district, and not above 
 three leagues from Durbellit^re ; and at this place the Vendean 
 leaders had now determined to assemble, that they might come 
 to some fixed plan, and organise their resistance to the Con- 
 vention. 
 
 De Lescure and Henri together agreed to give Santerre his 
 unconditional liberty. In the first place, they conceived it to be 
 good policy to abandon the custody of a man whom, if kept a 
 prisoner, they were sure the Republic would make a great effort 
 to liberate ; and who, if he ever again served against them at 
 all, would, as they thought, be less inclined to exercise barbarity 
 than any other man whom the Convention would be likely to 
 send on the duty. Besides, Agatha and the Marquis really felt 
 grateful to Santerre, for having shown a want of that demoniac 
 cruehy with which they supposed him to have been imbued ; 
 and it was, therefore, resolved to escort him personally to the 
 northern frontier of La Vendde, and there set him at liberty, but 
 to detain his soldiers prisoners at Chdtillon ; and this was 
 accordingly done. 
 
 They had much more difficulty in disposing of Denot. Had 
 he been turned loose from the chateau, to go where he pleased, 
 and do what he pleased, he would to a certainty have been killed 
 by the peasantry. De Lescure asked Santerre to take charge of 
 him, but this he refused to do, saying that he considered the 
 young man was a disgrace to any party, or any person, who had 
 aught to do with him, and that he would not undertake to be 
 responsible for his safety. 
 
 Denot himself would neither say or do anything. Henri 
 
1^4 ^-<' Wmfi't, 
 
 never saw him ; but l)e Lcscuro had difltrent interviews wiiti 
 him, and did all in his power to rouse him to some feeling as to 
 the future ; but all in vain. He usually refused to make any 
 answer whatever, and when he did speak, he merely persisted 
 in his declaration that he was willing to die, and that it he were 
 left alive, he had no wish at all as to what should become 
 of him. It was at last decided to send him to his own house 
 at Fleury, with a strong caution to the servants there that 
 their master was temporarily insane ; and there to leave him to 
 his chance. " When he finds himself alone, and disregarded,** 
 said De Lcscure, " he will come to his senses, and probably 
 emigrate : it is impossible for us now to do more for him. May 
 God send that he may live to repent the great crime which he 
 has attempted." 
 
 Now again everything was bustle and confusion at Durbelli6re. 
 Arms and gunpowder were again colhctcd. The men again used 
 all their efforts in assembling the royalist troops, the women in 
 preparing the different necessaries for the army. The united 
 families were at Durbellitirc, and there was no longer any danger 
 of their separation, for at Clisson not one stone was lef* standing 
 upon anotbeft 
 
CHAPTER XXII, 
 
 ROIU'.SI'IERRK'S CHARACTER. 
 
 jE will now jump over a space of nearly three monlhs, 
 and leaving the chateaux of royalist La Vend(?e, 
 plunge for a short while into the heart of republican 
 Paris. In the Rue St. Honord lived a cabinet-maker, 
 named Duplay, and in his house lodged Maximilian Robespierre, 
 the leading spirit in the latter and more terrible days of the 
 Revolution. The time now spoken of was the beginning of 
 October, 1793 ; and at no period did the popularity and powei 
 of that remarkable man stand higher. 
 
 The whole government was then vested in the Committee of 
 Public Safety — a committee consisting of twelve persons, 
 members of the Convention, all of course ultra-democrats, 
 over the majority of whom liobesnierrc exercised a direct 
 control. No despot ever endured, ruled with so absolute and 
 stringent a dominion as that under which this body of men held 
 the French nation. The revolutionary tribunal was now 
 established in all its horror and all its force. A law wis 
 passed by the Convention, in September, which decreed that 
 all suspected people should be arrested and brought before this 
 tribunal ; that nobles, lawyers, bankers, priests, men of property, 
 and strangers in the land, should be suspected unless known to 
 be acting friends and adherents of the ultra-revolutionary party ; 
 that the punishment of such persons should be death ; and that 
 the memoers of any revolutionary tribunal which had omitted to 
 condemn any suspected person, should themselves be tried, and 
 punished by death. Sucn was the law by which the Reign of 
 Terror was organised and rendered possible. 
 
 At this time the Girondists were lying in prison, awaiting 
 their trial and their certain doom. Marie Antoinette had been 
 removed from the Temple to the Conciergeric and her trial was 
 
966 In ViHtiii. 
 
 In a day or two About to commence. Her fate was already ftxed, 
 and had only to be pronounced. Danton had retired from Parii 
 to his own province, sick with the shedding of so much blood« 
 jealous of tne pre-eminence which Robespierre had assumed ; 
 watching his opportunity to return, that he might sell the 
 Republic to the royalists \ equally eager, let us believe, to save 
 !)is country as to make his fortune, but destined to return, only 
 that he also might bend his neck beneath the monster guillotine. 
 Marat, the foulest birth of the revolution, whose licentious heat 
 generated venom and rascality, as a dunghill out of its own filth 
 produces adders' eggs— Marat was no more. Carnot, whose 
 genius for war enabled the French nation, amidst all its poverty 
 and intestine contests, even in the pangs and throes of that 
 labour in which it Htrove to bring furth a cunMtilution, to repulse 
 the forces of the allied nations, and prepare the way for future 
 conquests, was a member of the all-powerful Committee, and 
 we cannot suppose that he acted under the dictation of 
 Robespierre ; but if he did not do so, at any rate he did not 
 interfere with him. The operations of a campaign, in which the 
 untaught and ill-fed army of republican France had to meet the 
 troops of I'.ngliind, Flaiulcrs, Triissia, Austria, Sardinia, and 
 Spam, beside"* thohc of royalist France, were sufliclcnt to occupy 
 evt'ii the dMU'r^Ici i»f Caniot, 
 
 Robespierre, in the Convention and In the Committee, was 
 omnipotent ; but he also had his master, and he knew it. He 
 knew that he could only act, command, and be obeyed, in union 
 with, and dependence on, the will of the populace of Paris \ and 
 the higher he rose in that path of life which he marked out for 
 himself with so much precision, and followed with so much 
 constancy^ the more bitterly his spirit chafed at the dependence. 
 lie knew it wan of no avail to complain of the people to the 
 people, and he seldom ventured to ribk his position by opposing 
 the wishes of the fearful masters whom he served, but at length 
 he was driven to do so, and at length he fell. 
 
 Half a century has passed since Robespierre died, and history 
 has become peculiarly conversant with his name. Is there any- 
 one whose character suffers under a more wide-spread infamy ? 
 The abomination of whose deeds has become more notorious ? 
 The tiile of wlinne death ha;« been oftener told t whose end, 
 horrid, fearful, agonised, as was that of this man, has met with 
 less sympathy ? For fifty years the world has talked of, con- 
 demned, and executed Robespierre. Men and women, who 
 have barely heard the names of Pitt and Fox, who know not 
 whether Mettemich is a man or a river, or one of the United 
 States, speak of Robespierre as of a thing accursed. They 
 know, at any rate, what hf wan- the demon of the revolution \ 
 Hie source uf the fountain of blood with which Parii waa 
 
Rohispierr^s Character, 267 ' 
 
 deluged ; the murderer of the thousands whose bodies choked 
 the course ofthe Loire and the Rhone. Who knows not enough 
 of Robespierre to condemn him ? Who abstains from adding 
 another malediction to those which already load the name of the 
 King of the Reign of Terror ! 
 
 Yet it is not impossible that some apologist may be found for 
 the blood which this man shed ; that some quaint historian, 
 delighting to show the world how wrong has been its most 
 assured opinions, may attempt to vindicate the fame of Robes- 
 pierre, and strive to wash the blackamoor white. Are not our 
 old historical assurances everywhere asserted ? Has it not been 
 proved to us that crooked-backed Richard was a good and politic 
 King; and that the iniquities of Henry VIH. are fabulous? , 
 whereas the agreeable predilections of our early youth are dis- ^ 
 turbed by our hearing that glorious Queen Bess, and learned \ 
 King James, were mean, bloodthirsty, and selfish. 
 
 I am not the bold man who will dare to face the opinion of the 
 world, and attempt to prove that Robespierre has become in- 
 famous through prejudice, He must be held responsible for the 
 effects of the words which he spoke, and the things which he 
 did, as other men are. He made himself a scourge and a pesti- 
 lence to his country ; therefore, beyond all other men, he has 
 become odious, and therefore, historian after historian, as 
 they mention his name, hardly dare, in the service of truth, to 
 say one word to lessen his infamy. 
 
 Yet Robespierre began his public life with aspirations of 
 humanity which never deserted him ; and resolutions as to 
 conduct to which he adhered with a constancy never surpassed, 
 What shall we say are the qualifications for a great and good 
 man ?— Honesty. In spite of his infamy, Robespierre's honesty 
 has become proverbial. Moral conduct — the life he led even 
 during the zenith of his power, and at a time when licentiousness 
 was general, and morality ridiculous, was characterised by the 
 simplicity of the early Quakers. Industry — without payment 
 from the State, beyond that which he received as a member of 
 the Convention, and which was hardly sufficient for the wants of 
 his simple existence, he worked nearly night and day in the 
 service of the State. Constancy of purpose — from the commence- 
 ment of his career, in opposition at first to ridicule and obscurity, 
 then to public opinion, and lastly to the combined efforts of the 
 greatest of his countrymen, he pursued one only idea ; convinced 
 of its truth, sure of its progress, and longing for its success. Tem- 
 perance in power— though in reality governing all France, 
 Robespierre assumed to himself none 6f the attributes or 
 privileges of political power. He took to himself no high place, 
 no public situation of profit or grandeur. He was neither 
 haughty in his language, nor imperious in his demeanc ur. Lovt 
 
166 La VittiUt, 
 
 of country — whoever showed a more devoted love? For hid 
 country he laboured, and suffered a life which surely in itself 
 could have had nothing attractive ; the hope of the future felicity 
 of France alone fed his energies, and sustained his courage. His 
 only selfish ambition was to be able to retire into private life and 
 contemplate from thence the general happiness which he had 
 given to his country. Courage — those who have carefully 
 studied his private life, and have learnt what he endured, and 
 dared to do in overcoming the enemies of his system, can hardly 
 doubt his courage. Calumny or error has thrown an unmerited 
 disgrace over his last wretched i^ys. He has been supposed to 
 have wounded himself in an impotent attempt to put an end to 
 liis life. It has been aHcertainecl that such was not the fact, the 
 pistol by which he was wounded having been fired by one of the 
 soldiers by whom he was arrested. He is stated also to have 
 wanted that firmness in death which so many of his victims 
 displayed. They triumphed even in their death. Louis and 
 Vcrgniaud, Marie Antoinette, and Madame Roland, felt that they 
 were stepping from life into glory, and their step was light and 
 elastic, Robespierre was sinkin^j from existence into infamy. 
 During those fearful hours, in which nothing in life was left him 
 but to suffer, how wretched must have been the reminiscences of 
 his career ! He, who had so constantly pursued one idea, must 
 then have felt that that idea had been an error ; that he had all 
 in all been wrong ; that he had waded through the blood of his 
 countrymen to reach a goal, which, bright and luminous as it 
 had appeared, he now found to be an ignis fatuus. Nothing was 
 then left to him. His life had been a failure, and for the future 
 he had no hope. His body was wounded and in tortures ; his 
 spirit was dismayed by the insults of those around him, and his 
 soul had owned no haven to which death would give it an escape 
 Could his eye have been lit with animation as he ascended the 
 scafTold ! Could his foot have then stepped with confidence I 
 Could he have gloried in his death ! Poor mutilated worm, 
 agonised in body and in soul. Can it be ascribed to want of 
 courage in him, that his last moments were passed in silent agony 
 and despair. 
 
 Honesty, moral conduct, industry, constancy of purpose, tem- 
 perance in power, courage, and love of country : these virtues 
 all belonged to Robespierre ; history confesses it, and to what 
 favoured hero does history assign a fairer catalogue "i Whose 
 name does a brighter galaxy adorn ? With such qualities, such 
 attributes, why was he not the Washington of France ? Why, 
 instead of the Messiah of Freedom, which he believed himself to 
 be, has his name become a by-word, a reproach, and an 
 enormity' Because he wanted faith ! He beheved in nothing 
 but himselt, and the reasoning faculty with which he felt himself 
 
RclcspiL ire's Character, 269 
 
 lo be endowed. He tlioui^bt himself perfect in liis ovn huma:! 
 nature, and wishing to make others perfect as he was, he fcl 
 into the lowest abyss of crime and misery in which a poor humat 
 creature ever wallowed. lie seems almost to have been sen 
 into the world to prove the incfficacy of human reason to effect 
 human happiness. He was gifted with a power over conitnon 
 temptation, which belongs to but few. His blood was cool and 
 temperate, and yet his heart was open to all the softer emotions. 
 He had no appetite for luxury \ no desire for pomp ; no craving 
 for wealth. Among thousands who were revelling in sensuality, 
 he kept himself pure and immaculate. It any man could have 
 said, " I will be virtuous ; I, of myself, unaided, trusting to my 
 own power, guarding myself by the light of my own reason ; I 
 will walk uprightly through the world, and will shed light from 
 my path upon my brethren," he might have said so. lie 
 attempted it, and history shows us the result. He attempted, un- 
 assisted, to be perfect among men, and his memory is regarded 
 as that of a loathsome plague, defiling even the unclean age in 
 which he lived. 
 
 At about five o'clock in the afternoon on an October day, in 
 1793, Robespierre was sitting alone in a small room* in the 
 house of his friend, Simon Duplay, the cabinet-maker. This 
 room, which was the bed-chamber, reception-room, and study of 
 the arbitrary Dictator, was a garret in the roof of Duplay's 
 humble dwelling. One small window, opening upon the tiles 
 looked into the court-yard in which were stored the planks or 
 blocks necessary to the cabinet-maker's trade. A small wooden 
 bedstead, a long deal table, and four or five rush-bottomed 
 chairs, constituted the whole furniture of the apartment. A deal 
 shelf ran along the wall beneath the slanting roof, and held his 
 small treasure of books ; and more than half this humble row 
 were manuscripts of his own, which he had numbered, arranged, 
 and bound with that methodical exactness which was a part of 
 his strange character. He was sitting at a table covered with 
 papers, on which he had now been laboriously preparing in* 
 structions for those who, under him, carried on the rule of terror ; 
 and arranging the measured words with which, at the Jacobins, 
 he was to encourage his allies to uphold him in the bloody des- 
 potism which he had seized. 
 
 The weight upon his mind must have been immense, for 
 Robespierre was not a thoughtless, wild fanatic, carried by the 
 multitude whither they pleased : he led the people of Paris, and 
 led them with a fixed object. He was progressing bv one 
 measure deeply calculated to the age of rtiason, which he 
 
 * It will be at once seen that thii description ii takea from the thirtietb 
 chapter of L.-«martinc'i " Girondists." 
 
 / a 
 
J7d Im Vendue* 
 
 was assured was coming ; and that one measure was the cxter* 
 mination of all who would be likely to oppose him. The extent 
 of his power, the multiplicity of his cares, the importance of his 
 every word and act, and the personal danger Sn which he lived, 
 might have ruffled the equanimity of a higher-spirited man 
 than he is supposed to have been ; but yet, to judge from his 
 countenance, nis mind was calm ; the traces of thought were 
 plain on his brow, but there was none of the impatience of a 
 tyrant about his mouth, nor of the cruelty of an habitual blood- 
 shedder in his eyes. His forehead showed s>'mptoms of deep 
 thought, and partially redeemed the somewhat mean effect of 
 his other features. The sharp nose, the thin lips, the cold grey 
 eyes, the sallow sunken cheeks, were those of a precise, passion- 
 less, self-confident man, little likely to be led into any excess of love 
 or hatred, but little likely also to be shaken in his resolve either 
 for good or evil. His face probably was a true index to his cha- 
 racter. Robespierre was not a cruel man ; but he had none of 
 that humanity which makes the shedding of blood abominable 
 to mankind, and which, had he possessed it, would have made 
 his career impossible. * 
 
 His hair was close curled in rolls upon his temples, and 
 elaborately powdered. The front and cuffs of his shirt were not 
 only scrupulously clean, but starched and ironed with the most 
 exact care. He wore a blue coat, a white waistcoat, and knee- 
 breeches. His stockings, like his shirt, were snow-white, and 
 the silver buckles shone brightly in his shoes. No one could 
 have looked less like a French republican of 1793 than did 
 Robespierre. 
 
 He had just completed a letter addressed jointly to Thurrcan 
 and Lechelle, the commisioners whomhe had newly appointed 
 to the horrid task of exterminating the royalists of La Vendue. 
 Santerre had undertaken this work, and had failed in it, and it 
 was now said that he was a friend and creature of Danton's ; 
 that he was not to be trusted as a republican : that he had a 
 royalist bias ; that it would/be a good thing that his head should 
 roll, as 4he heads of so many false men had rolled, under the 
 avenging guillotine. Poor Santerre, whoj in the service of the 
 Republic, had not shunned the infamy of presiding at the death 
 of Louis. He, however, contrived to keep his burly head on his 
 strong shoulders, and to brew beer for the Directory, the Con- 
 sulate, and the Empire. 
 
 Thurreau and Lechelle, It was correctly thought, would be 
 surer hands at performing the work to be done. They had accepted 
 the commission with alacrity, and were now on the road to com- 
 mence their duties. That duty was to leave neither life nor 
 property ii> the pR^jfcribcd district. " Let La Vendde become a 
 wilierness, ana we will re-populate it with patriots, to whom th« 
 
I\obcspiencs Ch vactcr, 27 1 
 
 fertility of fields, rich with the blood of traitors, shall be a 
 deserved reward." Thus had Robespierre now written ; and as> 
 he calmly read over, and slowly copied, his own despatch, he 
 saw nothing in it of which he could disapprove, as a reasoning 
 being animated with a true love of his country. " Experience 
 has too clearly proved to us that the offspring of slaves, who 
 willingly kiss the rod of tyrants, will have no higher aspiration 
 than their parents. In allowing them to escape, we should only 
 create difTiculiics for our own patriot children. Hitherto the 
 servants of the Convention have scotched the snake, but have " 
 r.ot killed it ; and the wounded viper has thus become more 
 furiously venomous than before. It is for you, citizens, to strike 
 a death-blow to the infamy of La Vendde. It will be your glory 
 to assure the Convention that no royalist remains in the western 
 provinces to disturb the equanimity of the Republic." Such 
 were the sentiments he had just expressed, such the instructions 
 he had given, calmly meditating on his duty as a ruler of his 
 country ; and when he had finished his task, and seen that no 
 expression had escaped him of which reason or patriotism could 
 disapprove, he again placed the p:>per before him, to write words 
 of affection to the brother of his heart. 
 
 Robespierre's brother was much younger than himself ; bui 
 there was no one whom he more thoroughly trusted with State 
 secrets, and State services of importance : and no one who re- 
 garded him with £0 entire a devotion. Robespierre the elder 
 believed only in himself ; Robespierre the younger believed in 
 his brother, and his belief was fervid and assured, as is always 
 that of an enthusiast. To him, Maximilian appeared to be the 
 personification of every virtue necessary to mankind. Could he 
 luvc been made to understand the opinion which the world 
 would form of his brother's character, he would have thought 
 that it was about to be smitten with a curse of general insanity. 
 Robespierre's vanity was flattered by the adoration of his 
 brother, and he loved his worshipper sincerely. The young man 
 was now at Lyons, propagating the doctrines of his party ; and 
 in his letters to him, Robespierre mingled the confidential greet- 
 ings of an affectionate brother with those furious demands for 
 republican energy which flooded the streets of the towns of 
 France with blood, and choked the rivers of France with the 
 bodies of the French. 
 
 " I still hope," he wrote, slowly considering the words as then 
 fell from his pen, "for the day when this work will have been 
 done — for the happy day when we shall feel that we have 
 prevailed not only against our enemies, but over our own vices ; 
 out my heart nearly fails me, when I think how little we have 
 yet effected. I feel that among the friends whom we most trust, 
 those who are actuated by patriotism alone are lukewarm. Lust* 
 
Itjl La Vtnd^e, 
 
 avarice, piundcf) and personal revenge, are the motives of tho9; 
 who ara really energetic . , . . It is very difficult for me to kno«r 
 my friends ; this also preys heavily on my spirits. The gold of 
 the royalists is as plentiful as when the wretched woman, who 
 !i now about to die, was revelling in her voluptuous pride at 
 Versailles. I know that the hands of many, who call themselves 
 patriots, arc even now grasping at the wages for which they 
 are to betray the people. A day of reckoning shall come for 
 all of them', though the list of their names is a long one. 
 Were I to write the names of those I know to be true, I 
 should be unable to insert in it above five or six ... . I look 
 for your return to Paris with more than my usual impatience. 
 Eleanor's quiet zeal, and propriety of demeanour, is a great 
 comfort to me ; but even with her, I feel that I have some re- 
 serve. I blame myself that it is so, for she is most trustworthy ; 
 but, as yet, I cannot throw it off. With you alone I have none. 
 Do not, however, leave the work undone ; remember that those 
 who will not toil for us, will assuredly toil against us. There 
 can be none neutral in the battle we are now waging. A man 
 can have committed no greater crime against the Republic 
 than having done nothing to add to its strength. I know 
 your tender heart grieves at the death of every traitor, though 
 your patriotism owns the necessity of his fall. Remember 
 that the prosperity of every aristocrat has been purchased by 
 the infamy of above a hundred slaves ! How much better is it 
 that one man should die, than that a hundred men should 
 suffer worse than death ! '' 
 
 When he had finished his letter, he read it accu -ately over, 
 and then having carefully wiped his peji, and laid it near his 
 inkstand, he leant back in his chair, and with his hand resting 
 on the table, turned over in his mind the names and deeds of 
 those who were accounted as his friends, but whom he suspected 
 to be his enemies. He had close to his hands slips of paper, on 
 which were written notes of the most trivial doings of those by 
 whom he was generally surrounded ; and the very spies who gave 
 him the information were themselves the unfortunate subjects 
 of similar notices from others. The wretched man was tortured 
 by distrust ; as he had told his brother, there were not among 
 the whole body of those associates, by whose aid he had made 
 himself the ruling power in France, half-a-dozen whom he did not 
 believe to be eager for his downfall and his death. Thrice, 
 whilst thus meditating, he stopped, and with his pencil put a 
 dot against the name of a republican. Unfortunate men ! their 
 patrotism did not avail them ; wi<liin a few weeks, the three had 
 been added to the list of victims who perished under the judicial 
 proceedings of Fouquier Tinville. 
 
 It had now become nearly dark, and Robespierre was unable 
 
Robespierre' 5 Character, 273 
 
 longer to read the unfriendly notices which lay bcncaih his hand ; 
 and he therefore gave himself up entirely to rctlcction. He 
 began to dream of nobler subjects— to look forward to happier 
 days, when torrents of blood would be no longer necessary, 
 when traitors should no longer find a market for their treason, 
 when the a^c of reason should have prevailed, and France, 
 happy, free, illustrious, and intellectual, should universally own 
 how much she owed to her one incorruptible patriot. He 
 thought to himself of living on his small paternal domain in 
 Artois, receiving nothing from the country he had blessed but 
 adoration ; triumphant in the success of his theory ; honoured 
 as more than mortal ; evincing the grandeur of his soul by re- 
 jecting those worldly rewards, which to his disposition offered 
 no temptation. But before he had long indulged in this happy 
 train of thought, he was called back to the realities of his 
 troubled life by a low knock at his door, and on his answering 
 it, a young woman, decently, but very plainly dressed, entered 
 the garret with a candle in her hand. This was Eleanor Duplay ; 
 and when Robespierre allowed himself to dream of a future 
 home, she was the wife of his bosom, and the mother of his 
 children. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ROBESPIERRE'S LOVE. 
 
 i-EANOR DUPLAY was not a beautiful young 
 woman, nor was there anything about her which 
 marked her as being superior to those of her own 
 station of life ; but her countenance was modest and 
 intelligent, and her heart was sincere ; such as she was, she 
 had won the affection of him who was certainly, at this time, 
 the most powerful man in France. She was about fivc-and- 
 twenty years of age ; was the eldest of four sisters, and had 
 passed her quiet existence in assisting her mother in her housc- 
 nold, and in doing for her father so much of his work as was 
 fitting for a woman's hand. Till Robespierre had become an 
 inmate of her father's house, she had not paid more than 
 ordinary attention to the politics of the troubled days in which 
 she lived ; but she had caught the infection from him, as the 
 whole family had done. She had listened to his words as 
 though they fell from inspired lips : the pseudo-philosophical 
 dogmas, which are to us both repulsive and ridiculous, were to 
 " er invaluable truths, begotten by reason, and capable of re- 
 generating her fellow-creatures. Robespierre was to her what 
 her Saviour should have been 5 and he rewarded her devotion 
 by choosing her as the partner of his greatness. 
 
 Robespierre's affection was not that of an impassioned lover ; 
 he did not show it by warm caresses or fervid vows ; but yet 
 he made her whom he had chosen, understand that she was 
 to him dearer than any other woman ; and Eleanor was prouder 
 of her affianced husband than though the handsomest youth of 
 Paris was at her feet. 
 
 As she entered his chamber, he was thinking partly of her 
 nnd he was not sorry to be thus interrupted. She carried a 
 candle in one hand, and in the other a boucjuct of fresh flowers 
 
RoL'spierr^s Love. 27^ 
 
 which she ([uictly laid among his papers. Robespierre either 
 had, or affected a taste for llowcr.s, and, as long as they were to 
 be gotten, ho was seldom seen without them, either in his hand 
 or on his coat. " ' 
 
 " I thought you would want a light, M. Robespierre/ said she, 
 for though she hoped to be closely connected with'himj she 
 seldom ventured on the familiarity of calling him by his Christian 
 name. Had she been a man, her democratic principle would 
 have taught her to discontinue the aristocratic Monsieur j but 
 even in 1793, the accustomed courtesy of that obnoxious word 
 was allowed to woman's lips. " I thought you would want a 
 light, or I would not have interrupted you at your work." 
 
 " Thanks, Eleanor : I was not at work, though ; my brain, 
 my eyes, and hands were all tired. I have been sitting idle for, 
 I believe, this half hour." 
 
 "Your eyes and hands may ha\o been at rest," said she, 
 sitting down at the end of the table, " but it is seldom that your 
 thoughts arc not at work." 
 
 'Mt is one of the high privileges of man, that though his body 
 needs repose, the faculties of his mind need never b2 entirely 
 dormant. I know that I have reasoned in my sleep as lucidly 
 as I have ever done awake ; and though, wbcn awake, I have 
 forgotten what has passed through my mmu, the work of my 
 brain has not been lost ; the same ideas have recurred to me 
 again, and though in the recurrence I cannot remember when 
 1 have before employed myself with arranging them, still they 
 come to me as old friends, with whom I am well acquaintea. 
 The mind will seldom complain of too much labour, if the body 
 be not injured by indulgence or disease," 
 
 " But too much labour will bring on disease," said Eleanor, 
 in a tone which plainly showed the sincerity of the anxiety 
 which she expressed. " We never get a walk with you now ; do 
 you know that it is months since we were in the Champs 
 Elysdcs together ; it was in May, and this is October now." 
 
 *' Atiairs must be greatly altered, Kleanor ; many things 
 which are now undone must be completed, before we walk again 
 for our pleasure : a true patriot can no longer walk the streets 
 of Paris in safety, while traitors can come and go in security, 
 with their treason blazoned on their foreheads." 
 
 " And yet do not many traitors expiate their crimes daily ? " 
 
 " Many are condemned and die ; but I fear not always those 
 who have most deserved death. Much blood has been shed, 
 and it has partly been in compliance with my counsel. I would 
 that the vengeance of the Republic might now stay its hand, U 
 it could be so, with satcty to the people. I am sick of the un- 
 , changing sentences of the judges, and the verdicts of juries who 
 are determined io, coavict. I doubt not that those wha ar« 
 
ij6 la Vendic. 
 
 brought before them are traitors or aristocrats—at any rate, 
 they are not at heart republicans, and if so, they have deserved 
 death ; but I should be better pleased, if now and then a viciin- 
 was spriied." He paused for a while, and then added, "The 
 blood of traitors is very sickening ; but there are those, Eleanor, 
 in whose nostrils it has a sweet savour : there are butchers of 
 the human kind, who revel in the horrid shambles, in which 
 they are of necessity employed. Such men are to me accursed 
 -^thcir breath recks of human blood." 
 
 Eleanor shuddered as she listened to him { but it was not the 
 thought of all the blood, which he whom she loved had shed, 
 which made her shudder ; she had no idea that Robespierre 
 was a sanguinary man : she sympathised with the weakness of 
 humanity which he confessed, and loved him for the kindness 
 of his heart— and he was not a hypocrite in his protestation ; he 
 believed that there was nothing in common between himself and 
 the wretches who crowded round tlic Kibt sufferings of llie 
 victims whom he had caused to ascend the scaffold. He litile 
 thought that, in a few years, he would be looked upon as the 
 sole author of the barbarities of which he now complained. 
 
 It was seldom that Robespierre had spoken so openly to 
 Eleanor Duplay of his inmost thoughts. She was flattered and 
 gratified to think he had thought her worthy of his confidence, 
 that he had chosen her to listen to the secrets of his heart, and 
 she felt that, if she had influence with him, it would become her 
 as a woman to use it on behalf of those whom it might be in 
 his power to save from a fearful death. 
 
 "And are there many more who must die?'* said she. 
 " When I hear the wheels of that horrid cart, as it carries the 
 poor creatures who have been condemned, on their last journey, 
 my heart, too, sickens within me. Will these horrid executions 
 go on much longer ? " 
 
 "There are still thousands upon thousands of men in France, 
 who would sooner be the slaves of a King, than draw the breath 
 of liberty," answered he. 
 
 " But they can be taught the duties and feelings of men, 
 cannot they ? They think, and feel now only as they have been 
 brought up to think and feel." 
 
 " Had they not been too stubborn to learn, they have had a 
 k^sson written in letters of blood, which would have long since 
 convinced them — if it be necessary, it must be repeated. 
 1 for one will not shrink from my duty. No, though I should 
 sink beneath the horrid task which it imposes on me." 
 
 They both then sat silent for r while ; though Robespierre 
 had ventured to express to the ^irl, whom he knew to be so 
 entirely devoted to him, a feeling somewhat akin to that of pity 
 for his victims, he could ncr liar that even she chculd appear 
 
Roiespierr^s Lovt, 277 
 
 to throw a shadow of an imputation on the propriety and just- 
 ncss of his measures, although she only did so by rcp^^ating and 
 appealing to the kindly expressions which had fallen f'-om him- 
 self. He had become so used to the unmeasured praise of those 
 among whom he lived, so painfully suspicious of those who, in 
 the remotest degree, disapproved of any of his words or deeds, 
 so confident of himself, so distrustful of all others, that even 
 what she had said was painful to him ; and though he himself 
 hardly knew why, yet he felt that he was displeased with her. 
 Eleanor, however, was altogether unconscious of having ir'-itated 
 his sore feelings ; and relying on the kind tone of what he had 
 said, and the contidcnt manner in which he had spoken to her, 
 she determined to obey the dictates of her heart, and intercede 
 for mercy for her fellow-creatures. Poor girl ! she did not know 
 the danger of coming near the lion's prey. 
 
 She had heard much of the Vendeans, and though those v/ho 
 had spoken in her hearing of the doings of the royalist rebels 
 were not likely to say much to excite sympathy on their behalf, 
 still she had learnt that they were true to each other, faithful to 
 their leaders, generous to their enemies, and brave in battle. The 
 awful punishment to be inflicted on the doomed district had 
 also been partially discussed in her hearing ; and though the 
 Republic had no more enthusiastic daughter than herself, her 
 woman's heart could not endure the idea that even the innocent 
 children of a large province should be condemned to slaughter 
 for their fathers' want of patriotism. What work so fitting for 
 the woman whom a ruler of the people had chosen for a wife, as 
 to implore the stern magistrate to temper justice with mercy? 
 In what way could she use her influence so sweetly as to ask for 
 the lives of women and children "i 
 
 And yet she felt afraid to make her innocent request. Robes- 
 pierre had never yet been offended with her. Though he had given 
 her counsel on almost every subject, he had never yet spoken to 
 her one word of disapprobation ; still she knew that he had in- 
 spired her with fear. She made some attempts to begin the 
 subject, which he did not notice, for he was still brooding over 
 the unpleasant sensation which her words had occasioned ; but 
 at last she gathered courage, and said : 
 
 "The soldiers of the Republic have at last overcome the 
 rebels of La Vcndde— have they not, M. Robespierre ? " 
 
 *< It is not enough to conquer traitors," answered he, "they 
 must be crushed, before the country can be safe from their 
 treachery." 
 
 " Their treason must be crushed, I know." 
 
 " Crimes between man and man can be atoned for by minor 
 punishments : crimes between citizens and their country can 
 only be properly avenged by death. You may teach the muj> 
 
derer or the thief the iniquity of his fault { and when he has 
 learnt to hate the deed he has committed, he may be pardoned* 
 It is not so with traitors. Thoujjh the truest child of France 
 should spend his life in the attempt, he would not be able to in- 
 spire one aristocrat with a spark of patriotism.'* 
 
 "Must every royalist in La Vendue perish, then?" said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 Robespierre did not answer her immediately, but leaning his 
 elbow on the table, he rested his forehead on his hand, so as 
 nearly to conceal his face. Eleanor thought that he was medi- 
 tating on her question ; and remembering that he had declared 
 that lie should bj pleased if now and then a victim miglit be 
 spared, again commenced her difficult task of urging him to 
 mercy, 
 
 "They talk of shedding the blood of innocent children— of 
 destroying peasant woman, who can only think and feel as their 
 husbands bid them. You will not allow that this should be done, 
 , will you ? " 
 
 I " Is the life of a woman more precious to her than that of a 
 ' man ? It is a false sentiment which teaches us to spare the in- 
 iquities of women because of their sex. Their weakness entitles 
 them to our protection, their beauty begets our love ; but neither 
 their weakness or their beaut/ should be accepted as an excuse 
 for their crimes." 
 
 ! " But poor innocent biibcs — it Is not po3;jiblc that they should 
 have committed crimes." 
 
 i "In the religion of Christ It is declared tliat the sins of the 
 fathers shall be visited on the children, to the third and fourth 
 generation. The priests who made these laws, and handed 
 them down to their flocks, as the very words of their God, had 
 closely studied human nature. I do not believe that an 
 Almighty Creator condescended to engrave on stone, with his 
 own finger, these words, as they would feign that he did do ; but 
 the law is not the less true ; the children must expiate, to the 
 third and fourth generation, the sins of their fathers. Natuie, 
 which is all benignant, wills that it should be so." 
 ! "If this be so, will not nature work out her own law, Will it 
 not be punishment enough that so many women should lose their 
 husbands ; so many children their fathers ? You, I know, are 
 averse to shedding blood ; you would spare life whenever your 
 sense of duty would allow you to do so. Try what clemency will 
 do in La Vendde. Try whether kindness will not put a stop to 
 the bitterness of their enmity. Do, dearest, for my sake." 
 
 It is possible that Eleanor had never before spoken to her 
 lover in language so tender ; it is also probable that she had 
 never before asked of him any request, in which aught of a 
 political nature was concerned. Be that as it may, as soon as 
 
Roli'sJ)icfrcs Love, 279 
 
 she had finished speaking, her face became suffused with scarlet, 
 as though she had said something of which she was ashamed. 
 One would think that there was nothing in the ♦erm of endear- 
 ment which she had used whicli could have displeased a be- 
 trothed husband ; nothing in the petition she had made which 
 could have angered a political friend. Robespierre, however, 
 soon showed that he was displeased and angered ; nay, worse 
 still, that his black, unmanly suspicion was aroused. To his dis- 
 ordered brain it seemed that Eleanor was practising on him her 
 woman's wiles for some unworthy purpose, and that treason 
 lurked in her show of humanity and affection. He believed that 
 she who had always believed in him, loved him, almost wor- 
 shipped him, had become in an instant false and designing. 
 
 He looked her steadily in the face a moment or two before he 
 answered, and she did not bear calmly the fierce glance of his 
 eye ; she saw at once that she had angered him, and, in spite of 
 her love, she could not but know how dark and terrible wa^ his 
 anger. 
 
 " Who has set you on to talk to me of this ? " he said slowly, 
 still keeping his eyes fixed on hers. 
 
 " Set me on, M. Robespierre ! what do you mean ? Who 
 should have set me on .?" 
 
 '* There are hundreds, I grieve to say, ready to do so. Some 
 of them are daily near you. I should have thought, though, 
 that with you I might have been safe." 
 
 " Safe with me ! And do you doubt it now— do you doubt 
 that you are safe with me .-*" and as she spoke, she laid her hojid 
 upon his arm, and attempted to appeal to his affection. He 
 gently withdrew his arm from her. grasp, and again concealed his 
 face with his hand. " As I stand here alive before you," con- 
 tinued she, speaking with a more assured voice than she had 
 hitherto used, " I have not wliispcred a word to man or woman 
 upon this subject, but yourself." 
 
 Eleanor had risen from her chair when her companion first 
 expressed his suspicion, and she was now standing ; but Robes 
 pierre remained seated, still shading his eyes with his hand, as 
 though he had nothing further to say to her, and would wish to 
 be alone. • She, however, felt that she could not leave him with- 
 out some further explanation on her part, some retraction in 
 his ; but she knew not how to set about it. The most eloquent 
 men in France had found it difficult to explain anything to 
 Robespierre's satisfaction. N o one had yet been able to malce 
 him retract the word which he had spoken. 
 
 " Say that you believe me, M. Robespierre," said she ; ** for 
 merc/s sake, say that you do not doubt me ! Do you not know 
 that I would always obey you, that your words are always to me 
 the words of truth ? I have done wrong, I doubt not, in speak- 
 
, 280 l^ Vendue* 
 
 !ng to you of public matters. I beg your pardon, and promise 
 that I will not so transgress again ; but before I leave you, tell 
 tne that you do not distrust my fidelity." 
 
 " I would still wish to hope, Eleanor, that you are truly 
 anxious for the welfare of your country, and the safety of your 
 friend," said he, still however, without looking up. 
 
 " Indeed I am, most anxious ; anxious above all things for 
 your welfare and safety. 1 should think little of my life, could I 
 jive it to promote the one or secure the other." 
 
 " Tell me then, I conjure you, who are they who have desired 
 you to beg for the lives of these Vendean rebels," and as he spoke 
 ne leapt from his chair, and putting bis hand uoon her shoulder, 
 looked sternly into her face. 
 
 " As God is my judge " 
 
 " Bah ! if neither love of your country or of me, nor yet the 
 
 .ear of the punishment due to traitors, will keep you true," (and 
 
 ; he slightly shook her with his hand, as he slowly uttered the last 
 
 I fearful words), "the judgment of God will not have much elTect 
 
 1 upon you." 
 
 "True!" said the poor girl, almost confounded with her 
 
 horror at the charge against her, and the violence of the man. 
 
 ■' True ! Oh ? Sir, for mercy's sake, tell me what it is of which 
 
 you accuse me— tell me what it is that I have done. No man 
 
 lias spoken of you behind your back words which you might not 
 
 ! yourself have heard. No man has desired me to ask you to 
 
 i spare the rebels. No man has even dared to hint to me, that 
 
 I should do or say aught in opposition to you." 
 
 " Some wor>ian has done it, then," said he. 
 
 •' My God 1 that you should think so foully of me I No, Sir, 
 
 neither man, nor woman, nor child. You said that, were it 
 
 possible, you would wish that the hand of the executioner might 
 
 I oe stayed. It was your own words that set me on to say what I 
 
 I did. I did not dream that I should displease you. Tell me, M. 
 
 I Robespierre, tell me that you are not angry with me, and I will 
 
 forget it all." 
 
 " Forget it all. Yes, things trivial and of no concern are long 
 remembered, but matters on which depend the life and death of 
 those we ought to love, are soon forgotten if they are unpleasant. 
 No, Eleanor, do not forget it all. Do not forget this— remember 
 that I never have, and never will, allow my feelings as a private 
 man to influence my conduct as a public functionary. I have 
 many duties to perform ; duties which are arduous, disagreeable, 
 and dangerous, but difficult as they are, I believe that I am able 
 to perform them. I do not wish for advice, and 1 will not permit 
 interference. Now go down, Eleanor ; our friends are below, I 
 heard their steps a while since, as they came in. I have but a 
 few words to write, and I will join you.'* 
 
!\ol>i-s/'fi'rrc's Love, 25 1 
 
 "But you ^vill tell me before I go that wc arc friends again,"' 
 said the poor girl, now weeping. " You will say that you do not 
 distrust nie." 
 
 *' 1 do not believe that you meant evil to me, but you were in- 
 discreet. Let that be sufficient now, and bear this in mind, 
 Eleanor — you know the place you hold in my affections, but 
 >vere you still nearer to me than you are ; were you already my 
 wife, and the mother of my children, I would not stand between 
 you and the punishment you would deserve, if you were untrue 
 to your country." 
 
 After hearing this energetic warning, Eleanor Duplay left her 
 lover's room, tirmly believing that she had greatly sinned in 
 speaking as she had done, but conscious, at any rate, of having 
 intended no evil, cither to him or to the unfortunate country re- 
 specting which he expressed so constant a solicitude. 
 
 As soon as she was gone, he again took up the papers which 
 he had written, and re-read them with great care. In the letter 
 to the two Commissioners he underscored the passages 
 which most forcibly urged them to energy in their work of de- 
 struction, and added a word here and there which showed more 
 clearly his intention that mercy should be shown to none. He 
 then turned to his letter to his brother. In that he said that 
 Eleanor's conduct had been a source of great comfort to him, 
 and that he blamed himself for still feeling any reserve with her» 
 He now erased the passage, and wrote in its stead, "even with 
 Eleanor Duplay I have some reserve, and I feel that I cannot 
 throw it off with safety ! " and having done this, he laboriously 
 copied, for the second time, the long letter which he had 
 written. 
 
 When he had finished his task, he left his own chamber, and 
 H'cnt down into a room below, in which the family were in the 
 habit of assembling in the evening, and meeting such of Robes- 
 pierre's friends as he wished to have admitted. The cabinet- 
 maker, and his wife and daughters, together with his son and 
 nephew, who assisted him in his workshop, were always there ; 
 and few evenings passed without the attendance of some of his 
 more intimate friends. They were, at first, merely in the habit 
 of returning with him from the Jacobins' club, but after a while 
 their private meetings became so necessary to them, that they 
 assembled at Duplay's on those nights also on which the 
 Jacobins did not meet 
 
 When Robespierre entered the humble salon, Lebas, St. Just^ 
 and Couthon were there ; three men who were constant to him 
 to the last, and died with him when he died. As far as we can 
 judge of their characters, they were none of them naturaMy bad 
 men. They were not men prone to lust or plunder ; they 
 betrayed no friends; they sought in their politica' vicv/s no 
 
aS« La Vendee, 
 
 private ends ; they even frequently used the power with which 
 they were invested to save the lives of multitudes for whose 
 blood the infuriated mob were eager. Lebas and St. Just were 
 constant to the girls they loved, and Couthon, who was an object 
 of pity as a cripple, was happy in the affection of a young wife 
 whom he adored ; and yet these were the men who assisted 
 Robespierre in organising the Reign of Terror, and with him 
 share the infamy of the deeds which were then committed. 
 They were all of them young when they died. They were men of 
 education, and a certain elevation of spirit, Men who were able 
 to sacrifice the pleasures of youth to the hard work of high 
 political duties. 131ood could not have been — was not — acceptable 
 to them ; yet under how great a load of infamy do their names 
 now lie buried ! 
 
 " We thought you were going to seclude yourself to-night,** 
 said Lebris, " and we were regretting it." 
 
 •* What have you done with Eleanor,'* said Madame Duplay, 
 "'that she does not come down to us?" 
 
 " I thought to have found her here," answered he { " she left 
 me some minutes since. She was not in good spirits, and has 
 probably retired for the night. Tell me, St. Just, do they talk 
 much of to-morrow's trial ? " 
 
 Robespierre alluded to the trial of Marie Antoinette, as the 
 cruel farce, which was so called, was then to commence. The 
 people were now thirsty after her blood, and thought themselves 
 wronged in that she had been so long held back from their 
 wrath, 
 
 ** They speak of her execution as of a thing of course," said St. 
 Just ; " and they are right : her sand has well nigh run itself 
 out. I wish she were now at her nephew's court." 
 
 •' Wish rather that she had never come from thence," said 
 Couthon. " She has brought great misfortunes on France. 
 Could she die n thousand deaths, she could not atone for what 
 she has done. Not that I would have her die, if it were possible 
 that she could be allowed to live." 
 
 " It is not possible,'' said Robespierre, " To have been Queen 
 of France, is in itself a crime which it would have been necessary 
 that she should expiate, even had she shown herself mistress of 
 all the virtues which could adorn a woman." 
 
 ** And she is not possessed of one," said Lebas, " She was 
 beautiful, but her beauty was a stain upon her, for she was 
 voluptuous. She was talented, but her talents were all turned to 
 evil, for they only enabled her to intrigue against her adopted 
 country. She had the disposal of wealth, with which she might 
 have commanded the blessings of the poor^ and she wasted it in 
 vain frivolities. She was gracious in aemeanour, but she kept 
 her smiles for those onlv for tho<»e who deserved her frowns, 
 
Slic had unbojLiiulcd influence over her husband, and she per- 
 suaded him to falsehood, dishonesty, and treachery." 
 
 " Do not deny tliat she has courage,'' said JSt. Just. " She has 
 borne her adversity well, though she could not bear her pros- 
 perity." 
 
 " She has courage," said Lcbas, " and how has she used it ? in 
 fighting an ineffectual battle against the country who had re- 
 ceived her with open arms. \Ve must all be judged by posterity, 
 but no historian will dare to say that Marie Antoinette did not 
 deserve the doom which now awaits her." 
 
 How little are men able to conceive what award posterity will 
 make in judging of their actions, even when they act with pure 
 motives, and on what they consider to be high principles ; and 
 posterity is often as much in error in its indiscriminate condem- 
 nation of actions, as are the actors in presuming themselves 
 entitled to its praise. 
 
 When years have rolled by, and passions have cooled, the 
 different motives and feelings of the persons concerned become 
 known to all, and mankind is enal)lcd to look upon public acts 
 fron^ every side. Not so the actors : they are not only in ignor- 
 ance of facts, the knowledge of which is nccessarry to their 
 judging rightly, but falsehoods dressed in the garb of facts are 
 studiously brought forward to deceive them, and men thus 
 groping in darkness are forced to form opinions, and to act upor» 
 them. 
 
 Public men arc like soldiers fighting in a narrow valley : they 
 SCO nothing but what is close around them, and that imperfectly, 
 as everything is in motion. The historian is as the general, who 
 stands elevated on the high ground, and with telescope in hand, 
 sees plainly all the different movements of the troops. He 
 would be an inconsiderate general, who would expect that his 
 ofticers in action should have had as clear an idea of what wus 
 going on, as he himself had been able to obtain. 
 
 There was no murder perpetrated during the French Revolu- 
 tion, under the pretext of a judicial sentence, which has created 
 more general disgust than has that of Marie Antoinette. Che came 
 as a stranger to the country, which on that account owed to her 
 its special protection. She had been called to France to be a 
 Queen, and her greatest crime was that she would not give up 
 the high station she had been invited to fill. She had been a 
 faithful wife to a husband who did not love her till he knew her 
 well, and who was slow in learning anything. She had been a 
 good mother to the children, who were bom, as she believed, to 
 rule the destinies of France. She had clung to a falling cause 
 with a sense of duty which was as admirable as her courage, and 
 at last she died with the devoted heroism which so well became her 
 mothers daughter. But what wc now look on as virtues, were 
 
984 i^^ ViiulSi, 
 
 vices in the eyes of the republicans, who were her judges. Her 
 constancy was stubbornness, and her courage was insolence. Her 
 innocent mirth was called licentiousness, and the royal splendour 
 which she had been taught to maintain, was looked upon as 
 iniquitous extravagance. Nor was this, even in those bloody days, 
 enough to condemn her. Lies of the basest kind were, with care 
 and difficulty, contrived to debase her character — lies which have 
 now been proved to be so, but which were then not only credible, 
 but sure to receive credit from those who already believed 
 that all royal blood was, from its nature, capable of every 
 abomination. 
 
 When Lebas so confidently predicated the sentence which 
 posterity would pass on the fall of Marie Antoinette, none of his 
 auditors doubted the correctness of his prophecy. Posterity, 
 however, more partial to the frivolities of courts than to the fury 
 of revolutions, has acquitted the Queen, and passed, perhaps, 
 loo heavy a sentence on the judges who condemned her. Till 
 the power of Satan over the world has been destroyed, and man 
 is able to walk uprightly before his Maker, the virtues of one 
 generation will be the vices of another, 
 
 
CHAPTER XXIV, 
 
 THE LAST DAY AT DURBELLIERE. 
 
 FTER the re-capture of Durbelli^re, and the liberation 
 of Santerrc, the Vcndcans again assembled in arms 
 in different portions of the revolted district, and 
 fought their battles always with valour, and not un- 
 frequently with success. They did not, however, again fornri 
 themselves into one body, till the beginning of October, when 
 news having reached them that a large army, under fiercer 
 leaders, was to be sent by the Republic for their extermination, 
 it became necessary to take some decided step tor their own pro- 
 tection. The Vendean Generals then decided to call together all 
 the men they could collect at Chatillon, a town in the very 
 centre of their country, and there also to prepare such a quantity 
 of military stores and ammunition, as would make the place a 
 useful and secure basis for their movements. 
 
 Some jealousy had arisen among the Generals ; and on the 
 death of Cathelineau, D'Elbde had been chosen Commander-in- 
 Chief, through the influence of those who wore envious of the 
 popularity of M. dc Lcscure. On the latter, however, the 
 management of the war depended : and though his exertions 
 were greatly impeded by the factious spirit which unfortunately 
 prevailed among the royalists, he nevertheless succeeded in 
 collecting, equipping, and maintaining a considerable army. The 
 republican troops of Lechelle and Thurreau were not long in 
 making their way to the devoted district, and tidings soon 
 reached Chitillon that they were devastating the country round 
 Dou^ and Vihiers, and that parties of them had advanced to the 
 neighbourhood of Cholet. 
 
 It was then determined at Chdtillon that the royalist army 
 should advance towards the republicans ; that they should fight 
 them on the first field of battle on which they could mce\ them, 
 
S86 la Vendii, 
 
 and that if beaten, they should cross the Loire into Brittany, 
 and make their way to the coast, to meet the succour which had 
 been promised them from England. Every day that the battle 
 was del'.:ycd, hundreds of children and women perished in cold 
 blood, numberless humble dwellings were reduced to ashes. The 
 commands of Robespierre were being executed ; the land was 
 being saturated with the blood of its inhabitants. 
 
 De Lescure and Larochejaquelin were both staying at 
 Ch&tillon. liut Chatillon is but a league or two from Durbclli^re, 
 and one or the other of them was almost daily at the chateau. 
 They had many cares upon them besides those of the army ; 
 cares which, though not productive of so much actual labour, 
 sat, if possible, heavier on their hearts. What were thev to do 
 with those dear but weak friends who were still at the chiteau } 
 three loving and beloved women, and an infirm old man, more 
 helpless even than the women ! They could not be left at Dur- 
 belli^re, for the chateau would doubtless, before long, be again 
 taken by some marauding party of their enemies, and any death 
 would be preferable to the fate which would there await 
 them. 
 
 Henri now felt the weight of those miseries which his father 
 had foretold ; when he, flushed with the victory at Saumur, re- 
 turned home after the campaign in which he had first drawn his 
 sword so gloriously. He felt that he had done his duty, and 
 therefore he regretted nothing ; but he also felt that he might 
 probably soon be without the power of protecting those who 
 were so much dearer to him than his life, and the suffering: 
 arising from such thoughts was almost more than he could 
 bear. 
 
 It was at last determined that the whole party should leave 
 the chdteau, and go over to Chalillon— there would be at any 
 rate a better chance of security there than at Durbelli^re, and 
 also better means of escape should the town fall into the hands 
 of their enemies. 
 
 It was a grievous thing to t(?ll that old man that he must 
 leave the house, where he had spent his quiet life, and go to 
 strange places, to finish the short remainder of his days amid 
 the turmoil of battles, and the continual troubles and dangers of 
 a moving army. Nevertheless he bore it well. At first he 
 bcseeched them to leave him and old Momont among his birds 
 and cherry trees, declaring that nothing that the blues could do 
 to him would be to him so calamitous as his removal from the 
 spot in which he had so long taken root. IJut his children soon 
 made him understand that it was impossible that they could 
 abandon him, a cripple as he was, unattended, and exposed to 
 tliC certain fury of the republicans. He yielded, therefore, and 
 when the sad day came, he blamed no one, as they lifted him 
 
Tht Last Day at Dnrbclli^re, 287 
 
 into the hu^e carriage, in which he was removed to ChAtillon. 
 To the last he was proudly loyal to the King ; and, as he was 
 carried over the threshold of his door, he said, that if God would 
 grant him another favour in this world, it would be, that he 
 might return once more to his own home, to welcome there some 
 scion of his royal master's house. 
 
 Henri, Dc Lescure, and the little Chevalier, all came over to 
 spend the last day at Durbelli6re, and a mCiancholy day it was. 
 Madame de Lescure, Marie, and Agatha were also there, and all 
 the servants, most of whom had been born in the family, and all 
 of whom, excepting Chapeau and one maid, were now to be sent 
 abroad to look for their living in a country in which the life itself 
 of every native was in hourly danger. Hard they begged to be 
 allowed to link their fate to that of their young mistress, 
 declaring that they would never more complain, even though 
 they were again called out to die, as they had been on that fear- 
 ful evening when Santerre had found himself unable to give the 
 fatal order. It was impossible—the safety of four women, who 
 would probably have to be carried backwards and forwards 
 through a country bristling with hostile troops, was a fearful 
 burden to the young leaders ; it would have been madness for 
 them to increase it. The wretched girls, therefore, prepared to 
 make their way to the homes of their relatives, knowing that 
 those homes would soon be turned into heaps of ashes. It was 
 a bright warm autumn day this, the last which the Laroche* 
 jaquclins were to pass together in the mansion in which they had 
 all been born. The men came over early, and breakfasted zX 
 the chateau, and both Henri and Arthur worked hard to relieve 
 the sadness of the party with some sparks of their accustomed 
 gaiety. The attempt, however, was futile ; they each felt that their 
 hours of gaiety were gone by, and before the meal was over, they 
 had both resolved that any attempt at mirth that day would be 
 a stretch of hypocrisy beyond their power. 
 
 When breakfast was over, the Marquis begged that, far 
 the last time, he might be wheeled round the garden-walks 
 which he loved so well, and accordingly he was put into his 
 chair, and, accompanied by his children and friends, was 
 dragged through every alley, and every little meandering path. 
 He would not spare himself a single turn— he had a tear to give 
 to every well-known tree, an adieu to make to ever>' painted 
 figure. To De Lescure and the others, the comic altitudes of 
 these uncouth ornaments was, at the present moment, anything 
 but interesting ; but to the Marquis, each of them was an old 
 and well-loved friend, whom even in his extremity he could 
 hardly bring himself to desert. On their return into the house 
 from the garden, they began to employ themselves with arrang- 
 ing and packing the little articles which they imended to take 
 
J88 /rt Vettd/f. 
 
 with them. They had all counted on having much to do during 
 the short hours of this one last day ; on being hurried and 
 pressed) so as to be hardly able to get through their task ; but 
 mstead of this their work was soon done, and the minutes hung 
 heavy on their hands. They would not talk of the things which 
 were near their hearts, for they feared to add to each other's 
 misery; they strove therefore to talk on indifferent subjects, 
 and soon broke down in every attempt they made at con- 
 versation. 
 
 Agatha never left her father's side for a moment, and though 
 she seldom spoke to him, she did a thousand little acts of 
 sedulous attention, which showed him that she was near to him. 
 Her gentle touch was almost as precious to him as her voice. 
 De Lescure sat near his wife the whole day, speaking to her 
 fiom time to time in a whisper, and feeling the weight upon his 
 spirits so great that even with her he could hardly talk freely. 
 He was already without a roof which he could call his own, and 
 he was aware his friends would soon be equally desolate ; such 
 hitherto had been the result of their gallant enterprise. 
 
 Henri had much to say — much that he had made up his mind 
 to say to Marie before he left Durbelli^re, but he put off the 
 moment of saying it from hour to hour, and it was not till near 
 midnight that it was said. Marie herself bore herself more 
 manfully, if I may say so, than any of them ; she really em- 
 ployed herself, and thought of a thousand things conducive to 
 their future comfort, which would have been forgotten or 
 neglected had she not been there. The little Chevalier tried 
 hard to assist her, but the pale sad face of Agatha, and the 
 silent tears which from time to time moistened the cheeks of 
 the Marquis, and told how acute were the sufferings which he 
 tried in vain to hide, were too much for the poor boy ; he soon 
 betook himself alone into the cherry grove, where he wandered 
 about unseen, and if the truth must be told, more than once 
 threw himself on the ground, and wept bitterly and aloud. 
 
 They sat down to dinner about three o'clock ; but their dinner 
 was, if possible, a worse affair than their breakfast. They were 
 not only sad, but worn out and jaded with sorrow. The very 
 servants, as they moved the dishes, sobbed aloud ; and at last, 
 Momont, who had vainly attempted io carry himself with pro- 
 priety before the others, utterly gave way, and throwing himself 
 on to a chair in the salon, declared that nothing but violence 
 should separate him from his master. 
 
 " It is five-and-fifty years," said he, sobbing, " since I first 
 waited on Monseigncur. We were boys then, and now we are 
 old men together. It is not natural that we should part. Where 
 he goes, I will go. 1 will cling to his carriage, unless they cut 
 me down with swords." 
 
The Last Day at Duybeilih-c. 2S9 
 
 No one could rebuke ihc old man — certainly not the master 
 whom he loved so uell ; and thou<;h they knew that it would be 
 impossible to provide for him, none of ihcm at the moment had 
 the heart to tell him so. 
 
 By degrees the daylight faded away, and for the last time 
 they watched the sun sink down among the cherry trees 01 
 DurbelliC^re, and the Marquis seated by the window, gazed into 
 the West till not a streak of light was any longer visible ; then 
 he felt that the sun of this world had set for him for good and 
 all. Even though he might live out a few more weary years, 
 even though the cause to which he was attached should be 
 victorious, yet he knew that l)urbclli6re would be destroyed, 
 and it never could be anything to him how the sun set or rose 
 in any other place. His warm heart yearned towards his 
 house ; the very chair on which he sat, the stool on which he 
 rested his crippled legs, were objects of an affection which he 
 had before felt, but never till now acknowledged. Every object 
 on which his eye rested gave him a new pang ; every article 
 within his reach was a dear friend, whom he had long loved, 
 and was now to leave for ever. 
 
 Still he did not utter one word of complaint ; he did not once 
 murmur at his fate ; he never reminded his son that he had, by 
 his impetuosity, hurried on his old father to destruction. He 
 never repined at the sacrifice he had made — 1 will not say for 
 his King, for King at present he had none ; the throne had been 
 laid low, and the precious blood of him who should have filled 
 it had been shed. No ; his sacrifices had been to an abstract 
 feeling of loyalty, which made fealty to the Crown, whether worn 
 or in abeyance, onlv second in his bosom to obedience to his 
 God. 
 
 The day faded away, and they still sat together in the room in 
 which they had dined, each wrapped in his own thoughts, till 
 the darkness of night was upon them, and still no one felt in- 
 clined to rise and ask for candles. 
 
 After a long pause, Arthur made a bold attempt to break 
 through the heaviness of the evening. '* We are not so badly 
 off, at any rate," said he, " as we were on that night when 
 Santerre and his men were here ; arc we, Agatha ? " 
 
 " We are not badly off at all," said Henri. " We have now 
 what we never had before— a fmc army collected together in 
 one spot, a promise of succour from faithful England, and a 
 strong probability of ultimate success. After all, what are we 
 giving up but an old barrack ? Let the rascal blues bum it ; 
 cannot we build a better Durbel'i^re when the King shall have 
 his own again ? " 
 
 "Ah, Henri !" said the Marquis. It was the only reproach 
 he uttered, though the words of his son, intended as they were 
 
990 La Vendue, 
 
 to excite hopd» and to give comfort, had been to him most 
 distasteful 
 
 Henri was in a moment at 'his fathcr*s feet. " Pardon me, 
 father ! " said he ; " you know that I did not mean to give you 
 pain. We all love the old house — none of us so v/cll as you 
 perhaps ; but we all love it ; yet what can we do ? Were we 
 to remain here, we should only be smothered beneath its ashes." 
 
 " God's will be done, my son. He knows that I do not be- 
 grudge my house in his service, and in that of my royal master. 
 It is not likely that I should do so, when I have not begrudged 
 the blood of my children." 
 
 They were all to start on the following morning by break ol 
 day, and, therefore, the necessity of early rising gave them an 
 excuse desired by all, for retiring early for the night. They 
 could not talk together, for every word that was spoken begot 
 fresh sources of sorrow ; they could not employ themselves, for 
 their minds were unhinged and unfitted for employment ; so 
 they agreed that they would go to bod, and before nine o'clock, 
 the family separated for the night. 
 
 They did not, however, all go to rest. Henri, as he handed 
 a light to his cousin, told her that he wanted to speak two words 
 to her in his sister's room, and as she did not dissent, he 
 followed the two girls thither. Two words ! It took nearly the 
 whole long night to say those two words. 
 
 Henri Larochejaquelin had thought long and deeply on the 
 position in which he and his betrothed were now placed, before 
 he made the request to which he asked her to listen that night, 
 and it was from no selfish passion that he made it. In the 
 presence of his sister, he asked her to marry him as soon as they 
 reached Chatillon, so that when next the anny separated, he 
 might deem himself her natural protector. He had already 
 asked and obtained De Lescurc's permission. The brother gave 
 it, not absolutely unwillingly, but with strong advice to Henri 
 to take no new cares upon himself during the present crisis, and 
 declaring that he would use no influence with his sister, either 
 one way or the other. 
 
 Marie, with a woman's instinct, anticipated the nature of 
 Henri's two words, and in a moment resolved on the answer she 
 would give him ; if her lover was generous, so would she be ; 
 she would never consent to link herself to him at a moment 
 when the union could only be to him a source of additional cares 
 and new sorrow. 
 
 Henri soon made his request ; he did not do it, as he would 
 have done in happier times ; kneeling at her feet, and looking 
 into her eyes for that love which he might well know he should 
 find there : he had not come to talk of the pleasures and endear- 
 ments of affection, and to ask for her hand as the accomplish- 
 
The Last Day at DitrbcUih-f, 391 
 
 ment of all, his wishes ; but he spoke of their mariiage as a 
 providential measure, called for by the calamitous necessities of 
 the moment, and in every argument which he used he appealed 
 to Agatha to support him, 
 
 *' No, Henri," said Marie, after she had already answered him 
 with a faint, but what she intended to be a f'nn denial. "No, 
 it must not, cannot, ouj^ht not be so. I am, I know, somewhat 
 de trap in this tragedy we arc playing. There are you and 
 Charles, two good knights and true, and each of you has a lady 
 whom it is his duty to protect. I am a poor forlorn young 
 damsel, and though both of you arc so gallant as to offer me a 
 hand to help me over the perilous path wc arc treading, I know 
 that I am grievously in the way."' 
 
 " You are joking now, love," said Henri, " and I am not only 
 speaking, but thinking, in most true and sober earnest." 
 
 ** No, Henri, I am not joking ; am I, Agatha? One need not 
 be joking because one does not use harsh, grim woi ds. What , 
 I say is true. I must be an additional burden either to you or 
 Charles. You are already the heaviest laden, for you have your 
 father to care for. Besides, I have a claim upon C harlcs ; I 
 have for eighteen years been to him an obedient sister. ' 
 " And have you no claim on me, Marie ?" 
 "A slight one, as a cousin; but only in default of Charles,' 
 Don't look so unhappy," and she held out her little hand to him 
 as she spoke. " The day may come vhcn I shall have a still 
 stronger claim upon you; when I have been to you for eighteen 
 years an obedient wife." » 
 
 " These are times when stern truths must be spoken," said 
 Henri. " The lives of us all must now be in constant jeopardy 
 —that is, of us who must go oUt to battle." 
 
 " Ay, and of us women too. Don't be afraid of our lacking 
 courage. Do not be afraid that the truth will frighten vs. 
 Agatha, and Victorine, and I, have schooled ourselves to think 
 of death without flinching." 
 
 "To think without flinching of the death of others, is the 
 difficulty," said Agatha. " I fear we have none of us as yet 
 brought ourselves to that." 
 " But wc must think of the death of others," said Henri, 
 
 <* Should De Lescure fall " 
 
 " May God Almighty in His mercy protect and guard him I " 
 said the sister. 
 
 " But should he fall— and in battle there is none, I will not 
 say so rash, but so forward as him— should he fall, will it not be 
 a comfort to him to know that his sister has a husband to pro- 
 tect her ; and his widow has a brother to whom she can turn. 
 Should I fall, will it not be better for Agatha that you should \m 
 more closely knit together even than you are ? " 
 
t91 ta Vtnd/i 
 
 ** That can never be, can It, Agatha ? We can never be mor« 
 entirely sisters than we nrc." 
 
 " Vou talk like a child, Marie, You perhaps may never have 
 a warmer love for each other than you now have, but that is not 
 the question. You must see how great would be the advantage 
 to us all of our union being at once completed. You should 
 rot now allow a phantasy of misplaced generosity to stand in 
 the way of an arrangement which is so desirable." 
 
 "Nay, Henri, now you arc neither f.iir nor courteous* You 
 nrc presuming a little on the nflcction which I have owned 
 in arguing that I am prevented only by what you call 
 generosity from so immediate a marriage ; that is as much 
 as to say, that if I consulted my own wishes only, I should 
 marry you at once." 
 
 " It is you that are now unfair," said Agatha. "You know 
 that he did not mean to draw such a conclusion. You almost 
 tempt me to say that he mi;,'ht do so, without being far wrong, 
 You ii'c llhllng iu)w, Marie," 
 
 "Heaven help me, then j bvit if so, I have committed that 
 sin most unconsciously, and, I believe, for the first time in 
 my life. 1 have had but one lover, and I accepted him the 
 very moment that he spoke to me. I can, at any rate, have 
 but little flirtation to answer for." 
 
 "Alas! dearest love,'' said Henri, "we are both driven to 
 Ihink and talk of these things in a different tone from that 
 Which is usual in the world, If ! was merely seeking to 
 transplant you in davs of peace from your own comfortable 
 home, to be the pride and ornament of mine, I would not 
 curtail by one iota the privilege of your sex. I wouldn't pre- 
 sume to think that you could wish yourself to give up your 
 girlish liberty. If you allowed me any hope, I would ascribe it 
 all to the kindness of your disposition ; your word should be my 
 law, and though I might pray for mercy, I would submissively 
 lake my fate from your lips. I would write odes to you, if 
 1 were able, and would swear in every town in I'oitou that 
 you were the prettiest girl and sweetest angel in all France, 
 Italy, or Spain.'' 
 
 "Thanks, Hchri, thanks; but now you have too much to 
 trouble yourself with such tedious gallantries, Is not that to be 
 the end of your fine speech ?" 
 
 " Trouble myself, Marie I " 
 
 " Vi's, trouble yourself, Hchrl, and it would trouble mc too, 
 It is not that I regret such nonsense. I accept your manly 
 love as it has been offered, and tell you that you have my 
 whole heart, It is from no girlish squeamishness, from no 
 wish to exercise my short-lived power, that I refuse to do 
 ^hat you now ask me. I would marry you t(«-morrow, were 
 
The Lait Day at Durbellihe, 293 
 
 you to ask nic, did I not think that I should be wrong to do 
 so. Am I now not frank and honest?" 
 
 Henri put his arms round her waist, and clasped her t^:) his 
 bosom before he answered her : " You arc, you arc, my own, 
 own love. You were always true, and honest, and reasonable — 
 so reasonable that " 
 
 " Ah ! now you arc going to encroach." 
 
 " I am going to ask you once again to think of what I have 
 said. It is not to your love, but to your reason, that I now 
 appeal." 
 
 " Well, Henri, we will leave love aside, and both of us appeal 
 to reason. Here she sits, always calm, passionless, and wise," 
 and Marie put her hand upon Agatha's arm. "We will appeal 
 to Reason personified, and if Reason says that, were she 
 situated as 1 am, she would do as you now wish mc to do, I will 
 be guided by Reason and comply." Henri now turned round to 
 his sister, but Marie stopped him from speaking, and continued : 
 " I have pledged myself, and do you do likewise. If Reason 
 gives her judgment against you, you will yield without a 
 word." 
 
 " W^ell, I will do so," said Henri. " I'm sure, however, she 
 will not ; Agatha must see the importance of our being joined as 
 closely together as is possible." 
 
 " You are attempting to influence Dame Reason, but it will 
 be useless. And now, Reason, you are to remember, as of 
 course you do, for Reason forgets nothing, that you are to tliink 
 neither of brothers or of sisters. You are entirely to drop your 
 feelings as Agatha, and to be pure Reason undefiled by mortal 
 taint. You are to say whether, were you, Reason, placed as I 
 am now, you would marry this unreasonable young man as soon 
 as he gets to Chatillon, which means to-morrow, or the day 
 after, or the day after that at the very latest. Now, Reason, 
 speak, and speak wisely." 
 
 *' You have given me a thankless task between you, I cannot 
 decide without giving pain to one of you." 
 
 " Reason always has a thankless task," said Marie. " Reason 
 is her own reward — and a very unpleasant reward she usually 
 has." 
 
 *' Do you think," said Henri, " it will give so much pain to 
 Marie to be told that she is to inarry the man whom she owns 
 she loves ? " 
 
 "Ah, Henri," said Agatha, "you are prejudiced. I do not 
 mean as to Marie's love, but as to my award. I might, perhaps, 
 not pain her so much by advising her to marry you at once, as I 
 fear I shall pain you by telling her, that in her plac;, I rhoald 
 not do so." 
 
 They both sat in breathless silence to hear their fate from 
 
394 ^ Viu<f/e* 
 
 Agatha's lips. Though Marie had appealed to her with a degree 
 of playfulness, which gave to her an air of indifference on the 
 subject, she was anythinjj but indifferent : and yet it would have 
 been difficult to analyse her wishes ; she was quite decided that 
 it was becoming in her to refuse Henri's prayer, nay, that it 
 would be scllish in her to grant It ; and yet, though she appealed 
 to Reason «o confidently to confirm her rcfu^^al^tlierc was a wish, 
 almost a hope, near her heart, that Agatha might take her 
 brother's part. Tl»cy were, neither of them, perhaps, gratified 
 by the decision. 
 
 "Reason has said it," said Marie, after a short pause, "and 
 Reason shall be rewarded with a kiss ; " and she put her arms 
 round her cousin's neck and kissed her. 
 
 " IJut why, Agatha, tell mc why?" said Henri, He, at any 
 rale, was not ashamed to nhow that he wai disappointed, 
 
 •* Do not be so inconsiderate as to ask Reason for reasons," 
 said Marie. 
 
 " I will tell you why, Henri. I would never consent to make 
 myfclf a burden to a man at a moment when I could not make 
 myself a comfort to him ; besides, the lime of marriage should 
 be a time of joy, and this is no time for joy. Again, there is a 
 stronger and sadder reason still. Did you ever sec a young 
 widow, who had not reached her twentieth year ? if so, did you 
 ever see a sadder si^'ht ? Would you unnecessarily doom our 
 dear Marie to that fate ! I know you so well, my dear brother, 
 that I do not fear to speak to you of the too probable lot of a 
 brave soldier 1 " 
 
 " That is enough ! " said Henri, " I am convinced.'* 
 
 " Do not say that, Agatha, do not say that," said Marie, 
 springing up and throwing herself into her lover's arms. " Indeed, 
 indeed, it was not of that I thought. Though we should never 
 marry, yet were you to fall, your memory should be the same to 
 me as that of a husband. 1 could never forget your love — your 
 disinterested love— there is no treasure on this side the grave 
 which I so value. It is the pride of my solitary hours, and the 
 happiness of the few happy thoughts I have. The world would 
 be nothing to me without you. When you are away, I pray to 
 God to bring you back to mc. When you are with us I am 
 dreading the moment that you will go. Oh, Agatha, Agatha 1 
 why did you say those last fearful words ! " 
 
 " You asked me for the truth, Marie, and it was right that I 
 should tell it you ; it was on my tongue to say the same to 
 Henri, before you appealed to me at all." 
 
 " You were right, dearest Agatha," said Henri; "and tiow, 
 God bless you, Marie. I value such love as yours highly as it 
 is worth. I trust the day may come when I can again ask you 
 for your hand." 
 
The Last Day at DiirbcIUh-e, 295 
 
 "I will never refuse it again. You shall have it now, to- 
 morrow, next day, any clay that you will ask it. Oh, Agatha \ 
 my brain is so turned by what you have said, that 1 could al- 
 most go on my knees to beg him to accept it." 
 
 "Come, Henri, leave us," said Agatha, "and prevent such a 
 scandal as that would be ; there are but a few hours for us to be in 
 bed." 
 
 Henri kissed his sister, and when he gave his hand to Marie, 
 she did not turn her lips away from him ; and as he threw him- 
 self on his bed, he hardly knew whether, if he could have his 
 own way, he would marry her at once or not. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE CHAPEL OF GENET. 
 
 BOUT ten days alter the departure of the Laroche- 
 jaquelins from Durbelli^re, three persons were making 
 the best of their way, on horseback, through one of 
 the deepest and dirtiest of the byeways, which in those 
 days served the inhabitants of Poitou for roads, and along which 
 the farmeis of the country contrived with infinite pains and delay, 
 to drag the produce of their fields to the market towns. The 
 lane through which they were endeavouring to hurry the jaded 
 animals on which they were mounted, did not lead from one 
 town to another, and was not therefore paved ; it was merely a 
 narrow track between continual rows of high trees, pnd appeared 
 to wind hither and thither almost in circles, and the mud at 
 every step covered the fetlocks of the three horses. The party 
 consisted of two ladies and a man, who, though he rode rather 
 in advance of, than behind his companions, and spoke to them 
 from time to time, was their servant : a boy travelled on foot to 
 show them the different turns which their road made necessary 
 to them ; and though when chosen for the duty, he had received 
 numerous injunctions as 'to the speed with which he should 
 travel, the urchin on foot had hitherto found no difiiculty in 
 keeping up with the equestrians. The two ladies were Madame 
 de Lescure and her sister-in-law, and the servant was our trusty 
 friend Chapeau. And we must go back a little to recount as 
 quickly as we can, the misfortunes which brought them into 
 their present situation. 
 
 No rest was allowed to the Vendean chiefs after reaching 
 Chitillon from Durbelli^re. The rapid advance of the repub- 
 lican troops made them think it expedient to try the chance oi 
 battle with them at once. They had consequently led out their 
 patriot bands as far as Cholcr, and had there, after a murderous 
 
The Chapel of Genet, 297 
 
 conflict, been grievously worsted. No men could have fought 
 better than did the Vcndean peasants, for now they had joined 
 some degree of discipline and method to their accustomed 
 valour ; but the number of their enemies was too great for them, 
 and they consisted of the best soldiers of whom France could 
 boast. The Vendeans, moreover, could not choose their own 
 battle-field. They could not fight as they had been accustomed 
 to do, from behind hedges and with every advantage of locality 
 on their side. They had thrown themselves on the veteran 
 troops who had signalized themselves at Valmy and Mayence, 
 with a courage that amounted to desperation, but which, as it 
 had not purchased victory, exposed them to fearful carnage. 
 D'Elbdc, who acted as Commander-in-Chief, fell early in the 
 day, Bonchamps, whose military skill was superior to that of 
 any of the Vendeans, was mortally wounded, and before the 
 battle was lost, De Lescure — the brave De Lescure, whom they 
 all so loved, so nearly worshipped-— was struck dowr, and carried 
 from the field. 
 
 There was an immense degree of superstition mixed up with 
 the religious fervour of the singular people who were now fighting 
 for their liberty ; and many of them sincerely believed that 
 De Lescure was invulnerable, and that they were secure from 
 any fatal reverse as long as he was with them. This faith was now 
 destroyed ; and when the rumour spread along their lines that 
 he had iDcen killed, they threw down their arms, and refused to 
 return to the charge. It wao in vain that Henri Larochejaquelia 
 and the young Chevalier tried to encourage them. ; that they 
 assured them that De Lescure was still living, rnd exposed their 
 own persons in the thickest of the enemy's fire. It was soon too 
 evident that the battle was lost, and that all that valour and 
 $kill could do, was to change the fiight into a retreat. 
 
 Many personal reasons would have made Henri prefer re- 
 turning towards ChAtillon, but it had been decided that, in the 
 event of such a disaster as that which had now befallen them, 
 the cause in which they were engaged would be best furthered 
 by a general retreat of all the troops across the Loiie into 
 Brittany ; and consequently Henri, collecting together what he 
 could of his shattered army, made the best of his way to S^ 
 Florent. The men did not now hurry to their homes, as they 
 did after every battle when the waifpfirst began ; but their con- 
 stancy to their arms arose neither from increased courage nor 
 better discipline. They knew that their homes were now, or would 
 soon be, but heaps of ruins, and that their only hope of safety 
 consisted in their remaining with the army. This feeling, which 
 prevented the dispersion of the men, had another effect, which 
 added greatly to the difficulty of the officeri. The wives, chil- 
 dren, and listers of the Vendean peasants, also flocked to th« 
 
39S La VefuUe* 
 
 army in such numbers, that by the time the disordered multitude 
 reached St. Florent, Henri found himself surrounded by 80,000 
 human creatures, flying from the wrath of the blues, though not 
 above a quarter of that number were men capable of bearing 
 arms. 
 
 De Lescurc, in a litter, accompanied them to St. Florent, and 
 Chapeau was sent back to ChitiUon to bid the ladies and the 
 old Marquis join the army at that place. Chapeau was sent 
 direct from the field of battle before it was known whether or no 
 M. dc Lcscure's wound was mortal, and at a moment when 
 Henri could give him nothing but a general direction as to the 
 route which the army was about to take. Chapeau reached 
 Chatillon without accident ; but having reached it, he found that 
 his difficulties were only about to commence. What was he to 
 tell Madame de Lescure of her husband ? How was he to 
 convey the three ladies and the Marquis from Chatillon to St. 
 Florent, through a country, the greater portion of which would 
 then be in the hands of the blues? 
 
 Make the best he could of it, the news was fearfully bad. He 
 told Madame dc Lescure that her husband was certainly 
 wounded, but that as certainly he was not killed ; and tliat he 
 had every reason, though he could not say what reason, to 
 believe that the wound was not likely to be fatal. The doubt 
 conveyed in these tidings was, if possible, more fearful than any 
 certainty ; added to this was the great probability that Chatillon 
 would, in a day or two, be in the hands of the republicans. 
 They decided, or rather Chapeau decided for them, that they 
 should start immediately for St. Florent ; and that, instead of 
 attempting to go by the direct road, they should make their way 
 thither by bye-lanes, and through small villages, in which they 
 possibly might escape the ferocity of their enemies. 
 
 A huge waggon was procured, and in it a bed was laid, on 
 which the unfortunate old man could sit, and with the two 
 horses which they had brought with them from Durbelli^re, 
 they started on their journey. They rested the first night at St. 
 Laurent, the place where Agatha had established an hospital, 
 and where Cathelineau had died. The Sisters of Mercy who 
 had tended it were still there, but the wards were now deserted. 
 Not that the wars aftbrded no occupants for them, but the 
 approach of the republicans had frightened away even the 
 maimed and sick. On the following morning Madame de 
 Lescure declared that she could no longer endure the slow 
 progress of the waggon, and consequently, Chapeau having with 
 difticuUy succeeded in procuring three horses, she started, 
 accompanied by him and her sister-in-law, to make her way as 
 best she could to her husband, while the Marquis and his 
 daughter, with a guide, followed in the cumbrous waggon. 
 
The Chapel of Genet, 299 
 
 On the. second day the equestrians crossed the Sevre, at 
 Mortaigne, and reached Torfou in safety. On the third day 
 they passed Montfaucon, and were strugghng to get on to a 
 village called Chaudron, not far from St. Florent, when we over- 
 took them at the beginning of the chapter. 
 
 They had already, however, began to doubt that they could 
 possibly succeed in doing so. The shades of evening were 
 coming on them. The poor brutes which carried them were 
 barely able to lift their legs, and Madame de Lescure was so 
 oveqDOwered with fatigue and anxiety, that she could hardly 
 sustain herself in the pillion on which she sat. . 
 
 The peasants whom they met from time to tim3 asked 'them 
 hundreds of questions about the war. Many of the men of the 
 district were already gone, and their wives and children \vere 
 anxious to follow them, but the poor creatures did not knov/ 
 which way to turn. They did not know where the army was, 
 or in what quarter they would be most secun;. They h';d an 
 undefined fear that the blues were coming upon them witji fir^ 
 and slaughter, and that they would be no longer safe, even in 
 their own humble cottages. r 
 
 One person told them that Chaudron was distant only two 
 leagues, and hearing this they plucked up their courage, and 
 made an effort to rouse that of their steeds. Another, however, 
 soon assured them that it was at the very least a long five 
 leagues to Chaudron, and again their spirits sank in despair. A 
 third had never heard the name of the place, and at last a fourth 
 infonned them, that whatever the distance might be, they were 
 increasing it every moment, and that their horses' heads were 
 turned exactly in the wrong direction. Then at length their 
 young guide confessed that he must have lost his way, and 
 excused himself by declaring that the turnings were so like one 
 another that it was impossible for any one in that country really 
 to remember his way at a distance of more than two leagues 
 from his own home. 
 
 " And what village are we nearest to, my friend ? " said 
 Chapeau, inquiring of the man who had given the above un- 
 welcome information. 
 
 " Why, the chapel of Genet," said he, " is but a short quarter 
 of a league from you, and the curb's house is close by, but the 
 village and the chiteau are a long way beyond that, and not on 
 the straight road either." 
 
 "Ask him the cur<^'s name, Chapeau," said Marie ; ** we will 
 go there and tell him who we are." 
 
 " If he lives in his own house quietly now. Mademoiselle,'* 
 answered Chapeau, " it would be dangerous to do so ; he must 
 be one of the constitutional priests." He asked the man, how* 
 evcTi what was the name of the curd. 
 
3P0 
 
 La Vendue. 
 
 " Why, the regular old cur^ went away long since, and anothtf 
 was here a while in his place ** 
 
 "Well, and he has gone away now, I suppose?" said 
 Chapeau. 
 
 " Why, yes ; he went away too a while since, when Cathe- 
 lineau turned the soldiers out of St Florent** 
 
 " God bless him," said Chapeau, meaning Cathelineau, and 
 not the priest. " And is there no one in the house now, my 
 friend ? for you see these two ladies are unable to travel further. 
 If there be a friend living there, I am sure he will procure them 
 some accommodation." 
 
 "And where did the ladies come from?** asked the man. 
 
 " You need not be afraid," replied Chapeau, " they, and all 
 belonging to them, are friends to the good cause ; " and then, 
 after considering within himself for a while, he added, " I will 
 tell you who they are, they are the wife and sister of M. de 
 Lescure." 
 
 Had he told the man that they were angels from heaven, and 
 had the man believed him, he could neither have been more 
 surprised, or expressed a stronger feeling of adoration. 
 
 The poor man implored a multitude of blessings on the two 
 ladies, whose names were so dear to ever)r peasant of La Vendue, 
 and then told thcin that after the new priest had ran away, the 
 old cur^ had come back to his own house again, but that Father 
 Bernard was a very old man, hardly strong enough even to 
 perform mass, though, as there was no one else to do it, he did go 
 through it every Sabbath morning ; that for these two days past 
 there had been another priest staying with Father Bernard ; he 
 did not, however, know what his name was, but he knew that 
 he had been with the army, and that no priest through all La 
 Vend(5e had been more active than he had been to encourage 
 the royalists. The man then offered to show them to the cure's 
 house, and they all turned thither together. 
 
 The little chapel was on one side of the road, and the humble 
 house of the parish priest was immediately opposite to it, 
 ensconced among a few trees, at a little distance from' the road. 
 The door of the chapel was open, and the murmuring sound of 
 low voices within told the party that vespers were being sung. 
 Madame de Lescure did not like calling at the priest's house 
 without being announced, and she therefore desired Chapeau to 
 go down and explain who she was, and the circumstances under 
 which she begged for the curb's hospitality, and proposed that 
 she and Marie should get off their horses, and remain in the 
 chapol till Chapeau returned. 
 
 They entered the little chapel, and found in it about a dozen 
 peasants on their knees, while a priest was chaunting the vespers 
 from a small side aUar, built in a niche in the wall. U was now 
 
The Chapd 0/ Giiht. 301 
 
 late, and llic light, which even abroad was growing diinmcr 
 every inomcnt, was still less strong within the building. They 
 could not, therefore, see the face of the priest as he kncl^. a: 
 the side of the altar, but the voice seemed familiar to both of 
 them. 
 
 Madame de Lcscuro, perhaps as much from fatigue p.s from 
 devotion, sank down at once upon her knees against a little stone 
 scat which projected from the wall near the duor, but ^larisi 
 remained standing, straining her eyes to try to catch the features 
 of the cure. After a moment or two she also knelt down, and 
 said in a whisper to her sister, " It is the Curd of St. Laud— it 
 is our own Father Jerome." 
 
 They had hardly been a minute or two in their position near 
 the door, when the service for the evening was over, and the 
 priest, rising from the altar, gave his blessing to the little con- 
 gregation. Some of them rose from their knees and let"t thf: 
 chapel, but a portion of them still remained kneeling, with their 
 heads in their hands, trying to make up, by the length and 
 perseverance of their devotion, for any deficiency there might 
 be in its fervour. The two ladies also rose, and though they 
 doubted for a moment what to do, they both advanced to the 
 rude steps of the little altar, at which Father Jerome was again 
 kneeling. He had not seen them as yet, nor had he noticed the 
 entrance of anyone, but the ordinary congregation of the chapel ; 
 and so absorbed was he, either in his thoughts or his devotions, 
 that he did not even observe them till they were standing close 
 to his elbow. 
 
 *' Father Jerome," said Madame de Lescure in a low voice, 
 laying her hand on the threadbare sleeve of the old grey coat, 
 which he still wore. '' if you could guess the comfort I have in 
 finding you here !" 
 
 The priest sprang from his knees at hearing her voice, and 
 gazed at her as though she had been a ghost. 
 
 " Is it possible," said he, "Madame de Lescure and Made* 
 moisclle here in the chapel of Genet ! " and then turning to the 
 gaping peasants, he said, "go home, my children, go home ! I 
 have business to speak of to these ladies." 
 
 " Oh, Father Jerome," said Madame de Lescure, as soon as 
 they were alone, " for Heaven's sake tell me something of M, 
 de Lescure. You have heard of what happened at Cholet ? " 
 
 " Yes, Madame, I was there," said the priest. 
 
 " You were there ! then you can tell me of my husband. For 
 God's sake, speak, Father Jerome ! Tell me the worst at once. 
 I can bear it, for it can't be worse than I expect. Is he — is he 
 alive?" 
 
 Father Jerome had been in the midst of the hottest part of 
 Ihc battle at Cholet, sometimes encouraging the troops by hit 
 
 ■ u 
 
3oi La Vefuiii^ 
 
 words, and at others leading them on by his example, charging 
 at their head, with his huge crucifix lifted high in the air. He 
 had been close to De Lescure when he fell, and had seen him 
 in his litter after he was carried from the field of battle. He 
 could, therefore, have said at once that he had seen him alive 
 after the battle was over, but he had no wish to deceive Madame 
 de Lescure j and at the moment of which we are speaking, he 
 most undoubtedly believed that the wound had been fatal, and 
 that her husband was no more. 
 
 A musket-ball had entered just below the eye, and making its 
 way downwards, had lodged itself in the back of his neck. A 
 surgeon had examined the wound before Father Jerome left the 
 army ; and though he had not positively said that it would prove 
 mortal, he Had spoken so unfavourably of the case, as to make 
 all those who heard him believe that it would be so. 
 
 Had Father Jerome expected to sec the two nearest and 
 dearest relations of the man whom he thought to be now no 
 more, he would have prepared himself for the difficult task which 
 he would have had to undertake, and no one would have been 
 better able to go through it with feeling, delicacy, and firmness ; 
 but such was not the case. The sudden apparition of the wife 
 and sister of his friend seemed to him to be supernatural ; and 
 though he at once made up his mind to give no false hope, he 
 could not so quickly decide in what way he should impart the 
 sad news which he had to tell. 
 
 Madame de Lescure was trembling so violently as she asked 
 the question, on the answer to which her K te depended, that the 
 priest observed it, and he turned to the alar at the end of the 
 chapel, to fetch a rude chair which stood there for the use of the 
 officiating clergyman, and which was the only movable seat in 
 the chapel ; and whilst doing so, he was enabled to collect 
 his thoughts, so as to answer not quite so much at random as 
 he otherwise must have done. 
 
 " Sit down, Madame de Lescure," said he, " sit down. Made- 
 moiselle," and he made the latter sit down on the altar step. 
 "You are fatigued, and you have agitated yourself too in- 
 tensely." 
 
 " Why don't you speak, Father Jerome ? Why don't you tell 
 me at once— is he alive ? " And then she added, almost scream- 
 ing in her agitation, " For God's sake. Sir, don't Keep a wretched, 
 miserable woman in suspense 1 " 
 
 The priest gazed for a moment at the unfortunate lady. She 
 had, at his bidding, sunk upon the chair, but she could hardly 
 be said to be seated, .is, with her knees bent under her, and her 
 hands clasped, she gazed up into his face. She felt that her 
 husband was dead ; but still, till the fatal v.ord was spoken, 
 there was hope enough within her heart to feed the ai^ony of 
 
The Chapd of Cauf. 303 
 
 doubt whicli was tormenting her. Marie had hitherto said 
 nothing ; she had made her own fjricf subservient to that of her 
 brother's wife, and, though hardly less anxious, she was less 
 agitated than the other. 
 
 ** I cannot tell you anything with certainty, Madame," said 
 the priest at last. " I cannot " 
 
 " Then you do not know that he is dead ! Then there is, at 
 any rate, some room for hope !" said she, not allowing him to 
 finish what he was about to say ; and she sank back in the chair, 
 and relieved her overwrought mind with a flood of tears. 
 
 The priest was firmly convinced that De Lescurc was at this 
 moment numbered among the dead, and his conscience forbad 
 him to relieve himself of his dreadful task, by allowing her to 
 entertain a false hope ; he had still, therefore, to say tlic words 
 which he found it so difficult to utter. 
 
 He sat down beside Marie on the low step of the altar, 
 hnmediately opposite to Madame de Lcscure; he still had 
 on him the vestments of his holy office, though they were 
 much worn, shabby, and soiled, and the cap, which formed a 
 part of the priest's dress when officiating, was on his head ; his 
 shoes were so worn and tattered that they were nearly falling 
 from his feet, and the stockings, which displayed the shape of 
 his huge legs, were so patched and darned with worsteds of 
 different colours, as to have made them more fitting for a 
 mountebank than a priest. At the present moment, there was 
 no one likely to notice his costume ; but had there been an 
 observer there, it would have told him a tale, easy to be read, of 
 thq sufferings which had been endured by this brave and faith- 
 ful servant of the King. 
 
 ." When God, Madame de Lescurc," said he, speaking in a 
 kind, peculiarly solemn tone of voice, " when God called upon 
 you to be the wife of him who has been to you so affectionate 
 a husband, He vouchsafed to you higher blessings, but at the 
 same time imposed on you sterner duties, than those which 
 women in general are called upon to bear. You have enjoyed 
 the blessings, and if I know your character, you will not shrink 
 from the duties." 
 
 " I will shrink from nothing. Father Jerome," said she, 
 ** God's will be done ! I will endeavour to bear the burden 
 which His providence lays on me ; but I have all aAvoman's 
 weakness, and all a woman's fears." 
 
 " He who has given strength and courage to so many of His 
 people in these afflicted days, will also give it to you ; He will 
 cnalDle you to bear the weight of His hand, which in chastising, 
 blesses us ; which in punishing us here, will render us fit for un- 
 utterable joys hereafter." He paused a moment ; but as 
 neither of the women could now speak through their tears, he 
 
304 ^'*i r«?;/</<V. 
 
 went on : "1 w2is close to your husband when he fell, and at 
 his eyes closed on the battle-field^ they rested on the blessed 
 emblem of his redemption." 
 
 " He is dead then ! " said she, jumping from her chair, and 
 struggling with the sobs which nearly choked her. *' Oh ! Sir, 
 if you have the mercy which a man should feel for a wretched 
 woman, tell me at least the truth," and as she spoke, she threw 
 herself on her knees before him. 
 
 Father Jerome certainly lacked no mercy, and usually 
 speaking he lacked no firmness j but now he nearly felt himself 
 overcome. 
 
 '* You must compose yourself before I can speak calmly to 
 you, my daughter— before you can even understand what I 
 shall say to you. I will not even speak to you till you arc 
 again sealed, and then I will tell you everything. There- 
 remember now, I will tell you everything as it happened, and, 
 as far as I know, all that did happen. You must summon up 
 your courage, my children, and show yourself worthy to have 
 been the wife and sister of that great man whom you loved so 
 well." 
 
 " He is dead ! " said Marie, speaking for the first time, and 
 almost in a whisper. " I know how that it is so," and she threw 
 herself into her sister's lap, and embraced her knees, 
 
 The priest did not contradict her, but commenced a narrative, 
 which he intended to convey to his listeners exactly the same 
 impressions which were on his own mind. In this however, he 
 failed. He told them that Dc Lescurc had been carried sense- 
 less from the field, and had been taken by Henri in a litter on 
 the road towards St. Florent ; that he himself had been present 
 Nvhen the surgeon expressed an almost fatal opinion respecting 
 the wound, but that the wounded man was still alive when he 
 last saw him, and that, since then, he had heard no certain news 
 respecting him. Even this statement, which the priest was 
 unable to make without many interruptions, acted rather as a 
 relief than otherwise to Madame de Lescure. She might, at 
 any rate, see her husband again 5 and it was still possible that 
 both the surgeon and Father Jerome might be wrong. As soon 
 as he had told his tale, she, forgetting her fatigue, and the 
 difficulties which surrounded her, wanted immediately to resume 
 her journey, and Father Jerome was equally anxious to learn 
 how she and Marie had come so far, and how they intended to 
 proceed. 
 
 Chapeau had in the meantime called on the old priest, and 
 though he had found it almost impossible to make him under* 
 stand what he wanted, or who the ladies were of whom he spoke, 
 he had learnt that Father Jerome was in the chapel, and was as 
 much gratified as he was surprised to hear it. He had then 
 
The Chapel of Genet. 305 
 
 hurried back, and though he had not put himself forward during 
 the scene which has been just described, he had heard what had 
 passed. 
 
 He now explained to Father Jerome the way in which they 
 had left ChAtillon, and journeyed on horseback from St. Laurent, 
 and declared, at the same time with much truth, that it was quite 
 impossible for them to proceed further on their way that night. 
 
 *' The poor brutes are dead beat," said he. " All the spurs in 
 Poitou wouldn't get them on a league. The night will be pitch, 
 dark, too, and, above all, Madame and Mademoiselle would be 
 killed. They have already been on horseback all day— and so 
 they were yesterday : it is quite clear they must rest here to- 
 night." 
 
 Chapeau's arguments against their further progress were con- 
 clusive, and as there was no better shelter to which to take 
 them. Father Jerome led them into the little glebe. " There is 
 but one bed left in the place," said he, as he entered the gate, 
 •'but you will be very welcome to that; you will find it poor 
 enough ; Father Bernard has shared it with me for the last two 
 nights. We poor cur^s have not many luxuries to offer to our 
 friends now." 
 
 Madame de Lcscure tried to utter some kind of protest that 
 she would not turn the poor old man out of his only bed, but 
 she succeeded badly in the attempt, for her heart was sad 
 within her, and she hardly knew what she was saying. They 
 all followed Father Jerome out of the chapel, of which he locked 
 the door, and putting the key into his pocket, strode into the 
 humble dwelling opposite. 
 
 They found Father Bernard seated over a low wood fire, in a 
 small sitting-room, in which the smell arising from the burning 
 of damp sticks was very prevalent. There was one small rickety 
 table in the middle of the room, and one other ch?ir besides 
 that occupied by the host, and with these articles alone the room 
 was furnished. That there was no carpet in a clergyman's 
 house in Poitou was not remarkable ; indeed it would have been 
 very remarkable if there had been one ; but the total want of 
 any of the usual comforts of civilised life struck even Madame 
 de Lescure, unsuited as she was at the present moment to take 
 notice of such things. 
 
 The old man did not rise, but stared at them somewhat 
 wildly ; he was nearly doting from age ; and fear, poverty, and 
 sorrow, added to his many years, had now weighed him down 
 almost to idiotcy. Father Jerome did the honours of the house ; 
 he made Madame de Lescure sit down on the chair, and then 
 bustling into the kitchen, brought. out a three legged stool, which, 
 he wiped with the sleeve of his coat, and offered to Marie, 
 Then he took Chapeau to the door, and whispered to him soma 
 
3o6 la Vend^i. 
 
 Bccrct communication with reference to supper ; in fact, he had 
 to confess that there was nothing in the house but bread, and 
 but little of that. That neither he or Father Bernard had a 
 sou piece between them, and that unless Chapeau had money 
 and could go as far as the village and purchase eggs, they would 
 all have to go suppcrless to bed. Chapeau luckily was provided, 
 and started at once to forage for the party, and Father Jerome 
 returned into the room relieved from a heavy weight. 
 
 " My dear old friend here," said he, laying his hand on the 
 old man's arm, "has not much to offer you ; but I am sure you 
 are welcome to what he has. There is not a heart in all La 
 Vendde beats truer to his sovereign than his. Old age, mis- 
 fortune, and persecution, have lain a heavy hand on him lately, 
 but his heart still warms to the cause. Does it not, my old 
 friend?" And Father Jerome looked kindly into his face, 
 striving to encourage him into some little share of interest in 
 what was going on. 
 
 " I don't think I'll ever be warm again," said the old man, 
 drawing his chair still nearer to the dull smoky fire, and shiver- 
 ing as he did so. •' Everything is cold now. I don't understand 
 why these ladies arc come here, or what they're to do ; but 
 they're very welcome, Jerome, very welcome. A strange man 
 canie in just now, and said they must have my bed." 
 
 "Oh no. Sir," said Madame de Lescure, inexpressibly shocked 
 at the dreadful misery of the poor old man ; " indeed, indeed, 
 we will not. It is only for one night, and we shall do very well 
 Indeed, we would not turn you out of your bed." 
 
 " You are welcome, Madame, welcome to it all— welcome as 
 the flowers in May. I know who you are, though I forget your 
 name ; it is a name dear to all La Vendde. Your husband is a 
 great and good man ; indeed, you shall have my bed, though 
 you'll tind it very cold. Your husband— but, oh dear I I beg 
 your pardon, Madame, I forgot." 
 
 I need not say that the evening which they spent at Genet 
 was melancholy enough, and the privations which they suffered 
 were dreadful. During the early part of the night both Madame 
 de Lescure and Marie lay down for a few hours, but nothing 
 which could be said would induce them to keep the old priest 
 longer from his bed. About midnight they %r^ up and spent 
 the remainder of the night seated on the two chairs near the 
 fire, while Father Jerome squatted on the stool, and with his 
 elbows on his knees, and his face upon his hands, sat out the 
 long night, meditating upon the fortunes of La Vendde. 
 
 They started early on the next morning, and the priest of St 
 Laud's went with them, leaving Father Bernard in perfect soli- 
 tude, for he had neither friend or relative to reside beneath his 
 roof. 
 
Thi Chapel of Geiut 307 
 
 " S01TIC of them will come clown from time to time," said 
 Fathci Jerome, "and do what little can be done for him, poor 
 old man ! His sufferings, it is to be hoped, will not last many 
 days." 
 
 "And will he perform mass next Sunday?" said Marie. 
 
 " Indeed he will, if able to walk across the road into the 
 chapel, and will forget no word of the service, and make no 
 blunder in the ceremony. To you he seems to be an idiot, but 
 he is not so, though long suffering has made his mind to wander 
 strangely, when he sees strange faces. There are many who 
 "have been called to a more active sphere of duty for their King 
 and country than that poor curd, but none who have sutfeied 
 more acutely for the cause, and have borne their sufferings wUb 
 greater patience." 
 
 
CHAPTER XXVt. 
 
 Tf!E VRNDKANS AT ST. FLORENT. 
 
 |HE reader, it is hoped, will remember St. Florcnt | It 
 >vn« hero thnt tlic Amt scene of this t.ile opened ; it 
 was here that Cnthellneau first opposed the exaction* 
 of the democratic government, ana that theVendeans, 
 not then rejoicing in tnat now illustrious name, felt the first 
 flush of victory. It was here that "Marie-Jeanne" was taken 
 from the troops of the Republic by the valour of the townsmen, 
 and, adorned with garlands by their sisters and daughters, was 
 dragged in triumph through the streets, with such bright pre* 
 sentiments of future success and glory. 
 
 The men of St. Florcnt had ever since that day borne a 
 prominent part in the contest j they felt that the people of 
 Poitoa had risen in a mass to promote the cause, which they 
 had been the first to take up ; and they had considered them* 
 selves bound in honour to support the character for loyalty which 
 they had assumed : the consequence was, that manv of the 
 bravest of its sons had fallen, and that very few of its daughters 
 had not to lament a lover, a husband, or a father. 
 
 St. Floront was now a melancholy careworn place. The 
 people no longer met together in enthusiastic groups to animate 
 each other's courage, and to anticipate the glorious day when 
 their sovereign should come among them in person, to thank 
 them for having been the first in Poitou to unfurl the white flag. 
 It is true that they did not go back from their high resolves, or 
 shrink from the bloody flfccls of their brave enterprise, but 
 their talk now w.m ol* sulfiiing nml dcilh i they whiiipcrnil 
 togrlhcr in twin and thrcrK, at tlu'ir owi^ door-HJlii, lubtc.id of 
 iiliouting In the markei-place. Calhclineau w.'\3 dead, and Foret 
 was dead, and they were the gallantest of their townsmen. 
 They had now also heard that everything had b<:en staked on a 
 
The I *f/itftiVis at S/, Floyeut, 309 
 
 great l^altle, and that that battle had been lost at Cholet— that 
 IJonchamps and D'Elbcc had fallen, and that Do Lescure had 
 been wounded and was like to die. They knew that the whole 
 army was retreating to St. Tlorent, and that the republican 
 troops would soon follow them, headed by Lechclle, uhose name 
 already drove the colour from the cheeks of every woman in 
 La Vendde. They knew that a crowd of starving wretches 
 would fall, like a swarm of locusts, on their already nearly empty 
 granaries ; and that all the horrors attendant on a civil war 
 were crowding round their hearths. 
 
 It was late in the evening that the news of the battle reached 
 the town, and early on the next morning the landlord of the 
 auberge was standing at his door wailing the arrival of Henri 
 Larochejaquelin and De Lescure. The town was all up and in a 
 tumult ; from time to time small parties of men flocked in from 
 Cholet, some armed, and some of whom had lost their arms ; 
 some slightly wounded, and some fainting with fatigue, as they 
 begged admission into the houses of the town's-pcoplc. The 
 auberfi;iste was resolute in refusing admittance to all ; for tidings 
 had reached him of guests who would more than fill his house, 
 on whom he looked as entitled to more than all he could give 
 them. It was at his hall door that the first blow had been 
 struck, it was in rescuing his servant that the first blood had 
 been shed ; and though the war had utterly ruined him, he still 
 felt that it would ill become him to begrudge anything that re- 
 mained to him to those who had suffered so much in the 
 cause. 
 
 Peter Berrier, his ostler, stood behind him, tetenima belli 
 Ciusa! Tlii3 man had at different times been with the army, 
 but had managed to bring himself safe out of the dangers of the 
 wars back to the little inn, and now considered himseli" an hero. 
 He looked on himself in the light in which classic readers look 
 on Helen, and felt sure that the whole struggle had been com- 
 menced, and was continued on his account. He was amazed to 
 find how little deference was paid to him, not only by the 
 Vendeans in general, but even by his own town's-people. 
 
 " I shall never be made to understand this business of Cholet," 
 said he to his master, " never. There must have been sad want 
 there of a good head ; aye, and of a good heart too, I fear. Well, 
 well, to turn and run ! Vendean soldiers to turn and run before 
 those beggarly blues ! " 
 
 ** You'd have been the first, Peter, to show a clean pair ot 
 heels yourself, if you'd been there," said the landlord. 
 
 •* Me show a clean pair of heels ! I didn't run away at Saumar, 
 nor yet at Fontenay, nor yet at many another pitched battle I 
 saw. I didn't run away here at St. Florent, I believe, when a tew 
 of us took the barracks against a full regiment of soldiers.'* 
 
31 t.(i y<htti*i» 
 
 *' You couUn't well run then, for you were lied by the leg In 
 the stable there." 
 
 •* No, I was not ; it was only for a minute or two I was in the 
 stable. Would Cathelineau or Foret have turned their backs, 
 think ye ? When I was alongside of those two men, I used to 
 feci that the three of us wf^re a match for the world in arms ; 
 and tljcy had the same feeling too exactly. Well, two of the 
 three arc K')ik% but I would nonncr h.ivc followed them llian 
 have turned my back upon a blue." 
 
 ♦' You're a great warrior, Peter, and it's a pity you didn't stay 
 with the army." 
 
 " Perhaps it is, perhaps it is. Perhaps I shouldn't have left 
 it ; but I was driven away by little jealousies. Kven great men 
 have their failings. Ihit they ccrtamly made some queer sclcc- 
 tioHH when they chose the tsvclvc caplnlns nt .Sauinur. TluMtr'n 
 not one of lliein left with the army now but .M. II em I, and wh.u'i 
 h^' bill a boy i"' 
 
 '• lie has done a man's work nt any rate ! " 
 
 *' lie's brave, there's no denying that. lie's very brave, but 
 what then ; there's that impudent puppy of a valet of his, 
 Chapcau ; he's brave too : at least they say so. liut what's 
 bravery? Can they lead an army .^ is there anything of the 
 General about them ? Can they beat the blues ? " 
 
 " Didn't he mana^^c to beat the blues at Amaillou and at 
 Coron, and at l)urbclli»^re ? Faith, I think he has done nothing 
 but beat them these three months." 
 
 " There's nothing of the General in him, I tell you. llav'n't ! 
 seen him in battle now ; he's quite at home at a charge, I grant 
 you ; and he's not bad in a breach j but Lord bless you, he 
 can't command troops." 
 
 The landlord and his servant were still standing at the door 
 of the inn, when the party for whom they were waiting made its 
 appearance in the square of the town. It consisted of a waggon, 
 in which the wounded man was lying, of three or four men on 
 horseback, among whom were Henri Larochejaquelin and the 
 little Chevalier, and a crowd of men on foot, soldiers of the 
 Vendean army, who had not left the side of their General since 
 he had fallen at Cholet. 
 
 During the latter part of his Journey, De Lescurc had been 
 sensible, and had suffered dreadfully both in mind and body. 
 He had never felt so confident of success as Henri and others 
 had done, and had carried on the war more from a sense of duty 
 than from a hope of restoring the power of the crown. He now 
 gave way to that despondency which so often accompanies 
 bodily suffering. He felt certain that his own dissolution was 
 near, and on that subject his only anxiety was that he might sec 
 his wife before he died. He had since the power of speech had 
 
The Vcn deans at St, Ploretit, 31 1 
 
 been festorcd to him, more than once asserted that the cause o! 
 the royalists was desperate, and had, by doing so, greatly added 
 to the difficulties by which Henri was now surrounded. He did 
 not, however, despair ; nothing could make him despondent, or 
 rob him of that clastic courage, which, in spite of all the suffcr- 
 itlgs he had endured, gave him a strange feeling of delight in the 
 war which he was waging. 
 
 An immense concourse of people gathered round the waggon, 
 as Dc Lescure was lifted from it and carried up to the bed-room 
 which had been prepared for him ; and they showed their grief at 
 his sufferings, and their admiration of his character as a soldier, by 
 tears and prayers for his recovery. The extreme popularity of 
 M. de Lescure through the whole war, and the love which was 
 felt for him by all the peasants concerned in it, proved their 
 just appreciation of real merit ; for he had not those qualities 
 which most tend to ingratiate an officer with his men. Ho could 
 not unbend among them, and talk to them familiarly of their 
 prowess, and of the good cause, as Henri did. He had the 
 manners of an austere, sombre man ; and though always most 
 anxious for the security and good treatment of the nrisonevs, 
 had more than once severely punished men among his own fol- 
 lowers for some breach of discipline. He had, on one occasion, 
 threatened to leave the army entirely if he was not obeyed with 
 the same exactness, as though he actually bore the King's com- 
 mission ; and the general feeling that he would most certainly 
 keep his word, and that the army could not succeed without 
 him, had greatly tended to repress any inclination towards 
 mutiny. 
 
 " God bless him, and preserve him, and restore him to us all ? '* 
 said a woman who had pushed her way through the crowd, so as 
 to catch a glance at his pale wasted face, one side of which was 
 swathed in bandages, which greatly added to the ghastliness of 
 his appearance. " We have lost our husbands, and our sons, 
 and our sweethearts ; but what matters, we do not begrudge 
 them to our King. The life of Monseigneur is more precious 
 than them all. La Vendee cannot afford to lose her great 
 General." 
 
 De Lescure heard and understood, but could not acknowledge 
 the sympathy of the people ; but Henri, as he tenderly raised 
 his cousin's head, and bore him in his arms from the waggon, 
 spoke a word or two to the crowd, which satisfied them; and 
 Arthur Mondyon remained among them a while to tell them how 
 bravely their countrymen had fought at Cholet, against numbers 
 more than double their own, before they would consent to own 
 themselves beaten. 
 
 There was an immense deal for Henri Larochejaquelin to do. 
 In the first place he had to collect together the fragments of ihc 
 
•J 1 2 La Vendife, 
 
 disbanded army ; to separate the men who were armed from 
 those who had lost their arms, and to divide the comparitivcly 
 epeaking small number of the former, into such bands or 
 regiments as would make them serviceable in case of need. 
 
 De Lescure was unable to give him any actual assistance in 
 his work ; but his thoughtful brain, reflecting on all the diffi- 
 culties of Henri's situation, conceived how much they would be 
 increased by the want of any absolute title to authority ; he 
 therefore determined, ill as he was, to invest him with the 
 command-in-chief of the shattered army. 
 
 Early on the morning after their arrival he begged that all 
 such men as had acted as chief officers among the Vendeans 
 and who were now in St. Florent, would form themselves into a 
 council in his room, and that it might be proclaimed to the army 
 that they were about to nominate a General-in-Chief. The 
 council was not so numerously attended as that at which on a 
 former occasion was held at Saumur. As Peter Berrier had 
 said, most of those who then sat around that council table were 
 now dead, or were, at any rate, hors-de-combat. Only four of 
 the number were now present. De Lescure was lying on his 
 bed, and was a spectacle dreadful to look upon. The hair had 
 been all cut from his head. His face was not only pale, but 
 livid. The greater portion of it had been enveloped in bandages, 
 which he had partly removed with his own hand, that his mouth 
 tnight be free, so that he could use his weak voice to address his 
 comrades, perhaps for the last time. He uttered neither com- 
 plaint nor groan, but the compressed lips, careworn cheeks, and 
 sunken eyes, gave too certain signs of the agony which he suf- 
 fered. Henri was there, but he knew the proposal which his 
 cousin was about to make, and he felt, not only that he was un- 
 equal to the heavy task which was about to be put on his 
 shoulders, but also that there were still some among their 
 number who were superior to him in skill, rank, and age, 
 and who were to be excluded from the dangerous dignity by 
 the partial admiration which wasfelt for himself. He sat apart 
 iii a corner of the room, with his face buried in his handkerchief ; 
 his manly heart was overcome ; and while De Lescure named 
 him as the only person possessed ofsufficient nerve and authority 
 to give the Vendeans a chance of an escape from utter ruin, 
 he was shedding tears like a child. 
 
 D'Autachamps and the Prince de Talmont were there also ; 
 men, who throughout the war had lent every energy to its further- 
 ance. At another time, and under other circumstances, they might 
 have expressed indignation at being called on to serve under a 
 man so much their junior ; but De Lescure's position checked, 
 not only the expression of any such feeling, but the feeling itself. 
 They could not differ from a man who had lost so much in the 
 
The Vendcans at Si. Florent, 313 
 
 cause,, and was now sealing his devotion with his life. Tiicre 
 were five or six others in the room ; officers who were now well 
 known in the army, whose courage history has not forgotten to 
 record, but whose names arc unnecessary to our tale. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said De Lescure to them, as soon as he saw 
 Iham seated round his bed, and had contrived to get himself 
 so propped up with pillows as to be able to address them, " you 
 all know why I have wished to see you here ; you all know the 
 paramount importance of that duty which requires us to provide 
 as far as may be possible, for the security of the ;.nfortrnate 
 peasants who have followed us with such courage, who have 
 shown so much generous loyalty, so much true patriotism. Our 
 first step must be to name some one whom we can all obey. We 
 all know that the army cannot act in unison without one absolute 
 Commander. He who was lately our Commander has fallen in 
 the pcrfonnance of his duty. Our dear friend Bonchamps is no 
 more. Had I escaped from that awful battle unwounded, it is 
 not improbable that you might have chosen me to undertake the 
 now unenviable duty of guiding a broken army. You will not 
 accuse a dying man of vanity in saying so : but, gentlemen, you 
 all see that such a chance is now impossible. My wound is mortal, 
 A few days, perhaps a few hours, and I shall be removed from 
 this anxious, painful, all but hopeless conflict, in which you, my 
 friends, must still engage ; in which some of you will probably 
 fall. I cannot suffer with you future reverses, or lead you to 
 future triumphs ; but, if you will allow mc, I will use my last 
 breath in naming to you one, whom, I believe, every peasant in 
 La Vendde, and every gentleman engaged in the cause, will 
 follow, if it.be necessary, to death. Henri Larochejaquclin is 
 the only, man whom all the peasants, all the soldiers, all the 
 officers, know intimately ; and the last duty I can perform in the 
 service of my King is to implore you to put him at the head of 
 your troops. He is young, and you will assist his youth with 
 your counsel. He is diffident of himself, and you will encourage 
 him with your assurance and obedience ; but he is brave, he is 
 beloved, he is trusted ; and above all, he possesses that innate 
 aptitude for war, that power of infusing courage into the timid 
 and lending strength to the weak, which is the gift of God alone, 
 and without which no General can command an army." 
 
 Henri had promised his cousin that he would neither inter- 
 rupt him, or raise any objection to the proposition about to be 
 made. He kept his word as long as De Lescure was speaking, 
 but when he had finished he could not restrain himself from ex- 
 pressing his own sense of his unfitness for the duties they were 
 calling on him to perform. He came forward, and leaning 
 against the head of the wounded man's bed, put his hand upon 
 hat tboulder, and speaking almost in a whisper, like a young 
 
3»4 
 
 La Vendee* 
 
 girl pleading fot delay before her lover, he said, " Charks, you 
 forget, I am but onc-and-twenty." 
 
 No one, however, seconded his objection. No other voice was 
 Taiscd to counteract the wishes of the man who had suffered so 
 much in the cause, and who, had he been spared, would have 
 been at once chosen to guide their future movements. 
 
 " With this exception,'* said the Prince de Talmont ? " your 
 case we know is doubtful, but should you recover, should you 
 again be able to come among us before the war be over, Larochc- 
 iaquelin shall then give place to you." 
 
 "There is little chance of that, Prince," said De Lescure, 
 smiling sadly ; " but should it occur, there will be no quarrel 
 between me and Henri. 1 will serve with him as his aide- 
 de-camp." 
 
 Henri Larochejaquelin now found himself General-in-Chief of 
 the Vendean army. As he himself had said, he was but one- 
 \and-lwenty, and yet never was greater energy, firmness, and 
 moral courage required from a General, than was required from 
 him at this moment. Eighty thousand people were on that day 
 I told to look to him as the man who was to save them from 
 famine and from the enemy's sword, to protect their lives and 
 the lives of all whom they loved, and eventually to turn their 
 present utter misery and despair into victory and triumph. 
 
 Eighty thousand people were there collected in and around 
 
 St. Florent, men, women, and children ; the old and infirm, the 
 
 maimed and sick, the mutilated and the dying. Poor wretches 
 
 who had gotten themselves dragged thither from the hospitals- 
 
 ; in which they feared to remain, were lying in every ditch, and 
 
 j^ under every wall, lillng the air with 4heir groans. Everything 
 
 'i was in contusion ; no staff existed competent to arrange their 
 
 affairs, and to husband the poor means at their disposal Food 
 
 was wasted by some, while hundred.* were starving. Some 
 
 houses in the town were nearly empty, while others were 
 
 crowded almost to suffocation. There was very much to.be 
 
 done, yet everyone was idle. 
 
 The great work to be accomplished was to transport the Ven- 
 dean multitude over to the other side of the Loire. It had been at 
 first feared by some that the men of Brittany would be unwilling 
 to receive the beaten royalist army, flying from the bloody ven« 
 gcancc of the republicans, but their neighbours did not prove so 
 unhospitable. A thousand welcomes were sent over to them, 
 and many a happy messenger of good tidings came, assuring 
 Henri that the people of Poitou should find arms, food, clothing 
 and shelter on the other s-ldo of the water. 
 
 Henri sat himself to work in earnest. His first difficulty Was 
 to get vessels or rafts sufficient to carry the people over. All he 
 could obtain was seven or eight Utile boats, each cipablc of 
 
The Vciiikan, at S/. fiorenK 315 
 
 holdin;^ about six persons, besides ihe two men who rowed. 
 Timber there was none of size suflicicnt to make a raft ; and 
 though he sent messengers for leagues, both up and down the 
 river, he could not get a barge. He put the small boats to work, 
 but the passage of the river was so tedious that it seemed to him 
 that it would be impossible for him to take over all those who 
 crowded on the banks. The river is broad at St. Florent, and 
 between the marshes which lie on the southern side and the 
 northern bank there is a long island, between St. Florent and 
 the island the water is broad and the stream slow, but between 
 the island and the other shore the narrow river runs rapidly 
 Henri at first contented himself with sending the women and 
 children, together with the sick and the aged, into the island, 
 thinking that there they would be at any rate for a time safe from 
 the blues, and that some effort might probably be made from 
 the other shore to convey them across the narrow passage. 
 Gradually, however, the island became full, and he was obliged 
 ♦,o send his boats round to take the people from thence ii the 
 main land. 
 
 All day the work continued, and when the dark night camo 
 on, the boats did not for a mon\ent cease to ply. Immediately 
 after sunset, the rain began to fall in torrents, and as the anxious 
 wretches did not like to leave the close vicinity of the river, 
 which they had spent the whole day in struggling to attain, 
 thousands of them remained there wet and shivering until the 
 morning. Mothers during the darkness were parted from their 
 children, and wives from their husbands. Those who, worn out with 
 fatigue and weakness, were forced to lie down upon the ground, 
 were trodden upon by others who pressed on to reach the river. 
 Some were pushed into the water and screamed aloud that 
 they were about to drown, and when the dawn of ihe morn- 
 ing came, misery, wretchcdncsSj and fear were to be seen ua 
 every face. 
 
 During the whole day and night, Henri was cither on the 
 bank, or passing between it and the town. He had early in the 
 day stripped himself of his coat, and when the evening came, he 
 could not find it. Wet through^ in his shirt sleeves, this young 
 generalissimo passed the first night of his command, guarding 
 the entrance into his little vessels ; prohibiting more than eight 
 from embarking at a time : striving to his uttermost that none 
 but the weak and aged should be taken over ; solacing the 
 sufferings of those near him ; bidding the v/retched not to 
 depair, and pointing to the opposite shore as the land of 
 hope, where they would soon again find plenty, comfort, and 
 triumph. 
 
 He was still at the same duty on the following morning, 
 reckoning up, with something like despair, the small number of 
 
3i6 
 
 Ln Vindii. 
 
 tkose who had as yet passed over, and the multitude who wer^ 
 >-et to pass, when the young Chevalier came down to him with 
 the news that Madame de Lescure, and her sister-in-law were 
 In St. Florent. Even the work on which he was so intent,;could 
 not keep him from those respecting whom he was so anxious, 
 and he hurried into town for an hour or two, leaving ihe 
 Chevalier in his place, 
 
CHAPTER XXVII, 
 
 THE PASSAGE OF THE LOIRE, 
 
 DE LESCURE had been two days in St. Florent, 
 when his wife and sister arrived there on horseback, 
 attended by Chapeau. None of the party had ever 
 been in the town before, but it was not long before 
 they were recognised, and the two ladies soon found themselves 
 standing in the inn yard. Madame de Lescure had as yet asked 
 no question about her husband ; indeed she had not had 
 opportunity to do so, for she had been hurried through a denre 
 throng of people, none of whom she knew, and when she was 
 lifted from her horse by a strange hand, she had no idea that 
 the window immediately above her head looked from the room 
 in which her husband lay, Chapeau, however, with considerate 
 tact, did not lose a moment in finding the auher^iste^ and 
 learning from him enough to enable him to whisper a word of 
 comfort to her. 
 
 *' He is here, Madame," said he standing close behind her, 
 " in the room above there. He is somewhat better than he has 
 been, and as strong in his mind as ever. He has been most 
 anxious for your arrival." And then he led the way into the hotels 
 pushing aside the crowd to the right and to the left : and within 
 five minutes from the time of their entering the town, the two 
 ladies found themselves on the stairs immediately outside the 
 chamber in which was lying the object of all their present 
 anxiety. 
 
 For the last four days and four nights, it had been the first 
 and only desire of Madame de Lescure to be with her husband ; 
 and now that she was so near him she dreaded to open the 
 door. " Who is with him ? " said she, speaking in a whisper, 
 and trembling from head to foot, so that she could hardly 
 stand. 
 
jfS Lti. Vendie. 
 
 " The litile Chevalier is with him always,* said the auhergiste^ 
 who had followed them iip the stairs ; " he never leaves him, 
 now that M. Henri is obliged to be away/* 
 
 " Hadn't I better go in, perhaps," said Chapeau, " and send 
 the Chevalier out ? 1 can tell M. de Lescure that Madame is 
 here ; it might be too much for Monsieur to see her all 
 at once." 
 
 Without waiting for an answer, Chapeau knocked at the door 
 and went in, while the two ladies sat down on the nearest step, 
 dreading almost to breathe in their intense anxiety ; in a 
 few seconds, Arthur Mondyon came out, and taking a hand of 
 each of his two friends, pressed them to his lips. 
 
 *' He knows you are here," said he to Madame de Lescure, 
 *' and you are to go in to him alone. Marie and I will go down 
 stairs until he sends for us. Be tranquil as you can while you 
 are with him ; you will find him as calm as ever." 
 
 She rose, and entered the room on tiptoe, as Chapeau left it ; 
 her face was as pale as marble, and her heart beat so violently 
 that she felt that she would hardly be able to reach the chair at 
 the bed-side. De Lescure was lying on a decent but very humble 
 bed, at the furthest end of a large room, in which there were 
 three or four other bedsteads, and an enormous number of common 
 deal chairs and tables piled one a-top of another. He was 
 propped up in the bed on pillows, and as he turned his eyes 
 towards the door, the full light of the sun shone upon his face, 
 and gave an especial ghastliness to its pallor. 
 
 Madame de Lescure tried to control herself j but in such 
 moments the feelings of the heart overcome the reason, and the 
 motions of the body are governed by passion alone. In an in- 
 stant her face was on his bosom, and her arms were locked 
 closely round his body. 
 
 " Victorine~my own Victorine," said he, "my greatest grief 
 is over now. I feared that we were not to meet again, and that 
 thought alone was almost too much for my courage." 
 
 She was for a time unable to articulate a word. He felt her 
 Warm tears as she convulsively pressed her cheek against his 
 breast { he felt the violent throbs of her loving heart, and allowed 
 her a few minutes before he asked her to speak to him. She had 
 thrown off the hat which she had worn before entering the room, 
 and he now gently smoothed her ruffled hair with his hand, and 
 coUc^cted together the loose tresses which had escaped down her 
 neck. 
 
 " Look up, love," he said ; " I hav'n't seen your face yet, or 
 heard your voice. Come, Victorine, you were not used to be so 
 weak. We must all string our nerves now, dearest : we must aU 
 be brave now. We used to praise you for your courage ; now 
 is the time for you to show it" 
 
The Passac^e of the Loire^ 319 
 
 " Oh( Charles ! oh, my poor stricken love !" and ihcn she 
 raised her face and ^'i^c'd into his, till the tears made her eyes so 
 dim that she could hardly sec him. " I knew it would come al 
 last," she said ; " I knew this fearful blow would come at last 
 Oil, that wc had gone when others went ! at any rate I should 
 not have lived to sec you thus." 
 
 " Do not say that, Victorinc ; do not speak so~do not allow 
 yourself to think so— or you will rob both of us of our dearest 
 comfort. No, my love ; were it to do again, I again would 
 stand by the throne, and you again would counsel me to do so. 
 A doubt on that point would be calamity, indeed ; but, thanlc 
 C]od, there is no doubt." 
 
 " I3ut the misery to see you thus— torn, and mangled, and tor- 
 tured. And for what ? What good have we done with our hot 
 patriotism ? Is the King nearer his throne ? Are the murders 
 of the Republic less frequent?" 
 
 ♦' I fear you are selfish now, love. Did we not know, when 
 wc first took up our arms, that many happy wives would be 
 widowed— that numberless children would be made fatherless— 
 that hundreds of mothers would have to weep for their sons. 
 We must not ourselves complain of that fate, to which we have 
 knowingly, and thoughtfully, consigned so many others." 
 
 Madame de Lcscure had no answer to make to her husband's 
 remonstrance. She sat herself upon the bed, so that she could 
 support his head upon her bosom ; and pressing her lips to hit 
 clammy brow, she said in a low voice: "God's will be done, 
 Charles : with all my heart I pity those who have suffered as 1 
 now suffer." 
 
 She remained sitting there in silence for a considerable time ; 
 weeping, indeed, but stifling her sobs, that the sound of her 
 grief might not agitate him, while he enjoyed the inexpressible 
 comfort of having her close to him. He closed his eyes as he 
 leant against the sweet support which she afi*orded him, but not 
 in sleep ; he was thinking over all it might be necessary for him 
 to say to her, before the power of speech had left him, and 
 taking counsel with himself as to the advice which he would 
 give her. 
 
 " Victorinc," he said, and then paused a moment for a reply ; 
 but, as she did not answer him, he went on. " Victorine, I want 
 you to be all yourself now, while I speak to you. Can you listen- 
 to me calmly, love, while I speak to you seriously ? " 
 
 She said that she would, but the tone in which she said it^ 
 hardly gave confirmation to her promise. 
 
 " I hardly know what account you have yet heard of that uiH 
 fortunate battle." 
 
 ** Oh ! I have heard that it was most unfortunate ; unfortuiatt 
 to all, but most unfortunate to us." 
 
320 Ln VcMe% 
 
 ** It was unfortunate. I hope those who spoke to you of It^ 
 deceived you with no false hopes, for that would have been mere 
 cruelty. Give me your hand, my love ; I hope they told you 
 the truth. You know, dearest, do you not, that— that— that my 
 wound is mortal ? " 
 
 She strove hard to control her feelings. She bit her under lip 
 between her teeth ; she pressed her feet against the bed, and 
 grasped ihe loose clothes with the hand which was disengaged. 
 The virtue on which her husband most prided himself, was calm- 
 ness and self-possession in aflliction. She knew that he now 
 expected that virtue from her, and that nothing would so grieve 
 him as to see her render herself weakly up to her sorrow, and 
 she strove hard to control it ; but all her exertion did not enable 
 her to answer him. It seemed almost miraculous to herself that 
 she could sit there, and retain her consciousness, and hear him 
 utter such words. Had she attempted to speak, the effort would 
 have overcome her. 
 
 •' For Heaven's sake, Victorine, let nothing, let nobody deceive 
 you ; know the worst, and look to Christ for power to bear it, 
 and you will find the burden not too heavy to be borne. You 
 and 1, love, must part in this world. We have passed our lives 
 together without one shadow to darken the joy of our union : we 
 have been greatly blessed beyond others. Can we complain 
 because our happiness on earth is not eternal ? Is it not a great 
 comfort that we c.in thus speak together before we part ; that I 
 have been allowed to live to sec your dear face, to feel your 
 breath on my cheek, and to hear your voice? to tell vou, with 
 the assurance wliicli the approach of death gives me, that these 
 sorrows arc but for a time, and that our future joys sliall bo 
 everlasting ? And 1 must thank you, Victorine, for your tender 
 care, vour c<)nHtant lovi*. Vou have made mo happy licrc ; you 
 have helped to lit me for haj)j)lness hereafter, It is owing to you 
 that even this hour has but little bitterness for me. Arc we not 
 happy, dearest ; are we not happy, even now. In each other's 
 love ? " 
 
 Madame dc Lcscurc had, while her husband was speaking, 
 sunk upon her knees bc^^i\lo his bed, and was now bathing hts 
 hand with her tears. 
 
 "I cannot blame you for your tear:*," he said, "for human 
 nature nuiht have her way ; but my Victorine will remember that 
 she must not give way to her sorrow, as other women may do. 
 Rise, dearest, and let me see your face. I feel that I have 
 strength now to tell you all that I have to say. I may probably 
 never have that strength again." 
 
 She rose at his bidding, and sat upon the bed where he could 
 look full uj)on her face ; and then he boL'an to pour out to her 
 uU the wisihct; of his heart, all the tnoughti which had ruo 
 
TU Paanjic of the Loire, 3 2 1 
 
 throu^'h his brain since consciousness returned to \\\\\\ aftc" his 
 wound. After a little while, she conquered her emotion, and 
 listened to him, and answered him with attention. He first 
 spoke of their daughter, who was now in safety with relatives 
 who had fled to England, and then of herself, and the probable 
 result of the Vendcan war. He told her that he would not say 
 a word to discourage Henri : that had his life been spa.cd, he 
 should have considered it his own most paramount and sacred 
 duty to further the war with every energy which he possessed ; but 
 that he did not expect that it would ever terminate favourably to 
 their hopes. " The King will reign again," he said, " in France, 
 I do not doubt for a moment ; but years upon years of bloodshed 
 will have to be borne ; the blood of France will be drained from 
 every province, aye, from every parish, before the guilt which 
 she has committed can be atoned for— before she can have ex- 
 piated the murder of her King." He desired her to continue 
 with Henri, till an opportunity should occur for her to cross ovei 
 into England, but to let no such opportunity pass. He said that 
 if Henri could maintain his ground for a while in Brittany — il 
 the people would support him, and if English succour should 
 anive—it was still probable that they might be able to come to 
 such terms with the republicans as would enable them to live 
 after their own fashion, m their own country : to keep their own 
 priests among them, and to maintain their exemption from 
 service in the republican armies. " liut should this not be so," 
 he said, ** should all the valour of the Vendcans not be able to ^. 
 secure even thus much, then remember that God will temper the v 
 wind to thc>h€4TJ lamb. With a people as with an individual, 
 he witt not make the burden too heavy for the back which has xo 
 bear it." 
 
 He spoke also of Marie, and declared his wish that she should 
 not delay her marriage with Henri. He even said, that should 
 his life be so far prolonged as to enable him to be carried over 
 into Brittany, and should the army there find a moment's rest, 
 he would wish to see their hands joined together at his bed- 
 side. 
 
 "My poor, dear Marie!" said Madame de Lescure, almost 
 unconsciously. She was thinking of her sister's future fate ; 
 that she also might have soon to bewail a husband, torn from 
 her by these savage wars. De Lescure understood what was 
 passing through her mind, and said : 
 
 *' 1 know, love, that there arc reasons why they had better re- 
 main as they now are, — why they should not indissolubly bind 
 themselves to each other at such a time as this : but we must 
 choose the least of evils. You will both now be a burden— no, 
 I will not say a burden, but a charge— upon Henri ; and he has 
 a right to expect that a girl who will depend for everything 
 
)3J La Vtndie^ 
 
 on him, shall not shrink from the danger of marrying him. She 
 has been happy to accept his love, and when she may be a 
 comfort to him, she should not hesitate to give him her hand. 
 Besides, dearest, think what a comfort it will be to me to know 
 that they are married before 1 die." 
 
 There was one other subject on which he had made up hi? 
 mind to speak, but on which even he, calm and collected as he 
 was, found it difficult to express himself; he had, however, 
 determined that it was his duty to do so, and though the words 
 almost refused to come at his bidding, still he went through his 
 task. 
 
 " You will be desolate for a thne, Victorine, when 1 shall have 
 left you," said he. 
 
 She answered him only by a hok, but that look was so full of 
 misery — of misery blended with inexpressible love — that no one 
 seeing her, could have doubted that she would indeed be desolate 
 when he was gone. 
 
 •' We have loved each other too well to part easily," he con* 
 tinucd, " and, for a time, the world will all be a weary blank to 
 you. May God, who knows how to pour a balm into every 
 wound which in His mercy He inflicts, grant that that time may 
 not be long ! Listen to me patiently, love. It is a strong sense 
 of duty which makes me pain you \ my memory will always be 
 dear to you ; but do not let a vain, a foolish, a wicked regret 
 counteract the purpose for which God has placed you here. You 
 are very young, dearest, you have probably yet many vears to 
 live ; and it would multiply my ^rief at leaving you, tenfold, if I 
 thought that your hopes of happmess in this world were to be 
 buried in the grave with me. No, love, bear with me," 
 he said, for she tried to slop him. " The pain which I give you 
 now, may prevent much grief to you hereafter. Remember, 
 Victorine, that should these evil days pass by — should you ever 
 again be restored to peace and tranquil life, my earnest, my last, 
 my solemn prayer to you is, that my memory may not prevent 
 your future marriage." 
 
 She was still kneeling by his side, and with her face upturned 
 and her hands clasped together, she now implored him to stop. 
 She uttered no dissent, she made no protestations ; but she bo* 
 seeched him, by their long and tender love, by all the common 
 ties which bound them together, to cease to speak on a subject 
 which was so agonising. 
 
 " I have done, love," he said ; " and I know that you will net 
 think lightly of a prayer which 1 have made to you in so serious 
 a matter." 
 
 De Lescure had expressed the same wish to his wife on former 
 occasions, which, however, had, of course, been less solemn ; 
 and then his v/ife had answered him with a full, bat not grieving 
 
The Passage of the Loire, 3 23 
 
 heart* " Had our lot," he once said, "been cast in an Indian 
 village, the prejudices of the country would have required you 
 to submit to a horrid, torturing death upon my tomb. The pre- 
 judices of Christian lands, which attribute blame to the wife who 
 does not yield herself a living sacrifice to a life of desolation , 
 from a false regard to her husband's memory, arc, if not so / 
 horrid, every whit as unreasonable ; such a cenliment is an j 
 attempt to counteract God's beneficence, who cures the wounds \ 
 which He inflicts," 
 
 Henri's first care, after having seen Marie and Madame de 
 Lescure, was to provide for their transit, and that of his v.oundcd 
 friend, to the other side of the water ; for he felt that if the blues 
 came upon St. Florcnt before that was done, nothing could 
 prevent the three from being made prisoners. No tidings had 
 yet been received of the advance of the republicans from Choiet 
 towards St. Florent, and the precautions which Henri had taken 
 were such as to ensure him some few hours' notice of their ap- 
 proach. He knew, however that those hours would be hours of 
 boundless confusion ; that the whole crowd of unfortunate 
 wretches who might then still be on the southern side of the 
 river, would crowd into the small boats, hurrying themselves and 
 each other to destruction : that discipline would be at an efid, 
 and that all his authority would probably be ir-suffici-^nt to 
 secure a passage for his party. About three o'clock he sent 
 word to Arthur to have the strongest of boats kept in readiness 
 a little lower down the river than the usual point of embarkation ; 
 so that they might, if possible, escape being carried through the 
 throng. He then procured a waggon into which De Lescure was 
 lifted on his bed ; his wife sat behind him, supporting his head 
 on her lap, and Henri and his sister walked beside the vehicle 
 down to the water's edge. 
 
 The little Chevalier was there with the boat, and he had with 
 him two men, neither of whom were young, and who had been 
 at work the whole day ferrying over the Vendeans to the island. 
 Arthur's figure was hardly that of an aide-de-camp. His head 
 was bare and his face begrimed with mud. He was stripped to 
 his shirt sleeves, and they were tucked up nearly to his shoulders. 
 He still had round his waist the red scarf, of which he was so 
 proud ; but it was so soiled and dragged, as hardly to bo 
 recognised as the badge of the honourable corps to which he 
 belonged, for he had, constantly since the morning, been up to 
 his breast in the water, dragging women and children out of the 
 river, heaving the boats ashore, or helping to push them off 
 through the mud and rushes. 
 
 It was settled on the bank that Arthur should go over with 
 them into Brittany, as Henri felt that he could not consclen 
 iiously leave the St« Florent side of the river, while so many 
 
334 ^ VttuUi, 
 
 thousands were looking to hin\ for directions ; and consequently^ 
 as soon as De Lescure and the two ladies had, with much labour 
 and delay, been placed in the boat, he swung himself out of the 
 water into the bow, and the frail bark, with its precious load, was 
 pushed off into the stream. 
 
 The point from which it started was somewhat lower down the 
 stream than that from which the boats had been hitherto put off, 
 and, consequently, as they got into the middle of the river, they 
 found themselves carried down towards the lower part of the 
 island, on which they had intended to land. Had the men who 
 were rowing worked vigorously, this would not have occurred 
 to any great extent ; but they pulled slowly and feebly, and 
 every foot which the boat made across, it descended as much 
 down the river. Arthur had been desired to land De Lescure 
 on the island, and another boat had been sent round to be 
 ready to take him at once from thence to the other shore ; but 
 when he found that they were unintentionally so near the lower 
 end of the island, it occurred to him that it would save them 
 all much pain and trouble, if he were to run round it, and land 
 them at once on the opposite shore ; they would in this way 
 have to make a considerably longer journey, but then Dc 
 Lescure would be spared the pain of so many different move- 
 ments. 
 
 Madame de Lescure immediately jumped at the proposal. 
 *• For heaven's sake, Arthur, do so, if it be possible," said she ; 
 " it will be the greatest relief. I do not think we should ever 
 get across to the other boat, if we once leave this." 
 
 Arthur was behind the two men at the oars, who had listened 
 to what had been said, without making any observation, or 
 attempting to alter the destination of the boat ; rudder there 
 was none, and the steering, therefore, depended entirely on the 
 rowers. , 
 
 " Do you hear ? " said Arthur, stretching forward and laying 
 his hand on the shoulder of the man who was in front. " Never 
 mind the island at all ; go a little more down the stream, and 
 then we can cross over at once without landing at all. Do you 
 hear me, friend?" added he, speaking rather hastily, for the 
 boatman took no apparent notice of his instructioas. 
 
 " \Vc hear you. Monsieur," said the man, *' but it is im- 
 possible ; we could not do it" 
 
 " Ah, nonsense ! " answered the Chevalier : " not do it — I say 
 you must do it. I wonder you should hesitate for a moment, 
 when you know how M. de Lescure is suffering, and how much 
 those ladies have to go through. Turn the boat down the stream 
 at once, I tell you." 
 
 "It is quite impossible," said the old man doggedly, and 
 still holding on to his course \ *' we should only upset the boat 
 
The Passage of the Loire. 315 
 
 and drown you all. We could never push lier through the 
 current on the other side, could we, Jean ?" 
 
 " Quite impossible," said the other. " We should only be 
 carried down into the rushes, or else be upset in the stream." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " said Arthur. " What's to upset you } At any 
 rate you shall try." And he laid his hand on the oar of the 
 man who was nearest to him, but this, instead of having the 
 effect which he desired, turned the nose of the boat the o'.hcr 
 way. 
 
 " P'or God's sake, my dear friends, do this favour for us if you 
 can !" said Madame de Lescure. "It may save the life of my 
 husband, and indeed we will reward you richly for y^ur labour. 
 Stop, Arthur, don't use violence ; I am sure they will do this 
 kindness for us, if they arc able." 
 
 " If they won't do it for kindness, they shall do it because 
 they cannot help it," said Arthur, when he saw that the men 
 stil' showed no disposition to go down the stream, and as he 
 spoke he pulled his pistol out of his belt, and prepared to cock 
 it The pistol, in truth, was perfectly harmless, for it had been 
 over and over again immersed in the water, and the powder 
 was saturated with wet ; but this did not occur to the boatmen, 
 nor, very possibly, to Arthur either ; and when he, stepj ing 
 across the thwart, on which the hinder man was sitting, lield 
 the pistol close to the ear of the other, threatening that if he 
 did not at once do as he was bid, he would blow out his brains 
 and take his place on the seat, the poor old man dropped his 
 oar from his hand into the water, and filling on his knees on 
 the bottom of the boat, implored for mercy. 
 
 " Spare me, Monsieur ! oh, spare me ! " said he. " Ladies, 
 pray speak for me : I am not used to this work — indeed I am 
 not— and I and my comrade are nearly dead with fatigue." 
 
 Arthur put the pistol back into his belt when the poor man 
 begged for mercy, and pulling the fallen oar out of the water, 
 declared that he would himself row round the island, and that 
 the two old men might take the other oar in turns. They 
 agreed to this, and then he who had been so frightened, and 
 who was plainly the master of the two, told his tale to them, as 
 he filled Arthur's place in the bow of the boat, 
 
 ''When they had heard," he said, "what his former 
 occupation had been, they would not wonder that the hard 
 work at which they found him was almost too much for him. 
 He was," he said, "a priest, and had been employed above 
 twenty years as cur^ m a small parish on the river side, 
 between St Florent and Chaudron, The other man, who was 
 working with him, had been his sexton. He had, like other 
 curds, been turned out of his little house by the Republic, but 
 bad returned to his parish when he heard that the success of 
 
526 La l^iudSf* 
 
 the Vendean Arms seemed to promise tranquillity to the old 
 inhabitants of the country. He had, however, soon been again 
 disturbed. The rumour of Lechelle's army had driven him from 
 his home, and he had fled with many others to St. Florent. 
 He had been advised that those who were taken in a priest's 
 garb, would be more subject even than others to the wrath of 
 the republicans, and he nad therefore disguised himself ; and as 
 from having lived so long near the river he had become some- 
 what used to the management of boats, he had, for charity's 
 sake, lent his hand to the poor Vendeans, willing," as he said, 
 " to use what little skill and strength he had for those who lost 
 their all in fighting for him, his country, and his religion. But 
 now," he added, " he found himself almost knocked up ; and 
 although, when he had been chosen to take over Monsieur and 
 the two ladies, he had not had the heart to decline, still he had 
 found that his strength would fail him. He knew that he and 
 his companion could not, unaided, reach the opposite shore; 
 but if the young gentleman would assist, they would still do 
 their best, and perhaps they might cross over in safety." 
 
 This piteous talc soon turned their anger into adiniralion and 
 friendship. They thanked the kind old man for all that he had 
 done for them, and Arthur once, and over again, turned round 
 to beg his pardon for the violence he had offered him. 
 
 " Indeed, then, I picked you out for this job," said he, "be- 
 cause you always worked so hard, and seemed so skilful and 
 anxious, and because I observed that your boat always made 
 the passage quicker tlian the others. You must not be angry 
 when I tell you that I thought you had been a boatman all your 
 life." 
 
 He said he was not angry at all, but flattered ; indeed he had 
 spent much of his leisure time in rowing, and was heartily glad 
 that his little skill was now useful to his friends. He soon 
 offered to take his place again at the oar, and when neither his 
 old servant or Arthur would allow him to do so, he declared 
 that he was quite himself again, and that those few minutes' 
 rest had wonderfully recruited him. The ladies both thanked 
 him kindly, but begged him to remain a while where he was, 
 and Marie, from time to time, asked him questions about the 
 past, and tried to hold out hopes to him for the future. The 
 tears came into his eyes, and rolled down his checks, and after 
 a while he took the sexton's oar, literally to relieve himself from 
 having to speak. 
 
 •• It is not the work nlonc that has upset mc," said ho after a 
 while, " but the poor people seem so callous. Wc have worked 
 hard these two days, as the young gentleman knows, and all for 
 charity, and yet till this moment we have not had a kind word. 
 They urge us on to the work, and when wc land ihcm at the 
 
The Passage of the Loire. 327 
 
 shore, they do not even thank us as they ro aw.vy j then \vc turn 
 back with a heavy heart for another load." 
 
 They reached the shore of Brittany in safety, and when De 
 Lescurc was placed in the carriajije which had been provided for 
 him, he desired that the poor priest might be begged to accom- 
 pany them on their journey. He declined, however, saying that 
 he had found a sphere in which he could be useful, and that he 
 would stick to the work till it was all done, or till his strength 
 failed him. De Lescure pressed his hand, and begged his 
 blessing, and told him that if there were many such as him in 
 the country, La Vendue might still carry her head high, in spite 
 of all that the Republic could do against her. This praise 
 made the old man's heart light once again, and he returned to 
 his boat, and passed back to St. Florent with his comrade and 
 Arthur, ready to re-commence his labours. In the meantime De 
 Lescure and his wife and sister were warmly welcomed on the 
 Breton side of the river, and before night he, for the first time 
 since the battle of Cholct, found himself in comparative sccuiity 
 and peace. 
 
 When Arthur got back he found that another plan had been 
 started for carrying over the Vendeans, which, if it did not 
 drown them altogether, would be certainly much more Ca- 
 pcdilious than that of the boats. It had originated Nyiih 
 Chapeau, under whose guidance the operations were about to 
 commence. 
 
 He had come down to the water-side with his master, and on 
 seeing the way in which the men were working, had calculated 
 that it would yet take above a week to carry over all who 
 remained, and as it was probable that they would be attacked 
 before twenty-four hours were over, he had observed that they 
 might as well give themselves up for lost if they could devise no 
 other scheme of passing over. 
 
 " We will do the best we can," said Henri. "If we can get 
 over the women, and children, and wounded, the rest of us can 
 fight our way to the bridge of Ancenis." 
 
 " Why not make a raft .'"' said Chapeau. 
 
 *' Make one if you can," said Henri, " but it will only go down 
 the stream. Besides, you have neither timber nor iron ready to 
 do it." 
 
 Chapeau, however, determined to try, and he employed the 
 men from Durbelliere, who knew him, and would work for him, 
 to get together every piece of timber they could collect They 
 brought down to the bank of the river the green trunks of smaU 
 trees, the bodies of old waggons, the small beams which they 
 were able to pull down out of the deserted cottages near the 
 river-side, pieces of bedsteads, and broken fragments of bam 
 doors. All these Chapeau, with endless care, joined together 
 
328 La Veiuh't, 
 
 by numberless bits of ropes, and at last succeeded in getlln,* 
 ailoat a raft on which some forty or fifty men might stand, but 
 which seemed to be anything but a safe or commodious means of 
 transit. In the first place, though it supported the men on it, it 
 did not bear them high and dry above the water, which came over 
 the ankles of most of them, Then there was no possible means 
 of steering the unwleldly bark ; and there could be no doubt 
 that if the Argonauts aid succeed in getting their vessel out 
 into the river, it would immediately descend the stream, and 
 that it, and those upon it, would either be upset aUo|;cthcr, or 
 taken to whichever bank and whatever part of it, the nvcr in its 
 caprice might please. 
 
 In this dilemma a brilliant idea occurred to Chapeau. He 
 still had plenty of rope in his possession, and having fastened 
 one end of a long coil with weights and blocks on the riverside, 
 he passed over with the other end into the island, and fastened 
 it there. The rope, therefore, traversed the river, and by hold- 
 ing on to this, and passing it slowly through their hands, while 
 they strained against the raft with their feet, the enterprising 
 crew who had first embarked reached the island in safety. Ten 
 of the number had to return with the raft, but still from thirty 
 to forty had been taken over, and that without any great delay. 
 
 After this first success the boats were sent round to work 
 between the island and the other shore, and the raft was kept 
 passing to and fro over the river the whole night. Nobody got 
 over with dry feet, but still no one was drowned, and upon the 
 whole Chapeau was considered to be entitled to the thanks of 
 the whole army for the success of his invention* He had 
 certainly accelerated their passage fivefold* 
 
CHAPTER XXVILL, 
 
 CATHELINEAU'S MOTHER. 
 
 HK old motto, attributing disrespect to every prophet 
 11 in his own country, had not been proved true with 
 reference to Cathclineau in St. Florent. His deeds, 
 during the short period of his triumph, had been cele^ 
 bratcd there with general admiration, and since his death, his 
 memory had been almost adored. The people of the town had 
 had no public means of showing their appreciation of his valour; 
 they had not as yet had time to erect monuments to his honour, 
 or to establish other chronicles of his virtues, than those which 
 were written in the hearts of his townsmen. He had left an 
 aged mother behind him, who had long been dependent on his 
 exertions for support, and they had endeavoured to express their 
 feeling of his services, by offering to place her beyond the reach 
 of poverty ; but, unaccountably enough, she was the only person 
 in St, Florent who was dissatisfied with her son's career, and 
 angry with the town which had induced him to adopt it. 
 
 She still lived in a small cottage near the extremity of St. 
 Florent, which had been the residence of Cathelineau as long as 
 he supported himself by his humble calling. It was now 
 wrecked and shattered, and showed those certain signs of 
 ruin which quickly fall on the dwellings of the aged poor who 
 have no young relatives round them. Here she would sit and 
 spin, seldom now internipted by any ; though at first her neigh- 
 bours used to flock thither to celebrate the praises of her son. 
 She had loved her son, as warmly as other mothers love their 
 children ; but she had loved him as a hard-working labourer, 
 earning for herself and for him their daily pittance ; not as a 
 mighty General, courted and complimented by the rich and 
 great of the land. She had begged him not to go out into the 
 
town on the morning when he had been so instrumental in 
 saving his to\\msmen from the ignominy of being pressed into 
 the service of the Republic ; and when he returned in the even- 
 ing, crowned with laurels, she had not congratulated him, She 
 had uttered nothing but evil bodings to him on the day when he 
 first went to Durbelli^re ; and when he returned from Saumur, 
 chief General of all the forces of then victorious La Vendde, she 
 had refused to participate in the glories which awaited him in 
 his native town. On his departure to Nantes she had pro- - 
 phesied to him his death, and when the tidings of his fall were 
 X\xsX brought to her, she merely said that she had expected it. 
 The whole town mourned openly for Cathelineau, except his 
 tnothcr. She wept for him in silence and alone j but she wept 
 for the honest, sturdy, hard-working labourer whom she had , 
 reared beneath her roof, and who had been beguiled away by 
 vain people, to vain pursuits, which had ended in his death ; 
 while others bewailed the fall of a great captain, who had con- 
 ferred honour on their town, and who, had he been spared, 
 might have heaped glory on his country. Since that time, 
 she had not ceased to rail on those who had seduced her son 
 into celebrity and danger ; and, after a while, had been left to 
 rail alone. 
 
 When nearly all the inhabitants of the town flocked down to 
 the river-side, anxious to escape from the wrath of the re- 
 publicans, she resolutely refused to move, declaring that if it 
 were God's will that she should perish under the ashes of her 
 little cottage, she would do so, and that nothing should induce 
 her, in her extreme old age, to leave the spot on which she had 
 been born, and had always lived. During the whole confusion 
 attending the passage of the river, she sat there undisturbed ; 
 and though she saw all her poor neighbours leave their humble 
 dwellings, and all their little property, to look for safety in 
 Brittany, she did not move. 
 
 On the day after that on which De Lescure had passed over, 
 she was sitting alono in her cabin, and the unceasmg whirl of 
 her spinning wheel proved that the distractions of the time had 
 not made her idle. By this timq all those who had lived 
 Immediately near her, were gone. It is not to be supposed that 
 absolutely every inhabitant of the town left his home ; there were 
 some who had taken no prominent part in the war, and who 
 could not believe that the republicans would destroy those 
 whom they found quietly living in their own houses ; but all the 
 poorer part of the population were gone, and not a living soul 
 but herself remained in the row of cabins, of which Cathelineau's 
 mother occupied one. 
 
 Her wheel was turning fast round, obedient to the quick 
 motion of her foot* and her two hands jvere employed in prepar* 
 
Cathelineau^s Mother^ y^\ 
 
 Injj tlic (Tax before it was caught by the wheel ; but her mind 
 was far away from her ordinar)' pursuit. She had been thinking 
 how true were the prophetic warnings with which she had 
 implored her son to submit to the republicans, and how surely 
 she had foreseen the desolation which his resistance had brought 
 on all around her. And yet there was more of affection than 
 bitterness in her thoughts of her son. She acknowledged to 
 herself his high qualities ; she knew well how good, hgw noble, 
 how generous, had been his disposition. She was, even in her 
 own way, proud of his fame ; but she hated, with an unmixed 
 hatred, those whom she thought had urged him on to his ruin— 
 t'.jose friends of noble blood, who would have spurned the 
 postillion from their doors had he presumed to enter them in 
 former days ; but who had thrust him into the van of danger ir» 
 the hour of need, and had persuaded him, fond and foolish as 
 he had been, to use his courage, his energy, and his genius, in 
 fighting for them a battle, in which he should have had no 
 personal interest. 
 
 As she sat there spinning, and thinking thus bitterly of the 
 causes of all her woe, a figure darkened the door of her cottage, 
 and looking up she saw a young lady dressed in black. She 
 was tall, and of a noble mien ; her face was very beautiful, but 
 pale and sad, as were the faces of most in these sad times. Her 
 dress was simple, and she was unattended ; but yet there was 
 that about her, which assured the old woman that she was not 
 of simple blood, and which prepared her to look upon her as an 
 enemy. 
 
 It was Agatha Larochejaquelin. She and her father had, by 
 slow stages, reached St. Florent in safety ; and, after havhig 
 seen him at rest and spoken a word to her brother, her first care 
 had been to Inquire after the mother of Cathelineau. She had 
 been told of her solitary state, and of her stubborn resolution to 
 remain at St. Florent, and she determined to offer her any aid 
 in her power, as a duty due to the memory of him, with whom 
 she had been, for a short time, so strangely connected. 
 
 The old woman rose mechanically, and made a slight 
 obeisance as she saw Agatha's commanding figure, and then 
 reseating herself, hastily recommenced her work, as though she 
 had forgotten herself, in having teen thus far courteous to her 
 guest. 
 
 **I have come to express my esteem and respect to the 
 mother of Cathelineau," said Agatha, as soon as she found her- 
 self inside the cottage. " I knew and valued your son, and I 
 shall be glad to know his mother. Was not the brave Cathe- 
 lineau your son, my friend?" she added, seeing that the old, 
 woman stared at her, as though she did not as vet comprcheLd 
 the object of her visit. 
 
Jjal 
 
 Li i^tHdJik 
 
 " My name Is f ran^olse Cathelincau,** said the sybil, " and 
 Jacques Cathelincau was my son." 
 
 " And proud you may be to have been his mother. He was a 
 great and good man : he was trusted and loved by all La 
 vendue. No one was so beloved by the poor as he was ; no 
 one was so entirely trusted by the rich and great." 
 
 " I wish that the rich and great had left him as they found him. 
 It would be well for him and mo this morning, if he had not so 
 entirely trusted thcnu" 
 
 "His death was a noble death. He died for the throne which he 
 honoured, and loved so loyally; and his name will be honoured in 
 Poitou, aye, and in all France, as long as the names of the great 
 and the good are remembered. It must be a bitter thing to 
 lose an only son, but his dearest friends should not regret him 
 in such a cause." 
 
 " Dearest friends ! What do you know of his dearest 
 friends ? How can you tell what his dearest friends may feel 
 about it ! " 
 
 " I know what I feel myself. Perhaps 1 cannot judge of all a 
 mother's agony in losing her son ; but I may truly say, that of 
 those who knew Cathelineau, none valued him more than I did." 
 
 " Valued him ! Yes, you valued him as you would a war- 
 horse, or a strong tower, but you did not love him. He was not 
 of your race, or breed. His hands were hard with toil, his hair 
 was rough, and his voice was harsh with the night air. The 
 breath of the labouring poor is noisome in the nostrils of the 
 rich. His garments smelt of industry, and his awkward gait 
 told tales of his humble trade. You did not love him : such as 
 you could not have loved a man like him. You have come here 
 to bid me to forget my son, and you think it easy for me to do 
 so, because you and his noble friends have forgotten him. You 
 are welcome, Mademoiselle, but you might have saved yourself 
 the trouble." 
 
 " God forbid that I should ask you to forget him. 1 can nevel 
 forget him myself." 
 
 " Would that I could— would that I could ! He left me that 
 morning when I bade him to stay, though I went down on my 
 knees to ask it as a favour. He was a stubborn self-willed man, 
 and he went his own way. He never passed another night 
 under his mother's roof; he never again heard his mother's 
 blessing. I wish I could forget him. Indeed, indeed, I wish I 
 could ! " and the old woman swayed herself backwards and 
 forwards in her chair, repeating the wish, as though she did not 
 know that anyone was with her in the cottage. 
 
 Agatha hardly knew what to say to the strange woman before 
 her, or how to soften her bitterness of spirit. She had felt an 
 unaccountable attraction to Cathclineau's mother. She had 
 
Caiheihuau's Mother. 333 
 
 imagined that she could speak to her of her son with affection 
 and warmtli, though she could not do so to any other living soul. 
 She had flattered herself that she should have a melancholy 
 pleasure in talking of his death, and in assuring his aged mother 
 that she had soothed her son's last hours, and given him in nis 
 dying moments that care which can only be given by the hands 
 of a woman. She now felt herself repulsed, and learnt that tha 
 short career of glory which had united her with Cathelincau, had 
 severed him fron\ his mother. Nevertheless her heart yearned 
 to the old woman ; she still hoped that, if she could touch the 
 nght chord, she might find her way to the mother's heart. 
 
 " I thought, perhaps," she said, " you would be glad to hear 
 lomc tidings of his last moments ; and as I was with him when 
 tie died, I have come to tell you that his death was that of a 
 Christian, who hoped everything from the merits of his 
 Saviour." 
 
 "May his soul rest in peace," said the mother, crossing herself, 
 and mechanically putting her hands to her beads. " May his 
 soul rest in peace. And you were with him when he died, 
 Mademoiselle, were you .'' " 
 
 " I knelt at his bed-side as the breath passed from his 
 body." 
 
 " It would have been better for him had one of his owii degree 
 been there : not that I doubt you did the duty of a good neigh- 
 bour, as well as it might be done by one like you. Might I ask 
 you your name, lady .'' " 
 ^ "My name is Agatha Larochejaquelin." 
 
 " Larochejaquelin ! I'm sorry for it. It was that name that 
 first led Jacques into trouble: it was young Larochejaquchn that 
 first made my son a soldier. I will not blame you, for you say 
 you were kind to him at a time when men most want kindness ; 
 but I wish that neither I nor he had ever heard your name " 
 
 " You are wrong there, my friend. It was Cathelineau made 
 a soldier of my brother, not my brother who made a soldier of 
 him. Henri Larochejaquelin was only a follower of Cathe- 
 lineau." 
 
 " A Marquis obey a poor postillion ! \ es, you stuffed iiim 
 full with such nonsense as that I You made him fancy himself 
 a General ! You cannot fool me so easily. My son was not a 
 companion for noblemen and noble ladies. A wise man will 
 never consort with those who are above him in degree." 
 
 " We all looked on Cathelineau as equal to the best among 
 us," answered Agatha. " We all strove to see who should show 
 him most honour." 
 
 The old woman sat silent for a while, turning her wheel with 
 great violence, and then she moved abruptly round, and facing 
 Agatha, said : 
 
334 
 
 La Vendie. 
 
 "Will you answer me one question truly, Mademoiselle?* ' 
 Agatha said she would. 
 " Are you betrothed as yet to your lover ? * 
 " No, indeed/' answered she ; " I am not betrothed/* 
 " And now answer me another question. Suppose this son of 
 mine, who, as you say, was as great as the greatest among you, 
 and as noble as the noblest ; suppose he had admired your 
 beauty, and had offered to take you home to his mother as the 
 wife of his bosom, how would you then have answered him? 
 What would you then have thought of the postillion ? Would 
 he then have been the equal of gay young counts, and high- 
 blooded marquises ? " 
 
 Agatha at first made no reply, and a ruby blush suffused her 
 whole face. She was not at all unwilling that Cathelineau's 
 mother should know the feeling which she had entertained for 
 her son, but the abruptness, and the tone of the question, took 
 her by surprise, and for a moment scattered her thoughts. 
 
 *' Now I have made you angry, Mademoiselle," said the other, 
 chuckling at the success of her scheme. " Now you are wrath 
 I that I should have dared to suppose that the daughter of a 
 / marquis could have looked, in the way of love, on a poor 
 I labourer who had been born and bred in a hovel like this." 
 j *' You mistake me, my friend ; I am not angry — I am any- 
 thing but angry." 
 " You would have scorned him as a loathsome reptile, which 
 i to touch would be an abomination," continued the old woman, 
 \ not noticing, in her eagerness, Agatha's denial. " You would 
 have run from him in disgust, and the servants would have 
 I ICc loose the dogs at him, or have chained him as a madman. 
 j Yes, your delicate frame shakes with horror at the idea, that a 
 filthy stable boy could have looked on your beauty, and have 
 ■ dared to wish to possess it : and yet you presume to tell me 
 t'.at Cathelineau was among you as an equal ; he was with you 
 \. as a Jew is among Christians, as a slobbering drunkard among 
 ■-' sober men, as one stricken with fever among the healthy. My 
 son should have been too proud to have eaten bread at a table 
 where his hand was thought unclean, or to have accepted 
 favours where he dared not look for love." 
 
 " You are unjust to Cathelineau," replied Agatha. "You are 
 in every way unjust, both to your son and to me. He accepted 
 
 no favour from us, but he did — but he did look " and she 
 
 paused, as though she still lacked courage to speak the words 
 which were on her tongue, but after a moment she went on 
 and said, " he did look for love, and he did not look in 
 vain." 
 
 " He did love, do you say, and not in vain ! He did love, and 
 *«ade his love acceptable to one of those fine flaunting lad***^ 
 
CatheUneau^s Mother. 335 
 
 who sit^ at ease all day, twirling a few bits of silk with their 
 small white hands. Do you sav such a oac as that loved 
 Cathclincau ! Who was she ? What is her name ? Where is 
 she?" 
 
 " She is close to you now," said Agatha, sitting down on a 
 low stool at the old woman's feet. *' I told you her name a 
 while since. It is I who loved your son : I, Agatha Laroche- 
 jaquclin." 
 
 Fran^oise Cathclineau dropped from her hand the flax, which 
 she had hitherto employed herself in preparing for the wheel, 
 and pushing from her forehead her loose grey locks, and resting 
 on her knees her two elbows, she gazed long and intently into 
 Agatha's face. 
 
 " It is just the face he would have loved," said she aloud, 
 yet speaking to herself. " Yes, it is the face of which he used 
 to dream and talk — pale and sad, but very fair : and though I 
 used to bid him mind his work, and bring down his heart to 
 love some poor honest labouring girl, I did not the less often 
 think over his strange fancies. And Jacques told you that he 
 loved you, did he. Mademoiselle 't I wonder at that— I wonder 
 at that Y it would have been more like himself to have carried 
 his love a secret to the grave." 
 
 " He was dying when he told me that he regarded me above 
 other women ; and I am prouder of the dying hero's love., than 
 I could have been had a Prince knelt at my feet."' 
 
 ** He was dying when he confessed his love ! Yes, I under- 
 stand it now : death will open the lips and bring forth the truth, 
 when the dearest hopes of life, when the sharpest pang of the 
 heart fail to do so. Had he not been sure that life with him 
 was gone, he never would have spoken of his love. He was a 
 weak, foolish man. Very weak in spite of all his courage ; very 
 weak and very foolish — very weak arid very foolish." 
 
 She was talking more to herself than to Agatha, as she thus 
 spoke of her son's character, and for a minute or two she 
 continued in the same strain, speaking of him in a way that 
 showed that very little action, every wish of his, had been to 
 her a subject of thought and anxiety ; and that she took a 
 strange pride in those very qualities for which she blamed 
 hini. 
 
 "And did you come to me on purpose to tell me this, 
 Mademoiselle?" she said after a while. 
 
 ** I came to talk to you about your son, and to offer you, for 
 his sake, the affection of a daughter." 
 
 "And when he told you that he loved you, what answer d'd 
 you make him ? Tell me : did you comfort him ; did you say 
 one word to make him happy ? I know, from your face, that 
 you had P'>t the heart to rebuke a dying man," 
 
356 La Vendee* 
 
 ** Rebuke him ! How could 1 have rebuked him? though 1 
 had never owned It to myself, I now feel that I had loved him 
 before he had ever spoken to me of love." 
 
 " But what did you say to him ? tell me what you said to him. 
 He was my own son, my only son. He was stubborn, and self- 
 willed, but still he was my son ; and his words were sweeter to 
 me than music, and his face was brighter to me than the light 
 ot heaven. If you made him happy before he died, I will kneel 
 down and worship you," and joining her skinny hands together, 
 she laid them upon Agatha's knees. " Come, sweetest, tell mc 
 what answer you made my poor boy when he told you that he 
 loved you." 
 
 " It is a fearful thing, you know, to Speak to a dying man," 
 answered Agatha. " You must not suppose that we were talk- 
 ing as though he were still in the prime of health and strength 
 
 " But what did you say to him ? you said something. Vou 
 did not, at any rate, bid him remember that he was a poor 
 labouring man, and that you were a lady of high rank." 
 
 " We neither of us thought of those things then. I do not 
 know what it was I said, but 1 strove to say the truth. I strove 
 to make him understand how much I valued, esteemed — and 
 loved him." 
 
 " You told him that you loved him ; you are sure you told 
 him that. I wish he had lived now. I wish he had lived and 
 won more battles, and beat the blues for good and all, and then 
 he would have married you, and brought you home as his wife 
 to St. Florent, wouldn't he, love? There would have been 
 something; in that. There would have been something really 
 grand in that. Such a beautiful bride ! such a noble bride I so 
 very, very beautiful I " and the old woman continued gazing at 
 the face of her whom she was fancying to herself a daughter-in- 
 law. " Real noble blood of the very highest. Had he married 
 you, he would have been a marquis, wouldn't he ? I wish he 
 had lived now, in spite of all I said. Why did he die when 
 « there was such fortune before him ! Why did he die when there 
 was such great fortune before him ! " 
 
 " He was happy in his death," said Agatha, " 1 do not think 
 he even wished to live. As it is, he has been spared much 
 sorrow which we must all endure. Though I loved your son, I 
 do not regret his death." 
 
 " But I do— but I do," said the old woman. " Had he only 
 lived to call you his wife, there would have been honour in that 
 • — there would have been real glory in that. People would ^hen 
 not have dared to say that after all Cathelineau was only a 
 postillion." 
 " Do not regard what people say, Had a princess given him 
 
CathelincatCs Mother, 337 
 
 her hand, his farr.c could not be brighter th.in it was. There 
 was no thought of marriage between us, since we first knew 
 each other. There has been no time for such thoughts ; but hi, 
 memory to me is that of a dear — dear friend." 
 
 From the time when CathcHneau first v/cnt to Durbehi^rc, 
 after the battle of St. Florent, his mother had expressed the 
 greatest dislike at his attempting to associate with those who 
 were so much above himself in rank ; with those who would, as 
 she said, use him and scorn him. She had affected to feel, or 
 perhaps really felt, a horror of the insolence of the great, and 
 had quarrelled with her son for throwing himself among thorn. 
 This feeling, however, arose, not from contempt, but from 
 admiration and envy. In her secret soul the high and mighty 
 seemed so infmitely superior to those in her own rank, that she 
 had felt sure that her son could not be admitted among tlicm as 
 an ccjual, and she was too proud to wish that he should be 
 admitted into their company as a humble hanger-on. What 
 Agatha had now confessed to her had surprised and delighted 
 her. There could be no doubt now ; there was the daughter of 
 one of the noblest houses in Poitou sitting at her feet in her 
 own cabin, owning her love for the poor postillion. Agatha 
 Larochejaquclin, young, noble, beautiful, grandly beautiful as 
 she was, had come to her to confess that she had given her 
 heart to her son. There was, however, much pain mixed with 
 her gratification. Cathelineau had gone, without enjoying the 
 high honours which might have been his. Had* he lived, 
 Agatha Larochejaquclin would have been her daughter-in-law ; 
 but now the splendid vision could never be more than a vision. 
 She could solace herself with thinking of the high position her 
 son had won for himself, but she could never enjoy the palpable 
 reality of his honours. 
 
 She sat, repeating to herself the same words, " Sad and pale, 
 but very beautiful — sad and pale, but very beautiful ; just as_ he 
 used to dream. Why did he die, when such fortune was before 
 him ! Why did he die, when such noble fortune was before 
 him!" 
 
 Agatha suffered her to go on for a while before she inter- 
 rupted her, and then she came to the real purport of her visit. 
 She offered the old woman her assistance and protection, and 
 begged her to pass over with the others into Brittany, assuring 
 her that she should want for nothing as long as Henri or her 
 father had the means of subsistence, and that she should hve 
 among them as an honoured guest, loved and revered as the 
 mother of Cathelineau. 
 
 On this point, however, she remained obstinate. Whether 
 she still fancied that she would be despised by her new friends, 
 i)r whether as she said, she was indifferent to life, and felt her- 
 
53g Ln Vtndii, 
 
 •eir too old to move from the ipot where she had paiivd lo 
 many years, she resolutely held her purpose to await the coming 
 of the republicans. " They will hardly put forth their strength 
 to crush such a worm as me/* she said \ "and if they do, it will 
 be for the better.'* 
 
 Agatha than offered her monev, but this she refused, assuring 
 her that she did not want it. " You shall give me one thing 
 though, if you will, sweet lady, that I may think of you often, 
 and have something to remind me of you ; nay, you shall give 
 me two things— one is a lock of your soft brown hair, the other 
 is a kiss," 
 
 Agatha undid the braid which held up her rich tresses, and 
 severing from her head a lock of the full length to which her 
 hair grew, tied it in a portion of the braid, and put it into the 
 old woman's hand ; then she stooped down and kissed her 
 skinny lips, and having blessed her, and bid her cherish the 
 memory of her son with a holy love, as she herself did and 
 always would, Agatha Larochejaquehn left the cabin, and re- 
 turned to her father, 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 "what good has the war done?** 
 
 HE raft which Chapeau had made was by degrees 
 
 enlarged and improved, and the great mass of th<? 
 
 I Vendcans passed the river slowly, but safely. As 
 
 j soon as the bulk of the people was over, Henri 
 
 Larochejaquelin left the southern shore, and crossed over to 
 marshal the heterogeneous troops on their route towards Laval, 
 leaving Chapeau and Arthur Mondyon to superintend and 
 complete the transit of those who remained. 
 
 It was a beautiful October evening, and as the sun was 
 setting, the two were standing close to the edge of the water, 
 congratulating themselves that their dirty and disagreeable toil 
 was well nigh over. From time to time stragglers were still 
 coming down to the river side, begging for a passage, and im- 
 ploring that they might not be abandoned to the cruelty of the 
 blues, and as they came they were shipped off on the raft. 
 There were now, however, no more than would make one fair 
 load, and Chapeau and Arthur were determined that it was full 
 time for them both to leave the Anjou side of the river, and 
 follow the main body of the array towards Laval. 
 
 •* Wc might remain here for ever, Chapeau, if we stayed for 
 the very last of all," said the cheva,lier, as he jumped on the raft. 
 " Come, man, get on, we've our number now, and we couldn't 
 take more, if they come. There's some one hallooing up there, 
 and we'll leave the little boat for them. Come, I want to get 
 over and have a run on dry land, for I'm as cold as a stcne. 
 This living like a duck, halt in the water and half out, don't suit 
 me at all The next river we cross over, I'll make Henri get 
 another ferryman." 
 
 Chapeau still lingered on the shore, and putting his band up to 
 his ear, listened to the voice of some one who was calling from a 
 
540 La V^ttdie. 
 
 distance. It was too dark for him to distinguish anyone, but 
 the voice of a woman hallooing loudly, but with difficulty, as 
 though she were out of breath with running, was plainly 
 audible* 
 
 "If you mean to wait here all night, I don't," said the 
 Chevalier, " so good-night to you, and if you don't get on, IT 
 push off without you." 
 
 " Stop a moment, M. Arthur, there's a woman there." 
 
 " I've no doubt there is— there are fifty women there — fif^y 
 hundred women, I daresay ; but we can't wait while they aX 
 drop in one by one. Don't be a fool, Jacques ; is not there the 
 small boat left for them ? " 
 
 Chapeau still listened. "Stop a moment, M. Arthur, for 
 heaven's sake, stop one moment," and then jumping on to the 
 raft, he clung hold of the rope, and moored it fast to the shore. 
 •* They're friends of my own, M. Arthur ; most particular friends, 
 or I wouldn't ask to keep you. Don't go now ; after all we've 
 gone through together, you won't leave my friends behind, if I 
 go on shore, will you, M. Arthur ?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm a good comrade ; if they're private friends, I'll wait 
 all night. Only I hope there ain't a great many of them." 
 
 *' Only two ; I think there are only two," and Chapeau once 
 more jumped on shore, and ran to meet his friends. He had 
 not far to go, for the party was now close to the water's edge. 
 As he had supposed, it consisted only of two, an old man and a 
 girl : Michael Stein and his daughter Annot. Annot had been 
 running ; and dragging her father by the hand, had hallooed 
 with all her breath, for she had heard from some of those who 
 still dared to trust themselves to the blues, that the last boat 
 was on the point of leaving the shore. The old man had dis- 
 dained to halloo, and had almost disdained to run ; but he had 
 suffered himself to be hurried into a shambling kind of gait, and 
 when he was met by Chapeau, he was almost as much out of 
 breath as his daughter. 
 
 "Oh, oh I for mercy's sake— for heaven's sake— kind Sir, 
 dear Sir," sobbed Annot, as she saw a man approaching 
 her ; and then when he was near enough to her to be dis- 
 tinguished through the evening gloom, she exclaimed : " Mercy 
 on us, mercy on us, it's Jacques Chapeau ! " and sank to the 
 ground, as though she had no further power to take care of 
 herself, now that she had found one who was bound to take care 
 of her. 
 
 " You're just in time, Michael Stein ; thank God, you're just 
 in time ! Annot, come on, its only a dozen yards to the raft, 
 and we'll be off at once. Well, this is the luckiest chance : come 
 on, before a whole crowd are down upon us, and swamp us all.'* 
 
 " Oh me 1 oh me ! " sobbed Annot, still sitting on the ground, 
 
•■' ly/iai Good //ay ^e War Done ? » 341 
 
 as thoivjh she had not ihe slightest intention of stirring another 
 step that night : " to be kft and deserted in this way by one's 
 
 friends — and one's brothers — and— and — one's " she didn't 
 
 finish the list for she felt sure that she had said enough to cut 
 Chapeau to the inmost heart, if he still had a heart. 
 
 " Come, dearest girl, come ; I'll explain it all by-and-by. Wc 
 have not a momei^t to spare. Come, I'll lift you," and he 
 stooped to raise her from the ground. 
 
 " Thank vou, M. Chapeau, thank you. Sir; but pray leave me, 
 I shall be oetter to-morrow morning ; that is, if I'm not dead, 
 or killed, or worse. The blues are close behind us ; ain't they, 
 father?" 
 
 " Get up, Annot ; get up, thou little fool, and dou't trouble 
 the man to carry thee," said Michael. " If there be still a boat 
 to take us, in God's name let us cross the river ; for the blues 
 arc truly in St. Florent, and after ll\ ing from them so far, it 
 would be sore ill luck to be taken now." 
 
 Chapeau, however, would not leave her to herself, but took 
 her up bodily in his arns, and carrying her down to the water's 
 edge, put her on the raft. He and Michael soon followed, and 
 the frail vessel was hauled for the last time over into the island. 
 The news that the enemy was already in St. Florent soon passed 
 from mouth to mouth, and each wretched emigrant congratulated 
 himself in silence that he had so far escaped from republican 
 revenge. Many of them had still to sojourn on the island for 
 the night, but there they were comparatively safe ; and Arthur 
 Chapeau and his friends, succeeded in gaining the opposite 
 shore. 
 
 Poor Annot was truly in a bad state. When they heard that 
 the ladies had left Chatillon, she and her father, and, indeed, aU 
 the inhabitants of Echanbroigncs, felt that they could no longer 
 be safe in the village ; and they had started off to follow the 
 royalist army on foot through the country. From place to place 
 they had heard tidings, sometimes of one party, and sometimes 
 of another. The old man had borne the fatigue and dangers of 
 the journey well ; for, though now old, he had been a hard- 
 working man all his life, and was tough and seasoned in his old 
 age ; but poor Annot had suffered dreadfully. The clothes she 
 had brought with her were nearly falling off her back ; her feet 
 were all but bare, and were cut and blistered with walking. 
 Grief and despair had taken the colour and roundness from her 
 cheek, and she had lacked time on her mournful journey to 
 comb the pretty locks of which she was generally so proud. 
 
 " Oh, Jacques, Jacques, how could you leave us I how could 
 you go away and leave us, after all that's been between us," she 
 said as he bustled about to make some kind of bed for her in 
 the little hut in which they were to rest for the night. 
 
542 LaVenddi. 
 
 " Leave you,** said Chapcau, who had listened for some time 
 In silence to her upbraidings ; " leave you, how could I help 
 leaving you? Has not everybody left everybody? Did not M. 
 Henri leave his sister, and M. de Lescure leave his wife ? And 
 though they are now here altogether, it*s by chance that they 
 came here, the same as you have come yourself. As long as 
 these wars last, Annot dear, no man can answer as to where 
 he will go, or what he will do." 
 
 " Oh, these weary wars, these weary wars!** said she, "will 
 they never be done with? Will the people never be tired of 
 killing, and slaying, and burning each other? And what is 
 the King the better of it ? Ain't they all dead : the King, and the 
 Queen, and the young Princes, and all of them ? '* 
 
 "You wouldnt have us give up now, Annot, would you? 
 You wouldn't have us lay down our arms, and call ourselves 
 republicans, after all we have done and suffered?" 
 
 Annot didn't answer. She wouldn't call herself a republican ; 
 but her sufferings and sorrows had greatly damped the loyal zeal 
 she had shpwn when she worked her little fingers to the bone in 
 embroidering a white flag for her native village. She was now 
 tired and cold, wet and hungry ; for Chapeau had been able to 
 to get no provisions but a few potatoes : so she laid herself down 
 on the hard bed which he had prepared for her j and as he spread 
 his own coat over her shoulders, she felt that it was, at any rate, 
 some comfort to have her own lover once more near her. 
 
 Jacques and the old smith had no bed, so they were fain to 
 content themselves with sitting opposite to each other on two low 
 stools ; the best seats which the hut afforded. Jacques felt that 
 it was incumbent on him to do the honours of the place, and 
 that some apology was necessary for the poor accommodation 
 which he had procured for his friends. 
 
 "This is a poor place for you, Michael Stein," he commenced, 
 ** a very poor place for both of you, after your own warm cottage 
 It Echanbroignes." 
 
 " It's a poor place, truly, M. Chapeau," said the smith, looking 
 round on the bare walls of the little hut. 
 
 " Indeed it is, my friend, and sorry am I to see you and Annpt 
 so badly lodged. But what then } we shall be in Laval to- 
 morrow, and have the best of everything— that is, if not to- 
 morrow, the day after." 
 
 " I don't much care about the best of everything, M. Chapeau. 
 I've not used myself to the best, but I would it had pleased God 
 to have allowed me to labour out the rest of my days in the 
 little smithy at Echanbroignes. I never wanted more than the 
 bread which I could earn." 
 
 " You never did, Michael, you never did," said Chapeau, 
 trying to flatter the old man ; " and like an honest man yoo 
 
<' IVAai Good Has the War Done t " 343 
 
 cndurd without flinching what you suffer for your King. Give 
 us your hand, my friend, we've no wine to drink his hcrdth, 
 but as long as our voices arc left, let us cry : Vtve Ic Koi f^* 
 
 The old man silently rejected Chapeau's proposal that he 
 should evince his loyalty just at present by shouting out the 
 Vendean war-cry. " I take no credit, M. Chapcau," said he, 
 ** for suffering for my King, though, while he lived, he always 
 had my poor prayers for his safety. It wasn't to fight against 
 the blues that I left my little home yonder. It was because 
 I couldn't stay any longer without fearing to see that girl 
 there in the rude hands of Lechelle's soldiers, and my own 
 roof in a blaze. It's all gone now, house and garden, forge 
 and tools ; the old woman's chair, and the children's cradle ; 
 it's all gone, now and for ever. I don't wish to curse anyone) 
 M. Chapeau, but I am not in the humour to cry Vive le Rot /" 
 
 " But, Michael Stein, my dear friend," urged Chapeau, "look 
 what others have lost, too. Have not others suffered as much ? 
 Look at the old Marquis, turned out of his house and everything 
 lost ; and yet you won't hear .1 word of complaint fall from h«s 
 mouth. Look at Madame dc Lescurc, her husband dying ; her 
 house burnt to the ground ; without a bed to lie on, or a chango 
 of dress : and yet she docs not complain." 
 
 " They have brought it on themselves by their own doings," 
 answered the smith ; " and they have brought it on me also, who 
 have done nothing." 
 
 " Done nothing I but, indeed, you have Michael. Have vou 
 not made pikes for us, and have not your sons fought for us like 
 brave soldiers?" 
 
 " I have done the work for which I was paid, as a good smith 
 should ; and as for the boys, they took their own way. No, 
 Jacques Chapeau, I have taken no part in your battles. I have 
 neither been for nor against you. As for King or Republic, it 
 was all one to me ; let them who understand such things settle 
 that. For fifty years I have earned my bread, and paid what I 
 owed ; and now I am driven out from my home like a fox from 
 its hole. Why should / say Vive le Rot/ Look at that girl 
 there, with her bare feet bleeding from the sharp stones, and tell 
 ine, why should I say Vive le Roi / " 
 
 Chapeau was flabbergasted, for all this was rank treason to 
 him ; and yet he didn't want to quarrel with the smith ; so he 
 sat still and gazed into his face, as though he were struck dumb 
 with astonishment. 
 
 " I remember when you came to my cottage," continued the 
 old man, " and told me that the wars were all over, that the 
 King was coming to Durbelli^re. and that you would mairy 
 Annot, and make a fine lady of her. I told you then wha I 
 thought of your soldiering, and your fine ladies. I told you then 
 
344 ^ Vendue. 
 
 what it would come to, and I told you true. 1 don't throw this 
 In your teeth to blame you, M. Chapeau, for you have only 
 served those you were bound to serve ; but surely they who first 
 jjut guns and swords into the hands of the poor people, and bade 
 them go out for soldiers, will have much to answer for. All this 
 blood will be upon their heads." 
 
 " You don't mean to blame M. Henri and M. de Lescurc, and 
 the good Cathelineau, for all that they've done ?" said Chapeau, 
 awe-struck at the language used by his companion. 
 
 " It's not for me to blame them ; but look at that girl there, 
 and then tell me, mustn't there be some great blame some* 
 \v here ? " 
 
 Chapeau did look at the girl, and all the tenderness of his 
 lieart rose into his eyes, as the flickering light of the fire showed 
 him her tattered and draggled dress. 
 
 " Thank God ! the worst of it is over now, Michael. You're 
 safe now, at any rate, from those bloodhounds ; and when we 
 reach Laval, we shall all have plenty." 
 
 " And Where's this Laval, M. Chapeau ?" 
 
 *' We're close to it — it's just a league or so ; or, perhaps, seven 
 or eight leagues to the north of us." 
 
 "And how is it, that in times like these, such a crowd of 
 strangers will find plenty there ? " 
 
 " Why, the whole town is with us. There's a blue garrison in 
 it ; but they're very weak, and the town itself is for the King to 
 the backbone. They've sent a deputation to our Generals, and 
 invited us there ; and there are gentlemen there who have 
 come from England, with sure promises of money and troops. 
 The truth is, Micl ael, we never were really in a position to beat 
 the blues as they ought to be beat till we got to this side of the 
 river. We never could have done anything great in Poitou." 
 
 " I'm sorry they ever tried, M. Chapeau ; but I remember 
 when you came back, after taking Saumur, you told me the war 
 was over then, You used to think that a great thing." 
 
 " So it was, Michael ; it was well done. The taking of 
 Saumur was very well done ; but it was only a detail. We've 
 found out now that it won't do to beat them in detail ; it's too 
 slow. The Generals have a plan now, one great comprehensive 
 plan, for finishing the war in a stroke, and they're only waiting 
 until they reach Laval." 
 
 " It's a great pity they didn't hit on that plan before,** said 
 Michael Stein. 
 
 The two men laid themselves down on the ground before the 
 fire, and attempted to sleep ; but they had hardly composed 
 themselves when they were interrupted by a loud rumour that 
 there was a vast fire, close down on the opposite side of the 
 river. They both jumped up and went out, and saw that the 
 
« IV/tai Good Has the War Done ? " 345 
 
 whole iicavens were alight with the conflagration of St. Florcnt 
 --the blues had burnt the town. The northern bank of the 
 river was covered with the crowd of men and women, gazinj,^ at 
 the flames which were consuming their own houses ; and yet, 
 so rejoiced were they to have escaped themselves from destruc- 
 tion, that they hardly remembered to bewail the loss of their 
 property. The town of St. Florent was between three or four 
 miles from the place where they were congregated, and yet they 
 could plainly see the huge sparks as they flew upwards, and 
 they fancied they felt the heat of the flames on their upturned 
 faces. 
 
 Early on the following morning, the whole army was on its 
 march towards Laval. The Vendean leaders were well aware 
 that the republicans were now on their track, and they were 
 truly thankful that some unaccountable delay in the movement 
 of the enemy had enabled them to put a great river between 
 themselves and their pursuers. The garrisons, which the Con- 
 vention had thrown mto the towns of Brittany, were very in- 
 sufficient, both in numbers and spirit, and the blues abandoned 
 one place after another as the Vendeans approached. They 
 passed through Candd, S^grd, and Chateau-Gonthier without 
 having to fire a shot, and though the gates of the town of 
 Laval were closed against them, it was only done to allow the 
 republican soldiers time to escape from the other side of the 
 town. 
 
 Tne inhabitants of Laval flocked out in numbers to meet the 
 poor Vendeans, and to ofTer them hospitality, and such comfort 
 as their small town could afford to so huge a crowd. They be- 
 grudged them nothing that they possessed, and spared neither 
 their provisions nor their houses. It seemed that Chapean's 
 promise was this time true; and that, at any rate, for a' time, 
 they all found plenty in Laval. Henri established his head- 
 quarters in a stone house, in the centre of the town, and here 
 also he got accommodation for the three ladies and M. de 
 Lescure. Nor did Chapeau forget to include Annot Stein in 
 the same comfortab-.e establishment, under the pretext that her 
 services would be indispensable. 
 
 M. de Lescure had suffered grievously through the whole 
 journey, but he seemed to rally when he reached Laval, and the 
 comparative comfort of his quiet chamber gave him ease, and 
 lessened his despondency. The whole party recovered some- 
 thing of their usual buoyancy, and when Henri brought in 
 word, in the evening, that if the worst came to the worst, he 
 could certainly hold out the town against the republican army 
 until assisUnce reached them from England, they were all willing 
 to hope that the cause in which they were engaged might stiU 
 prosper. . 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 LA PETITE VENDEE. 
 
 OR four or five days they all remained quiet in Laval, 
 with nothing to disturb their tranquillity but rumours 
 of what was going on on both sides of the rii^en 
 The men, with the exception of the old Marquis and 
 De Lescure, were hard at work from morning until nignt ; but 
 they had hardly time or patience to describe accurately what was 
 going on, to those who were left within ; and the time passed 
 very heavily with them. Two sofas had been carried to the 
 windows of the sitting-room which they occupied. These 
 windows looked out into the main thoroughfare of the town, 
 and here the Marquis and the wounded man were placed, so 
 that they might see all that was passing in the street. Various, 
 reports reached them from time to time, a few of which were 
 confirmed, many proved to be false, and some still remained 
 doubtful ; but two facts were positively ascertained. Firstly, 
 that the main army of the republicans had passed the ri>?er at 
 Angers, and were advancing towards Laval ; and secondly, that 
 there was a considerable number of Breton peasants, already 
 under arms, in the country, who were harrassing the blues, 
 whenever they could meet them in small parties, and very fre- 
 quently menacing the garrisons which they^-found in the small 
 towns. 
 
 This last circumstance created a great deal o( surprise, not so 
 much from the fact of the Bretons having taken i up arms 
 against the Convention, as from a certain degree of hiystery 
 which were attached to the men who were roriii^^ about; the 
 country. It appeared that they were all under llie control of 
 one leader, whose name was not known in Laval, but who was 
 supposed to have taken an active part in many of the battles 
 fought on the other side of the river. His tactics, however, 
 
La Petite Vendde, 347 
 
 Were very airicrcnt from those which had been practised in La 
 Vendde. He never took any prisoners, or showed any quarter; 
 but slaughtered indiscriminately every republican soldier that 
 fell into his hands. He encouraged his men to pillage the 
 towns where the inhabitants were presumed to be favourable 
 to the Convention ; and this licence which he allowed was the 
 means of drawing many after him, who might not have been 
 very willing to fight merely for the honour of defending the 
 throne. After the custom of their country, which was different 
 from that which prevailed in Poitou and Anjou, these peasant- 
 soldiers wore their long flaxen hair hanging down over their 
 shoulders, and were clothed in rough dresses, made of the un-, 
 tanned skins of goats or sheep, with the hair on the outside. 
 The singularity of their appearance at first added a terror to 
 their arms, which was enhanced by the want of experience 
 and cowardice of the •republican troops through the country. 
 This wild, roving band of lawless men had assumed to them- ' 
 selves the name of La Petite Vendde, and certainly they did 
 much towards assisting the Vendeans ; for they not only \ 
 cleared the way for them in many of the towns of Brittanv, 
 but they prepared the people to expect them, and created '\ / 
 very general opinion that there would be more danger in siding I 
 with the blues than with the royal party. 
 
 If the men of La Petite Vendde had rendered themselves 
 terrible, their captain had made — not his name, for that was 
 unknown— but his character much more so. He was represented 
 to be a young man, but of a fierce and hideous aspect ; tho 
 under part of his face was covered with his black beard, and 
 he always wore on his head a huge heavy cap, which covered 
 his brows, shaded his eyes from sight, and concealed his face 
 nearly as effectually as a vizor. He was always on horseback, 
 and alone ; for he had neither confidant nor friend. The ' 
 pea^arrt-feoldiers believed' him to be invulnerable, for they re- y 
 presented him to be utterly careless as to where he went, or 
 what danger he encountered. The only name they knew him 
 by was that of the Mad Captain ; and, probably, had he been 
 less ugly, less mysterious, and less mad, the people would 
 not have obeyed him so implicitly, or followed him so faithfully. 
 
 Such were the tales that were repeated from time to time to 
 Madame de Lescure and her party by the little Chevalier and 
 Chapeau ; and according to their accounts, the Mad Captain 
 was an ally who would give them most valuable help in their 
 difficulties. The whole story angered De Lescure, whose temper 
 was acerbated by his own inactivity and suffering, and whcso 
 common sense could not endure the seeming folly of putting 
 confidence in so mysterious a warrior. 
 
 * You don't really believe the stories vou hear of this man, I 
 
548 ^ Vtnd^e. 
 
 hope/ he said to his wife and sister, one morning ; " he it 
 some Inhuman ruffian, who is disgracmg, by his cruelty, the 
 cause which he has joined, for the sake of plunder and 
 
 rapine." 
 
 "At any rate/' said Marie, **he seems to have scared the 
 blues in tnis country j and if so, he must be a good friend 
 to us." 
 
 " If we cannot do well without such friends, we shall never 
 do well with them. Believe me, whoever he may be, this man 
 is no soldier." 
 
 De Lescure was, perhaps, right in the character which he 
 attributed to the Captain of La Petite Vendi^e ; but the band 
 of men which that mysterious leader now commanded, held its 
 ground in Brittany long after the Vendean armies were put 
 down in Poitou and Anjou. They then became known by 
 another name, and the Chouan bands for years carried on a 
 fearful v/ar against the government in that part of the province 
 which is called the Morbihan. 
 
 About eight o'clock ;n the evening, Henri and Arthur 
 Mondyon returned to the house, after a long day's work, and 
 were the first to bring new tidings both of the blues and 'wheir 
 new ally, the Mad Captain. A portion of the republican army 
 had advanced as far as Antr&mcs, within a league or two of 
 Laval ; and they had hardly taken up their quarters in the town, 
 before they were p.itacked, routed, and driven out of it by the 
 men of La Pctito Vcndde. Many hundreds of the republicans 
 had been slaii,;!ilcrecl, and those who had escaped, carried to 
 the main army nn exaggerated account of the numbers, daring, 
 ftnd cruelty of the Drcton rebels. 
 
 " Whoever he is," said Henri, in answer to a question from 
 his sister, " he is a gallant fellow, and I shall be glad to give 
 him my hand. There can be no doubt of it now, Charles, for 
 the blues at Antrames certainly numbered more than double 
 the men he had with him ; and. I am told he drove them helter- 
 skelter out of the town like a flock of sheep." 
 
 "And do you \\v::\\\ to let him have the rest of the War all to 
 himself.^" said He, Lescure, who was rather annoyed than 
 otherwise at the success of a man whom he had stigmatised as 
 a ruffian. 
 
 " 1 am afraid we sha'n't find it quite so easy to get the war 
 taken off our hands " said Henri, laughing ; •* but 1 believe it's 
 the part of a good General to make the most of any unexpected 
 assistance which may come in his way." 
 
 *'But, Henri," said Marie, "you must have some idea n\ ho 
 this wonderful wild man is. Don't they say he was one of the 
 Vendean chiefs .^" 
 
 "He says so himself,** said Arthur. "He told some of the 
 
La Petite Vendue, 549 
 
 people 'here that he was at Fontenay and Saumur ; and he 
 talked of knowing Cathelineau and Bonchamps. I was speak* 
 ing to a man who heard him say so." 
 
 " And did the man say what he was like ?" said Marie. 
 
 " I don't think he saw him at all," answered Artnur. ** It 
 •eems that he won't let anyone see his face, if he can help it j 
 but they all say he is quite a young man." 
 
 Chapeau now knocked at the door, and brought further 
 t'dings. The Mad Captain and all his troop had returned from 
 Antrdmes to Laval, and had just now-entered the town. 
 
 " Our men are^shaking the Bretons by the hand," said 
 Chapeau, "and wondering at their long hair and rough skins. 
 Three or four days ago, I feared the Vcndeans would never 
 have faced the blues again ; but now they are as ready to meet 
 them as ever they were." 
 
 "And the Captain, is he actually in Laval at present, 
 Chapeau ? " 
 
 " Indeed he is, M. Henri. I saw him riding down the street, 
 by the Hotel de Ville, myself, not ten minutes since." 
 
 " Did you see his face, Chapeau ?" asked Marie. 
 
 "Did he look like anyone you knew?" asked Madame de 
 Lescure. 
 
 " Did he ride well ?" asked the little Chevalier. 
 
 " Did he look like a soldier?" asked M. de Lescure. 
 
 ** Who do you think he is, Chapeau ?" asked Henri Larochc- 
 jaquelin. , 
 
 Chapeau looked from one to another, as these questions were 
 asked him ; and then selecting those of M. de Lescure and his 
 sister, as the two easiest to answer, he said : — 
 
 " I did not see his face, Mademoiselle. They say that he 
 certainly is a good soldier, M. Charles, but he certainly does 
 not look hke any one of our Vendean officers." 
 
 " Who can it be ? " said Henri. " Can it be Marigny, 
 Charles?" 
 
 " Impossible," said De Lescure ; " Marjgny is a fine, robust 
 fbllow, with a handsome open face. They say this man is just 
 the reverse." 
 
 "It isn't D'Elb^e come to life again, is it?" said Arthur 
 Mondyon. " He's ugly enongh, and not very big." 
 
 " Nonsense, Arthur, he's an old man ; and of all men the 
 most unlikely to countenance such doings as those of these La 
 Petite Vendue. I think, however, I know the man. It must be 
 Charette. He is courageous, but yet cruel ; and he has exactly 
 that dash of mad romance in him which seems to belong to this 
 new hero." 
 
 " Charette is in the island of Noirmoutier," said De Lescure, 
 " and, by all accounts, means to stay there. Had he been reall/ 
 
350 La Vendue, 
 
 willing to give us his assistance, we never need have crossed 
 the Loire." 
 
 " Oh 1 it certainly was not Charette," said Chapcau. " I saw 
 M. Charette on horseback once, and he carries himself as 
 though he had swallowed a poker ; and this gentleman twists 
 himself about like — like — — " 
 
 "Like a mountebank, I suppose," said De Lescuie. 
 
 ^ He rides well, all the same, M. Charles," rejoined Chapeau* 
 
 "And who do you think he is. Chapeau ?" said Henri. 
 
 Chapcau shrugged his shoulders, as no one but a Frenchman 
 can shrug them, intending to signify the impossibility of giving 
 an opinion ; immediately afterwards he walked close up to his 
 master, and whispered something in his ear. Henri looked 
 astonished, almost confounded, b^ what his servant said to him, 
 and then replied, almost in a whisper : " Impossible, Chapeau, 
 quite impossible." 
 
 Immediately afterwards, Chapeau left the room, and Henri 
 followed him j and calling him into a chamber in the lower part 
 of the house, began to interrogate him ns to what he nad 
 whispered up stairs. 
 
 *' 1 did not like to speak out before them all, M. Henri," said 
 Jacques, " for I did not know how the ladies might take it ; but 
 as sure as we're standing here, the man I saw on horseback just 
 now was M. Adolphe Denot." 
 
 " Impossible, Chapeau, quite Impossible. How on earth 
 could he have got the, means to raise a troop of men in 
 Brittany ? Besides, he never would have returned to the side 
 he deserted." 
 
 " It docs not signify, M. Henri, whether it be likely or un- 
 likely : that man was Adolphe Denot ; I'd wager my life on it, 
 without the least hesitation. Why, M. Henri, don't I know him 
 as well as I know yourself?" 
 
 " But you didn't see his face ?" 
 
 " I saw him rise in his saddle, and throw his arms up as he 
 did so, and that was quite enough for me ; the Mad Captain of 
 La Petite Vendue is no other than M. Adolphe Denot." 
 
 Henri Larochejaquelin was hardly convinced, and vet he 
 knew that Chapeau would not express himself so confidently 
 unless he had good grounds for doing so. He was aware, also, 
 that it was almost impossible for anyone who had intimately 
 known Denot to mistake his seat on horseback ; and, therefore, 
 though not quite convinced, he was much inclined to suspect 
 that, in spite of improbabilities, his unfortunate friend was the 
 mysterious leader of the Breton army. He determined that he 
 would, at any rate, seek out the man, whoever he might be ; and 
 that if he found that Adolphe Denot was really in Laval, he 
 would welcome him back, with all a brother's love, to the cause 
 
La Petite Vendue, 35 1 
 
 from Nvhich, for so Henri had always protested, nothing but 
 insanity had separated him. 
 
 "At any rate, Chapcau, we must go and find the trutli of all 
 this. Moreover, whoever this man be, it is neccssar/ that I 
 should know him : so come along." 
 
 They both sallied out into the street, which was quite dark, 
 but which was still crowded with strangers of every description. 
 The wine-shops were all open, and densely filled wi;h men wno 
 were rejoicing over the victory which had been gained that 
 morning ; and the Breton soldiers were boasting of what they 
 had done, while the Vendcans talked equally loudly of what 
 they would do when their Generals would once more lead them 
 out against the blues. 
 
 From these little shops, and from the house-windows, an un- 
 certain flicker of light was thrown into the street, by the aid of 
 which Henri and Chapeau made their way to the market-place, 
 in which there was a guard-house and small barrack, at present 
 the position of the Vendean military head-quarters. In this 
 spot a kind of martial dicipline was maintained. Sentinels were 
 regularly posted and exchanged ; and some few junior officers 
 remained on duty, ready for any exigence for which they might 
 be required. Here they learnt that the Bretons, after returning 
 from Antr4mes, had dispersed themselves through the town, 
 among the houses of the citizens, who were willing to welcome 
 their victorious neighbours, but that nothing had been seen of 
 their Captain since he disbanded his men on the little square. 
 They learnt, however, that he had been observed to give his 
 horse in charge to a man who acted as his Lieutenant, and who 
 was known to ,bc a journeyman baker, usually employed in 
 Laval. 
 
 After many inquiries, Henri learnt the name and residence of 
 the master baker for whom this man worked, and thither he 
 sent Chapeau, while he himself remained in the guard-house, 
 talking to two of the Breton soldiers, who had been induced to 
 come in to him. 
 
 " We none of us know his name. Monsieur," said one of them, 
 ** and it is because he has no name, we call him the Mad Captain ; 
 and it is true enough, he has many mad ways with him." 
 
 ** For all his madness though, he is a desperate fine soldier 5 
 and he cares no more for a troop of blues than I would for a , 
 flock of geese," said the other. 
 
 " I think its love must make him go on as he does/' continued 
 the first. 
 
 "There's something more besides that," said the second, " for 
 he's always fearful that people should take him for a coward. 
 He's always asking ns whether we ever saw him turn hii back 
 to th<» enemy j and bii Ih^ 'i« be sure, whenever he falU i» 
 
351 LcL VefuUi, 
 
 battle, to tell the Vehdeans how well he fought That's what 
 makes us all so sure that he came from the other side of the 
 water." 
 
 " Then, when he's In the middle of the hottest of the fight," 
 Bald the first, "he hi\lloos out 'Now for Saumur— here's for 
 Saumur— now for the bridge of Saumur I ' To be sure he talks 
 a deal about Saumur, and I think myself he must have been 
 wounded there badly, somewhere near the brain." 
 
 Though Henri did not quite understand why Denot should 
 especially allude to Saumur in his mad moments, yet he under- 
 stood enough of what the men told him about their captain, to 
 be sure that Adolphc was the man ; and though he could not but 
 be hliockcd to hear him Hpokcn of as a mndm.nn, yet he rejoiced 
 in his heart to find that nc had done something to redeem his 
 character as a loyal soldier. He learnt that Dcnot had been 
 above two months in Brittany ; that he had first appeared in 
 the neighbourhood of Laval with about two hundred men, who 
 had followed him thither out of that province, and that he had 
 there been joined by as many more belonging to Maine, and 
 that since that time he had been backwards and forwards from 
 one town to another, chicfiy in the Morbiiian : and that he had 
 succeeded in alinoht every case In driving the republican 
 garrison from the towns which he attacked. 
 
 After Henri had remained a couple of hours in the guard- 
 house, and when it was near midnight, Chapeau returned. He 
 liad found out the lodgings of the journeyman baker, had gone 
 thither, and had learnt, after many inquiries, which were very 
 nearly proving ineffectual, that the Mad Captain, whoever he 
 was, occupied a little bed-room at the lop of the same house, 
 and that lie was, at the very moment at wliich thc»e ln(|uiries 
 were being made, fast asleep in his bed, having given his 
 Lieutenant, the journeyman baker, strict orders to call him at 
 three o'clock in the morning. 
 
 Henri and Chapeau again started on their search ; and 
 making their way, for the second time, through the dark, 
 crowded streets, reached a small miserable looking house, in a 
 narrow lane, at one of the lower windows of which Chapeau 
 knocked with his knuckles. 
 
 " 1 told M. Plume that I should call again to-night," said he, 
 " and he'll know it's me." 
 
 "And is M. Plume the baker?" asked Henri. 
 
 " He was a baker till two months since," answered Chapeau, 
 "but now he's a soldier and an officer ; and 1 can assure you, 
 M. Henri, he doesn't think a little of himself. He's fully able 
 to t.ake the command-in-chicf of the Hreton army, when any 
 accident of war shall have cut off his present Captain ; at least, 
 to he told me." 
 
La Petite Vendie. 353 
 
 "Ycni must have had a deal of conversation with him in a 
 very short time, Chapcau." 
 
 " Oh, he talks very quick, M. Henri ; but he wouldn't let him- 
 self down to speak a word to me till I told him I was aide-de- 
 camp-in-chief to the generallissimo of the Vendean army ; and 
 then he took off the greasy little cap he wears, told me that his 
 name was Auguste Emile Septimus Plume, and said he was 
 most desirous to drink a cup of wine with me in the next 
 esiaminet. Then I ran off to you, telling him I would return 
 again as soon as I had seen that all was right at the guard- 
 house." 
 
 "Knock again, Chapeau," said Henri, "for I think your 
 military friend must have turned in for the night." 
 
 Chapeau did knock,'and as he did so, he put his mouth close 
 to the door, and called out " M, Plume — Captain Plume — 
 Captain Auguste Plume, a message — an important message 
 from the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean army. — You'll 
 get nothing from him, M. Henri, unless you talk about Generals, 
 aide-de-camps, and despatches ; advanced guards, flank move- 
 ments and light batallions." 
 
 M, Plume, or Captain Plume, as he preferred being called, 
 now opened the door, and poking his head out, welcomed 
 Chapeau, and assured him that if he ■'.vould step round to the 
 wine shop he would be with him in a moment. 
 
 " But, my dear friend Captain Plume, stop a moment," said 
 Chapeau, fixing his foot in the open doorway, so as to prevent it 
 being closed, "here is a gentleman— one of our officers— in 
 fact, my friend," and he whispered very confidentially as he 
 gave the important information, " here is the Commander-in- 
 Chief, and he must see your General to-night ; to arrange — to 
 arrange the tactics of the united army for to-morrow." 
 
 Auguste Emile Septimus Plume, in spite of his own high 
 standing in what he was pleased to call the army of Brittany, 
 felt himself rather confused at hearing that a General-in-Chief 
 was standing at the door of his humble dwelling ; and, as he 
 again took off his cap, and putting his hand to his heart made a 
 very low bow, he hesitated much as to what answer he should 
 make ; for he reflected within himself that the present quarters 
 of his General, were hardly fitting for such an interview. 
 
 "The General up-stairs," said he, "is snatching a short 
 repose after the labours of the day. Would not to-morrow 
 morning— early to-morrow morning — " 
 
 " No," said Henri, advancing, and thrusting himself in at the 
 open door, " to-morrow morning will be too late ; and I am 
 sure your General is too good a soldier to care for having his 
 rest broken ; tell me which is his room, and Pll step up to nim. 
 You needn't mind introducing me," And as he spoke ho 
 
354 ^ Vindie. 
 
 managed to pau by the baker, and ran up a few steps of the 
 creaking, tottering stairs. 
 
 The poor baker was very much annoyed at this proceeding \ 
 for, in the first place, he had strict orders from his Commandci 
 to let no ono up into his room ; and, in the next place, his owp 
 wife and three children were in the opposite garret to tha» 
 occupied by the Captain, and he was very unwilling that theii 
 poverty should be exposed. He could not, however, turn r 
 Commander-in-Chief out of the house, nor could he positively 
 refuse to give him the information required j so he hallooed out, 
 " The top chamber to the right, General ; the top chamber to 
 the right. It's a poor place," he added, speaking to Chapcau ; 
 •* but the truth is, he don't choose to have more comforts about 
 him than what are enjoyed by the poorest soldier in his army." 
 
 " We won't think any the worse of him for that," said Chapeau. 
 *' We're badly enough off ourselves, sometimes — besides, your 
 Captain is a very old friend of M. Henri." 
 
 " An old friend of whose ? " said Plume. 
 
 " Of M. Henri Larochejaquelin— -that gentleman who has 
 now gone up stairs s they have known each other all their 
 Uves.'^ 
 
 Auguste Plume became the picture of astonishment. " Known 
 each other all their lives ! " said he \ ** and what's his name, 
 then?" 
 
 " Why, 1 told you : M. Henri Larochejaquelin." 
 
 " No, but the other,** and he pointed with his thumb over his 
 shoulder up the stairs. " My Captain, you know ; If he's the 
 friend of your Captain, I suppose you know what his name is ? " 
 
 " And do you mean to say, you don't know yourself your own 
 Captain's name ? " 
 
 Plume felt the impropriety, in a military point of view, of the 
 fact. He felt that, as second in command, he ought to have 
 been made acquainted with his General's name, and that it 
 would have been difficult to find, in the history of all past wars, 
 a parallel to his own ignorance. He also reflected, that if 
 Chapeau knew that the two Generals had been friends all their 
 lives, he must probably know both their names, and that 
 therefore the information -so very necessary might now be 
 obtained. 
 
 " Well, then, M. Chapeau," (he had learnt Chapeau's name), 
 " I cannot say. that I do exactly know how he was generally 
 called before he joined us in Brittany. You know so many 
 people have different names for different places. What used you 
 to call him now when you knew him ? " 
 
 " But you have some name for him, hav*n*t you ? ** said the 
 other, not answering the question. 
 
 "We «U1 him General, or Captain, mostly," said Plume. 
 
La Petite Vcnd/e. 355 
 
 "Tho'se .ire the sort of names which come readiest to a soldier's 
 mouth. In the same way, they don't call me IMnme, or M. 
 Plume, or Captain Plume, but just simply Lieutenant ; and, do 
 you know, I like it better." 
 
 The Lieutenant was a tall, lanky, bony man, from w!iose 
 body the heat of the oven, at which he had always worked, 
 seemed to have drawn every ounce of flesh. He was about 
 forty or forty-five years of age. He was nearly bald, but a few 
 light, long, straggling locks of hair stood out on each side of his 
 head. He still wore most of the dress in which he had been 
 accustomed to work, for proper military accoutrements had not 
 yet come within his reach. He had, however, over his shoulder 
 an old bawdrick, from which usually hung a huge sabre, with 
 which he gallantly performed the duties of his present pro- 
 fession. It cannot be said the Lieutenant had none of the 
 qualities of a soldier, for he was courageous enough ; but, 
 beyond that, his aptitude for military duties was not pre-eminent. 
 He always marched, or rather shuffled along, with a stoop in 
 his back, which made his shoulders as high as his head. 
 He had not the slightest idea of moving in time ; but ihis 
 was of little consequence, for none of his men could have 
 moved with him if he had. When on active duty, he rush'^d 
 about with the point of his drawn sword on a level with his 
 breast, as though he were searching for "blues" in every 
 corner, with a fixed determination of instantly immolating any 
 that he might find. He had large saucer eyes, with which ho 
 glared about him, and which gave him a peculiar look of 
 insane enthusiasm, very fitted for the Lieutenant, first in 
 command, under a mad Captain. Such was Auguste Plume, 
 and such like were the men who so long held their own 
 ground, not only against the military weakness of the Directory, 
 but even against the military strength of Napoleon. 
 
 We will leave Chapeau and his new friend still standing in 
 the passage, for Plume could not invite him in, as none of 
 the rooms were his own except the little garret up stairs ; and 
 we will follow Henri as he went in search of the Mad Captain, 
 merely premising that all Plume's efiforts to find out the name 
 of his superior officer were unavailing. Without any further 
 invitation, Henri hurried up the stairs, snatching as he went a 
 glimmering rush-light out of the ci-devant bakers hands ; and 
 when he got to the top he knocked boldly at the right-hand 
 door. No one answered him, however, and he repeated his 
 knocks over and over again, and even kicked and hallooed at 
 the door, but still without effect He then tried to open it but 
 it was fastened on the inside : and then he kicked and hallooed 
 again. He distinctly heard the hard breathing within of some- 
 one, as though in a heavy sleep ; and be the sleeper who h& 
 
3$6 La VindSe. 
 
 Diight, he was determined not to leave the stairs without 
 waking him ; and, therefore, diligently set to work to kick 
 again. 
 
 " Is that you, Auguste ?** said a hoarse, sickly woman's voice, 
 proceeding from the door of the opposite chamber. "Why don't 
 you bring me the candle ?" 
 
 " No, Madame," said Henri, " the gentleman is now down- 
 stairs. He lent me your candle for a minute or two, while I call 
 upon my friend here. I hope you'll excuse the noise I make, 
 but I find it very difficult to wake him." 
 
 " And why should you want to wake him ? " said the woman. 
 "It's three nights now since he stretched himself on a bed, and he'll 
 be up long before daylight. Give me the candle, and go away, 
 and tell that unfortunate poor man below to come to his 
 bed." 
 
 There was a tone of utter misery in the poor woman's 
 voice, which touched Henri to the heart. She had uttered no 
 complaint of her own sufferings ; but the few words she had 
 spoken made him feel all the wretchedness and the desolation 
 of homes which he and his friends had brought upon the 
 people by the war ; and he almost began to doubt whether even 
 the cause of the King should havebcca supported at soteiriblca 
 cost. He could not, however, now go back, nor was he willing 
 to abandon his present object, so he again shook and kicked the 
 door. 
 
 " That'll never rouse him, though you should go on all night,** 
 said a little urchin about twelve years old, the eldest hope of 
 M. and Madame Plume, who rushed out on the landing in his 
 ragged shirt. " If Monsieur will give me a sou, I'll wake him." 
 Henri engaged him at the price, and the boy putting his mouth 
 down to the key-hole, said, or rather whispered loudly, 
 " Captain — Captain — Captain — the blues— the blues." 
 
 This shibboleth had the desired effect, for the man within was 
 instantly heard to start from his bed, and to step out upon 
 the floor. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I'm ready, I'm up," said he, in the confused voice 
 of a man suddenly awoke from a sound sleep. " Where's 
 Plume ? send Plume to me at once." 
 
 Henri immediately recognised the voice of Adolphe Denot, 
 and all doubt was at an end. Denot came to the door, and 
 undid the wooden bolt within, to admit, as he thought, the 
 poor zealous creature who had attached himself to him in his 
 new career ; and when the door opened, the friend of his 
 youth — the man whom he had so deeply injured— stood before 
 him. Henri, in his anxiety to find out the truth of Chapeau's 
 surmise, had energetically and, as it turned out, successfully 
 pursued the object of his search \ but he had not for a moment 
 
La Petite Vendc\\ 357 
 
 turned over in his mind, what he would sny to Denot if he 
 found him ; how he would contrive to tell him that he forgave 
 him all his faults ; how he would explain to him that he was 
 willing again to receive him into his arms as a friend and a 
 brother. The moment was now come when he must find words 
 to say all this ; and as the awkward bolt was being diawn, 
 Henri felt that he was hardly equal to the difficulties of his 
 position. 
 
 If Henri found it difficult to speak, with Denot the difficulty 
 was much greater. The injuries which he had inflicted on his 
 friend, the insults which he had heaped on his sister, rushed 
 to his mind. He thought of his own deep treachery, his black 
 ingratitude ; and his disordered imagination could only con- 
 ceive that Henri had chosen the present moment to secure a 
 bloody vengeance. He forgot that he had already been forgiven 
 for what he had done : that his life had been in the hands of 
 those he had injured, and had been spared by them, when their 
 resentment was fresh and hot, and when he had done nothing 
 to redeem his treason. He had, he thought, reconciled himself 
 to the cause of La Vendde ; but still he felt that he could not 
 dare to look on Larochejaquelin as other than an enemy. 
 
 Denot started back as he recognised his visitor, and Henri's 
 first object was to close and re-bolt the door, so that their 
 interview might not be interrupted. " Adolphe," he said, in a 
 voire intended to express all the tenderness which he felt, " 1 
 am delighted to have found you." 
 
 Denot had rushed to a miserable deal tabic which stood 
 near his bed, and seized his sword, which stood upon it ; and 
 now stood armed and ready for assault, opposite to the man who 
 loved him so dearly. His figure and appearance had always 
 been singular, but now it was more so than ever. He had 
 been sleeping in his clothes, and he had that peculiar look of 
 discomfort which always accompanies such rest. His black, 
 elfish, uncombed locks, had not been cut since he left Dur- 
 belli^re, and his beard for many days had not been shorn. 
 He was wretchedly thin and gaunt ; indeed, his hollow, yellow, 
 cheeks, and cadaverous jaws almost told a tale of utter starva- 
 tion. Across his face he had an ugly cicatrice, not the relic of 
 any honourable wound, but given him by the Chevalier's stick, 
 when he struck him in the parlour at Durbclli^re. Nothing 
 could be more WTetched than his appearzince ; but the most 
 lamentable thing of all was the wild wandering of his eyes, 
 which too plainly told that the mind was not master of itself. 
 
 Henri was awe-stricken, and cut to the heart. What was he to 
 say to the poor wretch, who stood there upon his guard, glaring 
 at him with those wild eyes from behind his sword I Besides, 
 llQW was he to d^end himself if he were attacked? 
 
358 La Vendue, 
 
 **Adolphc," he said, "why do you raise your sword against 
 your friend ? Don't you see that I have come as your friend : 
 don't you see that I have no sword ? " 
 
 The other hesitated for a moment, with the weapon still raised 
 as though for defence ; and then flinging it behmd him on the 
 floor, exclaimed : " There, there — you may kill me, if you will," 
 and having said so, he threw himself on the bed, and sobbed 
 aloud, and wailed like an infant. 
 
 Henri knelt down on the floor, by the side of the low wooden 
 stretcher, and putting his arm over Adolphe's shoulder, thought 
 for a while what he could say to comfort the crushed spirit of 
 the poor wretch, whose insanity had not the usual effect of protect- 
 ing him from misery. It occurred to him that his late achieve- 
 ments, as leader of the Breton peasants, in which, at any rate, 
 he had been successful, would be the subject at present most 
 agreeable to him, and he determined, therefore, to question him 
 as to what he had done. ' 
 
 " Come, Adolphc," he said, "get up ; we have much to say to 
 each other, my friend. I have heard much of what you have 
 done here, in Laval and in Brittany. You have been of great 
 service to us ; but we must act together for the future. Of 
 course you know that there are 80,000 Vendeans on this side of the 
 river : men, women, and children together." 
 
 For some minutes Denot still lay with his face buried in the 
 bed, without answering, and Henri knelt beside him in silence, 
 trying to comfort him rather by the pressure of his hand than 
 by the sound of his voice ; but then he raised himself up, and 
 sitting erect, with his face turned away from his friend, he 
 said :— 
 
 " It's no use for you to try to speak of what I have done in 
 Brittany, when we both know that your heart is full of what I 
 did in Poitou." 
 
 " By the God of heaven, from whom I hope for mercy,** said 
 Henri, solemnly, " I have freely, entirely forgiven you all cause 
 of anger I ever had against you." 
 
 Denot still sat with his face averted, and he withdrew his hand 
 from Henri's grasp, as he muttered between his teeth : " I have not 
 asked for forgiveness ; I do not want forgiveness ; " and then start- 
 ing up on his feet, he exclaimed almost with a shriek : " How dare 
 you to talk to me, Sir, of forgiveness ? Forgiveness ! I suppose you 
 think I have nothing to forgive ! I suppose you think I have 
 no injuries which rankle in my breast ! A broken heart is 
 nothing ! Shattered ambition is nothing ! A tortured, lingering, 
 wretched life is nothing ! I suppose you will offer me your pity 
 next ; but know, Sir, that I despise both your forgiveness and 
 your pity." 
 " I will offer you nothing but my friendship, Adolphe,'* said 
 
La Petite Vendue, 359 
 
 Henri. "You will not refuse my friendship, will you? We 
 *were brothers always, you know ; at least in affection." /.-: 
 
 " Brothers always ! No, we were never brothers : wc never, 
 never can be brothers," screamed the poor madman through his 
 closed teeth. " Oh ! if we could have been brothers; if--if we 
 could be brothers!" and the long-cherished idea, which in his 
 frenzy, he even yet had hardly quite abandoned, flashed across 
 his brain and softened his temper. 
 
 "We can at any rate be friends," said Henri, approaching 
 him, and again taking his hand. " Come, Adolphc, sit down by 
 me, and let us talk quietly of these things." 
 
 "There are some things," said he, in a more composed 
 manner, "of which a man can't very well talk quietly. A man 
 can't very well talk quietly of hell-fire, when he's in the middle 
 of it. Now, I'm in the very hottest of hell-fire at this moment. 
 How do you think I can bear to look at you, without sinking 
 Into cinders at your feet ? " 
 
 Henri was again silent for a time, for he did not know what 
 to say to comfort the afflicted man ; but, after a while, Denot 
 himself continued speaking. 
 
 " I know that I have been a traitor— a base, Ignoble, wretched 
 traitor, I know it ; you know it ; she knows it ; " and as he 
 confessed his wretchedness, he put his bony hand to his fore- 
 head, and pushing back his long matted hair, showed mere 
 clearly than he had yet done the ineffable marks of bitter sad- 
 ness, which a few months had graven on his face. "All La 
 Vendde knows it," continued he ; " but no one knows the grief, 
 the sorrow, the wretched sorrow, which drove me to madness, 
 and made me become the thing I am. I know it though, and 
 feel it here," and he put his hand on his heart, and looked into 
 his companion's face with a melancholy gaze, which wuuld h^^ve 
 softened the anger of a sterner man than Henri Larochcjaquelin. 
 
 " My poor, poor Adolphe," said Henri, moving himself close 
 to Denot's side and putting his arm round his neck and 
 embracing .him. " We all know how you have suffered. Wc 
 know — we always knew, it wasn't your proper self that turned 
 against the cause you loved so well ; but, Adolphe, we won't talk 
 of these things now." 
 
 " You just now said we must talk of them, and you were quite 
 right After what has passed, you and I cannot meet without 
 having much to say," and again the madman jumped to his 
 feet ; and as he paced up and down the room, his fiercer humour 
 again came upon him. " Henri/* he exclaimed ; and as he spoke 
 he stood still, close to the other, " Henri, why don't you avenge 
 your sister's honour? Why don't you punish the dishonour which 
 I brought on your father's hoary head ? Henri, I say, why don't 
 you seize by the throat the wretched traitor who brought 
 
36o ta Vend/e. 
 
 desolation and destruction into your family }** and he stretched 
 out his long gaunt neck, as though he expected that Laroche- 
 jaquelin would rise from his bed, and take him at his word. 
 
 Henri felt that it was useless to endeavour to reason with him, 
 or to answer the raving of his madness, but he still hoped, that 
 by a mixture of firmness and gentleness, he might yet take him 
 away from his present miserable dwelling, and by degrees bring 
 him back to a happier state of mind. The difficulties in his way, 
 however, were very great ; for he knew how serious would be 
 the danger and folly of leading him again into Agatha's 
 presence. 
 
 " Nonsense, Adolphe,** said he. ** Why do you talk to your 
 friend of vengeance ? Come, take up your sword, and come 
 away. This is a cold, damp place ; and besides, we both want 
 refreshment before our next day's work. Before six hours are 
 gone, the republican army will be near Laval, and you and I 
 must be prepared to meet them," and he picked up Denot's 
 sword, and handed him his cap, and took his arm within his 
 own, as though to lead him at once out of the room. 
 
 "And where are you going to?" said Dcnot, hesitating, but 
 not refusing to go. 
 
 " Why, first, we'll go to the guard-house, and I'll show you a 
 few of our picked men, who are there on duty ; real dare-devils, 
 who care no more for a blue than they do for a black-beetle ; 
 and then we'll go to the Angers gate. It's there that Lechelle 
 will show himself; and then— and then— why, then we'll go 
 home, and get some breakfast, for it will be nearly time for us 
 to go to horse." 
 " (io home ! " said Dchot | " Where's home ?" 
 " Do you know the big stone house, with the square windows, 
 near the market-house ? " 
 
 •' Yes, 1 know it ; but tell me, Henri : who are there? I mean 
 of your own people, you know— the DurbcHi6re people ?" 
 
 " Why, we're all there, Adolphe— Marie, and Victorine, and 
 Charles, and Agatha, and my father and all. Poor Charles ! 
 You'veiheard of his state, Adolphe?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I heard. I wish it had been me — 1 wish, with all 
 my heart, it had been me," and then he paused a while ; and 
 again laying down his sword and cap, he said " Henri, you're an 
 angel; I'm sure you are an angel ; but all are not like you. I 
 will not go vith you now; but if you'll let me, I'll fight close by 
 your side this day." 
 
 " You shall, Adolphe, you shall ; up or down we'll not leave 
 
 each other for a moment ; but you must come with me, indeed 
 
 you must. We should be sure to miss each other if we parted." 
 
 ** I'll meet you at the gate, Henri, but I will not go with you. 
 
 All met' are not like you, Do you think that I could show mv« 
 
I.ii Petite VctuUe, 361 
 
 rfelf 'to your failjcr, nr.d to I)c Lcscurc? Don'i I know how theii 
 eyes would look on me? Don't I feel it now?" and again it 
 seemed as though he were about to relapse into his frenzy ; and 
 then he continued, speaking very gently, almost in a whisper ; I 
 " Does De Lescurc ever talk about the bridge of Saumur?" * 
 
 Now llonri, to this day, had never heard a word of the want 
 of courage which Denot had shown in the passage of the bridge 
 of Saumur. No one but De Lescurc had noticed it ; and though 
 he certainly had never forgotten it, he had been too generous to 
 speak of it to anyone. Henri merely knew that his two friends, 
 Charles and Adolphe, had been together at the bridge. 
 
 He had heard from others of De Lescure's gallant conduct. 
 It had oftentimes been spoken of in the army, and Henri had 
 never ren^iarkcd that an e(iual tribute of praise was not given to 
 the two for their deeds on that occasion. He now answered 
 quite at cross purposes, but merely with the object of flatterin<f 
 the vanity of his friend : 
 
 " He will never forget it, Adolphe. No Vendcan will cvei' 
 forget the bridge of Saumur. We will all rcniembcr that 
 glorious day, when we have forgotten many things that hav«» 
 happened since." 
 
 I'oor Denot winced dreadfully under the blow which Henri 
 so innocently inflicted ; but he merely said ** No — I will not gc 
 w ith you — you needn't ask me, for my mind is made up. Do you 
 know, Henri, I and De Lescure never loved each other? never- 
 never — never, even when we were seemingly such good friends, 
 we never loved each other. He loved you so well, that, for your 
 sake, he bore with a man he despised. Yes : he always despised 
 me, since the time you and I came home from school together. 
 I do not blame him, for he tried hard to conceal what he felt ; 
 and he thought that I did not know it ; but from the first day 
 that we passed together I found him out, and I was never 
 happy in his company." 
 
 All this was perfectly unintelligible to Henri, and was 
 attributed by him to the frenzy of madness ; but, in fact, there 
 was truth in it. Dcnot's irregular spirit had been cowed by De 
 Lescure's cold reasoning propriety, and he now felt it impossible 
 to submit himself to the pardon of a man who, he thought, would 
 forgive »ind abhor him. It was to no purpose Henri threatened, 
 implored, and almost strove to drag him from the room. Denot 
 was obstinate in his resolve, and Henri was at last obliged to 
 leave him, with the agreement that they should both meet on 
 horseback an hour before daybreak, at the gate of the town 
 which led towards Angers. 
 
 When Henri returned down-stairs he found Chapeau still 
 seated on the lower step, an4 Plume standing by, discoursing as 
 to tlic tactics und probable success of the war. 
 
56j La Vendh, 
 
 **You found I was right, M. Henri?'' said Chapeau, as h« 
 followed his master out into the street. 
 
 " Yes. Chapeau, you were quite right.** 
 
 " And is he very bad, M. Henri V* said he, touching his fore- 
 head with his finger. " I suppose he cannot be all right there.'* 
 
 "He has suffered dreadfully since we saw him, and his 
 iufferings have certainly told upon him j but there is every reason 
 to hope, that, with kind treatment, he will soon be himself again ; 
 but, remember, till after to-day we will say nothing to any of 
 them about his being here." 
 
 It was now three o'clock, and Henri had to be on horseback 
 before six ; he had but little time, therefore, either for rest or 
 conversation. Henri and Chapeau hurried home, after having 
 given orders at the guard-house that all the men on whom they 
 could depend should be under arms before day-break ; and, 
 having done so, they laid down and slept for the one short hour 
 which vs'as left to them of the night 
 
CHAPTER XXXI, 
 
 LAVAL. 
 
 HEN Henri arose from his sleep, the whole house was 
 up and stirring, and men and women were moving 
 about through the dark rooms with candles in theit 
 hands. They all knew that this would be an eventful 
 day for their, cause ; that much must depend en the success oi 
 that da/s battle. If they were beaten now, their only hope 
 would be to run further from their homes, towards the coast, 
 from which they expected English aid ; but if fortune would 
 once more visit their arms, they might hope to hold their position 
 in Laval, and in other towns in the neighbouring and friendly 
 province of Brittany, The gallant and cordial assistance which 
 the Vendeans had received from the strangers among whom 
 they were now thrown had greatly tended to give them new 
 hopes ; and the yesterday's victory, which had been gained by 
 the men called La Petite Vendde, over the advanced troops of 
 the republicans, had made the Poitcvins peculiarly anxious to 
 exhibit their own prowess to their gallant friends. 
 
 Henri, Arthur, and one or two other Vendean officers, sat 
 down to a hurried breakfast, while Marie and Agatha moved 
 about the room, behind their chairs, attending to their wants, 
 Chapcau had now too many of a soldier's duties to give his time 
 to those of a serving-man, and the sisters and wives of the 
 Vendean officers had long since learnt to wait on the heroes 
 whom they loved and admired, De Lescure was already seated 
 on his sofa, by the window, and his wife was, as usual, close to 
 his side. He had wonderfully improved since he reached 
 Laval; and though it was the firm conviction, both of himseif 
 and of his surgeon, that his wound must ultimately prove iiTortal, 
 he was again alive to all that was done, and heart and 90ui 
 intent on the interests of the war. 
 
)64 ^ t^tndii^ 
 
 " Oh t what would 1 elve to be but one hour to-day on horse- 
 back I " said he. " To lie pinioned here, and hear the ioundi of 
 brave men fighting ! • To know that the enemy ore In the very 
 Btrcct bcnofxth mc, and yet to bo unublo to strike ft blow I Oh I 
 it is fearfully tormenllnj;." 
 
 Henri said something intended to comfort him. 
 
 "It is well for you to talk," continued De Lescure. " Mow 
 would you have borne it yourself? You would have fretted and 
 fumed, and dashed yourself like a bird against its cage, till either 
 your senses or your breath had left you. Henri," he then added, 
 in a calmer tone, " I feci that you will be successful to-day." 
 
 "'J'hat'a a most glorious omen," said Henri, jumping up { " I 
 look on success as certain when predicted by Charles, for he is 
 the least sanguine among us all." 
 
 " But, Henri,** said he, " take my advice, and don't attack 
 them till they are close to the town. You may be sure they will 
 be ready enough to give you an opportunity. After having 
 driven us across the Loire like wild geese, LechcUe will not 
 du\i1)l Ills power to drive us also from the streets of I.aval." 
 
 It w.vrt iu;r('ed lunonj; iIkmu tlml l)c Li'HCure'H advice mIjoiiUI be 
 tiikeu, anil that none of the VendeauH shouUl advance above a 
 league on the road towards AntrAmes. It was already.known 
 that General Lechelle, and his whole army, were in the neigh- 
 bourhood of that town ; and it was not likely that, as he had 
 pursued the Vendeans so far, he would remain there long without 
 giving them llie opportunity they now desired, of again trying 
 their stren^;tli with them. 
 
 As Henri prepared to leave the room, the Utile Chevalier rose 
 to accompany him j '• No,'' said Henri, stopping him. " Do you 
 remain with Chapeau to-day. Wherever you are, I know you 
 will do well, but to-day we must not ride together." As the boy 
 looked woeCwUy disappointed, he added, " I will explain to you 
 why, this evening, if we both live through the day to meet 
 again." 
 
 He then kissed his sister, and Madame de Lescure and his 
 cousin. They all of them knew that he was going into the 
 miiUt of the holiest danger, whi-re the visits of ilealn would be 
 Ihlck and frequent ; and they felt how probable It was that» 
 before many hours were over, he might be brought back to them 
 dead or dying. He either made some sign to her, or else from 
 \ feeling that she was dearer than the others to him, Marie 
 folioNved him from the room. He said but a few words to her, 
 IS he held her In his close embrace, and she answered him with 
 dut OWQ : but with that one she promised him, that if he returned 
 lafe iind victorious from this day's contest, she would no lljnger 
 object to loin her hand and file to his. 
 
 Henri immediately went to tlie gate, where he had promised 
 
Laval. 365 
 
 10 meet AdolpUc^ and there he found l\im on horseback, sur- 
 rounded by his Breton followers, on foot. He had still the same 
 wild, gaunt look about him, which had so startled his friend 
 when he first saw him ; but there was more of hope and soirit 
 in his countenance, and he spoke, if he did not look, like a 
 soldier. 
 
 We will now leave the warriors of La Vcndde to obtain what 
 success they can against the experienced troops of the republican 
 army— the men so well known in many a bloody battle as the 
 soldiers of Mayence, and will retuin and stay and while with the 
 women and wounded man, who were left to all the horrors of a 
 long day's suspense. 
 
 Yox a considerable time they said nothing to each other as to 
 the probable events of the day, for they knew well that they 
 could hear no news for some few hours to come. By degrees 
 the cold grey dawn of an October morning broke into the room, 
 and the candles were put out. Any ordinary employment at 
 such a time was utterly out of the question, so they cluste-ed 
 together at the window and waited for such news as chance 
 might bring them from lime to time, Annot Stein, who was 
 now living with them in the house, came in and joined them, 
 and after a while the old Marquis was brought into the room, 
 and took his station at the opposite window to that occupied by 
 De Lescure. 
 
 The noises in the street were incessant. Soldiers on horse-' 
 back and on foot ; cannons and waggons passed on without a 
 moment's pause : the men shouted as they went by, eager for 
 revenge against the enemy who had driven them from their 
 homes ; and women mixed themselves in the crowd, shrieking 
 and screaming as they parted from their husbands or their 
 lovers. 
 
 The morning air was cold and chill, but still De Lescure 
 insisted on having the windows open, that he might cheer with 
 his voice the men as they passed below him, and that he might 
 call to those by name whom he might chance to know. His 
 wife was astonished to find how many he remembered, and to 
 perceive that every soldier, as he passed, recognised the wan 
 face of his General, and expressed his sincere delight at again 
 seeing his features. 
 
 " Well done, Forestier ! well done, my gallant friend ! " he 
 exclaimed, as a tall, handsome man rode by, who, from his garb 
 and arms, was evidently an officer. He had, however, like 
 many of tht officers, belonging to a lowly rank, and still looked 
 up with reverence to those of his fellow soldiers, whose blood was 
 more noble than his own. " You are never missing when strong 
 arms are wanted." 
 
 The man took off his cap and bowed low to the saddle boW; ; 
 
 A A 
 
566 ta Vindii. 
 
 Had he been born to the manner^ he coutd not have done it 
 with more grace. " God bless vou, General," he said, " God 
 grant that we may soon sec you here among us again \ ** and a 
 thousand loud clamorous voices echoed the wish. A tear rose 
 to De Lescure's eye, which none but his wife could mark : he 
 knew that his friend's kind wishes were vain ; that he had tiow, 
 personally, no hope except in death ; and he could not entirely 
 repress a vain regret that he might live to witness the success of 
 his party, of which, since his sojourn. in Laval, he had taught 
 himself to be sanguine. 
 
 It was but a moment before the tear was gone, and his eyes 
 were again on fire with enthusiasm. " Ah, De Bauge— good De 
 Bauge ! " he exclaimed, as a friend of his early youth passed by, 
 using at the moment every effort to repress the wild clamouring 
 hurry of his followers. " God prosper thee, dear friend ! Oh, 
 that we now had but a score or two such soldiers as thou art ! " 
 "We have many hundreds here as good," said De Bauge, 
 pausing a moment from his work to salute the friends whom he 
 recognised at the window. 
 
 " Thousands pdrhaps as brave, thousands as eager, if they did 
 but know how to use their courage," answered De Lescure. 
 
 After this there was a lull for a few moments, and then a troop 
 of cuirassiers trotted down the street, jingling their bridles, 
 swords, and spurs, as they moved. This small body of cavalry 
 had been, for some time, the pride and strongest hope of the 
 Vendcans. They had been gradually armed, horsed, and trained 
 during the war, by the greatest exertions of the wealthiest 
 among their officers, and they had certainly proved to be worth 
 nil the trouble they had cost. They were now, alas ! reduced 
 to half the number which had ridden out of Chatillon before the 
 battle of Cholet ; but the remnant was still full of spirit, and 
 anxious to avenge their fallen brethren. Their bright trappings 
 and complete accoutrements, afforded a strange contrast to the 
 medley appearance of the footmen, who retreated back to the 
 houses to make way for the horses ; and told more plainly than 
 nny words could do, the difference between an army of trained 
 soldiers, and a band of brave but tumultuous peasants. 
 
 It was now nine o'clock ; and shortly after the horsemen had 
 all passed through the street, the little chevalier came in with the 
 news that they were immediately about to attack the blues; the 
 republican army being already within a mile of the town ; and 
 that Henri was at that moment leaving the guard-house, and 
 preparing to lead the attack ; and when he had told so much 
 aloud to them all, he stooped down to whisper to De Lescure, 
 that Adolphe Denot was riding everywhere through the town at 
 Henri's right hand, and that he was the redoubtable Mad 
 •Captain, the leader of La Petite Vendue. , . 
 
i^avnl. 367 
 
 Dc Lcscurc had not lime to question the Chevalier, or to 
 express his surprise, before. Henri was seen coming down the 
 street on horseback, almost at full gallop, and at his right hand 
 rode a man whom they did not all immediately recognise. 
 Agatha, however, knew at the first glance who the stranger was, 
 and with an instinctive feeling that the sight of her would be 
 painful to him, she retreated behind her father's couch, so that 
 he could not well see her from the street. When Chapeau had 
 first whispered into his master's ear the name of Adolphe Denot 
 as the leader of the Bretons, Agatha had truly guessed the 
 purport of his whisper ; and it cannot therefore be said that she 
 was startled to see Adolphe once more by her brother's side ; 
 but still she could not but shudder as she remembered the 
 circumstances under which she had last seen him, and the 
 inhuman crime of which he had been guilty. 
 
 Henri rode a little in advance, and as he passed, hd merely 
 turned his laughing face towards his friends, and kissed his 
 hand to the window, Denot, till he was nearly close to the 
 house, had not thought of the neighbourhood he was in ; nor 
 had he the least idea that any but the usual inhabitants of the 
 town were looking down on him, till his nandcring eyes fell full 
 upon the faces of Marie and Madame dc L.escure, who were stand- 
 ing close to the open window. Immediately the blood rush-id 
 to his face,, and suffused it almost with a purple red : he checked 
 his horse .suddenly,, and, for a moment, looked full up at the 
 window, where .he met the cold gaze of Dc Lescure fixed full 
 upon hirn. Thd/pause was but for a moment; he could not 
 bear the pr.deAl of that look, but fixing his eyes to the ground, 
 he stuck his spurs into his horse,, and hurried out of the sight of 
 those on whom he did not dare to turn his face. 
 
 ** Agatha, my love, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, who 
 was that ?" said the Marquis, rubbing his eyes, before which an 
 unearthly apparition seerned to have appeared. "Who was 
 that that rode by with -Henri ? only that I know it is impossible, 
 I should have said that it was Adolphe Denot." 
 
 *• It is Adolphe, Sir," said Arthur Mondyon ; " it is he that is 
 the Mad C:.ptain, who has been knocking the blues about in 
 such a wonderful manner. I suppose he got tired of Santcrre, 
 or Santerrc of him. I thought they wouldn't agree long 
 together." 
 
 " Arthur ! " said Agatha, " you should speak kindly of him 
 now ; don't you see that Henri has forgiven him ; if he can 
 forgive him, surely you ought to do so." 
 
 "And is it really true that Henri and Adolphe Denot are 
 again friends ?" .said the Marquis, speaking rather to himself 
 than to anyone else. ** Well, I should have thought that would 
 havp been impossible. If Henri can forgive him, we all ought 
 
5^ La Vevdh. 
 
 to do so too ; but— but— but 1 do not think that 1 could feci at 
 case if he were in the room with me." 
 
 " I do not think he will qome to us, father,** said Agatha. 
 " Did you not observe his face as he passed ? the very sight of 
 us seemed to cut him to the heart." 
 
 Adolphe had been quite right, when he said that they were 
 not all like Henri. There was not one of the whole party 
 who did not strive, heartily and truly, to forgive the treason and 
 iniquity of which he had been guilty ; bui there was not one 
 there who did net, at the same time, feel a secret wish that he 
 or she might never again be under the same roof with the man 
 who had been a traitor, both to his friends and to his King, 
 
 Arthur Mondyon soon left them, and hurried out to bear his 
 part in the contest which was just commencing. He was a little 
 jealous to think that his accustomed place near Henri should 
 have been taken from him by one who had proved himself so 
 faithless as Denot, but still he was not inclined to pass such a 
 day as this in-doors, with sick men and trembling women. He 
 promised, however, to come to them himself from time to time, 
 or if that were impossible to send them news of what was going 
 on ; and as it was probable that the thickest of the fight would 
 be either in the town, or immediately on the skirts of it, there 
 was no reason why he should not keep his promise. 
 
 For a couple of hours they remained in dreadful suspense, 
 hearing nothing and fearing everything. It seemed to them as 
 though whole days must have passed in those two hours. De 
 Lcscure became dreadfully impatient, and even irritable ; 
 declaring at one moment that he was quite equal to mount 
 his horse, and that he would go out and see what they were 
 about ; and then again almost fainting with the exhaustion 
 occasioned by his intense excitement. Then he would lament 
 the inexperience of Henri, expressing his dread that his in- 
 discretion this day would ruin all their hopes : and, again, when 
 he saw how painful these surmises were to Agatha and Marie, 
 he would begin to praise his courage and indomitable good 
 spirits, and declare that their strongest safeguard lay in the 
 affection to his person, which was shared by every peasant of 
 La \'^cndde. 
 
 Their suspense was at length broken ; not by any visit or 
 message from their own party, but by a most unexpected and 
 unwelcome sight. On a sudden, they again heard the tumul- 
 tuous noise of troops coming down the street ; but, on this 
 occasion, they were entering instead of leaving the town ; and 
 as the rushing body of men turned a comer in the street, it was 
 seen that they all wore the well-known blue uniform of the 
 republican regiments. Yes, there in truth were the blues, now 
 immediately under the house they were occupying \ file after 
 
LavaL 369 
 
 file of sturdy, grizzled veteran soldier?, luirricd through the 
 streets in quick but regular time. Men quite unlike their own 
 dear peasant soldiers ; men with muskets in their hands, shakos 
 on their heads, and cartouche boxes slung bchina their backs. 
 The three ladies, before whose sight this horrid reality of a 
 danger, so long apprehended, suddenly appeared, had never 
 been so near a scene of absolute battle. Agatha, itus true, had 
 had to endure through one long and dreadful night the presence 
 of Santerre and his men in the cjiateau of Durbelli^re ; but 
 then she had no active part to play ; she had only to sit in 
 quiet, and wait for her doom : now they all felt that something 
 should be done, some means should be tried to escape from the 
 danger which was so close to them. 
 
 The women immediately withdrew from the window, and 
 wheeled away the couch on which the Marquis was lying, but 
 nothing would induce Dc Lescure to allow himself to be stirred ; 
 in fixed silence, with his head resting low on the window sill, he 
 gazed on the crowded soldiers, as they poured thick and 
 numerous into the town. 
 
 " Oh, where is Henri now«? " said Madame de Lescure. 
 "What shall we do— where are wc to go? Speak, Charles, for 
 Heaven's sake, speak 1 '* 
 
 Marie had opened the door, and now stood with it in her 
 hands, wishing to run, and yet not choosing to leave her com- 
 panions in misfortune ; while Agatha vainly endeavoured, with 
 her unassisted strength, to remove her father from the room. 
 
 " Henri is just where he ought to be," said De Lescure. 
 " There — there — now they come — now they come. By heavens, 
 there's Dcnot leading — and see, there's De Bauge and Arthur — 
 dear boy, gallant boy. Well done, Henri Larochcjaquclin : had 
 you been grey it could not have been better done ; he has got 
 the blues as it were into a wine-press ; poor devils, not one can 
 cscr.pe alive." 
 
 De Lescure, when he first saw the republicans coming down 
 the street, had for a moment thought that the town was in their 
 hands ; but a minute's reflection served to show him, that were 
 such really the case, they would have driven before them 
 hundreds of the retreating Vendeans. The peasants had never 
 yet so utterly forgotten their courage, as to throw down their 
 weapons at the first sight of their enemy, and fly without making 
 an effort for victory, and De Lescure was sure that such could 
 not now have been the case. It immediately occurred to him^ 
 that the passage of the gates must have been purposely loft free 
 to the devoted blues, and that Henri and his men would fall 
 upon them in the town, where their discipline and superior arm* 
 would be but of comparatively little use to them. 
 
 H« was ri^ht J for while th^ women were yec trembling, panic* 
 
^70 ^« VenJit. 
 
 struck at the first sight of their crtcmies, Henri and his party 
 had entered the long street from the market-place, and with a 
 hcrcc yell of defiance, the Vendean cavalry rushed upon the 
 astonished blues, meeting them almost beneath the very window 
 from which pe Lescure was looking. 
 
 The thrcc'womcn crouched round the aged Marquis in the 
 furthest corner of the room, comforted to find that he whom 
 they so trusted still expected victory ; but nearly fainting with 
 fear, and deafened with tffe sounds of the conflict To Do 
 Lescure the sight was pleasure itself; as he could not be in the 
 fight, the next thing was to see the combatants and cheer his 
 friends. The foremost of the republican soldiers soon gave way 
 beneath the weight of the attack ; though they fought sturdily 
 and did their best to keep their ground. They could not, how- 
 ever, retreat far ; their own men still advancing behind blocked 
 up the way ; and after a while, that which De Lescure had pre- 
 dicted took place: another party of .Vcndcans had attacked 
 them in the rear, and occupied the only gate through which they 
 could leave the city. » 
 
 And now the slaughter In the street was dreadful, and the 
 blues hemmed in on every side fought desperately for their lives» 
 like beasts at bay. Every now and again, the Vendeans re- 
 treated a step or two, driven back by the fury of their foes, and 
 then again regained their ground, advancing over the bodies of 
 the slain. No one in the strange medley on which he was look- 
 ing, was more conspicuous to De Lescure's eyes than Adolphe 
 Denot ; he had lost his cap in the confusion of the fight, and 
 his thin, wan face, disfigured by the wound which the Chevalier 
 had given him, was plainly to be seen : and De Lescure was 
 shocked by the ch>i«>;$e which he saw there ; the only weapon 
 he bore was a huge sabre, which he swung round his head, with 
 a strongth which could not have been expected from his 
 attenuated frame j he was often the most forward, always among 
 the first of the assailants ; and frequently became surrounded 
 by the blues, who were prevented by the closeness of the crowd 
 from using their arms. He had caught De Lescure's eye, and 
 from time to time turned his face up toward the window, as 
 though anxious to discover whether he who had before witnessed 
 his cowardice was now looking upon his prowess. 
 
 " By Heavens ! he fights well," said De Lescure ttp his wife, 
 who was gradually creeping somewhat nearer to her husband, 
 but still unable to face the horrors of that open window. " He 
 is greatly changed — look — look at him now well done, Adolphe 
 —well done : there, there } he's down ! Poor fellow, I fear lie 
 has struck his last blow : galLint Henri, brave Henri— there, 
 they are up again together ; but Denot's face is covered with 
 blood. He still has his sword, however — well done, Denot i 
 
Laval, 
 
 371 
 
 bravely done, Dcnot : no man of those living or dead, ever 
 struck a better blow than that." 
 
 These last words were distinctly heard by him to whom they 
 were addressed, and as he again turned up his face, a ray of 
 triumph illumined his «unken eyes ; he did not, however, or he 
 could not speak, for the heat of the battle was carried bad: 
 again towards the gate, and the tumultuous sea of fighting men 
 was hurried away from the spot where they had been con- 
 tending. 
 
 While this scene was going on in the street, another set ot 
 combatants were engaged near the gate ; and here two men of 
 very different natures, but of similar station in life, found them- 
 selves together during a temporary pause, after a protracted 
 struggle. These were Michael Stein and Auguste Emilc 
 Septimus Plume. In spite of all that he had himself said 
 against the trade, Michael had, in his old age, turned soldier, 
 and had been fighting sturdily with a huge woodman's axe, a 
 weapon which he had chanced to meet with, and the use of 
 which came readily to his hand ; he was now sitting on the step 
 of the gatehouse, wiping with the sleeve of hi<> coat the 
 perspiration which the unaccustomed work had brought to his 
 forehead, and listening to the praises of M. Plume, who was 
 standing over him, leaning on his sword. 
 
 " That axe of yours," said Auguste, " is a singular weapon, 
 and perhaps not entirely fitted for military purposes ; but I must 
 own you have used it well— it fell with decided effect this 
 morning on many a poor fellow's head and shoulders. You 
 have probably, my friend, fought many a battle with these 
 fellows of Mayence?" 
 
 ** Not a battle I ever fought before, Monsieur," said Mich?el ; 
 " nor do I ever wish to fight another ; it's horrid, weary work, 
 this, of knocking men's brains out, not to talk of the chance 
 a man runs of losing his own." 
 
 "But ain't you one of the Vendeans, rr.y gallant comrade ? '- 
 asked Auguste. 
 
 " If you mean, did I come over from Poitou with them, I 
 certainly did ; but I only came because I could not help it, and 
 because I could not live to see a little girl I have fall into the 
 hands of the butchers ; it was not for any love of fighting that I 
 CAmc." 
 
 " But yet you take to it kindly, my friend. I am considered 
 to know something of the sword exercise, and I thought you 
 wielded that axe as though your arm had been used to a sabre 
 this many a year." 
 
 **I am a blacksmith,** said Michael, shortly; "and I have 
 been fifty years ringing hammers on an anvil : that makes a 
 Tnan*s ami lusty." 
 
 A 
 
372 Ln Vendii» 
 
 " Indeed,** said Ac other, " a blacksmith— well, you may be t 
 Wacksmith, and yet a good soldier. Now you wouldn't believe 
 h, but I'm a baker—you wouldn't take me to be a baker by my 
 trade, would you now ? " 
 
 Michael Stein looked at him, and told him he couldn't well 
 give an opinion, as he knew nothing about bakers. 
 
 ** I knew you wouldn't," said the other ; " no one on earth 
 would take mo to be a tradesman — that's what they all say ; I 
 have that kind of manner about me, that I look like a soldier— I 
 did when I hadn't been at it above a week. Every one used to 
 say, 'Plume, you were bom to be an officer ; Plume, you will live 
 to be a General :' and if I don't get killed in the wars, I think I 
 shall. Now it's only three months since I joined and I am 
 ulready second in command in the whole army." 
 
 Michael Stciin stared at him, as he repeated his words, " Second 
 In command in the whole army !" 
 
 " Indeed I am, my friend, the second in command. You 
 wouldn't believe it, now, but I was sticking loaves of bread into 
 in oven three or four months ago." 
 
 " The second in command ! " said Michael, still regarding his 
 companion with a look in which incredulous surprise and in- 
 voluntary reverence were blended. " I suppose you're a great 
 way above Jacques Chapcau, then ?" 
 
 " Oh, my friend Chapeau — and do you know my friend 
 Chapeau ? No, I'm not above him ; he's not in our army ; he's 
 second in command himself in the Vendean army. You know I 
 belong to La Petite Vendde." 
 
 At this moment, the very man of whom they were speaking, 
 the redoubtable Chapcau, came up with a large party of straggling 
 Vendcans, out of breath with running ; they were in full pursuit 
 of the blues, who were now said to be flying towards Antr&mes 
 and Chateau-Gonthier. 
 
 " Come, my friends," said Chapeau, " no idling now ; come to 
 Antramcs, and we'll get plenty of arms, if we get nothing else. 
 What, is it you, Captain Plume. I'm told you did as well as the 
 ocst to-day ; and what — mv dear old friend Michael : a soldier 
 at last, ch, Michael iStein ! Come, man, don't be ashamed to 
 give us your hand ; you've joined us in very good time, for the 
 Vcndeans never gained such a victory as they have to-day. 
 Come on, old friend, we'll get another sight of these running 
 devils at Antrames." 
 
 *' They may run for mc, M. Chapeau, and run far enough, 
 before I try to stop them ; do you know I'm nearly ashamed of 
 what I've been doing as it is." 
 
 "Ashamed I — ashamed of what.^" said Chapeaa. 
 
 " Why look there,'' said Michael ; and as he spoke, he pointed 
 with his foot to the body of a republican soldier, who lay calmly 
 
at his case, in the sleep cf death, not three yards from the sj)ot 
 where the old man was now standinj^. " Not an hour since, tliat 
 
 Eoor fellow ran this way, and as he passed, he had no thought of 
 urting me ; he was thinking too much of himself, for half-a-dozcn 
 hungry devils were after him. Well, I don't know what pos- 
 sessed me, but the smell of blood had made me wild, and I 
 lifted up my axe and struck him to the ground, I 'vish, with all 
 my heart, the poor man were safe at Antr^mcs. 
 
 It was in vain that Chapeau tried to persuade the smith that 
 he had only done his duty in killing a republican, v.ho would 
 certainly have lived to have done an injury to the cause, had he 
 been suffered to escape. Michael Stein would not, or could not, 
 understand the arguments he used ; and decidedly declared that 
 if he found it possible to avoid fighting for the future he would 
 do so. 
 
 " Do you know, M. Chapeau," he said at last, " when I first 
 took this axe in my hand, this morning, I had hardly made up 
 my mind on which side I should use it. It was only when I 
 thought of the boys and of Annot, that I determined to go with 
 the Vcndeans. It wasn't possible for a man not to fight on one 
 side or the other — that's the only reason I had for fighti»ig at 
 all." 
 
 Chapeau became rather ashamed of his friend's 'rreguhr 
 doctrines, and hurried on ; explaining to Flume, who accom- 
 panied him, that Michael Stein was a queer eccentric old man, 
 Dut a thorough good royalist at heart. " Why he has two soni 
 Among the red scarfs," he added, to settle the point. 
 
 " Has he, indeed ? " said Plume, who had never heard who th« 
 red scarfs were. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIl. 
 
 URATH OF ADOLPHE DENOT. 
 
 |OTHING could be more complete than the succcis of 
 the Vcndciins, not only in the town of Laval, but also 
 oulsldc the gate ; nor could any error be more fatal 
 than that committed by the republican general, 
 Lechclle. Previous to this day he had never been worsted since 
 he had been sent from Paris with orders to exterminate the 
 Vendeans ; he had driven them from ChAtillon, their own chosen 
 position in the centre of their own territory across the Loire | 
 and he had rashly conceived that he had only to show himself 
 before Laval agam, to scare them from their rcsting-nlacc, and 
 scatter them further from their own homes. He had marched . 
 his army up to Laval early on the morning of the fight; and his 
 best men, the redoubtable Mayencais, indignant at the treatment 
 which a few of their brethren had received from Denot's followers 
 on the previous day, marched boldly into the town, conceiving 
 that they had only to show themselves to take possession of it. 
 The result has been told. One half of these veteran troops fell 
 in the streets of Laval— many of the remainder were taken alive ; 
 a few only escaped to consummate their disgrace by Hying to- 
 wards AntrAmes at their quickest speed, spreading panic among 
 the republican troops who had not yet come up close to the 
 town. 
 
 The news of defeat soon communicated itself; and the whole 
 ormv, before long, was llying to Anir.'lmes. The unfortunate 
 Lccnelle himself had been one of the liist to leave the town, and 
 had made no attempt to stop his men until he had entered 
 AnlrAujeH, Nor did he long remain there : as the bll■ag^iling 
 fugitives came up, they told how close and fast upon their track 
 the victorious brigands were coming; and that the conduct o* 
 the peasants now was not what it had been when the war 
 
Death cf Adolphe Denot 375 
 
 commenced, when they were fighting in their own country, and 
 near their own homes. Then they had spared the conquered, 
 then they had shed no blood, except in the heat of battle ; now 
 they spared none ; they had learnt a bloody lesson from their 
 enemies, and massacred, without pity, the wretches who fell info 
 their hands. Antrames was not a place of any strength ; it could 
 not be defended against the Vendeans ; and Lechellc had hardly 
 drawn his breath in the town, before he again left it, on the road 
 to Chateau-Gonthier, 
 
 Henri and Denot were among the first of the pursuers; in- 
 deed, of so desultory a nature was the battle, that the contest 
 was still continued near the gate of the town, while they were 
 far on their road towards Antrames. They passed almost in a 
 gallop through that place, and did not stop until they found 
 tiiemselves, towards evening, close to the bridge, leading into 
 Chateau-Gonthier. Here they perceived that Lechclle had 
 made some little attempt to defend his position. He had 
 drawn out two cannons to the head of the bridge, had stayed 
 the course of a few fugitives, with whom he attempted to defend 
 the entrance into the town ; and had again taken upon himself 
 the duties of a General. 
 
 The pursuers now amounted to about three hundred horse- 
 men, the very men who had made the first attack on the blues 
 in the streets of Laval, and Henri knew that so soon after their 
 complete and signal success nothing could daunt them, and 
 that, in all probability, no effort of the beaten republicans could 
 turn them back. 
 
 " Come,", said he, speaking to those who were nearest to him, 
 "only a few yards further, and we shall be far enough. It shall 
 never be said that the vanquished slept in the town while their 
 conquerors lay in the fields ;" and again he put spurs to hie 
 horse, and with a yell of triumph, his men followed him over 
 the bridge. 
 
 It would be difficult to say who was first, for Henri, Adolphe, 
 and nearly a dozen others, galloped across the bridge together, 
 and the whole troop followed them pell-mell into the town, 
 * The two cannons were soon taken ; the irresolute blues, who, 
 with only half a heart, had attempted to defend themselves, 
 were driven from their positions, cand Henri at once found him- 
 self master of the place. 
 
 A few of his gallant followers had fallen on the bridge. It 
 could not be expected but what this should l^e the case, for they 
 made their attack in the face of two field-pieces and a discharge 
 of musketry, from a body of men ouitc as numerous as their 
 own, but Henri had not perceived till he reached the square in 
 the mid<Ue of the town, that Adolphe Denot was no longer by 
 bis side. 
 
376 La Vetid/e* 
 
 " Did you see M. Denot ?" said he to a soldier, who was no^ 
 standing on the ground at his horse's head. 
 
 " You mean the gentleman who was riding with you all the 
 dav, General— he who had lost his cap ?** 
 
 *' Yes, yes, did you see him ? he passed over the bridge with 
 me." 
 
 " General," said the man, " he never passed the bridge. He 
 fell on the very centre of it, I sj\w him fall, and his horse 
 galloped into the town without a rider." 
 
 Arthur Mondyon soon brought him confirmation of the news, 
 lie had been struck by ii muHKcl ball on the breast, while they 
 were crossing the bridge, and the whole troop of horsemen 
 who were behind, had passed over his body. He had, however, 
 been taken up, and brought into the town ; whether or no his 
 life was extinct, Arthur could not say, but he had been told that 
 the wound would certainly prove mortal 
 
 Henri's first duty, even before attcndinj? to his friend, was to 
 endeavour to s;\vo the lives of such of tl»o blues as were yet in 
 the town, and, if possible, to get the i)erson of Lechellc. It 
 was well known that he hud entered the place with the fugitives, 
 and it was bclk .cd that he had not since escaped from it. 
 Some few of tlic .jniblican soldiers had made their way out of 
 the town, on i' < load towards Sdgrd, but there was every 
 reason to belie , that the General had not been among them. 
 The inhabitant s ot Chdteau-Gonlhicr were very favourable to 
 the Vendcan caujc ; Henri received every information which 
 the people '•cnild give hinij and at last succe»:ded in tracing 
 Lcchelle into a large half-ruined house, in the lower portion of 
 which, a wine shop, for the accommodation of the poorer 
 classes, was kept open. Here they learnt, from the neighbours, 
 that he had been seen to enter the house, and an old woman, 
 who alone kept her position behind the counter, confessed with 
 some hesitation, that a man, answering the description of him 
 thev sought, had entered the shop about an hour since ; that he 
 had hastily swallowed a large ([uantity of brandy, and then, in- 
 stead of leaving the >.hop, had rui>hed through the inner door 
 and gone up stairs. 
 
 •' He wasn't here a minute in all,*' said she; "and he said 
 nothing about paying for what he took— and, when I saw him 
 going in there, I thought it best to let him have his own way." 
 
 "And he i>i there still?" said Chapciu, who had now again 
 joined his master. 
 
 " Unless he went out through the window, he is j there is no 
 other way out than what you see there." 
 
 "Go up, Chapcau," said Henri, "and take two or three with 
 you ; if he be there, he must come down ; but remember that he 
 18 an officer, and in misfortune." 
 
Death of Adolphe Dcnot. 377 
 
 '•I will remember," said Chapcau, "that he sent us word tj 
 Chatillon, that he would not leave alive in La Vcndc^e a father 
 or mother to lament their children, or a child to lament its 
 parents : those were bitter words ; maybe he will be sorry 10 
 have them brou^^ht to his memory just at present." 
 
 "Remember what I tell you, Chapeau," said his master; 
 " whatever he may have said, it is not now your duty to sit in 
 judj^mcnt on him." 
 
 " For God's sake, gentlemen, don't do him a harm here,'' said 
 the old woman ; "for mercy's sake, Monsieur," and she turned 
 to Henri, " don't let them take his life ; to tell you the truth, 
 when he begj^ed for some hole to hide in, I bid him to go up 
 stairs ; I could do no less. I should have done the same if it 
 had been one of you." 
 
 Henri said what he could to tranquillise her, assuring her that 
 the man should, at any rate, not be killed before her eyes ; and 
 this seemed to be sufficient to reassure her, Chapeau and four 
 others had gone up stairs ; and those below were not kept 
 wailing long, before the heavy tread of the men descending was 
 heard on the stairs, as though they were carrying down a weight 
 among them. Such was the case : Henri stepped forward and 
 opened the door ; and as he did so, the men staggered into th2 
 room with their burden, and then gently dropped upon the floor 
 the dead body of the repubUcan General. The unfortunate man 
 had shot himself. 
 
 Henri turned out of the shop without saying a word ; and as 
 the others prepared to follow him, one of the men knelt down 
 beside the body, and wrenched from the hand, which still held 
 it fast, the fatal pistol which had so lately done its work. "At 
 any rate," said he, " there is no use in leaving this behind us ; I 
 doubt not but I can make a better use of it than General 
 Lechelle has done." 
 
 The Chevalier had said but the truth in declaring that 
 Adolphe Denot's wound was mortal ; the musket ball had 
 passed right through his lungs, passing out between his 
 shoulders ; and his limbs had been dreadfully torn and bruised 
 by the feet of the horses which had passed over him. Still, 
 however, he had been carried alive into the town, had been laid 
 in a settle-bed in the little inn, and had his wounds dressed 
 with such surgical skill as the town afforded. He had spoken 
 once since he fell, and had then begged, in an almost in- 
 articulate whisper, that Henri Larochejaquelin would come to 
 him, and this message had been delivered and was attended to. 
 
 There were not many to watch and attend his bed-side, for 
 many others beside him in the town were in the same position ; 
 ind though it was known to a few that the Mad Captain of La 
 Petite Vendue had been seen during the whole day riding by 
 
378 La Vendie* . 
 
 the side of their own General, Denot had not yet been 
 recognised by many of the Vendeans, and most of those around 
 him were indifferent to his fate. When Henri reached the 
 room in which he lay, no one was with him but the poor baker 
 of Laval, who had entered the town with Chapeau, and having 
 heard that his Captain was mortally wounded, had lost not a 
 moment in tendcrmg him his services. The poor man was 
 sitting on a low stool, close by Denot's head, and in his lap he 
 held a wooden bowl of water, with which, from time to time, he 
 moistened the mouth of the wounded man, dipping his hand 
 into the water, and letting the drops fall from his fingers on to 
 his lips. 
 
 "Hush! hush!" he said, as Henri entered the room; "for 
 mcrc/s sake, don't shake him ; the black blood gushes out of his 
 mouth with every move he gets." 
 
 The two men did not recognise each other, for they had only 
 met for a moment, and that by the faint light of a rush candle. 
 Plume, therefore, had no idea of giving up his place or his duty 
 to a man whom he conceived was a stranger ; and Henri was 
 at a loss to conceive who could be the singular looking creature 
 that seemed to take so tender an interest in his friend. 
 
 Henri advanced up to the bed on tiptoe, and gazed into 
 Denot's face ; he had been shocked before, but he now thought 
 that never in his life had he seen so sad a sight : the colour of 
 his skin was no longer pale, but livid ; his thin, dry lips were 
 partially open, and his teeth, close set together, were distinctly 
 visible ; his eyes were at the moment closed, as though he were 
 in a stupor, and his long black matted hair hung back over the 
 folded cloak on which his head rested : his sallow, bony hands 
 lay by his side, firmly clenched, as though he had been 
 struggling, and his neck and breast, which had been opened 
 for the inspection of the surgeon, was merely covered with a 
 ragged bloody towel. 
 
 " Is he asleep?" asked Henri, in a whisper, such as seems to 
 come naturally to every one, when speaking by the bed-side of 
 those who are in great danger, but which Is generally much 
 more painfully audible to a sick man than the natural voice. 
 
 Denot opened his eyes, and showed, by the slight motion of 
 his head, that he had heard his friend's voice, but he was at the 
 moment unable to speak. 
 
 Plume made a signal to Henri to be quiet, and he therefore 
 sat himself down at the other side of the bed, to watch till 
 Adolphe should gain strength to speak to him, or till the breath 
 should have passed from his body. Plume, in the meantime, 
 continued his occupation, causing a few drops of water tof fall 
 from time to time between those thin shrivelled lips ; and in this 
 way <» ^tintf half- hour passed over them. 
 
Death of Adolphe Denoi. 379 
 
 At' last Henri heard his name scarcely pronounced by the 
 dying man, and the dull eyes opened, though it was evident 
 that the film of death had nearly hidden all objects from their 
 view ; still it was evident that he knew who it was that sat by 
 his bed-side, and he faintly returned the prcsr ure of the hand 
 which grasped his own. Henri stooped down his car to catch 
 the words which mi^^ht f.vll from his lips ; but for a wliilc he 
 made no further attempt to speak— an inexpressible look of 
 confused trouble passed across his face and forehead, as he 
 attempted to collect his disordered thoughts, and again he 
 closed his eyes, as though the struggle was useless ; at 'last he 
 again muttered something, and Henri caught the words " Pc 
 Lescure," and " bridge of Saumur." 
 
 "Yes, yes, he shall," said Henri, trying to comfort him, but 
 still not understanding what it was that weighed so heavily on 
 his breast ; he felt, however, that a promise of compliance 
 would give him comfort, " He shall, indeed ; I will tell him, 
 and I know he will." 
 
 Again the eyes were closed, and the struggle to speak Vas 
 discontinued. Plume gave over his task, for it was evident that 
 no care of his could any longer be of avail, and he walked away 
 from the bed, that he might not overhear the words which his 
 Captain strove to speak to his friend ; but Henri remained, still 
 holding Denot's hand : then a thought struck him, which had 
 not earlier occurred to him, and beckoning to Plume to come to 
 him, he dismissed him, in a whisper, to endeavour to find a 
 priest, without the loss of another moment, and bring him tD 
 the aid of the dying man. 
 
 Though Denot's sight and speech were almost gone, the 
 sense of hearing was still left to him, and he understood what 
 Henri said. He again moved his head in token of dissent ; 
 again pulled his friend towards him by the hand, and again 
 muttered out a word, the last that he ever attempted to utter ; 
 that one word Henri heard as plainly as though it had been 
 spoken with the full breath of a strong man — it was his sister's 
 name. 
 
 Adolphe Denot survived this last effort of his troubled spirit 
 but a few moments ; the sepulchral rattle in his throat soon 
 told the sad tale of his dissolution ; and Plume, hurr>ing up to 
 the bed-head, assisted Henri in composing the limbs of the 
 dead man. 
 
 For three months Denot and r'lume had consorted together ; 
 they had been a strange fantastic pair of comrades, but yet not 
 altogether ill-matched : nothing could be more dissimilar than 
 they had been in age, in bh^h, and previous habits, but they 
 had met together with the same wishes, the same ambition, the 
 same want of common sense« and above all the same over* 
 
38o La Vendie* 
 
 weening vanity ; they had flattered each other from the moment 
 of their first meeting to the present day, and thus tkese two 
 poor zealous maniacs, for in point of sanity the Lieutenant was 
 but little better than his Captain, had learnt to love each other. 
 
 And now Plume, having carefully completed what the exi- 
 gencies of the moment required, gave way to his sincere grief, 
 and bewailed his friend with no silent sorrow. Henri, who had 
 totally forgotten the little that he had heard of the martial baker, 
 was at a loss to conceive who could be the man, a stranger to 
 himself, who found cause for so much sorrow in the death of 
 Adolphe Denot. As for himself, he had tenderly loved Denot 
 as a brother ; he had truly forgiven him his gross treachery ; and 
 he had determined to watch over him, and if possible protect him 
 from further sorrow : but after the interview he had had with 
 him, he could not conceal from himself that Adolphe was still 
 insane ; and he felt that death had come to him in an honourable 
 way, atoning for past faults, and relieving him from future 
 sufferings. He could not grieve that his friend had fallen in 
 battle, bravely doing his duty in the cause to which he was bound 
 by so many ties. 
 
 " He was the bravest man, and the best soldier, and the most 
 honourable gentleman in the whole army," said Plume, sobbing ; 
 ** and now there's no one left but m vself," and then recovering 
 himself, he made to the manes of the departed warrior a loyal 
 promise, which he fully determined to keep. " Thou art gone, 
 my brave commander, my gallant commander," he said, standing 
 suddenly upright, and stretching his long arms over the corpse, 
 *' thou art gone, and I doubt not I shall follow thee : but till that 
 moment shall come, till a death as honourable as thine own 
 shall release me from my promise, I swear that I will not disgrace 
 the high station which thy departure obliges me to fill. It was 
 thou who first tutored my unaccustomed arm to wield the sword ; 
 it was thou who badest me hear unmoved the thunder of an 
 enemy's artillery : it was thou who taughtest me all I know of 
 military tactics and the art of war. Rest in peace, dear friend, 
 dearest of instructors, I will not disgrace thy precejpts." 
 And so finishing, he stooped down, kissed the face o£ the 
 dead body which he apostrophised, made a cross on the 
 bosom, and muttered a fervent prayer for the welfare of the 
 departed soul. 
 
 If Henri was surprised before, he was now perfectly astounded ; 
 nothing could be less poetical, less imposing, or have less of 
 military grandeur about it than the figure of poor Auguste Plume. 
 What could he mean by saying that he was now called on to fill 
 a hi<;h station ? Who could it be that confessed to owe sb deep 
 a debt of gratitude to the dead man ? 
 , "Had you known M. Denot long?" asked Henri, when he 
 
Death of Adolphe Denot, 381 
 
 conceived that Plume was sufficiently composed to hear and 
 answer a question. 
 
 " What's that you say his name was ? " said Plume, eagerly^ 
 pricking up his ears. " I beg your pardon, Sir, I didn't exactly 
 catch the word." 
 
 " And didn't you know the name of the friend whom you seem 
 to have valued so highly ? " 
 
 *' Indeed, to tell you the truth, Sir, I did not. We two used 
 to have a good deal of talk together : for hours and hours we've 
 sat and talked over this war, and he has told me much of what 
 he used to do in Poitou, when he served with the Vendeans ; but 
 I could never get him to tell me his name. It was a ciuestion 
 he didn't like to be asked ; and yet I am sure he never aid any- 
 thing to disgrace it." 
 
 " His name was Adolphe Denot," said Henri. 
 
 " Adolphe Denot— Adolphe Denot ! well, I am very glad I 
 know at last. One doesn't like not to know the name of the 
 dearest friend one ever had ; especially after he's dead. But 
 wasn't he Count Denot, or Baron Denot, or something of that 
 sort.?" 
 
 " No he had no tide ; but yet he was of noble blood." 
 
 "I suppose then we must call him General Denot — simple 
 General ; it sounds as well as Count or Marquis in these days. 
 Was he a General when you knew him in La Vendue ?" 
 
 " I have known him all my life," replied Henri. 
 
 "Indeed !" said Plume : and then gazing at his companion, 
 from head to foot, he continued, " An't you the gentleman that 
 came with Chapeau to sec him last night ? An't you the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief of the Vendeans .?" 
 
 Henri gave him to understand that he was. 
 
 " Then this meeting is very lucky," said Plume, " most ex- 
 ceedingly fortunate ! I am now the Commander-in-Chief of La 
 Petite Vendue. We must unite our forces. I am noi ambitious 
 —at least, not too ambitious ; you shall be the chief, I will be 
 next to you. Chapeau, I am sure, will be contented to be third. 
 Here, over the body of our friend, let us concept our measures 
 for utterly exterminating the republicans. We have now been 
 victorious, proudly, grandly victorious ; my voice shall be for a 
 march to Paris. Come, General, give me your hand. Hand in 
 hand, like true comrades, let us march to Paris, and thunder at 
 the doors of the Convention." 
 
 As he spoke, Auguste Emile Septimus held out his hand tc 
 the young Commander ; and Henri could not refuse the proffered 
 grasp. He now remembered Chapeau's description of the martial 
 baker ; and as he underwent the merciless squeeze which Plume 
 inflicted on him, the young Marquis meditated, with somethin(j 
 like vexation, on the ridiculous figure and language of him who 
 
 9B 
 
fin La Vend/e» 
 
 how claimed his friendship and confidence. He had before 
 been on terms of perfect equality with men equally low Ih 
 station with poor Plume. Cathelmeau had been a postillion ; 
 Stofflet, a game-keeper; but he had admired the enthusiastic 
 genius of Cathelincau, he had respected the practical iron energy 
 of Stofflet — he could neither admire nor respect Augustc Plume 
 — and yet he could not reject him. 
 
 ,' He endeavoured, in as few words as he could, to make his 
 companion understand, that highly as he appreciated his disin- 
 terested offer, he could not, at the present moment, accede to it. 
 That many officers, high in the confidence of the whole army, 
 must be consulted before any important step was taken } that 
 as for himself, his duty required him to hurry back to Laval as 
 quick as he could. That, as regarded him, Plume, he advised 
 him to return to his own men, and endeavour to organise them 
 into a regular corps, in doing which he promised that 
 practical assistance should not be wanting; and that, as 
 regarded the body of their mutual friend, be, Henri, would give 
 orders for its immediate burial ; and having said so much as 
 quickly as he could speak, Henri Larochejaquelin hurried from 
 the room, leaving the unfortunate Plume to renew his lamenta- 
 tions over his friend. He had cause to lament : the only man 
 lively to flatter his vanity was gone. He would never again be 
 told that he was born for great achievements — never again 
 promised him that bravery, fidelity to his commander, and 
 gallant demeanour among his comrades, would surely lead him 
 to exalted duties. Such were the precepts with which the 
 insanity of Denot had inflamed the mad ambition of his poor 
 foUoweri He now felt—not his own unfitness, for that he could 
 not suspect — but tlic difficulty, the impossibility to get his 
 talents' and services acknowledged ; and he again sat down to 
 weep, partly for his friend, and partly for himself. 
 
 Henri passed the remainder of the night in Ch^teau-Gonthler, 
 and early on the next morning he returned towards Laval. The 
 road was covered with swarms of Vemlcans, now returning from 
 the pursuit in which they had nearly exterminated the un- 
 fortunate army which had followed them across the Loire. They 
 had crossed that river panic-stricken and hopeless ; now they 
 were shouting with triumph, and exulting with joy, confident 
 of success. None of those who returned were without some 
 token of success ; some carried back with them the muskets 
 •of the republican infantry ; others, the sabres of the cavalry ; 
 and others, more joyful in their success than any, were mounted 
 ^n their horses. They all loudly greeted Henri as he passed, 
 and decliired that nothing should ever conquer than, now, that 
 •they had the General over them whom they themselves had 
 chosen. 
 
Death of Adolphe Denot, 383 
 
 ][^cnri, though he well knew the difficulties which were before 
 him, could not but be triumphant as he listened to the cheers of 
 his followers ; he had certainly been pre-eminently successful in 
 the first attempts which had been made under his own sole 
 command ; and it is not surprising that this, joined to the con- 
 fidence of youth, should have made him feel hiihself equal 
 almost to any enterprise. Then another subject of joy filled his 
 heart ; Marie had promised that if the Vendeans were now 
 successful, if they could look forward to spending one quiet week 
 in Laval, she would no longer refuse to join her hand to his 
 and become bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh — that promise 
 she would now realise ; and therefore, as he rode back through 
 the gate of Laval, Henri felt happier than he had done for mar\v 
 a bng, weary, tedious day 
 
 \ • 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 VENDEAN MARRIAGES. 
 
 HE young General's good news had preceded him, and 
 when he entered the room where his friends were 
 assembled, they were one and all ready lo embrace 
 and congratulate their successful soldier ; he received 
 the blessing of his father, the praises of De Lescure, the thanks 
 and admiration of Madame de Lescure, and what he valued 
 more than all, Marie's acknowledgments of the promise she 
 gave him when last he left her side. 
 
 During his absence, three unexpected visitors had reached 
 Laval ; the first was Father Jerome, who had followed the army, 
 and now brought them news from the side of Nantes, that 
 Charcttc was still at the head of a large body of royalists, and 
 was ready to join himself with the main army, somewhere to the 
 north of the Loire, if any plan could be struck out for their 
 future proceedings, to which both he and Henri could agree ; 
 and the others were perfect strangers. Two gentlemen had 
 called at the guard-house, and asked for M. de Larochcjaquelin : 
 on hearing that he was not in Laval, they had desired to sec M. 
 de Lescure, and had, when alone with him, declared that they 
 came from ICngland with offers of assistance, — both in men and 
 money^ One of tlicse geiulemcn had with him a stick, and after 
 jjaving carefully looked round llie room lo see that no one but 
 De Lescure could observe him, he had broken the stick in two, 
 and taken from the hollow space within it a letter addressed to 
 the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean army. 
 
 These two gentlemen were both Vendeans, but early In the 
 contest they had passed over into England ; they had now re- 
 turned, habited like peasants, and in this disguise had come 
 over on their dangerous mission, passing lir^t into Jersey and 
 thence to the coast of Normandy ; they had walked the whole 
 
Vendean Marriaj^es, 385 
 
 distance, through the province of Drittany, passing themselves 
 off/in one place as good republicans, and in another as true 
 loyalists ; they had, however, through all their dangers, managed 
 to keep the important stick, the promises contained in which 
 could not have arrived at a moment when they would have been 
 more welcome, 
 
 Granville was the point at which it was decided that the 
 English troops should land, and De Lescure was strongly of 
 opinion that the Vendean army, relieved of its intolerable load 
 of women and children, should proceed thither to meet their 
 allies ; and this plan, though with some dissentient voices, was 
 agreed to. They could not, however, start quite immediately ; 
 nor was it necessary for them to do so ; and the few days of 
 secure rest which so many of them anxiously desired, was given 
 to the army. 
 
 At length Henri found leisure to tell them all the sad, but 
 still pleasing story of Dcnot's conduct and fate — of the gallantry 
 by which he had redeemed so many sins, and of the death by 
 which he had set a seal to the forgiveness of them all. Each of 
 them had already learnt that Adolphe was the mysterious 
 leader, the Mad Captain of La Petite Vendde, and they listened 
 with deep attention to the story which they now heard of the 
 way in which he had been living, and of the manner of his 
 death. 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Henri, , " I understand it all, except about 
 the bridge of Saumur ; from the time when I found him in hi? 
 wretched chamber, to the moment of his death, he was talking 
 of that, and connecting your name, Charles, with everything he 
 said ; I do not at all know what was in nis thoughts, buc 
 something connected with the bridge of Saumuv was either a 
 great trouble to him, or a great triumph." 
 
 And then De Lescure told hi n what had happened ; how the 
 poor fellow's heart had failed him at the moment when courage 
 was so necessary ; how he had feared to advance at the decisive 
 moment, and had shrunk back, appalled, conquered, and 
 disgraced. Henri now understood why De Lescure had not 
 allowed Denot .to be chosen at Saumur as one of the twelve 
 leaders of the army; why he had subsequently so generally dis- 
 trusted him ; and expressed so little surprise of the conduct of 
 which he had been guilty at DurbelliO;re. 
 
 " His history," said De Lescure, " gives us a singular insight 
 into the intricacies of a man's character; Adolphe was not 
 naturally a coward, for madness aggravates the foibles of our 
 nature, and no one can have shown himself more capable of 
 gallantry than he did yesterday ; but he wanted that sustained 
 courage which is only given by principle, and trust in God. May 
 He forgive his sins, mercifully remembering his infimuties I '* 
 
386 taVendci, 
 
 Some time after this, preparations were mude for the marriage 
 of Henri and Marie — such preparations as the time and place 
 allowed. There was now neither inclination nor opportunity 
 for a ptty such as would have graced the nuptinls of 
 Marie de Lescure at a happier time; she now neither desired, 
 nor could have endured it. Father Jerome had piomiscd to 
 perform the ceremony : Agatha would be her bridesmaid j and 
 ner brother and her father-in-law, both on their sick couches, 
 would be her wedding-euests. Still she was happy and cheerful ; 
 she loved Henri Larochejaquelin with her whole heart, the more 
 probably on account oi the dangers through which they had 
 already passed together, and she had firmly resolved to endure, 
 without complaining, those which were still before them. 
 
 Two days before the ceremony was to take place, Chapeau 
 came up to his master, as they were together leavmg the quarters 
 of some of the troops, and with a very serious face, begged 
 permission to speak to him. Now, as it usually happened that 
 Chapeau passed a considerable portion of the day talking to his 
 master in a most unconstrained way, on every conceivable 
 subject, Henri felt sure that something very much out of the 
 common way was going to be said j however, he at once gave 
 the desired permission. 
 
 " And Monsieur is positively going to be married on Wednes- 
 day morning?" commenced Chapeau. 
 "Why you know as well as myself, that 1 am,'* said Henri. 
 " Oh, of course, yes— of course I know it, as Monsieur has 
 been condescending enough to tell me ; and will Madame, that 
 is Mademoiselle as she is at present, go with Monsieur to 
 Granville.'* 
 
 "What the deuce are you about, Chapeau, with all this 
 rhodomontade ? didn't I tell you that she would go with me.'* 
 
 "And the other ladies. Mademoiselle Agatha and Madame 
 dc Lescure, they will remain in Laval ? " 
 
 " Yes, they will remain in Laval with my father and 
 M. de Lescure : but you know all that already, as well as I do.'* 
 " But Madame de Larochejaquelin, that is, when she is 
 madame, she will want some young woman to attend her. 
 Madame, of course, cannot go to Granville without some decent 
 female to be near her ; of course it will be quite impossible, will 
 it not. Monsieur ? " 
 
 " Now, Chapeau, tell me at once what you are coming to, and 
 don't pretend to be so considerate and modest. You know that 
 it is arranged that your own Jiancte^ Annot Stein, should 
 accompany my wife." 
 
 " Yes — but, M. Henri, Annot Stein has some scruples \ or 
 
 lather " 
 
 " Scruples I Oh by all means, let her stay behind the*. TU 
 
Vi-Niiean Marnaj^es, 387 
 
 have no one with mc who has any scruples ; tell her to stay 
 wifli her father. I'll speak to Mademoiselle de Lcscukc." 
 
 '* Hut Monsieur is in such a hurry," said Chapcau, who had 
 not the slightest intention to have the matter arranged in this 
 way. " I was wrong to say that Annot has scruples ; indeed, 
 she hasn't got any— not one at all— it is I that have them." 
 
 "Youl Now, Chapcau, may I ask the particular favour of 
 you, to let mc know at once what you mean to ask of me ?" 
 
 "Why, you see, M. Henri, Annot is a poor lone girl, quite 
 unprotected, as any one may say, though, of course, she will not 
 be unprotected, when she will have tlie protection of Monsieur 
 and Madame ; but still she is a poor lone girl, and as such, she 
 won't have the — the — the what d'ye call it, you know, which she 
 would have as a married woman — the confidence and station, 
 you know : she wouldn't be half so useful to Madame ; and, 
 therefore, peihaps, Monsieur will think that she and 1 had better 
 be married at the same time as Madame." 
 
 Chapeau had it all his own way ; his arguments were un- 
 answerable ; and as no good reason could be given, why a wife 
 would not be as serviceable to the man as it was to the master, 
 it was agreed that they both should be married on the same day, 
 at the same hour, in the same room, and by the same priest. 
 The honour of this was almost too much for poor Annot, and 
 quite upset her father, Michael Stein^ who did not at all like the 
 idea of not having his own way, after his own fashion, at his own 
 only daughter's wedding. However, he was ultimately re- 
 conciled to the melancholy grandeur of the ceremony, by 
 arrangements which were made for some substantial evening 
 comfort below stairs ; and although no banquet was prepared 
 for the master and the mistress, the valet and the lady's maid 
 were as well provided as though they had been united in 
 peaceful times, and in a quiet church. 
 
 And now the sun had risen brightly on the morning which 
 was to add another care to those which already burthened the 
 shoulders of Henri Larocheiaquclin. They all sat down together 
 and eat their quiet breakfast in the parlour, to which a fort- 
 night's habitation had now accustomed them. Henri wore no 
 bridal dress. He had on the uniform of a Vcndean officer; and 
 'ound his waist was fastened a white scarf With a black knot, the 
 distinguishing mark which he now bore of his rank in the army 
 as Commander-in-Chief. Marie de Lescure was dressed in 
 white, but her dress was as simple and unadorned as it could 
 be well made ; no bride, young, beautiful, and noble was ever 
 prepared for the altar with less costly care, with less attention to 
 the generally acknowledged proprieties of hymenial decoration, 
 Agatha and Madame de Lescure had in no respect altered their 
 usual attire, It may easily be understood that leaving thecf 
 
588 La VettiUi. 
 
 homes in the manner they had done, they had not brought with 
 them a full wardrobe ; and since their arrival in Laval, they had 
 had more pressing cares than that of supplying it 
 
 De Lescure was daily getting weaker ; but still the weaker he 
 got the less he suffered, and the more capable he became of 
 assuming his accustomed benevolent demeanour and anxious 
 care for others. Both he .ind his wife knew that he was 
 approaching the term of his mortal sufferings ; but others, and 
 among them Henri was the most sanguine, still hoped that he 
 would recover; and there certainly was nothing in his cheerv 
 manner on the morning of ihe wedding, to make anyone think 
 that such hopes were misplaced. The old Marquis was more 
 sad and melancholy than lie had used to be among his beloved 
 birds and cherry trees at Durbelli6re; and, on this occasion, he 
 was probably the saddest oi' the party, for he was the one who 
 would have rejoiced the most that the wedding of his son should 
 be an occasion of joy to relatives, servants, tenants, and the 
 numerous neighbours among whom he had always lived with so 
 much mutual affection. 
 
 The most singular figure of the whole party was Father Jerome, 
 the Cur^ of St. Laud's. H*^ siill wore the same long grey coat 
 in which he was first introduced to the reader at Durbelliere: 
 which had since that time figured at Saumur and many another 
 scene of blood and violence, and which we last saw when he was 
 found by Madame de Lescure in the chapel at Genet. It had 
 now been so patched and dirned, that its oldest friends could 
 not have recognised it. But lather Jerome still maintained that 
 it was Rood enough for the ordinary run of his present daily 
 duties, though he jocosely apologised to Marie for appearing, on 
 such an occasion, in so mean a garment. 
 
 As soon as the breakfast Nsas over, the table on which it had 
 been eaten was converted ini.o a rude altar, and the ceremony 
 was commenced. Jacques Chapeau and Annot, whose turn was 
 immediately to follow, stood close up to the table, opposite to 
 their master and mistress ; but Michael Stein and his two sons, 
 who of course were to be present at Annot's marriage, and who 
 had prepared to seat thcmseK es on the stairs till their presence 
 should be required, had also been invited to attend ; and they 
 now sat, but very ill at their ease, on three chairs, in the very 
 furthest corner of the room. Michael Stein, though chance had 
 thrown him among the loyal Vendeans, had in his heart but little 
 of that love and veneration for his immediate superiors, which 
 was the strong ana attractive point in the character of the people 
 of Poitou. Though he had lived all his life in the now famous 
 village of Echanbroignes, he had in his disposition, much of the 
 stubborn self-dependence of the early republicans ; and he did 
 not relish his position, sitting in the back-i;round as a humble 
 
Vcftdean Afarria^es, 389 
 
 hanger-on in the family of a nobleman and an aristocrat. He 
 vraS; however, unable to help himself ; his sons were Vcndeans ; 
 his daughter was just going to marry the confidential follower 
 of the Vendcan Commander-in-Chief; and he himself had been 
 seen fighting for La Vendde : there he sat, therefore, quiet, 
 though hardly happy, between his two stalwart sons, with his 
 thin hair brushed over his forehead, and his huge swarthy ha.ids 
 crossed on his knees before him. 
 
 The marriage ceremonies were soon performed: and then Henri 
 and Chapeau, each in their turn, led their brides from the aUar ; 
 and all went on as quietly in the one room which they occupied, 
 as though nothing beyond their daily occupations had occurred. 
 " God bless you, my children !" said the old Marquis, " this 
 is but a sad wedding; but it is useless to regret the happy times 
 which are gone,— it seems for ever." 
 
 " Not for ever, father," said Marie, kissing the old man's face, 
 " Henri and I still look forward to having our wcdding/r/t-y 
 perhaps in Paris — perhaps in dear La Vendde, when we shall 
 once more be able to call our old homes our own ; then we will 
 make you, and Agatha, and Victorine, make up fivefold for all 
 that has been omitted now. Will we not, Henri ?" 
 
 Below stairs, Chapeau and Annot, wisely thinking' that no 
 time was like the present, endeavoured to be as gay as they 
 would have been had they enjoyed their marriage-feast in the 
 smith's own cottage ; one or two of Chapeau's friends v/ere 
 asked on the occasion, and among them. Plume condescended to 
 regale himself, though the cheer was spread in the kitchen instead 
 of in the parlour. Michael, now relieved from the presence of 
 aristocracy, cat. and drank himself into good humour ; and even 
 received, with grim complacency, the jokes ct his sons, who in- 
 sisted on drinking to his health as a new re- ruit to the famous 
 regiment which was drawn from the parish cf Echanbroignes. 
 
 "Well, my girl, may heaven take care of you !" said he, 
 kissing his daughter, "and of you too, Jacques," and he extended 
 the caress to his son-in-law. " I won't say but what I wish you 
 
 were a decent shoemaker, or " 
 
 " Oh, laws, father," said Annot, " I'm sure I should never have 
 had him, if he had been." 
 
 " The more fool you, Annot ; but I wish it all the same ; and 
 that Annot had had a couple of cows to mind, and half-a-dozen 
 pigs to look after ; but it's too late to think of that now ; they'll 
 soon have neither a cow nor a pig in La Vendde ; and they^I 
 want neither smiths nor shoemakers ; however, my boy, God 
 bless you ! God bless you I ladies and gentlemen, God bless you 
 all !" and then the smith completed the work he had commenced, 
 and got as tipsy as he cculd have done, had his daughter been 
 married in Poitou. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 |E ha\.*e told our tale of La Vendue ; we have married 
 our hero and our heroine ; and, as is usual in such 
 cases, we must now bid them adieu. We cannot 
 congratulate ourselves on leaving them in a state of 
 happy prosperity, as we would have wished to have done ; but 
 we leave them with high hopes and glorious aspirations. We 
 cannot follow the Vendeans further in their gallant struggle, but 
 we part from them while they still confidently expect that 
 success which they certainly deserved, and are determined to 
 deserve that glory which has since been so fully accorded to 
 them. 
 
 In the foregoing pages much fiction has been blended with 
 histoiy, but still the outline of historical facts has been too 
 closely followed to allow us now to indulge the humanity of our 
 readers by ascribing to the friends we are quitting success 
 which they did not achieve, or a state of happiness which 
 they never were allowed to enjoy. It would be easy to speak of 
 the curly haired darlings, two of course, who blessed the union 
 of Henri Larochejaquelin and Marie de Lescure ; and the joy 
 with which they restored their aged father to the rural delights 
 of his chdteau at Durbellitirc. We might tell of the recovery of 
 that modern Paladine, Charles de Lescure, and of the glorious 
 rebuilding of the house of Clisson ; of the ecclesiastical honours 
 of Father Jerome, and of the happy marriage, or with more 
 probability, the happier celibacy of the divine Agatha. But we 
 cannot do so with propriety : facts, stem, untoward, cruel .''acts, 
 stare us in the face, and would make even the novelist blush, 
 were he, in total disregard of well-thumbed history, to attempt 
 so very false a fiction. , p. 
 
 Still it is necessary that something should be snid of the sub- 
 
Conclusioti, 3^91 
 
 sequent ad\ entures of those with whom we have for a while been 
 so intimate, some short word spoken of the manner in which 
 they adhered to the cause which was so dear to them. We 
 cannot leave them in their temporary sojourn at Laval, as though 
 a residence there was the goal of their wishes, the end of their 
 struggle, the natural and appropriate term of their story ; but 
 as, unfortunately, their future career was not a happy one, we 
 will beg the reader to advance with us at once over many years ; 
 and then, as he looks back upon La Vendue, through the 
 softening vista of time, the melancholy termination of its glorious 
 history will be less painful. 
 
 On the 7th July, 1815, the united English and Prussian 
 armies marched into Paris, after the battle of Waterloo, and 
 took military possession of the city. It was a remarkable but 
 grievous day for Paris ; the citizens generally stayed within 
 their houses, and left the streets to the armed multitude, whom 
 they could not regard as friends, and with whom they were no 
 longer able to contend as enemies. In spite cf the enthusiasm 
 with which Napoleon was greeted in Paris on his return from 
 Elba, there were very many royalists resident in the city ; men 
 who longed to welcome back to France the family of the 
 Bourbons, an^ to live again beneath the shelter and shade of 
 an ancient throne. But even these could not greet with a wel- 
 come foreigners who by force had taken possession of their 
 capital. It was a sad and gloomy day in Paris, for no man knew 
 what would be the fate, either of himself or of his country ; 
 shops were closed, and trade was silenced ; the clanking of arms 
 and the jingling of spurs was heard instead of the busy hum of 
 busy men. 
 
 On the evening of this day, a stout, fresh-coloured, good- 
 looking woman, of about forty years of age, was sitting in a 
 pcrruquier's shop, at the corner of the Rue St. Honord and the 
 Rue St. Denis, waiting for the return of her husband, who had 
 been called upon to exercise his skill on the person of some 
 of the warriors with whom Paris was now crowded. The 
 shutters of the little shop were up, as were those of all the 
 houses in the street, and the place was therefore dark and 
 triste ; and the stout, good-looking woman within was 
 melancholy and somewhat quenilous. A daughter, of about 
 twenty years of age, the exact likeness of her mother, only 
 twenty years less stout, and twenty years more pretty, sat 
 with her in the shop, and patiently listened to her complaints. 
 
 " Well, Annot," she said, " I wonder at your father. He had 
 a little spirit once, but it has all left him now. Had he been 
 said by me, he wouldn't have raised a bit of steel over an 
 English chin for the best day's hire that ever a man was paid— 
 unless, indeed) it was to cut the fellow's throat I ^ 
 
3^ La Vend^i^ 
 
 " If h^ didn't) mother, another would ; and what^s the good 
 of throwing away their money ? '* 
 
 "No matter— it's a coward's work to go and shave one's 
 country's enemies. Do you think he'd have shaved any of the 
 blues' oflficer^in^ La Vendue twenty years ago, for all the monev 
 they could hlwe oflfered him ? He'd have done it with a sword, 
 if he had done it-.at all. Well, I suppose it's all right ! I suppose 
 he's only fit to use a razor now." 
 
 " But you always say those were horrid days in La Vendue ; 
 that you had nothing to eat, and no bed to sleep in, nor shoes 
 to your feet 5 and that you and father couldn't get married for 
 ever so long, because of the wars ? " 
 
 " So they were horrid days. I don't think any one will live 
 to see the like again, But still, one don't like to see a man, 
 who once had a little spirit, become jacky to every one who has 
 a dirty chin to be scraj)ed. Oh, Annot, if you'd seen the men 
 tliere were in La Venclt^c in those days ; if you'd seen the great 
 Caihclincau, you would have seen a man." 
 
 After having read this conversation, no one will be surprised 
 to hear that on the board over the shop window the following 
 words, in yellow letters, were decently conspicuous :— 
 
 lACOUES CHAPEAU, 
 
 PERRUQUIER, 
 
 Madame Chapeau was now disturbed in her unreasonable 
 grumbling by a knock at the closed door, and on her opening 
 it, an officer in undress uniform, about fifty years of age, 
 politely greeted her, and asked her if that was not the house 
 of M. Jacques Chapeau. From his language, the visitor might 
 at first have been taken for a Frenchriian ; his dress, however, 
 plainly told that he belonged to the English army. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur, this is the humble shop of Chapeau, per* 
 ruquier," said our old friend, the elder Annot, who, in spite ot 
 her feelings of hostility to the English, was somewhat mollified 
 by the politeness and handsome figure of her visitor ; she 
 then informed him that Chapeau was not at home : that she 
 expected him in immediately ; and that his assistant, who was, 
 in some respects, almost as talented as his master, was below, 
 and would wait upon Monsieur immediately ; and she rang a 
 Utile bell, which was quickly responded to by some one ascend 
 ing from a lower region. 
 
 The visitor informed Madame Chapeau that he had hoi 
 called at present as a customer, but that he had taken the 
 libeity to intrude himself upon her for the purpose of learning 
 
Conclusion, 393 
 
 some facts of which, he was informed, her husband could speak 
 with more accuracy than any other person in Paris. 
 
 "It is respecting the battles of La Vendde," said he, " that 
 I wish to speak to him. I believe that he saw more of them 
 than any person now alive." 
 
 Madame Chapeau was considering within h\;rself whether 
 there would be any imprudence in confessing to the English 
 officer the important part her husband had played in La 
 Vendde, when the officer's question was answered by another 
 person, whose head and shoulders now dimly appeared upon 
 the scene. 
 
 These were the head and shoulders of Chapcau's assistant, 
 who had been summoned from his own region by the sound of 
 his mistress's bell ; the stairs from this subterraneous recess 
 did not open on to any passage, but ascended at once abruptly 
 into the shop, so that the assistant, when called on, found him- 
 self able to answer, and to make even a personal appearance, 
 as far as his head was concerned, without troubling himself to 
 mount the three or four last stairs. From this spot he was in 
 the habit of holding long conversations with his master and 
 mistress ; and now perceiving that neither the head nor chin of 
 the strange gentleman were to be submitted to his skill, he 
 arrested his steps, and astonished the visitor by a voice which 
 seemed to come out of the earth. 
 
 " Indeed he did, Monsieur, more than any one now alive- 
 more even than myself, and that is saying a great deal. Jacques 
 Chapeau was an officer high in command through the whole 
 Vendean war ; and I, even I, humble as I am now, I also Was 
 thought not unworthy to lead brave men into battle. I, Monsieur, 
 am Auguste Plume ; and though now merely a pcrruquier's poor 
 assistant, I was once the officer second in command in the army 
 of La Petite Vendee." 
 
 The gentleman turned round and gazed at the singular 
 apparition, which the obscurity of the shop only just permitted v 
 him to distinguish. Auguste Plume was now above sixty years 
 old, and completqlv bald ; his face was thin, lantern-jawed, and 
 cadaverous ; and his eyes, which were weak with age> were red 
 and bleared ; still he had not that ghastly, sick appearance, 
 which want both of food and rest had given him in the glorious 
 days to which he alluded : after the struggle in La Vendde, he 
 had lived for some time a wretched life, more like that of a 
 beast than a man ; hiding in woods, living on roots, and hunt- 
 ing with the appetite of a tiger after the blood of stray .re- 
 publicans ; his wife and children had perished in Carrier's 
 noyades in the Loire ; he himself had existed through two 
 years of continued suffering, with a tenacity of life which almost 
 reached to a miracle. He had joined the Chouans, and had 
 
594 ^ Viftdiik 
 
 taken an active part in the fiercest of their fierce acts of 
 vengeance. But he had lived through it all ; and now, in his 
 old age, he had plenty and comfort ; yet he look back with a 
 fond regret to the days of his imagined glory and power ; he 
 spoke with continual rapture of his own brave achievements, 
 and regretted that he had not been allowed to continue a life, , 
 the miseries of which it would be impossible to exaggerate. 
 
 " Bah, Auguste," said his mistress ; " the gentleman does not 
 care to hear of your La Petite Vendue ; it is of M. Henri— that 
 is, of the young Marquis de Larochejaquelin, and of Madame 
 and of Mademoiselle Agatha, and of M. de Lescure, and of 
 Charette, and the Prince dc Talmont, that Monsieur will want 
 to hear ! " 
 
 The stranger was in the act of explaining that the hostess was 
 right in her surmise, when the master of the house himself re- 
 turned. In spite of what he had suffered, years had sat lightly 
 on Chapeau, as they had done on his wife. He was now a fat, 
 good-humoured, middle-aged, comfortable man, who made the 
 most, in his trade, of the ^clat which attended him, as having 
 been the faithful servant of the most popular among the 
 Vendean leaders. He never wearied his customers with long 
 tales of his own gallantry ; he even had the unusual tact to be 
 able to sink himself, in speaking, as he was often invited to do, 
 of the civil war : he was known to have been brave, faithful, and 
 loyal, and he was accordingly very popular among the royalists 
 of Paris, who generally preferred his scissors and razors to those 
 of any other artist in the city. 
 
 The cfticcr, who was now seated in the shop, his wife and 
 daughter, and his assistant, began at once to explain to him the 
 service which he was required to perform ; and Chapeau, 
 bowing low to the compliments which the stranger paid to him, 
 declared with his accustomed mixture of politeness and frank 
 good nature, that he would be happy to tell anything that he 
 knew. 
 
 The gentleman explained, that in his early years he had 
 known De Lescure intimately ; that he had met Laroch(;jaquelin 
 in Paris, and that he had made one of a party of Englishmen, 
 who had done their best to send arms, money, and men from 
 his own country into La Vendde. Chapeau was too well bred 
 to allude to the disappointment which they had all so keenly 
 felt, from the want of that very aid ; he merely bowed again, 
 and said that he would tell Monsieur all he knew. 
 
 And so he did. From the time when Henri Larochejaquelin 
 left Laval for Granville, nothing prospered with the Vendean s ; 
 the army, as it was agreed, had left that place for Granville, 
 and their first misfortune had been the death of Dc Lescure. 
 " He died in Laval ? " asked the officer. 
 
Cofiduswn. 395 
 
 " 1^0," said Chapcau. " When the moment for startnig came, 
 he insisted on being carried with the army ; he followed us in a 
 carriage, but the jolting of the road was too much for him — the 
 journey killed him, He died at Fougercs, on the third day after 
 we left Laval." 
 ** And Madame ?" asked the stranger. 
 
 " It is impossible for me now," said Chapcau, " to tell you all 
 the dangers through which she passed, all the disguises which 
 she had to use, and the strange adventures which for a long 
 lime threatened almost daily to throw her in the hands of those • 
 who would have been delighted to murder her ; but of course 
 you know that she escaped at last." 
 
 " I am told that she still lives in Poitou, and I think I heard 
 that, some years after M. de Lcscure's death, she married 
 M. Louis Larochejaquelin." 
 
 " She did so— the younger brother of my own dear lord, lie 
 was a boy in England during our hot work in La Vcndde." 
 " Yes ; and he served in an English regiment." ♦ 
 
 " So I had heard. Monsieur; but you know, don't you, that he 
 also has now fallen." 
 
 *' Indeed no !— for years and years I have heard nothing of 
 the family." 
 
 " It was only two months since : he fell last May at the head 
 of the Vendcans, leading them against the troops which the 
 Emperor sent down there. The Vendeans could not endure 
 the thoughts of the Emperor's return from Elba. M. Louis 
 was the first to lift his sword, and Madame is, a second time, a 
 widow. Poor lady, none have suffered as she has done ! " He 
 then paused a while in his narrative, but a? the stranger did not 
 speak, he continued : " But of M. Henri, of course, Monsieur, 
 you heard the fate of our dear General ? " 
 
 " I only know that he perished, as did so many hundred 
 others, who were also true and brave." 
 
 *' I will tell you then," said Chapeau, " for I was by him when 
 he died ; he fell, when he was shot, close at my fcec : he never 
 spoke one word, or gave one groan, but his eyes, as they closed 
 for the last time, looked up into the face of one — one who, at 
 any rate, loved him very well," and Chapeau took a handkci- 
 chief from a little pocket in his wife's apron, and applied it to 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Yes," he continued, " when the bullet struck him, I was aQ 
 near to him as I am to her," and he put his band to his wife's 
 head,. "It might have been me as well as him, only for the 
 chance. I'll tell you how the manner of it was. You know 
 how we all strove to cross back into La Vendde, first at Angers 
 and afterwards at Ancenis ; and how M. Henri got divided from 
 the armv at Ancenis. Well, after tha*. the Vcndean annv waa 
 
396 Ln Vend/e, 
 
 no more ; the army was gone, it had melted away \ the most of 
 those who were still alive were left in Brittany, and they joined 
 the Chouans. Here is my friend, Auguste, he was one of 
 t>iem." 
 " Indeed I was, Monsieur, for a year and eight months." 
 " Never mind now, Auguste, you can tell the gentleman by- 
 and-by ; but, as I was saving, M. Henri was left all but alone 
 on the southern bank of the river — there were, perhaps, twenty 
 with him altogether— not more ; and there were as many 
 hundreds hunting those twenty from day to day." 
 " And you were one of them, Chapeau ?" 
 " I was. Monsieur. My wife here remained with her father in 
 Laval ; he was a crafty man, and he made the blues believe he 
 was a republican ; but, bless you, he was as true a royalist all 
 the time as I was. Well, there we were, hunted, like wolves, 
 from one forest to another, till about the middle of winter, we 
 fixed ourselves for a while in the wood of Vesins, about three 
 leagues to the east of Cholet, a little to the south of the great 
 road from Saumur. From this place M. Henri harrassed them 
 most effectually ; about fifty of the old Vendeans had joined 
 him, and with these he stopped their provisions, interrupted 
 their posts, and on one occasion, succeeded in getting the 
 despatches from Paris to the republican General. We were at 
 this work for about six weeks ; and he, as he always did, exposed 
 himself to ever)' possible danger. One morning we came upon 
 two republican grenadiers ; there were M. Henn, two others 
 and myself there, and we wanted immediately to fire upon them ; 
 but M. Henri would not have it so ; he said that he would save 
 them, and rushed forward to bid them lay down their arms ; as 
 he did so, the foremost of them fired, and M. Henri fell dead 
 without a groan." 
 
 " And the two men— did they escape ? " 
 
 " No, neither of them," said Chapeau ; and for a moment, .1 
 gleam of savage satisfaction flashed across his face ; " the man 
 who fired the shot had not one minute spared him for his 
 triumph } I had followed close upon my master, and I avenged 
 him." 
 
 " And where was his young wife all this lime ? " 
 " She was with Madame de Lescure, in Brittany ; and so was 
 Mademoiselle Agatha; they were living disguised almost as 
 peasants, at an old chAteau called Dreneuf ; after that they all 
 escaped to Spain ; they are both still alive, and now in Poitou ; 
 and I am told, that though they have not chosen 'absolut'^ly to 
 seclude themselves, they both pass the same holy life as though 
 they were within the walls of a convent." 
 
 It was long before Chapeau discontinued his narrative, but it 
 is unnecessary for us to follow further in the sad details \hich 
 
Conclusion, 3^ 
 
 he had to give Oi* the loss of the brave Vcndcan leaders. The 
 Prince de Talmont, Charette, Stofilet, Marigny,— all of them fell : 
 "And yet," said Chapeau, with a boast, which evidently gave 
 him intense satisfaction, " La Vendde was never conquered. 
 Neither the fear of the Convention, nor the arms of the Directory, 
 noi the strength of the Consul, nor the flattery of the Emperor, 
 could conquer La Vendde, or put down the passionate longing 
 for the return of the royal family which has always burnt in the 
 bosom of the people. Revolt has never been put down in La 
 Vendde since Calhelineau commenced the war in St. Florent. 
 The people would serve neither the republic nor the empire ; the 
 noblesse would not visit the court ; their sons have refused com- 
 missions in the army, and their daughters have disdained to 
 accept the hands of any who had forgotten their allegiance to 
 the throne. Through more than twenty years of suffering and 
 bloodshed. La Vendde has been true to its colour, and now it 
 will receive its reward." 
 
 Chapeau himself, however, more fortunate, though not less 
 faithful, than his compatriots, had not been obliged to wait 
 twenty years for his reward ; he owned, with something like a 
 feeling of disgrace, that he had been carrying on his business in 
 Paris for the last fifteen years, with considerable success and 
 comfort to himself; and he frjyikly confessed that he had by 
 practice inured himself to the disagreeable task of shaving, 
 cutting and curling beards and heads, which were devoted to the 
 empire; "But then. Monsieur," said he apologising for his 
 conduct, " there was a great difference, you know, between them 
 and republicans." 
 
 Five-and-thirty years have now passed since Chapeau was 
 talking, and the Vendeans triumphed in the restoration of Louis 
 XVI n. to the throne of his ancestors. That throne has been 
 again overturned; and, another dynasty having inte.*vened, 
 France is again a Republic. How long will it be before some 
 second La Vendde shall successfully, but bloodlessly, struggle for 
 another re-establishment of the monarchy ? Surely before the 
 expiration of half a century since the return of Louis, France 
 will concratulate herself on another restoration. • 
 
 • Five-and-twenty years have again passed away since this tale wa« 
 completed, and the restoration has not yet been eflfected, though the 
 self-congratulations of the royalists were the other day all but uttered. 
 France must again wait till the legitimate heir of the old family shall 
 be willing to reign as a constitutional sovereign. 
 
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