The preceding events of this history having been greatly influenced by
the formation of the regions in which they happened, it is desirable
to give a minute description of them, without which the closing scenes
might be difficult of comprehension.
The town of Fougeres is partly built upon a slate rock, which seems to
have slipped from the mountains that hem in the broad valley of Couesnon
to the west and take various names according to their localities. The
town is separated from the mountains by a gorge, through which flows a
small river called the Nancon. To the east, the view is the same as from
the summit of La Pelerine; to the west, the town looks down into the
tortuous valley of the Nancon; but there is a spot from which a section
of the great valley and the picturesque windings of the gorge can be
seen at the same time. This place, chosen by the inhabitants of the town
for their Promenade, and to which the steps of Mademoiselle de Verneuil
were now turned, was destined to be the theatre on which the drama begun
at La Vivetiere was to end. Therefore, however picturesque the other
parts of Fougeres may be, attention must be particularly given to the
scenery which meets the eye from this terrace.
To give an idea of the rock on which Fougeres stands, as seen on this
side, we may compare it to one of those immense towers circled by
Saracen architects with balconies on each story, which were reached by
spiral stairways. To add to this effect, the rock is capped by a Gothic
church, the small spires, clock-tower, and buttresses of which make its
shape almost precisely that of a sugar-loaf. Before the portal of this
church, which is dedicated to Saint-Leonard, is a small, irregular
square, where the soil is held up by a buttressed wall, which forms a
balustrade and communicates by a flight of steps with the Promenade.
This public walk, like a second cornice, extends round the rock a few
rods below the square of Saint-Leonard; it is a broad piece of ground
planted with trees, and it joins the fortifications of the town. About
ten rods below the walls and rocks which support this Promenade (due
to a happy combination of indestructible slate and patient industry)
another circular road exists, called the “Queen’s Staircase”; this is
cut in the rock itself and leads to a bridge built across the Nancon by
Anne of Brittany. Below this road, which forms a third cornice, gardens
descend, terrace after terrace, to the river, like shelves covered with
flowers.
Parallel with the Promenade, on the other side of the Nancon and
across its narrow valley, high rock-formations, called the heights of
Saint-Sulpice, follow the stream and descend in gentle slopes to the
great valley, where they turn abruptly to the north. Towards the south,
where the town itself really ends and the faubourg Saint-Leonard begins,
the Fougeres rock makes a bend, becomes less steep, and turns into
the great valley, following the course of the river, which it hems in
between itself and the heights of Saint-Sulpice, forming a sort of pass
through which the water escapes in two streamlets to the Couesnon,
into which they fall. This pretty group of rocky hills is called the
“Nid-aux-Crocs”; the little vale they surround is the “Val de Gibarry,”
the rich pastures of which supply the butter known to epicures as that
of the “Pree-Valaye.”
At the point where the Promenade joins the fortifications is a tower
called the “Tour de Papegaut.” Close to this square erection, against
the side of which the house now occupied by Mademoiselle de Verneuil
rested, is a wall, partly built by hands and partly formed of the native
rock where it offered a smooth surface. Here stands a gateway leading
to the faubourg of Saint-Sulpice and bearing the same name. Above, on
a breastwork of granite which commands the three valleys, rise the
battlements and feudal towers of the ancient castle of Fougeres,--one
of those enormous erections built by the Dukes of Brittany, with lofty
walls fifteen feet thick, protected on the east by a pond from which
flows the Nancon, the waters of which fill its moats, and on the west by
the inaccessible granite rock on which it stands.
Seen from the Promenade, this magnificent relic of the Middle Ages,
wrapped in its ivy mantle, adorned with its square or rounded towers,
in either of which a whole regiment could be quartered,--the castle, the
town, and the rock, protected by walls with sheer surfaces, or by
the glacis of the fortifications, form a huge horseshoe, lined with
precipices, on which the Bretons have, in course of ages, cut various
narrow footways. Here and there the rocks push out like architectural
adornments. Streamlets issue from the fissures, where the roots of
stunted trees are nourished. Farther on, a few rocky slopes, less
perpendicular than the rest, afford a scanty pasture for the goats. On
all sides heather, growing from every crevice, flings its rosy garlands
over the dark, uneven surface of the ground. At the bottom of this vast
funnel the little river winds through meadows that are always cool and
green, lying softly like a carpet.
Beneath the castle and among the granite boulders is a church dedicated
to Saint-Sulpice, whose name is given to the suburb which lies across
the Nancon. This suburb, flung as it were to the bottom of a precipice,
and its church, the spire of which does not rise to the height of the
rocks which threaten to crush it, are picturesquely watered by several
affluents of the Nancon, shaded by trees and brightened by gardens. The
whole region of Fougeres, its suburbs, its churches, and the hills of
Saint-Sulpice are surrounded by the heights of Rille, which form part of
a general range of mountains enclosing the broad valley of Couesnon.
Such are the chief features of this landscape, the principal
characteristic of which is a rugged wildness softened by smiling
accidents, by a happy blending of the finest works of men’s hands
with the capricious lay of a land full of unexpected contrasts, by a
something, hardly to be explained, which surprises, astonishes, and
puzzles. In no other part of France can the traveller meet with such
grandiose contrasts as those offered by the great basin of the Couesnon,
and the valleys hidden among the rocks of Fougeres and the heights of
Rille. Their beauty is of that unspeakable kind in which chance triumphs
and all the harmonies of Nature do their part. The clear, limpid,
flowing waters, the mountains clothed with the vigorous vegetation
of those regions, the sombre rocks, the graceful buildings, the
fortifications raised by nature, and the granite towers built by man;
combined with all the artifices of light and shade, with the contrasts
of the varieties of foliage, with the groups of houses where an active
population swarms, with the lonely barren places where the granite will
not suffer even the lichen to fasten on its surface, in short, with all
the ideas we ask a landscape to possess: grace and awfulness, poesy with
its renascent magic, sublime pictures, delightful ruralities,--all these
are here; it is Brittany in bloom.
The tower called the Papegaut, against which the house now occupied by
Mademoiselle de Verneuil rested, has its base at the very bottom of the
precipice, and rises to the esplanade which forms the cornice or terrace
before the church of Saint-Leonard. From Marie’s house, which was open
on three sides, could be seen the horseshoe (which begins at the
tower itself), the winding valley of the Nancon, and the square of
Saint-Leonard. It is one of a group of wooden buildings standing
parallel with the western side of the church, with which they form an
alley-way, the farther end of which opens on a steep street skirting
the church and leading to the gate of Saint-Leonard, along which
Mademoiselle de Verneuil now made her way.
Marie naturally avoided entering the square of the church which was then
above her, and turned towards the Promenade. The magnificence of
the scene which met her eyes silenced for a moment the tumult of her
passions. She admired the vast trend of the valley, which her eyes took
in, from the summit of La Pelerine to the plateau where the main road to
Vitry passes; then her eyes rested on the Nid-aux-Crocs and the winding
gorges of the Val de Gibarry, the crests of which were bathed in the
misty glow of the setting sun. She was almost frightened by the depth of
the valley of the Nancon, the tallest poplars of which scarcely reached
to the level of the gardens below the Queen’s Staircase. At this time of
day the smoke from the houses in the suburbs and in the valleys made a
vapor in the air, through which the various objects had a bluish tinge;
the brilliant colors of the day were beginning to fade; the firmament
took a pearly tone; the moon was casting its veil of light into the
ravine; all things tended to plunge the soul into reverie and bring back
the memory of those beloved.
In a moment the scene before her was powerless to hold Marie’s thoughts.
In vain did the setting sun cast its gold-dust and its crimson sheets
to the depths of the river and along the meadows and over the graceful
buildings strewn among the rocks; she stood immovable, gazing at the
heights of the Mont Saint-Sulpice. The frantic hope which had led her
to the Promenade was miraculously realized. Among the gorse and bracken
which grew upon those heights she was certain that she recognized, in
spite of the goatskins which they wore, a number of the guests at La
Vivetiere, and among them the Gars, whose every moment became vivid to
her eyes in the softened light of the sinking sun. A few steps back
of the ground of men she distinguished her enemy, Madame du Gua. For
a moment Marie fancied that she dreamed, but her rival’s hatred soon
proved to her that the dream was a living one. The attention she was
giving to the least little gesture of the marquis prevented her from
observing the care with which Madame du Gua aimed a musket at her. But
a shot which woke the echoes of the mountains, and a ball that whistled
past her warned Mademoiselle de Verneuil of her rival’s determination.
“She sends me her card,” thought Marie, smiling. Instantly a “Qui
vive?” echoing from sentry to sentry, from the castle to the Porte
Saint-Leonard, proved to the Chouans the alertness of the Blues,
inasmuch as the least accessible of their ramparts was so well guarded.
“It is she--and he,” muttered Marie to herself.
To seek the marquis, follow his steps and overtake him, was a thought
that flashed like lightning through her mind. “I have no weapon!” she
cried. She remembered that on leaving Paris she had flung into a
trunk an elegant dagger formerly belonging to a sultana, which she had
jestingly brought with her to the theatre of war, as some persons take
note-books in which to jot down their travelling ideas; she was less
attracted by the prospect of shedding blood than by the pleasure of
wearing a pretty weapon studded with precious stones, and playing with
a blade that was stainless. Three days earlier she had deeply regretted
having put this dagger in a trunk, when to escape her enemies at La
Vivetiere she had thought for a moment of killing herself. She now
returned to the house, found the weapon, put it in her belt, wrapped a
large shawl round her shoulders and a black lace scarf about her hair,
and covered her head with one of those broad-brimmed hats distinctive
of Chouans which belonged to a servant of the house. Then, with the
presence of mind which excited passions often give, she took the glove
which Marche-a-Terre had given her as a safeguard, and saying, in reply
to Francine’s terrible looks, “I would seek him in hell,” she returned
to the Promenade.
The Gars was still at the same place, but alone. By the direction of
his telescope he seemed to be examining with the careful attention of
a commander the various paths across the Nancon, the Queen’s Staircase,
and the road leading through the Porte Saint-Sulpice and round the
church of that name, where it meets the high-road under range of the
guns at the castle. Mademoiselle de Verneuil took one of the little
paths made by goats and their keepers leading down from the Promenade,
reached the Staircase, then the bottom of the ravine, crossed the Nancon
and the suburb, and divining like a bird in the desert her right course
among the dangerous precipices of the Mont Saint-Sulpice, she followed
a slippery track defined upon the granite, and in spite of the prickly
gorse and reeds and loose stones which hindered her, she climbed the
steep ascent with an energy greater perhaps than that of a man,--the
energy momentarily possessed by a woman under the influence of passion.
Night overtook her as she endeavored by the failing moonlight to make
out the path the marquis must have taken; an obstinate quest without
reward, for the dead silence about her was sufficient proof of the
withdrawal of the Chouans and their leader. This effort of passion
collapsed with the hope that inspired it. Finding herself alone, after
nightfall, in a hostile country, she began to reflect; and Hulot’s
advice, together with the recollection of Madame du Gua’s attempt, made
her tremble with fear. The stillness of the night, so deep in mountain
regions, enabled her to hear the fall of every leaf even at a distance,
and these slight sounds vibrated on the air as though to give a measure
of the silence or the solitude. The wind was blowing across the heights
and sweeping away the clouds with violence, producing an alternation
of shadows and light, the effect of which increased her fears, and gave
fantastic and terrifying semblances to the most harmless objects. She
turned her eyes to the houses of Fougeres, where the domestic lights
were burning like so many earthly stars, and she presently saw
distinctly the tower of Papegaut. She was but a very short distance from
her own house, but within that space was the ravine. She remembered the
declivities by which she had come, and wondered if there were not more
risk in attempting to return to Fougeres than in following out the
purpose which had brought her. She reflected that the marquis’s glove
would surely protect her from the Chouans, and that Madame du Gua was
the only enemy to be really feared. With this idea in her mind, Marie
clasped her dagger, and tried to find the way to a country house the
roofs of which she had noticed as she climbed Saint-Sulpice; but she
walked slowly, for she suddenly became aware of the majestic solemnity
which oppresses a solitary being in the night time in the midst of wild
scenery, where lofty mountains nod their heads like assembled giants.
The rustle of her gown, caught by the brambles, made her tremble more
than once, and more than once she hastened her steps only to slacken
them again as she thought her last hour had come. Before long matters
assumed an aspect which the boldest men could not have faced without
alarm, and which threw Mademoiselle de Verneuil into the sort of
terror that so affects the very springs of life that all things become
excessive, weakness as well as strength. The feeblest beings will then
do deeds of amazing power; the strongest go mad with fear.
Marie heard at a short distance a number of strange sounds, distinct yet
vague, indicative of confusion and tumult, fatiguing to the ear which
tried to distinguish them. They came from the ground, which seemed to
tremble beneath the feet of a multitude of marching men. A momentary
clearness in the sky enabled her to perceive at a little distance long
files of hideous figures waving like ears of corn and gliding like
phantoms; but she scarcely saw them, for darkness fell again, like a
black curtain, and hid the fearful scene which seemed to her full of
yellow, dazzling eyes. She turned hastily and ran to the top of a
bank to escape meeting three of these horrible figures who were coming
towards her.
“Did you see it?” said one.
“I felt a cold wind as it rushed past me,” replied a hoarse voice.
“I smelt a damp and graveyard smell,” said the third.
“Was it white?” asked the first.
“Why should only _he_ come back out of all those we left dead at La
Pelerine?” said the second.
“Why indeed?” replied the third. “Why do the Sacre-Coeur men have the
preference? Well, at any rate, I’d rather die without confession than
wander about as he does, without eating or drinking, and no blood in his
body or flesh on his bones.”
“Ah!”
This exclamation, or rather this fearful cry, issued from the group
as the three Chouans pointed to the slender form and pallid face of
Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who fled away with terrified rapidity without
a sound.
“Here he is!” “There he is!” “Where?” “There!” “He’s gone!” “No!” “Yes!”
“Can you see him?” These cries reverberated like the monotonous murmur
of waves upon a shore.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil walked bravely in the direction of the house
she had seen, and soon came in sight of a number of persons, who all
fled away at her approach with every sign of panic fear. She felt
impelled to advance by a mysterious power which coerced her; the
lightness of her body, which seemed to herself inexplicable, was another
source of terror. These forms which rose in masses at her approach, as
if from the ground on which she trod, uttered moans which were scarcely
human. At last she reached, not without difficulty, a trampled garden,
the hedges and fences of which were broken down. Stopped by a sentry,
she showed the glove. The moon lighted her face, and the muzzle of the
gun already pointed at her was dropped by the Chouan, who uttered a
hoarse cry, which echoed through the place. She now saw large buildings,
where a few lighted windows showed the rooms that were occupied, and
presently reached the walls without further hindrance. Through the
window into which she looked, she saw Madame du Gua and the leaders
who were convoked at La Vivetiere. Bewildered at the sight, also by
the conviction of her danger, she turned hastily to a little opening
protected by iron bars, and saw in a long vaulted hall the marquis,
alone and gloomy, within six feet of her. The reflection of the fire,
before which he was sitting in a clumsy chair, lighted his face with a
vacillating ruddy glow that gave the character of a vision to the scene.
Motionless and trembling, the girl stood clinging to the bars, to catch
his words if he spoke. Seeing him so depressed, disheartened, and pale,
she believed herself to be the cause of his sadness. Her anger changed
to pity, her pity to tenderness, and she suddenly knew that it was not
revenge alone which had brought her there.
The marquis rose, turned his head, and stood amazed when he saw, as if
in a cloud, Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s face; then he shook his head with
a gesture of impatience and contempt, exclaiming: “Must I forever see
the face of that devil, even when awake?”
This utter contempt for her forced a half-maddened laugh from the
unhappy girl which made the young leader quiver. He sprang to the
window, but Mademoiselle de Verneuil was gone. She heard the steps of a
man behind her, which she supposed to be those of the marquis, and, to
escape him, she knew no obstacles; she would have scaled walls and flown
through air; she would have found and followed a path to hell sooner
than have seen again, in flaming letters on the forehead of that man, “I
despise you,”--words which an inward voice sounded in her soul with the
noise of a trumpet.
After walking a short distance without knowing where she went, she
stopped, conscious of a damp exhalation. Alarmed by the sound of voices,
she went down some steps which led into a cellar. As she reached the
last of them, she stopped to listen and discover the direction her
pursuers might take. Above the sounds from the outside, which were
somewhat loud, she could hear within the lugubrious moans of a human
being, which added to her terror. Rays of light coming down the steps
made her fear that this retreat was only too well known to her enemies,
and, to escape them, she summoned fresh energy. Some moments later,
after recovering her composure of mind, it was difficult for her to
conceive by what means she had been able to climb a little wall, in a
recess of which she was now hidden. She took no notice at first of the
cramped position in which she was, but before long the pain of it became
intolerable, for she was bending double under the arched opening of
a vault, like the crouching Venus which ignorant persons attempt to
squeeze into too narrow a niche. The wall, which was rather thick and
built of granite, formed a low partition between the stairway and the
cellar whence the groans were issuing. Presently she saw an individual,
clothed in a goatskin, enter the cave beneath her, and move about,
without making any sign of eager search. Impatient to discover if she
had any chance of safety, Mademoiselle de Verneuil waited with anxiety
till the light brought by the new-comer lighted the whole cave, where
she could partly distinguish a formless but living mass which was trying
to reach a part of the wall, with violent and repeated jerks, something
like those of a carp lying out of water on a shore.
A small pine torch threw its blue and hazy light into the cave. In
spite of the gloomy poetic effects which Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s
imagination cast about this vaulted chamber, which was echoing to the
sounds of a pitiful prayer, she was obliged to admit that the place was
nothing more than an underground kitchen, evidently long abandoned. When
the formless mass was distinguishable it proved to be a short and very
fat man, whose limbs were carefully bound before he had been left lying
on the damp stone floor of the kitchen by those who had seized him. When
he saw the new-comer approach him with a torch in one hand and a fagot
of sticks in the other, the captive gave a dreadful groan, which so
wrought upon the sensibilities of Mademoiselle de Verneuil that she
forgot her own terror and despair and the cramped position of her limbs,
which were growing numb. But she made a great effort and remained
still. The Chouan flung the sticks into the fireplace, after trying the
strength of an old crane which was fastened to a long iron bar; then he
set fire to the wood with his torch. Marie saw with terror that the man
was the same Pille-Miche to whom her rival had delivered her, and whose
figure, illuminated by the flame, was like that of the little boxwood
men so grotesquely carved in Germany. The moans of his prisoner produced
a broad grin upon features that were ribbed with wrinkles and tanned by
the sun.
“You see,” he said to his victim, “that we Christians keep our promises,
which you don’t. That fire is going to thaw out your legs and tongue and
hands. Hey! hey! I don’t see a dripping-pan to put under your feet; they
are so fat the grease may put out the fire. Your house must be badly
furnished if it can’t give its master all he wants to warm him.”
The victim uttered a sharp cry, as if he hoped someone would hear him
through the ceiling and come to his assistance.
“Ho! sing away, Monsieur d’Orgemont; they are all asleep upstairs, and
Marche-a-Terre is just behind me; he’ll shut the cellar door.”
While speaking Pille-Miche was sounding with the butt-end of his musket
the mantel-piece of the chimney, the tiles of the floor, the walls and
the ovens, to discover, if possible, where the miser hid his gold. This
search was made with such adroitness that d’Orgemont kept silence, as if
he feared to have been betrayed by some frightened servant; for, though
he trusted his secrets to no one, his habits gave plenty of ground for
logical deductions. Pille-Miche turned several times sharply to look
at his victim, as children do when they try to guess, by the conscious
expression of the comrade who has hidden an article, whether they are
nearer to or farther away from it. D’Orgemont pretended to be alarmed
when the Chouan tapped the ovens, which sounded hollow, and seemed to
wish to play upon his eager credulity. Just then three other Chouans
rushed down the steps and entered the kitchen. Seeing Marche-a-Terre
among them Pille-Miche discontinued his search, after casting upon
d’Orgemont a look that conveyed the wrath of his balked covetousness.
“Marie Lambrequin has come to life!” cried Marche-a-Terre, proclaiming
by his manner that all other interests were of no account beside this
great piece of news.
“I’m not surprised,” said Pille-Miche, “he took the sacrament so often;
the good God belonged to him.”
“Ha! ha!” observed Mene-a-Bien, “that didn’t stand him in anything
at his death. He hadn’t received absolution before the affair at La
Pelerine. He had cheapened Goguelu’s daughter, and was living in mortal
sin. The Abbe Gudin said he’d have to roam round two months as a ghost
before he could come to life. We saw him pass us,--he was pale, he was
cold, he was thin, he smelt of the cemetery.”
“And his Reverence says that if a ghost gets hold of a living man he can
force him to be his companion,” said the fourth Chouan.
The grotesque appearance of this last speaker drew Marche-a-Terre from
the pious reflections he had been making on the accomplishment of this
miracle of coming to life which, according to the Abbe Gudin would
happen to every true defender of religion and the king.
“You see, Galope-Chopine,” he said to the fourth man gravely, “what
comes of omitting even the smallest duty commanded by our holy religion.
It is a warning to us, given by Saint Anne of Auray, to be rigorous with
ourselves for the slightest sin. Your cousin Pille-Miche has asked the
Gars to give you the surveillance of Fougeres, and the Gars consents,
and you’ll be well paid--but you know with what flour we bake a
traitor’s bread.”
“Yes, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre.”
“And you know why I tell you that. Some say you like cider and gambling,
but you can’t play heads or tails now, remember; you must belong to us
only, or--”
“By your leave, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, cider and stakes are two good
things which don’t hinder a man’s salvation.”
“If my cousin commits any folly,” said Pille-Miche, “it will be out of
ignorance.”
“In any way he commits it, if harm comes,” said Marche-a-Terre, in a
voice which made the arched roof tremble, “my gun won’t miss him. You
will answer for him to me,” he added, turning to Pille-Miche; “for if he
does wrong I shall take it out on the thing that fills your goatskin.”
“But, Monsieur Marche-a-Terre, with all due respect,” said
Galope-Chopine, “haven’t you sometimes taken a counterfeit Chouan for a
real one.”
“My friend,” said Marche-a-Terre in a curt tone, “don’t let that happen
in your case, or I’ll cut you in two like a turnip. As to the emissaries
of the Gars, they all carry his glove, but since that affair at La
Vivetiere the Grande Garce has added a green ribbon to it.”
Pille Miche nudged his comrade by the elbow and showed him d’Orgemont,
who was pretending to be asleep; but Pille-Miche and Marche-a-Terre both
knew by experience that no one ever slept by the corner of their fire,
and though the last words said to Galope-Chopine were almost whispered,
they must have been heard by the victim, and the four Chouans looked at
him fixedly, thinking perhaps that fear had deprived him of his senses.
Suddenly, at a slight sign from Marche-a-Terre, Pille-Miche pulled off
d’Orgemont’s shoes and stockings, Mene-a-Bien and Galope-Chopine seized
him round the body and carried him to the fire. Then Marche-a-Terre took
one of the thongs that tied the fagots and fastened the miser’s feet to
the crane. These actions and the horrible celerity with which they were
done brought cries from the victim, which became heart-rending when
Pille-Miche gathered the burning sticks under his legs.
“My friends, my good friends,” screamed d’Orgemont, “you hurt me, you
kill me! I’m a Christian like you.”
“You lie in your throat!” replied Marche-a-Terre. “Your brother denied
God; and as for you, you bought the abbey of Juvigny. The Abbe Gudin
says we can roast apostates when we find them.”
“But, my brothers in God, I don’t refuse to pay.”
“We gave you two weeks, and it is now two months, and Galope-Chopine
here hasn’t received the money.”
“Haven’t you received any of it, Galope-Chopine?” asked the miser, in
despair.
“None of it, Monsieur d’Orgemont,” replied Galope-Chopine, frightened.
The cries, which had sunk into groans, continuous as the rattle in a
dying throat, now began again with dreadful violence. Accustomed to
such scenes, the four Chouans looked at d’Orgemont, who was twisting and
howling, so coolly that they seemed like travellers watching before an
inn fire till the roast meat was done enough to eat.
“I’m dying, I’m dying!” cried the victim, “and you won’t get my money.”
In spite of these agonizing cries, Pille-Miche saw that the fire did not
yet scorch the skin; he drew the sticks cleverly together so as to make
a slight flame. On this d’Orgemont called out in a quavering voice: “My
friends, unbind me! How much do you want? A hundred crowns--a thousand
crowns--ten thousand crowns--a hundred thousand crowns--I offer you two
hundred thousand crowns!”
The voice became so lamentable that Mademoiselle de Verneuil forgot her
own danger and uttered an exclamation.
“Who spoke?” asked Marche-a-Terre.
The Chouans looked about them with terrified eyes. These men, so brave
in fight, were unable to face a ghost. Pille-Miche alone continued to
listen to the promises which the flames were now extracting from his
victim.
“Five hundred thousand crowns--yes, I’ll give them,” cried the victim.
“Well, where are they?” answered Pille-Miche, tranquilly.
“Under the first apple-tree--Holy Virgin! at the bottom of the garden to
the left--you are brigands--thieves! Ah! I’m dying--there’s ten thousand
francs--”
“Francs! we don’t want francs,” said Marche-a-Terre; “those Republican
coins have pagan figures which oughtn’t to pass.”
“They are not francs, they are good louis d’or. But oh! undo me, unbind
me! I’ve told you where my life is--my money.”
The four Chouans looked at each other as if thinking which of their
number they could trust sufficiently to disinter the money.
The cannibal cruelty of the scene so horrified Mademoiselle de Verneuil
that she could bear it no longer. Though doubtful whether the role
of ghost, which her pale face and the Chouan superstitions evidently
assigned to her, would carry her safely through the danger, she called
out, courageously, “Do you not fear God’s anger? Unbind him, brutes!”
The Chouans raised their heads and saw in the air above them two eyes
which shone like stars, and they fled, terrified. Mademoiselle de
Verneuil sprang into the kitchen, ran to d’Orgemont, and pulled him so
violently from the crane that the thong broke. Then with the blade of
her dagger she cut the cords which bound him. When the miser was free
and on his feet, the first expression of his face was a painful but
sardonic grin.
“Apple-tree! yes, go to the apple-tree, you brigands,” he said. “Ho, ho!
this is the second time I’ve fooled them. They won’t get a third chance
at me.”
So saying, he caught Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s hand, drew her under the
mantel-shelf to the back of the hearth in a way to avoid disturbing the
fire, which covered only a small part of it; then he touched a spring;
the iron back was lifted, and when their enemies returned to the kitchen
the heavy door of the hiding-place had already fallen noiselessly.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil then understood the carp-like movements she had
seen the miser making.
“The ghost has taken the Blue with him,” cried the voice of
Marche-a-Terre.
The fright of the Chouans must have been great, for the words were
followed by a stillness so profound that d’Orgemont and his companion
could hear them muttering to themselves: “Ave, sancta Anna Auriaca
gratia plena, Dominus tecum,” etc.
“They are praying, the fools!” cried d’Orgemont.
“Hush! are you not afraid they will discover us?” said Mademoiselle de
Verneuil, checking her companion.
The old man’s laugh dissipated her fears.
“That iron back is set in a wall of granite two feet thick,” he said.
“We can hear them, but they can’t hear us.”
Then he took the hand of his preserver and placed it near a crevice
through which a current of fresh air was blowing. She then perceived
that the opening was made in the shaft of the chimney.
“Ai! ai!” cried d’Orgemont. “The devil! how my legs smart!”
The Chouans, having finished their prayer, departed, and the old miser
again caught the hand of his companion and helped her to climb some
narrow winding steps cut in the granite wall. When they had mounted some
twenty of these steps the gleam of a lamp dimly lighted their heads. The
miser stopped, turned to his companion, examined her face as if it were
a bank note he was doubtful about cashing, and heaved a heavy sigh.
“By bringing you here,” he said, after a moment’s silence, “I have paid
you in full for the service you did me; I don’t see why I should give
you--”
“Monsieur, I ask nothing of you,” she said.
These words, and also, perhaps, the disdainful expression on the
beautiful face, reassured the old man, for he answered, not without a
sigh, “Ah! if you take it that way, I have gone too far not to continue
on.”
He politely assisted Marie to climb a few more steps rather strangely
constructed, and half willingly, half reluctantly, ushered her into a
small closet about four feet square, lighted by a lamp hanging from
the ceiling. It was easy to see that the miser had made preparations to
spend more than one day in this retreat if the events of the civil war
compelled him to hide himself.
“Don’t brush against that wall, you might whiten yourself,” said
d’Orgemont suddenly, as he hurriedly put his hand between the girl’s
shawl and the stones which seemed to have been lately whitewashed. The
old man’s action produced quite another effect from that he intended.
Marie looked about her and saw in one corner a sort of projection, the
shape of which forced from her a cry of terror, for she fancied it
was that of a human being standing erect and mortared into the wall.
D’Orgemont made a violent sign to her to hold her tongue, and his little
eyes of a porcelain blue showed as much fear as those of his companion.
“Fool! do you think I murdered him? It is the body of my brother,” and
the old man gave a lugubrious sigh. “He was the first sworn-in priest;
and this was the only asylum where he was safe against the fury of the
Chouans and the other priests. He was my elder brother, and he alone had
the patience to each me the decimal calculus. Oh! he was a good priest!
He was economical and laid by money. It is four years since he died; I
don’t know what was the matter with him; perhaps it was that priests are
so in the habit of kneeling down to pray that he couldn’t get accustomed
to standing upright here as I do. I walled him up there; _they’d_ have
dug him up elsewhere. Some day perhaps I can put him in holy ground, as
he used to call it,--poor man, he only took the oath out of fear.”
A tear rolled from the hard eyes of the little old man, whose rusty
wig suddenly seemed less hideous to the girl, and she turned her eyes
respectfully away from his distress. But, in spite of these tender
reminiscences, d’Orgemont kept on saying, “Don’t go near the wall, you
might--”
His eyes never ceased to watch hers, hoping thus to prevent her from
examining too closely the walls of the closet, where the close air
was scarcely enough to inflate the lungs. Marie succeeded, however, in
getting a sufficiently good look in spite of her Argus, and she came to
the conclusion that the strange protuberances in the walls were neither
more nor less than sacks of coin which the miser had placed there and
plastered up.
Old d’Orgemont was now in a state of almost grotesque bewilderment.
The pain in his legs, the terror he felt at seeing a human being in the
midst of his hoards, could be read in every wrinkle of his face, and yet
at the same time his eyes expressed, with unaccustomed fire, a lively
emotion excited in him by the presence of his liberator, whose white
and rosy cheek invited kisses, and whose velvety black eye sent waves of
blood to his heart, so hot that he was much in doubt whether they were
signs of life or of death.
“Are you married?” he asked, in a trembling voice.
“No,” she said, smiling.
“I have a little something,” he continued, heaving a sigh, “though I
am not so rich as people think for. A young girl like you must love
diamonds, trinkets, carriages, money. I’ve got all that to give--after
my death. Hey! if you will--”
The old man’s eyes were so shrewd and betrayed such calculation in this
ephemeral love that Mademoiselle de Verneuil, as she shook her head in
sign of refusal, felt that his desire to marry her was solely to bury
his secret in another himself.
“Money!” she said, with a look of scorn which made him satisfied and
angry both; “money is nothing to me. You would be three times as rich
as you are, if you had all the gold that I have refused--” she stopped
suddenly.
“Don’t go near that wall, or--”
“But I hear a voice,” she said; “it echoes through that wall,--a voice
that is more to me than all your riches.”
Before the miser could stop her Marie had laid her hand on a small
colored engraving of Louis XV. on horseback; to her amazement it turned,
and she saw, in a room beneath her, the Marquis de Montauran, who was
loading a musket. The opening, hidden by a little panel on which the
picture was gummed, seemed to form some opening in the ceiling of the
adjoining chamber, which, no doubt, was the bedroom of the royalist
general. D’Orgemont closed the opening with much precaution, and looked
at the girl sternly.
“Don’t say a word if you love your life. You haven’t thrown your
grappling-iron on a worthless building. Do you know that the Marquis
de Montauran is worth more than one hundred thousand francs a year from
lands which have not yet been confiscated? And I read in the Primidi
de l’Ille-et-Vilaine a decree of the Consuls putting an end to
confiscation. Ha! ha! you’ll think the Gars a prettier fellow than ever,
won’t you? Your eyes are shining like two new louis d’or.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s face was, indeed, keenly excited when she
heard that well-known voice so near her. Since she had been standing
there, erect, in the midst as it were of a silver mine, the spring
of her mind, held down by these strange events, recovered itself. She
seemed to have formed some sinister resolution and to perceive a means
of carrying it out.
“There is no return from such contempt,” she was saying to herself; “and
if he cannot love me, I will kill him--no other woman shall have him.”
“No, abbe, no!” cried the young chief, in a loud voice which was heard
through the panel, “it must be so.”
“Monsieur le marquis,” replied the Abbe Gudin, haughtily; “you will
scandalize all Brittany if you give that ball at Saint James. It is
preaching, not dancing, which will rouse our villagers. Take guns, not
fiddles.”
“Abbe, you have sense enough to know that it is not in a general
assembly of our partisans that I can learn to know these people, or
judge of what I may be able to undertake with them. A supper is better
for examining faces than all the spying in the world, of which, by the
bye, I have a horror; they can be made to talk with glasses in their
hand.”
Marie quivered, as she listened, and conceived the idea of going to the
ball and there avenging herself.
“Do you take me for an idiot with your sermon against dancing?”
continued Montauran. “Wouldn’t you yourself dance a reed if it would
restore your order under its new name of Fathers of the Faith? Don’t
you know that Bretons come away from the mass and go to dancing? Are you
aware that Messieurs Hyde de Neuville and d’Andigne had a conference,
five days ago, with the First Consul, on the question of restoring his
Majesty Louis XVIII.? Ah, monsieur, the princes are deceived as to the
true state of France. The devotions which uphold them are solely those
of rank. Abbe, if I have set my feet in blood, at least I will not go
into it to my middle without full knowledge of what I do. I am devoted
to the king, but not to four hot-heads, not to a man crippled with debt
like Rifoel, not to ‘chauffeurs,’ not to--”
“Say frankly, monsieur, not to abbes who force contributions on the
highway to carry on the war,” retorted the Abbe Gudin.
“Why should I not say it?” replied the marquis, sharply; “and I’ll say,
further, that the great and heroic days of La Vendee are over.”
“Monsieur le marquis, we can perform miracles without you.”
“Yes, like that of Marie Lambrequin, whom I hear you have brought to
life,” said the marquis, smiling. “Come, come, let us have no rancor,
abbe. I know that you run all risks and would shoot a Blue as readily as
you say an _oremus_. God willing, I hope to make you assist with a mitre
on your head at the king’s coronation.”
This last remark must have had some magic power, for the click of a
musket was heard as the abbe exclaimed, “I have fifty cartridges in my
pocket, monsieur le marquis, and my life is the king’s.”
“He’s a debtor of mine,” whispered the usurer to Marie. “I don’t mean
the five or six hundred crowns he has borrowed, but a debt of blood
which I hope to make him pay. He can never suffer as much evil as I wish
him, the damned Jesuit! He swore the death of my brother, and raised
the country against him. Why? Because the poor man was afraid of the new
laws.” Then, after applying his ear to another part of his hiding-place,
he added, “They are all decamping, those brigands. I suppose they are
going to do some other miracle elsewhere. I only hope they won’t bid me
good-bye as they did the last time, by setting fire to my house.”
After the lapse of about half an hour, during which time the usurer and
Mademoiselle de Verneuil looked at each other as if they were studying a
picture, the coarse, gruff voice of Galope-Chopine was heard saying, in
a muffled tone: “There’s no longer any danger, Monsieur d’Orgemont. But
this time, you must allow that I have earned my thirty crowns.”
“My dear,” said the miser to Marie, “swear to shut your eyes.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil placed one hand over her eyelids; but for
greater security d’Orgemont blew out the lamp, took his liberator by
the hand, and helped her to make seven or eight steps along a difficult
passage. At the end of some minutes he gently removed her hand, and
she found herself in the very room the Marquis de Montauran had just
quitted, and which was, in fact, the miser’s own bedroom.
“My dear girl,” said the old man, “you can safely go now. Don’t look
about you that way. I dare say you have no money with you. Here are ten
crowns; they are a little shaved, but they’ll pass. When you leave the
garden you will see a path that leads straight to the town, or, as they
say now, the district. But the Chouans will be at Fougeres, and it is
to be presumed that you can’t get back there at once. You may want some
safe place to hide in. Remember what I say to you, but don’t make use of
it unless in some great emergency. You will see on the road which leads
to Nid-aux-Crocs through the Val de Gibarry, a farmhouse belonging to
Cibot--otherwise called Galope-Chopine. Go in, and say to his wife:
‘Good-day, Becaniere,’ and Barbette will hide you. If Galope-Chopine
discovers you he will either take you for the ghost, if it is dark,
or ten crowns will master him if it is light. Adieu, our account is
squared. But if you choose,” he added, waving his hand about him, “all
this is yours.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil gave the strange old man a look of thanks,
and succeeded in extracting a sigh from him, expressing a variety of
emotions.
“You will of course return me my ten crowns; and please remark that I
ask no interest. You can pay them to my credit with Maitre Patrat,
the notary at Fougeres, who would draw our marriage contract if you
consented to be mine. Adieu.”
“Adieu,” she said, smiling and waving her hand.
“If you ever want money,” he called after her, “I’ll lend it to you at
five per cent; yes, only five--did I say five?--why, she’s gone! That
girl looks to me like a good one; nevertheless, I’ll change the secret
opening of my chimney.”
Then he took a twelve-pound loaf and a ham, and returned to his
hiding-place.
* * * * *
As Mademoiselle de Verneuil walked through the country she seemed to
breathe a new life. The freshness of the night revived her after the
fiery experience of the last few hours. She tried to follow the path
explained to her by d’Orgemont, but the darkness became so dense after
the moon had gone down that she was forced to walk hap-hazard, blindly.
Presently the fear of falling down some precipice seized her and saved
her life, for she stopped suddenly, fancying the ground would disappear
before her if she made another step. A cool breeze lifting her hair, the
murmur of the river, and her instinct all combined to warn her that she
was probably on the verge of the Saint-Sulpice rocks. She slipped her
arm around a tree and waited for dawn with keen anxiety, for she heard
a noise of arms and horses and human voices; she was grateful to the
darkness which saved her from the Chouans, who were evidently, as the
miser had said, surrounding Fougeres.
Like fires lit at night as signals of liberty, a few gleams, faintly
crimsoned, began to show upon the summits, while the bases of the
mountains still retained the bluish tints which contrasted with the rosy
clouds that were floating in the valley. Soon a ruby disk rose slowly
on the horizon and the skies greeted it; the varied landscape, the
bell-tower of Saint-Leonard, the rocks, the meadows buried in shadow,
all insensibly reappeared, and the trees on the summits were defined
against the skies in the rising glow. The sun freed itself with a
graceful spring from the ribbons of flame and ochre and sapphire. Its
vivid light took level lines from hill to hill and flowed into the
vales. The dusk dispersed, day mastered Nature. A sharp breeze crisped
the air, the birds sang, life wakened everywhere. But the girl had
hardly time to cast her eyes over the whole of this wondrous landscape
before, by a phenomenon not infrequent in these cool regions, the mists
spread themselves in sheets, filled the valleys, and rose to the tops
of the mountains, burying the great valley beneath a mantle of snow.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil fancied for a moment she saw a _mer de glace_,
like those of the Alps. Then the vaporous atmosphere rolled like
the waves of ocean, lifted impenetrable billows which softly swayed,
undulated, and were violently whirled, catching from the sun’s rays
a vivid rosy tint, and showing here and there in their depths the
transparencies of a lake of molten silver. Suddenly the north wind swept
this phantasmagoric scene and scattered the mists which laid a dew full
of oxygen on the meadows.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil was now able to distinguish a dark mass of men
on the rocks of Fougeres. Seven or eight hundred Chouans were running
like ants through the suburb of Saint-Sulpice. The sleeping town would
certainly have been overpowered in spite of its fortifications and its
old gray towers, if Hulot had not been alert. A battery, concealed on a
height at the farther end of the basin formed by the ramparts, replied
to the first fire of the Chouans by taking them diagonally on the road
to the castle. The balls swept the road. Then a company of Blues made
a sortie from the Saint-Sulpice gate, profited by the surprise of the
royalists to form in line upon the high-road, and poured a murderous
fire upon them. The Chouans made no attempt to resist, seeing that the
ramparts of the castle were covered with soldiers, and that the guns of
the fortress sufficiently protected the Republican advance.
Meantime, however, other Chouans, masters of the little valley of the
Nancon, had swarmed up the rocks and reached the Promenade, which was
soon covered with goatskins, giving it to Marie’s eyes the appearance
of a thatched roof, brown with age. At the same moment loud reports were
heard from the part of the town which overlooks the valley of Couesnon.
Evidently, Fougeres was attacked on all sides and completely surrounded.
Flames rising on the western side of the rock showed that the Chouans
were setting fire to the suburbs; but these soon ceased, and a column of
black smoke which succeeded them showed that the fire was extinguished.
Brown and white clouds again hid the scene from Mademoiselle de
Verneuil, but they were clouds of smoke from the fire and powder, which
the wind dispersed. The Republican commander, as soon as he saw his
first orders admirably executed, changed the direction of his battery
so as to sweep, successively, the valley of the Nancon, the Queen’s
Staircase, and the base of the rock of Fougeres. Two guns posted at the
gate of Saint-Leonard scattered the ant-hill of Chouans who had seized
that position, and the national guard of the town, rushing in haste to
the square before the Church, succeeded in dislodging the enemy. The
fight lasted only half an hour, and cost the Blues a hundred men. The
Chouans, beaten on all sides, retreated under orders from the Gars,
whose bold attempt failed (although he did not know this) in consequence
of the massacre at La Vivetiere, which had brought Hulot secretly and in
all haste to Fougeres. The artillery had arrived only that evening, and
the news had not reached Montauran; otherwise, he would certainly
have abandoned an enterprise which, if it failed, could only have bad
results. As soon as he heard the guns the marquis knew it would be
madness to continue, out of mere pride, a surprise which had missed
fire. Therefore, not to lose men uselessly, he sent at once to all
points of the attack, ordering an immediate retreat. The commandant,
seeing his adversary on the rocks of Saint-Sulpice surrounded by a
council of men, endeavored to pour a volley upon him; but the spot was
cleverly selected, and the young leader was out of danger in a moment.
Hulot now changed parts with his opponent and became the aggressor. At
the first sign of the Gars’ intention, the company stationed under the
walls of the castle were ordered to cut off the Chouans’ retreat by
seizing the upper outlet of the valley of the Nancon.
Notwithstanding her desire for revenge, Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s
sympathies were with the men commanded by her lover, and she turned
hastily to see if the other end of the valley were clear for them; but
the Blues, conquerors no doubt on the opposite side of Fougeres, were
returning from the valley of Couesnon and taking possession of the
Nid-aux-Crocs and that portion of the Saint-Sulpice rocks which overhang
the lower end of the valley of the Nancon. The Chouans, thus hemmed in
to the narrow fields of the gorge, seemed in danger of perishing to the
last man, so cleverly and sagaciously were the commandant’s measures
taken. But Hulot’s cannon were powerless at these two points; and here,
the town of Fougeres being quite safe, began one of those desperate
struggles which denoted the character of Chouan warfare.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil now comprehended the presence of the masses
of men she had seen as she left the town, the meeting of the leaders at
d’Orgemont’s house, and all the other events of the night, wondering
how she herself had escaped so many dangers. The attack, prompted
by desperation, interested her so keenly that she stood motionless,
watching the living pictures as they presented themselves to her sight.
Presently the struggle at the foot of the mountain had a deeper interest
for her. Seeing the Blues almost masters of the Chouans, the marquis and
his friends rushed into the valley of the Nancon to support their men.
The rocks were now covered with straggling groups of furious combatants
deciding the question of life or death on a ground and with weapons that
were more favorable to the Goatskins. Slowly this moving arena widened.
The Chouans, recovering themselves, gained the rocks, thanks to the
shrubs and bushes which grew here and there among them. For a moment
Mademoiselle de Verneuil felt alarmed as she saw, rather late, her
enemies swarming over the summit and defending the dangerous paths by
which alone she could descend. Every issue on the mountain was occupied
by one or other of the two parties; afraid of encountering them she left
the tree behind which she had been sheltering, and began to run in
the direction of the farm which d’Orgemont had mentioned to her. After
running some time on the slope of Saint-Sulpice which overlooks the
valley of Couesnon she saw a cow-shed in the distance, and thought it
must belong to the house of Galope-Chopine, who had doubtless left his
wife at home and alone during the fight. Mademoiselle de Verneuil hoped
to be able to pass a few hours in this retreat until it was possible for
her to return to Fougeres without danger. According to all appearance
Hulot was to triumph. The Chouans were retreating so rapidly that she
heard firing all about her, and the fear of being shot made her hasten
to the cottage, the chimney of which was her landmark. The path she was
following ended at a sort of shed covered with a furze-roof, supported
by four stout trees with the bark still on them. A mud wall formed the
back of this shed, under which were a cider-mill, a flail to thresh
buckwheat, and several agricultural implements. She stopped before one
of the posts, unwilling to cross the dirty bog which formed a sort of
courtyard to the house which, in her Parisian ignorance, she had taken
for a stable.
The cabin, protected from the north wind by an eminence towering above
the roof, which rested against it, was not without a poetry of its
own; for the tender shoots of elms, heather, and various rock-flowers
wreathed it with garlands. A rustic staircase, constructed between the
shed and the house, enabled the inhabitants to go to the top of the rock
and breathe a purer air. On the left, the eminence sloped abruptly down,
giving to view a series of fields, the first of which belonged no doubt
to this farm. These fields were like bowers, separated by banks which
were planted with trees. The road which led to them was barred by the
trunk of an old, half-rotten tree,--a Breton method of enclosure the
name of which may furnish, further on, a digression which will complete
the characterization of this region. Between the stairway cut in the
schist rock and the path closed by this old tree, in front of the marsh
and beneath the overhanging rock, several granite blocks roughly hewn,
and piled one upon the other, formed the four corners of the cottage and
held up the planks, cobblestones, and pitch amalgam of which the walls
were made. The fact that one half of the roof was covered with furze
instead of thatch, and the other with shingles or bits of board cut into
the form of slates, showed that the building was in two parts; one half,
with a broken hurdle for a door, served as a stable, the other half was
the dwelling of the owner. Though this hut owed to the neighborhood of
the town a few improvements which were wholly absent from such buildings
that were five or six miles further off, it showed plainly enough the
instability of domestic life and habits to which the wars and customs of
feudality had reduced the serf; even to this day many of the peasants of
those parts call a seignorial chateau, “The Dwelling.”
While examining the place, with an astonishment we can readily conceive,
Mademoiselle de Verneuil noticed here and there in the filth of the
courtyard a few bits of granite so placed as to form stepping-stones
to the house. Hearing the sound of musketry that was evidently coming
nearer, she jumped from stone to stone, as if crossing a rivulet, to ask
shelter. The house was closed by a door opening in two parts; the lower
one of wood, heavy and massive, the upper one a shutter which served as
a window. In many of the smaller towns of France the shops have the
same type of door though far more decorated, the lower half possessing a
call-bell. The door in question opened with a wooden latch worthy of the
golden age, and the upper part was never closed except at night, for it
was the only opening through which daylight could enter the room. There
was, to be sure, a clumsy window, but the glass was thick like the
bottom of a bottle, and the lead which held the panes in place took so
much room that the opening seemed intended to intercept the light
rather than admit it. As soon as Mademoiselle de Verneuil had turned the
creaking hinges of the lower door she smelt an intolerable ammoniacal
odor, and saw that the beasts in the stable had kicked through the inner
partition which separated the stable from the dwelling. The interior of
the farmhouse, for such it was, did not belie its exterior.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil was asking herself how it was possible for
human beings to live in such habitual filth, when a ragged boy about
eight or nine years old suddenly presented his fresh and rosy face, with
a pair of fat cheeks, lively eyes, ivory teeth, and a mass of fair
hair, which fell in curls upon his half-naked shoulders. His limbs were
vigorous, and his attitude had the charm of that amazement and naive
curiosity which widens a child’s eyes. The little fellow was a picture
of beauty.
“Where is your mother?” said Marie, in a gentle voice, stooping to kiss
him between the eyes.
After receiving her kiss the child slipped away like an eel, and
disappeared behind a muck-heap which was piled at the top of a mound
between the path and the house; for, like many Breton farmers who have
a system of agriculture that is all their own, Galope-Chopine put his
manure in an elevated spot, so that by the time it was wanted for use
the rains had deprived it of all its virtue. Alone for a few minutes,
Marie had time to make an inventory. The room in which she waited for
Barbette was the whole house. The most obvious and sumptuous object was
a vast fireplace with a _mantle_-shelf of blue granite. The etymology of
that word was shown by a strip of green serge, edged with a pale-green
ribbon, cut in scallops, which covered and overhung the whole shelf, on
which stood a colored plaster cast of the Holy Virgin. On the pedestal
of the statuette were two lines of a religious poem very popular in
Brittany:--
“I am the mother of God,
Protectress of the sod.”
Behind the Virgin a hideous image, daubed with red and blue under
pretence of painting, represented Saint-Labre. A green serge bed of the
shape called “tomb,” a clumsy cradle, a spinning-wheel, common chairs,
and a carved chest on which lay utensils, were about the whole of
Galope-Chopine’s domestic possessions. In front of the window stood a
chestnut table flanked by two benches of the same wood, to which the
sombre light coming through the thick panes gave the tone of mahogany.
An immense cask of cider, under the bung of which Mademoiselle de
Verneuil noticed a pool of yellow mud, which had decomposed the
flooring, although it was made of scraps of granite conglomerated in
clay, proved that the master of the house had a right to his Chouan
name, and that the pints galloped down either his own throat or that of
his friends. Two enormous jugs full of cider stood on the table. Marie’s
attention, caught at first by the innumerable spider’s-webs which hung
from the roof, was fixing itself on these pitchers when the noise
of fighting, growing more and more distinct, impelled her to find a
hiding-place, without waiting for the woman of the house, who, however,
appeared at that moment.
“Good-morning, Becaniere,” said Marie, restraining a smile at the
appearance of a person who bore some resemblance to the heads which
architects attach to window-casings.
“Ha! you come from d’Orgemont?” answered Barbette, in a tone that was
far from cordial.
“Yes, where can you hide me? for the Chouans are close by--”
“There,” replied Barbette, as much amazed at the beauty as by the
strange apparel of a being she could hardly believe to be of her own
sex,--“there, in the priest’s hiding-place.”
She took her to the head of the bed, and was putting her behind it,
when they were both startled by the noise of a man springing into the
courtyard. Barbette had scarcely time to drop the curtain of the bed
and fold it about the girl before she was face to face with a fugitive
Chouan.
“Where can I hide, old woman? I am the Comte de Bauvan,” said the
new-comer.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil quivered as she recognized the voice of the
belated guest, whose words, still a secret to her, brought about the
catastrophe of La Vivetiere.
“Alas! monseigneur, don’t you see, I have no place? What I’d better do
is to keep outside and watch that no one gets in. If the Blues come,
I’ll let you know. If I stay here, and they find me with you, they’ll
burn my house down.”
Barbette left the hut, feeling herself incapable of settling the
interests of two enemies who, in virtue of the double role her husband
was playing, had an equal right to her hiding-place.
“I’ve only two shots left,” said the count, in despair. “It will be very
unlucky if those fellows turn back now and take a fancy to look under
this bed.”
He placed his gun gently against the headboard behind which Marie was
standing among the folds of the green serge, and stooped to see if there
was room for him under the bed. He would infallibly have seen her
feet, but she, rendered desperate by her danger, seized his gun, jumped
quickly into the room, and threatened him. The count broke into a peal
of laughter when he caught sight of her, for, in order to hide herself,
Marie had taken off her broad-brimmed Chouan hat, and her hair was
escaping, in heavy curls, from the lace scarf which she had worn on
leaving home.
“Don’t laugh, monsieur le comte; you are my prisoner. If you make the
least movement, you shall know what an offended woman is capable of
doing.”
As the count and Marie stood looking at each other with differing
emotions, confused voices were heard without among the rocks, calling
out, “Save the Gars! spread out, spread out, save the Gars!”
Barbette’s voice, calling to her boy, was heard above the tumult with
very different sensations by the two enemies, to whom Barbette was
really speaking instead of to her son.
“Don’t you see the Blues?” she cried sharply. “Come here, you little
scamp, or I shall be after you. Do you want to be shot? Come, hide,
quick!”
While these things took place rapidly a Blue jumped into the marshy
courtyard.
“Beau-Pied!” exclaimed Mademoiselle de Verneuil.
Beau-Pied, hearing her voice, rushed into the cottage, and aimed at the
count.
“Aristocrat!” he cried, “don’t stir, or I’ll demolish you in a wink,
like the Bastille.”
“Monsieur Beau-Pied,” said Mademoiselle de Verneuil, in a persuasive
voice, “you will be answerable to me for this prisoner. Do as you like
with him now, but you must return him to me safe and sound at Fougeres.”
“Enough, madame!”
“Is the road to Fougeres clear?”
“Yes, it’s safe enough--unless the Chouans come to life.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil picked up the count’s gun gaily, and smiled
satirically as she said to her prisoner, “Adieu, monsieur le comte, au
revoir!”
Then she darted down the path, having replaced the broad hat upon her
head.
“I have learned too late,” said the count, “not to joke about the virtue
of a woman who has none.”
“Aristocrat!” cried Beau-Pied, sternly, “if you don’t want me to send
you to your _ci-devant_ paradise, you will not say a word against that
beautiful lady.”
Mademoiselle de Verneuil returned to Fougeres by the paths which connect
the rocks of Saint-Sulpice with the Nid-aux-Crocs. When she reached the
latter height and had threaded the winding way cut in its rough granite,
she stopped to admire the pretty valley of the Nancon, lately so
turbulent and now so tranquil. Seen from that point, the vale was like
a street of verdure. Mademoiselle de Verneuil re-entered the town by the
Porte Saint-Leonard. The inhabitants, still uneasy about the fighting,
which, judging by the distant firing, was still going on, were waiting
the return of the National Guard, to judge of their losses. Seeing the
girl in her strange costume, her hair dishevelled, a gun in her hand,
her shawl and gown whitened against the walls, soiled with mud and wet
with dew, the curiosity of the people was keenly excited,--all the more
because the power, beauty, and singularity of this young Parisian had
been the subject of much discussion.
Francine, full of dreadful fears, had waited for her mistress throughout
the night, and when she saw her she began to speak; but Marie, with a
kindly gesture, silenced her.
“I am not dead, my child,” she said. “Ah!” she added, after a pause, “I
wanted emotions when I left Paris, and I have had them!”
Francine asked if she should get her some food, observing that she must
be in great need of it.
“No, no; a bath, a bath!” cried Mademoiselle de Verneuil. “I must dress
at once.”
Francine was not a little surprised when her mistress required her to
unpack the most elegant of the dresses she had brought with her. Having
bathed and breakfasted, Marie made her toilet with all the minute care
which a woman gives to that important act when she expects to meet the
eyes of her lover in a ball-room. Francine could not explain to herself
the mocking gaiety of her mistress. It was not the joy of love,--a
woman never mistakes that; it was rather an expression of concentrated
maliciousness, which to Francine’s mind boded evil. Marie herself drew
the curtains of the window from which the glorious panorama could be
seen, then she moved the sofa to the chimney corner, turning it so that
the light would fall becomingly on her face; then she told Francine to
fetch flowers, that the room might have a festive air; and when they
came she herself directed their arrangement in a picturesque manner.
Giving a last glance of satisfaction at these various preparations she
sent Francine to the commandant with a request that he would bring her
prisoner to her; then she lay down luxuriously on a sofa, partly to
rest, and partly to throw herself into an attitude of graceful weakness,
the power of which is irresistible in certain women. A soft languor, the
seductive pose of her feet just seen below the drapery of her gown,
the plastic ease of her body, the curving of the throat,--all, even the
droop of her slender fingers as they hung from the pillow like the buds
of a bunch of jasmine, combined with her eyes to produce seduction. She
burned certain perfumes to fill the air with those subtle emanations
which affect men’s fibres powerfully, and often prepare the way for
conquests which women seek to make without seeming to desire them.
Presently the heavy step of the old soldier resounded in the adjoining
room.
“Well, commandant, where is my captive?” she said.
“I have just ordered a picket of twelve men to shoot him, being taken
with arms in his hand.”
“Why have you disposed of my prisoner?” she asked. “Listen to me,
commandant; surely, if I can trust your face, the death of a man _after_
a fight is no particular satisfaction to you. Well, then, give my Chouan
a reprieve, for which I will be responsible, and let me see him. I
assure you that aristocrat has become essential to me, and he can be
made to further the success of our plans. Besides, to shoot a mere
amateur in Chouannerie would be as absurd as to fire on a balloon when
a pinprick would disinflate it. For heaven’s sake leave cruelty to the
aristocracy. Republicans ought to be generous. Wouldn’t you and yours
have forgiven the victims of Quiberon? Come, send your twelve men to
patrol the town, and dine with me and bring the prisoner. There is only
an hour of daylight left, and don’t you see,” she added smiling, “that
if you are too late, my toilet will have lost its effect?”
“But, mademoiselle,” said the commandant, amazed.
“Well, what? But I know what you mean. Don’t be anxious; the count shall
not escape. Sooner or later that big butterfly will burn himself in your
fire.”
The commandant shrugged his shoulders slightly, with the air of a man
who is forced to obey, whether he will or no, the commands of a pretty
woman; and he returned in about half an hour, followed by the Comte de
Bauvan.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil feigned surprise and seemed confused that the
count should see her in such a negligent attitude; then, after reading
in his eyes that her first effect was produced, she rose and busied
herself about her guests with well-bred courtesy. There was nothing
studied or forced in her motions, smiles, behavior, or voice, nothing
that betrayed premeditation or purpose. All was harmonious; no part was
over-acted; an observer could not have supposed that she affected the
manners of a society in which she had not lived. When the Royalist and
the Republic were seated she looked sternly at the count. He, on his
part, knew women sufficiently well to feel certain that the offence he
had committed against this woman was equivalent to a sentence of death.
But in spite of this conviction, and without seeming either gay or
gloomy, he had the air of a man who did not take such serious results
into consideration; in fact, he really thought it ridiculous to fear
death in presence of a pretty woman. Marie’s stern manner roused ideas
in his mind.
“Who knows,” thought he, “whether a count’s coronet wouldn’t please her
as well as that of her lost marquis? Montauran is as lean as a nail,
while I--” and he looked himself over with an air of satisfaction. “At
any rate I should save my head.”
These diplomatic revelations were wasted. The passion the count proposed
to feign for Mademoiselle de Verneuil became a violent caprice, which
the dangerous creature did her best to heighten.
“Monsieur le comte,” she said, “you are my prisoner, and I have the
right to dispose of you. Your execution cannot take place without
my consent, and I have too much curiosity to let them shoot you at
present.”
“And suppose I am obstinate enough to keep silence?” he replied gaily.
“With an honest woman, perhaps, but with a woman of the town, no, no,
monsieur le comte, impossible!” These words, full of bitter sarcasm,
were hissed, as Sully says, in speaking of the Duchesse de Beaufort,
from so sharp a beak that the count, amazed, merely looked at his
antagonist. “But,” she continued, with a scornful glance, “not to
contradict you, if I am a creature of that kind I will act like one.
Here is your gun,” and she offered him his weapon with a mocking air.
“On the honor of a gentleman, mademoiselle--”
“Ah!” she said, interrupting him, “I have had enough of the honor of
gentlemen. It was on the faith of that that I went to La Vivetiere. Your
leader had sworn to me that I and my escort should be safe there.”
“What an infamy!” cried Hulot, contracting his brows.
“The fault lies with monsieur le comte,” said Marie, addressing Hulot.
“I have no doubt the Gars meant to keep his word, but this gentleman
told some calumny about me which confirmed those that Charette’s
mistress had already invented--”
“Mademoiselle,” said the count, much troubled, “with my head under the
axe I would swear that I said nothing but the truth.”
“In saying what?”
“That you were the--”
“Say the word, mistress of--”
“The Marquis de Lenoncourt, the present duke, a friend of mine,” replied
the count.
“Now I can let you go to execution,” she said, without seeming at all
agitated by the outspoken reply of the count, who was amazed at the real
or pretended indifference with which she heard his statement. “However,”
she added, laughing, “you have not wronged me more than that friend of
whom you suppose me to have been the--Fie! monsieur le comte; surely you
used to visit my father, the Duc de Verneuil? Yes? well then--”
Evidently considering Hulot one too many for the confidence she was
about to make, Mademoiselle de Verneuil motioned the count to her
side, and said a few words in her ear. Monsieur de Bauvan gave a low
ejaculation of surprise and looked with bewilderment at Marie, who
completed the effect of her words by leaning against the chimney in the
artless and innocent attitude of a child.
“Mademoiselle,” cried the count, “I entreat your forgiveness, unworthy
as I am of it.”
“I have nothing to forgive,” she replied. “You have no more ground for
repentance than you had for the insolent supposition you proclaimed
at La Vivetiere. But this is a matter beyond your comprehension. Only,
remember this, monsieur le comte, the daughter of the Duc de Verneuil
has too generous a spirit not to take a lively interest in your fate.”
“Even after I have insulted you?” said the count, with a sort of regret.
“Some are placed so high that insult cannot touch them. Monsieur le
comte,--I am one of them.”
As she said the words, the girl assumed an air of pride and nobility
which impressed the prisoner and made the whole of this strange intrigue
much less clear to Hulot than the old soldier had thought it. He twirled
his moustache and looked uneasily at Mademoiselle de Verneuil, who made
him a sign, as if to say she was still carrying out her plan.
“Now,” continued Marie, after a pause, “let us discuss these matters.
Francine, my dear, bring lights.”
She adroitly led the conversation to the times which had now, within
a few short years, become the “ancien regime.” She brought back
that period to the count’s mind by the liveliness of her remarks and
sketches, and gave him so many opportunities to display his wit, by
cleverly throwing repartees in his way, that he ended by thinking he
had never been so charming; and that idea having rejuvenated him, he
endeavored to inspire this seductive young woman with his own good
opinion of himself. The malicious creature practised, in return, every
art of her coquetry upon him, all the more adroitly because it was mere
play to her. Sometimes she let him think he was making rapid progress,
and then, as if surprised at the sentiment she was feeling, she showed a
sudden coolness which charmed him, and served to increase imperceptibly
his impromptu passion. She was like a fisherman who lifts his line
from time to time to see if the fish is biting. The poor count allowed
himself to be deceived by the innocent air with which she accepted two
or three neatly turned compliments. Emigration, Brittany, the Republic,
and the Chouans were far indeed from his thoughts. Hulot sat erect
and silent as the god Thermes. His want of education made him quite
incapable of taking part in a conversation of this kind; he supposed
that the talking pair were very witty, but his efforts at comprehension
were limited to discovering whether they were plotting against the
Republic in covert language.
“Montauran,” the count was saying, “has birth and breeding, he is a
charming fellow, but he doesn’t understand gallantry. He is too young
to have seen Versailles. His education is deficient. Instead of
diplomatically defaming, he strikes a blow. He may be able to love
violently, but he will never have that fine flower of breeding in his
gallantry which distinguished Lauzun, Adhemar, Coigny, and so many
others! He hasn’t the winning art of saying those pretty nothings to
women which, after all, they like better than bursts of passion, which
soon weary them. Yes, though he has undoubtedly had many love-affairs,
he has neither the grace nor the ease that should belong to them.”
“I have noticed that myself,” said Marie.
“Ah!” thought the count, “there’s an inflection in her voice, and a look
in her eye which shows me plainly I shall soon be _on terms_ with her;
and faith! to get her, I’ll believe all she wants me to.”
He offered her his hand, for dinner was now announced. Mademoiselle de
Verneuil did the honors with a politeness and tact which could only have
been acquired by the life and training of a court.
“Leave us,” she whispered to Hulot as they left the table. “You will
only frighten him; whereas, if I am alone with him I shall soon find
out all I want to know; he has reached the point where a man tells me
everything he thinks, and sees through my eyes only.”
“But afterwards?” said Hulot, evidently intending to claim the prisoner.
“Afterwards, he is to be free--free as air,” she replied.
“But he was taken with arms in his hand.”
“No,” she said, making one of those sophistical jokes with which women
parry unanswerable arguments, “I had disarmed him. Count,” she said,
turning back to him as Hulot departed, “I have just obtained your
liberty, but--nothing for nothing,” she added, laughing, with her head
on one side as if to interrogate him.
“Ask all, even my name and my honor,” he cried, intoxicated. “I lay them
at your feet.”
He advanced to seize her hand, trying to make her take his passion
for gratitude; but Mademoiselle de Verneuil was not a woman to be thus
misled. So, smiling in a way to give some hope to this new lover,
she drew back a few steps and said: “You might make me regret my
confidence.”
“The imagination of a young girl is more rapid than that of a woman,” he
answered, laughing.
“A young girl has more to lose than a woman.”
“True; those who carry a treasure ought to be distrustful.”
“Let us quit such conventional language,” she said, “and talk seriously.
You are to give a ball at Saint-James. I hear that your headquarters,
arsenals, and base of supplies are there. When is the ball to be?”
“To-morrow evening.”
“You will not be surprised if a slandered woman desires, with a woman’s
obstinacy, to obtain a public reparation for the insults offered to her,
in presence of those who witnessed them. I shall go to your ball. I ask
you to give me your protection from the moment I enter the room until I
leave it. I ask nothing more than a promise,” she added, as he laid his
hand on his heart. “I abhor oaths; they are too like precautions. Tell
me only that you engage to protect my person from all dangers,
criminal or shameful. Promise to repair the wrong you did me, by openly
acknowledging that I am the daughter of the Duc de Verneuil; but say
nothing of the trials I have borne in being illegitimate,--this will pay
your debt to me. Ha! two hours’ attendance on a woman in a ball-room
is not so dear a ransom for your life, is it? You are not worth a ducat
more.” Her smile took the insult from her words.
“What do you ask for the gun?” said the count, laughing.
“Oh! more than I do for you.”
“What is it?”
“Secrecy. Believe me, my dear count, a woman is never fathomed except
by a woman. I am certain that if you say one word of this, I shall be
murdered on my way to that ball. Yesterday I had warning enough. Yes,
that woman is quick to act. Ah! I implore you,” she said, “contrive that
no harm shall come to me at the ball.”
“You will be there under my protection,” said the count, proudly.
“But,” he added, with a doubtful air, “are you coming for the sake of
Montauran?”
“You wish to know more than I know myself,” she answered, laughing. “Now
go,” she added, after a pause. “I will take you to the gate of the town
myself, for this seems to me a cannibal warfare.”
“Then you do feel some interest in me?” exclaimed the count. “Ah!
mademoiselle, permit me to hope that you will not be insensible to my
friendship--for that sentiment must content me, must it not?” he added
with a conceited air.
“Ah! diviner!” she said, putting on the gay expression a woman assumes
when she makes an avowal which compromises neither her dignity nor her
secret sentiments.
Then, having slipped on a pelisse, she accompanied him as far as
the Nid-aux-Crocs. When they reached the end of the path she said,
“Monsieur, be absolutely silent on all this; even to the marquis”; and
she laid her finger on both lips.
The count, emboldened by so much kindness, took her hand; she let him do
so as though it were a great favor, and he kissed it tenderly.
“Oh! mademoiselle,” he cried, on knowing himself beyond all danger,
“rely on me for life, for death. Though I owe you a gratitude equal to
that I owe my mother, it will be very difficult to restrain my feelings
to mere respect.”
He sprang into the narrow pathway. After watching him till he
reached the rocks of Saint-Sulpice, Marie nodded her head in sign of
satisfaction, saying to herself in a low voice: “That fat fellow has
given me more than his life for his life! I can make him my creator at
a very little cost! Creature or creator, that’s all the difference there
is between one man and another--”
She did not finish her thought, but with a look of despair she turned
and re-entered the Porte Saint-Leonard, where Hulot and Corentin were
awaiting her.
“Two more days,” she cried, “and then--” She stopped, observing that
they were not alone--“he shall fall under your guns,” she whispered to
Hulot.
The commandant recoiled a step and looked with a jeering contempt,
impossible to render, at the woman whose features and expression gave no
sign whatever of relenting. There is one thing remarkable about women:
they never reason about their blameworthy actions,--feeling carries
them off their feet; even in their dissimulation there is an element of
sincerity; and in women alone crime may exist without baseness, for
it often happens that they do not know how it came about that they
committed it.
“I am going to Saint-James, to a ball the Chouans give to-morrow night,
and--”
“But,” said Corentin, interrupting her, “that is fifteen miles distant;
had I not better accompany you?”
“You think a great deal too much of something I never think of at all,”
she replied, “and that is yourself.”
Marie’s contempt for Corentin was extremely pleasing to Hulot, who made
his well-known grimace as she turned away in the direction of her own
house. Corentin followed her with his eyes, letting his face express
a consciousness of the fatal power he knew he could exercise over the
charming creature, by working upon the passions which sooner or later,
he believed, would give her to him.
As soon as Mademoiselle de Verneuil reached home she began to deliberate
on her ball-dress. Francine, accustomed to obey without understanding
her mistress’s motives, opened the trunks, and suggested a Greek
costume. The Republican fashions of those days were all Greek in style.
Marie chose one which could be put in a box that was easy to carry.
“Francine, my dear, I am going on an excursion into the country; do you
want to go with me, or will you stay behind?”
“Stay behind!” exclaimed Francine; “then who would dress you?”
“Where have you put that glove I gave you this morning?”
“Here it is.”
“Sew this green ribbon into it, and, above all, take plenty of
money.” Then noticing that Francine was taking out a number of the new
Republican coins, she cried out, “Not those; they would get us murdered.
Send Jeremie to Corentin--no, stay, the wretch would follow me--send to
the commandant; ask him from me for some six-franc crowns.”
With the feminine sagacity which takes in the smallest detail, she
thought of everything. While Francine was completing the arrangements
for this extraordinary trip, Marie practised the art of imitating an
owl, and so far succeeded in rivalling Marche-a-Terre that the
illusion was a good one. At midnight she left Fougeres by the gate
of Saint-Leonard, took the little path to Nid-aux-Crocs, and started,
followed by Francine, to cross the Val de Gibarry with a firm step,
under the impulse of that strong will which gives to the body and
its bearing such an expression of force. To leave a ball-room with
sufficient care to avoid a cold is an important affair to the health of
a woman; but let her have a passion in her heart, and her body becomes
adamant. Such an enterprise as Marie had now undertaken would have
floated in a bold man’s mind for a long time; but Mademoiselle de
Verneuil had no sooner thought of it than its dangers became to her
attractions.
“You are starting without asking God to bless you,” said Francine,
turning to look at the tower of Saint-Leonard.
The pious Breton stopped, clasped her hands, and said an “Ave” to Saint
Anne of Auray, imploring her to bless their expedition; during which
time her mistress waited pensively, looking first at the artless
attitude of her maid who was praying fervently, and then at the effects
of the vaporous moonlight as it glided among the traceries of the church
building, giving to the granite all the delicacy of filagree. The pair
soon reached the hut of Galope-Chopine. Light as their steps were they
roused one of those huge watch-dogs on whose fidelity the Bretons rely,
putting no fastening to their doors but a simple latch. The dog ran to
the strangers, and his bark became so threatening that they were forced
to retreat a few steps and call for help. But no one came. Mademoiselle
de Verneuil then gave the owl’s cry, and instantly the rusty hinges
of the door made a creaking sound, and Galope-Chopine, who had risen
hastily, put out his head.
“I wish to go to Saint-James,” said Marie, showing the Gars’ glove.
“Monsieur le Comte de Bauvan told me that you would take me there and
protect me on the way. Therefore be good enough to get us two riding
donkeys, and make yourself ready to go with us. Time is precious, for
if we do not get to Saint-James before to-morrow night I can neither see
the ball nor the Gars.”
Galope-Chopine, completely bewildered, took the glove and turned it over
and over, after lighting a pitch candle about a finger thick and
the color of gingerbread. This article of consumption, imported into
Brittany from the North, was only one more proof to the eyes in this
strange country of a utter ignorance of all commercial principles, even
the commonest. After seeing the green ribbon, staring at Mademoiselle
de Verneuil, scratching his ear, and drinking a beaker of cider (having
first offered a glass to the beautiful lady), Galope-Chopine left her
seated before the table and went to fetch the required donkeys.
The violet gleam cast by the pitch candle was not powerful enough
to counteract the fitful moonlight, which touched the dark floor and
furniture of the smoke-blackened cottage with luminous points. The
little boy had lifted his pretty head inquisitively, and above it two
cows were poking their rosy muzzles and brilliant eyes through the holes
in the stable wall. The big dog, whose countenance was by no means the
least intelligent of the family, seemed to be examining the strangers
with as much curiosity as the little boy. A painter would have stopped
to admire the night effects of this scene, but Marie, not wishing to
enter into conversation with Barbette, who sat up in bed and began to
show signs of amazement at recognizing her, left the hovel to escape
its fetid air and the questions of its mistress. She ran quickly up the
stone staircase behind the cottage, admiring the vast details of the
landscape, the aspect of which underwent as many changes as spectators
made steps either upward to the summits or downward to the valleys.
The moonlight was now enveloping like a luminous mist the valley of
Couesnon. Certainly a woman whose heart was burdened with a despised
love would be sensitive to the melancholy which that soft brilliancy
inspires in the soul, by the weird appearance it gives to objects and
the colors with which it tints the streams.
The silence was presently broken by the braying of a donkey. Marie went
quickly back to the hut, and the party started. Galope-Chopine, armed
with a double-barrelled gun, wore a long goatskin, which gave him
something the look of Robinson Crusoe. His blotched face, seamed with
wrinkles, was scarcely visible under the broad-brimmed hat which the
Breton peasants still retain as a tradition of the olden time; proud to
have won, after their servitude, the right to wear the former ornament
of seignorial heads. This nocturnal caravan, protected by a guide whose
clothing, attitudes, and person had something patriarchal about them,
bore no little resemblance to the Flight into Egypt as we see it
represented by the sombre brush of Rembrandt. Galope-Chopine carefully
avoided the main-road and guided the two women through the labyrinth of
by-ways which intersect Brittany.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil then understood the Chouan warfare. In
threading these complicated paths, she could better appreciate the
condition of a country which when she saw it from an elevation had
seemed to her so charming, but into which it was necessary to penetrate
before the dangers and inextricable difficulties of it could be
understood. Round each field, and from time immemorial, the peasants
have piled mud walls, about six feet high, and prismatic in shape;
on the top of which grow chestnuts, oaks and beeches. The walls thus
planted are called hedges (Norman hedges) and the long branches of the
trees sweeping over the pathways arch them. Sunken between these
walls (made of a clay soil) the paths are like the covered ways of a
fortification, and where the granite rock, which in these regions comes
to the surface of the ground, does not make a sort of rugged natural
pavement, they become so impracticable that the smallest vehicles can
only be drawn over them by two pairs of oxen or Breton horses, which
are small but usually vigorous. These by-ways are so swampy that
foot-passengers have gradually by long usage made other paths beside
them on the hedge-banks which are called “rotes”; and these begin and
end with each division into fields. In order to cross from one field to
another it is necessary to climb the clay banks by means of steps which
are often very slippery after a rain.
Travellers have many other obstacles to encounter in these intricate
paths. Thus surrounded, each field is closed by what is called in the
West an _echalier_. That is a trunk or stout branch of a tree, one end
of which, being pierced, is fitted to an upright post which serves as a
pivot on which it turns. One end of the _echalier_ projects far enough
beyond the pivot to hold a weight, and this singular rustic gate, the
post of which rests in a hole made in the bank, is so easy to work that
a child can handle it. Sometimes the peasants economize the stone which
forms the weight by lengthening the trunk or branch beyond the pivot.
This method of enclosure varies with the genius of each proprietor.
Sometimes it consists of a single trunk or branch, both ends of which
are embedded in the bank. In other places it looks like a gate, and is
made of several slim branches placed at regular distances like the steps
of a ladder lying horizontally. The form turns, like the _echalier_, on
a pivot. These “hedges” and _echaliers_ give the region the appearance
of a huge chess-board, each field forming a square, perfectly isolated
from the rest, closed like a fortress and protected by ramparts. The
gate, which is very easy to defend, is a dangerous spot for assailants.
The Breton peasant thinks he improves his fallow land by encouraging the
growth of gorse, a shrub so well treated in these regions that it soon
attains the height of a man. This delusion, worthy of a population which
puts its manure on the highest spot in the courtyard, has covered the
soil to a proportion of one fourth with masses of gorse, in the midst
of which a thousand men might ambush. Also there is scarcely a field
without a number of old apple-trees, the fruit being used for cider,
which kill the vegetation wherever their branches cover the ground. Now,
if the reader will reflect on the small extent of open ground within
these hedges and large trees whose hungry roots impoverish the soil, he
will have an idea of the cultivation and general character of the region
through which Mademoiselle de Verneuil was now passing.
It is difficult to say whether the object of these enclosures is to
avoid all disputes of possession, or whether the custom is a lazy one of
keeping the cattle from straying, without the trouble of watching them;
at any rate such formidable barriers are permanent obstacles, which make
these regions impenetrable and ordinary warfare impossible. There lies
the whole secret of the Chouan war. Mademoiselle de Verneuil saw plainly
the necessity the Republic was under to strangle the disaffection by
means of police and by negotiation, rather than by a useless employment
of military force. What could be done, in fact, with a people wise
enough to despise the possession of towns, and hold to that of an open
country already furnished with indestructible fortifications? Surely,
nothing except negotiate; especially as the whole active strength of
these deluded peasants lay in a single able and enterprising leader. She
admired the genius of the minister who, sitting in his study, had
been able to grasp the true way of procuring peace. She thought she
understood the considerations which act on the minds of men powerful
enough to take a bird’s-eye view of an empire; men whose actions,
criminal in the eyes of the masses, are the outcome of a vast and
intelligent thought. There is in these terrible souls some mysterious
blending of the force of fate and that of destiny, some prescience which
suddenly elevates them above their fellows; the masses seek them for a
time in their own ranks, then they raise their eyes and see these lordly
souls above them.
Such reflections as these seemed to Mademoiselle de Verneuil to justify
and even to ennoble her thoughts of vengeance; this travail of her soul
and its expectations gave her vigor enough to bear the unusual fatigues
of this strange journey. At the end of each property Galope-Chopine made
the women dismount from their donkeys and climb the obstructions;
then, mounting again, they made their way through the boggy paths which
already felt the approach of winter. The combination of tall trees,
sunken paths, and enclosed places, kept the soil in a state of humidity
which wrapped the travellers in a mantle of ice. However, after much
wearisome fatigue, they managed to reach the woods of Marignay by
sunrise. The journey then became less difficult, and led by a broad
footway through the forest. The arch formed by the branches, and the
great size of the trees protected the travellers from the weather, and
the many difficulties of the first half of their way did not recur.
They had hardly gone a couple of miles through the woods before they
heard a confused noise of distant voices and the tinkling of a bell, the
silvery tones of which did not have the monotonous sound given by the
movements of cattle. Galope-Chopine listened with great attention, as he
walked along, to this melody; presently a puff of wind brought several
chanted words to his ear, which seemed to affect him powerfully, for he
suddenly turned the wearied donkeys into a by-path, which led away from
Saint-James, paying no attention to the remonstrances of Mademoiselle de
Verneuil, whose fears were increased by the darkness of the forest path
along which their guide now led them. To right and left were enormous
blocks of granite, laid one upon the other, of whimsical shape. Across
them huge roots had glided, like monstrous serpents, seeking from afar
the juicy nourishment enjoyed by a few beeches. The two sides of the
road resembled the subterranean grottos that are famous for stalactites.
Immense festoons of stone, where the darkling verdure of ivy and holly
allied itself to the green-gray patches of the moss and lichen, hid
the precipices and the openings into several caves. When the three
travellers had gone a few steps through a very narrow path a most
surprising spectacle suddenly unfolded itself to Mademoiselle de
Verneuil’s eyes, and made her understand the obstinacy of her Chouan
guide.
A semi-circular basin of granite blocks formed an ampitheatre, on the
rough tiers of which rose tall black pines and yellowing chestnuts, one
above the other, like a vast circus, where the wintry sun shed its pale
colors rather than poured its light, and autumn had spread her tawny
carpet of fallen leaves. About the middle of this hall, which seemed
to have had the deluge for its architect, stood three enormous Druid
stones,--a vast altar, on which was raised an old church-banner. About
a hundred men, kneeling with bared heads, were praying fervently in this
natural enclosure, where a priest, assisted by two other ecclesiastics,
was saying mass. The poverty of the sacerdotal vestments, the feeble
voice of the priest, which echoed like a murmur through the open space,
the praying men filled with conviction and united by one and the same
sentiment, the bare cross, the wild and barren temple, the dawning day,
gave the primitive character of the earlier times of Christianity to the
scene. Mademoiselle de Verneuil was struck with admiration. This mass
said in the depths of the woods, this worship driven back by persecution
to its sources, the poesy of ancient times revived in the midst of this
weird and romantic nature, these armed and unarmed Chouans, cruel and
praying, men yet children, all these things resembled nothing that she
had ever seen or yet imagined. She remembered admiring in her childhood
the pomps of the Roman church so pleasing to the senses; but she knew
nothing of God _alone_, his cross on the altar, his altar the earth. In
place of the carved foliage of a Gothic cathedral, the autumnal trees
upheld the sky; instead of a thousand colors thrown through stained
glass windows, the sun could barely slide its ruddy rays and dull
reflections on altar, priest, and people. The men present were a fact,
a reality, and not a system,--it was a prayer, not a religion. But human
passions, the momentary repression of which gave harmony to the picture,
soon reappeared on this mysterious scene and gave it powerful vitality.
As Mademoiselle de Verneuil reached the spot the reading of the gospel
was just over. She recognized in the officiating priest, not without
fear, the Abbe Gudin, and she hastily slipped behind a granite
block, drawing Francine after her. She was, however, unable to move
Galope-Chopine from the place he had chosen, and from which he intended
to share in the benefits of the ceremony; but she noticed the nature
of the ground around her, and hoped to be able to evade the danger by
getting away, when the service was over, before the priests. Through a
large fissure of the rock that hid her, she saw the Abbe Gudin mounting
a block of granite which served him as a pulpit, where he began his
sermon with the words,--
“_In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_.”
All present made the sign of the cross.
“My dear friends,” continued the abbe, “let us pray in the first place
for the souls of the dead,--Jean Cochegrue, Nicalos Laferte, Joseph
Brouet, Francois Parquoi, Sulpice Coupiau, all of this parish, and dead
of wounds received in the fight on Mont Pelerine and at the siege of
Fougeres. _De profundis_,” etc.
The psalm was recited, according to custom, by the congregation and the
priests, taking verses alternately with a fervor which augured well for
the success of the sermon. When it was over the abbe continued, in a
voice which became gradually louder and louder, for the former Jesuit
was not unaware that vehemence of delivery was in itself a powerful
argument with which to persuade his semi-savage hearers.
“These defenders of our God, Christians, have set you an example of
duty,” he said. “Are you not ashamed of what will be said of you in
paradise? If it were not for these blessed ones, who have just been
received with open arms by all the saints, our Lord might have thought
that your parish is inhabited by Mahometans!--Do you know, men, what
is said of you in Brittany and in the king’s presence? What! you don’t
know? Then I shall tell you. They say: ‘Behold, the Blues have cast down
altars, and killed priests, and murdered the king and queen; they mean
to make the parish folk of Brittany Blues like themselves, and send them
to fight in foreign lands, away from their churches, where they run the
risk of dying without confession and going eternally to hell; and yet
the gars of Marignay, whose churches they have burned, stand still with
folded arms! Oh! oh! this Republic of damned souls has sold the property
of God and that of the nobles at auction; it has shared the proceeds
with the Blues; it has decreed, in order to gorge itself with money
as it does with blood, that a crown shall be only worth three francs
instead of six; and yet the gars of Marignay haven’t seized their
weapons and driven the Blues from Brittany! Ha! paradise will be closed
to them! they can never save their souls!’ That’s what they say of you
in the king’s presence! It is your own salvation, Christians, which is
at stake. Your souls are to be saved by fighting for religion and the
king. Saint Anne of Auray herself appeared to me yesterday at half-past
two o’clock; and she said to me these very words which I now repeat to
you: ‘Are you a priest of Marignay?’ ‘Yes, madame, ready to serve you.’
‘I am Saint Anne of Auray, aunt of God, after the manner of Brittany. I
have come to bid you warn the people of Marignay that they must not
hope for salvation if they do not take arms. You are to refuse them
absolution for their sins unless they serve God. Bless their guns, and
those who gain absolution will never miss the Blues, because their guns
are sanctified.’ She disappeared, leaving an odor of incense behind her.
I marked the spot. It is under the oak of the Patte d’Oie; just where
that beautiful wooden Virgin was placed by the rector of Saint-James;
to whom the crippled mother of Pierre Leroi (otherwise called
Marche-a-Terre) came to pray, and was cured of all her pains, because
of her son’s good deeds. You see her there in the midst of you, and
you know that she walks without assistance. It was a miracle--a miracle
intended, like the resurrection of Marie Lambrequin to prove to you that
God will never forsake the Breton cause so long as the people fight for
his servants and for the king. Therefore, my dear brothers, if you wish
to save your souls and show yourselves defenders of God and the king,
you will obey all the orders of the man whom God has sent to us, and
whom we call THE GARS. Then indeed, you will no longer be Mahometans;
you will rank with all the gars of Brittany under the flag of God. You
can take from the pockets of the Blues the money they have stolen from
you; for, if the fields have to go uncultivated while you are making
war, God and the king will deliver to you the spoils of your enemies.
Shall it be said, Christians, that the gars of Marignay are behind the
gars of the Morbihan, the gars of Saint-Georges, of Vitre, or Antrain,
who are all faithful to God and the king? Will you let them get all the
spoils? Will you stand like heretics, with your arms folded, when other
Bretons are saving their souls and saving their king? ‘Forsake all,
and follow me,’ says the Gospel. Have we not forsaken our tithes, we
priests? And you, I say to you, forsake all for this holy war! You
shall be like the Maccabees. All will be forgiven you. You will find the
priests and curates in your midst, and you will conquer! Pay attention
to these words, Christians,” he said, as he ended; “for this day only
have we the power to bless your guns. Those who do not take advantage of
the Saint’s favor will not find her merciful; she will not forgive them
or listen to them as she did in the last war.”
This appeal, enforced by the power of a loud voice and by many gestures,
the vehemence of which bathed the orator in perspiration, produced,
apparently, very little effect. The peasants stood motionless, their
eyes on the speaker, like statues; but Mademoiselle de Verneuil
presently noticed that this universal attitude was the result of a
spell cast by the abbe on the crowd. He had, like great actors, held his
audience as one man by addressing their passions and self-interests. He
had absolved excesses before committal, and broken the only bonds which
held these boorish men to the practice of religious and social precepts.
He had prostituted his sacred office to political interests; but it must
be said that, in these times of revolution, every man made a weapon
of whatever he possessed for the benefit of his party, and the pacific
cross of Jesus became as much an instrument of war as the peasant’s
plough-share.
Seeing no one with whom to advise, Mademoiselle de Verneuil turned
to look for Francine, and was not a little astonished to see that she
shared in the rapt enthusiasm, and was devoutly saying her chaplet
over some beads which Galope-Chopine had probably given her during the
sermon.
“Francine,” she said, in a low voice, “are you afraid of being a
Mahometan?”
“Oh! mademoiselle,” replied the girl, “just see Pierre’s mother; she is
walking!”
Francine’s whole attitude showed such deep conviction that Marie
understood at once the secret of the homily, the influence of the clergy
over the rural masses, and the tremendous effect of the scene which was
now beginning.
The peasants advanced one by one and knelt down, presenting their guns
to the preacher, who laid them upon the altar. Galope-Chopine offered
his old duck-shooter. The three priests sang the hymn “Veni, Creator,”
while the celebrant wrapped the instruments of death in bluish clouds
of incense, waving the smoke into shapes that appeared to interlace one
another. When the breeze had dispersed the vapor the guns were returned
in due order. Each man received his own on his knees from the hands of
the priests, who recited a Latin prayer as they returned them. After
the men had regained their places, the profound enthusiasm of the
congregation, mute till then, broke forth and resounded in a formidable
manner.
“_Domine salvum fac regem_!” was the prayer which the preacher intoned
in an echoing voice, and was then sung vehemently by the people. The
cry had something savage and warlike in it. The two notes of the word
_regem_, readily interpreted by the peasants, were taken with such
energy that Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s thoughts reverted almost tenderly
to the exiled Bourbon family. These recollections awakened those of her
past life. Her memory revived the fetes of a court now dispersed, in
which she had once a share. The face of the marquis entered her reverie.
With the natural mobility of a woman’s mind she forgot the scene before
her and reverted to her plans of vengeance, which might cost her her
life or come to nought under the influence of a look. Seeing a branch of
holly the trivial thought crossed her mind that in this decisive moment,
when she wished to appear in all her beauty at the ball, she had no
decoration for her hair; and she gathered a tuft of the prickly leaves
and shining berries with the idea of wearing them.
“Ho! ho! my gun may miss fire on a duck, but on a Blue, never!” cried
Galope-Chopine, nodding his head in sign of satisfaction.
Marie examined her guide’s face attentively, and found it of the type of
those she had just seen. The old Chouan had evidently no more ideas than
a child. A naive joy wrinkled his cheeks and forehead as he looked at
his gun; but a pious conviction cast upon that expression of his joy
a tinge of fanaticism, which brought into his face for an instant the
signs of the vices of civilization.
Presently they reached a village, or rather a collection of huts like
that of Galope-Chopine, where the rest of the congregation arrived
before Mademoiselle de Verneuil had finished the milk and bread and
butter which formed the meal. This irregular company was led by the
abbe, who held in his hand a rough cross draped with a flag, followed
by a gars, who was proudly carrying the parish banner. Mademoiselle de
Verneuil was compelled to mingle with this detachment, which was on its
way, like herself, to Saint-James, and would naturally protect her from
all danger as soon as Galope-Chopine informed them that the Gars glove
was in her possession, provided always that the abbe did not see her.
Towards sunset the three travellers arrived safely at Saint-James, a
little town which owes its name to the English, by whom it was built
in the fourteenth century, during their occupation of Brittany. Before
entering it Mademoiselle de Verneuil was witness of a strange scene
of this strange war, to which, however, she gave little attention; she
feared to be recognized by some of her enemies, and this dread hastened
her steps. Five or six thousand peasants were camping in a field.
Their clothing was not in any degree warlike; in fact, this tumultuous
assembly resembled that of a great fair. Some attention was needed to
even observe that these Bretons were armed, for their goatskins were so
made as to hide their guns, and the weapons that were chiefly visible
were the scythes with which some of the men had armed themselves while
awaiting the distribution of muskets. Some were eating and drinking,
others were fighting and quarrelling in loud tones, but the greater
part were sleeping on the ground. An officer in a red uniform attracted
Mademoiselle de Verneuil’s attention, and she supposed him to belong to
the English service. At a little distance two other officers seemed to
be trying to teach a few Chouans, more intelligent than the rest, to
handle two cannon, which apparently formed the whole artillery of the
royalist army. Shouts hailed the coming of the gars of Marignay, who
were recognized by their banner. Under cover of the tumult which the
new-comers and the priests excited in the camp, Mademoiselle de Verneuil
was able to make her way past it and into the town without danger. She
stopped at a plain-looking inn not far from the building where the ball
was to be given. The town was so full of strangers that she could only
obtain one miserable room. When she was safely in it Galope-Chopine
brought Francine the box which contained the ball dress, and having done
so he stood stock-still in an attitude of indescribable irresolution. At
any other time Mademoiselle de Verneuil would have been much amused to
see what a Breton peasant can be like when he leaves his native parish;
but now she broke the charm by opening her purse and producing four
crowns of six francs each, which she gave him.
“Take it,” she said, “and if you wish to oblige me, you will go straight
back to Fougeres without entering the camp or drinking any cider.”
The Chouan, amazed at her liberality, looked first at the crowns (which
he had taken) and then at Mademoiselle de Verneuil; but she made him a
sign with her hand and he disappeared.
“How could you send him away, mademoiselle?” said Francine. “Don’t you
see how the place is surrounded? we shall never get away! and who will
protect you here?”
“You have a protector of your own,” said Marie maliciously, giving in an
undertone Marche-a-Terre’s owl cry which she was constantly practising.
Francine colored, and smiled rather sadly at her mistress’s gaiety.
“But who is yours?” she said.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil plucked out her dagger, and showed it to the
frightened girl, who dropped on a chair and clasped her hands.
“What have you come here for, Marie?” she cried in a supplicating voice
which asked no answer.
Mademoiselle de Verneuil was busily twisting the branches of holly which
she had gathered.
“I don’t know whether this holly will be becoming,” she said; “a
brilliant skin like mine may possibly bear a dark wreath of this kind.
What do you think, Francine?”
Several remarks of the same kind as she dressed for the ball showed the
absolute self-possession and coolness of this strange woman. Whoever had
listened to her then would have found it hard to believe in the gravity
of a situation in which she was risking her life. An Indian muslin
gown, rather short and clinging like damp linen, revealed the delicate
outlines of her shape; over this she wore a red drapery, numerous folds
of which, gradually lengthening as they fell by her side, took the
graceful curves of a Greek peplum. This voluptuous garment of the pagan
priestesses lessened the indecency of the rest of the attire which the
fashions of the time suffered women to wear. To soften its immodesty
still further, Marie threw a gauze scarf over her shoulders, left bare
and far too low by the red drapery. She wound the long braids of her
hair into the flat irregular cone above the nape of the neck which gives
such grace to certain antique statues by an artistic elongation of the
head, while a few stray locks escaping from her forehead fell in
shining curls beside her cheeks. With a form and head thus dressed,
she presented a perfect likeness of the noble masterpieces of Greek
sculpture. She smiled as she looked with approval at the arrangement of
her hair, which brought out the beauties of her face, while the scarlet
berries of the holly wreath which she laid upon it repeated charmingly
the color of the peplum. As she twisted and turned a few leaves, to
give capricious diversity to their arrangement, she examined her whole
costume in a mirror to judge of its general effect.
“I am horrible to-night,” she said, as though she were surrounded by
flatterers. “I look like a statue of Liberty.”
She placed the dagger carefully in her bosom leaving the rubies in the
hilt exposed, their ruddy reflections attracting the eye to the hidden
beauties of her shape. Francine could not bring herself to leave her
mistress. When Marie was ready she made various pretexts to follow her.
She must help her to take off her mantle, and the overshoes which the
mud and muck in the streets compelled her to wear (though the roads had
been sanded for this occasion); also the gauze veil which Mademoiselle
de Verneuil had thrown over her head to conceal her features from the
Chouans who were collecting in the streets to watch the company. The
crowd was in fact so great that they were forced to make their way
through two hedges of Chouans. Francine no longer strove to detain her
mistress, and after giving a few last touches to a costume the greatest
charm of which was its exquisite freshness, she stationed herself in the
courtyard that she might not abandon this beloved mistress to her fate
without being able to fly to her succor; for the poor girl foresaw only
evil in these events.
A strange scene was taking place in Montauran’s chamber as Marie was on
her way to the ball. The young marquis, who had just finished dressing,
was putting on the broad red ribbon which distinguished him as first
in rank of the assembly, when the Abbe Gudin entered the room with an
anxious air.
“Monsieur le marquis, come quickly,” he said. “You alone can quell a
tumult which has broken out, I don’t know why, among the leaders. They
talk of abandoning the king’s cause. I think that devil of a Rifoel
is at the bottom of it. Such quarrels are always caused by some mere
nonsense. Madame du Gua reproached him, so I hear, for coming to the
ball ill-dressed.”
“That woman must be crazy,” cried the marquis, “to try to--”
“Rifoel retorted,” continued the abbe, interrupting his chief, “that if
you had given him the money promised him in the king’s name--”
“Enough, enough; I understand it all now. This scene has all been
arranged, and you are put forward as ambassador--”
“I, monsieur le marquis!” said the abbe, again interrupting him. “I am
supporting you vigorously, and you will, I hope, do me the justice to
believe that the restoration of our altars in France and that of the
king upon the throne of his fathers are far more powerful incentives to
my humble labors than the bishopric of Rennes which you--”
The abbe dared say no more, for the marquis smiled bitterly at his last
words. However, the young chief instantly repressed all expression of
feeling, his brow grew stern, and he followed the Abbe Gudin into a hall
where the worst of the clamor was echoing.
“I recognize no authority here,” Rifoel was saying, casting angry looks
at all about him and laying his hand on the hilt of his sabre.
“Do you recognize that of common-sense?” asked the marquis, coldly.
The young Chevalier de Vissard, better known under his patronymic of
Rifoel, was silent before the general of the Catholic armies.
“What is all this about, gentlemen?” asked the marquis, examining the
faces round him.
“This, monsieur le marquis,” said a famous smuggler, with the
awkwardness of a man of the people who long remains under the yoke of
respect to a great lord, though he admits no barriers after he has once
jumped them, and regards the aristocrat as an equal only, “_this_,” he
said, “and you have come in the nick of time to hear it. I am no speaker
of gilded phrases, and I shall say things plainly. I commanded five
hundred men during the late war. Since we have taken up arms again I
have raised a thousand heads as hard as mine for the service of the
king. It is now seven years that I have risked my life in the good
cause; I don’t blame you, but I say that the laborer is worthy of
his hire. Now, to begin with, I demand that I be called Monsieur de
Cottereau. I also demand that the rank of colonel shall be granted me,
or I send in my adhesion to the First Consul! Let me tell you, monsieur
le marquis, my men and I have a devilishly importunate creditor who must
be satisfied--he’s here!” he added, striking his stomach.
“Have the musicians come?” said the marquis, in a contemptuous tone,
turning to Madame du Gua.
But the smuggler had dealt boldly with an important topic, and the
calculating, ambitious minds of those present had been too long in
suspense as to what they might hope for from the king to allow the scorn
of their new leader to put an end to the scene. Rifoel hastily blocked
the way before Montauran, and seized his hand to oblige him to remain.
“Take care, monsieur le marquis,” he said; “you are treating far too
lightly men who have a right to the gratitude of him whom you are here
to represent. We know that his Majesty has sent you with full powers to
judge of our services, and we say that they ought to be recognized and
rewarded, for we risk our heads upon the scaffold daily. I know, so far
as I am concerned, that the rank of brigadier-general--”
“You mean colonel.”
“No, monsieur le marquis; Charette made me a colonel. The rank I mention
cannot be denied me. I am not arguing for myself, I speak for my brave
brothers-in-arms, whose services ought to be recorded. Your signature
and your promise will suffice them for the present; though,” he added,
in a low voice, “I must say they are satisfied with very little. But,”
he continued, raising his voice, “when the sun rises on the chateau of
Versailles to glorify the return of the monarchy after the faithful have
conquered France, _in France_, for the king, will they obtain favors
for their families, pensions for widows, and the restitution of their
confiscated property? I doubt it. But, monsieur le marquis, we must
have certified proof of our services when that time comes. I will never
distrust the king, but I do distrust those cormorants of ministers and
courtiers, who tingle his ears with talk about the public welfare, the
honor of France, the interests of the crown, and other crochets. They
will sneer at a loyal Vendean or a brave Chouan, because he is old
and the sword he drew for the good cause dangles on his withered legs,
palsied with exposure. Can you say that we are wrong in feeling thus?”
“You talk well, Monsieur du Vissard, but you are over hasty,” replied
the marquis.
“Listen, marquis,” said the Comte de Bauvan, in a whisper. “Rifoel has
really, on my word, told the truth. You are sure, yourself, to have the
ear of the king, while the rest of us only see him at a distance and
from time to time. I will own to you that if you do not give me your
word as a gentleman that I shall, in due course of time, obtain the
place of Master of Woods and Waters in France, the devil take me if I
will risk my neck any longer. To conquer Normandy for the king is not
an easy matter, and I demand the Order for it. But,” he added, coloring,
“there’s time enough to think of that. God forbid that I should imitate
these poor mercenaries and harass you. Speak to the king for me, and
that’s enough.”
Each of the chiefs found means to let the marquis know, in a more
or less ingenious manner, the exaggerated price they set upon their
services. One modestly demanded the governorship of Brittany; another
a barony; this one a promotion; that one a command; and all wanted
pensions.
“Well, baron,” said the marquis to Monsieur du Guenic, “don’t you want
anything?”
“These gentlemen have left me nothing but the crown of France, marquis,
but I might manage to put up with that--”
“Gentlemen!” cried the Abbe Gudin, in a loud voice, “remember that if
you are too eager you will spoil everything in the day of victory. The
king will then be compelled to make concessions to the revolutionists.”
“To those Jacobins!” shouted the smuggler. “Ha! if the king would let me
have my way, I’d answer for my thousand men; we’d soon wring their necks
and be rid of them.”
“Monsieur _de_ Cottereau,” said the marquis, “I see some of our invited
guests arriving. We must all do our best by attention and courtesy to
make them share our sacred enterprise; you will agree, I am sure, that
this is not the moment to bring forward your demands, however just they
may be.”
So saying, the marquis went to the door, as if to meet certain of the
country nobles who were entering the room, but the bold smuggler barred
his way in a respectful manner.
“No, no, monsieur le marquis, excuse me,” he said; “the Jacobins taught
me too well in 1793 that it is not he who sows and reaps who eats the
bread. Sign this bit of paper for me, and to-morrow I’ll bring you
fifteen hundred gars. If not, I’ll treat with the First Consul.”
Looking haughtily about him, the marquis saw plainly that the boldness
of the old partisan and his resolute air were not displeasing to any of
the spectators of this debate. One man alone, sitting by himself in a
corner of the room, appeared to take no part in the scene, and to be
chiefly occupied in filling his pipe. The contemptuous air with which
he glanced at the speakers, his modest demeanor, and a look of sympathy
which the marquis encountered in his eyes, made the young leader observe
the man, whom he then recognized as Major Brigaut, and he went suddenly
up to him.
“And you, what do you want?” he said.
“Oh, monsieur le marquis, if the king comes back that’s all I want.”
“But for yourself?”
“For myself? are you joking?”
The marquis pressed the horny hand of the Breton, and said to Madame du
Gua, who was near them: “Madame, I may perish in this enterprise before
I have time to make a faithful report to the king on the Catholic armies
of Brittany. I charge you, in case you live to see the Restoration,
not to forget this honorable man nor the Baron du Guenic. There is more
devotion in them than in all those other men put together.”
He pointed to the chiefs, who were waiting with some impatience till the
marquis should reply to their demands. They were all holding papers in
their hands, on which, no doubt, their services were recorded over
the signatures of the various generals of the former war; and all were
murmuring. The Abbe Gudin, the Comte de Bauvan, and the Baron du
Guenic were consulting how best to help the marquis in rejecting these
extravagant demands, for they felt the position of the young leader to
be extremely delicate.
Suddenly the marquis ran his blue eyes, gleaming with satire, over the
whole assembly, and said in a clear voice: “Gentlemen, I do not know
whether the powers which the king has graciously assigned to me are such
that I am able to satisfy your demands. He doubtless did not foresee
such zeal, such devotion, on your part. You shall judge yourselves of
the duties put upon me,--duties which I shall know how to accomplish.”
So saying, he left the room and returned immediately holding in his hand
an open letter bearing the royal seal and signature.
“These are the letters-patent in virtue of which you are to obey me,” he
said. “They authorize me to govern the provinces of Brittany, Normandy,
Maine, and Anjou, in the king’s name, and to recognize the services of
such officers as may distinguish themselves in his armies.”
A movement of satisfaction ran through the assembly. The Chouans
approached the marquis and made a respectful circle round him. All eyes
fastened on the king’s signature. The young chief, who was standing near
the chimney, suddenly threw the letters into the fire, and they were
burned in a second.
“I do not choose to command any,” cried the young man, “but those who
see a king in the king, and not a prey to prey upon. You are free,
gentlemen, to leave me.”
Madame du Gua, the Abbe Gudin, Major Brigaut, the Chevalier du Vissard,
the Baron du Guenic, and the Comte de Bauvan raised the cry of “Vive le
roi!” For a moment the other leaders hesitated; then, carried away by
the noble action of the marquis, they begged him to forget what had
passed, assuring him that, letters-patent or not, he must always be
their leader.
“Come and dance,” cried the Comte de Bauvan, “and happen what will!
After all,” he added, gaily, “it is better, my friends, to pray to God
than the saints. Let us fight first, and see what comes of it.”
“Ha! that’s good advice,” said Brigaut. “I have never yet known a day’s
pay drawn in the morning.”
The assembly dispersed about the rooms, where the guests were now
arriving. The marquis tried in vain to shake off the gloom which
darkened his face. The chiefs perceived the unfavorable impression
made upon a young man whose devotion was still surrounded by all the
beautiful illusions of youth, and they were ashamed of their action.
However, a joyous gaiety soon enlivened the opening of the ball, at
which were present the most important personages of the royalist party,
who, unable to judge rightly, in the depths of a rebellious province, of
the actual events of the Revolution, mistook their hopes for realities.
The bold operations already begun by Montauran, his name, his
fortune, his capacity, raised their courage and caused that political
intoxication, the most dangerous of all excitements, which does not cool
till torrents of blood have been uselessly shed. In the minds of all
present the Revolution was nothing more than a passing trouble to the
kingdom of France, where, to their belated eyes, nothing was changed.
The country belonged as it ever did to the house of Bourbon. The
royalists were the lords of the soil as completely as they were four
years earlier, when Hoche obtained less a peace than an armistice. The
nobles made light of the revolutionists; for them Bonaparte was another,
but more fortunate, Marceau. So gaiety reigned. The women had come to
dance. A few only of the chiefs, who had fought the Blues, knew the
gravity of the situation; but they were well aware that if they talked
of the First Consul and his power to their benighted companions, they
could not make themselves understood. These men stood apart and looked
at the women with indifference. Madame du Gua, who seemed to do the
honors of the ball, endeavored to quiet the impatience of the dancers by
dispensing flatteries to each in turn. The musicians were tuning their
instruments and the dancing was about to begin, when Madame du Gua
noticed the gloom on de Montauran’s face and went hurriedly up to him.
“I hope it is not that vulgar scene you have just had with those
clodhoppers which depresses you?” she said.
She got no answer; the marquis, absorbed in thought, was listening in
fancy to the prophetic reasons which Marie had given him in the midst of
the same chiefs at La Vivetiere, urging him to abandon the struggle
of kings against peoples. But the young man’s soul was too proud, too
lofty, too full perhaps of conviction, to abandon an enterprise he had
once begun, and he decided at this moment, to continue it boldly in the
face of all obstacles. He raised his head haughtily, and for the first
time noticed that Madame du Gua was speaking to him.
“Your mind is no doubt at Fougeres,” she remarked bitterly, seeing how
useless her efforts to attract his attention had been. “Ah, monsieur,
I would give my life to put _her_ within your power, and see you happy
with her.”
“Then why have you done all you could to kill her?”