CHAPTER I.

E-text prepared by Andrew Turek

LA VENDÉE.

An Historical Romance.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

CONTENTS.

VOLUME I.

I. THE POITEVINS.

II. ST. FLORENT.

III. DURBELLIÈRE.

IV. CATHELINEAU.

V. DE LESCURE.

VI. RECRUITING.

VII. SUNDAY IN THE BOCAGE.

VIII. AGATHA LAROCHEJAQUELIN.

IX. LE MOUCHOIR ROUGE.

X. THE BISHOP OF AGRA.

VOLUME II.

I. SAUMUR.

II. COUNCIL OF WAR.

III. RETURN TO DURBELLIÈRE.

IV. MICHAEL STEIN.

V. THE HOSPITAL OF ST. LAURENT.

VI. COMMISSIONERS OF THE REPUBLIC.

VII. BATTLE OF AMAILLOU.

VIII. CLISSON.

IX. SANTERRE.

X. THE RESCUE.

XI. ANNOT STEIN.

XII. SENTENCE OF DEATH.

VOLUME III.

I. ROBESPIERRE'S CHARACTER.

II. ROBESPIERRE'S LOVE.

III. THE LAST DAY AT DURBELLIÈRE.

IV. THE CHAPEL OF GENET.

V. THE VENDEANS AT ST. FLORENT.

VI. THE PASSAGE OF THE LOIRE.

VII. CATHELINEAU'S MOTHER.

VIII. "WHAT GOOD HAS THE WAR DONE?"

IX. LA PETITE VENDÉE.

X. LAVAL.

XI. DEATH OF ADOLPHE DENOT.

XII. VENDEAN MARRIAGES.

XIII. CONCLUSION.

VOLUME I.

CHAPTER I.

THE POITEVINS.

The history of France in 1792 has been too fully written, and too

generally read to leave the novelist any excuse for describing the state

of Paris at the close of the summer of that year. It is known to every

one that the palace of Louis XVI was sacked on the 10th of August. That

he himself with his family took refuge in the National Assembly, and

that he was taken thence to the prison of the Temple.

The doings on the fatal 10th of August, and the few following days had,

however, various effects in Paris, all of which we do not clearly trace

in history. We well know how the Mountain became powerful from that day;

that from that day Marat ceased to shun the light, and Danton to curb

the licence of his tongue that then, patriotism in France began to

totter, and that, from that time, Paris ceased to be a fitting abode for

aught that was virtuous, innocent, or high-minded; but the steady march

of history cannot stop to let us see the various lights in which the

inhabitants of Paris regarded the loss of a King, and the commencement

of the first French Republic.

The Assembly, though it had not contemplated the dethronement of the

King, acquiesced in it; and acted as it would have done, had the

establishment of a republic been decreed by a majority of its members.

The municipality had determined that the King should fall, and, of

course, rejoiced in the success of its work; and history plainly marking

the acquiescence of the Assembly, and the activity of the city powers,

naturally passes over the various feelings excited in different circles

in Paris, by the overthrow of the monarchy.

Up to that period there was still in Paris much that was high, noble,

and delightful. The haute noblesse had generally left the country; but

the haute noblesse did not comprise the better educated, or most social

families in Paris. Never had there been more talent, more wit, or more

beauty in Paris than at the commencement of 1792; never had literary

acquirement been more fully appreciated in society, more absolutely

necessary in those who were ambitious of social popularity.

There were many of this class in Paris who had hitherto watched the

progress of the Revolution with a full reliance in the panacea it was

to afford for human woes; many who had sympathized with the early

demands of the Tiers État; who had rapturously applauded the Tennis

Court oath; who had taken an enthusiastic part in the fête of the Champ

de Mars; men who had taught themselves to believe that sin, and avarice,

and selfishness were about to be banished from the world by the lights

of philosophy; but whom the rancour of the Jacobins, and the furious

licence of the city authorities had now robbed of their golden hopes.

The dethronement of the King, totally severed many such from the

revolutionary party. They found that their high aspirations had been in

vain; that their trust in reason had been misplaced, and that the

experiment to which they had committed themselves had failed; disgusted,

broken-spirited, and betrayed they left the city in crowds, and with few

exceptions, the intellectual circles were broken up.

A few of the immediate friends of the King, a few ladies and gentlemen,

warmly devoted to the family of Louis XVI, remained in Paris. At the

time when the King was first subjected to actual personal restraint, a

few young noblemen and gentlemen had formed themselves into a private

club, and held their sittings in the Rue Vivienne. Their object was to

assist the King in the difficulties with which he was surrounded, and

their immediate aim was to withdraw him from the metropolis; Louis' own

oft-repeated indecision alone prevented them from being successful.

These royalists were chiefly from the province of Poitou, and as their

meetings gradually became known and talked of in Paris, they were called

the Poitevins.

They had among them one or two members of the Assembly, but the club

chiefly consisted of young noblemen attached to the Court, or of

officers in the body-guard of the King; their object, at first, had been

to maintain, undiminished, the power of the throne; but they had long

since forgotten their solicitude for the King's power, in their anxiety

for his safety and personal freedom.

The storming of the Tuilleries, and the imprisonment of Louis,

completely destroyed their body as a club; but the energy of each

separate member was raised to the highest pitch. The Poitevins no longer

met in the Rue Vivienne, but they separated with a determination on the

part of each individual royalist to use every effort to replace the

King.

There were three young men in this club, who were destined to play a

conspicuous part in the great effort about to be made, in a portion of

France, for the restitution of the monarchy; their fathers had lived

within a few miles of each other, and though of different ages, and very

different dispositions, they had come to Paris together since the

commencement of the revolution.

M. de Lescure was a married man, about twenty-seven years of age, of

grave and studious habits, but nevertheless of an active temperament.

He was humane, charitable, and benevolent: his strongest passion was the

love of his fellow-creatures; his pure heart had glowed, at an early

age, with unutterable longings for the benefits promised to the human

race by the school of philosophy from which the revolution originated.

Liberty and fraternity had been with him principles, to have realized

which he would willingly have sacrificed his all; but at the

commencement of the revolution he had seen with horror the successive

encroachments of the lower classes, and from conscience had attached

himself to the Crown. Hitherto he had been without opportunity of

showing the courage for which he was afterwards so conspicuous; he did

not even himself know that he was a brave man; before, however, his

career was ended, he had displayed the chivalry of a Bayard, and

performed the feats of a Duguescin. A perfect man, we are told, would

be a monster; and a certain dry obstinacy of manner, rather than of

purpose, preserved de Lescure from the monstrosity of perfection.

Circumstances decreed that the latter years of his life should be spent

among scenes of bloodshed; that he should be concerned in all the

horrors of civil war; that instruments of death should be familiar to

his hands, and the groans of the dying continually in his ears. But

though the horrors of war were awfully familiar to him, the harshness

of war never became so; he spilt no blood that he could spare, he took

no life that he could save. The cruelty of his enemies was unable to

stifle the humanity of his heart; even a soldier and a servant of the

republic became his friend as soon as he was vanquished.

Two young friends had followed M. de Lescure to Paris--Henri de

Larochejaquelin and Adolphe Denot. The former was the son of the Marquis

de Larochejaquelin, and the heir of an extensive property in Poitou; M.

de Lescure and he were cousins, and the strictest friendship had long

existed between the families. Young Larochejaquelin was of a temperament

very different from that of his friend: he was eager, impetuous,

warm-tempered, and fond of society; but he had formed his principles on

those of M. de Lescure. The love of his fellow-creatures was not with

him the leading passion of his heart, as it was with the other; but

humanity had early been instilled into him as the virtue most necessary

to cultivate, and he consequently fully appreciated and endeavoured to

imitate the philanthropy of his friend.

At the time alluded to, Henri de Larochejaquelin was not quite twenty

years of age. He was a lieutenant in the body-guard immediately attached

to the King's person, and called the "Garde du Roi." At any other

period, he would hardly yet have finished his education, but the

revolution gave a precocious manhood to the rising generation. Henri's

father, moreover, was very old; he had not married till late in life;

and the young Marquis, when he was only seventeen, had to take on

himself the guardianship of his sister Agatha, and the management of the

paternal property. The old man was unable to leave his chair, and though

he still retained his senses, was well pleased to give up to the son of

his old age the rights and privileges which in the course of nature

would descend to him.

Without being absolutely handsome, young Larochejaquelin was of a very

prepossessing appearance. He was tall and robust, well made, and active.

Though he had not attained that breadth of shoulder, and expansion of

chest, which a few years would probably have given him, he had the

perfect use of his limbs, and was full of health and youthful energy;

his eyes were bright, and of a clear blue colour; his hair was light,

and his upper lip could already boast that ornament which the then age,

and his own position made allowable. He was a favourite with all who

knew him--more so even than his friend de Lescure; and it is saying much

in his favour to declare that a year's residence amongst all that was

beautiful and charming in Paris, had hitherto done but little to spoil

him.

Adolphe Denot was an orphan, but also possessed of a fair property in

the province of Poitou. He had, when very young, been left to the

guardianship of the Marquis de La Rochejaquelin, and had at intervals,

during his holidays, and after he had left school, spent much of his

time at Durbellière, the family residence of the La Rochejaquelins.

Henri had of course contracted a close friendship with him; but this

arose more from the position in which they were placed together, than

a similarity of disposition. They were, indeed, very unlike; Adolphe was

somewhat older than the other, but he had neither his manliness of

manner nor strength of character; he was more ambitious to be popular,

without the same capacity of making himself so: he had as much romantic

love of poetical generosity, without the same forgetfulness of self to

enable him to emulate in practice the characters, which he admired in

description; he had much veneration for poetic virtue, though but little

strength to accomplish practical excellence. He had, on leaving school,

proclaimed himself to be an ardent admirer of Rousseau; he had been a

warm partizan of the revolution, and had displayed a most devoted

enthusiasm to his country at the fête of the Champ de Mars. Latterly,

however, the circles which he mostly frequented in Paris had voted

strong revolutionary ardour to be mauvais ton; a kind of modulated

royalism, or rather Louis Seizeism, had become fashionable; and Adolphe

Denot was not the man to remain wilfully out of the fashion. On the 10th

of August, he was a staunch supporter of the monarchy.

Adolphe Denot was a much handsomer man than his friend; his features

were better formed, and more regular; he had beautifully white teeth,

an almost feminine mouth, a straight Grecian nose, and delicately small

hands and feet; but he was vain of his person, and ostentatious; fond

of dress and of jewellery. He was, moreover, suspicious of neglect, and

vindictive when neglected; querulous of others, and intolerant of

reproof himself; exigeant among men, and more than politely flattering

among women. He was not, however, without talent, and a kind of poetic

fecundity of language, which occasionally made him brilliant in society;

it was, however, generally speaking, those who knew him least who liked

him best.

Larochejaquelin, however, was always true to him; he knew that he was

an orphan, without brother, sister, or relatives, and with the devotion

of a real friend, he overlooked all his faults, and greatly magnified

his talents. For Henri's sake, M. de Lescure tolerated him, and the

three were therefore much together; they came from the same country;

they belonged to the same club; they had the same political sympathies;

and were looked upon as dear and stedfast friends.

On the 10th of August, the King left the Tuilleries, and took refuge in

the National Assembly; during the greater part of the night he remained

there with his family. Early on the following morning, he was removed,

under a guard, to the Feuillants; and on the 12th it was decided that

he should be confined in the prison of the Temple.

It was on the morning of the 12th, that the last meeting of the little

club of the Poitevins took place.

They met with throbbing hearts and blank faces; they all felt that evil

days had come that the Revolution which had been so petted and caressed

by the best and fairest in France, had become a beast of prey, and that

war, anarchy, and misrule were at hand.

They sat waiting on the morning of the 12th, till they should learn the

decision of the Assembly with regard to the King. De Lescure was there

calm and grave, but with much melancholy in his countenance.

Larochejaquelin was there. Hot and eager, whispering plans for rescuing

the King, to which the less resolute hardly dared to listen. Charette,

the Prince de Talmont, d'Autachamps, Fleuriot, and others, all of whom

now detested the Revolution, though they could not but feel the danger

of proclaiming themselves royalists.

"Denot will be here directly," said La Rochejaquelin; "he is at the

Assembly--they are not apt to be very tedious in their decisions."

"Danton has openly declared," said Fleuriot, "that the armed sections

shall remain in revolt, unless the Assembly decree the abolition of the

monarchy."

"Lafayette," said the Prince, "is the only man now who could save the

country--if Lafayette will move, he might still save the throne."

"He could do nothing," said d'Autachamps, "but add himself to the

ruins--the regiments, to a man, would side with the populace."

"I don't know," said Larochejaquelin, "I don't think so. See how our

Swiss fought--could any men be more true to their officers or their

colours? and do you think there are not thousands in the French army as

true, as brave as they? If Lafayette would raise his hand, I for one

would join him."

"Wait, Henri, wait," said de Lescure, "wait till you know whether

Lafayette and the army will really be wanting to save the King. If

Roland be still firm, and Vergniaud true to his principles, they may

still quell the fury of the Jacobins--the moderate party has still a

large majority in the Assembly."

"Roland and Vergniaud are both true," said Fleuriot, "but you will find,

de Lescure, that they can do nothing but yield or go--they must vanish

out of the Assembly and become nothing--or else they must go with the

people."

"The people! How I hate that phrase, in the sense in which it is now

used," said Larochejaquelin. "A mob of blood-thirsty ruffians wishes to

overturn the throne--but what evidence have we that the people wish it."

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

"No, Charles, the people of France have not been taught to wish it--with

all the teaching they have had, they do not wish it--have they shewn any

favour to the new priests whom the Revolution has sent to them; do they

love much the Commissioners, who from time to time, come among them with

the orders of the Assembly. Do the people in the Bocage wish it?--do

they wish it in the Marais, Charette?--do they wish it in Anjou and

Brittany? Danton, Robespierre, and Tallien wish it--the mob of Paris

wishes it--but the people of France does not wish to depose their King."

"But unfortunately," said d'Autachamps, "it is Danton, Robespierre, and

the mob of Paris who have now the supreme power, and for a time will

have their way--they who are wise will lie by till the storm has blown

over."

"And are we to remain quiet while we are robbed of every thing which we

esteem as holy?" said Larochejaquelin; "are we all to acquiesce in the

brutality of such men as Danton, for fear the mob of Paris should be too

strong for us?"

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

"Nor I," said Larochejaquelin--"not while I have a sword to draw, and an

arm to use it. You are silent, Charles--is a Republic so much to your

mind, that you have not a word, or even a wish for your King?"

"You are too talkative, Henri," replied the other; "will it not be well

to think a little first before we proclaim definitively what we mean to

do? We do not even know as yet in what position Louis XVI. may find

himself tomorrow--he may be more firmly seated on his throne than he has

been at any time since the Three Estates first met at Versailles."

As he ceased speaking, the door opened, and Adolphe Denot entered, hot

with walking fast, and with his whole dress disordered by pushing

through the dense masses of the crowd.

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

vote?"

"Are they still sitting?" said Fleuriot; "Danton, I am sure would not

have yielded so soon as this:--if the chamber be closed, he must have

been victorious."

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

the Temple!"

There was a momentary silence among them all--their worst fears had been

realized--the brute force of Paris had been triumphant. The firmness of

Roland, the eloquence of Vergniaud, the patriotism of Guadet had been

of no avail. The King of France--the heir of so long a line of

royalty--the King, who had discarded the vices of his predecessors, and

proved himself the friend of the people, was to be incarcerated in the

worst prison in Paris by the vote of that very Assembly which he had

himself called into existence.

"He is to be confined in the Temple," continued Denot, "with the Queen

and the two children. The populace are mad; they would kill him, if they

could lay their hands on him."

"Where are your hopes now, Charles?" said Larochejaquelin. "Is it yet

time for us to proclaim what we are--is it yet time for us to move? or

are we to set still, until Danton enrolls us in his list of suspected

persons?"

No one immediately answered the appeal of the hot young loyalist, and

after a moment or two de Lescure spoke.

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

"Again and again," said Denot. "I was at the door of the Assembly, and

the decree was known to the crowd the moment the votes had been taken."

"But did you hear the exact words?"

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

Denot.

"Did they say the King, or did they call him by his name?" asked de

Lescure again. "Did they decree that the King should be imprisoned, or

Louis Capet?"

As he spoke, the door again opened, and another member, who had been

among the crowd, entered the room.

"Gentlemen," said he, "allow me the honour to congratulate you. Yon do

not know your own happiness. You are no longer the burdened slaves of

an effete monarchy; you are now the vigorous children of a young

Republic."

"Vive le Roi, quand même," said Larochejaquelin, standing up in the

middle of the room. "I am glad they have so plainly declared themselves;

we are driven now to do the same. Prince, now is the time to stand by

our King. Charette, your hand; our dreams must now be accomplished. You

will doubt no longer, Charles. Prudence herself would now feel that we

have no longer aught to wait for."

"No--we must delay no longer," said Adolphe Denot. "A King is to be

saved; every hour of delay is an hour of treason, while the King is in

the hands of his enemies."

"A fine sentiment, Denot," said d'Autachamps; "but how will you avoid

the treason?--how do you purpose to rescue his Majesty?"

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

will?"

"We only doubt your power, Adolphe," said de Lescure. "We only fear you

may not be able to raise the standard of revolt against the armed

sections of all Paris, backed by a decree of the Assembly."

"I can at any rate die in the attempt," replied Denot. "I cannot draw

the breath of life from the atmosphere of a Republic! I will not live

by the permission of Messieurs Danton and Robespierre."

"Whatever we do," said Fleuriot, "the club must be given up. We are

known to be friendly to the King, and we are too weak to stand our

ground; indeed, we should only incur useless danger by meeting here."

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

Charette.

"You are right, Charette," said Rochejaquelin, whom the wildness of his

friend Denot had a little sobered. "You are quite right--Paris is no

longer a place for us. I will go back to the Bocage; there, at least,

I may own among my neighbours that I am not a republican; there,

perhaps, I may make some effort for my King--here I can make none. You

will not stay in Paris, Charles, to hear unwashed revolutionists clatter

of Louis Capet?"

"No, Henri, I also will return home. Charette is right. We should but

waste our time in Paris, and be in danger. We shall probably be in

safety in Poitou."

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

action."

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

"To follow any one who will lead me to assist in restoring the King to

his throne," replied Henri. "Let us, at any rate, retire to our

provinces; and be assured that the National Assembly will soon hear of

us."

The club was broken up; the young friends met no more in the Rue

Vivienne. Within a week from the 10th of August, the denizens of the

municipality had searched the rooms for any relics which might be

discovered there indicatory of a feeling inimical to the Republic; their

residences also were searched, and there were orders at the barriers

that they should not pass out; but the future Vendean leaders had too

quickly appreciated the signs of the time; they had gone before the

revolutionary tribunal had had time to form itself. They were gone, and

their names for a season were forgotten in Paris; but Henri

Rochejaquelin was right--before long, the National Assembly did hear of

them; before twelve months had passed, they were more feared by the

Republic, than the allied forces of England, Austria, and Prussia.

CHAPTER II.

ST. FLORENT.

Nothing occurred in the provinces, subsequently called La Vendée, during

the autumn or winter of 1792 of sufficient notice to claim a place in

history, but during that time the feelings which afterwards occasioned

the revolt in that country, were every day becoming more ardent. The

people obstinately refused to attend the churches to which the

constitutional clergy had been appointed; indeed, these pastors had

found it all but impossible to live in the parishes assigned to them;

no one would take them as tenants; no servants would live with them; the

bakers and grocers would not deal with them; the tailors would not make

their clothes for them, nor the shoemakers shoes. During the week they

were debarred from all worldly commerce, and on Sundays they performed

their religious ceremonies between empty walls.

The banished priests, on the other hand, who were strictly forbidden to

perform any of the sacerdotal duties, continued among the trees and

rocks to collect their own congregations undiminished in number, and

much more than ordinarily zealous, in their religious duties; and with

the licence which such sylvan chapels were found to foster,

denunciations against the Republic, and prayers for the speedy

restoration of the monarchy, were mingled with the sacred observances.

The execution of Louis, in January, 1793, greatly increased the

attachment which was now felt in this locality to his family. In Nantes

and Angers, in Saumur, Thouars, and other towns in which the presence

of Republican forces commanded the adhesion of the inhabitants this

event was commemorated by illuminations, but this very show of joy at

so cruel a murder, more than the murder itself, acerbated the feelings

both of the gentry and the peasants. They were given to understand that

those who wished well to their country were now expected to show some

sign of gratitude for what the blessed revolution had done for

them--that those who desired to stand well with the Republic should

rejoice openly at their deliverance from thraldom. In fact, those who

lived in large towns, and who would not illuminate, were to be marked

men--marked as secret friends to the monarchy--as inveterate foes to the

Republic--and they were told that they were to be treated accordingly.

Men then began to congregate in numbers round the churches, and in the

village squares, and to ask each other whether they had better not act

as enemies, if they were to be considered as enemies; to complain of

their increasing poverty and diminished comfort; and to long for the

coming time, when the King should enjoy his own again.

The feeling with the country gentry was very generally the same as with

the peasantry, though hitherto they had openly expressed no opposition

to the ruling Government. They had, however, been always elected to

those situations which the leaders of the revolution had wished the

people to fill exclusively with persons from their own ranks. They were

chosen as mayors in the small towns, and were always requested to act

as officers in the corps of the National Guards, which were formed in

this, as in every other district of France. On this account the peculiar

ill-will of the Republican Government was directed against them. In

France, at that time, political inactivity was an impossibility. Revolt

against the Republic, or active participation in its measures, was the

only choice left to those who did not choose to fly their country, and

many of the seigneurs of Anjou and Poitou would not adopt the latter

alternative.

In March, the Commissaries of the Republic entered these provinces to

collect from that district, its portion towards the levy of three

hundred thousand men which had been ordered by the Convention. This was

an intolerable grievance--it was not to be borne, that so many of their

youths should be forcibly dragged away to fight the battles of the

Republic--battles in which they would rather that the Republic should

be worsted. Besides, every one would lose a relative, a friend, or a

lover; the decree affected every individual in the district. The

peasants declared that they would not obey the orders of the

Convention--that they would not fight the battles of the Republic.

This was the commencement of the revolt. The troops of the Republic

were, of course, put in motion to assist the officers who were entrusted

with the carrying out of the conscription. There were garrisons in

Nantes, in Anjou, and in Saumur; and detachments from these places were

sent into the smaller towns and villages, into every mayoralty, to

enforce the collection of the levy, and to take off with them the

victims of the conscription. Among other places, an attempt was made to

carry out the new law at St. Florent, and at this place was made the

first successful resistance, by an armed force, to the troops of the

Convention.

St. Florent is a small town on the south bank of the Loire, in the

province of Anjou, and at the northern extremity of that district, now

so well known by the name of La Vendée. It boasted of a weekly market,

a few granaries for the storing of corn, and four yearly fairs for the

sale of cattle. Its population and trade, at the commencement of the

war, was hardly sufficient to entitle it to the name of a town; but it

had early acquired some celebrity as a place in which the Republic was

known to be very unpopular, and in which the attachment of the people

to the throne was peculiarly warm.

Here the work of the conscription was commenced in silence. The lists

were filled, and the names were drawn. No opposition was shown to the

employés in this portion of their unpopular work. Indeed, it appears

that no organized system of opposition had been planned; but the first

attempt that was made to collect the unfortunate recruits upon whom the

lots had fallen, was the signal for a general revolt. The first name on

the list was that of Peter Berrier; and had Peter Berrier intended to

prove himself a good citizen and a willing soldier, he should, without

further call, have attended that day at the temporary barracks which had

been established in St. Florent. But he had not done so, and there was

nothing wonderful or unusual in this; for on all occasions of the kind

many of the conscripts had to be sought out, and brought forth from the

bosoms of their families, to which they retired, with a bashful

diffidence as to their own peculiar fitness for martial glory. But in

this instance not one of the chosen warriors obeyed the summons of the

Convention, by attending at the barracks of St. Florent. Not one of the

three hundred thousand men was there; and it was soon apparent to the

colonel in command of the detachment, that he had before him the

unpleasant duty of collecting one by one, from their different

hiding-places, the whole contingent which the town of St. Florent was

bound to supply.

Peter Berrier was the first on the list, and as it was well known that

he was an ostler at a little auberge in the middle of the square, a

corporal and a couple of soldiers was despatched to the house of

entertainment to capture him; and the trio soon found that they would

not have far to search, for Peter was standing at the gate of the inn

yard, and with him three or four of his acquaintance--men equally

well-known in St. Florent.

There was a sturdy farmer there of the better sort--a man who not only

held a farm near the town, but had a small shop within it, for the sale

of seeds and tools for planting--his name was Foret--and it was said

that no man in St. Florent was more anxious for the restoration of the

King. There was the keeper of the auberge himself, who seemed but little

inclined to find fault with his servant, for the contumacious manner in

which he treated the commands of the Convention; and there was the

well-known postillion of St. Florent, the crack of whose whip was so

welcome from Angers to Nantes, the sound of whose cheery voice was so

warmly greeted at every hostelrie between those towns. The name of

Cathelineau was not then so well known as it was some six months

afterwards, but even then Cathelineau, the postillion, was the most

popular man in St. Florent. He was the merriest among the mirthful, the

friend of every child, the playmate of every lass in the town; but he

was the comforter of those poorer than himself, and the solace of the

aged and afflicted. He was the friend of the banished priest, and the

trusted messenger of the royalist seigneur; all classes adored him, save

those who sided with the Republic, and by them he had long been looked

on as an open and declared enemy. St. Florent was justly proud of its

postillion; and now that evil days were come upon the little town, that

their priests were banished, and these young men called for to swell the

armies of the hated Convention, many flocked to Cathelineau to ask from

whence he expected deliverance from all their troubles.

It was well known that Peter Berrier was the first whom the Colonel's

myrmidons would be sent to seize, and many eyes were resting on the

group collected at the gateway of the auberge, as the corporal and the

two soldiers, without their muskets, but with pistols at their belts,

marched across from the little barracks to the spot where they were

standing. At any rate, Cathelineau had not advised a retreat, for there

stood Peter Berrier--prominent in the front of the group--a little pale

to be sure, and perhaps rather uneasy in his attitude; but still

evidently prepared to bear the brunt of that day's proceeding. He was

not going to run away, or he would long since have started. He was not

going to obey the orders of the Convention, or he would not have stood

there so openly and firmly, waiting the approach of the corporal and the

two soldiers. It was very evident that there was to be a row in St.

Florent that day, and that the postillion approved of it.

As the military party drew near to the gate of the inn yard, the

corporal opened a small roll of paper, which he held in his hand, and

standing still about six paces distant from the spot where Peter was

maintaining his ground, read or pretended to read, the following words

from the piece of paper which he held in his hands:

"In the name of the French Republic, and by command of the Convention,

you, Peter Berrier, having been duly, legally, and specially drawn,

chosen, and selected by lot, to serve in the armies of the Republic for

one year, from the date of your first bearing arms, or for so long as

your services may be necessary to the security of the Republic, are

hereby required and desired to join the detachment of the Republican

army at present serving in St. Florent, without let, delay, or

hindrance, and thereby show yourself a friend to your country, and a

good citizen of the Republic."

The corporal pronounced this form of invitation in that tone of voice,

which proved that it was very familiar to him, and that he was much in

the habit of requesting good citizens to join the armies of the Republic

for such time as their services might be necessary; and, having finished

it, he rolled up the piece of paper, stuck it into his belt, as he might

soon require the use of his hands, and, walking quite close up to the

group, said--

"Come, Peter Berrier, you are not such a fool, I hope, as to intend

giving us any trouble. Come along."

Peter looked first into the farmer's face; then to his master's; and,

lastly, to the postillion's; and, seeing that they were all evidently

firm in their resolve, he plucked up spirit, and replied.--"Why, Mr

Corporal, I have no inclination just at present to go to fight for the

Republic. You see I have no quarrel yet with my master here, M. Debedin,

and he cannot well spare me. I am afraid, Mr Corporal, I must decline."

"That's nonsense, you know," growled the corporal; "you must come, you

know; and as well first as last. I don't want to be uncivil to a

comrade, and I'd be sorry to have to lay a hand on you."

"Then you'd better keep your hands off," said Cathelineau, "we quiet

people in St. Florent don't bear handling well."

The corporal looked up at the postillion, but he soon saw that he wasn't

joking.

"Take my word for it, my friend," continued Cathelineau, "Peter Berrier

does not wish to be a soldier, and, if you force him to become one, it

is not on the side of the Republic that he will be found fighting."

"We'll take chances for that," replied the corporal, not exactly

understanding what the other meant; "at any rate, back without him we

won't go; and if you're determined for a riot, Messieurs, why I'm sorry;

but I can't help it," and, appealing to Peter as a last hope, he said,

"Come, Berrier, will you come with us quietly, or must we three drag you

across the square to the barracks."

"At any rate, Mr Corporal," said Peter, "I will not go with you quietly;

as to the being dragged, I can say nothing about that yet."

The corporal looked round towards the barracks, as he felt that it was

possible that he might want more assistance, and he saw that a body of

men under arms was standing immediately in front of the building, and

that a couple of the officers were with them. The corporal saw at a

glance that they were ready for immediate action, if their services

should be requisite. In fact, the colonel of the detachment well knew

the feeling in the place with reference to the levies of the

conscription. He was sure, from the fact of not a single man having

attended at the barracks, as directed, that there existed some general

determination to resist the demands of the Convention, and he had

consequently closely watched the proceedings of the corporal.

"Take your answer, Mr Corporal," said Cathelineau: "had Peter Berrier

intended to have joined you he would not have troubled you to come

across the square to fetch him. In one word, he will not go with you;

if as you say, you intend to drag him across the market-place, you will

find that you have enough to do. Peter Berrier has many friends in St.

Florent."

The corporal again looked round, and he saw that the men under arms now

stretched from the front of the barracks, nearly into the square; but

he also saw that the inhabitants of the town were standing clustering

at all the doors, and that men were crowding towards the square from the

different inlets. Four or five of the more respectable inhabitants had

also joined the group in the gateway, from the hands of one of whom the

postillion quietly took a stout ash stick. The corporal, however, was

not a coward, and he saw that, if he intended to return with Peter

Berrier, he should not delay his work with any further parley, so he

took his pistol from his belt and cocked it, and, stepping quite close

to Berrier, said,

"Come men--forward, and bring him off; one man to each shoulder," and

he himself seized hold of the breast of Peter's coat with his left hand

and pulled him forward a step or two.

Peter was a little afraid of the pistol, but still he resisted manfully:

from the corporal's position, Cathelineau was unable to reach with his

stick the arm which had laid hold of Berrier, but it descended heavily

on the first soldier, who came to the corporal's assistance. The blow

fell directly across the man's wrist, and his arm dropt powerless to his

side. The corporal immediately released his hold of Peter's coat, and

turning on Cathelineau raised his pistol and fired; the shot missed the

postillion, but it struck M. Debedin, the keeper of the auberge, and

wounded him severely in the jaw. He was taken at once into the house,

and the report was instantaneously spread through the town, that M.

Debedin had been shot dead by the soldiery.

The ash stick of the postillion was again raised, and this time the

corporal's head was the sufferer; the man's shako protected his skull,

which, if uncovered, would have probably been fractured; but he was

half-stunned, at any rate stupified by the blow, and was pulled about

and pushed from one to another by the crowd who had now collected in the

archway, without making any further attempt to carry off his prisoner.

The other soldier, when he saw his two comrades struck, fired his pistol

also, and wounded some other person in the crowd. He then attempted to

make his escape back towards the barracks, but he was tripped up

violently as he attempted to run, and fell on his face on the pavement.

The unfortunate trio were finally made prisoners of; they were disarmed,

their hands bound together, and then left under a strong guard in the

cow-house attached to the auberge.

This skirmish, in which Berrier was so successfully rescued, occurred

with greater rapidity than it has been recounted; for, as soon as the

colonel heard the first shot fired, he ordered his men to advance in a

trot across the square. It took some little time for him to give his

orders to the lieutenants, and for the lieutenants to put the men into

motion; but within five minutes from the time that the first shot was

fired, about forty men had been commanded to halt in front of the hotel;

they all had their muskets in their hands and their bayonets fixed, and

as soon as they halted a portion of them were wheeled round, so that the

whole body formed a square. By this time, however, the corporal and the

two soldiers were out of sight, and so was also Peter Berrier, for

Cathelineau considered that now as the man had withstood the first

shock, and had resolutely and manfully refused to comply with the order

of the Convention, it was better that he should be out of the way, and

that the brunt of the battle should be borne by his friends. Peter was

consequently placed in the cow-house with the captives, and had the

gratification of acting as guard over the three first prisoners taken

in the Vendean war.

Cathelineau and Foret, however, stood out prominently before the men who

were collected before the auberge, and had already taken on themselves

the dangerous honour of leading the revolt.

"Men of St. Florent," said the colonel addressing the crowd, "I am most

reluctant to order the soldiers to fire upon the inhabitants of the

town; but unless you at once restore the three men who were sent over

here on duty, and give up the man, Peter Berrier, who has been drawn as

a conscript, I will do so at once."

"Peter Berrier is a free man," said Foret, "and declines going with you;

and as for your three soldiers, they have fired at and killed or wounded

two inhabitants of the town--they at any rate shall be brought before

the mayor, before they are given up."

"Sergeant," said the colonel, "take out six men and make prisoner that

man; if a rescue be attempted, the soldiers shall at once fire on the

people, and on your own heads be your own blood."

The sergeant and the six men instantly stepped out, but Foret was

surrounded by a dense crowd of friends, and the soldiers found it

utterly impossible to lay hold of him.

"Your pistols, sergeant; use your pistols," roared the colonel, as he

himself drew one of his own from his holsters, and at the same time gave

orders to the men in the ranks to present their pieces.

The sergeant followed by his six men, made a desperate dash into the

crowd with the object of getting hold of Foret; but in spite of the

butt-end of their pistols, with which the soldiers laid about them, they

found themselves overpowered, and were barely able to make good their

retreat to the main body of the detachment; at the same time, a volley

of stones, brickbats and rough missiles of all kinds, descended on the

soldiers from every side, for they were now nearly surrounded; a stone

struck the Colonel's horse and made him rear: immediately afterwards,

another stone struck himself on the side of the face, and nearly

dismounted him.

"Fire," roared the Colonel, and the whole detachment fired at the same

moment; the soldiers fronting the auberge could not fire into the mob

directly before them, or they would have run the risk of killing their

own comrades, who were still struggling there with the townspeople; and

in this way, Cathelineau and Foret were saved, but the carnage all

around them was horrid; the soldiers had fired point blank into the

dense crowd, and not a bullet had fallen idle to the ground. A terrible

scream followed the discharge of musketry; the dying and the wounded

literally covered the space round the soldiers, but they were quickly

dragged into the back ground, and their places filled by men who were

evidently determined that they would not easily be conquered.

Another volley of stones was soon showered on the soldiers, and this was

kept up with wonderful activity--the women and children supplied the men

with the materials--the stones in the streets were at once picked

up--old walls were pulled down--every article that would answer for a

missile was brought into use; an iron pot, which had been flung with

immense violence by the handle, struck the second officer in command in

the face, and dashed his brains out. Immediately that either part of the

square battalion was in any confusion, the people dashed in, and

attempted to force the muskets from the hands of the soldiers; in some

cases they were successful, and before the body had commenced a retreat,

Foret and Cathelineau were both armed with a musket and bayonet.

The colonel now saw that he could not maintain his position where he

was; he had not brought out with him the whole force of the garrison,

though in all he had not above seventy or eighty men; but he had behind

the barrack a gun of very large calibre, properly mounted, with all the

necessary equipments and ready for service. Such a piece of artillery

accompanied every detachment, and was kept in preparation for immediate

use at every military station; it had already been ascertained that this

afforded the readiest means of putting down revolt. He resolved,

therefore, on retreating while he had the power for doing so, and gave

the necessary orders to the men.

With great difficulty, but slowly and steadily, his men executed them:

amidst showers of stones, and the now determined attack of the people

the soldiers returned to the barracks, leaving one of their officers,

and one other man dead in the crowd; many of them were severely wounded;

few, if any, had escaped some bruise or cut. The people now conceived

that they were going to take refuge in the barrack, and determined to

drive them utterly out of the town; but, as soon as the soldiers had

filed into the barrack yard, another murderous fire was discharged by

those who had been left at the station. Then Cathelineau, who was still

in front of the crowd, and who was now armed with the bayonet, which he

had taken from the point of the musket, remembered the cannon, and he

became for a moment pale as he thought of the dreadful slaughter which

would take place, if the colonel were able to effect his purpose of

playing it upon the town.

"The cannon!" whispered he to Foret, who was still at his side; "they

will fall like leaves in autumn, if we don't prevent it."

"Have they it ready?" said Foret.

"Always," said the other, "they have nothing to do but wheel it into the

street; and they are at it, you hear the noise of the wheels this

moment. We must bear one discharge from it, and the next, if there be

a second, shall fall upon the soldiers."

Others, beside Cathelineau, recognised the sound of the moving

wheels--and, "the cannon, the cannon, they will fire the cannon on us,"

was heard from side to side among the crowd; but none attempted to run,

not one of the whole mass attempted to fly, and when the barrack gates

flew open, and the deadly mouth of the huge instrument was close upon

them, they rushed upon it, determined at any rate, to preserve their

houses, their wives, and their children from the awful destruction of

a prolonged firing.

"They must have one shot at us," said a man in a trembling whisper to

his neighbour. "God send it were over!" replied the other, as the gates

of the barrack-yard were thrown back.

The greater number of the soldiers and the two officers who had returned

with them, made good their retreat into the barracks, under the fire of

their comrades, who had been left there. Some three or four had been

pulled and hustled into the crowd, and their arms were quickly taken

from them and they were sent back to the auberge as prisoners. The

colonel, as soon as he found himself in his own quarters, gave immediate

orders that the gun should be wheeled round to the barrack-yard gate,

which had hitherto been kept closed, and that the moment the gates could

be got open it should be fired on the crowd. These gates faced directly

into the square, and the destruction caused by one shot would have been

tremendous. The colonel, moreover, calculated that in the confusion he

would have been able to reload. The gun, in its original position, was

pointed on the town, but it was immediately seen, that without moving

it, it could not be brought to bear upon the crowd congregated round the

barracks.

The first attack of the crowd had been at the barrack door, through

which the soldiers had retreated; but this was soon changed to the yard

gates. The people, however, were unable to knock them down before the

wheels of the cannon were heard, as they had been considerably checked

by the fire of the reserved party. Both soldiers and towns-people were

now anxious to face each other, and the gates soon fell inwards towards

the military. Had the men at the gun had their wits about them they

would have fired through the gates; but they did not, they waited till

they fell inwards across the cannon's mouth, and in his confusion the

artillery-sergeant even then hesitated before he put the light to the

touch-hole.

He had never time to do more than hesitate. Cathelineau had been close

up to the wooden gates, against which he was so closely pressed that he

was hardly able to change his bayonet from his right to his left-hand,

and to cock the pistol which he had taken from the corporal, who had

commenced the day's work. However, he contrived to do so, and when the

wood-work fell, he sprang forward, and though he stumbled over the

fragments of the timber, he fired as he did so, and the artillery

sergeant fell dead beside the cannon; the unextinguished light was

immediately seized by his comrade, but he had not time to use it; it was

knocked from his hand before it was well raised from the ground, and the

harmless piece of cannon was soon entirely surrounded by crowds of the

townspeople. They were not content with spiking it in such a way as to

make it utterly impossible that it should be discharged; but they

succeeded in turning it entirely round, so that the back of the carriage

faced towards the town.

The soldiers still continued the fight within the barrack-yard, and from

the barrack windows; but they were so completely mixed with the

townspeople, that the officers were afraid to order the men to fire from

the windows, least they should kill their own comrades. At last the

colonel himself was taken prisoner; he was literally dragged out of one

of the windows by the people, and soon afterwards the remainder of the

troops gave up. One of the three officers and six men were killed; the

rest were nearly all more or less wounded, and were all, without

exception, made prisoners of war.

Cathelineau and Foret had been in front of the battle all through; but

neither of them were wounded. It was to Foret that the colonel had given

up his sword, after he had been dragged headforemost through a window,

had had his head cut open with a brick-bat, and his sheath and

sword-belt literally torn from his side. He had certainly not

capitulated before he was obliged to do, and the people did not like him

the worse for it.

And now the unarmed soldiery, maimed and lame, with broken heads and

bloody faces, were led down in triumph into the square; and after them

was brought the great trophy of the day, the cannon, with its awful

mouth still turned away from the town. Cathelineau and Foret led the

procession, the former still carrying his bayonet, for he had given up

both the musket and pistols to some one else, and Foret armed with the

Colonel's sword: they were fully recognized as the victorious leaders

of the day.

At the bottom of the square they met a whole concourse of women, the

wives and sisters of the champions--among whom the sister and sweetheart

of Peter Berrier were conspicuous; they had come out to thank the

townspeople for what they had done for them. With the women were two of

the old curés of that and a neighbouring parish--pastors whom the decree

of the Convention had banished from their own churches, but whom all the

powers of the Convention had been unable to silence. To them this day's

battle was a most acceptable sign of better days coming; they foresaw

a succession of future victories on behalf of the people, which would

surely end in the restoration of the Bourbons to the throne, and of the

clergy to their churches. The curés shook hands warmly with those in the

front ranks of the people, gave their blessing to Cathelineau and Foret,

and then invited the people, with one accord, to give thanks to God for

the great success which He had given them.

In one moment the whole crowd were on their knees in the market-place,

while the two priests stood among them with their arms raised, uttering

thanksgiving to the Lord for his mercy, and praying for the eternal

welfare of those who had fallen in the affray. The soldiers of the

republic found themselves standing alone as prisoners in the midst of

the kneeling crowd; they looked awkward and confused enough, but they

could not help themselves; they could not have escaped, even if they had

been unanimous in attempting to do so; for they were unarmed, and the

people knelt so closely round them, that they could hardly move. It was

out of the question that they should also kneel, and join in the

thanksgiving for having been so utterly beaten; so there they stood,

their wounds stiffening and their blood running, till the priests had

finished, and the people had risen.

And then another ceremony was performed; the priests were besought to

come and bless the cannon, the first great trophy of the Royalist

insurrection; and they did so. The cannon was a lucky cannon, a kind

cannon, and a good cannon--a bon enfant, and worthy to be blessed; it

had refused to pour forth its murderous fire against the inhabitants of

a town that was so friendly to the King. It was decidedly a royalist

cannon; it had very plainly declared the side it meant to take; nothing

but miraculous interference on its own part could have prevented its

having been discharged on he people, when it stood ready pointed on the

town, with the torch absolutely glimmering at the touch-hole. It had

been brought to St. Florent by republican soldiers, dragged by

republican horses, and loaded with republican gunpowder; but it should

never be used except in the service of the King, and against the enemies

of the throne.

And so the priests blessed the cannon, and the people baptized it, and

called it Marie-Jeanne, and the women brought out their little children,

and sat them straddle-legged across it, whole rows of them at the same

time, till the cannon looked like a huge bunch of grapes on which the

fruit clustered thickly. By this time it was dark, and the people

lighted huge bonfires through the town, and the children remained up,

and as many as could cling on it still sat upon the cannon, and ropes

were got and fastened to it, and all the girls of St. Florent dragged

Marie-Jeanne round the town, and at last she was dragged into the yard

of the auberge, in front of which the fight had commenced, and there she

was left for the night, under a strong guard.

While these rejoicings were going on out of doors, Cathelineau and

Forte, the two priests, and a few others--the wise men of the town--were

collected together within the auberge, and were consulting as to their

future proceedings.

"We have done much," said Cathelineau, "and I rejoice at it. Too much,

a great deal, for us now to remain idle. We cannot go back. We are now

the enemies of the Republic, and we must attack our enemies elsewhere,

or they will attack and overwhelm us in our little town."

They then determined that Cathelineau, on the next morning, should

address the people from the window of the market-place, and that

afterwards he and Forte should go through the neighbouring country and

implore the assistance of the people, of the gentry, the priests, the

farmers, and the peasants, in opposing the hated levy of the Republican

forces; but first they would go to the gentry, and the names of many

were mentioned whom it was thought would be sure to join them. The first

was that of Henri de Larochejaquelin, and the next that of his friend

M. de Lescure. Who loved the people so well as they, and whom did the

people love so truly? Yes, they would call on young Larochejaquelin and

his friend to be their leaders.

Early on the morrow, the postillion addressed the people from the

market-place. He did not seek to himself the honour of doing so, nor,

when he was asked to come forward as the leader of the people, did he

refuse to do so. He was not covetous of the honour, but he would not

refuse the danger. During the whole of the combat every one had looked

to him as to the leader. He had not constituted himself the people's

general, he had not for a moment thought of assuming the position; but

he as little thought of refusing the danger or the responsibility, when

the duties of a general seemed, by the will of all, to fall to his lot.

"Friends," said he, addressing them from the market-house, "we have

saved ourselves for a while from the grasp of the Republic. But for the

battle of yesterday, every one here would have a brother, a son, or a

cousin, now enrolled as a conscript in the army of the Convention. Many

of yourselves would have been conscripts, and would have this morning

waked to the loss of your liberty. We did much yesterday when we bound

the hands of the soldiers; but we have much more to do than we have yet

done. Already in Nantes and in Angers are they talking of what we

yesterday performed. We shall doubtless have many friends in Nantes and

Angers, but the Republic also has many friends in those towns, and the

soldiers of the Republic are strong there. It will not be long before

they hurry to St. Florent to avenge the disgrace of their comrades; and

bitter will be their revenge if they take you unprepared. You have

declared war against the Republic, and you must be prepared to fight it

out to the end."

"We will, we will," shouted the people. "Down with the Republic--down

with the Convention. Long live the King--our own King once again."

"Very well, my friends," continued Cathelineau, "so be it. We will fight

it out then. We will combat with the Republic, sooner than be carried

away from our wives, our children, and our sweethearts. We will fight

for our own curés and our own churches; but our battle will be no

holiday-work, it will be a different affair from that of yesterday. We

must learn to carry arms, and to stand under them. You showed yesterday

that you had courage--you must now show that you can join patience and

perseverance to your courage."

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

Cathelineau, and we will do it.

"We must see," continued he, "who will be our friends and our allies.

St. Florent cannot fight single-handed against the Republic. There are

others in Anjou, and Poitou also, besides ourselves, who do not wish to

leave their homes and their fields. There are noblemen and gentlemen,

our friends and masters, who will lead you better than I can."

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

Cathelineau."

"You will, my friends, you will; but we need not quarrel about that.

Forte and I, with Peter Berrier, will visit those who we think will join

us; but you must at once prepare yourselves. You must arm yourselves.

We will distribute the muskets of the soldiers as far as they will go.

You must prepare yourselves. If we do not at once attack the Republicans

elsewhere, they will soon overwhelm us in St. Florent. We will go to

Cholet--the men of Cholet will surely second us--they are as fond of

their sons and their brethren as we are. Cholet will join us, and

Beaupréau, and Coron, and Torfou. We will go and ask them whether they

prefer the Republic to their homes--whether the leaders of the

Convention are dearer to them than their own lords--whether their new

priests love them, as the old ones did? And I know what will be their

answer."

He ceased speaking, and his audience crowded around him to shake hands

with him, and to bless him; and before the sun was in the middle of the

sky he had left St. Florent on his mission, in company with Forte and

Peter Berrier.

CHAPTER III.

DURBELLIÈRE.

The château of Durbellière, the family seat of the Larochejacquelins,

was situated in the very centre of the Bocage, between the small towns

of Chatillon and Vihiers--in the province of Poitou, and about twelve

leagues from St. Florent.

It was a large mansion, surrounded by extensive gardens, and a

considerable domain. There were few residences of more importance

as betokening greater wealth in the province of Poitou; but it was

neither magnificent nor picturesque. The landlords of the country

were not men of extensive property or expensive habits--they built

no costly castles, and gave no sumptuous banquets; but they lived at

home, on their incomes, and had always something to spare for the

poorer of their neighbours. Farming was their business--the chase

their amusement--loyalty their strongest passion, and the prosperity

of their tenantry their chief ambition.

The château of Durbellière was a large square building, three stories

high, with seven front windows to each of the upper stories, and three

on each side of the large door on the ground floor. Eight stone steps

of great width led up to the front door; but between the top step and

the door there was a square flagged area of considerable space; and on

the right hand, and on the left, two large whitewashed lions reclined

on brick and mortar pedestals. An enormous range of kitchens, offices

and cellars, ran under the whole house; the windows opened into a low

area, or rather trench, which ran along the front and back of the house,

and to which there were no rails or palings of any kind. The servants'

door was at the side of the house, and the servants and people coming

to them, to save themselves the trouble of walking round to this door,

were in the habit of jumping into the area and entering the kitchen by

the window. Doubtless some lady of the house, when the mansion was first

built, had protested strongly against this unsightly practice; but habit

had now accustomed the family to this mode of ingress and egress, and

the servants of Durbèlliere consequently never used any other.

The back of the château was just the same as the front, the same

windows, the same broad steps, the same pedestals and the same

whitewashed lions, only the steps, instead of leading on to a large

gravelled square, led into a trim garden. There were no windows,

whatsoever, on one side of the house, and on the other only those

necessary to light the huge staircase of the mansion.

The rooms were square, very large, and extremely lofty; the salon alone

was carpetted, and none of them were papered, the drawing-room, the

dining-room and the grand salon were ornamented with painted panels,

which displayed light-coloured shepherds and shepherdesses in almost

every possible attitude. In these rooms, also, there were highly

ornamented stoves, which stood out about four feet from the wall, topped

with marble slabs, on which were sculptured all the gods and demi-gods

of the heathen mythology--that in the drawing-room exhibited Vulcan

catching Mars and Venus in his marble net; and the unhappy position of

the god of war was certainly calculated to read a useful lesson to any

Parisian rover, who might attempt to disturb the domestic felicity of

any family in the Bocage.

The house was not above a hundred yards from the high road, from which

there were two entrances about two hundred yards apart. There were large

wooden, gates at each, which were usually left open, but each of which

was guarded by two white-washed lions--not quite so much at ease as

those on the pedestals, for they were fixed a-top of pillars hardly

broad enough to support them. But this doubtless only increased their

watchfulness.

But the glory of the château was the large garden behind the house. It

was completely enclosed by a very high wall, and, like the house, was

nearly square in its proportions. It contained miles of walks, and each

walk so like the others, that a stranger might wander there for a week

without knowing that he had retraversed the same ground, were it not

that he could not fail to recognize the quaint groups of figures which

met him at every turn. A few of these were of stone, rudely sculptured,

but by far the greater number were of painted wood, and, like the

shepherds and shepherdesses in the drawing-room, displayed every action

of rural life. You would suddenly come upon a rosy-coloured gentleman,

with a gun to his shoulder, in the act of shooting game--then a girl

with a basket of huge cabbages--an old man in a fit of the cholic; the

same rosy gentleman violently kissing a violet-coloured young lady; and,

at the next turn, you would find the violet-coloured young lady fast

asleep upon a bank. You would meet a fat curé a dozen times in

half-an-hour, and always well employed. He would be saying his

prayers--drinking beer--blessing a young maiden, and cudgelling a mule

that wouldn't stir a step for him, till the large yellow drops of sweat

were falling from his face. It was inconceivable how so many painted

figures, in such a variety of attitudes, could have been designed and

executed; but there they were, the great glory of the old gardener, and

the endless amusement of the peasants of the neighbourhood, who were

allowed to walk there on the summer Sunday evenings.

The gardens of Durbellière were also wonderful in another respect. It

was supposed to be impossible to consume, or even to gather, all the

cherries which they produced in the early summer. The trees between the

walks were all cherry-trees--old standard trees of a variety of sorts;

but they all bore fruit of some description or another, some sweet and

some bitter; some large, some small, and some perfectly diminutive; some

black, some red, and some white. Every species of known cherry was in

that garden in abundance; but even the gardener himself did not know the

extent of the produce. Birds of all kinds flocked there in enormous

numbers, and banqueted gloriously during the summer. No one disturbed

them except the painted sportsman; and the song of the linnet and the

thrush was heard all day, and that of the nightingale during the night.

The old Marquis de Larochejaquelin had been crossed in love early in

life, and he had not recovered from his sorrow till he was above fifty,

when he married, and outlived his young wife, who left him different

children. Henri and Agatha were the only two now living with him. As has

already been said, the old man was very infirm, and had lost the use of

his limbs.

When the weather was cold or wet, he sat with his daughter, Agatha, near

his bright wood fire, and watched her needle, or listened to her songs;

but, if the sun appeared at all, he was dragged out in his garden chair

among the birds and the painted figures, and was happy in spite of his

infirmities.

He was most affectionate to his children, and indulgent to a fault. He

was kind to every one, and, unless the birds were disturbed, the

cherry-trees injured, or the figures upset, he was never angry even with

a servant. Everybody loved and venerated the old Marquis, and even in

his foibles, he was thoroughly respected. He had a vast collection of

stuffed birds of every description, and the peasants round him were so

anxious to gratify him by adding to his stock, that there began to be

a doubt whether room in the château could be found for the presents

which were continually brought. The upper story of the house had never

been required by the family, and the rooms had not even been roofed or

plastered. One great partition wall ran across the space, and the only

ceiling was the bare high-pointed roof of the house. This place was

called the granary, and was used for a drying ground. And here the

superfluous birds were brought, much to the old man's grief, for he knew

that he should never see them again; but he could not refuse them when

they were given to him, and the room which he inhabited would

conveniently hold no more.

The happiness of the last years of the old man's life was much disturbed

by the events of the French revolution. He had been very anxious when

he saw his young son join a club, which was sure to incur the ill-will

of the ruling power in Paris; and yet he could not dissuade him from

doing so; and, though he had rejoiced when his son returned to Poitou

still safe, the imprisonment of the King had woefully afflicted him, and

his death had nearly killed him. He had now expressed his opposition to

the levies of a conscription with a degree of energy which had

astonished his family. He knew the names and persons of every man and

woman living on his estate, indeed, of every child above the age of ten;

and, when he was told the names of those who were drawn as conscripts,

he desired that they might all be told in his name that he hoped they

would not obey.

Henri de Larochejacquelin has already been introduced to the reader. He

returned to Poitou as soon as the Republic was proclaimed, together with

de Lescure and Adolphe Denot. Adolphe had been staying a great portion

of the winter at Durbellière, but he had since gone to his own place,

and was now at Clisson, the seat of M. de Lescure.

Marie de Lescure, the sister of Henri's friend, was staying at

Durbellière with Agatha Larochejaquelin; and her visit, which had been

prolonged from before Christmas, had certainly not been made less

agreeable by the fact of Henri's having been at home the whole time. She

and Agatha were both pretty, but they were very different. Marie had

dark hair, nearly black, very dark eyes, and a beautiful rich

complexion; her skin was dark, but never sallow; her colour was not

bright, but always clear and transparent; her hair curled naturally

round her head, and the heavy curls fell upon her neck and shoulders;

she was rather under the middle height, but the symmetry of her figure

was so perfect, that no one would have called her too short. She had

high animal spirits, and was always happy and good humoured; was very

fond of amusement of every kind, and able to extract amusement out of

everything. She was the great favourite of the old Marquis, not that he

loved her so well as his own daughter, but her habits and manners suited

him better than Agatha's; she could better sympathize with the old man's

wishes and fancies; she would smooth the plumage of his birds for him;

arrange and re-arrange his shells; feed his cats, his dogs, his tame

deer, and his white peacock--for the old Marquis had live pets as well

as dead favourites. Then she would sing merry little songs to him, and

laugh at him, and quiz his painted figures, and help to wheel his chair,

or pretend to do so.

She did all these things more readily than Agatha did, for her spirits

were lighter. Not that Agatha was unhappy, or inattentive to her father;

but she was quieter than Marie and of a more contemplative mood. She

also had dark hair, but it was a dark brown, and she wore it braided

close to her forehead. Her complexion was clear and bright, her forehead

was white, and the colour in her cheeks, when she had colour there, was

that of the clearest carnation. She was considerably taller than Marie,

but her figure was exquisitely perfect, and her gait was that of a

queen. She was the Rose of Poitou, the beauty and queen of the whole

district. She was all but worshipped by the peasantry around her; if

they admired her beauty much, they much more strongly appreciated her

virtues, her charity, her considerate kindness, her want of selfishness,

her devotion to her friends and neighbours, and lastly, her strong

feeling of loyalty, her love for the king while he lived, and her

passionate regret for him since he had perished on the scaffold. In this

she inherited all the feelings of her father, and it was greatly her

attachment to the throne and to the name of the King, which led to so

high a pitch the enthusiasm of the peasantry in behalf of the royalists.

Many wishes, surmises and anticipations had arisen as to who was to

carry off this rich prize; who should be the happy husband of Agatha

Larochejaquelin; but her friends had hitherto been anxious in vain; she

still went "in maiden meditation fancy free." Not that she was without

professed admirers; but they had none of them yet touched her heart.

Many thought that she would be the bride of her brother's friend,

Adolphe Denot; for he was more at the château than any one else, was

very handsome, and had a good property. Adolphe was moreover seen to be

very attentive to Mademoiselle Agatha; and thrown so much with her as

he was, how could he fail of being in love with her.

This belief much disturbed the comfort of Agatha's humble friends, for

Adolphe Denot was not popular among them: there was a haughtiness in his

manner to the poor, to which their own lords and masters had never

accustomed them. He was supercilious and proud in his bearing towards

them, and had none of the cheering, frank look and tone of their own

dear young M. Henri. They need not, however, have been alarmed, for

Agatha Larochejaquelin was not at all disposed to take Adolphe Denot as

her lord; she was passionately attached to her brother, and for his sake

she had been kind, attentive, nay, almost affectionate to his friend;

she and Adolphe had been much together since they were children. He had

been absent from Durbellière for about a year, during which time, he had

ceased to be a boy, and on his return to the château had taken on

himself the airs, if not the manners of a man. Agatha's manner to him

was not altered, it was still friendly and affectionate, and Adolphe,

with his usual vanity, misinterpreted it; he flattered himself that the

beautiful girl loved him, and he soon persuaded himself that he was

devotedly attached to her.

He had not yet positively declared his love, but Agatha felt from his

manner that she had to expect a declaration, and she consequently

altered her own; she became less familiar with him, she avoided all

opportunities of being alone with him; she still called him by his

Christian name, for she had always done so; she was still kind and

attentive to him, for he was a guest in her father's house; but Adolphe

felt that she was altered, and he became angry and moody; he thought

that she was coquetting and that he was slighted; and without much

notice to any one, he left the house.

Agatha was glad that he was gone; she wished to spare him the

humiliation of a refusal; she understood his character well, and felt

that the wound inflicted on his self-love, by being rejected, would be

more painful to him than his actual disappointment; she knew that

Adolphe would not die for love, but she also knew that he would not

quietly bear the fancied slight of unreturned affection. If, by her

conduct, she could induce him to change his own, to drop the lover, and

be to her again simply her brother's friend, all might yet be well; but

if he persevered and declared his love, she felt that there would be a

quarrel, not only between him and her, but between him and Henri.

To tell the truth, Henri had rather fostered his friend's passion for

Agatha. He had wished to see them married; and, though he had not

exactly told his friend as much, he had said so much that both Agatha

and Denot knew what his wishes were. This, of course, gave great

encouragement to the lover, but it greatly grieved poor Agatha; and now

that Adolphe was gone, she made up her mind to open her heart to her

brother.

A day or two before the revolt of St. Florent, they were sitting

together in the drawing-room; it was late in the evening, the old

Marquis had retired for the night, and Marie de Lescure was engaged

elsewhere, so that Agatha and her brother were left alone together. He

was reading, but she was sitting gazing at the fire. She could hardly

summon up courage to say, even to her dear brother, what she wished to

say.

"Henri," she said at last, "does Adolphe return here from Fleury?"

(Fleury was the name of Denot's house).

"I hope he will," said Henri; "but what makes you ask? the place is dull

without him, isn't it?"

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

"Oh, Marie!" said he, laughing, "Marie amuses our father, and she charms

me; but you might find the house dull, in spite of Marie--eh, Agatha?"

"Indeed no, Henri; the house was not dull even when you were in Paris,

and Marie was at Clisson, and papa and I were alone together here; it

was not my being dull made me ask whether Adolphe was to return."

"But you wouldn't be sorry that he should come back, Agatha? You don't

want to banish poor Adolphe from Durbellière, I hope?"

"No," said Agatha, doubtfully, "no, I don't want to banish him--of

course, Henri, I can't want to banish your friend from the house; but--"

"But what?" said Henri, now perceiving that his sister had something on

her mind--something that she wished to say to him; "but what, dearest

Agatha?"

"I don't want to banish him from the house, Henri; but I wish he would

not return just at present; but you haven't answered my question--you

haven't told me whether you expect him."

"I think he will return; but he did not himself say exactly when. I am

sorry to hear what you say, Agatha--very sorry--I thought you and

Adolphe were great friends. I was even a little jealous," added he,

laughing, "at the close alliance between you, and I thought of getting

up a little separate party of my own with Marie."

"Don't separate yourself from me, Henri!" said she; "don't let us be

separated in anything, even in thought; not but that I should be

delighted to see a dearer friendship between you and Marie, even than

that between Marie and myself; but don't plan any separate alliance for

me. I hope you have not been doing so--tell me, Henri, that you have

not." And then she added, blushing deeply up to her pale forehead, "You

have not proposed to Adolphe that I should be his wife?"

"No, Agatha, I have not proposed it to him; I should not have dreamt of

doing so, without knowing that it would not be disagreeable to you."

"There's my own dear brother! My own Henri!" said she, going over to

him, caressing him, and kissing his forehead.

"I will never make an offer of your hand to any one Agatha; you shall

choose for yourself; I will never cause you sorrow in that way: but I

will own, dearest, that I have wished you should marry Adolphe, and I

have also fancied that you loved him."

"No, Henri, no, I do not love him--I can never love him--that is, as my

husband. I do love him as your friend. I will continue to love him as

such, as long as he remains your friend."

"I fancied also," continued he; "nay, I did more than fancy--I am sure

he loves you--is it not so?"

"He has never told me so," said she, again blushing; "it is that he may

not tell me so, that I now say that I hope he is not returning. Oh,

Henri, my own dearest brother, do not let him come to Durbellière;

prevent him in some way; go to him for a while; make some plan with him;

and give me warning when he is coming, and I will be at Clisson with

Marie."

"Will it not be better for both of you, Agatha, that you should

understand each other? I know he loves you, though he has not told me

so. You must tell him, kindly, that you cannot return his affection: you

cannot always run away from him."

"He will forget me soon. He will, at any rate, forget his love, when he

finds that I avoid his company; but, Henri, if he formally asks my hand,

and is refused, that he will neither forget nor forgive."

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

"But he isn't like other men, Henri. You know he is--he is rather

impatient of refusal; he could not bear as well as some men any

mortification to his pride."

"I trust he has too much real pride to feel himself disgraced, because

he is not loved. I grieve for him, for I love him myself; and I know his

affections are strong; but I think it is better he should know the truth

at once, and it must be from your own lips. I cannot tell him you will

not accept him before he himself makes the offer."

Agatha did not reply; she could not explain even to her brother all that

she felt. She could not point out to him how very weak--how selfish his

friend was. She could not tell him that his bosom friend would suffer

ten times more from the wound to his pride in being rejected, than from

the effects of disappointed love; but she rightly judged her lover's

character. Adolphe Denot loved her as warmly as he was capable of loving

ought but himself; but were she to die, his grief would be very short

lived; he would not, however, endure to see that she preferred any one

to himself.

"I am sorry for this, Agatha--very sorry," continued her brother; "I had

fondly hoped to see you Adolphe's wife, but it is over now. I will never

press you against your will."

"My own Henri--how good you are to your Agatha. I knew you would not

torture me with a request that I should marry a man I did not love. I

grieve that I interfere with your plans; but I will live with you, and

be your old maid sister, and nurse and love your children, and they

shall love their old maid aunt."

"There are other men, Agatha, besides Adolphe. Perhaps your next request

will be a very different one; perhaps, then, you will be singing the

praises of some admirer, and asking me to give him a brother's place in

my heart."

"And when I ask it, you will do so; but Henri," and she put her hands

upon his shoulder, as she stood close to his chair, "don't let Adolphe

come here immediately."

"He must do so, dearest, now I think of it: we have other things to

think of besides ladies' hearts, and other matters to plan besides

wedding favours; the troops will be in Clisson on Monday next, to

collect the conscripts. I have promised to be with de Lescure, and

Adolphe is to meet me there; they are both then to come here. Not a man

shall be taken who does not choose to go; and there are not many who

wish to go from choice. There will be warm work in Poitou next week,

Agatha; few of us then can think of love or marriage. You and Marie will

be making sword-knots and embroidering flags; that will be your work.

A harder task will soon follow it--that of dressing wounds and

staunching blood. We shall have hot work, and more than plenty of it.

May God send us well through it."

"Amen; with all my heart I say, amen," said Agatha; "but will these poor

men resist the soldiers, Henri?"

"Indeed they will, Agatha."

"But can they? They have not arms, nor practice in the way of

fighting--they have no leaders."

"We will take arms from our enemies. We will be apt scholars in fighting

for our wives, and our sisters, and our houses. As for leaders, the man

who is most fit shall lead the others."

"And you, Henri--merciful Heaven! what are you about to do--will you

take up arms against the whole republic?"

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

"May the Lord, in his mercy, look on you and give you his assistance;

and as your cause is just and holy, He will do so. Whatever women can

do, we will do; you shall have our prayers for your success our tears

for your reverses, and our praises for your courage; and when you

require it, as some of you will too soon, our tenderest care in your

sufferings." At this moment Marie de Lescure entered the room. "Marie,"

continued Agatha, "you will help to succour those who are wounded in

fighting for their King?"

"Indeed, and indeed I will," said the bright-eyed girl, eagerly, "and

regret only that I cannot do more; that I cannot myself be in the

battle. But, M. Larochejaquelin, will the people rise? will there really

be fighting? will Charles be there?"

"Indeed he will, Marie; the first among the foremost. Agatha asked me

but now, who would be our leaders? Is there a man in the Bocage--aye,

in all Poitou, who will not follow Charles de Lescure?"

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

shuddering.

"But tell me, Henri;" said Agatha, "where will it commence--where will

they first resist the troops?"

"I cannot say exactly," said he, "in many places at once I hope. In St.

Florent, they say, not a man will join; in Clisson and Torfou they begin

on Monday. Charles, and I, and Adolphe will be in Clisson. Father Jerome

has the whole lists; he says that in St. Laud's, in Echanbroignes, and

Clisson, they are ready, to a man, to oppose the troops: he will go with

me to Clisson on Sunday afternoon; on Monday, with God's will, we will

be in the thick of it."

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

"Why not," said Henri, "will the peasants fight worse when they see

their priest before them?"

"And if he should fall?"

"He will fail in the service of his God and his King; Father Jerome will

be here himself tomorrow."

"The Curé of St Laud's," said Agatha, "is not the man to sit idle, when

good work is to be done, but, oh! what awful times are these, when the

priests themselves have to go out to fight for their altars and their

crucifix."

"I will return home with you, M Larochejaquelin, when you go to

Clisson," said Marie.

"And leave Agatha alone?" said Henri

"Don't mind me, Henri," said Agatha, "I shall be well here. Marie cannot

leave Madame de Lescure alone, when her husband is, away and in such

danger."

"You will soon have company here enough," said Henri. "De Lescure, and

I, and Adolphe, and Heaven knows whom besides. Charette will be in arms,

and d'Autachamps, the Prince de Talmont, and M. Bonchamps. At present

their business is at a distance from us; but we shall probably be all

brought together sooner or later, and they will all be welcome at

Durbellière."

"They shall be welcome if they are friends of yours, and friends of the

King; but come, Marie, it is late, let us go to bed; next week, perhaps,

we shall be wanting rest, and unable to take it."

They met the next morning at breakfast, and the old Marquis was there

also, and the priest, to whom they had alluded in their conversation on

the preceding evening--Father Jerome, the Curé of St. Laud's--such at

least had he been, and so was he still called, though his parish had

been taken away from him, and his place filled by a constitutional

pastor; that is, by a priest who had taken the oath to the Constitution,

required by the National Assembly Father Jerome was banished from his

church, and deprived of the small emoluments of his office; but he was

not silenced, for he still continued to perform the ceremonies of his

religion, sometimes in some gentleman's drawing-room, sometimes in a

farmer's house, or a peasant's cottage, but oftener out in the open air,

under the shadow of a spreading beech, on a rude altar hastily built for

him with rocks and stones.

The church of St Laud's was perfectly deserted--not a single person

would attend there to hear mass said by the strange priest--the peasants

would as soon have been present at some infernal rite, avowedly

celebrated in honour of the devil--and yet the Curé newly sent there was

not a bad man But he was a constitutional priest, and that was enough

to recommend him to the ill-will of the peasantry In peaceable and happy

times, prior to the revolution, the Curé of St Laud's had been a

remarkable person, he was a man of more activity, both of mind and body,

than his brethren, he was more intimate with the gentry than the

generality of clergymen in the neighbourhood, and at the same time more

actively engaged in promoting the welfare of the poor. The country cures

generally were men who knew little of the world and its ways--who were

uneducated, save as regards their own profession--who had few ideas

beyond their own duties and station, This was not so with Father Jerome;

he had travelled and heard the ways of men in other countries; he had

not read much but he had seen a good deal, and he was a man of quick

apprehension--and above all a man of much energy. He had expressed great

hostility to the revolution since its commencement; at a time when so

few were hostile to it, he had foreseen that it would destroy the

religion and the religious feeling of the country, and he had constantly

besought his flock to remain true to their old customs. He was certainly

a devout man in his own way, though he was somewhat unscrupulous in his

devotions; the people were as superstitious as they were faithful, and

he never hesitated in using their superstition to forward his own views.

His whole anxiety was for their welfare; but he cherished their very

faults, their ignorance and their follies, to enable himself to serve

them in his own manner. He was unwilling that they should receive other

education than that which they now had--he was jealous of any one's

interfering with them but their landlord and himself. He would not own

that any change: could better their condition, or that anything more was

desirable for them than that they should live contented and obedient,

and die faithful in hope.

Durbellière had not been in his parish, but he had always been

peculiarly intimate with the family of the Larochejaquelins, and had

warmly welcomed the return of Henri to the Bocage, at a time when so

many of the nobility were leaving the country. They were now about to

join hand and heart in saving the people from the horrors of the

conscription, and though the Curé's nominal mission was to be purely

spiritual, he was quite prepared to give temporal aid to his allies,

should it at any time appear expedient to himself to do so.

Father Jerome was a tall, well-made, brawny man; his face was not

exactly handsome, but it was bold and intellectual; his eye was bright

and clear, and his forehead high and open--he was a man of immense

muscular power and capable of great physical exertion--he was above

forty-five years of age but still apparently in the prime of his

strength. He wore a long rusty black, or rather grey curé's frock, which

fell from his shoulders down to his heels, and was fastened round his

body with a black belt--this garment was much the worse for wear, for

Father Jerome had now been deprived of his income for some twelve

months; but he was no whit ashamed of his threadbare coat, he rather

gloried in it, and could not be induced by the liberal offers of his

more wealthy friends to lay it aside.

Father Jerome greeted them all as he entered the breakfast-room. He was

received with great kindness by the old Marquis, who pressed his hand

and made him sit beside himself; he blessed the two young girls

fervently, and nodded affectionately to Henri, whom he had seen on the

preceding day. It was evident that the Curé of St. Laud's was quite at

home at Durbellière.

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

"Not so, Mademoiselle," said the priest, "we have good times coming, we

will have a King and our Church again, we poor cure will have our homes

and our altars again; our own parishes and our old flocks."

"Come what, come may," said Henri, "we cannot be worse than the

Convention would make us."

"But we firmly trust that by God's will and with God's aid, we will soon

be rid of all our troubles," said the priest. "M le Marquis, we have

your best wishes, I know; and your full approval. I hope we shall soon

be able to lay our trophies at your feet."

"The approval of an old man like me is but of little avail; but you

shall have my prayers. I would, however, that God had spared me from

these days; it is grievous for me to see my son going out to fight

against his own countrymen, at his own door-sill; it would be more

grievous still, where he now to hesitate in doing so."

"No true son of Poitou hesitates now," said the enthusiastic priest.

"I yesterday saw every conscript in the parish of St. Laud's, and not

a single man hesitated--not one dreams of joining the republicans; and,

moreover, there is not an able-bodied man who will not come forward to

assist the conscripts in withstanding the soldiers; the women, too,

Mademoiselle, are equally eager. Barère will find it difficult, I think,

to raise a troop from Poitou."

"Will the conscripts from hence be required to join at Chatillon or at

Cholet?" said the old man.

"Those from St. Laud's, at Chatillon," said Henri; "but the men will not

leave their homes, they will know how to receive the soldiers if they

come amongst them."

So saying, he got up and went out, and the priest followed him; they had

much to do, and many things to arrange; to distribute arms and

gunpowder, and make the most of their little means. It was not their

present intention to lead the men from their homes, but they wished to

prepare them to receive the republican troops, when they came into the

country to enforce the collection of the republican levy.

CHAPTER IV.

CATHELINEAU.

The revolt of St. Florent took place on the day after that on which the

priest had breakfasted at Durbellière, and the rumours of it went

quickly through the country. As Cathelineau had said, the news was soon

known in Nantes and Angers, and the commander of the republican troops

determined most thoroughly to avenge the insolence and rebellion of the

vain people of St. Florent. He was not, however, able to accomplish his

threat on the instant, for he also was collecting conscripts in the

neighbourhood of Nantes, and the peasantry had heard of the doings of

St. Florent as well as the soldiers, and the men of Brittany seemed

inclined to follow the example of the men of Anjou.

He had, therefore, for a time enough to occupy his own troops, without

destroying the rebels of St. Florent--and it was well for St. Florent

that it was so. Had he at once marched five hundred men, with four

pieces of cannon against the town, he might have reduced the place to

ashes, and taken a bloody revenge for their victory The men of St

Florent would have had no means of opposing such a force, and the

peasantry generally were not armed, the tactics of the royalists were

not settled, and the revolt through the province was not general. The

destruction of St Florent was postponed for a month, and at the

expiration of that time, the troops of the republic had too much to do,

to return to the little town where the war had commenced.

The rumour of what had been done at St. Florent, was also soon known in

Coron, in Torfou, and in Clisson. The battle was fought on Thursday, and

early on Saturday morning, M. de Lescure had heard some indistinct

rumour of the occurrence; indistinct at least it seemed to him, for he

could not believe that the success of the townspeople was so complete,

as it was represented to him to be; he heard at the same time that the

revolt had been headed by Cathelineau and Foret, and that as soon as the

battle was over, they had started for Durbellière to engage the

assistance of Henri Larochejaquelin. De Lescure, therefore, determined

to go at once to Durbellière; and Adolphe Denot, who was with him,

accompanied him.

They found Henri in the midst of his preparations, weighing out

gunpowder with the assistance of the priest and the two girls. There was

a large quarry on the Marquis' estate, and a considerable supply of

gunpowder for blasting had been lately brought to Durbellière from

Nantes, as it could not be purchased in the neighbouring towns. As the

priest remarked, blasting powder was not the best, but it was good

enough to treat republicans with--at any rate they could get no better,

and it was lucky that they chanced to have that.

Charles de Lescure shuddered as he saw the dangerous employment on

which his sister was engaged; but Henri's sister was doing the same

thing, and he knew that dangerous times for all of them were coming.

Adolphe was disgusted that Agatha's white hands should be employed in

so vile a service, but he thought little of the danger to which she was

exposed.

"You are well employed, ladies," said de Lescure, "but not an hour too

soon. I am rejoiced to see you so well supplied, Henri; this is indeed

a Godsend. Father Jerome, is this strictly canonical; gunpowder I fear

is altogether a temporal affair."

"But rebellion and hell-fire are synonymous," said the priest, "and

loyalty is the road to Paradise. I am strictly within my calling, M. de

Lescure. Mademoiselle, these packets are too large. You are giving too

good measure. Remember how many are the claimants for our bounty."

"You have, of course, all heard what occurred at St. Florent the day

before yesterday," said de Lescure.

"Not a word," said Henri. "What happened there? we hear nothing here

till a week after it is known in the towns."

They all left off what they were doing, and listened anxiously for M.

de Lescure's tidings. "Good news, I trust," said the Curé, whose face

showed a fearful degree of anxiety. "Good news, I trust in God; the men

of St. Florent, I am sure, have not disgraced themselves."

"Indeed, they have not, Father Jerome. If the half of what I hear be

true, they have already played a grand part. What I hear is this--not

a conscript was to be seen at the barracks when they were summoned.

Three or four soldiers were sent to commence the collection in the town,

and they were at once taken prisoners by a party headed by Cathelineau,

the postillion. The Colonel then turned out, and fired on the crowd; but

he could not stand his ground before the people, who drove him back to

the barracks; half his men were killed in retreating. The people then

attacked the barracks, and regularly carried them by storm; took the

cannon which was with the detachment, and made prisoners of every

soldier that was not killed in the fray. If the half of it be true, St.

Florent has made a fine beginning for us."

"Glorious fellows!" said Adolphe. "What would I not give to have been

with them?"

"You will have plenty of opportunity, M. Denot," said the priest, who

held Adolphe in great aversion.

"But, Charles, the carnage of the people must have been dreadful," said

Henri; "they had nothing but their hands and nails to fight with,

against the muskets and bayonets of the soldiers--against artillery

even."

"The Lord supplied them with weapons, my son," said the priest,

solemnly. "Cannot He, who has given them courage and good hearts to

stand against the enemies of their country, also give them weapons to

fight his battles?"

"They say, too, that by some miracle the cannon could not be got to fire

on the town. They say it was loaded and ready, but that the powder

would not ignite when the torch was put to it," said de Lescure.

"They say," added Denot, "that the Colonel himself repeatedly tried to

fire it, but could not; and that when he found that Providence,

interfered for the people, he laid down his sword, and gave himself up."

"The man who came to me from the town," continued de Lescure, "had a

thousand wonderful stories. He says, that twenty times in the day

Cathelineau stood, unharmed before the bayonets of the soldiers; that

twenty times he was shot at, but it was impossible to wound him. They

say that God has interfered for the protection of St. Florent."

"Most probable," said the priest, "most probable; for who, my children,

shall attempt to judge the ways of God? Why should He not put out his

right hand to assist his own?"

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

"We did not hear," replied de Lescure; "but the news of their triumph

would travel faster than the account of their misfortunes; there could

not but have been much bloodshed."

"After all," said Henri, "we do not know how much of this is true. We

must not believe it all; it is too glorious to be true."

"Do not say so, M. Larochejaquelin," said the priest, "do not say so;

we will do greater things than that with the assistance of God and the

blessed Virgin; but we will not envy the men of St. Florent the honour

they have won."

"You believe it all, then, Father Jerome," said Marie. "You believe that

the republicans have been beaten."

"Every word, Mademoiselle, every word religiously. I should be a heathen

else, or worse than that, a republican."

The group who were discussing the probability of the victory said to

have been gained at St. Florent, were standing at the window of one of

the front rooms of the château, which looked immediately on one of the

whitewashed recumbent lions, and from it they could see the wooden

gates, the lodge, and the paved road which ran from Chatillon to Vihiers

in front of the château. As the priest finished speaking, three men rode

through the gates, into the avenue, directly up to the house-door: one

was tolerably well mounted on a large horse, the second was on a shaggy

pony, and the third, who was rather behind the others, was seated on a

mule of most unprepossessing appearance, whose sides he did not for a

moment cease to lacerate with his heels, to enable himself to keep up

with his companions.

"That is Foret, from St. Florent himself!" shouted the priest, rushing

out towards the door, as soon as he saw the first horseman turn in at

the gate; "a good man, and true as any living, and one who hates a

skulking republican as he does the devil."

"And that is the postillion himself, on the pony!" shouted Henri,

running after him. "I could swear to him, by his hat, among a thousand."

"Who is the man on the mule, Adolphe?" said de Lescure, remaining at the

window. "By the bye," he added, turning to the two girls who remained

with him, and who were trembling in every joint, at they knew not what,

"I forgot, in my hurry, or rather I hadn't time as yet to tell Henri

that I had heard that these men were coming here."

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

Marie.

"So we heard," replied de Lescure, "and now, and not till now, I believe

it; their coming here is strong confirmation; the Curé is right, it

seems."

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

"He is--at least he is no longer a postillion. He will cease to be a

postillion now; from henceforth he will be only a soldier."

The Curé and Larochejaquelin had rushed down the steps, and seized the

hands of Foret and Cathelineau, as they got off their horses. It was

soon evident to them that the noise of their deeds had gone before them.

Foret at once returned the greeting of Father Jerome, for they had long

known each other, and the difference between their stations was not so

very great; but Cathelineau hardly knew how to accept, or how to refuse,

the unwonted mark of friendship shewn him by a wealthy seigneur; it had

not been his lot to shake hands with gentlemen, and he had no wish to

step beyond his proper sphere, because he had been put prominently

forward in the affair of St. Florent; but he had no help for it; before

he knew where he was, Larochejaquelin had got him by the hand, and was

dragging him into the salon of Durbellière. It appeared to the

postillion that the room was full; there were ladies there too--young,

beautiful, and modest--such as he was in the habit of seeing through the

windows of the carriages which he drove; the old Marquis was there too

now; the butler had just wheeled in his chair, and Cathelineau perceived

that he was expected to join the group at once. A vista was opened for

him up to the old man's chair; his eyes swam, and he hardly recollected

the faces of the different people round him. He wished that he had

waited at the gate, and sent in for M. Henri; he could have talked to

him alone. Why had he ridden up so boldly to the château gate? He had

never trembled, for a moment, during the hot work at St. Florent, but

now he felt that circumstances could almost make him a coward.

On a sudden he remembered that his hat was still on his head, and he

snatched his hand out of Henri's to remove it, and then, when it was

off, he wanted to go back to the hall to put it down.

Henri saw his confusion, and, taking it from him, put it on a chair, and

then they all shook hands with him. He first found his hand in that of

the Marquis, and heard the old man bless him, and then the Priest

blessed him, and then he felt the soft, sweet hands of those bright

angels within his own horny palm; he heard them speaking to him, though

he knew not what they said; and then he could restrain himself no

longer, for tears forced themselves into his eyes, and, in the midst of

them all, he cried like a child.

There was infection in his tears, for Agatha and Marie, when they saw

them, cried too, and the eyes of some of the men also were not dry; they

all knew what the feelings of the man were, and they fully sympathised

with him. It was strange how little they said about St. Florent at

first; the moment the men had been seen, they were most anxious for the

tidings of what had been done; but now they all seemed satisfied as to

the truth of what they had heard--there was no longer any doubt. The

heroes of St. Florent were there, and, though neither of them had yet

spoken a word about the battle which had been fought, the presence of

the victors was sufficient evidence of the victory.

The Curé, however, and M. de Lescure soon took Foret apart, and learnt

from him the details of what had been done, while the father and son,

and the two girls, endeavoured to put the postillion at his ease in his

new position.

Cathelineau was a very good-looking man, about thirty-five years of age;

his hair was very dark, and curled in short, thick clusters; his

whiskers were large and bushy, and met beneath his face; his upper lip

was short, his mouth was beautifully formed, and there was a deep dimple

on his chin; but the charm of his face was in the soft benignant

expression of his eyes; he looked as though he loved his

fellow-creatures--he looked as though he could not hear, unmoved, a tale

of woe or oppression--of injuries inflicted on the weak, or of unfair

advantages assumed by the strong. It was this which had made him so much

beloved; and it was not only the expression of his countenance, but of

his heart also.

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

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

"Nor Foret?"

"No, M. le Marquis."

"But were there many wounded?" said Agatha.

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

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

"We cannot have war without the horrors of war," said Henri. "It is

better, is it not, Cathelineau, that some of us should fall, than that

all of us should be slaves?"

"A thousand times, M. Larochejaquelin ten thousand times!" said he, with

a return of that determined vigour with which he had addressed his

fellow-townsmen the day before.

"Yes, you are right, ten thousand times better! and, Marie, you would

not be your brother's sister if you did not think so," said Henri; "but

you do think so, and so does Agatha, though she cries so fast."

"I am not crying, Henri," said Agatha, removing her handkerchief from

her eyes, which belied her assertion; "but one cannot but think of all

the misery which is coming on us: were there--were there any women

wounded in the battle?"

"There were, Mademoiselle; but those who were so, never complained; and

those who were killed will never have need to complain again."

"Were there women killed?"

"There were two, Mademoiselle; one a young girl; the other has left

children to avenge her death."

"That is the worst of all," said Henri, shuddering. "Cathelineau, we

must keep the women in the houses; our men will not fight if they see

their wives and sweethearts bleeding beside them; such a sight would

make me throw my sword away myself."

"It would make you throw away the scabbard, M. Larochejaquelin; but I

fear we shall see enough of such sights," and then he blushed deeply,

as he reflected that what he had said would frighten the fair girls

sitting near him; "but I beg pardon, ladies--I--"

"Don't mind us, Cathelineau," said Agatha; "you will not frighten us;

our brothers will fight by your side; and you will find that we are

worthy of our brothers. Marie and I will take our chance without

repining."

"And what is to come next, Cathelineau?" said Henri; "we have thrown

down the gauntlet now, and we must be ready for all the consequences.

You see, we were preparing for the same work," and he pointed to the

open packets of gunpowder which were lying scattered on the table. "What

are we to do now? we shall soon have swarms of republican soldiers upon

us, and it will be well to be prepared. We look to you for counsel now,

you know."

"Not so, M. Larochejaquelin; it was to seek council that I and Foret

came hither; it was to throw ourselves at the feet of my Lord the

Marquis, and at yours, and at those of M. de Lescure; and to implore you

to join us, to fight with us, and to save us; to lead us against the

republicans, and to help us to save our homes."

"They will, Cathelineau; they will, my excellent friend," said the old

man. "Henri shall fight with you--he would not be my son else; and

Charles de Lescure there will fight with you for his King as long as the

breath is in his body. The Curé there--Father Jerome--will pray for you,

and bless your arms; and I believe you'll find he'll fight for you too;

the whole country are your friends."

"Yes," said Henri. "The whole province, down to the sea, will be with

us. Charette is in the Marais ready to take up arms, the moment the

collection of the conscripts is commenced, or before, if it be

necessary. M. Bonchamps, who is now at Angers, will join us at once, and

give us what we so much want--military skill. The Prince de Talmont is

with us, M. Fleuriot, and M. d'Autachamps, every gentleman of standing

in the country will help the good cause; my friend here, Adolphe Denot,

will fight for us to the last drop of his blood."

Cathelineau bowed graciously, as he was in this way introduced by

Larochejaquelin to his friend. Denot also bowed, but he did it anything

but graciously: two things were disagreeable to him, he felt himself at

the present moment to be in the back-ground, and the hero of the day,

the fêted person, was no better than a postillion. When the rest of the

party had all given their hands to Cathelineau he had remained behind,

he did not like to put himself on an equality with such a person; he

fancied even then his dignity was hurt by having to remain in his

company.

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

Cathelineau.

"What do you propose yourself?" said Henri.

"I think we should not wait for them to punish us for our first success.

I think we should follow up our little victory, and attack the

republicans, at Beauprieu, perhaps, or at Cholet; we should so teach our

men to fight, teach them to garrison and protect their own towns, and

then, perhaps, before very long, we might fly at higher game; we might

endeavour to drive these wolves from their own strong places; from

Angers perhaps, or Nantes, or better still, from Saumur."

"Why Saumur, especially," said Henri; "surely Nantes would be a better

mark than Saumur; besides Saumur is a perfect fortress, walled on all

sides, almost impregnable; whereas Nantes is not fortified at all.

Saumur is reckoned the strongest town in the south of France; it is the

only fortified town in Anjou, Poitou, Tourraine or Southern Britanny."

"That is just the reason, my friend," said Cathelineau, now reassured

by his own enthusiasm, and by his intense anxiety on the subject, "that

is the very reason why Saumur should be our aim. The republicans now

fear nothing from us, and will take no more than ordinary precautions;

if we should now attack other places, and commence our proceedings with

some success, they would make Saumur utterly impregnable; and what could

we do with such a place as that opposed to us on the borders of our

country, and on the very road to Paris. But think what it would be in

our favour; it commands the Loire, it commands the road from Paris,

besides, it contains what we so much want, arms, ammunition, and

artillery; it is from Saumur that the republican troops are supplied

with gunpowder; believe me, Saumur should be our mark. I know it is

difficult, there will be danger and difficulties enough, I know; but it

is not impossible, and I believe it may be done," and then he looked

round, and saw where he was, and that every one in the room was

listening to him, and he added, "but I am too bold to say so much before

my Lord the Marquis, and M. Larochejaquelin, and M. de Lescure, and the

other gentlemen, whose opinions are so much better than my own."

"He is right, Henri," said de Lescure; "take my word, he is right. We

will do it, my friend," and he put his hand on the postillion's

shoulder. "We will be masters of Saumur, and you shall lead us there;

we will help you to plant the King's standard on the citadel of the

town."

Cathelineau was still sitting, and he looked up into de Lescure's face

with thankful admiration. "Ah! M. de Lescure, with such guides as you,

with such a heart, such courage as yours, no walls shall hinder us, no

enemies prevent us."

"You shall have many such friends, Cathelineau," said he; "many as

eager, and very many more useful."

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

"No; none more useful," said the Marquis; "may you have many friends as

good, and then you will succeed."

"Saumur let it be, then," said Henri. "I have no doubt you are right;

and indeed I do not claim to be great in council; I only hope I may not

be found backward in action."

"That you never, never will," said Agatha. "That he never will,

Mademoiselle: a Larochejaquelin was never backward in the hour of need,"

said Cathelineau.

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

"If that be flattery, all the country flatters. I only speak as I hear

others speaking; they say that beauty and courage were always to be

found at Durbellière."

"Nay, Agatha; but is he not Bayard complete?" said Marie laughing. "I

am sure we should be obliged; it is an age since we received a

compliment here in the Bocage."

"The ladies are laughing at me," said Cathelineau, rising, "and it is

time that I and my friend should cease to trouble you."

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

"Back to St. Florent; we have gained our object; we can tell our

townsmen that the gentlemen of Poitou will fight on their side."

"We will tell them so together, tomorrow by sunset," said Henri; "it is

now late, you and Foret stay here tonight; not a word either of you, for

your life. I command this garrison; do not you, Cathelineau, be the

first to shew an example of disobedience. Father Jerome, lay hands on

Foret, lest he fly. Why, my friend, have we so much time to spare, that

we can afford to lose it in foolish ceremony? Have we not a thousand

plans to mature--a thousand things to settle, which we must settle, and

none but we, and which we must discuss together? Are there not here

four, six of us, brothers in arms together? I count you one, Father

Jerome; and are we not here with the benefit of our father's advice?

When shall we all meet again, or when could we meet that our meeting

would be more desirable? Well, go if you will, Cathelineau," added he,

seeing that the postillion hesitated; "but every one here will tell you

that you are wrong to do so."

"Stay, my friend," said the Marquis, who understood well the different

feelings which perplexed the mind of the postillion; "stay, my friend,

and take your supper with us; you have undertaken a great work, and have

shewn yourself fit for it, do not let little things embarrass you.

Agatha, darling, see that beds be got ready for our friends. Father

Jerome also will remain here tonight, and Charles, and Adolphe; we may

not have many merry suppers more, we will at any rate enjoy tonight."

"And Cathelineau," said Henri, "you will not, I trust, be less welcome

in St. Florent tomorrow because I accompany you."

It was then decided that they should all remain there that night, that

de Lescure and Adolphe should return with Marie to Clisson on the

following morning, and that Henri and the priest should accompany Foret

and the postillion to St. Florent, there to make the best arrangement

within their power for the immediate protection of the place.

They were not very merry that evening, but they were by no means

unhappy; as Henri had said they had much to talk of, and they spent an

anxious evening, but each satisfied the other. Cathelineau felt himself

to be in a new world, sitting down at table to eat with such companions

as those around him. The sweet, kind face of Agatha disturbed him most.

It almost unmanned him; he thought that it would be happiness enough for

a life to be allowed to remain unseen where he might gaze on her. He

felt that such beauty, such ineffable loveliness as hers could almost

make him forget his country and his countrymen; and then he shuddered

and turned his eyes away from her. But there she sat close to him: and

she would speak to him, and ask him questions; she asked after his

friends in St. Florent, after the women who were wounded, and she gave

him money for the children who were made orphans; and then her hand

touched his again, and he thought that he was asleep and dreaming.

Much of importance to their future plans was arranged that night, and

such a council of war was probably never before assembled. The old man

joined in their contemplated designs with as much energy as the youngest

among them; the words rash and imprudent never once crossed his lips;

nothing seemed rash to him that was to be undertaken for the restoration

of the King. The priest took a very prominent part in it, and his word

was certainly not for peace; he was the most urgent of the party for

decided measures. De Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Denot, argued,

debated, and considered, as though war had always been their profession;

but they all submitted, or were willing to submit, to Cathelineau; he

had already commenced the war, and had been successful; he had already

shewn the ready wit to contrive, and the bold hand to execute; his

fitness to lead was acknowledged, and though two days since he was only

a postillion, he was tacitly acknowledged by this little band of

royalists, to be their leader.

And there too among these confederates sat Agatha and Marie, if not

talking themselves, yet listening with almost breathless attention to

the plans of the party; sharing their anxiety, promising their women's

aid, enchanting them with their smiles, or encouraging them with their

tears. Cathelineau had heard how knights of old, famed in song, had

spent their lives among scenes of battle and danger, and all for the

smiles of the lady of their love; and now he thought he understood it.

He could do the same to be greeted with the smiles of Agatha

Larochejaquelin, and he would not dream of any richer reward. She was

as an angel to him, who had left her own bright place in heaven to

illuminate the holy cause in which he had now engaged himself; under

such protection he could not be other than successful.

When Foret and Cathelineau dismounted, and were taken into the house by

Henri and the Curé, they left their steeds in the care of Peter Berrier;

but Peter has not been left ever since leading them up and down in sight

of the white-washed lions. The revolt of St. Florent had been heard of

in the servants' hall as well as in the salon upstairs, and it was soon

known that the heroes of the revolt were in the house, and that their

horses were before the door. A couple of men and two or three boys soon

hurried round, and Peter was relieved from his charge, and courteously

led into the servants' hall by Momont, the grey-headed old butler and

favourite servant of the Marquis, and Jacques Chapeau, the valet, groom,

and confidential factotum of Larochejaquelin. Peter was soon encouraged

to tell his tale, and to explain the mission which had brought him and

his two companions to Durbellière, and under ordinary circumstances the

having to tell so good a tale would have been a great joy to him; but

at the present moment Peter was not quite satisfied with his own

position; why was the postillion in the salon while he was in the

kitchen? Peter usually was a modest man enough, and respectful to his

superiors; the kitchen table in a nobleman's house would generally be

an elysium to him; he had no idea that he was good enough to consort

with Marquises and their daughters; but he did think himself equal to

Cathelineau, the postillion, and as Cathelineau was in the salon, why

should he be in the kitchen? He quite understood that Cathelineau was

thus welcomed, thus raised from his ordinary position in consequence of

what he had done at St. Florent, but why shouldn't he, Berrier, be

welcomed, and raised also? He couldn't see that Cathelineau had done

more than he had himself. He was the first man to resist; he had been

the first hero, and yet he was left for half an hour to lead about a

horse, an ass, and an old mule, as though he were still the ostler at

an auberge, and then he was merely taken into the servants' hall, and

asked to eat cold meat, while Cathelineau was brought into a grand room

upstairs to talk to lords and ladies; this made Peter fidgety and

uncomfortable; and when he heard, moreover, that Cathelineau was to sup

upstairs at the same table with the Marquis and the ladies, all his

pleasure in the revolt was destroyed, he had no taste for the wine

before him, and he wished in his heart that he had joined the troops,

and become a good republican. He could not bear the aristocratic foppery

of that Cathelineau.

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

Chapeau.

"Of course I was," said Peter. "Why, haven't you heard what the revolt

of St. Florent was about?"

"Well; we have heard something about it," said Momont; "but we didn't

exactly hear your name mentioned."

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

"We heard," said Chapeau, "how good Cathelineau began by taking three

soldiers prisoners."

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

said Peter.

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

"But we heard," said Chapeau, "how Cathelineau led a few of the townsmen

against a whole regiment of soldiers, and scattered them through the

town like chaff."

"Scattered them like chaff!" said Peter.

"And we heard," said Momont, "how he stormed the barracks, slaughtered

all the soldiers, and dragged the Colonel with his own hand through the

barrack window."

"Through the barrack window!" repeated Peter, with an air intended to

throw discredit on the whole story.

"And we heard," said Gather's confidential maid, "how he laid his hand

upon the cannon and charmed it, so that it would not go off, though the

fiery torch was absolutely laid upon the gunpowder."

"That the cannon wouldn't go off though the torch was laid upon the

gunpowder!" said Peter.

"And we heard," said the cook, "how all the girls in the town came and

crowned him with bay leaves; and how the priest blessed him."

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

housekeeper.

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

laundress.

"And gave him all the money in the town, and the biggest sword they

could find," said the page.

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

"Indeed we did," said Jacques Chapeau, "and a great deal more from M. de

Lescure's own man, who went back to Clisson only an hour since, and who

had it all from one who came direct from St. Florent."

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

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

"Then, friends, let me tell you, you have not heard much of the truth,

although M. de Lescure's own man did see the man who came direct from

St. Florent; I think I may say, without boasting, and I believe Monsieur

the postillion upstairs will not be inclined to contradict me, that

without me, there would have been no revolt.

"No revolt without you? No revolt without Peter Berrier? No revolt

without M. Debedin's ostler?" said they one after another.

"No--no revolt without M. Debedin's ostler, Madame." The last question

had been asked by the cook. "M. Debedin's ostler is as good, I suppose,

as M. Gaspardieu's postillion."

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

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

"As good as the holy man who charmed the cannon!" said the confidential

maid in a tone of angry amazement.

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

the cook.

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

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

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

Peter Berrier felt that he was ill-used after all that he had gone

through for his King and his country; he sat apart for the rest of the

evening, and meditated whether he would go over to the republicans, and

bring an army down upon Durbellière, or whether he would more nobly

revenge himself by turning out a more enterprising royalist than even

the postillion himself.

CHAPTER V.

DE LESCURE.

De Lescure with his sister returned on the following morning to Clisson;

for so was his château called. Clisson is about two leagues south of the

town of Brassiere, in the province of Poitou, and is situated in the

southern part of the Bocage. M. de Lescure owned the château and a

considerable territory around it. He was a man of large property in that

country where the properties were all comparatively small, and was in

other respects also by far the most influential person in the

neighbourhood. He had married a lady with a large fortune, which gave

him more means of assisting the poor than most of the gentlemen resident

in the Bocage possessed. He took a deep interest in the welfare of those

around him; he shared their joys, and sympathized with their grief, and

he was consequently beloved, and almost adored.

He had now undertaken to join with his whole heart the insurgents

against the Republic, and he was fully determined to do so; he had made

up his mind that it was his duty to oppose measures which he thought

destructive to the happiness of his countrymen, and to make an effort

to re-establish the throne; but he did not bring to the work the

sanguine hope of success, the absolute pleasure in the task which

animated Larochejaquelin; nor yet the sacred enthusiastic chivalry of

Cathelineau, who was firmly convinced of the truth of his cause, and

believed that the justice of God would not allow the murderers of a

King, and the blasphemers of his name to prevail against the arms of

people who were both loyal and faithful.

De Lescure had studied and thought much; he was older than

Larochejaquelin, much better educated than Cathelineau. He was as ardent

in the cause as they were; why else had he undertaken it? but he

understood better than they did the fearful chances which were against

them: the odds against which they had to fight, the almost insuperable

difficulties in their way. He knew that the peasantry around them would

be brave and enthusiastic followers, but he also knew that it would be

long before they were disciplined soldiers. He was sure that they would

fight stoutly round their homes and their families; but he felt that it

would be almost impossible to lead any body of them to a distance from

their own fields. He foresaw also all the horrors into which they were

about to plunge; horrors, of which an honourable death on the field of

battle would be the least. The Republic had already shown the bitterness

of their malice towards those who opposed them, and de Lescure knew what

mercy it would shew to those of his party who fell into its power.

Besides, how could they hope for success against the arms of a whole

nation supported by a despotic government. His friends talked sanguinely

of aid from England, from Austria, and from Prussia; but he feared that

that aid would come too late, after their houses were burnt, and their

fields destroyed; after the best among them had fallen; after their

children had been murdered; when the country should be depopulated, and

nothing but the name of La Vendée left.

With all these fears around his heart, and yet with a firm determination

to give himself entirely to the cause in which he was embarked, de

Lescure rode home to tell his young wife, to whom he was but barely two

years married, that he must not only leave her, and give up the life so

congenial to both their tastes, which they had lately led; but that he

was going to place himself in constant danger, and leave her and all he

loved in danger also.

"You must be very good to Victoriana," he said to his sister; "you must

be very good to each other, Marie, for you will both have much to bear."

"We will, we will," said Marie; "but you, Charles, you will be with us;

at any rate not far from us."

"I may be near you, and yet not with you; or I may soon be placed beyond

all human troubles. I would have you prepare yourself; of all the curses

which can fall on a country, a civil war is the most cruel."

Madame de Lescure was the daughter of a nobleman of high rank; she had

been celebrated as a beauty, and known to possess a great fortune; she

had been feted and caressed in the world, but she had not been spoiled;

she was possessed of much quiet sense; and though she was a woman of

strong passions, she kept them under control. When her husband told her,

therefore, that the quiet morning of their life was over, that they had

now to wade through contest, bloodshed, and civil war, and that probably

all their earthly bliss would be brought to a violent end before the

country was again quiet, she neither screamed nor fainted; but she felt,

what he intended that she should feel that she must, now, more entirely

than ever, look for her happiness in some world beyond the present one.

"I know, Victorine," said he, when they were alone together in the

evening, when not even his own dear sister Marie was there to mar the

sacred sweetness of their conference, "I know that I am doing right, and

that gives me strength to leave you, and our darling child. I know that

I am about to do my duty; and you would not wish that I should remain

here in safety, when my King and my country require my services."

"No, Charles; I would never wish that you should be disgraced in your

own estimation. I could perfectly disregard what all others said of you,

as long as you were satisfied with your own conduct; but I would not for

any worldly happiness, that you should live a coward in your own

esteem."

"My own, own Victorine," said he, "how right you are! What true

happiness could we have ever had, if we attempted to enjoy it at the

expense of our countrymen! Every man owes his life to his country; in

happy, quiet times, that debt is best paid by the performance of homely

quiet duties; but our great Father has not intended that lot for us."

"His will be done. He may yet turn away from us this misery. We may yet

live, Charles, to look on these things as our dearest reminiscences."

"We may; but it is not the chance for which we should be best prepared.

We are not to expect that God will raise his arm especially to vindicate

our injuries; it would be all but blasphemous to ask Him to do so. We

are but a link in the chain of events which His wisdom has designed.

Should we wish that that chain should be broken for our purposes?"

"Surely not. I would not be so presumptuous as to name my own wishes in

my prayers to the Creator."

"No; leave it to His wisdom to arrange our weal or woe in this world;

satisfied with this, that He has promised us happiness in the world

which is to come."

"I must leave you on Monday, dearest," continued he, after a pause,

during which he sat with his wife's hand within his own.

"So soon, Charles!"

"Yes, dearest, on Monday. Henri, and Adolphe, and others, will be here

on Sunday; and our different duties will commence immediately."

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

"Very nearly so; at any rate, I could not name the day or the week, when

I might be with you. You and Marie will be all in all to each other now;

do not let her droop and grow sad, Victorine."

"Nay, Charles, it is she should comfort me; she loves no dear husband.

Marie dotes on you; but she can never feel for a brother, as I must feel

for you."

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

"She has fewer cares to trouble her; but we will help each other; it

will be much to me to have her with me in your absence. I know she is

giving up much in returning to Clisson, and she does it solely for my

sake."

"How! what is she giving up? Will she not be better in her own home than

elsewhere in such times as these."

"She might choose to change her home, Charles; I had a happy, happy

home, but I should not have been contented to remain there till now. I

found that something more than my own old home was necessary to my

happiness."

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

"Would I for all the world recall what I have done? Have I ever

repented? Shall I ever repent? No; not though your body were brought

breathless to your own hall door, would I exchange my right to mourn

over it, for the lot of the happiest bride just stepping from the altar

in all the pride of loveliness and rank?"

"My own true love. But tell me, what is this you mean about Marie.

Surely she is not betrothed without my knowledge."

"Betrothed! Oh, no! Nor won, nor wooed, as far as I believe; but we

women, Charles, see through each other's little secrets. I think she is

not indifferent to Henri Larochejaquelin; and how should she be! How few

she sees from whom to choose; and if all France were before her feet,

how could she make a better choice than him."

"Poor Marie, from my heart I pity her; in any other times than these,

how I would have gloried to have given Henri my sister; but now, these

are no times to marry, or to give in marriage. Henri has stern, hard

work to do, and he is bent on doing it; ay, and he will do it. No one

will carry the standard of his King further into the ranks of the

republicans than Henri Larochejaquelin."

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

"But he is so full of glorious confidence--so certain of success. He

will go to battle with the assured hope of victory. I shall fight

expecting nothing but defeat."

"You are melancholy, tonight, my love: something ails you beyond your

dread of the coming struggle."

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

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

"None in this world, Victorine. The Indian widow, when she throws

herself on the burning pile, with a noble courage does what she has been

taught to look upon as a sacred duty, but she cannot but dread the fire

which is to consume her."

"You would not liken yourself to her?"

"Through the mercy of our blessed Saviour I am not so mistaken in my

creed; but I am hardly less calamitous in my fate: but it is not the

prospect of my own sufferings which disturb me; I at any rate may be

assured of an honourable, even an enviable death. It is my anxiety for

you--for our little one--and for dear Marie, which makes my spirit sad."

"God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb," said Madame de Lescure.

"Our trials will not be harder than we can bear."

"God bless you for those words, dearest: there is comfort in them--real,

true comfort. But remember them yourself Victorine; remember them when

you will most want them. When great sorrow comes home to your bosom, as

it will do; when affliction is heavy on you, when worldly comforts are

leaving you, when enemies are around you, when the voices of cruel men

are in your ears, and their cruel deeds before your eyes, then remember,

my love, that God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb."

"I will, my own Charles, I will," said she, now kneeling at his feet,

and burying her face in her hands upon his knees; "if I am called upon

to bear these miseries, I will remember it."

"And look up, Victorine; look up, dearest. I would have you prepared for

the worst. Listen to me now calmly, love, and then I need not harrow you

with these thoughts again. It may be God's pleasure that I should

outlive this war; but as, with His will, I am determined that I will

never lay down my sword till the soldiers of the Republic are driven

from the province, it is most improbable that I should do so. You must

teach yourself, Victorine, to look for my death, as an event certain to

occur, which any day may bring forth; and when the heavy news is brought

to you, bear it as a Christian woman should bear the afflictions of

this, world. I do not ask you not to weep for me, for that would be

putting too violent a constraint upon your nature, but do not weep over

much. Above all, Victorine, do not allow your sorrow to paralyse your

actions. You will have to act then, not only for yourself, but for your

child--for my daughter; and if you then give way to the violence of

sorrow, who shall think and care for her?"

She laid her beautiful head upon his bosom, and wept, and promised, and

prayed for him. And when he had finished what he felt he had to say,

what he wished to say once, and but once, before he left her, he became

more cheerful, and seemed to have more spirit for his work than he had

hitherto shewn.

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

"Nay; I did not say she was in love-not in the deep depth of absolute

love--but I think she is not indifferent to Henri: were she truly and

earnestly in love, she would have told me so."

"Not indifferent to him, and yet not in love. Faith, Victorine, I know

not the difference; but you women are such adepts in the science, that

you have your degrees of comparison in it."

"Marie, then, has not yet reached the first degree, for hers is not even

downright positive love; but I am sure she is fond of Henri's society;

and now, poor girl, she must give it up--and probably for ever."

"As you said a while since, Victorine, how should she not like his

society? I can fancy no man more fit to be the cynosure of a woman's eye

than Larochejaquelin. He has that beauty which women love to look on:

the bold bright eye, the open forehead, the frank, easy smile, and his

face is only a faithful index to his heart; he is as frank as brave, and

yet as tender-hearted as he looks to be; he is specially formed to love

and to be loved."

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

"Not so, Victorine; this is the place for Marie now; indeed, dear girl,

she knew that well herself. The Marquis pressed her hard to stay, and

I said nothing; but Marie insisted on coming home. I thought Henri

looked somewhat more sombre than is his wont, as he was leading her down

the steps: but he cannot, must not, think of love now, Victorine. La

Vendée now wants all his energies."

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

"I could forbid him nothing, for I love him as Joseph loved his younger

brother Benjamin."

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

"Probably he will--that is as circumstances may arise--he is, at any

rate, as likely to be at Clisson as Durbellière."

"He will be more likely, Charles, take my word for it; you cannot

prevent their meeting; you cannot hinder them from loving each other."

"Were the King upon his throne, it would be my greatest joy to give my

sister to my friend, but now--it is the same for all of us--we must take

the chance of these horrid times; and could they be taught to quench the

warm feelings of their young hearts, it were well for both of them. The

cold, callous disposition would escape much misery, which will weigh

down to the grave the loving and the generous."

On the next morning, Madame de Lescure spoke to her sister-in-law on the

same subject. She could not bring herself to look on things around her

quite so darkly as her husband did. She could not think that there was

no longer any hope in their once happy country for the young and the

generous, the beautiful and the brave; of herself and her own lot, her

thoughts were sombre enough. De Lescure had imbued her with that

presentiment, which he himself felt so strongly, that he should perish

in the conflict in which he was about to engage; but all would not

surely be doomed to share her cup of sorrow. She loved Marie dearly, and

she loved Henri, not only from what her husband so often said of him,

but from what she knew of him herself; and she longed in her woman's

heart that they should be happy together.

It was still March, but it was on a bright warm spring morning, that

Madame de Lescure was walking with her sister-in-law in the gardens at

Clisson. Marie was talking of her brother--of the part he was to take

in the war--of the gallant Cathelineau, and of the events which were so

quickly coming on them; but Madame de Lescure by degrees weaned her from

the subject and brought her to that on which she wished to speak.

"M. Larochejaquelin will be much here as long as this fighting lasts and

M. Denot: we shall have plenty of brave knights coming to and fro to lay

their trophies at your feet."

"Poor M. Denot--his trophies if he gets any will be taken to

Durbellière; and I fear me, when he offers them, they will not be

welcomed. Agatha loves him not; she thinks he shares his adoration too

equally between her and his looking-glass."

"I do not wonder at it; no one can deny that M. Denot is attractive, but

he attracts without retaining; were I ever so much in want of lovers,

I could not endure M. Denot's attentions for more than one evening at

the utmost; but our other knight--our other preux chevalier, sans peur

et sans reproche--at whose feet will he lay his trophies, Marie? who is

to wreath a crown of bay leaves for his brow?"

"His countrywomen should all unite to do it, Victorine--for he is going

out to battle for them all--every village girl, whose lover is still

left to walk with her on the Sabbath evening--every young wife, who can

still lay her baby in her husband's arms--every mother, who still

rejoices in the smile of her stalwart son; they should all unite to

wreath a crown for the brow of Henri Larochejaquelin."

"And so they shall, Marie; but there will be others also, whose valour

will claim a token of admiration from the gratitude of their

countrywomen; we will all do this for Henri and our other brave

defenders; but if I know his character, the gratitude of many will not

make him happy without the favour of one, and she will be the lady of

his love; the remembrance of whose smiles will bear him scatheless

through the din of the battle."

"I should be vain, Victorine, if I pretended to misunderstand your

questions," said Marie; "but why you should mix my name with that of M.

Larochejaquelin, without vanity I do not know."

"It does not offend you, Marie?"

"Offend me, dearest Victorine! how should I be offended with anything

you could say?"

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

"Is there any girl in France who would have a right to be offended at

seeing him there, if he came with a tale of true love?"

"You may be sure at least that Henri will never sully his lips with

false vows," said Madame de Lescure.

"He has at any rate made no vows to me, Victorine, nor given me cause

to suppose he ever will."

"But should he do so, Marie?"

"Now you ask me questions which you know it only becomes me to answer

in one way."

"Why, Marie, I declare you and I have changed characters this morning.

You are all sobriety when I make a poor attempt at joking with you. Were

I, as usual, talking of my sober cares, you would be as giddy as a girl

of fifteen, and talk to me of twenty lovers that you have."

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

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

"Now you are crafty, Victorine, and try to trap me into confessions. You

know I have no confession to make, or I should have made it long ago to

you."

"I know, Marie, that Larochejaquelin is sad when you are not by, and

that he has a word for no one else when you are present; but I know not

whether that means love. I know also that your bright eyes brighten when

they rest on him, and that your heart beats somewhat faster at the

mention of his name; but I know not whether that means love."

"Victorine," said Marie, turning round upon her companion her beautiful

face, on which two lustrous tears were shining, "Victorine, you are

treating your poor sister unfairly. I know not that my eyes are turned

oftener on him than on others; and when my heart would play the rebel

within me, I always try to check it."

"Nay, Marie, dear Marie, I did but joke! You do not think I would accuse

you of an unmaidenly partiality; if it grieves you we will not mention

Henri's name again, though I remember when you did not spare me so

easily; when Charles' name was always in my ear, when you swore that

every dress I wore was his choice, that every flower I plucked was for

his eye; and there had been no more then between Charles and me, than

there has now between you and Henri; and yet you see what has become of

it. You thought yourself wonderfully clever then, Marie; you were quite

a prophetess then. Why should not I now foresee a little. Why should not

I also be clever?"

"Well, Victorine, time will shew," said Marie, smiling through her

tears; "but do not teach me to love him too dearly, till I know whether

he will value my love. If he would prize it, I fear he might have it for

the asking for; but I will not throw it at his feet, that he should keep

it loosely for awhile, and then scorn it, and lay it by."

CHAPTER VI.

RECRUITING.

On the Monday following the meeting at Durbellière, Larochejaquelin,

Denot, the Curé of St. Laud, Foret and Cathelineau joined M. de Lescure

at Clisson, and on the day afterwards, the soldiers of the Republic,

when attempting to collect the conscripts at a small town near Clisson,

were resisted and treated as they had been at St. Florent. There was not

quite so much of a battle, for the officer in command knew what was

likely to occur, and not having received any reinforcement of troops,

thought it advisable to give in early in the day, and capitulate with

the honours of war. He was allowed to march his men out of the town,

each man having stipulated that he would not again serve in any

detachment sent into La Vendée for the collection of conscripts; but

they were not allowed to take their arms with them, muskets, bayonets,

and gunpowder being too valuable to the insurgents to be disregarded.

So the soldiers marched unarmed to Nantes, and from thence returned,

before two months were over, in spite of the promises they had given,

and requited the mercy of the Vendeans with the most horrid cruelties.

The people were equally triumphant in many other towns. In Beauprieu,

Coron, Châtillon, and other places, the collection of conscripts was

opposed successfully, and generally speaking, without much bloodshed.

In Coron, the military fired on the people, and killed three or four of

them, but were ultimately driven out, In Beauprieu, they gave up their

arms at once, and marched out of the place. In Châtillon, they attempted

to defend the barracks, but they found, when too late, that they had not

a single day's provisions; and as the townspeople also knew this, they

were at no pains to besiege the stronghold of the soldiers. They knew

that twenty-four hours would starve them out. As it was, the lieutenant

in command gave up, half an hour after his usual dinner time.

These things all occurred within a week of the revolt at St. Florent.

Beauprieu and Châtillon were carried on the Wednesday. Coron was

victorious on the Thursday; and on the Friday following, a strong

detachment of soldiers marched out of Cholet, of their own accord,

without attempting to collect their portion of the levy, and crossed the

river Loire, at the Pont de Cé, thus retreating from La Vendée.

These triumphs inspired the insurgents with high hopes of future

victories; they gave them the prestige of success, made them confident

in the hour of battle, and taught them by degrees to bear, undaunted,

the fire of their enemies. The officers of the Republic were most

injudicious in allowing their enemies to gather head as they did; had

they brought a really formidable force of men, in one body, into the

province of Anjou, immediately upon the revolt of St. Florent, they

might doubtless have driven the Vendeans, who were then unarmed and

undisciplined, back to their farms; but they affected to despise them,

they neglected to take vigorous measures, till the whole country was in

arms; and they then found that all the available force which they were

enabled to collect, was insufficient to quell the spirit, or daunt the

patriotism of the revolted provinces.

Towards the end of April, the first attempt was made by the Vendean

chiefs to collect a body of men under arms, and to put them into motion,

for the purpose of performing service at a distance from their own

homes; and though considerable difficulty was felt in inducing them to

follow the standards, their first attempts were successful. In the early

part of May, they altogether succeeded in driving the soldiers out of

Thouars. A few days later, they did the same at Fontenay, though here

they met with a violent opposition, and much blood was shed. At these

two latter places, the cannon which Cathelineau had taken in so gallant

a manner at St. Florent, was brought into action, and quite supported

its character as a staunch royalist. At Fontenay, with its aid, they

took three or four other pieces of cannon, but none which they prized

as they did Marie Jeanne. It was universally credited among the

peasantry, that at Cathelineau's touch, this remarkable piece of

artillery had positively refused to discharge itself against the

Vendeans; and their leaders certainly were at no pains to disabuse them

of a belief which contributed so strongly to their enthusiasm.

Some of the more astute among the people had certainly thought for a

while that the cannon was a humbug, that it was useless either to

royalist or to republican, in fact, that it would never go off at all.

But these sceptics were cured of their infidelity at Thouars, when they

saw the soldiers as well as the republicans of the town fall in heaps

beneath the thunders of Marie Jeanne.

During April and the three weeks of May, Larochejaquelin and de Lescure,

together with Cathelineau, Denot, and M. Bonchamps, were actively

engaged in collecting and exhorting the people, planning what they

should do, and preparing themselves to bear that burst of republican

fury which they knew would, sooner or later, fall upon them.

Much of this time was spent at Clisson, as that place was centrically

situated for their different manoeuvres; and there certainly appeared

reason to suppose that Madame de Lescure was not altogether wrong in her

surmises respecting Marie. Here also, at Clisson, Cathelinean frequently

joined the party, and though he shewed by his language and demeanour

that he had not forgotten that he was a postillion, he gradually

acquired a confidence and ease of manner among his new associates, and

displayed a mixture of intelligence and enthusiasm, which induced his

confederates generally to acknowledge his voice as the first in their

councils.

They were occasionally at Durbellière; but there Cathelineau was again

abashed and confused. He could not calmly endure the quiet loveliness

of Agatha's face, or the sweet music of her voice. He himself felt that

his brain was not cool when there; that his mind was gradually teaching

itself to dwell on subjects, which in his position would be awfully

dangerous to him. He never owned to himself that he was in love with the

fair angel, whom he considered as much above him as the skies are above

the earth; but he would walk for hours through those eternal paths in

the château garden, regardless of the figures, regardless of the various

turns and twists he took, dreaming of the bliss of being beloved by such

a woman as Agatha Larochejaquelin. He built for himself splendid castles

in the air, in which he revelled day after day; and in these dreams he

always endowed himself with that one gift which no talents, no courage,

no success could give him--high birth and noble blood, for he strongly

felt that without these, no one might look up to the goddess of his

idolatry; it was his delight to imagine to himself with what ecstasy he

would receive from her lips the only adequate reward of his patriotism;

he would quicken his pace with joy as he dreamt that he heard her sweet

voice bidding him to persevere, and then he would return to her after

hard fighting, long doubtful but victorious battles, and lay at her feet

honours worthy of her acceptance.

It can hardly be said that he himself was the hero of his own reveries;

he was assured beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the proud happiness

which he pictured to his imagination was as much beyond his own reach,

as though his thoughts were turned on some celestial being. No, it was

a creation of his brain, in which he dwelt awhile, till his own strong

good sense reminded him that he had other work before him than the

indulgence in such dreams, and he determined that he would be at

Durbellière as little as was possible.

It was singular though, that he contrived, while his imagination was

thus rambling, to mingle in his thoughts the actual and the ideal. The

revolt of La Vendée, the struggle of his brother royalists for the

restoration of their King; the annihilation of republicanism, and

re-establishment of the old clergy, were still the subjects of his

meditations; and the bold plans which his mind then suggested to him,

were those which were afterwards put into effect.

He still insisted on attacking the strongly fortified citadel of Saumur,

and after their success at Fontenay, the chiefs agreed at once to make

arrangements for that great undertaking. The tenth of June was settled

on as the day on which the attack should be commenced, and their utmost

efforts in the mean time were to be employed in raising recruits, arming

and drilling them, and collecting ammunition and stores of war

sufficient for so serious an operation.

For this purpose Cathelineau returned for a while to St. Florent. M.

Charette was requested to bring up all the men he could collect from the

Marais, a part of La Vendée which lies close upon the sea. M. Bonchamps

was invited to join them from Angers. De Lescure returned to Fontenay,

to ask the assistance of those who had been so successful there against

the republicans; while Henri Larochejaquelin, was left at home in the

Bocage, to secure the services of every available man from every

village.

He had two comrades with him in his recruiting party; and though they

were of very different characters, they were almost equally serviceable.

One was his friend and priest, the Curé of St. Laud, and the other was

his servant, Jacques Chapeau. The Curé had no scrupulous compunction in

using his sacerdotal authority as a priest, when the temporal influence

of Larochejaquelin, as landlord, was insufficient to induce a countryman

to leave his wife and home to seek honour under the walls of Saumur. The

peasants were all willing to oppose the republican troops, should they

come into their own neighbourhood to collect conscripts; they were ready

to attack any town where republican soldiers were quartered, providing

they were not required to go above a day's march from their own homes;

but many objected to enrol themselves for any length of time, to bind

themselves as it were to a soldier's trade, and to march under arms to

perform service at a distance from their farms, which to them seemed

considerable. With such men as these, and with their wives and sisters,

Henri argued, and used his blandest eloquence, and was usually

successful; but when he failed, the Curé was not slow in having recourse

to the irresistable thunders of the church.

No one could have been fitter for the duties of a recruiting-sergeant

than Jacques Chapeau; and to his great natural talents in that line, he

added a patriotic zeal, which he copied from his master. No one could

be more zealous in the service of the King, and for the glory of La

Vendée, than was Jacques Chapeau. Jacques had been in Paris with his

master, and finding that all his fellow-servants in the metropolis were

admirers of the revolution, he had himself acquired a strong

revolutionary tendency. His party in Paris had been the extreme

Ultra-Democrats: he had been five or six times at the Jacobins, three

or four times at the Cordeliers; he had learnt to look on a lamp-rope

as the proper destination of an aristocrat, and considered himself equal

to anybody, bu his master, and his master's friends. On Henri's return

to La Vendée, he had imbued himself with a high tone of loyalty, without

any difficulty or constraint on his feelings; indeed, he was probably

unaware that he had changed his party: he had an appetite for strong

politics, was devotedly attached to his master, and had no prudential

misgivings whatsoever. He had already been present at one or two affairs

in which his party had been victorious, and war seemed to him twice more

exciting, twice more delightful than the French Opera, or even the

Jacobin Clubs.

Jacques Chapeau was about five years older than his master, and was as

active and well made a little Frenchman, as ever danced all night at a

ball outside the barriers of Paris. He was a light-hearted and

kind-hearted creature, although he always considered it necessary to

have mortal enemies--horrid, blasphemous, blood-thirsty fellows, men

devoid of feeling, without faith, hope, or charity, who would willingly

slaughter women and children for the mere pleasure of doing so. Such,

in Chapeau's imagination, were all his enemies--such had been the

aristocrats during the time of his revolutionary fervour--such now were

the republicans. Chapeau loved his own side truly and faithfully,

without any admixture of self in his calculations, but I certainly

cannot say for him that he was a good Christian, for all the clergymen

in Anjou could not have taught him to love his enemies.

On a beautiful summer's morning, on the 2nd of June, this remarkable

recruiting party rode from Durbellière to the little village of

Echanbroignes; the distance was about four leagues, and their road lay,

the whole way, through the sweet green leafy lanes of the Bocage. The

aspect of this province is very singular, and in summer most refreshing.

The country is divided into small farms, which are almost entirely

occupied with pasture; the farms are again divided into small fields,

and each field is surrounded by a belt of trees, growing out of high,

green, flowering hedges. The face of the country is like a thickly

wooded demesne, divided and subdivided into an infinity of little

paddocks. The narrow lanes of the country, which are barely broad enough

for the wheels of a carriage, and are seldom visited by such a vehicle,

lie between thick, high hedges, which completely overshadow them; the

wayfarer, therefore, never has before him that long, straight, tedious,

unsightly line of road, which adds so greatly to the fatigue of

travelling in an open country, and is so painful to the eye.

Through such a lane as this our party rode quickly and cheerily;

quickly, for they had much work before them for that day; and cheerily,

for they knew that the people among whom they were going would join them

with enthusiasm. They were all well mounted, for they rode the best

horses from the stables of Durbellière: the old Marquis would have

blushed to have given less than the best to the service of his King.

Chapeau was peculiarly elated at the prospect of his day's work; but his

joy was not wholly professional; for Jacques now accounted himself a

soldier by profession. He had another reason for the more than ordinary

gaiety with which he trotted on towards Echanbroignes. There was there

a certain smith, named Michael Stein, who had two stalwart sons, whom

Jacques burnt to enrol in his loyal band of warriors; this smith had

also one daughter, Annot Stein, who, in the eyes of Jacques Chapeau,

combined every female charm; she was young and rosy; she had soft hair

and bright eyes; she could dance all night, and was known to possess in

her on right some mysterious little fortune, left to her by nobody knew

what grandfather or grandmother, and amounting, so said report, to the

comfortable sum of five hundred francs. When Chapeau had risen to some

high military position, a field-marshal's baton, or the gold-laced cap

of a serjeant-major, with whom could he share his honours better than

with his dear little friend, Annot Stein? Jacques wanted her advice upon

this subject, and he therefore rejoiced greatly that the path of duty

was leading him this morning to Echanbroignes.

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

Michael?"

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

"God send it; one traitor makes many, as sheep follow each other through

a hedge row."

"Do not fear them, my son. Father Francois has the list of them; he will

have every man collected by daylight on the 7th, and he will come on

with them himself as far as the cross-roads; they will there meet my own

children from St. Laud."

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

"Yes; and one hundred and forty from St. Laud; and thirty will have

joined us from Petit Ange de Poitou before we reach the turn from St.

Michael."

"And have you positively determined you will start with them from St.

Laud's yourself, Father Jerome."

"With God's will, my son, I most assuredly shall do so; and from that

to the walls of Saumur, they shall see before them my tattered Curé's

frock, and the blessed symbol of their hope. I will carry the cross

before them from the porch of the little church which shall once more

be my own, till I plant it on the citadel of Saumur beside the standard

of the King."

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

"There might perhaps be more soldiers in La Vendée than at present; but

perhaps also there would be fewer Christians," said the priest. "May God

forgive me if, in my zeal for my King, I am too remiss in His service."

They rode on a little way in silence, for Father Jerome felt a slight

qualm of conscience at his warlike proceedings, and Henri did not like

to interrupt his meditations; but the Curé soon recovered himself.

"I shall have a goodly assemblage of followers," said he, "before I

reach Coron. Those from Echanbroignes will join us half-a-mile from the

town. There will be above two hundred from Echanbroignes."

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

"They will muster certainly not short of two hundred. Near seven hundred

men will follow me into Coron on the evening of the 7th."

"They will find provisions there in plenty--meat, bread, and wine. They

are not used to lie soft; they will not grumble at having clean straw

to sleep on."

"They shall grumble at nothing, my friend; if your care can supply them

with food, well; if not, we will find bread enough among the townsfolk.

There is not a housewife in Coron, who would refuse me the contents of

her larder."

"The bullocks are ready for the butcher's axe in the stalls at

Durbellière, please your reverence," said Chapeau, who rode near enough

to his master to take a part in the conversation as occasion offered.

"And the stone wine-jars are ready corked. Momont saw to the latter part

himself. May the saints direct that the drinking have not the same

effect upon our friends that the corking had on Momont, or there will

be many sick head-aches in Coron on the next morning."

"There will be too many of us for that, Jacques. Five hundred throats

will dispose of much good wine, so as to do but little injury."

"That would be true, your reverence, were not some throats so much wider

than others. You will always see that one porker half empties the trough

before others have moistened their snouts in the mess."

"We will see to that, Jacques. We will appoint some temperate fellow

butler, or rather some strong-fisted fellow, whose thick head much wine

will not hurt; though he may swill himself he will not let others do

so."

"If it were not displeasing to yourself and to M. Henri, I would

undertake all that myself. Each man of the five hundred should have his

own share of meat and drink at Coron, and the same again at Doué."

"Will not Jacques be with you?" said the priest, turning round to Henri.

"What should bring him to Coron among my men?"

"He says he has friends here in Echanbroignes, and he has begged that

he may be here with them on the evening of the 6th, so as to accompany

them into Coron on the 7th. We shall all meet at Doué on the 8th."

"I was thinking, your reverence, if any here were loiterers, as there

may be some, I fear; or if there should be any ill inclined to leave

their homes, my example might encourage them. I have a liking for the

village, and I should feel disgraced were a single able-bodied man to

be found near it after the morning of the 7th."

"I trust they will not need any one to remind them of their promise,

when they have once pledged themselves to the service of their King,"

said the priest. "However, you will be, doubtless, useful to me at

Coron. But, Henri, what will you do without him?"

"Adolphe and I will be together, and will do well. We shall have an

absolute barrack at Durbellière. We shall have above one hundred men in

the house. Agatha and the women are at work night and day."

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

"It is all packed and ready for the carts; a few days since the cellars

were half-full of the lead and iron, which we have been casting; they

are now, I trust, half-way to Saumur, under Foret's care."

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

"He has all the men from Clisson, from St. Paul's and St. Briulph's--

except a few of Charles' own tenants, who went on forward to join him at

Doué, and who have our supply of flags with them, made in the château at

Clisson. Madame de Lescure and poor Marie have worked their fingers to

the bone."

"God bless them! God will bless them, for they are working in the spirit

which he loves."

"Agatha and Annette, between them, have packed nearly every ounce of

gunpowder," said Henri, who could not help boasting of his sister.

"Night and day they have been handling it without regarding for a moment

the destruction which the slightest accident might bring upon them."

"It is that spirit, my son, which will enable us to beat twice our own

strength in numbers, and ten times our own strength in arms and

discipline How many men has Foret with him?"

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

"And you, yourself?"

"I shall muster a thousand strong, that is for a certainty; I believe

I shall be nearer twelve thousand."

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

Bocage."

"Oh! more than that your reverence," said Chapeau, "you are not counting

M. de Lescure's men, who have gone on with the flags--or the men from

Beauprieu who will follow M. d'Elbée, or the men from St. Florent, who

will come down with Cathelineau."

"I don't count Beauprieu, or Cholet or St. Florent; there will be two

thousand five hundred from our own country, out of three thousand three

hundred male adults, that is three men, Henry, out of every four--they

cannot at any rate say that the spirit of the people is not with us."

As the priest spoke, they rode into the street of the little village of

Echanbroignes, and having stopped at the door of the Mayor's house,

Henri and the Curé dismounted, and giving their horses up to Jacques,

warmly greeted that worthy civic authority, who came out to meet them.

The appointment of a mayor in every village in France, had been enjoined

at an early time in the revolution, and after the death of the King,

these functionaries were, generally speaking, strong republicans; but

the Vendeans in opposition to the spirit of the revolution, had

persisted in electing the Seigneurs, wherever they could get a Seigneur

to act as mayor; and, where this was not the case, some person in the

immediate employment of the landlord was chosen. This was the case at

Echanbroignes, where the agent or intendant of the proprietor was mayor.

He expected the visit which was now paid to him, and having twenty times

expressed his delight at the honour which was done him, he got his hat

and accompanied his visitors to the door of the church, where with his

own hands he commenced a violent assault on the bell-rope, which hung

down in the middle of the porch.

He was ringing the tocsin, which was to call together the people of the

village. They also very generally knew who was coming among them on that

day, and the purpose for which they were corning; and at the first sound

of the bell, all such as intended to shew themselves, came crowding on

to the little space before the church; it was but few who remained at

home, and they were mostly those to whom home at the present moment was

peculiarly sweet; one or two swains newly married, or just about to be

married; one or two fathers, who could hardly bring themselves in these

dangerous times to leave their little prattling children, and one or two

who were averse to lose the profits of their trade.

In spite of the speedy appearance of his townspeople, the Mayor

persisted in his operations on the bell-rope until the perspiration ran

down his face. He was sounding the tocsin, and he felt the importance

of what he was doing. Every one knew that a tocsin bell to be duly rung,

should be rung long and loud--not with a little merry jingle, such as

befitted the announcement of a wedding, but in a manner to strike

astonishment, if not alarm, into its hearers; and on this occasion great

justice was done to the tocsin.

"That will do, M. Mayor; that will do, I think!" said the Curé, "it

looks to me as though our friends were all here."

The Mayor gave an awful pull, the bell leapt wildly up, gave one loud

concluding flourish, and then was quiet.

"Now, M. Mayor," said the Curé, "you have by heart the few words I gave

you, have you not?"

"Indeed, Father Jerome, I have," said the Mayor, "and am not likely to

forget them. Let me see--let me see. Now, my friends, will you be quiet

a moment while I speak to you. Ambrose Corvelin, will you hold your

noisy tongue awhile--perhaps M. de Larochejaquelin, I had better get up

on the wall, they will hear me better?"

"Do, M. Mayor, do," said Henri; and the Mayor was lifted on to the low

wall which ran round the churchyard, and roared out the following words,

at the top of his voice:

"In the holy name of God, and by command of the King, this parish of

Echanbroignes is invited to send as many men as possible to Saumur, to

be there, or at any other such place in the neighbourhood as may be

appointed, at three o'clock on the afternoon of the 9th of June. And may

God defend the right. Amen!" And having said this, the Mayor jumped off

the wall, and the crowd commenced shouting and cheering.

"Wait one moment, and hear me say a few words, my friends," said Henri,

springing to the place which the Mayor had just left. "Most of you, I

believe, know who I am."

"We do, M Henri," said they. "We do, M. Larochejaquelin. We all know who

you are. We know that you are our friend."

"I am very glad you think so," continued he; "for you will know, that

if I am your friend, I shall not deceive you. I have come here to ask

you to share with me the honour and the danger of restoring his father's

kingdom and his father's throne to the son of your murdered King. I have

come here to ask you also to assist me and others, who are your friends,

in protecting yourselves, your pastors, your houses, your wives and

daughters, from the tyranny and cruelty of the republicans."

"We will!" shouted the crowd. "We will go at once. We will be at Saumur

on Wednesday. We will follow M. Larochejaquelin wherever he would lead

us."

"You all know Cathelineau," continued Henri; "you all know the good

postillion of St. Florent?"

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

"Come and meet him, my friends, under the walls of Saumur; or rather,

I should say, come and meet him within the walls of Saumur. Come and

greet the noble fellows of St. Florent, who have set us so loyal an

example. Come and meet the brave men of Fontenay, who trampled on the

dirty tricolour, and drove out General Coustard from his covert, like

a hunted fox. He is now at Saumur; we will turn him out from thence."

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

"We will strip him rather of his spurs and his epaulettes, of his sword

and blue coat, and send him back to the Convention, that they may see

what will become of the heroes, whom they send to seek for glory in La

Vendée. Thanks, my friends; thanks for your kindness. I will lead you

to no dangers which I will not share with you. You shall suffer no

hardship of which I will not partake. I will look for no glory in which

you shall not be my partners."

During the time that the Mayor had been giving his invitation to the

people, and Henri had been speaking to them, Father Jerome had been

busily employed with Jacques Chapeau over six or seven little lists

which he held in his hand. These were lists of the names of able-bodied

men, which had been drawn out by the Curé of the parish, and Jacques had

already marked those of one or two whom he had found to be absent, and

among them the names of Michael Stems' two stalwart sons. Father Jerome

again handed the lists to Jacques, and as Henri descended from the wall,

amid the greeting of the populace, he ascended it, and gave them a

little clerical admonition.

"My children," said he, "it delights my heart to find that so few of you

are absent from us this morning--from the whole parish there are but

five, I believe, who have not readily come forward to proclaim their

zeal for their God, their King, and their Church: those five, I doubt

not, will be here when we proceed to check the names. Let it not be said

that there was one recreant in Echanbroignes--one man afraid to answer

when called for by his country. Is there danger in the bloody battle we

have before us?--let us all share it, and it will be lighter. Is it a

grievous thing for you to leave your wives and your children?--let no

man presume to think that he will be happier than his neighbours, for

that man shall assuredly be the most miserable. It is possible that some

of you may leave your bodies beneath the walls of Saumur, be it so; will

you complain because the Creator may require from some of you the life

which he has given? Is it not enough for you to know, that he who falls

fighting with this blessed symbol before his eyes, shall that night rest

among the angels of Heaven?" and the Curé held up on high, above the

people, a huge cross, which he had had brought to him out of the church.

"God has blessed you, my children, in giving you the sacred privilege

of fighting in His cause. You would indeed be weak--senseless as the

brutes--unfeeling as the rocks--aye, impious as the republicans, had you

not replied to the summons as you have done; but you have shown that you

know your duty. I see, my children, that you are true Vendeans. I bless

you now, and on tomorrow week, I will be among you before the walls of

Saumur."

Having finished speaking, the priest also jumped off the wall, and again

the people shouted and cheered. And now they went to work with the

lists: Henri, the Mayor, and the Curé each took a pencil, and called the

names of the different men, as they were written down. There was of

course much delay in getting the men as they were called; but Chapeau

had sworn in three or four assistants, and he and they dived in among

the crowd, hurried this way and that, and shouted, screamed, and

screeched with great effect. The lists were made out with some regard

to the localities; the men from the lower end of the village were to go

to Henri's side; those from the northern part to Father Jerome's table;

and the inhabitants of the intermediate village were checked off by the

Mayor. Chapeau and his friends were most diligent in marshalling them;

to be sure, Jacques knew the names of but few of them; but he made them

tell him whether they were villagers, northerns, or lower-end men; and

though the men in many instances couldn't answer this themselves, the

divisions were effected, the names of all were called over, those who

were there were checked off and informed what was expected of them, and

where and by whom arms would be supplied to them: and those who were not

there became the unhappy victims of a black list.

Father Jerome, when he said that there were only five absent, was

something but not much out in his reckoning: his object, however, had

been to make the people think that he knew exactly who was there, and

who was not there; and in this he was successful. During the calling of

the lists, one or two stragglers dropped in who hoped to escape

detection: respecting a few others, some good ground of excuse was

alleged; but on this head the Curé was most severe: he would accept no

plea but that of absolute downright sickness, and of this he required

to have most ample testimony--even Henri sometimes pleaded for the

people, but unsuccessfully. The Republic by their proscription would

have decimated the men; the Curé of St. Laud insisted on taking them

all.

The houses of those who had not presented themselves were to be visited,

and the two first on the list were Jean and Peter Stein.

"Jean and Peter Stein," said Henri. "Why, Jacques, are they not friends

of yours? are they not sons of Michael Stein, the smith?"

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

"Are they not strong, active lads," said the Curé, turning somewhat

angrily on Chapeau, as though he were responsible for the principles of

his friends.

"They are, they are, your reverence, fine strong active lads as you ever

laid your eyes on."

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

"Not a bit, Father Jerome, not a bit afraid; nor yet unwilling, M.

Henri. I will explain it all; only let us be a little by ourselves."

"There is a mystery, Father Jerome," said Henri, "and Chapeau must have

his own way in explaining it."

"Exactly, M. Henri; I will explain all." By this time he had got the

priest and his master somewhat out of the crowd. "You see, M. Henri,

there are not two young men in the Bocage more determined to fight for

the good cause this moment, than Jean and Peter Stein."

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

"Oh! Sir, it's a fact; they are dying to have a musket in their hands.

I pledge for them my word of honour," and Jacques laid his hand upon his

heart. "You will find they are with me, your reverence, when I meet you

at the cross-roads, within half a mile of Coron, on Monday morning. But,

M. Henri, they have a father."

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

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

republican?"

"A republican!" said Jaques. "Oh! no, the heavens preserve us, he's

nothing so bad as that, or his own son wouldn't remain under his roof

another night, or his daughter either. No; Annot wouldn't remain with

him another hour, were he twenty times her father, if he turned

republican."

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

"He is very fond of money, M. Henri. Old Michael Stein is very fond of

money; and every one in the country who owns a franc at all, is buying

an old sword or a gun, or turning a reaping-hook into a sabre, or

getting a long pike made with an axe at the end of it; so Michael

Stein's smithy is turned into a perfect armoury, and he and his two sons

are at work at the anvil morning, noon, and night: they made Annot blow

the bellows this morning, till she looks for all the world like a

tinker's wife."

"That alters the case," said Father Jerome; "they are doing good

service, if they are making arms for our men; they are better employed

than though they joined us themselves."

"Don't say so, Father Jerome," said Jacques, "pray don't say so, Jean

and Peter would die were they not to be of the party at Saumur; but

Michael is so passionate and so headstrong, and he swears they shall not

go. Now go they will, and therefore I supplicate that my word may be

taken, and that I may be saved the dishonour of hearing the names of my

friends read out aloud with those of men who will disgrace their parish

and their country."

The request of Jacques was granted, and the names of Jean and Peter

Stein were erased from the top of the black list.

It was eight in the evening before the recruiting party had finished

their work, and it was not yet noon when they rode into the little

village. Henri and the Curé got their supper and slept at the Mayor's

house, and even there they were not allowed to be quiet; some of those

who were to be at Saumur, were continually calling for new instructions;

one wanted to know what arms he was to carry, another what provisions

he was to bring, a third was anxious to be a corporal, and a fourth and

fifth begged that they might not be separated, as one was going to marry

the sister of the other. None of these were turned away unanswered; the

door of the Mayor's house was not closed for a moment, and Henri, to be

enabled to eat his supper at all, was obliged to give his last military

orders with a crust of bread in his hand, and his mouth full of meat.

As might be supposed, Jacques spent the evening with Annot Stein, at

least it was his intention to have done so; but he had been so leading

a person in the day's transactions that he also was besieged by the

villagers, and was hardly able to whisper a word into his sweetheart's

ear. There he sat, however, very busy and supremely happy in the smith's

kitchen, with a pipe in his mouth and a bottle of wine before him. The

old smith sat opposite to him, while the two young men stood among a lot

of others round the little table, and Annot bustled in and out of the

room, now going close enough up to her lover to enable him to pinch her

elbow unseen by her father, and then leaning against the dresser, and

listening to his military eloquence.

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

Saumur?"

"Not a foot, Chapeau," said the old man, "not a foot, Chapeau; let ye

fight, we will make swords for you: is not that fair, neighbour?"

"I have nothing to say against it, M. Stein, not a word; only such

fellows as they, they would surely get promoted."

"Oh, ay; you will all be sergeants, no doubt. I have nothing to say

against that; only none of mine shall go waging wars in distant lands."

"Distant lands, say you! is not Saumur in Anjou? and is not Anjou within

three miles of you, here where you are sitting?"

"May be so, M. Chapeau; but still, with your leave, I say Saumur is

distant. Can you get there in one day from here?"

"Why no, not in one day."

"Nor in two?"

"Why, no again; though they might do it in two. They'll start from here

Monday morning with light, and they'll reach Saumur on Wednesday in time

to look about them, and learn what they have to do the next morning."

"That's three day's going, and three coming, and heaven only knows how

many days there; and you don't call that distant! Who's to feed them all

I'd like to know?"

"Feed them!" said Chapeau. "I wish you could see all the bullocks and

the wine at Durbellière; they'll have rations like fighting-cocks. I

only pray that too much good living make them not lazy."

"Were I a man," said Annot, as she put on the table a fresh bottle of

wine, which she had just brought in from the little inn, "were I a man,

as I would I were, I would go, whether or no."

"Would you, minx," said the father; "it's well for you that your

petticoats keep you at home."

"Don't be too sure of her, Michael Stein," said Paul Rouel, the keeper

of the inn; "she'll marry a soldier yet before the wars are over."

"Let her do as her mother did before her, and marry an honest tradesman;

that is, if she can find one to take her."

"Find one!" said Annot, "if I can't get a husband without finding one,

indeed, I'm sure I'll not fash myself with seeking: let him find me that

wants me."

"And it won't be the first that finds you either, that'll be allowed to

take to you, will it Annot?" said the innkeeper.

"That's as may be, Master Rouel," said Annot. "Those who ask no

questions are seldom told many lies."

"I know Annot Stein loves a soldier in her heart," said another old man,

who was sitting inside the large open chimney. "The girls think there

is no trade like soldiering. I went for a soldier when I was young, and

it was all to oblige Lolotte Gobelin; and what think ye, when I was

gone, she got married to Jean Geldert, down at Petit Ange. There's

nothing for the girls like soldiering."

"You give us great encouragement truly," said Jacques. "I hope our

sweethearts will not all do as Lolotte did. You would not serve your

lover so, when he was fighting for his King and country--would you,

Annot?"

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

"She's no better than her neighbours, M. Chapeau," said one of her

brothers. "There was young Boullin, the baker, at St. Paul's. Till we

heard of these wars, Annot was as fond of him as could be. It was none

but he then; but now, she will not as much as turn her head if she sees

his white jacket."

"Hold thine unmannerly, loutish, stupid tongue, wilt thou, thou dolt,"

said Annot, deeply offended. "Boullin indeed! I danced with him last

harvest-home; I know not why, unless for sheer good-nature; and now,

forsooth, I am to have Boullin for ever thrust in my teeth. Bah! I hate

a baker. I would as lieve take a butcher at once."

Jacques Chapean also was offended.

"I wonder, Jean Stein," said he, "that you know not better than to liken

your sister to such as young Boullin--a very good young man in his way,

I have no doubt. You should remember there is a difference in these

things."

"I don't know," said Jean, "why a smith's daughter should not marry a

baker's son; but I did not mean to vex Annot, and will say no more about

him; only good bread is a very good thing to have in one's house."

"And a butcher is a good trade too," said the old man inside the

chimney. "Jean Geldert, he that Lolotte Gobelin ran off with, he was a

butcher."

CHAPTER VII.

SUNDAY IN THE BOCAGE.

The remainder of that week was spent by Henri and the Curé as actively

and as successfully as the day in which they visited Echanbroignes. The

numbers they enrolled exceeded their hopes, and they found among the

people many more arms than they expected, though mostly of a very rude

kind. The party separated on the Saturday night, with the understanding

that they were to meet together at Done on the Tuesday evening, to

proceed from thence to the attack of Saumur. Henri Larochejaquelin

returned to Durbellière. The Curé of St. Laud went to his own parish,

to perform mass among his own people on the following morning, and

Jacques Chapeau, according to agreement, took up his quarters at the

smith's house in Echanbroignes.

On the following morning, he and Annot, and most of the young men and

women of the village walked over to St. Laud's to receive mass from

Father Jerome, and to hear the discourse which he had promised to give

respecting the duties of the people in the coming times.

The people, as in olden days, were crowded round the church about

half-past ten o'clock; but the doors of the church were closed. The

revolt in La Vendée had already gone far enough to prevent the

possibility of the constitutional priests officiating in the churches

to which they had been appointed by the National Assembly; but it had

not yet gone far enough to enable the old nonjuring Cures to resume

generally their own places in their own churches: the people, however,

now crowded round the church of St. Laud's, till they should learn where

on that day Father Jerome would perform mass.

The church of St. Laud's did not stand in any village, nor was it

surrounded even by a cluster of cottages. It stood by itself on the side

of a narrow little road, and was so completely surrounded by beech and

flowering ash trees, that a stranger would not know that he was in the

neighbourhood of a place of worship till it was immediately in front of

him. Opposite to the door of the church and on the other side of the

road, was a cross erected on a little mound; and at its foot a Capuchin

monk in his arse brown frock, with his hood thrown back, and his eyes

turned to heaven, was always kneeling: the effigy at least of one was

doing so, for it was a painted wooden monk that was so perpetually at

his prayers.

The church itself was small, but it boasted of a pretty grey tower; and

on each side of the door of the church were two works of art, much

celebrated in the neighbourhood. On the left side, beneath the window,

a large niche was grated in with thick, rusty iron bars. It occupied the

whole extent from the portico to the corner of the church, and from the

ground to the window; and, within the bars, six monster demons--spirits

of the unrepentent dead, the forms of wretches who had died without

owning the name of their Saviour, were withering in the torments of

hell-fire; awful indeed was the appearance of these figures; they were

larger than human, and twisted into every variety of contortion which

it was conceived possible that agony could assume. Their eyes were made

to protrude from their faces, their fiery tongues were hanging from

their scorched lips; the hairs of each demon stood on end and looked

like agonized snakes; they were of various hideous colours; one was a

dingy blue; another a horrid dirty yellow, as though perpetual jaundice

were his punishment; another was a foul unhealthy green; a fourth was

of a brick-dust colour; a fifth was fiery red, and he was leaping high

as though to escape the flame; but in vain, for a huge blue flake of

fire had caught him by the leg, and bound him fast; his fiery red hands

were closed upon the bars, his tortured face was pressed against them,

and his screeching mouth was stretched wide open so as to display two

awful rows of red-hot teeth; the sixth a jet black devil, cowered in a

corner and grinned, as though even there he had some pleasure in the

misery of his companions.

The space occupied on the other side was much larger, for it was carried

up so far as to darken a great portion of the window. That on the left

represented the misery of hell--torment without hope. That on the right

contained two tableaus: the lower one was purgatory, here four recumbent

figures lay in the four corners, uncomfortably enough; for the bed of

each figure was six sharp spikes, each of which perforated the occupier

of it. But yet these dead men were not horrible to look at as those six

other wretches; their eyes were turned on a round aperture above, the

edge of which was all gilt and shining, for the glory of heaven shone

into it. This aperture entered into paradise. Through the aperture the

imaginative artist had made a spirit to be passing--his head and

shoulders were in paradise; these were also gilt and glorious, and on

his shoulders two little seraphims were fixing wings; his nether parts

below the aperture, were still brown and dingy, as were the four

recumbent spirits who rested on their gridirons till the time should

come that they also should be passed through.

Above the aperture was to be seen paradise in all its blazon of glory,

numberless little golden-headen cherubims encircled a throne, on which

was seated the beneficent majesty of Heaven. From the towers and roofs

projected numerous brazen-mouthed instruments, which welcomed into

everlasting joy the purified spirit which was ascending from purgatory.

Thus were paradise, purgatory and pandemonium represented at St. Laud's,

and abominable as such representations now appear to be, they had, to

a certain extent, a salutary effect with the people who were in the

habit of looking at them. That they were absolute accurate

representations of the places represented, they never for a moment

presumed to doubt; and if the joys of heaven, as displayed there, were

not of much avail in adding to the zeal of the faithful, the horrors of

hell were certainly most efficacious in frightening the people into

compliance with the rules laid down for them, and in preventing them

from neglecting their priests and religious duties.

The people were crowded round the church; some were kneeling with the

wooden monk at the foot of the cross, and some round the bars of

purgatory. Others were prostrated before the six condemned demons, and

some sat by the road-side, on the roots of the trees, telling their

beads. Many men were talking of the state of the times, and of the wars

to come; some were foretelling misery and desolation, and others were

speaking of the happy days about to return, when their King and their

priests should have their own, and La Vendée should be the most honoured

province in France.

They made a pretty scene, waiting there beneath the shade till their

priest should come to lead them to some rural chapel. The bright colours

worn by the women in their Sunday clothes, and the picturesque forms of

the men, in their huge broad-brimmed flapping hats, harmonized well with

the thick green foliage around them. They shewed no sign of impatience,

they were quite content to wait there, and pray, or gossip, or make love

to each other, till such time as Father Jerome should please to come;

they had no idea that their time was badly spent in waiting for so good

a man.

At any rate he came before they were tired, and with him came a man who

was a stranger to them all, except to Jacques Chapeau. This man was but

little, if anything, better dressed than themselves; he looked like one

of their own farmers of the better days; certainly from his dress and

manner he had no pretensions to be called a gentleman, and yet he walked

and talked with Father Jerome as though he were his equal.

"God bless you, my children, God bless you," said the Curé, in answer

to the various greetings he received from his flock. "Follow me, my

children, and we will worship God beneath the canopy of his holy

throne," and then turning to the stranger, he added: "the next time you

visit me at St. Laud's, M. d'Elbée, we shall, I doubt not, have our

church again. I could now desire the people to force the doors for me,

and no one would dare to hinder them; but I have been thrust from my

altar and pulpit by a self-constituted vain authority--but yet by

authority; and I will not resume them till I do so by the order of the

King or of his servants."

"I reverence the house of God," replied M. d'Elbée, "because his spirit

has sanctified it; but walls and pillars are not necessary to my

worship; a cross beneath a rock is as perfect a church to them who have

the will to worship, as though they had above them the towers of Notre

Dame, or the dome of St. Peter's."

"You are right, my son; it is the heart that God regards; and where that

is in earnest, his mercy will dispense with the outward symbols of our

religion; but still it is our especial duty to preserve to his use

everything which the piety of former ages has sanctified; to part

willingly with nothing which appertains in any way to His church. The

best we have is too little for His glory. It should be our greatest

honour to give to Him; it is through His great mercy that He receives

our unworthy offerings. Come, my children, follow me; our altar is

prepared above."

The priest led the way through a little shaded path at the back of the

church; behind a farmhouse and up a slight acclivity, on the side of

which the rocks in different places appeared through the green turf, and

the crowd followed him at a respectful distance.

"And who is that with Father Jerome--who is the stranger, M. Chapeau?"

said one and another of them, crowding round Jacques--for it soon got

abroad among them, that Jacques Chapeau had seen the stranger in some

of his former military movements in La Vendée. Chapeau was walking

beside his mistress, and was not at all sorry of the opportunity of

shewing off.

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

d'Elbée?"

"D'Elbée!--d'Elbée!--indeed; no, then, I never heard the name till this

moment," said one.

"Nor I," said another; "but he must be a good man, or Father Jerome

would not walk with him just before performing mass."

"You are right there, Jean," said Jacques, "M. d'Elbée is a good man;

he has as much religion as though he were a priest himself."

"And he must be a thorough royalist," said another, "or Father Jerome

wouldn't walk with him at all."

"You are right, too, my friend; M. d'Elbée is a great royalist. He is

the especial friend of our good Cathelineau."

"The friend of Cathelineau and of Father Jerome," said a fourth, "then

I am sure M. d'Elbée must be something out of the common way."

"You are right again, he is very much out of the common way, he is one

of our great generals," said Chapeau.

"One of our great generals, is he," said two or three at once. "I knew

he was going to Saumur," said Jean, "or Father Jerome wouldn't have

walked so peaceable with him, great as he may be."

"But if he is a great general," said Annot, "why has he no lace upon his

coat; why doesn't he wear a sword and look smart like M.

Larochejaquelin? At any rate he is a very shabby general."

"He has a terrible long nose too," said another girl. "And he has not

a morsel of starch in his shirt ruffles, I declare," said a third, who

officiated as laundress to the Mayor of Echanbroignes.

"I'm sure the republicans will never be afraid of such a general as he

is. You are joking with us now, Jacques. I am sure he is not a general;

he is more like a grocer from Nantes."

"And is not Cathelineau like a postilion?" said Jacques, "and I hope you

will allow he is a great soldier. You know nothing of these things yet,

Annot. M. Larochejaquelin is so smart because he is a young nobleman;

not because he is a general."

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

"Not a bit of it," said Chapeau.

"Well, I think the generals should all be noblemen; I declare," said the

laundress, "M. Larochejaquelin did look so nice last Wednesday, when he

was getting off his horse."

"That is all; but Cathelineau," said Annot, "he is the finest fellow of

them all. I'd sooner have Cathelinean for my lover, than the Duc de

Chartres, and he's the king's cousin."

"You are a foolish girl, Annot," said Chapeau. "You might as well want

the picture of St. John out of the church window down yonder, and take

that for your lover, as Cathelineau. Don't you know he's the Saint of

Anjou?"

"He might marry a wife, and have a house full of children, for all that;

that's the difference between being a saint and a priest; there's no

harm in being in love with a saint, and I am very much in love with

Cathelineau."

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

"No matter," said Annot; "ninny, or no ninny, I'll go where I'm like to

see him; and I'm sure I'll never bear the sight of another man

afterwards; the dear, good, sweet Cathelineau, with his curly hair, and

fine whiskers, and black bright eyes; he's better than all the noblemen:

I declare I dreamed of him these last two nights."

Chapeau left the side of his mistress, muttering something about stupid

foolish chits of girls, and continued his description of M. d'Elbée to

the men.

"Indeed he is a very great general. I don't know very well where he came

from, but I believe somewhere down in the Marais, from his being such

a friend of M. Charette; but he has been fighting against the

republicans this long time, even before Cathelineau began, I believe,

though I don't exactly know where. I know he was made a prisoner in

Paris, and nearly killed there by some of those bloody-minded rebels;

then he escaped, and he was at the siege of Machecoult, and got

honourably wounded, and was left for dead: and then he was at

Thouars--no, not at Thouars; we heard he was coming, but he didn't come;

but he was at Fontenay, and that's where I first saw him. M. Bonchamps

brought him in and introduced him to M. de Lescure, and our M.

Larochejaquelin, and I was astonished to see how much they made of him,

for he was dressed just as he is now, and had no sword or anything.

Well, as soon as he came in they all went to work talking, and settling

how Fontenay was to be attacked, for though its a little place, and not

walled and fortified like Saumur, we had a deal of trouble with it; but

before a word was spoken, M. d'Elbée stood up and said, 'Brethren,' said

he, 'let us ask the assistance of our Saviour:' so down they went on

their knees, and he said an awful long prayer, for all the world like

a priest. And then again before we fired a shot, he bade all the

soldiers kneel down, and down we went, the republicans firing at us all

the time. The soldiers call him Old Providence, for they say he talks

a deal about Providence when he is fighting."

"You may be sure that's what makes Father Jerome so fond of him," said

Jean. "I knew he was a good man."

"And he was a desperate fellow to fight afterwards," continued Chapeau.

"But he walked into the thick of the fighting just as he is now."

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

"Neither the one or the other; he was just as he is this minute, giving

orders, and directing some of the men there who knew him well.

Presently, he said to a young gentleman who was near him: 'Lend me that

sword a moment, will you?' and he took it out of his hands, and made a

rush through the gate of Fontenay, and I saw no more of him that day."

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

"Rush after him! Why, you simpleton; do you think in wars like that

every man is to rush just where he pleases; you'll soon be taught the

difference. M. d'Elbée was a general, and might go where he liked; but

I was a corporal under M. Henri, with ten men under me. We had to remain

where we were, and cut off the republicans, if they showed their noses

at a point in the street which we covered; it's only the generals that

go rushing about in that way. But here we are at Father Jerome's altar.

Well; I'm very hot. I'm sure its nearly half a league up here from the

church."

They had now come to a rude altar, constructed on a piece of rock, in

front of which was a small space of green turf: the whole spot was

closely surrounded by beech and ash-trees; so closely, indeed, that the

sun hardly made its way into it, and the rocks around it rising up

through the grass afforded ample accommodation for the people. In a

moment, they were on their knees on the grass; some almost immediately

before the altar; others kneeling against the rocks; others again with

their heads and hands resting against the trunk of a huge beech-tree.

Hither had been brought the necessary appurtenances for the performance

of mass. A small, but beautifully white cloth was spread upon a flat

portion of the rock; bread was there, and a small quantum of wine; a

little patina and a humble chalice. M. d'Elbée took his place among the

crowd before the altar, and Father Jerome, having dressed himself in his

robes, performed, with a fine, full, sonorous voice, the morning service

of his church. When so occupied, he had no longer the look of the

banished priest: his sacred vestments had not shared the decay which had

fallen on his ordinary clothes. No bishop rising from his throne to

bless the congregation assembled in his cathedral, could assume more

dignity, or inspire more solemnity than the Curé of St. Laud, as he

performed mass at his sylvan altar in La Vendée.

After mass was finished, the priest gave them an extempore discourse on

the necessity of their absolutely submitting themselves to their

teachers, spiritual masters, and pastors; and before he had finished,

he turned their attention to the especial necessity of their obeying the

leaders, now among them, in carrying on the war against the Republic,

and as he concluded, he said:

"I rejoice at all times, my children, that you are an obedient and a

docile people, content to accept the word of God from those whom he has

sent to teach it to you--that you are not a stiff-necked generation,

prone to follow your own vain conceits, or foolish enough to conceive

that your little earthly knowledge can be superior to the wisdom which

comes from above, as others are. I have always rejoiced at this, my

children, for in it I have seen hope for you, when I could see none for

others; but now also I rejoice greatly to see that you unite the courage

of men to the docility of babes. Hitherto your lot has been that of

peace, and if you have not enjoyed riches, you have at any rate been

contented: another destiny is before you now--peace and content have

left the country, and have been followed by robbery, confusion, and war.

My children, you must, for a while, give over your accustomed peaceful

duties; your hands--your hearts--all your energy, and all your courage,

are required by God for his own purposes--yes, required by that Creator

who gave you strength and energy--who gave you the power and the will

to do great deeds for His holy name.

"His enemies are in the land: impious wretches--who do not hesitate to

wage war against His throne--are endeavouring to destroy all that is

good, and all that is holy in France. Do you not know, my children, that

they have murdered your King?--and that they have imprisoned your Queen,

and her son, who is now your King? Would you be content to remain quiet

in your homes, while your King is lying in a prison, in hourly danger

of death? They have excluded you from your churches, they have caused

God's holy houses to be closed; they have sent among you teachers who

can only lead you astray--whose teaching can only bring you to the gates

of hell. The enemies of the Lord are around you; and you are now

required to take arms in your hands, to go out against them, and if

needs be to give your blood--nay your life for your country, your King,

and your Church.

"I greatly rejoice, my children, that you are an obedient people; I know

that you will now do your utmost, and I know that you will succeed. The

Lord will not desert His people when they combat for His glory, when

they faithfully turn to Him for victory. You have been taught how He

chose the Israelites as an especial people--how He loved and favoured

them: as long as they were faithful and obedient He never deserted them.

They conquered hosts ten times their numbers--they were victorious

against armed warriors, and mighty giants. The Lord blinded their

enemies so that they saw not; He blunted their weapons; He paralyzed

their courage; chariots and horses did not avail them; nor strong walls,

nor mighty men of battle. The Lord loved the Israelites, and as long as

they were faithful and obedient, they prevailed against all their

enemies.

"You, my children, are now God's people; if you are truly faithful, you

shall assuredly prevail; if you go out to battle firmly, absolutely,

entirely trusting in the strength of His right hand--that right hand,

that Almighty arm shall be on your side. And who then shall stand

against you?--though tens, and hundreds of thousands swarm around you,

they shall yield before you--they shall fall before you as the giant

Goliath fell before the shepherd David.

"Be not afraid, therefore, my children: we will go together; we will

remember that every man who falls on our side in this holy war, falls

as he is doing Christ's service, and that his death is to be envied, for

it is a passport into Heaven. We will remember this in the hour of

battle, when our enemies are before us, when death is staring us in the

face, and remembering it, we shall not be afraid. If we die fighting

truly in this cause, our immortal souls will be wafted off to paradise--

to everlasting joy: if we live, it will be to receive, here in our own

dear fields, the thanks of a grateful King, to feel that we have done

our duty as Christians and as men, and to hear our children bless the

days, when the courage of La Vendée restored the honour of France."

Father Jerome's exhortation had a strong effect upon the people; he knew

and calculated their strength and their weakness--they were brave and

credulous, and when he finished speaking, there was hardly one there who

in the least doubted that the event of the war would be entirely

successful: they felt that they were a chosen people, set apart for a

good work--that glory and victory awaited them in the contest, and

especially that they were about to fight under the immediate protection

of the Almighty.

As soon as the service was over, they all left the little sylvan chapel

by different paths, and in different directions; some went back to the

church, some went off across the fields, some took a short cut to the

road, but they all returned home without delay. Every man was to set out

early on the morrow for the rendezvous, and the women were preparing to

shed their tears and say their last farewell to their lovers, brothers,

and husbands, before they started on so great an enterprise. They had

all been gay enough during the morning--they became a little melancholy

on their return home, but before the evening was far advanced, nothing

was to be heard but sobs and vows, kisses and blessings.

Jacques Chapeau returned to Echanbroignes with the party of villagers

who had gone from thence to hear Father Jerome, but he did not attach

himself expressly to Annot, indeed he said not a word to her on the way,

but addressed the benefit of his conversation to his male friends

generally; to tell the truth, he was something offended at the warm

admiration which his sweetheart had expressed for Cathelineau. He wasn't

exactly jealous of the postillion, for Annot had never seen him, and

couldn't, therefore, really love him; but he felt that she ought not to

have talked about another man's eyes and whiskers, even though that

other man was a saint and a general. It was heartless, too, of Annot to

say such things at such a time, just as he was going to leave her, on

the eve of battle, and when he had left his own master, and all the

glorious confusion and good living in--at Durbellière, merely that he

might spend his last quiet day in her company.

It was base of her to say that she had dreamed twice of Cathelineau; and

she was punished for it, for she had to walk home almost unnoticed. At

first she was very angry, and kicked up the dust with her Sunday shoes

in fine style; but before long her heart softened, and she watched

anxiously for some word or look from Jacques on which she might base an

attempt at a reconciliation. Jacques knew what she was about, and would

not even look at her: he went on talking with Jean and Peter and the

others, about the wars, and republicans and royalists, as though poor

Annot Stein had not been there at all. From the chapel of St. Laud to

the village of Echanbroignes, he did not speak a word to her, and when

the four entered the old smith's house, poor Annot was bursting with

anger, and melting with love; she could not settle with herself whether

he hated Chapeau or loved him most; she felt that she would have liked

to poison him, only she knew that she could not live without him.

She hurried into her little sleeping place, and had a long debate with

herself whether she should instantly go to bed and pray that Jacques

might be killed at Saumur, or whether she should array herself in all

her charms, and literally dazzle her lover into fondness and obedience

by her beauty and graces--after many tears the latter alternative was

decided on.

It was a lovely summer evening, and at about eight o'clock hardly a

person in the whole village was to be found within doors; the elderly

were sitting smoking at their doors, husbands were saying a thousand

last words to their weeping wives, young men were sharpening their

swords, and preparing their little kit for the morrow's march, and the

girls were helping them; but everything was done in the open air. Jean

and Peter Stein were secretly preparing for a stolen march to Saumur;

for their father was still inexorable, and they were determined not to

be left behind when all the world was fighting for glory. Old Michael

was smoking at his ease, and Jacques was standing talking to him,

wondering in his heart whether Annot could be really angry with him,

when that young lady reappeared in the kitchen.

"Where have you been, Annot?" said Michael Stein, "you didn't get your

supper, yet child."

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

"I would not have you sick tonight, Annot, and our friends leaving us

before sun-rise tomorrow. Here is M. Chapeau complaining you are a bad

hostess."

"M. Chapeau has enough to think of tonight, without my teasing him,"

said Annot; "great soldiers like him have not time to talk to silly

girls. I will walk across the green to Dame Rouel's, father; I shall be

back before sunset."

And Annot went out across the green, at the corner of which stood the

smith's forge. Jacques Chapeau was not slow to follow her, and Dame

Rouel did not see much of either of them that evening.

"Annot," said Jacques, calling to his sweetheart, who perseveringly

looked straight before her, determined not to know that she was

followed. "Annot, stop awhile. You are not in such a hurry, are you, to

see Dame Rouel?"

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

no particular hurry."

"Will you take a turn down to the mill, then, Annot? Heaven knows when

you and I may walk to the old mill again; it may be long enough before

I see Echanbroignes again."

Annot made no answer, but she turned into the little path which led

through the fields to the mill.

"I suppose it may," said she, determined, if possible, that the amende

should be made by Jacques and not by herself.

"I see you are indifferent about that," said Jacques, with a soft and

sentimental look, which nearly melted Annot; "well, when you hear of my

death, you will sometimes think of me, will you not?"

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

friends."

Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off the heads

of the blue-bells with his little cane. "I am not different to you then

from any one else, eh, Annot?" said he.

"How different, M. Chapeau?"

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

"I don't like young Boullin, the baker, and I don't thank you for

mentioning his name one bit."

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

"People lie--they always do; everybody tries to tease and plague me now.

You and Jean, and father, and that old fool, Rouel, are all alike," and

Annot gave symptoms of hysterical tears.

Jacques was again silent for awhile, but he had commenced walking very

near to his companion, and she did not appear to resent it. After a

while he said: "You are not glad that I'm going, Annot?"

"You would not have me sorry that you are going to fight with all the

other brave men, would you?"

"Is that all I am to get from you, after all? is that all the regard you

have for me? very well, Annot--it is well at any rate we should

understand each other. They were right, I find, when they told me that

you were such a coquette, you would have a dozen lovers at the same

time."

"And they were right, I find, when they told me you were too fond of

yourself ever to love any girl truly."

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

Echanbroignes. I'm sorry I ever saw you."

"And if you are, M. Chapeau, I'm sure I'm sorry enough I ever saw you;"

and Annot again increased the distance between her and her lover.

They walked on from hence in silence till they came to the little mill,

and each stood gazing on the stream, which ran gurgling down beneath the

ash and willow-trees, which dipped their boughs in its waters.

"How kind you were, the last time we were here together," said Jacques;

"how kind and generous you were then; you are very different now."

"And you are very different, too, M. Chapeau; much more different than

I am; it's all your own fault; you choose to give yourself airs, and I

won't put up with it, and I believe we may as well part."

"Give myself airs! No; but it's you give yourself airs, and say things

which cut me to the heart--things which I can't bear; and, therefore,

perhaps, we may as well part;" and Jacques assumed a most melancholy

aspect, as he added, "So, good bye, Annot; there's my hand. I wouldn't,

at any rate, part anything but friends after all."

"Good bye," said poor Annot, putting out her hand to her lover, and

sobbing violently. "Good bye; I'm sure I never thought it would come to

this. I'm sure I gave up everybody and everything for your sake."

"Well; and didn't I give up everybody, too. Haven't I come all the way

over here week after week, when people wondered what made me leave

Durbellière so much; and wasn't it all for love of you? Oh, Annot!

Annot!" and even the manly dignity of M. Chapeau succumbed to tears.

"It's no good talking," said she, greatly softened; "for you can't have

loved me, and treated me as you did this day, letting me walk all alone

from St. Laud, without so much as a word or a look; and that before all

the people: and I that went merely to walk back with you. Oh! I could

have died on the roadside to find myself treated in such a way."

"And what must I have felt to hear you talking as you did before them

all? Do you think I felt nothing?"

"Talking, Jacques; what talk?"

"Why; saying that you loved Cathelineau better than any one. That he was

the only man you admired; that you dreamed of him always, and I don't

know how much more about his eyes and whiskers."

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

"Jealous; no I'm not jealous."

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

tears.

"Jealous. No, I tell you I'm not jealous; but still, one doesn't like

to hear one's mistress talking of another man's eyes, and whiskers, and

those sort of things; no man would like it, Annot; though I care about

it as little myself as any man."

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

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

so they may."

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

arm.

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

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

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

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

sometimes."

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

mistress.

"Ah! but why did you let me walk home all the way by myself? You know

I love you dearly; but you must beg my pardon for that, before I'll ever

tell you so again."

And Jacques did beg her pardon in a manner of his own twenty times,

sitting by the gurgling mill-stream, and to tell the truth Annot seemed

well pleased with the way in which he did it; and then when the fountain

of her love was opened, and the sluice gate of her displeasure removed,

she told him how she would pray for him till he came back safe from the

wars; how she would never speak a word to mortal man in the way of

courting, till he came back to make her his wife; how she would grieve,

should he be wounded; how she would die, should he be killed in battle:

and then she gave him a little charm, which she had worked for him, and

put it round his neck, and told him she had taken it with her to St.

Laud, to give it him there beneath the cross, only he had gone away from

her, so that she couldn't do so: and then Jacques begged pardon again

and again in his own queer way; and then, having sat there by the

mill-stream till the last red streak of sunlight was gone, they returned

home to the village, and Annot told her father that Dame Rouel had been

so very pressing, she had made them stay there to eat bread and cheese.

And so Annot, at last, went to bed without her supper, and dreamed not

of Cathelineau, but of her own lover, Jacques Chapeau.

CHAPTER VIII.

AGATHA LAROCHEJAQUELIN.

As Chapeau had said, great preparations were made at Durbellière for the

coming campaign. The old Marquis had joined with his son in furnishing

everything which their limited means would admit of, for the wants of

the royalists. Durbellière had become quite a depôt; the large granaries

at the top of the house were no longer empty; they were stored with

sacks of meal, with pikes and muskets, and with shoes for the soldiers.

Agatha's own room looked like an apartment in a hospital; it was filled

with lint, salves, and ointments, to give ease to those whom the wars

should send home wounded; all the contents of the cellars were

sacrificed; wine, beer, and brandy, were alike given up to aid the

spirits of the combatants; the cattle were drawn in from the farms, and

kept round the house in out-houses and barns, ready to be slaughtered,

as occasion might require, an abattoir was formed in the stable yard,

and a butcher kept in regular employment; a huge oven was built in an

outhouse attached to the stables, and here bakers, from neighbouring

parishes, were continually kept at work: they neither expected, or

received wages; they, and all the others employed got their meals in the

large kitchen of the château, and were content to give their work to the

cause without fee or reward. Provisions, cattle, and implements, were

also sent from M. de Lescure's house to Durbellière, as it was

considered to be more central, and as it was supposed that there were

still some republicans in the neighbourhood of Bressuire, whereas, it

was well known that there were none in the rural districts; the more

respectable of the farmers also, and other country gentlemen sent

something; and oxen, sheep, and loads of meal; jars of oil, and casks

of wine were coming in during the whole week before the siege of Saumur,

and the same horses took them out again in the shape of bread, meat, and

rations, to the different points where they would be required.

As soon as M. de Lescure had left home, on his recruiting service in the

south of La Vendée, the ladies of his house went over to Durbellière,

to remain there till Henri Larochejaquelin should start for Saumur, and

give their aid to Agatha in all her work. Adolphe Denot was also there:

he, too, had been diligently employed in collecting the different sinews

of wars; and as far as his own means went had certainly not begrudged

them. There was still an unhappy air of dissatisfaction about him, which

was not to be observed with any one else: his position did not content

his vanity; the people did not talk of him as they did of Cathelineau,

and Henri Larochejaquelin; he heard nothing of La Vendée relying on his

efforts; the names of various men were mentioned as trustworthy leaders,

but his own was never among them. De Lescure, Charette, d'Elbée,

Stofflet, were all talked of; and what had they done more than he had;

or what, indeed, so much: the two latter were men of low origin, who had

merely shown courage in the time of need: indeed, what more had

Cathelineau done; whereas, he had never failed in courage, and had

given, moreover, his money, and his property; yet he felt that he was

looked on as a nobody. Jacques Chapeau was almost of more importance.

And then, again, his love for Agatha tormented him. He had thought to

pique her by a show of indifference himself, but he found that this plan

did not answer: it was evident, even to him, that Agatha was not vexed

by his silence, his altered demeanour, and sudden departure. He had

miscalculated her character, and now found that he must use other means

to rouse the affection in her heart, without which he felt, at present,

that he could not live happily. He thought that she could not have seen

with indifference the efforts he was making in the cause which she loved

so well; and he determined to throw himself at her feet before he

started for Saumur, and implore her to give him a place in her

affections, while her heart was softened by the emotions, which the

departure of so many of her friends, on the eve of battle, would

occasion.

Agatha had had but little conversation with him since his last arrival

at Durbellière, but still she felt that he was about to propose to her.

She shunned him as much as she could; she scrupulously avoided the

opportunity which he anxiously sought; she never allowed herself to be

alone with him; but she was nevertheless sure the evil hour would come;

she saw it in his eye as they sat together at their meals--she heard it

in the tones of his voice every time he spoke. She knew from his manner

that he was preparing himself for the interview, and she also knew that

he would not submit tamely to the only answer she could bring herself

to give him.

"Marie," said she to her cousin, on the Saturday evening, "I am in the

greatest distress, pray help me, dearest. I am sure you know what ails

me."

"In distress, Agatha, and wanting help from me!--you that are wont to

help all the world yourself! But I know, from your face, you are only

half in earnest."

"Indeed, and indeed, I never was much more so. I never was more truly

in want of council. Can you not guess what my sorrow is?"

"Not unless it is, that you have a lover too much?--or perhaps you find

the baker's yeast runs short?"

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

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

much?"

"Can any trouble be more grievous?"

"Oh, dear, yes! ten times worse. My case is ten times worse: and alas,

alas! there is no cure for that."

"Your case, Marie?"

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

"Ah, Marie, do not joke with me tonight. I want your common sense, and

not your wit, just now. Be a good, dear girl, and tell me what I shall

say to him. I know he will not go to Saumur before--before he has

proposed to me."

"Then, in the name of common sense, dear Agatha, tell him the truth,

whatever it may be."

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

"Nay, I know nothing. You have not said yet who 'him' is--but I own I

can give a guess. I suppose poor Adolphe Denot is the man you cannot

love? Poor Adolphe! he must be told so, that is all."

"But how shall I tell him, Marie? He is so unlike other men. Henri is

his friend, and yet he has never spoken to him about me, nor to my

father. If he would ask my hand from Henri, as another would, Henri

would talk to him, and explain to him that it could not be-that my heart

is too much occupied with other cares, to care for loving or being

loved."

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

"No, Marie; but till these wars are over. Not that I could ever love

Adolphe Denot; but now, at present, methinks love should be banished

from the country, and not allowed to return till the King is on his

throne again."

"Well, Agatha, I don't know. That would be somewhat hard upon us poor

girls, whose lovers are more to our taste, than M. Denot is to yours.

I know not that our knights will fight the worse for a few stray smiles,

though the times be so frightful."

"Do you smile on yours then, Marie; and I will smile to see you happy.

But tell me, dearest, what shall I say to Adolphe? You would not have

me give him hope, when I feel I can never love him?"

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

subject, or to the Marquis?"

"Never a word. I'm sure he never spoke of it to my father, and Henri

told me that he had never said a word to him."

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

say?"

"He said just what a dear, good brother should have said. He said he was

sorry for his friend, but that on no account whatever would he sacrifice

his sister's happiness."

"M. Larochejaquelin always does just what he ought to do. He is as good

and kind to you as Charles is to me."

"Henri and I are so nearly of an age; we were always companions

together. I do not think any lover will be agreeable to me as long as

he is with me."

"But if he should take a love of his own, Agatha? It won't do, you know,

for sisters to monopolize their brothers; or what shall we spinsters do?"

"He shall bring his love here, and she shall be my own sister. If he

makes the choice I think he will, I shall not have to open a new place

in my heart for her, shall I, Marie?"

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

"And it is cruel in you to bring me back to it. If he proposes to me

tomorrow, Marie, what shall I say to him?"

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

"It is very well to say, 'Keep out of his way;' but if he formally

demands an interview, I cannot refuse it."

"If he formally desires an interview, do you give him a formal

reception: if he formally offers you his hand, do you formally decline

the honour."

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

"A thousand thanks to you, Mademoiselle Larochejaquelin. I appreciate

your generosity, but really I have no vacancy for M. Denot, just at

present."

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

"Practice, my dear, is everything: this time you may feel a little

awkward, but you will find you will dispose of your second lover without

much difficulty, and you will give his congé to your third with as much

ease, as though you were merely dismissing a disobedient kitchen-maid."

"I cannot bear to give pain; and Adolphe will be pained; his self-love

will be wounded at the idea of being rejected."

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

"No; that I will not do."

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

"Would I could do the one without the other; would I could persuade him

I was not worthy of him."

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

"I will tell him that I am averse to marriage; in truth, that will be

no falsehood. I do not think that my heart is capable of more love than

it feels at present."

"That may be true now, Agatha; but suppose your heart should enlarge

before the autumn, at the touch of some gallant wizard--take my advice,

dear girl, make no rash promises."

"I will tell him that I cannot think of love till the King is on the

throne once more."

"If you say so, he will promise valiantly to restore His Majesty, and

then to return to you to look for his reward. Shall I tell you, Agatha,

what I should say?"

"Do, dearest Marie: tell me in sober earnest; and if there be ought of

sobriety mixed with your wit, I will take your advice."

"I would say to him thus: 'M. Denot,' or 'Adolphe,' just as your custom

is to address him--but mind, mark you, make him speak out firmly and

formally first, that your answer may be equally firm and formal. 'M.

Denot, you have paid me the greatest honour which a gentleman can pay

a lady, and I am most grateful for the good opinion which you have

expressed. I should be ungrateful were I to leave you for one moment in

doubt as to my real sentiments: I cannot love you as I ought to love my

husband. I hope you will never doubt my true friendship for you; but

more than sincere friendship I cannot give you.' There, Agatha, not a

word more, nor a word less than that; sit quite straight on your chair,

as though you were nailed to it; do not look to the right or to the

left; do not frown or smile."

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

"But do not frown neither; fancy that you are the district judge, giving

sentence on a knotty piece of law; show neither sentiment, pride, nor

anger. Be quite cold, inflexible and determined; and, above all things,

do not move from your seat; and I think you will find your lover will

take his answer: but if he do not--repeat it all over again, with a

little more emphasis, and rather slower than before. If it be necessary,

you may repeat it a third time, or indeed till he goes away, but never

vary the words. He must be a most determined man if he requires the

third dose. I never heard of but one who wasn't satisfied with the

second, and he was an Irishman."

"If I could only insist on his sitting still and silent to hear me make

my formidable speech, your advice might be very good."

"That, my dear, is your own strong point: if he attempts to interrupt

you, hear what he says, and then begin again. By the time you have got

to your 'real sentiments,' I doubt not he will be in his tantrums: but

do you not get into tantrums too, or else you are as good as lost; let

nothing tempt you to put in an unpremeditated word; one word might be

fatal; but, above all, do not move; nothing but an awful degree of calm

on your part will frighten him into quiescence: if you once but move,

you will find M. Denot at your feet, and your hand pressed to his lips.

You might as well have surrendered at once, if anything like that

occur."

"Well, Marie, let what will happen, at any rate I will not surrender,

as you call it. As to sitting like the district judge, and pronouncing

sentence on my lover as you advise--I fear I lack the nerve for it."

Agatha was quite right in her forebodings. Adolphe Denot had firmly made

up his mind to learn his fate before he started for Saumur, and

immediately on rising from breakfast, he whispered to Agatha that he

wished to speak to her alone for a moment. In her despair she proposed

that he should wait till after mass, and Adolphe consented; but during

the whole morning she felt how weak she had been in postponing the evil

hour; she had a thousand last things to do for her brother, a thousand

last words to say to him; but she was fit neither to do nor to say

anything; even her prayers were disturbed; in spite of herself her

thoughts clung to the interview which she had to go through.

Since the constitutional priests had been sent into the country, and the

old Curés silenced, a little temporary chapel had been fitted up in the

château at Durbellière, and here the former parish priest officiated

every Sunday; the peasants of the parish of St. Aubin were allowed to

come to this little chapel; at first a few only had attended, but the

number had increased by degrees, and at the time when the revolt

commenced, the greater portion of the pastor's old flock crowded into

or round the château every Sunday; so that the Sabbath morning at

Durbellière was rather a noisy time. This was especially the case on the

6th of June, as the people had so much to talk about, and most of the

men wished to see either the old or the young master, and most of the

women wanted to speak to one of the ladies; by degrees, however, the

château was cleared, and Agatha with a trembling heart retreated to her

own little sitting-room upstairs to keep her appointment with Adolphe

Denot.

She had not been long there, when Adolphe knocked at the door: he had

been there scores of times before, and had never knocked; but, although

he was going to propose to make Agatha his wife, he felt that he could

no longer treat her, with his accustomed familiarity.

He entered the room and found Agatha seated; so far she had taken her

friend's advice; she was very pale, but still she looked calm and

dignified, and was certainly much less confused than her lover.

"Agatha," said he, having walked up to the fire-place, and leaning with

his arm upon the mantle-piece, "Agatha, tomorrow I start for Saumur."

He was dressed very point-de-vice; the frills of his shirt were most

accurately starched; his long black hair was most scrupulously brushed;

his hands were most delicately white; his boots most brilliantly

polished; he appeared more fit to adorn the salon of an ambassador, than

to take a place as a warrior beneath the walls of a besieged town.

Adolphe was always particular in his dress, but he now exceeded himself;

and he appeared to be the more singular in this respect at Durbellière

just at present, as the whole of the party except himself women

included, had forgotten or laid aside, as unimportant, the usual cares

of the toilet.

"You, at any rate, go in good company, Adolphe," said Agatha, attempting

to smile. "May you all be successful, and return as heroes--heroes,

indeed, you are already; but may you gather fresh laurels at Saumur. I

am sure you will. I, for one, am not in the least despondent."

"Yes, Agatha, I shall go to Saumur, determined at any rate not to lose

there any little honour I may yet have won. If I cannot place the white

flag of La Vendée on the citadel of Saumur, I will at any rate fall in

attempting it."

"I am very sure, that if you fail, it will not be for lack of courage,

or of resolution. You and Henri, and M. de Lescure and our good friend

Cathelineau, have taught us to expect victory as the sure result of your

attempts."

"Ah! Agatha, one word from your lips, such as I long to hear, would make

me feel that I could chain victory to my sword, and rush into the midst

of battle panoplied against every harm."

"Your duty to your King should be your best assurance of victory; your

trust in your Saviour, your panoply against harm; if these did not avail

you, as I know they do, the vain word of a woman would be of little

service."

"You speak coldly, Agatha, and you look coldly on me. I trust your

feelings are not cold also."

"I should have hoped that many years of very intimate acquaintance

between us, of friendship commenced in childhood, and now cemented by

common sympathies and common dangers, would have made you aware that my

feelings are not cold towards you."

"Oh no! not cold in the ordinary sense. You wish me well, I doubt not,

and your kind heart would grieve, if you heard that I had fallen beneath

the swords of the republicans; but you would do the same for Cathelineau

or M. de Bonchamps. If I cannot wake a warmer interest in your heart

than that, I should prefer that you should forget me altogether."

Agatha began to fear that at this rate the interview would have no end.

If Adolphe remained with his arm on the marble slab, and his head on one

side, making sentimental speeches, till she should give him

encouragement to fall at her feet, it certainly would not be ended by

bed-time. She, therefore, summoned all her courage, and said,

"When you asked me to meet you here, your purpose was not to reproach

me with coldness--was it Adolphe? Perhaps it will be better for both of

us that this interview should terminate now. We shall part friends, dear

friends; and I will rejoice at your triumphs, when you are victorious;

and will lament at your reverses, should you be unlucky. I shall do the

same for my own dear Henri, and I know that you two will not be

separated. There is my hand," she added, thinking that he appeared to

hesitate; "and now let us go down to our friends, who are expecting us."

"Are you so soon weary of hearing the few words I wish to say to you?"

said Adolphe, who had taken her hand, and who seemed inclined to keep

it.

"No, I am not weary. I will hear anything you wish to say." And Agatha

having withdrawn her hand, sat down, and again found herself in a

position to take advantage of Marie's good advice.

Adolphe remained silent for a minute or two, with his head supported on

his hand, and gazing on the lady of his love with a look that was

intended to fascinate her. Agatha sat perfectly still; she was evidently

mindful of the lesson she had received: at last, Adolphe started up from

his position, walked a step or two into the middle of the room, thrust

his right hand into his bosom; and said abruptly, "Agatha, this is

child's play; we are deceiving each other; we are deceiving ourselves;

we would appear to be calm when there is no calm within us."

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

you."

"And is your heart really so tranquil?" said he. "Does that fair bosom

control no emotion? Is that lovely face, so exquisitely pale, a true

index of the spirit within? Oh! Agatha! it cannot be; while my own heart

is so torn with love; while I feel my own pulses beat so strongly; while

my own brain burns so fiercely, I cannot believe that your bosom is a

stranger to all emotion! Some passion akin to humanity must make you

feel that you are not all divine! Speak, Agatha; if that lovely form has

within it ought that partakes of the weakness of a woman, tell me, that

at some future time you will accept the love I offer you; tell me, that

I may live in hope. Oh, Agatha! bid me not despair," and M. Denot in

bodily reality fell prostrate at her feet.

When Agatha had gone up to her room, she had prepared herself for a most

disagreeable interview, but she had not expected anything so really

dreadful as this. Adolphe had not contented himself with kneeling at her

feet on one knee, and keeping his head erect in the method usual in such

cases; but he had gone down upon both knees, had thrown his head upon

her feet, and was now embracing her shoes and stockings in a very

vehement manner; her legs were literally caught in a trap; she couldn't

move them; and Adolphe was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult to

make him hear anything.

"Adolphe, Adolphe, get up!" she almost screamed, "this is ridiculous in

the extreme; if you will not get up, I must really call for some one. I

cannot allow you to remain there!"

"Oh, Agatha, Agatha!" sobbed Adolphe.

"Nonsense, Adolphe," said Agatha. "Are you a man, to lie grovelling on

the floor like that? Rise up, or you will lose my esteem for ever, if

that be of any value to you."

"Give me one gleam of hope, and I will rise," said he, still remaining

on his knees, but now looking up into her face; "tell me not to despair,

and I will then accomplish any feat of manhood. Give me one look of

comfort, and I will again be the warrior ready for the battle; it is you

only who can give me back my courage; it is you only who can restore to

me the privilege of standing erect before all mankind."

"I can tell you nothing, Adolphe, but this--that, if you continue on

your knees, I shall despise you; if you will rise, I will give you at

any rate a reasonable answer."

"Despise me, Agatha! no, you cannot despise me; the unutterable burning

love of a true heart is not despicable; the character which I bear

before mankind is not despicable. Man is not despicable when he kneels

before the object which he worships; and, Agatha, with all my heart, I

worship you!"

"Now you are profane as well as contemptible, and I shall leave you,"

and she walked towards the door.

"Stay then," said he, "stay, and I will rise," and, suiting the action

to the word, he got up. "Now speak to me in earnest, Agatha; and, since

you will have it so, I also, if possible, will be calm. Speak to me;

but, unless you would have the misery of a disturbed spirit on your

conscience, bid me not despair!"

"Is that your calmness, Adolphe?"

"Can a man, rushing towards the brink of a precipice, be calm? Can a man

be calm on the verge of the grave? I love you, Agatha, with a true and

holy love; but still with a love fierce and untameable. You reviled me

when I said I worshipped you, but I adore the ground you tread on, and

the air you breathe. I would shed my last drop of blood to bring you

ease; but I could not live and see you give that fair hand to another.

My joy would be to remain ever as your slave; but then the heart that

beats beneath your bosom must be my own. Agatha, I await your answer;

one word from your lips can transport me to paradise!"

"If I am to understand that you are asking me for love--for a warmer

love than that which always accompanies true friendship--I am obliged

to say that I cannot give it you." Adolphe remained standing in the

middle of the room, with his hand still fixed in his bosom, and with a

look intended to represent both thunder and lightning. He had really

thought that the little scene which he had gone through, very much to

his own satisfaction, would have a strong effect on Agatha, and he was

somewhat staggered by the cool and positive tone of her reply. "It

grieves me that I should give you pain," she continued, "if my answer

does pain you; but I should never forgive myself, were I not to speak

the truth to you plainly, and at once."

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

"Certainly, my only answer; for I can give you no other. I know you will

be too kind, too sensible, to make it necessary that I should repeat

it."

"This is dreadful," said Denot, putting his hand to his brow, "this is

very dreadful!" and he commenced pacing up and down the room.

"Come," said she, good naturedly, "let us go down--let us forget this

little episode--you have so much of happiness, and of glory before you,

that I should grieve to see you mar your career by a hopeless passion.

Take the true advice of a devoted friend," and she put her hand kindly

on his arm, "let us both forget this morning's scene--let us only

remember our childhood's friendship; think, Adolphe, how much you have

to do for your King and your country, and do hot damp your glorious

exertion by fostering a silly passion. Am not I the same to you as a

sister? Wait till these wars are over, and then I will gather flowers

for you to present to some mistress who shall truly love you."

"No, Agatha, the flowers you gather for me shall never leave my own

bosom. If it be the myrtle, I will wear it with joy to my dying day,

next my heart: if it is to be a cyprus branch, it shall soon be laid

with me in the tomb."

"You will think less sadly in a short time," said Agatha; "your spirits

will recover their proper tone amid the excitement of battle. We had

better part now, Adolphe;" and she essayed to leave the room, but he was

now leaning against the door, and did not seem inclined to let her

depart so easily.

"You will not, I hope, begrudge me a few moments," said he, speaking

between his teeth.

"You may reject me with scorn, but you can hardly refuse me the courtesy

which any gentleman would have a right to expect from your hands."

"You know that I will refuse you nothing which, either in courtesy or

kindness, I can do for you," said she, again sitting down. He, however,

seeing her once more seated, did not appear much inclined to conclude

what he had to say to her, for he continued walking up and down the

room, in a rather disturbed manner; "but you should remember," she

added, "how soon Henri is going to leave me, and how much we have all

to think and to talk of."

"I see my presence is unwelcome, and it shall not trouble you long. I

would soon rid your eyes of my hated form, but I must first say a few

words, though my throat be choked with speaking them. My passion for you

is no idle boyish love; it has grown with my growth, and matured itself

with my manhood. I cannot now say to myself that it shall cease to be.

I cannot restore calmness to my heart or rest to my bosom. My love is

a fire which cannot now be quenched; it must be nourished, or it will

destroy the heart which is unable to restrain it. Think, Agatha, of all

the misery you are inflicting; think also of the celestial joy one word

of yours is capable of giving."

"I have said before that I grieve to pain you; but I cannot speak a

falsehood. Were it to save us both from instant death, I could not say

that I love you in the sense you mean."

"Oh, Agatha! I do not ask you to love me--that is not to love me now;

if you will only say that your heart is not for ever closed against my

prayers, I will leave you contented."

"I can say nothing which would give you any hope of that which can never

happen."

"And that is all I am to expect from you in return for as true a love

as man ever bore to woman?"

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

"Well, Agatha, so be it. You shall find now that I can be calm, when my

unalterable resolve requires it. You shall find that I am a man; at any

rate, you shall not again have to tell me that I am despicable," and he

curled his upper lip, and showed his teeth in a very ferocious manner.

"You shall never repeat that word in regard to Adolphe Denot. Should

kind fortune favour my now dearest wish, you will soon hear that my

bones are whitening under the walls of Saumur. You will hear that your

des-pi-ca-ble lover," and he hissed out the offending word, syllable by

syllable, between his closed teeth, "has perished in his attempt to be

the first to place the white flag of La Vendée above the tri-colour. If

some friendly bullet will send me to my quiet home, Adolphe Denot shall

trouble you no longer," and as he spoke the last few words, he softened

his voice, and re-assumed his sentimental look; but he did not remain

long in his quiet mood, for he again became furious, as he added: "But

if fortune should deny me this boon, if I cannot find the death I go to

seek, I swear by your own surpassing beauty, by your glorious unequalled

form, that I will not live without you. Death shall be welcome to me,"

and he raised his hands to heaven, and then dashed them against his

breast. "Oh! how dearly welcome! Yes, heroic death upon the battlefield

shall calm this beating heart--shall quell these agonized pangs. Yes,

Agatha, if fortune be but kind, death, cold death, shall soon relieve

us both; shall leave you free to bestow upon a colder suitor the prize

you have refused to my hot, impatient love; but if," (and here he

glanced very wildly round him), "my prayers are not heard, if after

Saumur's field, life be still left within my body's sanctuary, I will

return to seize you as my own, though hosts in armour try to stop my

way. I will not live without you. I will not endure to see another man

aspire to the hand which has been refused to me. Adieu, Agatha, adieu!

I trust we shall meet no more; in thinking of me, at any rate, your

memory shall not call me despicable," and he rushed out of the door and

down stairs, without waiting to hear whether Agatha intended making any

answer to this poetical expression of his fixed resolution.

In the commencement of his final harangue, Agatha had determined to hear

him quietly to the end; but she had not expected anything so very mad

as the exhibition he made. However, she sat quietly through the whole

of it, and was glad that she was spared the necessity of a reply.

Nothing more was seen of Adolphe Denot that night. Henri asked his

sister whether she had seen him, and she told him that he had made a

declaration of love to her, and had expressed himself ill-satisfied with

the only answer she had been able to give him. She did not tell her

brother how like a demoniac his friend had behaved. To Marie she was

more explicit; to her she repeated as nearly as possible the whole scene

as it had occurred; and although Agatha was almost weeping with sorrow,

there was so much that was ludicrous in the affair, that Marie could not

keep herself from laughing.

"He will trouble you no more," said she. "You will find that he will not

return to Durbellière to carry you off through the armed hosts. He will

go to England or emigrate; and in a few years' time, when you meet him

again, you will find him settled down, and as quiet as his neighbours.

He is like new-made wine, my dear--he only wants age."

On the following morning, by break of day, the party left Durbellière,

and Adolphe Denot joined his friend on the gravelled ring before the

house; and Agatha, who had been with her brother in his room, looking

from the widow saw her unmanageable lover mount his horse in a quiet,

decent way, like the rest of the party.

CHAPTER IX.

LE MOUCHOIR ROUGE.

Nothing interfered to oppose the advance of the royalist troops towards

Saumur. At Coron, as had been proposed, Larochejaquelin and Denot joined

Father Jerome; and Cathelineau also, and M. d'Elbée joined them there.

Every house in the town was open to them, and the provisions, which by

the care of M. de Larochejaquelin had been sent there, were almost

unneeded. If there was any remnant of republican feeling in Coron, at

any rate it did not dare to shew itself. The road which the royalists

intended to take ran from Cholet, through Coron, Vihiers, and Doué, to

Saumur. The republicans, who were now in great force at Saumur, under

Generals Coustard and Quetineau, had sent small parties of soldiers into

the town of Vihiers and Doué, the inhabitants of which were mostly

republican. Before the arrival of M. de Larochejaquelin, the blues, as

the republican troops were called by the Vendeans, had been driven out

of Vihiers by a party of royalists under the direction of Stofflet, who

had raised himself to distinction soon after the commencement of the

revolt. This man was a gamekeeper in the employment of an emigrant

nobleman, and though he was a rough, harsh, uneducated, quarrelsome man,

nevertheless, by his zeal and courage, he had acquired great influence

among the people, and was now at the head of a numerous, and, for La

Vendée, well-armed body of men.

Our friends accordingly found the road open for them as far as Doué.

After their junction with Stofflet, their army amounted to about 7,500

men; and at Done they were to meet M. Bonchamps and M. de Lescure, who,

it was supposed, would bring with them as many more. They marched out

of Vihiers early on the Tuesday morning, having remained there only

about a couple of hours, and before nightfall they saw the spire of Doué

church. They then rested, intending to force their way into the town

early on the following morning; but they had barely commenced their

preparations for the evening, when a party of royalists came out to them

from the town, inviting them in. M. de Lescure and M. Bonchamps were

already there. The republican soldiers had been attacked and utterly

routed; most of them were now prisoners in the town; those who had

escaped had retreated to Saumur, and even they had left their arms

behind them.

All this good fortune greatly inspirited the Vendeans. The men talked

with the utmost certainty of what they would do when they were masters

of Saumur. Cathelineau had brought with him the celebrated cannon of St.

Florent, 'Marie Jeanne,' and she now stood in the market place of Done,

covered with ribbons and flowers. Many of the men had never hitherto

seen this wonderful piece of artillery, and they hastened to look at it.

'Marie Jeanne' that night was patted, kissed, and caressed by thousands.

Cathelineau was equally the object of their admiration; every peasant

who had not yet seen him, hurried to gaze on him; and after his arrival

in Doué, he was two hours employed in a military operation, hitherto

undertaken, I believe, by no other general: he was endeavouring to shake

hands with every man in the army. Chapeau here was again of great use,

for he stood at Cathelineau's elbow, and hurried the men away as soon

as they touched his hand. But for this precaution, the work could never

have been done; and as it was, some of the men were discontented, and

declared their intention of returning home, for Cathelineau was called

away before he had completed his task: he was obliged to go to the Town

Hall to attend a council that was held there of the different Vendean

chiefs.

The arms which they had taken in Vihiers and Doué, were of the greatest

use to them; in both places they had found a cannon; they had taken nine

or ten from Fontenay, and others from Thouars. Most of the men among

them now had muskets, and they were able to take to Saumur with them

twenty-four pieces of heavy artillery. What could the infamous blues

expect to do against a force so numerous, so well armed, and so well

officered!

That evening a council of war was held by the different chiefs of the

Vendeans in the Town Hall of Doué. Lescure, Larochejaquelin,

Cathelineau, d'Elbée, and Stofflet were there. M. Bonchamps, who had

been very severely wounded at Fontenay, but who had insisted on being

carried along with his own men, was brought in on a litter. Father

Jerome was there, and another priest who had come with M. Bonchamps.

There were a couple of old royalist noblemen, not sufficiently active to

take a part in the actual fighting, but sufficiently zealous in the

cause to leave their homes for the purpose of giving the young

commanders the benefit of their experience. Foret also, Cathelineau's

friend, was present, and Adolphe Denot: indeed many others, from time to

time, crowded into the room, for the door was not well kept, nor were

the councils of the generals in any way a secret. Jacques Chapeau, as a

matter of course, managed to make his way into the room, and took upon

himself the duties of doorkeeper.

The Mayor's arm-chair stood at the head of the table, as the leaders

dropped into the room one after another, but no one appeared willing to

occupy it. Hitherto there had been no chief among the Vendeans; this was

the first meeting which had been held with anything approaching to the

solemnity of a general assembly, and it occurred to each of them that

whoever should then seat himself in the Mayor's chair, would be assuming

that he was the chief leader of the revolt.

"Come, M. de Lescure," said Stofflet, "we have much to do, and but

little time; let us make the most of it: do you take the President's

seat. Gentlemen, I am sure we could have no better President than M. de

Lescure?"

They all agreed, with the exception of the chosen leader. "By no means,"

said he. "I was the last here who joined the cause, and I certainly will

not place myself first among those who have led the way in the work we

have taken up. No; here is the man who shall be our President." And as

he spoke he caught hold of Cathelineau, who was immediately behind him,

and absolutely forced him into the chair.

"Indeed, indeed, M. de Lescure--" said Cathelineau, endeavouring to

extricate himself from the seat; but both his voice and his exertions

were stopped, for three or four of them united to hold him where he was,

and declared that he should be the President for the evening.

"Indeed, and indeed you will not stir," said Henri, who stood behind his

chair, and placed his hands heavily on the postillion's shoulders.

"It was you that brought us here," said de Lescure, "and you must not

now avoid the responsibility."

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

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

Cathelineau."

"You must do it, Cathelineau;" whispered his friend Foret; "the peasants

would not endure to see any man put above you."

"Cathelineau will not shrink from the burden which the Lord has called

upon him to bear," said Father Jerome.

"Providence," said d'Elbée, "has summoned the good Cathelineau to this

high duty; he will not, I am sure, oppose its decrees."

And thus Cathelineau found himself seated in the Mayor's chair at the

head of the table, whilst the highest noblemen and gentry of the country

took their places around it, and from that moment Cathelineau became the

General-in-Chief of the Vendeans.

Each leader then gave in the numbers of the men who had come with him,

and it was found that the army consisted of above fifteen thousand men.

Lists were then made out of the arms and accoutrements which they

possessed, and the men in a rude way were drafted into regiments under

the command of the leaders who had brought them. There was a small body

of cavalry equipped in most various manners, and mounted on horses,

which resembled anything rather than a regular squadron of troopers:

these were under the immediate command of Henri Larochejaquelin.

"Gentlemen," said Cathelineau, "we have, you know, three different

attacks to make, three positions to carry, before we can be masters of

Saumur."

"Yes," said Bonchamps, "there in the camp at Varin on the right, and the

redoubts of Bournan on the left; the fortifications of the town itself

lie between them, and a little to the rear of both."

"Exactly, M. Bonchamps; the town itself, I take, is the easiest task of

the three; but as we are situated it must be the last."

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

Lescure.

"M. de Lescure is right," said Cathelineau. "We shall find them very

strong in their camp. I had with me, yesterday, two men from Saumur;

they knew nothing of General Quetineau's intentions, but they had seen

detachments of men constantly going to and fro between Saumur and the

camp; they calculate that we shall think that the weaker side."

"Bournan is right on our way," said Bonchamps; "but the ground lies so

advantageously for them, that they will cut us to pieces if we attempt

to push our way up the hill against the heavy artillery they will have

there."

"M. Bonchamps is quite right there," said Cathelineau. "I think we

should not attack Bournan, till we can do so from the side of the town.

I think Bournan should not be our first object; but nevertheless, we

must be prepared to meet at Varin the great body of the army; we must

drive them from thence back into the town."

"Yes," said Henri, "and follow them in, as we are driving them. The

sight of their comrades in disorder will itself conquer the men in the

citadel; it is always so with the blues."

"We must remember, Henri," said de Lescure, "these are not conscripts,

nor yet merely the Marsellaise, we have to deal with: the men who fought

at Jemappes and at Valmy are here; the old cuirassiers of the French

army."

"They are cowards, Charles," said Henri, "or they would not have

deserted their King."

"They are good soldiers, nevertheless," said Bonchamps. "I have fought

among them, and know it."

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

"Providence can give us the victory over tried veterans as well as over

untried conscripts; it were a sin to doubt it," said M. d'Elbée.

"That would be a good subject for a sermon to the soldiers, but a bad

argument in a council chamber," said Bonchamps. "We shall find the

cuirassiers tough fellows to deal with."

"We must take our enemies as we find them," said Cathelineau; "but if

you will allow me, gentlemen, and as you have placed me here, I will

tell you what I would propose?'

"Do, Cathelineau, do!" said Henri; "let us have one plan, and then make

the best we can of it; we can at any rate do our duty like men."

"I think we should leave this early tomorrow morning, and move across

the country as though we were going to Montreuil; we shall so come on

the Montreuil road about a league from Saumur, and not very far, that

is about half a league, from the camp at Varin."

"And then, Cathelineau, will you attack the camp tomorrow evening?" said

de Lescure.

"I think not, M. de Lescure; but I would make a feint to do so, and I

would thus keep the republicans on the alert all night; a small body of

our men may, I think, in that way fatigue the masses of the republicans

in the camp--we might harass them the whole night, which will be dark

from eleven till near three; and then with the earliest sunrise our real

attack should be made."

"Bravo, Cathelineau!" said Henri; "and then fall on them when they are

in want of sleep."

"Yes," said de Lescure, "and they will have learnt to think that our

attacks in that quarter are only feints."

"Such may be our good luck, M. de Lescure; at any rate, if you think of

nothing better, we may try it."

It was thus decided, and arranged that Larochejquelin should, on the

following evening, leave the main body of the army with all the mounted

men belonging to it, and advance near enough to the camp at Varin to

allow of his being seen and heard by the republicans, and that he should

almost immediately retreat: that a body of infantry should then move on,

and take up a position near to the camp, which should also return after

a while, and that as soon as darkness had come on, a third advance

should be made by a larger body of men, who should, if possible,

approach within musket shot o the trenches, and endeavour to throw the

republicans into disorder. At four o'clock in the morning, the real

attack was to be made by the combined Vendean forces, of which

Cathelineau was to lead the centre, de Lescure the left, consisting of

the men brought by himself and Larochejaquelin from the centre of the

Bocage; and d'Elbée the right, which was formed of men chiefly brought

by M. Bonchamps from the province of Anjou. M. Bonchamps was himself too

ill from the effects of his wounds to accompany the army beyond Doué.

Early on the following morning the whole army, with the exception of the

men left with Foret, defiled out of Doué, and crossed over to the

Montreuil road, dragging with them their cannons, baggage-waggons, and

ammunition; their movements were not made with very great order, nor

with much celerity; but, about six o'clock in the evening, on the 10th

of June, Cathelineau took up his position about a league from Saumur.

They got possession of one or two farm-houses, and were not long in

making their arrangements for the night; the men were accustomed to

sleep out in the open air since the war commenced, and were well content

to remain in clusters round the cannons and the waggons.

At eight o'clock, Larochejaquelin had his little troop of cavalry ready

mounted, and started with them for the camp of Varin. As he and his

companions dashed along through the waggons and by the cannons the

peasants who were preparing to lay down for the night, and who knew

nothing of the plans of their Generals, rose up one after another

wondering.

"There goes 'le Mouchoir Rouge,'" said one, alluding to Henri's costume;

for when in action he always wore a red handkerchief round his waist,

and another round his neck.

"Yes; that is 'le Mouchoir Rouge,'" said another, "he is off for Saumur;

the horsemen are already starting for Saumur."

"Come, then; they shall not go alone," said another. "We will start for

Saumur. We will not lie here while others are in the battle."

These were men from the neighbourhood of Durbellière, who were now

placed under the orders of M. de Lescure; but who conceived that, as

their lord and master was gone before them, it must be their duty to

follow. The word was passed from one to another, and the whole body of

them was soon in motion. It must be remembered that they were, in no

respect, similar to disciplined troops; they had received no military

instruction, and did not therefore, know, that they were doing wrong in

following their own master; they were in receipt of no pay; amenable to

no authority, and consequently afraid of no penalties; their only idea

was to do the best they could for the cause, to fight with courage and

perseverance, and to trust to God for the result: it was not, therefore,

wondering that, in the present instance, they so completely mistook

their duty.

Cathelineau's men, who were intended to form the centre of the attack

on the next morning, were placed just to the right of the road, but

their baggage and cannons had not been moved from it; in fact, they were

nearly mixed with M. de Lescure's men; whereas M. d'Elbée's portion of

the army was removed a good deal further to the right, and was placed

immediately on the banks of the river Thoué. The camp at Varin, which

was to be attacked, was situated between the river and the road to

Saumur. In Cathelineau's division there were some few who understood the

plan which had been decided on, and some others who knew that they

should not move without orders, and they did what they could to prevent

their companions from joining the rush made by M. de Lescure's party;

but their efforts were nearly in vain. Every man learnt in the confusion

that the attack was to be made on Saumur that night, and no man wished

to be left behind.

"Come friends, let us follow 'le Mouchoir Rouge;' he never meant, I am

sure, to leave us here," said the spokesman of one party.

"The Saint of Angers is on before us," said the others; "he would let

no man see the enemy before himself. The good Cathelineau is gone to

Saumur, let us follow him!"

In this way they soon learnt to believe that both Cathelineau and

Larochejaquelin were on before them, and they were not long in hurrying

after them. Within twenty minutes, about six thousand men started off

without a leader or any defined object, to besiege the walls of Saumur;

they did not even know that a vast entrenched encampment of the enemy's

troops lay directly in their way. The men had, most of them, muskets

with three or four rounds of powder and ball each; many of them also had

bayonets. They were better armed than they had hitherto ever been, and

they consequently conceived themselves invincible. Cathelineau's men,

however, would not stir without 'Marie Jeanne,' and that devoted,

hard-worked cannon was seized by scores, and hurried off with them

towards Saumur.

De Lescure and Cathelineau were together in a farm-house, within five

hundred yards of the place where the baggage had been left, and within

half a mile of the most distant of the men who had thus taken upon

themselves to march, or rather to rush, away without orders; and some

of those who still had their senses about them, soon let their Generals

know what was going forward.

They were seated together, planning the attack for the next morning.

Denot was with Larochejaquelin, and d'Elbée and Stofflet were together

with the detachment on the banks of the river: they were, therefore,

alone when Father Jerome rushed into the room.

"The men are off, M. de Lescure," said he: "do you not hear them? For

Heaven's sake go down to them, Cathelineau; some one has told them that

you and Larochejaquelin were gone to Saumur; and they are all preparing

to follow you."

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

"Unless you stop them they will," said Father Jerome, "they will all

fall upon the camp just as the republicans are under arms, and prepared

to receive them. Hurry, Cathelineau; you alone can stop them."

Cathelineau without uttering a word, seized his sword, and rushed out

of the room without his cap; and followed by M. de Lescure, hurried

through the farm-yard, leapt a little gate, and got upon the road a few

yards from the place where the waggons had been left. The whole place

was in the utmost confusion: the men were hurrying to and fro, hardly

knowing what they were doing or going to do: the most ardent of them

were already a quarter of a mile advanced on the road to Saumur; others

were still following them; those who knew that they should have stayed

quiet during the night, were in the utmost distress; they did not know

whether to support their comrades, or to remain where they were.

"'What ails them, Peter?" said Cathelineau, catching hold of the arm of

a man who had followed him from St. Florent, "if they advance they will

be destroyed at Varin;" and as he spoke, he leapt upon the top of one

of the waggons laden with provisions, which had come from Durbellière.

It was a beautiful warm evening in June, and the air was heavy with the

sweet scent of the flowering hedges; it was now nearly nine o'clock, and

the sun had set; but the whole western horizon was gorgeous with the

crimson streaks which accompanied its setting. Standing in the waggon,

Cathelineau could see the crowds of hurrying royalists rushing along the

road, wherever the thick foliage of trees was sufficiently broken to

leave any portion of it visible, and he could hear the eager hum of

their voices both near him and at a distance.

"No power on earth could bring them back," said he. "Now, Peter, run to

the stable for your life; my horse is there and M. de Lescure's--bring

them both. They are both saddled. Run my friend; a moment lost now will

cost a hundred lives."

It was Peter Berrier to whom he spoke, and in spite of his evil

treatment at Durbellière, Peter ran for the horses, as though he was

running for the King's crown.

"It is impossible to stop them," said Cathelineau, still standing on the

waggon, and speaking to de Lescure, whom he had outran. "All La Vendée

could not stop them; but we may head them, M. de Lescure, and lead them

on; we must attack the camp tonight."

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

"It will, it will be terrible, and we shall be repulsed; but that will

be better than letting them rush into positive destruction. In an hour's

time they will be between the camp, the town, and the heights of

Bournan, and nothing then could save them."

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

"Yes; but do not desire him to follow us. In two hours time he will have

enough to do to cover our retreat."

"We shall, at any rate, have the darkness in our favour," said de

Lescure.

"We shall; but we have two dreadful hours of light before that time

comes: here are our horses--let us mount; there is nothing for us now

but a hard ride, a good drubbing--and then, the best face we can put

upon it tomorrow."

Orders were then given to Peter Berrier to make the best of his way

across to M. d'Elbée, and to explain to him what had occurred, and bid

him keep his men in reserve under arms, and as near to the waggons as

he could. "And be sure," said Catheineau, "be sure, Peter, to make him

understand, that he is at once to leave the river and come across to the

road, to keep his men, you know, immediately close to the waggons."

"I understand," said Peter, "I understand," and he at once started off

on his important errand.

"It is a bad messenger, I fear," said Cathelineau; "but we have no

better; indeed we are lucky even to find him."

"I wonder," said Peter Berrier to himself, as he ran across the fields,

"I wonder whether they'll make nothing of this job, too, as they did of

that day at St. Florent. I suppose they will; some men haven't the luck

ever to be thought much of."

Notwithstanding his gloomy presentiments, Peter made the best of his way

to M. d'Elbée, and having found him, told him how the men had started

by themselves for Saumur; how de Lescure and Cathelineau had followed

them; how they intended to attack the camp at Varin that night, and he

ended by saying, "And you, M. d'Elbe--"

"Of course we must follow them," said d'Elbée.

"Not a foot," said Peter; "that is just why they sent me, instead of any

common messenger; that I might explain it all to you properly. You are

not to stir a foot after them; but are to remain here, just where you

are, till they return."

"That is impossible," said d'Elbée. "What good on earth can I do,

remaining here?"

"Why, Cathelineau will know where to find you, when he wants you."

"You are mistaken, Peter Berrier," said d'Elbée. "You must be mistaken.

Perhaps he meant that I should go over to the road, to cover their

retreat. God knows they will want some one to do so."

"That is just it," said Peter. "They mean to retreat down the river, and

you are to remain just where you are."

As might be expected, M. d'Elbée was completely puzzled, and he sent off

three or four men, to endeavour to get fresh orders, either from

Cathelineau or from de Lescure; and while waiting to receive them, he

kept his useless position by the river side.

In the mean time, Cathelineau and de Lescure had hurried off, at the top

of their horses' speed, to endeavour to head the column of madmen who

were rushing towards almost certain destruction. They will, at any rate,

meet Larochejaquelin on his return, and he will stop them. This thought

occurred to both of them, but neither of them spoke; indeed, they were

moving too quickly, and with too much trouble to be able to speak. There

object now was not to stop the men who thronged the roads; they only

wanted to head them before they came to the portion of the road which

passed close by the trenches of the camp at Varin.

They were so far successful, that they found themselves nearly at the

head of the column by the time they came within sight of the great banks

which the royalists had thrown up. It was still light enough for them

to see the arms of the republican troops, and they were near enough to

the camp to hear the movements of the men within it, in spite of the

increasing noise of their own troops.

"They are ready to receive us," said de Lescure to himself, "and a warm

reception they are likely to give us."

He now separated himself from Cathelineau, and galloped before the

trenches to an open space where Larochejaquelin had stationed himself

with the cavalry. Henri had completely surprised the sentinels on duty

in the camps; he and about twenty others had dismounted, had shot four

or five sentries at their post, and had again retreated to their horses

before the republicans were able to return his fire. But what was his

surprise on preparing to remount his horse, to hear the rush of his own

men coming along the road, and to see the cloud of dust which enveloped

them. Henri tried to speak to them, and to learn what new plan brought

them there; but the foremost men were too much out of breath to speak

to him: however, they shouted and hurraed at seeing him, and slackened

their pace a little. They were then almost within musket shot of the

republicans, and the balls from the trenches began to drop very near

them. Henri was still in an agony of suspense, not knowing what to do

or to propose, when de Lescure emerged from out of the cloud of dust,

and galloped up to him.

"What on earth has brought you here, Charles?" said Henri. "Why have the

men come on in this way? Every man within the camp will have a musket

in his hand in five minutes time."

"It is too late now to help it," said de Lescure; "if we both live over

this night, I will explain it to you. Cathelineau is behind there; we

must lead the men to the attack; he will be in the trenches

immediately."

"Lead on," said Henri, jumping off his horse, "or rather I will go

first; but stop, the men must have five minutes to get their breath;

they are all choked with running. Come, my men," said he, turning to the

crowds who were clustering round them, "we will disturb the dreams of

these republicans; the blues are not fond of fighting by night, but if

they are asleep I think we will soon wake them," and accompanied by his

friend, he rushed down into the trenches, and the men followed him by

hundreds, covered with dust, choked with thirst, breathless with their

long run, and utterly ignorant what they were going to do, or how they

were to find an entrance into the camp.

At the same moment, Cathelineau leapt into the trench at the point

nearest to the road by which he had come, and his men followed him

enthusiastically, shouting at the top of their voices "Vive le roi!" "A

bas la république." Hitherto they had been successful in every effort

they had made. The republican troops had fled from every point which had

been attacked; the Vendeans had, as yet, met no disasters, and they

thought themselves, by the special favour of the Almighty, invincible

when fighting against the enemies of the King.

The camp at Varin was not a regularly fortified position; but it was

surrounded by a deep trench, with steep earth-works thrown up inside it.

These were high enough to afford great protection to those within, and

steep enough to offer a considerable obstacle to any attacking party:

but the earth was still soft, and the foremost among the Vendeans were

not long in finding themselves within the entrenchment; but when there

they met a terribly hot reception.

The feigned attack made by Larochejaquelin had just served to warn the

republicans, and by the time the real attack was made, every man was

under arms. As de Lescure had said, the old soldiers of Valmy and of

Jemappes were there. Men accustomed to arms, who well knew the smell of

powder, and who were prepared to contest every inch of ground before

they gave it up. These men, too, wore defensive armour, and the

Vendeans, unaccustomed to meet enemies so well prepared, were dismayed,

when they perceived that their enemies did not as usual give way before

them.

The slaughter in the trenches was tremendous: the first attack had been

made with great spirit, and about four hundred of the Vendeans were in

the camp before the murderous fire of the republicans commenced, among

these were de Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Cathelineau; and they made

their way even to the centre of the camp; but those who had not made a

portion of the first assault, fell back by twenties and thirties under

the fire of the republicans; twice Larochejaquelin returned and nearly

cleared the top of the trenches, in order to make way for the men below

to come up; but they were frightened and intimidated; their powder was

all gone, and they perceived that their first attempt had failed; their

friends and comrades were falling on every side of them; and, after a

while, they retreated from the trenches beyond reach of musket shot.

Cathelineau had expected that this would be the case, and though he had

been one of the first within the camp, he was prepared to leave it again

as soon as he could make the men, who were with him, understand that it

was necessary they should do so. It was now dusk, and the uncertain

light favoured his intention.

"'Where is your master?" said he to Jacques, whom he chanced to find

close to him; "tell him to lead his men down the trenches again, back

to the road, at once, at once; beg him to be the first to leap down

himself; they will not go unless he leads them."

Jacques did as he was bid, and Larochejaquelin led the men back to the

trenches.

"Come, my friends," said he, "we have given them enough for tonight--we

have broken their sleep; come, we will visit them again tomorrow." And

he dashed through a body of republicans who were now firing from the

trenches, and about one hundred of his own men followed him.

The republicans had stuck huge pine-wood torches into the green sods

a-top of the trenches, which gave a ghastly glaring light immediately

in their own vicinity, though they did not relieve the darkness at a few

paces distant. As Henri rushed through them, some of the soldiers

observed his peculiar costume and hallaoed out, "fire upon the red

scarf," (tirez sur le mouchoir rouge,) but the confusion was too great

to allow of this friendly piece of advice being followed, or else the

musketeers were bad marksmen, for Henri went safely through the trench,

though many of his men were wounded in following him.

Cathelineau's men soon followed, as did also Cathelineau himself; the

last man who leapt into the trenches was de Lescure; but he also got

safely through them--not above twenty-five or thirty of those who had

forced their way into the camp, fell; but above three hundred of those

who had only attempted it, were left dead or wounded in the trenches.

And now the retreat commenced, and Cathelineau found it impossible to

accomplish it with anything like order; the three leaders endeavoured

to make the men conceive that they had been entirely successful in all

which it had been thought desirable to accomplish, but they had seen too

much bloodshed to be deceived--they were completely dismayed and

disheartened, and returned back towards Montreuil, almost quicker than

they had come.

The men had brought 'Marie Jeanne' with them; but in the species of

attack which they had made, the cannon was not of the slightest use; it

had not been once discharged. A great effort was now made to take it

back with them, but the attempt was unsuccessful: they had not dragged

it above five hundred yards, when they heard that the republicans were

following them; and then, as every man was obliged to think of himself,

poor 'Marie Jeanne' was left to her fate.

It was soon evident to Cathelineau and de Lescure, that they were

pursued; but the night was dark, and they calculated that M. d'Elbée's

men would be drawn up at the waggons; it was more than probable that

they would then be able, not only to stop the pursuit, but to avenge

themselves on their pursuers. What then was their surprise on reaching

the waggons, to find them utterly deserted--there was not a single man

with them.

This was a great aggravation to the misery of their predicament. They

had no resource but to fly on to Montreuil, which was still above two

leagues distant from them; and should the republican troops persevere

in the pursuit, their loss upon the road would be terrific. The darkness

was their only friend, and on they went towards Montreuil.

The republican soldiers were stopped by the waggons and cannons; it was

then as dark as a night in June ever is; it was well known also that the

Republic had no friends in Montreull; the troops had been driven from

the place by M. de Lescure, on his road to Doué, and the royalists would

be able to make a very strong stand in the streets of the town; the

pursuit was, therefore, given up, and the blues returned to the camp at

Varin, with all the artillery and the baggage belonging to the

royalists.

M. d'Elbée remained all the while in his position by the river; he heard

the firing--he also heard the confused noise of the retreat, but he felt

that it was impossible for him, at that hour of night, to take any steps

without knowing what had been done, or what he had better do: at about

four in the morning, he learnt exactly what had occurred, and then he

rejoined Cathelineau at Montreuil.

The Vendeans, during the night, lost every cannon they possessed; all

their baggage, consisting of provisions, wearing apparel, and

ammunition; they lost also about five hundred men, in killed, wounded

and prisoners; but all this was not of so much injury as the loss of the

prestige of victory. The peasants had conceived themselves invincible,

and they were struck with consternation to find they were liable to

repulse and defeat. Early on the following morning, another council of

war was held, but the spirits and hopes of the Generals had been greatly

damped.

CHAPTER X.

THE BISHOP OF AGRA.

On this occasion the meeting of the leaders was kept strictly secret;

none were admitted but those who were known to be the chosen chiefs of

the Vendeans; it consisted of Cathelineau, de Lescure, Larochejaquelin,

d'Elbée, Stofflet, and Father Jerome. They had been closeted together

about an hour and a half, when Father Jerome left the room, and rode off

towards Thouars, on the best horse which could be found for him; no one

seemed to know where or for what he was going, though much anxiety was

expressed on the subject. Those who knew him, were well aware that he

was not about to desert the cause in its first reverse. In the meantime,

the Generals tried to reassure the men. Cathelineau explained to them

that they had brought on themselves the evils which they now suffered

by their absurd attempt to act without orders; and de Lescure and

Larochejaquelin endeavoured to rouse their energies by pointing out to

them the necessity of recovering their favourite cannon.

"Ah! M. Henri," said one of the men from Durbellière, "how can we get

her again when we have lost our guns, and have got no powder?"

"How!" said Henri, "with your sticks and your hands, my friends--as your

neighbours in St. Florent took her, at first, from the blues; we all

think much of the men of St. Florent, because it was they first took

'Marie Jeanne;' let us be the men who rescue her from these traitors,

and these people will think much of us."

About two o'clock in the day a closed carriage was driven into Montreuil

very fast, by the road from Thouars; the blinds were kept so completely

down, that no one could see who was within it; it was driven up to the

door of the house in which the council had been held; the doors of the

carriage and of the house were opened, and two persons alighted and ran

into the house so quickly that their persons could hardly be recognized,

even by those who were looking at them.

"That last is Father Jerome, at any rate," said a townsman.

"Who on earth had he with him?" said another; "he must be some giant,"

said a third, "did you see how he stooped going into the door."

"A giant, stupid;" said a fourth, "how could a giant get out of such a

carriage as that; besides, where could Father Jerome find giants in

these days."

"Well, I don't know," said the other, "but I am sure he was eight feet

high; didn't you see his back as he ran into the house."

Soon after the mysterious entry into the house, Henri left it, and went

out to the fields beyond the town, where most of the men were still

resting after the long fatigue of the night; much discontentment had

been expressed by them, and many had already declared their intention

of returning home. Every measure had been taken to comfort them; they

had been supplied with provisions and tobacco from the town, and every

effort had been used to renew their hopes and courage. Cathelineau had

passed the greater portion of the morning among them, going from one

quarter to another, assuring the men that their loss was most trifling,

that their future victory was certain--it was nearly in vain; they

declared that they could do nothing without 'Marie Jeanne.'

Henri now went among them, and as he did so, Jacques Chapeau proceeded

through the town, imploring all the men who were in it, to go out and

join the rest of the army, as a holy man had been sent direct from Rome

by the Pope, to tell the people of La Vendée what it was their duty to

do.

Henri did not say quite so much as this, but he told the men that a

friend of theirs--a bishop of the Church--one especially appointed by

the King before he died, to provide for the spiritual comfort of his

poor people in the west of France, was now among them, and would soon

address them. He directed them to stay where they were till this man of

God should be among them, and he besought them strictly to follow any

advice which he might give them.

Every one in the town flocked out to the army--men, women and children

were soon in the fields, and the report was spread abroad through them

all, that the mysterious carriage which had rattled through the streets

of Montreuil, had brought to that favoured town a holy bishop, sent

expressly by their father the Pope to give good advice to his dear

children in La Vendée.

About four o'clock in the afternoon the stranger walked among them.

Father Jerome walked on his right hand, and Cathelineau on his left. M.

de Lescure followed immediately behind them. He was a very tall

man--nearly seven feet high; and his peculiar costume added in

appearance to his real height--he was dressed in the gorgeous robes of

a bishop of the Church of Rome as he would appear at the altar of his

cathedral when about to celebrate high mass; he had his mitre on his

head and his crozier in his hand; and as he walked through the crowd,

the men and women everywhere kneeled down and bowed their heads to the

earth; the people were delighted to have so holy a man among them--to

see a bishop in La Vendée. The bells were all rung, and every sign of

joy was shewn; the peasants were already beginning to forget their

defeat of the previous night.

As he walked through the kneeling crowd, he stood still a moment or two,

from time to time, and blessed the people; his voice was full and deep,

but very musical; his face was supremely handsome, but devoid of all

traces of passion. As he lifted his hands to heaven, and implored the

Almighty to protect the righteous arms of his poor children in La

Vendée, he certainly looked every inch a bishop; the peasants

congregated round him, and kissed his garments--if they could even touch

the shoes on his feet, they thought themselves happy.

It took the little procession two hours to move in this way through the

whole of the army, during which time the bishop's companions did not

speak a word; they merely moved on, with their eyes turned towards the

ground. At length they reached a temporary altar, standing on a platform

raised five steps above the ground, which had been erected under the

care of M. d'Elbe since the arrival of the bishop in Montreuil. Here

were collected M. d'Elbée, Stofflet, Larochejaquelin, Adolphe Denot, and

the other principal leaders of the army, and as the little procession

drew near, they knelt upon the top step of the platform, and

Cathelineau, de Lescure and Father Jerome knelt with them. The bishop

then blessed them each separately, commencing with Cathelineau; he

placed his crozier on the altar, and putting both his hands on the head

of the kneeling General, he said in a loud and solemn voice:

"May the Lord bless you, my son! may he enable you to direct the arms

of his faithful people, so as to show forth His glory, and magnify His

name; may he help your endeavours to restore to a suffering people their

Church and their King; may His dear Son preserve you in danger, comfort

you in affliction, be near you in the hour of death, and reward you in

heaven." He then went round to them all, and blessed them each, though

in a somewhat shorter form; and, at last, standing on the top step, in

the front of the whole army, so that every one could see him, he uttered

a general benediction on the people, and a prayer for their success; and

while he did so, boys dressed in surplices made their way through the

crowd, swinging censers filled with burning frankincense, and loading

the air with that peculiar scent, which always fills the mind with

devotional ideas.

As soon as this was over, and the people had risen from their knees,

Cathelineau spoke to them, and told them that the Bishop of Agra had

been especially appointed by their King to watch over and protect their

spiritual interest; that Monseigneur had heard with great grief of the

misfortune which had happened to them the preceding evening, and that

he would now tell them how, with God's assistance, they might hope in

future to avoid such calamities.

The bishop then addressed them, and said:

"My children, I rejoice that Providence has given me the privilege of

seeing so many of you collected here today. You have been brought

together for a great and holy purpose; the enemies of the Almighty God

are in your country--enemies who can never prevail to the breath of one

hair against His omnipotence; but who may, and who will prevail to the

destruction of your families here, and the perdition of your souls

hereafter, if you fail in performing the duties which are before you.

You are now called, my children--called especially from on high, to

deliver your land from these enemies; to go out to the battle, and to

fight in God's name, till you have restored the King to his throne, and

your pastors to their churches; and I rejoice to learn that you have so

readily undertaken the task which is before you. Till yesterday your

success was most wonderful; your career has been glorious. You

unhesitatingly obeyed the leaders who commanded you, and they led you

from one victory to another: but yesterday you were beaten

back--yesterday evening, for the first time, you found your enemy too

strong for you; they did not fall beneath your bullets; they did not

feel your swords! Why was this, my children? Why was it that on

yesterday evening the protecting hand of heaven was withdrawn from you?"

Here the bishop paused in his address, as though expecting a reply, and

then, after waiting a minute, during which the whole army remained in

most perfect quiet, answered the question himself "Because, my children,

you yesterday followed no accustomed leader; you obeyed no order; you

went out to the battle with self-proud hearts, and a vain confidence in

yourselves, rather than in the Almighty. It is not by such efforts as

that, that the chosen soldiers of La Vendée can expect to conquer the

enemies of France. You were vain in your own conceits; you trusted in

your own strength; you were puffed up with worldly glory: and your

strength has proved weakness, and your glory has been turned to

disgrace. I trust, my children, you will not require another such a

lesson; I trust you will not again forget your God and your Saviour, as

you did on yesterday evening. Tomorrow morning the General, under whom

the hand of Providence has placed you, the good Cathelineau, shall again

lead you against your enemies; and, if you confidently trust in God for

the result, he shall assuredly lead you to victory."

The bishop then again blessed the army, and walked off the field,

surrounded by the different leaders of the army, and left the town

without being again seen by the multitude.

The effect which this singular visit had upon the people was almost

miraculous. Their faith was so perfect, that it never occurred to them

to doubt the truth of anything which fell from consecrated lips. The

word of a priest with them was never doubted, but the promises of a

bishop were assurances direct from heaven: they would consider it gross

impiety to have any doubt of victory, when victory had been promised

them by so holy a man as he who had just addressed them. After the

Bishop of Agra had left the town, Larochejaquelin and de Lescure went

through the army, talking to the men, and they found them eager to renew

the attack on the camp of Varin. Though Varin was nearly three leagues

from them, and though they had been up nearly the whole previous night,

they would willingly have returned to the attack that evening, had they

been allowed to do so.

This was not considered expedient: but it was resolved that the attack

on the camp should be renewed as early as possible on the following

morning, as it was considered that the republicans would not expect so

quick a return of an army which had been completely routed; and might,

therefore, to a certain extent, be taken by surprise.

"We must run fast, friends," said Chapeau to his allies from Durbellière

and Echanbroignes, "for the first men who reach Varin, will retake

'Marie Jeanne;' we will have a share in her, as well as the men of St.

Florent."

With sunrise the next morning, the army was again on the move towards

Saumur: it was arranged that Cathelineau, de Lescure, Denot, and

Larochejaquelin should lead the men through the trenches and into the

camp; and that d'Elbe should remain on the road, prepared, if necessary,

to second the attack, but ready should the first attempt be successful,

to fall on the republicans as they retreated from the camp to the town,

and, if possible, to follow them within the walls. Stofflet was to lead

a division of fifteen hundred men past the camp, between the heights of

Bournan and the town, so as to intercept the republicans, should they

attempt from that position, to relieve their comrades when retreating

from the camp. There was a bridge over the Thoué, close to the town of

Saumur, called the bridge of Fouchard. This bridge was between Bournan

and the town, as also between the camp and the town, and the possession

of this bridge would be of great advantage to the royalist army.

Stofflet was charged to obtain this advantage, if he did not find that

the cannons from the town prevented him.

About four o'clock the army was on the move from Montreuil, and by eight

they were again in front of the camp at Varin; the portion of the road

which they had passed in such confusion the night but one before, and

where they had left their cannon and their waggons, was now stripped of

all signs of the encampment, which had been made there, nothing but the

deep ruts, made by the cannon wheels, were to be seen; everything which

they had brought with them, the trophies of all their victories, the

white flags which the ladies of La Vende had worked for them; the

provisions, the wine and meat, which the kindness of their landlords had

sent with them, were all gone--were in the hands of the republicans;

these reflections served to rouse the anger of the peasants, and made

them determined to get back what they had lost, though they pulled down

the walls of Saumur with their nails.

At a few moments after eight, the attack commenced; the first assault

was headed by Cathelineau, who rushed into the trenches, accompanied by

the Curé of St. Laud. Father Jerome held a large crucifix in his hands,

and as he followed Cathelineau, he lifted it high above his head, to

encourage the men who were about to make the assault; hundreds of them

were on the verge of the trench as he did so; others were following them

closely; they were already within fire of the republican batteries, the

balls from which were falling among them; but, regardless of the firing,

they all fell on their knees, with their faces towards the earth, as

soon as they saw the crucifix in the hands of their priest; and there,

on the very field of battle, offered up a prayer that they might that

day be victorious.

"They will be cut down like grass, simpletons that they are," said

Stofflet; "besides, the first moment is everything; two hundred should

by this time have been within the camp."

"Let them alone," said M. d'Elbée, "they are quite right as they are;

they will not fight the worse for saying their prayers."

As he finished speaking, the men rose again, and rushed against the

earth-work.

Their attempt of the preceding evening had had one good effect--it had

taught the peasants that those who hesitated were in five times more

imminent danger than those who at once got into the trench; and that the

men climbing up the embankment, or at the top of it, were not nearly so

liable to be struck, as the men at the bottom of the trench, or as those

beyond it; they therefore eagerly stuck their hands and feet into the

earth, and made the best of their way into the encampment.

It had been expected by the republicans that the next attack of the

royalists would probably be made at Bournan, and they had consequently

moved most of the cuirassiers from Varin to strengthen that important

place; the men left in the encampment, consisted chiefly of those tribes

of republicans who were enrolled into the French army under the name of

Marseillaise--men who were as ferocious in the hour of victory, as they

were prone to fly at the first suspicion of defeat--men who delighted

in bloodshed, but who preferred finding their victims ready bound for

the slaughter. It was the abject cowardice of these troops, which gave

so wonderful a career of success to the Vendeans; it was their

diabolical cruelty which has made the sufferings of the royalists more

notorious even than their bravery.

De Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Adolphe Denot led their men further

along the road to the point at which Henri had been standing when he

first saw the crowd of royalists coming towards him on the former

evening, and from thence they also got into the encampment. As has been

said, they had no powder; the men who commenced the assault were armed

with muskets and bayonets, but the greater number of the assailants had

no bayonets at all, and many of them nothing but sticks; still they

forced their way into the centre of the camp; here a very strong

opposition was made to them; the republicans were so well armed, that

the royalists were unable to disperse them when any number of them made

a stand together; when they moved from their ground, however, the

Vendeans uniformly succeeded in driving them before them.

Cathelineau's men also made their way through the camp, and there

Cathelineau and Larochejaquelin met each other.

"Well done, my friend; well done," said Henri, seizing the postillion

by the hand, "this is a glorious meeting; the blues are beaten; we have

only now to drive them into the river."

"Or into the road," said Jacques, who as usual was close to his master,

"when once there, M. d'Elbée will not be long in handing them over to

providence."

"Once more, my children, once more," said the priest, "drive them out,

drive them out, vive le roi quand même!" and as he spoke, he brandished

the crucifix over his head like a tomahawk; the sacred symbol was

covered with gore, which appeared to have come from the head of some

unfortunate republican.

"Ah, my friends!" hallaoed Cathelineau, advancing on before the others,

"look--look there; there is our 'Marie Jeanne;' hurry then, hurry;" and

there, immediately before them, was their own sacred trophy; their

favourite cannon: they wanted no further incentive; the men who had

followed Larochejaquelin, and the men of St. Florent who had come with

Cathelineau, saw it at the same time, and vieing with each other, rushed

onwards to gain the prize.

The republicans were amazed at the impetuosity of their enemies, and at

last fled before them; when once these newly-levied troops were turned,

their officers found it impossible to recover them; it was then sauve

qui peut, and the devil take the hindmost. The passage from the camp

towards the town was still open; no attack having been made from that

quarter; and through the wooden gate, which had been erected there, the

valiant Marseillaise rushed out as quick as their legs could carry them;

the officers of the Vendeans offered quarter to all who would throw down

their arms, and many of them did so, but most of them attempted to gain

the town; they knew that if once they could cross the bridge at Fouchard

they would be within the protection afforded by the castle guns--but not

one of them reached the bridge.

M. d'Elbée had found that he could not himself take the position which

had been pointed out to him, as, had he done so, his men would have been

cut to pieces by the cannons from the castle, but he effectually

prevented any one else from doing so; not thirty men from the whole

encampment got into the town of Saumur, and those who did so, made their

way through the river Thoué.

The success of the Vendeans, as far as it went, was most complete; they

recovered their baggage and their cannons--above all, their favourite

'Marie Jeanne;' they took more prisoners than they knew how to keep;

they armed themselves again, and again acquired unmeasured confidence

in their own invincibility; they wanted immediately to be led out to

attack the walls of Saumur, but Cathelineau and de Lescure knew that

this would be running into useless danger. They had now once more plenty

of ammunition; they had artillery, and were in a position to bombard the

town; they would at any rate make a breech in the walls before they

attempted to enter the streets; it was therefore decided that they would

that evening remain where they were, and commence the attack on the

citadel itself with daylight on the following morning.

"It grieved me to think," said Jacques Chapeau, as he pulled the huge

baskets down from the carts, from which the republicans had not yet had

time to move them, "it grieved my very heart to think, M. Henri, that

this good wine from the cellars of Durbellière should have gone down

republican throats; the thoughts of it lay heavy on my heart last night,

so that I could not sleep. Thank heaven, I am spared that disgrace."

It was with the utmost difficulty that Cathelineau and de Lescure were

able to get sentries to remain at the necessary positions during the

night; the peasants had gained the battle, and were determined to enjoy

themselves that evening; they would be ready they said to fight again,

when the sun rose the next morning. The officers themselves had to act

as sentinels; and after having been the first during the day to rush

into every danger, and after having led the attack and the pursuit, and

having then arranged the operations for the morrow, they had to remain

on the watch during the night, lest the camp should be sacrificed by an

attack from the republican forces, stationed at Bournan, or in the

town--such is the lot of those who take upon themselves the management

of men, without any power to ensure obedience to their orders.

VOLUME II.

CHAPTER I.

SAUMUR.

In the next three days the Vendeans bombarded the town, and during that

time fired against it everything they could cram into their cannons, in

the shape of warlike missiles; and they did not do so in vain, for the

walls, in portions, began to give way and to crumble into the moat,

which ran round the town, and communicated with the river Loire on each

side of it. The town is built on the Loire, and between the Loire and

the Thoué. After passing over the latter river at the bridge of

Fouchard, the road in a few yards came to the draw-bridge over the moat;

and from the close vicinity of the two rivers, no difficulty was found

in keeping the moat supplied with water in the driest weather. About a

mile below the town, the Thoue runs into the Loire.

Cathelineau found the men very impatient during the bombardment; they

did not now dream of going home till the work was over, and Saumur

taken; but they were very anxious to make a dash at the walls of the

town; they could not understand why they should not clamber into the

citadel, as they had done, over the green sods into the camp at Varin.

On the fourth morning they were destined to have their wish. A temporary

bridge over the Thoué had been made near Varin, over which a great

portion of the cannon had been taken to a point near the Loire, from

which the royalists had been able to do great damage to the walls; they

had succeeded in making a complete breach of some yards, through which

an easy entrance might be made, were it not for the moat; much of the

rubbish from the walls had fallen into it, so as considerably to lessen

the breadth; but there was still about twenty feet of water to be

passed, and it was impossible, under the immediate guns of the castle,

to contrive anything in the shape of a bridge.

Notwithstanding the difficulties of the place, it was decided that

Larochejaquelin should take two hundred of his men and endeavour to make

his way through the water, and while he was doing this, de Lescure was

to force his passage over the bridge at Fouchard, and if possible, carry

the gate of the town; in doing this he would pass under the heights of

Bournan, and to this point M. d'Elbée was to accompany him with the

great bulk of the army, so as to secure his flank from any attack from

the republican force, which still retained their position there, and

which had hitherto kept up an intercourse with the town across the

bridge of Fouchard.

At five o'clock the greater portion of the army left the camp with

d'Elbée and de Lescure. When they came within two furlongs of the

bridge, the army separated, the chief body remaining with M. d'Elbée and

the remainder going on with M. de Lescure towards the town. The road

turns a little before it reaches the bridge over the Thoué, and up to

this point, the Vendeans, in their progress, were tolerably protected

from the guns of the town; but immediately they turned upon the bridge,

they became exposed to a tremendous fire. The men at once perceived this

and hesitated to cross the river; two of the foremost of their men fell

as they put their feet upon the bridge.

De Lescure had marched from the camp at the head of his men. Father

Jerome was on his right hand, and Stofflet and Adolphe Denot at his

left. Henri had asked his friend to accompany him in the attack which

he was to make near the river, but Adolphe had excused himself, alleging

that he had a great dislike to the water, and that he would in

preference accompany Charles de Lescure. Henri had not thought much

about it, and certainly had imputed no blame to his friend, as there

would be full as much scope for gallantry with his cousin as with

himself. When de Lescure saw that his men hesitated, he said, "Come my

men, forward with 'Marie Jeanne,' we will soon pick their locks for

them," and rushed on the bridge alone; seeing that no one followed him

he returned, and said to Denot:

"We must shew them an example, Adolphe; we will run to the other side

of the bridge and return; after that, they will follow us."

De Lescure did not in the least doubt the courage of his friend, and

again ran on to the bridge. Stofflet and Father Jerome immediately

followed him, but Adolphe Denot did not stir. He was armed with a heavy

sabre, and when de Lescure spoke to him, he raised his arm as though

attempting to follow him, but the effort was too much for him, his whole

body shook, his face turned crimson, and he remained standing where he

was. As soon as de Lescure found that Adolphe did not follow him, he

immediately came back, and taking him by the arm, shook him slightly,

and whispered in his ear:

"Adolphe, what ails you? remember yourself, this is not the time to be

asleep," but still Denot did not follow him; he again raised his arm,

he put out his foot to spring forward, but he found he could not do it;

he slunk back, and leant against the wall at the corner of the bridge,

as though he were fainting.

De Lescure could not wait a moment longer. He would have risked anything

but his own reputation to save that of his friend; but his brave

companions were still on the bridge, and there he returned for the third

time; his cap was shot away, his boot was cut, his clothes were pierced

in different places, but still he was not himself wounded.

"See, my friends," said he aloud to the men behind him, "the blues do

not know how to fire," and he pointed to his shoulder, from which, as

he spoke, a ball had cut the epaulette.

He then crossed completely over the bridge, together with Stofflet and

the priest; the people with one tremendous rush followed him, and

Adolphe Denot was carried along with the crowd.

As soon as they found themselves immediately beneath the walls of the

town, they were not exposed to so murderous a fire as they had been on

the bridge itself, but still the work was hot enough. 'Marie Jeanne' had

been carried across with them, and was soon brought into play; they had

still enough ammunition left to enable their favourite to show her

puissance in battering against the chief gates of Saumur. The men made

various attempts to get into the town, but they were not successful,

though the gates were shattered to pieces, and the passage was almost

free; the republican troops within were too strong, and their firing too

hot. At last the blues made a sortie from the town, and drove the

Vendeans back towards the bridge; M. de Lescure still kept his place in

the front, and was endeavouring to encourage his men to recover their

position, when a ball struck his arm and broke it, and he fell with his

knee upon the ground. As soon as the peasants saw him fall, and found

that he was wounded, they wanted to take him in their arms, and carry

him at once back across the bridge, but he would not allow them.

"What ails you, friends?" said he; "did you never never see a man

stumble before? Come, the passage is free; now at length we will quench

our thirst in Saumur," and taking his sword in his left hand, he again

attempted to make good his ground.

M. d'Elbée had seen the Vendeans retreating back towards the bridge, and

knowing that victory with them must be now or never (for it would have

been impossible to have induced the peasants to remain longer from their

homes, had they been repulsed), he determined to quit his post and to

second de Lescure at the bridge. The firing from the town had ceased,

for the republicans and royalists were so mixed together, that the men

on the walls would have been as likely to kill their friends as their

enemies; and as the first company, fatigued, discouraged and

overpowered, were beginning to give way, d'Elbée, with about two

thousand men, pushed across the bridge, and the whole mass of the

contending forces, blues and Vendeans together, were hurried back

through the gateway into the town; and de Lescure, as he entered it,

found that it was already in the hands of his own party--the white flag

was at that moment rising above the tricolour on the ramparts.

Adolphe Denot was one of the first of the Vendeans who entered the town

through the gate. This shewed no great merit in him, for, as has been

said, the men who had made the first attack, and the republicans who

opposed it, were carried into the town by the impulse of the men behind

them; but still he had endeavoured to do what he could to efface the

ineffable disgrace which he felt must now attach to him in the opinion

of M. de Lescure. As they were making their way up the principal street,

still striking down the republicans wherever they continued to make

resistance, but more often giving quarter, and promising protection, de

Lescure with a pistol held by the barrel in his left hand, and with his

right arm hastily tied up in the red handkerchief taken from a peasant's

neck, said to the man who was next to him, but whom he did not at the

moment perceive to be Denot:

"Look at Larochejaquelin, the gallant fellow; look at the red scarf on

the castle wall. I could swear to him among a thousand."

"Yes," said Adolphe, unwilling not to reply when spoken to, and yet

ashamed to speak to de Lescure, "yes, that is Henri. I wish I were with

him."

"Oh, that is you, is it?" said de Lescure, just turning to look at him,

and then hurrying away. But before he had moved on five paces, he

returned, and putting his pistol into his girdle, gave Adolphe his left

hand, and whispered to him:

"No one shall ever hear of it, Adolphe," said he, "and I will forget it.

Think of your Saviour in such moments, Adolphe, and your heart will not

fail you again."

The tears came into Denot's eyes as de Lescure left him. He felt that

he must be despised; he felt grateful for the promise which had been

given him, and yet he felt a kind of hatred for the man to whom he had

afforded an opportunity of forgiving him. He felt that he never could

like de Lescure again, never be happy in his company; he knew that de

Lescure would religiously keep his word, that he would never mention to

human being that horrid passage at the bridge; but he knew also that it

could never be forgotten. Adolphe Denot was not absolutely a coward; he

had not bragged that he would do anything which he knew it was contrary

to his nature to do, when he told Agatha that he would be the first to

place the white flag on the citadel of Saumur: he felt then all the

aspirations of a brave man; he felt a desire even to hurry into the

thick of the battle; but he had not the assured, sustained courage to

support him in the moment of extreme danger. As de Lescure said, his

heart failed him.

We must now return to Henri Larochejaquelin. He had taken with him two

hundred of the best men from the parishes of St. Aubin, St. Laud and

Echanbroignes; four or five officers accompanied him, among whom was a

young lad, just fourteen years of age; his name was Arthur Mondyon, and

he was a cadet from a noble family in Poitou; in the army he had at

first been always called Le Petit Chevalier. His family had all

emigrated, and he had been left at school in Paris; but on the breaking

out of the wars he had run away from school, had forged himself a false

passport into La Vendée, and declared his determination of fighting for

his King. De Lescure had tried much to persuade him to stay at Clisson,

but in vain; he had afterwards been attached to a garrison that was kept

in the town of Chatillon, as he would then be in comparative safety; but

the little Chevalier had a will of his own; he would not remain within

walls while fighting was going on, and he had insisted on accompanying

Larochejaquelin to Saumur. He was now installed as Henri's aide-de-camp.

Jacques Chapeau also accompanied the party who were to make their way

into the town through the water. The men were all armed with muskets and

bayonets, but their muskets were not loaded, nor did they carry any

powder with them; it would have been useless in the attack they were

about to make, and was much wanted elsewhere.

Henri was at his post about the time at which de Lescure was preparing

to cross the bridge at Fouchard. It was an awful looking place at which

ha had to make his entrance there was certainly a considerable breach

in the wall, and the fragments of it had fallen into the fosse, so as

to lessen its width; but, nevertheless, there was full twenty feet of

running water to cross, which had more the appearance of a branch of the

river Loire, than of a moat round a town.

Henri saw that his men looked a little alarmed at what they had to go

through; he had a light straw hat on his head, and taking it off, he

threw it into the water, a little above the point he had to pass, and

as the running water carried it down he said:

"Whoever gives me that on the other side will be my friend for life."

And as he spoke he himself leapt into the water, and swam across.

Jacques made a plunge for the hat: had it been in the middle of the

Loire he would have gone after it under similar circumstances, though

he couldn't swim a stroke; he did not go near the hat however, but went

head over heels into the water; the impetus carried him through, and he

was the second to scramble upon the broken mortar on the other side. The

Chevalier was more active; he leapt in and seized the hat as it was

going down the stream, and swimming like a young duck, brought it back

to its owner.

"Ah! Chevalier," said Henri, reproaching him playfully, and helping him

up out of the water, "you have robbed some poor fellow of a chance; you,

you know, cannot be more my friend, than you already are."

The men quickly followed: they all got a ducking; some few lost their

arms, one or two were slightly wounded by their comrades, but none of

them were drowned. Henri soon made his way over the ruins into the town,

and carried everything before him. The greater part of the garrison of

the town were endeavouring to repulse the attack made by de Lescure;

others had retired into the castle, in which the republican General

thought that he might still hold out against the Vendeans. Many were

already escaping out of the town by the bridge over the Loire, and

throwing down their arms, were hurrying along the road to Tours.

It was in this manner, and almost without opposition, that

Larochejaquelin found himself, together with his brave followers, in the

middle of Saumur; their own success astonished them; hardly a shot was

fired at them in their passage; they went through the town without

losing a man; the republican soldiers whom they did see threw down their

arms and fled; the very sight of the Vendeans in the centre of the town

overwhelmed them with panic. The appearance of Henri's troop was very

singular; every man wore round his neck and round his waist a red cotton

handkerchief; this costume had been adopted to preserve Larochejaquelin

from the especial danger of being made the butt of republican marksmen.

There was now no especial mouchoir rouge among them. They certainly had

a frightful appearance, as they hurried through the streets with their

bayonets fixed, dripping with mud and water, and conspicuous with their

red necks and red waists; at least so thought the republicans, for they

offered very little opposition to them.

Henri had just time to see that his friends had entered the town by the

gate on the Doué road, but he did not wait to speak to them. The

republican soldiers were escaping from the town in the opposite

direction, and he could not resist the temptation of following them. He

was at the head of his men, just passing over the Loire by a wooden

bridge, called the bridge of the Green Cross, and having possessed

himself of a sword in his passage through the town, was making good use

of it, when a dragoon turned suddenly round, and fired a pistol almost

in his face: near as the man was to him, in his hurry he missed him, and

the bullet merely grazed Henri's cheek, without even raising the skin.

"Ah, bungler," said Henri, raising his sword, "you are no good for

either King or nation," and he struck the unfortunate man dead at his

feet.

Not only the soldiers, but the inhabitants of the town were escaping by

hundreds over the bridge, and Henri saw that if he pursued them farther,

he must, sooner or later, find himself surrounded and overpowered by

numbers; he returned, therefore, and destroyed the bridge, so as to

prevent the return of the soldiers who had fled in their first panic,

and also to prevent any more of the inhabitants from leaving their

homes.

"God has certainly fought on our side today," said he to one of his

Mends: "with barely two hundred men, all dripping like drowned rats, we

have made our way, almost without opposition, through the town, and

thousands of soldiers are even yet flying before us."

"Ah! M. Henri," said the little Chevalier, "it is a great honour to

fight for one's King; one fears nothing then: a single royalist should

always drive before him ten republicans."

Henri now returned and joined de Lescure, who was in possession of the

town, though the citadel was still in the hands of General Quetineau,

who held the command of the garrison. It was not till the cousins had

embraced each other, that Henri saw that de Lescure was wounded.

"Yes," said de Lescure, "I have at length acquired the privilege of

shedding my blood in the cause; but it is only a broken arm; Victorine

will have a little trouble with me when I return to Clisson."

"And Adolphe, my brave Adolphe, you are wounded, too?" said Henri.

Denot muttered something, and turned away; he did not dare to look his

friends in the face.

"He envies me my honour," said de Lescure; "but it might have been his

chance as well as mine, for he was not two feet from me when I was

wounded." This was true, for de Lescure had been struck after Denot had

crossed the bridge with the other men.

A flag of truce was now sent out by General Quetineau to the royalists,

with a proposal that he would give up the castle, and lay down his arms,

on being allowed to march out with all his men, and take the road to

Angers; but this proposition was not acceded to.

"No!" said de Lescure to the General's messenger: "tell M. Quetineau

that the Vendeans cannot accede to those terms--we cannot allow his

soldiers to march to Angers, and to return within a week to inflict new

cruelties on our poor peasants. M. Quetineau must surrender without any

terms: the practices of our army must be his only guarantee, that his

men will not be massacred in cold blood, as the unfortunate royalists

are massacred when they fall into the hands of the republicans."

The republicans were not in a condition to insist upon anything; as M.

de Lescure had said, the practices of the Vendeans were a guarantee that

no blood would be unnecessarily shed, and relying on this assurance

alone, M. Quetineau surrendered the castle and gave up his sword. De

Lescure took possession of it till he should be able to hand it over to

his General, and the Vendeans found themselves complete masters of

Saumur.

There was, however, still a very strong detachment of republican troops

on the heights of Bournan, who were watched on one side by Foret and his

detachment, and on the other by a portion of M. d'Elbée's army. These

men had done some execution, as they covered with their cannon a portion

of the road over which the Vendeans had passed, but they had taken no

active part whatever in the engagement. What made this the more

singular, was that the garrison at Bournan was composed of the very best

soldiers of the French republican army. They were under the command of

General Coustard, who kept his position during the whole attack,

inactive and unmolested; had he attacked M. d'Elbée's army in the rear,

when that officer advanced to support de Lescure's division, the

Vendeans would probably have been destroyed between the two republican

armies. Whether the two Generals of the Convention misunderstood each

other, or whether the soldiers at Bournan were unwilling to rout the

royalists, it is impossible to say; but they remained at Bournan till

the night, and then leaving their post during the darkness, made good

their retreat to Angers.

As soon as the white flag was seen on the walls of Saumur, Cathelineau

left the position which he had held, and entered the town. It was

greatly in opposition to his own wishes that he had been induced to

remain at a distance from the absolute attack, and now he felt almost

ashamed of himself as the officers and men crowded round him to

congratulate him on the victory which he had gained.

"No, M. de Lescure," he said, as that officer tendered him General

Quetineau's sword, "no, I will never take it from him who has won it

with so much constancy and valour. I must own I envy you your good

fortune, but I will not rob you of the fruits of your exertions."

"But Cathelineau," said the other, "you are our General, the customs of

war require--"

"The customs of war are all changed," replied Cathelineau, "when such

as you and M. de Larochejaquelin make yourselves second to a poor

postillion; at any rate," he added, pressing between his own, the left

hand of M. de Lescure, which still held the sword, "if I am to be the

commander, I must be obeyed. M. de Lescure will not set a bad example

when I tell him to keep General Quetineau's sword."

"And you, General Quetineau," said Cathelineau, "what are your

wishes--your own personal wishes I mean? I have not forgotten that you

alone of the republican leaders have shewn mercy to the poor royalists,

when they were in your power; you at any rate shall not say that the

Vendean brigands do not know how to requite kind services." Cathelineau

alluded to the name which the republicans had given to the royalists at

the commencement of the war.

"It little matters to me," said Quetineau, "what becomes of me; were you

to give me unconditional liberty, I should go to Paris--and the

Convention would accuse me of betraying my trust, and I should become

another victim of the guillotine."

"Of the guillotine!" said Henri; "why, what bloody monsters are those

you serve they send you soldiers who know nothing but how to run; do

they expect that with such troops as these you should be victorious,

when opposed to men who are individually striving for everything that

is dear to them?"

"The Convention," said Quetineau, "would ensure success by punishing

defeat. You will find in the end that they are politic; there will,

however, be many victims, and I am fated to be one of them."

"Stay with us, General Quetineau," said de Lescure, "join our forces,

and here you will find that honesty and courage are respected. You

cannot, you do not approve of the tyranny of the Convention. We know

each other of old, and I know that in joining the army, you never

intended to serve under a Republic. You cannot say that in your heart

you are a republican."

"Did I wish to shew myself a royalist, it would not now become me to

proclaim myself one," answered Quetineau. "I entered the army of the

King, but I have chosen to remain a soldier of the Republic. Whatever

may be my feelings, adversity shall not make me false to the colours I

have carried; besides, gentlemen, if I escaped the anger of the

Convention myself, I have a wife in Paris, whose life would be made to

satisfy it; under such circumstances, I presume you would not counsel

me to become a royalist."

This was an argument which it was impossible to answer. General

Quetineau accepted the present of his liberty, and soon as he was free,

he returned to Paris; he was immediately sent to the revolutionary

tribunal and tried for his life; and as he himself had predicted, was

guillotined by the Convention for the cowardice of the troops, whom he

had been called upon to take under his command. In the old days of

Greece, when the Kings sinned, the people suffered for it: this law was

reversed under the first French Republic; when the soldiers ran away,

the Generals were beheaded.

The joy of the Vendeans, when they found themselves masters of Saumur,

knew no bounds, but they were grotesque rather than unruly in their

demonstrations; they plundered nothing from the poor people, or even

from the shopkeepers; the money that was found in the republican chest

was divided among them, but as this consisted almost entirely of

assignats, it was of but little value. The shopkeepers were surprised

at the liberality of their enemies and conquerors, who were willing to

dispose of these assignats for anything they would fetch--a little wine,

or a few ounces of tobacco; whereas, their own friends, the republicans,

had insisted that they should be taken at their nominal value as money,

for all goods exposed for sale.

An enormous poplar had been planted by the towns-people in the centre

of the marketplace, which they called the tree of liberty. This was now

a doomed tree. On the evening of the day in which they took the town,

the royalist peasants went in procession, and with many cheers hewed it

to the ground; it was then treated with every possible contumely--it was

chopped, and hacked, and barked; it was kicked, and cuffed, and spat

upon; the branches were cut off, and on the bare top was placed a large

tattered cap of liberty; the Vendean marksmen then turned out, and fired

at the cap till it was cut to pieces; after that, all the papers and

books, which had belonged to the municipality, every document which

could be found in the Town-hall, were brought into the square, and piled

around the roots of the tree; and then the whole was set on fire--and

tree, papers, and cap of liberty, were consumed together.

On the next morning, considerable difficulty was experienced in

disposing of the prisoners there were about two thousand in the town,

and the Vendeans knew that they had no means of keeping them, nor did

they wish to be at the great expense of feeding them; it was contrary

to their inclination, their practice, and their consciences, to kill

them in cold blood: and they knew from experience, that if they gave

them their liberty, the same men would return within a fortnight,

newly-armed, to carry on the war against their liberators, in spite of

any oaths they might take to the contrary.

"I'll tell you what we will do, M. Henri," said Chapeau, speaking to his

master, "we will put a mark upon them, so that if we catch them again,

we may know them; and then I do think it would be all right to hang

them; or perhaps for the second time we might cut off their ears, and

hang them the third time."

"But how would you mark them, Jacques; men are not like cattle that you

can brand them."

"I will tell you what," said the little Chevalier, "shave them all like

pigs; they cannot all buy wigs, and we shall know them by their bald

sconces."

"That is the very thing, M. Arthur," said Chapeau delighted, "we will

shave their heads as clear as the palm of my hand. I am an excellent

barber myself; and I will even get a dozen or two assistants; hair shall

be cheap in Saumur tomorrow; though I fear soap and razors will be

scarce."

Chapeau was so delighted with the proposal that he at once hurried away

to carry it into execution; and Arthur, though he felt that his dignity

as an officer would be somewhat compromised, could not resist the boyish

temptation to follow him and see the fun.

He and Chapeau were not long in raising an efficient corps of barbers

and assistant barbers; and few of the shopkeepers, when called upon,

thought it advisable to refuse the loan of a razor and a shaving dish.

They established themselves in the large room of the Town-hall, and had

the prisoners brought in by a score at a time; vehemently did the men

plead for their hair, and loud did they swear that if allowed to escape

free, they would never again carry arms against the Vendeans; but

neither their oaths or their prayers were of any avail, nor yet the

bribes which were offered by those who had ought to give; the order to

sit down was given imperatively, and if not immediately obeyed, the

command was somewhat roughly enforced.

They were shaved by twenty at a time, and while one lot was being

operated on, another twenty, who were next destined to fill the chairs,

were kept standing against the wall. The long hair was first cut off

with scissors, and then the head and whiskers were closely shaved. The

first candidates for the soap-dish were very unruly under the operation,

but they only got their ears snipped and their skin chipped, and had to

return to their prisons with their polls all bloody as well as bald.

Those who looked on, took a lesson from the folly of their comrades, and

most of them remained quiet. The manoeuvres of the men however were very

different during the process; some took it with good humour, and

endeavoured to laugh as their locks were falling; some sat still as

death; others looked fierce and warlike; some were even moved to tears;

some fought, and kicked and scratched, and at last had to be corded to

their seats. One unfortunate went down upon his knees, and implored

Chapeau by the memory of his mistress, if ever he had been in love, by

his regard for his wife, if he chanced to be married, not to shave his

head. He was engaged to be married, he said, to a young girl at Angers,

who had many lovers; she had preferred him for the beauty of his hair:

if he returned back bald, he knew that he would be rejected. Chapeau for

a time was moved, but the patriot and the royalist triumphed over the

man, and Jacques, turning away his face on which a tear was gleaming,

with a wave of his hand motioned the young man to the chair.

Insult was added to injury, for the Chevalier stood at the door with a

brush, and a large jar of red paint, and as each man went out of the

room, Arthur made a huge cross upon his bare pate. The poor wretches in

their attempt to rub it off, merely converted the cross into a red

patch, and as they were made to walk across the market-place with their

bald red heads, they gave rise to shouts of laughter, not only from the

royalists, but from the inhabitants of the town.

For three days the shaving went on, and as the men became experienced

from practice, it was conducted with wonderful rapidity. At last, the

prisoners were all deprived of their hair, and set at liberty--a

temporary bridge was thrown across the Loire, near the Green Cross, and

the men were allowed to march over. As soon as they found themselves on

the other side of the Loire, they were free.

"Come, my bald pates, come my knights of the ruddy scalp," said Jacques,

standing at the corner of the bridge as they passed over, "away with you

to the Convention; and if your friends like your appearance, send them

to Saumur, and they shall be shaved close, and the barber shall ask for

no fee; but remember, if you return again yourselves, your ears will be

the next sacrifice you will be called on to make for your country."

CHAPTER II.

COUNCIL OF WAR.

The taking of the fortified town of Saumur, and the total dispersion of

the large army which had been collected there by the Republic, was an

enterprise of much greater magnitude than anything which had previously

been undertaken by the Vendeans: it gave them great advantages, it

supplied them plentifully with arms, ammunition and clothes for their

soldiers, and greatly inspirited the peasants; but it made the

Convention feel that it had no contemptible enemy to deal with in La

Vendée, and that the best soldiers of France would be required to crush

the loyalty which inspired the peasants of Anjou and Poitou.

The Vendean leaders felt that their responsibilities were greatly

increased, and that very much depended on the decision to which they

might now come as regarded their further operations. A general council

of war was accordingly held in Saumur, at which the matter was debated

among them. Twelve of the Vendeans were admitted to this consultation,

and all others were strictly excluded; they were Cathelineau, Bonchamps,

who though badly wounded, had caused himself to be brought thither from

Doué, de Lescure, who had remained in action for eight hours after his

arm was broken, and had consequently suffered much from it,

Larochejaquein, d'Elbée, Stofflet, Adolphe Denot, Father Jerome, Foret,

M. Donnessan, Lescure's father-in-law, Marigny, and the Prince de

Talmont.

The first question was the selection of a chief officer. Cathelineau had

been named before the battle of Saumur; but, as he himself alleged, his

command was to last only during that siege; he had been, he said,

selected for a special purpose, which purpose, by the grace of God, was

accomplished, and he was now ready to resign his commission into the

hands of those who had given it to him.

"I am not so foolish," said he, "as to suppose that I am qualified to

take the command in the war which we have now to carry on. No; one

privilege I beg to exercise on retiring from my command. I will name a

successor; let any one who pleases name another; we will then put it to

the vote, and let him who has most votes be our General."

"So be it," said Henri. "Nothing can be better."

"I name M. de Lescure," said Cathelineau. "Some of us are beloved by the

people, but are not educated; others are highly educated, but are not

yet known to the peasants. We are all, I am sure, brave men: but M. de

Lescure is beloved by all; his knowledge fits him for his high position,

and his cool, constant, determined courage, no man who has seen him in

the hour of battle will doubt. I name M. de Lescure."

De Lescure was about to rise, when Henri put his hand upon his friends

arm, and said:

"Let me speak, Charles. We all know that what Cathelineau has said of

my cousin is no more than the truth. Be still, Charles: when I have

spoken you can then say what you please, but I am sure you will agree

with me. Nevertheless, I will not give my vote that he be our chief

General. Cathelineau has desired that any one differing from him should

name another, and that the question should then be put to the vote. I

differ from him, and, therefore, I name another. I name the good

Cathelineau, the Saint of Anjou."

"Now let us vote," said the Prince de Talmont. "Come, Bonchamps, do you

begin."

"I never heard of deposing a Commander-in-Chief in consequence of a

complete victory," said Bonchamps. "The Convention murders their

Generals when they are defeated, but even the Convention rewards them

for victory. I vote for Cathelineau."

"And you, Foret," said the Prince.

"I say Cathelineau," said Foret: "the peasants generally would be

disappointed to see any put above him."

"I certainly vote for Cathelineau," said Father Jerome, who came next.

"We should be offending our Creator," said M. d'Elbée, "were we to

reject the great and good Commander, whom His gracious providence has

sent us. I vote for Cathelineau."

"And you, M. Denot," said the Prince. Adolphe Denot especially disliked

Cathelineau: he was jealous of his reputation and popularity: he could

not bear to feel himself in any way under the control of a man so much

his inferior in rank; he fancied, moreover, that Cathelineau regarded

Agatha Larochejaquelin; he had been quick enough to perceive that the

ineffable grace and beauty of his mistress had filled the heart of the

poor postillion with admiration, and he feared that his own rejection

had been caused by some mutual feeling in Agatha's breast, which future

events might warm into love. Adolphe, therefore, hated Cathelineau, and

would have delighted, had he dared to do so, to express his

disapprobation of the choice; but, after pausing for a few moments, he

found that he did not dare; so he merely said:

"Oh, Cathelineau, of course. When you are all resolved, what's the use

of voting about it?"

"To show that we all are resolved," said de Lescure; "to make

Cathelineau understand that it is positively his duty to take the

position we wish him to fill."

And so, one after another, they all recorded their votes that

Cathelineau should be the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean army; and

they all declared that they would, without reserve, obey any military

orders, which he might give them.

"Well, gentlemen," said he, again seating himself at the head of the

table, "I should pay but a bad compliment to your understanding, were

I any further to insist on my own unworthiness. I will not, at any rate,

be wanting in zeal for the good cause, and I will trust to Him who

directs us all, for assistance in the difficult duties which you have

imposed on me."

They then debated on the all-important question of what should be their

next movement, and on this subject there was much difference of opinion.

Bonchamps was again asked to speak first, and he advised that they

should at once proceed to Paris.

"We can do nothing," said he, "while the present Convention sits in

Paris; it has but one head, but it has ten thousand bloody hands. There

can be no peace, no rest in France, while Danton, Robespierre and

Barrère are omnipotent. Let us at once start for Paris: Brittany will

join us, and parts of Normandy; the Southerns will follow us; the men

of Bordeaux and of the Gironde: have not their own orators, the leaders

of the Revolution, been murdered in their seats, because they were not

willing that all France should become one Golgotha? Lyons, even, and

Marseilles, are now sick of the monsters who have crawled forth from the

haunts of the Jacobins to depopulate the country, and annihilate

humanity. There is now but a small faction, even in Paris, to whom the

restoration of order would not be acceptable. The intensity of their

cruelty is the only strength of the governing faction; the extent of

their abominations alone makes them terrible. Hundreds will fly from one

Indian snake, so potent is its venom, so sure to inflict death: but let

one brave man set his heel upon its head, and the noxious animal is

destroyed for ever: so it is with the party who now rules the

Convention. Now that we have with us the all-powerful prestige of

victory, let us march at once to Paris; hundreds will join us on the

way, and what force can at the moment be collected to stop us? Let us

proceed at once to Paris, and proclaim at the door of the Convention,

in the gardens of the Tuilleries, in the Place Louis Quinze, where our

sainted monarch so nobly shed his blood, that France again submits

herself to her King."

"Would that we could!" said de Lescure; "would that the spirit of

revolution was yet sufficiently quenched in France to allow us to follow

your advice; but there is much, very much to be done before a royalist

army can march from La Vendée to Paris; unthought of sufferings to be

endured, the blood of thousands to be sacrificed, before France will own

that she has been wrong in the experiment she has made. We must fight

our battles by inches, and be satisfied, if, when dying, we can think

that we have left to our children a probability of final victory.

Normandy and the Gironde may be unwilling to submit to the Jacobin

leaders, but they are as yet as warmly attached to the Republic as Paris

itself. And, Bonchamps, you little know the dispositions and character

of the men, who at our bidding have left their homes and come to Saumur,

if you think that at our bidding they will march to Paris; they are even

now burning to return home, to recount to their wives and children what

they have done.

"Not half the number that came to Saumur would leave the town with us on

the road to Paris; and before we could reach Tours, the army would have

melted away from us like snow from a mountain top, when the sun begins

to shine. It is here, in our own locality, that we should endeavour to

extend our influence. In Southern Brittany the people, I believe, are

with us, but the towns are full of the troops of the Republic. Let us

drive them out of Angers, Ancenis, and Nantes, as we have driven them

from Saumur. Let us force them from the banks of the Loire, and become

masters of the coast of Southern Brittany. Then we may expect men and

money from England. Then we may fairly hope for such foreign aid as may

enable us to face the Republic; but at present, if we march to Paris,

we march to certain destruction."

"M. de Lescure is right," said Stofflet, "our men would not go far from

their homes; we must remember that they are not paid, nor have we the

means of paying them; if we had English gold, we might perhaps make our

way to Paris."

"Our men are not so mercenary, Stofflet," said Bonchamps, "I do not

think they have shewn any great desire for plunder."

"No," said Stofflet, "but they must live; if they are to have neither

pay nor plunder, how are they to get to Paris?"

"I agree with you, Bonchamps," said Henri, "come what, come may, I would

make a dash at Paris; we shall be cut to pieces here, while we are

waiting for English aid; some of the men would follow us--most of them

I believe; where we meet with friends, they will give us provisions;

where we find enemies, we will take them, and pay the owners in

republican assignats; they would get no other payment in the

market-towns. I am sorry to disagree with you, Charles, but my voice is

for Paris."

"And mine also, certainly," said Adolphe, "let our career be short, at

any rate let it be glorious; let us march to Paris and strike terror

into the tyrants of the Convention."

"It is difficult to strike terror into tyrants," said de Lescure

quickly, "when the number of their supporters is ten times greater than

that of their opponents."

"Well, Cathelineau," said Bonchamps, "what do you say? it is for you to

settle the question between us; are we to go forward to Paris, or march

back to Nantes?"

"I would wish to hear what others say; for myself, I fear that M. de

Lescure is right. I fear the peasants would not follow us so far from

their own homes. What does the Prince de Talmont say?"

"I will have no voice in the matter," said the Prince. "I have joined

you but lately, and as yet am only fit to follow where others lead."

"And you, M. d'Elbée?" said Cathelineau.

"I hardly know how to speak," said d'Elbée, "where the subject is so

important."

"M. d'Elbée is not wont to be so modest," said Stofflet; "does he not

trust that Providence will inspire him with wisdom, when he opens his

mouth to give his opinion?"

"Certainly, Stofflet; I trust in that all-seeing eye, at which you are

so willing to scoff; but I do not expect that I am to be allowed to see

further into futurity than another; however, if I am to express an

opinion, I think we should endeavour to march on Paris; if we find that

the men desert us, and that others do not join our standards, we must

return."

"And how are we to return," said de Lescure, "and to whom? think you

that we can collect another army in La Vendée, when one has deserted us

on the road? will the peasants again trust in us, after they have once

left us? Never If the army dissolves itself in despair, you will never

be able to establish it again."

"Who talks of despair, Charles?" said Henri, "you did not despair when

you were thundering against the gates of Saumur with four republicans

to one royalist opposed to you; why should you despair now; or why

should the army despair; I believe they would go anywhere at the command

of their priests, and with the hope of restoring the King to his

throne."

The question was then put to the vote. De Lescure and four others, voted

for attacking Nantes. Bonchamps, and five others, declared for

proceeding at once to Paris, with the view of arresting the present

leaders of the Convention. Cathelineau was then called on to express his

opinion, which would of course be decisive.

"I think M. de Lescure is right," said he, "I think we are not in a

position to advance to Paris. I have not the heart to ask the men to

follow me into a strange country, so far from their own homes."

The numbers were now equally divided, but as Cathelineau was the

Commander-in-Chief, his voice turned the scale; and the expedition to

Paris was postponed.

"So be it," said Bonchamps; "let us prepare then for Nantes; it is not

fortified like Saumur, but the troops there are very numerous."

It was then decided that Cathelineau should name six lieutenants under

him, to take command of the different districts from which the army was

collected, and to which the men would be sure to return; and also

appoint an officer in command of the artillery, and another in command

of the cavalry. Cathelineau would have willingly dispensed with the task

of selecting his officers--a work in which he could hardly fail to give

offence to some, and in which he might probably give entire satisfaction

to none; but it was to be done, and he felt that it was useless for him

to shrink from it.

"M. Bonchamps," said he, "will of course take the command of the men of

Anjou, and M. de Lescure of those from the southern parts of the Bocage,

and they will assist me, I hope, in selecting the others. It is very

difficult to select, where so many are fit."

"Rather say," said Henri, laughing, "where so many are equally unfit.

Why, Bonchamps and Marigny are the only soldiers by profession we have

among us."

"You'll all be soldiers shortly," said Father Jerome. "You are at any

rate going the right way to learn the trade."

"Marigny of course will take the artillery," said Bonchamps. "We are

very lucky in having so good an artillery officer among us."

"There is no one, at any rate, to dispute your claim, Marigny," said de

Lescure.

"So he's president over 'Marie Jeanne' and the gunpowder," said Henri;

"that's settled, isn't it Cathelineau?"

"Unless M. Marigny refuses," said Cathelineau.

"I am not modest enough for that, General," said Marigny. "Do you

furnish me with guns, and I'll fight them. Do you collect the gunpowder,

and I'll consume it."

"And the Prince de Talmont will take the cavalry?" said Cathelineau.

"No, indeed," said the Prince. "I will not interfere with Henri

Larochejaquelin."

"Henri Larochejaquelin is much obliged to you, Prince," said Henri, "but

he is not ambitious of making a fool of himself; nor does he wish to be

made a fool of. Moreover, Henri Larochejaquelin does not wish to quarrel

with an old friend like you, Prince; but he might be tempted to do so,

if you take any liberties with his name."

"But, Cathelineau," said the Prince, "Henri has been at the head of the

cavalry all through."

"Don't set a bad example, Prince," said de Lescure. "Let every man

coincide with Cathelineau's directions without a word; so shall we be

spared the ill effects of over modesty, and of too much assurance."

"Besides," said Cathelineau, "M. Larochejaquelin will be much wanted

elsewhere. As a matter of course, he will be the leader of all the

parishes round Chatillon; I doubt if the men would follow any one else."

"Dear Cathelineau," said Henri, "if you will take my advice, you will

not make leaders of us youngsters at all. Adolphe and I will be well

contented to be hussars for awhile. Let these grey-headed seniors be

our leaders," and he pointed to d'Elbée whose hair was grizzled.

Henri had seen that the spirit of jealousy was already rising in Adolphe

Denot's face. No allusion had been made to his services; his advice had

never been asked in the council; there was no probability that he would

be named as one of the leaders; he had hardly spoken a word since they

had assembled in the council-room. Henri, though his own heart was a

stranger to the jealousy and dread of neglect which tormented Adolphe,

sympathised with, and felt for his friend; and he thought that if they

were both together excluded from command at his request, the blow would

be less keenly felt. They were the two youngest in the room, and their

youth was a good reason why they should not be named; but Henri was the

younger of the two, and he knew that if he were selected as one of the

chiefs, Adolphe would be miserable at finding himself left out.

De Lescure, however, would not allow of this. He had promised that he

would not disgrace Denot, by telling of the cowardice he had shewn at

the Bridge of Fouchard, and he was determined to keep his word; but he

would not allow his cousin, his pupil, his bosom friend, the man whom

he loved with the affection of a brother and a father, to sink himself

to the same level as a coward.

"How absurd is this!" said he, angrily. "I wonder, Henri, that you

should be the first to create such foolish difficulties, when our very

existence depends on perfect unanimity. In proportion as our means of

enforcing obedience is slender, should our resolution be firm,

implicitly to obey the directions of those who are selected as our

leaders. We have made Cathelineau our General, and desired him to select

his officers, and when he selects you as one, you object. If you object

from a proper modesty, it argues that those who accept, shew an improper

degree of assurance. You should think of these things, Henri."

"I resign myself to my dignity, and am dumb," said Henri laughing. "Go

on, Cathelineau, and if the men you name, say but one word, one syllable

against your choice--I'll slay them."

Cathelineau knew that all his difficulty still lay before him; those

whom he had already chosen would as a matter of course be among the

number; but who were to be the other three?

"M. Donnissan," said be, in a whisper to de Lescure, who was sitting

next to him. "I do not know what his wishes might be."

"My father-in-law feels himself too old," answered de Lescure; "d'Elbée

would be a much fitter person; he is thought so much of at Beauprieu."

"And the other two?" asked Cathelineau.

"Name one yourself, and ask Bonchamps to name the other."

"M. d'Elbée," said Cathelineau, aloud, "you will not, I am sure, refuse

to take your portion of our labours."

"You will find," whispered Stofflet to his neighbour, "that as

Providence has called upon him, he will be willing enough."

"I will do my best," said d'Elbée "as I am called upon; and may the Lord

direct me, that I may fight His battle so as to do honour to His name."

"I think I will name Stofflet," said Cathelineau, consulting with

Bonchamps and de Lescure; "he is a brave man, and though rude in his

manner, he will make perhaps the best soldier among us; already the men

obey him almost more implicitly than any one."

"Do--do!" said Bonchamps; "you cannot do better."

"I think you will be right to do so," said de Lescure, "though I do not

like the man; but the peasants know him, and he is one of themselves.

Yesterday morning I had ample proof of his courage. As you say, he is

a brave man and a good soldier."

Stofflet was then informed that he had been named, and though he

muttered some expressions as to his own want of the necessary

qualifications, he was evidently well pleased that the choice had fallen

on him.

And now the last of the lot was to be chosen. As the two last names had

been mentioned, Denot's brow had grown blacker and blacker. Henri

Larochejaquelin, during the whole proceeding, had been walking about the

room, sitting now in one place, and now in another. At the present

moment, he was sitting next to Adolphe, who, when Stofflet's name was

mentioned, whispered to him, but almost audibly:

"Gracious heaven! Stofflet!--the whole affair is becoming discreditable.

How can any gentleman serve under such a man as that?"

"You think too much of rank, Adolphe," said Henri; "we should entirely

forget all distinctions of person now; unless we do so we can never

succeed."

"But do you think we are more likely to set the King upon his throne,

by making such a brute as that a General? I wonder whom our

Commander-in-Chief will choose next--Foret, I suppose."

After having again consulted for some time, Bonchamps said to

Cathelineau: "I do not think you can do better than name Adolphe Denot."

This was said in a low voice, but Adolphe's ears were not slow to catch

his own name, and he was once more happy. Though he was named last, he

would be equal with the others.

"Not so," said de Lescure, who had no idea that Denot had overheard the

mention of his name, "Adolphe is not yet sufficiently known to the

people; besides we have hitherto forgotten one, who though absent, we

must not forget--one who was the first in the field against the

Republic, who is already at the head of an army, and who has on various

occasions shown himself capable to lead an army. We must not forget

Charette."

The last words were spoken out loud, and though they were eagerly

responded to by every one else, they fell with a heavy sound on Adolphe

Denot's ear. To know that he was excluded after he had been named, to

feel that he had been proposed merely to be rejected; it was more than

he could bear; and as soon as Cathelineau had formally announced the

name of M. Charette as one of their leaders, he started abruptly from

his chair and said:

"Oh, of course, gentlemen, if you prefer Charette, so be it! He,

doubtless will be better able to assist your endeavours than I should;

but you might have spared me the mortification of putting my name on

your list of officers, merely to scratch it off again."

"What matters it, Adolphe," said Larochejaquelin, blushing for his

friend, "will you not share my command? Will not your word be as

influential in the parishes of Chatillon as my own?"

"I sincerely beg your pardon, M. Denot," said Cathelineau, "if I have

hurt your feelings, but you are as much aware as we are that we should

be very wrong to neglect the merits of M. Charette; his achievements

claim from us this distinction, and his power and influence would

probably be lost to La Vendée, if we did not now incorporate his army

with ours."

"I have nothing further to say," said Denot. "I must own I do not

altogether admire the selection which has been made; but I have nothing

further to say on the subject."

"I am sorry, Adolphe, that you have said so much," said de Lescure.

"You would have been apt to say more yourself if you had been passed

over," said Adolphe, forgetting in his passion how he had disgraced

himself before de Lescure at the bridge of Fouchard.

"I fear you misunderstand the purpose, which has collected here in

Saumur so many men in arms," said he. "I fear that you think the

peasants of our country have turned themselves into soldiers, that we

might become generals, and play at being great men. Indeed, such is not

the case; if personal ambition has brought you here, you had better

leave us. We have come here to fight, and very probably to die for our

King and our religion; and, being called upon to act as leaders, we must

bear a heavier share of the burden, and undergo greater perils than

others; but we seek no especial dignity, we look for no other

pre-eminence, than that of suffering more than others. I fear these are

not the feelings that influence you."

"My feelings, Sir, are as pure as your own!" said Denot.

"If so," said Father Jerome, "you had better teach us all to think so,

by taking care that your conduct is also as pure as M. de Lescure's."

"Oh, Father Jerome, do not anger him," said Henri. "Come with me,

Adolphe, and we will quietly talk over this; they don't exactly

understand what you mean yet."

"But they shall understand what I mean," said Denot, whose anger was now

beyond control, "and they shall know that I will not remain here to be

rebuked by a priest, who has thrust himself into affairs with which he

has no concern; or to make myself subservient to men who are not fit to

be my equals. I will not deign to be a common soldier, when such a man

as Stofflet is made an officer."

And he got up from the chair in which he had again seated himself, and

stalked out of the room.

"He has at any rate proved to us," said Bonchamps, "that I was wrong to

nominate him, and that you were right not to accept the nomination."

"I grieve that he should be vexed with me," said Stofflet; "but I did

not seek to put myself above him."

"Time and experience will make him wise," said de Lescure: "let us pity

his folly and forgive it."

The council was then broken up, and the different officers went each to

perform his own duties. When Denot left the room, Henri immediately

followed him.

"Adolphe," said he, as he overtook him in the market-place, "Adolphe,

indeed you are wrong, no one meant to show you any indignity."

"And have you also followed me to tell me I am wrong--of course I am

wrong--I am wrong because I will not submit, as you and Charles do, to

ignorant boors like Stofflet and Cathelineau, because--"

"Like Cathelineau! why, Adolphe, you are mad," said Henri, "why you

yourself voted that Cathelineau should be our General."

"Voted! Why, Henri, what a child you are! Do you call that voting when

all was arranged beforehand? You are blind, I tell you. You will vote

next, I suppose, that your great General's valour shall de rewarded with

your sister's hand!"

"My sister's hand! what is it you are speaking of?"

"Yes, Agatha's hand! think you that when you make a General of such as

him, that his ambition will rest there? if you are content to be

lieutenant to a postillion, I presume you will feel yourself honoured

by a nearer connexion with him."

"Denot, you are raving mad! Cathelineau looking for my sister's hand?"

"Yes, Agatha's hand, the postillion looking for your sister's hand; and,

Sir, you will find that I am not mad. Before long, Cathelineau will look

for Agatha's hand: her heart he has already," and without waiting for

any further answer, he hurried away.

"He must be raving mad," said Henri, "unlucky in love, and thwarted in

ambition, he is unable to bear his griefs like a man. What a phantasy

has jealousy created in his brain But Agatha was right; a man who could

speak of her, even in his madness, as he has now spoken, was not worthy

of her. Cathelineau! were he ten times lower than a postillion by birth,

he would still be twenty times made noble by achievements and by

character, and yet I would not wish--but nonsense! he thinks no more of

wedding Agatha than I of Diana."

CHAPTER III.

RETURN TO DURBELLIÈRE.

When Adolphe Denot left his friend Henri in the street of Saumur, and

ran off from him, Henri was so completely astonished by his parting

words, so utterly dumb-founded by what he said respecting Agatha, that

he made no attempt to follow him, but returned after awhile to the

house, in which he, Charles and Adolphe were lodging, and as he walked

slowly through the streets, he continued saying to himself, "Poor

fellow, he is mad! he is certainly raving mad!"

From that time, no tidings whatsoever were heard of Denot. He had never

returned to his lodging, nor been seen anywhere, except in the stable,

in which his horse had been put to stand--he had himself saddled his

horse, and taken him from the stall, and from that moment nothing

further could be learnt of him in Saumur. De Lescure and Henri made the

most minute inquiries--but in vain; had he destroyed himself, or hid

himself in the town, his horse would certainly have been found; it was

surmised that he had started for Paris on some mad speculation; and

though his friends deeply grieved at his misconduct, his absence, when

they had so much to do and to think of was in itself, felt as a relief.

After remaining about a week in Saumur, the army was disbanded--or

rather disbanded itself, for every effort was made, to keep together as

great a body of men as possible. An attempt was made to garrison the

town; and for this purpose, the leaders undertook to pay about one

thousand men, at a certain rate per day, for their services, while they

remained under arms in Saumur, but the idea, after a very short time,

was abandoned; the men would not stay away from their homes, and in

spite of the comforts which were procured for them, and the pay which

was promised, the garrison very quickly dissolved.

Cathelineau succeeded in taking back with him to St. Florent, nearly all

the men who had accompanied him; his next object was the attack of

Nantes, and as St. Florent is between Saumur and that town, his men were

able to return to their homes, without going much out of their direct

way. He marched through the town of Angers on his return, and took

possession of the stores which he found there, the republican garrison

having fled as soon as they heard of his approach; many of Bonchamps'

men accompanied him, and some of those who had come to Saumur with de

Lescure and Henri Larochejaquelin, young men who had no wives or

families, and who literally preferred the excitement of the campaign,

to their ordinary home employments; all such men joined Cathelineau's

army, but by far the greater number of the peasants of the Bocage

returned with de Lescure and Larochejaquelin.

Charette had been invited to assist Cathelineau in his attack on Nantes,

and he had promised to do so; de Lescure found it absolutely necessary

to go home, on account of his wound, and Larochejaquelin went with him.

They had already heard that the Convention had determined to invade La

Vendée on every side with an overwhelming force, and it was necessary

to protect the Southern portion of the province; this duty was allotted

to our two friends, and they therefore returned home from Saumur,

without expecting to enjoy for any length of time the fruits of their

recent victory.

A litter was formed for de Lescure, for at present he found it

impossible to bear the motion of riding, and Henri, the little

Chevalier, Father Jerome and Chapeau, accompanied him on horseback. Many

of the peasants had started from Saumur, before their party, and the

whole road from that town through Dou and Vihiers to Durbellière, was

thronged with crowds of these successful warriors, returning to their

families, anxious to tell to their wives and sweethearts the feats they

had accomplished.

They were within a league of Durbellière, and had reached a point where

a cross-road led from the one they were on to the village of

Echanbroignes, and at this place many of the cortege, which was now

pretty numerous, turned off towards their own homes.

"M. Henri," said Chapeau, riding up to his master, from among two or

three peasants, who had been walking for some time by his horse's side,

and anxiously talking to him, "M. Henri?"

"Well, Jacques; what is it now?" said Henri.

"I have a favour to ask of Monsieur."

"A favour, Chapeau; I suppose you want to go to Echanbroignes already,

to tell Michael Stein's pretty daughter, of all the gallant things you

did at Saumur."

"Not till I have waited on you and M. de Lescure to the château. Momont

would be dying if he had not some one to give him a true account of what

has been done, and I do not know that any one could give him a much

better history of it, than myself--of course not meaning such as you and

M. de Lescure, who saw more of the fighting than any one else; but then

you know, M. Henri, you will have too much to do, and too much to say

to the Marquis, and to Mademoiselle, to be talking to an old man like

Momont."

"Never fear, Chapeau. You shall have Momont's ears all to yourself; but

what is it you do want?"

"Why, nothing myself exactly, M. Henri; but there are two men from

Echanbroignes here, who wish you to allow them to go on to Durbellière,

and stay a day or two there: they are two of our men, M. Henri; two of

the red scarfs."

"Two of the red scarfs!" said Henri.

"Yes, M. Henri, two of the men who went through the water, and took the

town; we call ourselves red scarfs, just to distinguish ourselves from

the rest of the army: your honour is a red scarf that is the chief of

the red scarfs; and we expect to be especially under your honour's

protection."

"I am a red scarf, Henri;" said the little Chevalier. "There are just

two hundred of us, and we mean to be the most dare-devil set in the

whole army; won't we make the cowardly blues afraid of the Durbellière

red scarfs!"

"And who are the two men, Jacques?" said Henri.

"Jean and Peter Stein," said Jacques: "you see, M. Henri, they ran away

to the battle, just in direct opposition to old Michael's positive

orders. You and the Curé must remember how I pledged my honour that they

should be at Saumur, and so they were: but Michael Stein is an awful

black man to deal with when his back is up: he thinks no more of giving

a clout with his hammer, than another man does of a rap with his five

knuckles."

"But his sons are brave fellows," said the little Chevalier, "and dashed

into the water among the very first. Michael Stein can't but be proud

that his two sons should be both red scarfs: if so, he must be a

republican."

"He is no republican, Chevalier," said Chapeau, "that's quite certain,

nor yet any of the family; but he is a very black man, and when once

angered, not easy to be smoothed down again; and if M. Henri will allow

Jean and Peter to come on to Durbellière, I can, perhaps, manage to go

back with them on Sunday, and Michael Stein will mind me more than he

will them: I can knock into his thick head better than they can do, the

high honour which has befallen the lads, in their chancing to have been

among the red scarfs."

"Well, Chapeau, let them come," said Henri. "No man that followed me

gallantly into Saumur, shall be refused admittance when he wishes to

follow me into Durbellière."

"We were cool enough, weren't we, Henri, when we marched into the town?"

said the Chevalier.

"We'll have a more comfortable reception at the old château," said

Henri; "at any rate, we'll have no more cold water. I must say, Arthur,

I thought the water of that moat had a peculiarly nasty taste."

They were not long in reaching the château, and Henri soon found himself

in his sister's arms. A confused account, first of the utter defeat of

the Vendeans at Varin, and then of their complete victory at Saumur, had

reached Durbellière; and though the former account had made them as

miserable, as the latter had made them happy, neither one nor the other

was entirely believed. De Lescure had sent an express to Clisson

immediately after the taking of the town, and Madame de Lescure had sent

from Clisson to Durbellière; but still it was delightful to have the

good news corroborated by the conquerors themselves, and Agatha was

supremely happy.

"My own dear, darling Henri," she said, clinging round his neck, "my own

brave, gallant brother, and were you not wounded at all--are you sure

you are not wounded?"

"Not a touch, not a scratch, Agatha, as deep as you might give me with

your bodkin."

"Thank God! I thank Him with all my heart and soul: and I know you were

the first everywhere. Charles wrote but a word or too to Victorine, but

he said you were the very first to set your foot in Saumur."

"A mere accident, Agatha; while Charles had all the fighting--the real

hard, up hill, hand to 'hand work--I and a few others walked into

Saumur, or rather we swam in, and took possession of the town. The

Chevalier here was beside me, and was over the breach as soon as I was."

"My brave young Arthur!" said Agatha, in her enthusiasm, kissing the

forehead of the blushing Chevalier, "you have won your spurs like a

knight and a hero; you shall be my knight and my hero. And I will give

you my glove to wear in your cap. But, tell me Arthur, why have you and

Henri, those red handkerchiefs tied round your waist? Chapeau has one

too, and those other men, below there."

"That's our uniform," said Arthur. "We are all red scarfs; all the men

who clambered into Saumur through the water, are to wear red scarfs till

the war is over; and they are to be seen in the front, at every battle,

seige and skirmish. Mind, Agatha, when you see a red scarf, that he is

one of Henri Larochejaquelin's own body-guard; and when you see a bald

pate, it belongs to a skulking republican."

"Are the republicans all bald then?" said Agatha.

"We shaved all we caught at Saumur, at any rate. We did not leave a hair

upon one of them," said Arthur, rejoicing. "The red scarfs are fine

barbers, when a republican wants shaving."

"Is Charles badly wounded?" asked Agatha.

"His arm is broken, and he remained in action for eight hours after

receiving the wound, so that it was difficult to set; but now it is

doing well," said Henri.

"I should have offered him my services before this: at any rate I will

do so now; but Henri I have a thousand things to say to you; do not

expect to go to bed tonight, till you have told me everything just as

it happened," and Agatha hurried away, to give her sweet woman's aid to

her wounded cousin, while Henri went into his father's room.

"Welcome, my hero! welcome, my gallant boy!" said the old man, almost

rising from his chair, cripple as he was, in his anxiety to seize the

hand of his beloved son.

"I have come home, safe, father," said Henri, "to lay my sword at your

feet."

"You must not leave it there long, Henri, I fear, you must not leave it

there long; these traitors are going to devour us alive; to surround us

with their troops and burn us out of house and home; they will

annihilate the people they say, destroy the towns, and root out the very

trees and hedges. We shall see, Henri--we shall see. So they made a bad

fight of it at Saumur?"

"They had two men to one against us, besides the advantage of position,

discipline and arms, and yet they marched the best part of their troops

off in the night without striking a blow."

"Thanks be to the Lord, we will have our King again; we will have our

dear King once more, thanks be to the Almighty," said the old man, eager

with joy. "And they fled, did they, without striking a blow!"

"Some of them did, father; but some fought well enough; it was desperate

sharp work when poor Charles was wounded."

"God bless him! God bless him! I didn't doubt it was sharp work; but

even with valour, or without valour, what could sedition and perjury

avail against truth and loyalty! they were two to one; they had stone

walls and deep rivers to protect them; they had arms and powder, and

steel cuirasses; they had disciplined troops and all the appanages of

war, and yet they were scattered like chaff; driven from their high

walls and deep moats, by a few half-armed peasants; and why? why have

our batons been more deadly than their swords? because we have had truth

and loyalty on our side. Why have our stuff jackets prevailed against

their steel armour; because they covered honest hearts that were

fighting honestly for their King. His Majesty shall enjoy his own again,

my boy. Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi!"

"I trust he may, father; but, as you say, we shall have some hard work

to do first. Cathelineau and Charette will be before Nantes in a week's

time. I should have been with them had we not heard that a strong body

of republican troops is to be stationed at Parthenay. They say that

Santerre is to command a party of Marseillaise, commissioned to

exterminate the Vendeans."

"What, Santerre, the brewer of the Faubourgs?"

"The same, Danton's friend, he who used to be so loud at the Cordeliers;

and Westerman is to assist him," said Henri.

"Worse again, Henri, worse again; was it not he who headed the rebels

on the tenth of August, when our sainted King was driven from his home?"

"Yes, the same Westerman is now to drive us from our homes; or rather

to burn us, our homes, and all together--such at least is the task

allotted to him."

"God help our babes and our women!" said the old Marquis shuddering, "if

they fall into the clutches of Santerre, and that other still blacker

demon!"

"Do not fear, father; have we not shewn that we are men? Santerre will

find that he has better soldiers to meet than any he brings with him."

"Fear, Henri! no, for myself I fear nothing. What injury can they do to

an old man like me? I do not even fear for my own children; if their

lives are required in the King's service, they know how to part with

them in perfect confidence of eternal happiness hereafter; but, Henri,

I do feel for our poor people; they are now full of joy and enthusiasm,

for they are warm from victory, and the grief of the few, who are

weeping for their relatives, is lost in the joy of the multitude. But

this cannot always be so, we cannot expect continual victory, and even

victory itself, when so often repeated, will bring death and desolation

into every parish and into every family."

"I trust, father, the war will not be prolonged so distantly as you seem

to think; the forces of Austria, England and Prussia already surround

the frontiers of France; and we have every reason to hope that friendly

troops from Britain will soon land on our own coast. I trust the autumn

will find La Vendée crowned with glory, but once more at peace."

"God send it, my son!" said the Marquis.

"I do not doubt the glory--but I do doubt the peace."

"We cannot go back now, father," said Henri.

"Nor would I have you do so; we have a duty to do, and though it be

painful we must do it. 'God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb,' and

give us strength to bear our sufferings; but my heart shudders, when I

am told that the Republic has let loose those wolves of Paris to shed

the blood of our poor people."

The prospect of a prolonged civil war, of continued strife, and

increased bloodshed, somewhat damped the joy with which the victory at

Saumur was discussed in the aristocratic portion of the château; but no

such gloomy notions were allowed to interfere with the triumph which

reigned in the kitchen. Here victory was clothed in robes all couleur

de rose, and it appeared that La Vendée, so happy in many other

respects, was chiefly blessed in being surrounded by republicans whom

she could conquer, and in having enemies who gave her the means of

acquiring glory.

"And our own young master was the first royalist who put his foot in

Saumur?" asked Momont, who had already received the information he

required four or five times, and on each occasion had drunk Henri's

health in about half-a-pint of wine.

"Indeed he was," said Chapeau, "the very first. You don't think he'd

have let any one go before him."

"Here's his health then, and God bless him!" said Momont. "It was I

first showed him how to fire a pistol; and very keen he was at taking

to gunpowder."

"Indeed, and indeed he was," said the housekeeper. "When he was no more

than twelve years old, not nigh as big as the little Chevalier, he let

off the big blunderbuss in my bed-room, and I on my knees at prayers the

while. God bless his sweet face, I always knew he'd make a great

soldier."

"And don't you remember," said the laundress, "how he blew up

Mademoiselle Agatha, making her sit on a milk-pan turned over, with a

whole heap of gunpowder stuffed underneath, and she only six or seven

years old?"

"Did he though," said the page, "blow up Mademoiselle Agatha?"

"Indeed he did, and blew every scrap of hair off her head and eyebrows.

It's no wonder he's such a great general."

"And the Chevalier was second, wasn't he?" said the cook.

"Dear little darling fellow!" said the confidential maid; "and to think

of him going to the wars with guns and swords and pistols! If anything

had happened to him I should have cried my eyes out."

"And was the Chevalier the first to follow M. Henri into the town?"

asked the page, who was a year older than Arthur Mondyon, and

consequently felt himself somewhat disgraced at not having been at

Saumur.

"Why," said Jacques, with a look which was intended to shew how

unwilling he was to speak of himself, "I can't exactly say the Chevalier

was the first to follow M. Henri, but if he wasn't the second, he was

certainly the third who entered Saumur."

"Who then was the second?" said one or two at the same time.

"Why, I shouldn't have said anything about it, only you ask me so very

particularly," said Jacques, "but I believe I was second myself; but

Jean Stein can tell you everything; you weren't backward yourself Jean,

there were not more than three or four of them before you and Peter."

"I don't know about that," said Jean, "but we all did the best we could,

I believe."

"And was Chapeau really second?" said Momont, who was becoming jealous

of the distinction likely to be paid to his junior fellow-servant. "You

don't mean to say he went in before all the other gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen, indeed!" said Chapeau. "What an idea you have of taking a

town by storm, if you think men are to stand back to make room for

gentlemen, as though a party were going into dinner."

"But tell us now, Jean Stein," continued Momont, "was Chapeau really

second?"

"Well then," said Jean, "he was certainly second into the water, but he

was so long under it, I doubt whether he was second out--he certainly

did get a regular good ducking did Chapeau. Why, you came out feet

uppermost, Chapeau."

"Feet uppermost!" shouted Momont, "and is that your idea of storming a

town, to go into it feet uppermost?"

"But do you really mean to say that you were absolutely wet through when

you took Saumur?" said the laundress.

"Indeed we were," answered Chapeau, "wringing wet, every man of us."

"Lawks! how uncomfortable," said the cook. "And M. Henri, was he wet

too?"

"Wet, to be sure he was wet as water could make him."

"And the little Chevalier, did he get himself wet?" said the

confidential maid, "poor little fellow! it was like to give him his

death of cold."

"But, Chapeau, tell me truly now: did you kill any of those bloody

republicans with your own hand?" asked the housekeeper.

"Kill them," said Chapeau, "to be sure, I killed them when we were

fighting."

"And how many, Chapeau; how many did you positively kill dead, you

know?" said the confidential maid.

"What nonsense you do talk!" answered he, with a great air of military

knowledge, "as if a man in battle knows when he kills and when he

doesn't. You're not able to look about you in that sort of way in the

middle of the smoke and noise and confusion."

"You don't mean to tell me you ever kill a man without knowing it!" said

the housekeeper.

"You don't understand what a battle is at all," answered Chapeau,

determined to communicate a little of his experience on the matter. "One

hasn't time to look about one to see anything. Now supposing you had

been with us at the taking of Saumur."

"Oh, the Lord forbid!" said the housekeeper. "I'd sooner be in my grave

any day, than go to one of those horrid bloody battles."

"Or you, Momont; supposing you'd been there?"

"Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I look," replied the

butler.

"I'm sure you'd have done well, Momont. I'm sure you'd have done very

well," endeavouring to conciliate him into listening; "but supposing you

had been there, or at the camp of Varin--we'll say Varin, for after

all, we had more fighting there than at Saumur. Supposing you were one

of the attacking party; you find yourself close wedged in between your

two comrades right opposite the trenches; you have a loaded musket in

your hand, with a bayonet fixed to it, and you have five or six rounds

of cartridges in your belt; you know that you are to do your best, or

rather your worst with what you've got. Well, your commander gives the

word of attack. We'll suppose it's the good Cathelineau. 'Friends,' he

will say; 'dear friends; now is the time to prove ourselves men; now is

the moment to prove that we love our King; we will soon shew the

republicans that a few sods of turf are no obstacles in the way of

Vendean royalists,' and then the gallant fellow rushes into the

trenches; two thousand brave men follow him, shouting 'Vive le Roi!' and

you, Momont, are one of the first. All of a sudden, as you are just in

motion, prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush of air

passes close to your face, and nearly blinds you; you feel that you can

hardly breathe, but you hear a groan, and a stumble; your next neighbour

and three men behind him have been sent into eternity by a cannon-ball

from the enemy. Do you think then that the man who fired the cannon

knows, or cares who he has killed? Well, on you go; had you not been in

a crowd, the enemy's fire, maybe, might have frightened you; but good

company makes men brave: on you go, and throw yourself into the trench.

You find a more active man than yourself just above you; he is already

nearly at the top of the bank, his feet are stuck in the sods above your

head; he is about to spring upon the rampart, when the bayonet of a

republican passes through his breast, and he falls at your feet, or

perhaps upon your head. You feel your heart shudder, and your blood runs

cold, but it is no time for pausing now; you could not return if you

would, neither can you remain where you are: up you go, grasping your

musket in one hand and digging the other into the loose sods. Your eyes

and mouth are crammed with dust, your face is bespattered with your

comrade's blood, your ears are full of strange noises; your very nature

changes within you; the smell of gunpowder and of carnage makes you feel

like a beast of prey. You do not think any longer of the friends who

have fallen beside you; you only long to grapple with the enemy who are

before you."

"Oh, mercy me! how very shocking!" said the housekeeper. "Pray don't

go on Chapeau; pray don't, or I shall have such horrid dreams."

"Oh! but you must go on, Chapeau," said the confidential maid, "I could

never bear that you should leave off; it is very horrid, surely; but as

Mademoiselle says, we must learn to look at blood and wounds now, and

hear of them, too."

"Do pray tell us the rest," said the page, who sat listening intently

with his mouth wide open. "I do so like it; pray tell us what Momont did

after he became a beast of prey?"

Chapeau was supremely happy; he felt that his military experience and

his descriptive talents were duly appreciated, and he continued:

"Well, you are now in the camp, on the enemy's ground, and you have to

fight every inch, till you drive them out of it; six or seven of your

comrades are close to you, and you all press on, still grasping your

muskets and pushing your bayonets before you: the enemy make a rush to

drive you back again; on they come against you, by twenties and by

thirties; those who are behind, push forward those who are in front, and

suddenly you find a heavy dragging weight upon your hands, and again you

hear the moans of a dying man close to you--almost in your arms. A

republican soldier has fallen on your bayonet. The struggles of the

wounded man nearly overpower you; you twist and turn and wrench, and

drag your musket to and fro, but it is no use; the weapon is jammed

between his ribs; you have not space nor time to extricate it; you are

obliged to leave it, and on you go unarmed, stumbling over the body of

your fallen enemy. Whether the man dies or lives, whether his wound be

mortal or no, you will never hear. And so you advance, till gradually

you begin to feel, rather than to see, that the blues are retreating

from you. You hear unarmed men asking for quarter, begging for their

lives, and the sound of entreaty again softens your heart; you think of

sparing life, instead of taking it; you embrace your friends as you meet

them here and there; you laugh and sing as you feel that you have done

your best and have conquered; and when you once more become sufficiently

calm to be aware what you are yourself doing, you find that you have a

sword in your hand, or a huge pistol; you know not from whom you took

them, or where you got them, or in what manner you have used them. How

can a man say then, whom he has killed in battle, or whether he has

killed any man? I do not recollect that I ever fired a shot at Varin

myself, and yet my musket was discharged and the pan was up. I will not

say that I ever killed a man; but I will say that I never struck a man

who asked for mercy, or fired a shot even on a republican, who had

thrown down his arms."

Henri's voice was now heard in the hall, loudly calling for Jacques, and

away he ran to join his master, as he finished his history.

"It makes my blood run cold," said the housekeeper, "to think of such

horrid things."

"Chapeau describes it very well, though," said the confidential maid;

"I'm sure he has seen it all himself. I'm sure he's a brave fellow."

"It's not always those who talk the most that are the bravest," said

Momont.

Henri and his sister sat talking that night for a long time, after the

other inhabitants of the château were in bed, and though they had so

many subjects of interest to discuss, their conversation was chiefly

respecting Adolphe Denot.

"I cannot guess what has become of him," said Henri; "I made every

possible inquiry, short of that which might seem to compromise his

character. I do not think he can have returned to the Bocage, or we

should have heard of him."

"He must have gone to Fleury," said Agatha. "I am sure you will not find

that he is at his own house."

"Impossible, my love; we must have heard of him on the way; had he gone

round by Montrenil, he must still have passed over the bridge of

Fouchard, and we should have heard of him there."

"He must have ridden over in the night; you see he so evidently wanted

to conceal from you where he was going."

"My own impression is, that he is gone to Paris," said Henri; "but let

him have gone where he may, of one thing I am sure; he was not in his

right senses when he left the council-room, nor yet when he was speaking

to me in the street; poor Adolphe! I pity him with all my heart. I can

feel how miserable he must be."

"Why should he be miserable, Henri? The truth is, you mistake his

character. I do not wish to make you think ill of your friend; but

Adolphe is one of those men whom adversity will improve. You and our

father have rather spoilt him between you; he is too proud, too apt to

think that everything should bend to his wishes: he has yet to learn

that in this world he must endure to have his dearest wishes thwarted;

and till adversity has taught him that, his feelings will not be manly,

nor his conduct sensible."

"Poor fellow!" said Henri, "if adversity will teach him, he is likely

to get his lesson now. Did he part quietly with you, Agatha, on the day

before we started to Saumur?"

"Anything but quietly," said she. "I would not tell you all he said, for

on the eve of a battle in which you were to fight side by side, I did

not wish to make you angry with your friend and companion: but had a

raging madman, just escaped from his keepers, come to offer me his hand,

his conduct could not have been worse than Adolphe Denot's."

"Was he violent with you, Agatha?"

"He did not offer to strike me, nor yet to touch me, if you mean that:

but he threatened me; and that in such awful sounding, and yet

ridiculous language, that you would hardly know whether to laugh or to

be angry if I could repeat it."

"What did he say, Agatha?"

"Say! it would be impossible for me to tell you; he swung his arms like

a country actor in a village barn, and declared that if he were not

killed at Saumur, he would carry me away in spite of all that my friends

could do to hinder him."

"Poor fellow! poor Adolphe!" said Henri.

"You are not sorry I refused him? You would, indeed, have had to say,

poor Agatha! had I done otherwise."

"I am not sorry that you refused him, but I am sorry you could not love

him."

"Why you say yourself he is mad: would you wish me to love a madman?"

"It is love that has made him mad. Adolphe is not like other men; his

passions are stronger; his feelings more acute; his regrets more

poignant."

"He should control his passions as other men must do," said Agatha: "all

men who do not, are madmen." She remained silent for a few moments, and

then added, "you are right in saying that love has made him mad; but it

is the meanest of all love that has done so--it is self-love."

"I think you are too hard upon him, Agatha; but it is over now, and

cannot be helped."

"What did he say to you, Henri, when he left you in Saurnur?"

"His name had been mentioned you know in the council as one of the

leaders: Bonchamps, I believe, proposed it; but Charles objected, and

named Charette in his place, and Cathelineau and the rest agreed to it.

This angered Adolphe, and no wonder, for he is ambitious, and impatient

of neglect. I wish they would have let him been named instead of me, but

they would not, and when the list was finished, he was not on it. He got

up and said something; I hardly know what, but he complained of Stofflet

being one of the Generals; and then Charles rebuked him, and Adolphe in

a passion left the room."

"And you followed him?" asked Agatha.

"Yes, I followed him; but he was like a raging madman. I don't know how

it was; but instead of complaining about the Generals, he began

complaining about you. I don't know exactly whether I ought to tell you

what he said--indeed I had not intended to have done so."

"Nay, Henri; now you have raised my woman's curiosity, and you

positively must tell me."

"I hardly know how to tell you," said Henri, "for I really forget how

he said it. I don't know on earth how he introduced your name at all;

but he ended in accusing you of having a more favoured lover."

Agatha blushed slightly as she answered:

"He has no right whatever to ask the question; nor if I have a favoured

lover, should it be any ground of complaint to him. But to you, Henri,

if you wish a promise from me on the subject, I will readily and

willingly promise, that I will receive no man's love, and, far as I can

master my own heart, I will myself entertain no passion without your

sanction: and you, dear brother, you shall make me a return for my

confidence; you shall ask me to marry no man whom I cannot love."

"Don't for a moment think, dearest, that what he said, made me uneasy

as regarded you: but whom do you think he selected for you--of whom do

you think he is jealous?"

"I cannot attempt to guess a madman's thoughts, Henri."

"I will tell you then," said he; "but you will be shocked as well as

surprised. He is jealous of Cathelineau!"

"Cathelineau?" said Agatha, blushing now much more deeply than she had

done before.

"Yes, Cathelineau, the postillion."

"No, not Cathelineau the postillion; but Cathelineau the Saint of Anjou,

and the hero of St. Florent, and of Saumur. He at any rate has linked

my name with that of a man worthy of a woman's love."

"Worthy, Agatha, had his birth and early years been different from what

they were."

"Worthy as he is of any woman's love," said Agatha. "Great deeds and

noble conduct make birth of no avail, to give either honour or

disgrace."

"But, Agatha, surely you would not wed Cathelineau, were he to ask you?"

"Why should you ask that question, Henri?" said she: "are the words

which Adolphe Denot has uttered in his wild insanity of such weight, as

to make you regard as possible such an event? Have I not told you I

would wed no one without your sanction? Do you not know that Cathelineau

has never spoken to me but the coldest words of most distant respect?

Do you not know that his heart and soul are intent on other things than

woman's love? I, too, feel that this is not the time for love. While I

live in continual dread that those I most value may fall in battle;

while I fear that every messenger who comes to me in your absence, may

have some fatal news to tell, I do not wish to take upon me a fresh

burden of affection. Am I not best as I am, Henri, at present?" And she

put her arm affectionately through his. "When the wars are over, and the

King is on his throne, you shall bring me home a lover; some brave

friend of your's who has proved himself a gallant knight."

"I would have him be a gallant knight, certainly," said Henri, "but he

should also be a worthy gentleman."

"And is not Cathelineau a worthy gentleman?" forgetting in her

enthusiasm that she was taking the cause of one who was being spoken of

as her lover. "Oh, indeed he is; if valour, honesty, and honour, if

trust in God, and forgetfulness of self, if humanity and generosity

constitute a gentleman, then is Cathelineau the prince of gentlemen: but

do not, pray do not mistake me, Henri: a lover of scenery admires the

tops of distant mountains, and gazes on their snowy peaks with a

pleasure almost amounting to awe; but no one seeks to build his house

on the summit: so do I admire the virtues, the devotion, the courage of

Cathelineau; but my admiration is mixed with no love which would make

me wish to join my lot with his. I only say, that despite his birth and

former low condition, he is worthy of any woman's love."

Henri did not quite like his sister's enthusiasm, though he hardly knew

why it displeased him. He had thought of Cathelineau only as a soldier

and a General, and had found nothing in him that he did not approve of;

but he felt that he could not welcome him as his darling sister's

husband; "if Adolphe should have prophesied rightly," said he, to

himself as he went from his sister's room to his own chamber, "but no!

whatever her feelings may be, she is too good to do anything that would

displease me."

CHAPTER IV.

MICHAEL STEIN.

On the Sunday morning, after Henri's return to Durbellière, Jacques

Chapeau, with Jean and Peter Stein, left the château very early, and

started for Echanbroignes. Word had been sent to the old smith by some

of the neighbours, who had been at Saumur, that his two sons were safe

and sound, and that they had behaved well at the siege, and a message

at the same time reached Annot, informing her that Jacques meant to

spend his next Sunday at the village; the party was therefore expected,

and great preparations were made for a fête at Echanbroignes. The heroes

of that place considered that they had somewhat celebrated themselves;

in the first place, on final inquiry, it appeared, that not one person

from the village, who was at all able to go to Saumur, had neglected to

do so. In the next place, many of the villagers were among the number

of the red scarfs, and they claimed to themselves the privilege of being

considered peculiarly valiant and particularly loyal; and lastly, though

many of them had gone to Saumur, without arms, every man on his return

had a musket with him, which the old men and women regarded as absolute

trophies, taken by each man individually from some awful rebel whom he

had slain in single combat. There were to be great rejoicings,

therefore, at Echanbroignes, which were postponed for the arrival of

Chapeau and the two Stems.

The old smith was very angry at his sons' behaviour. As Chapeau had

said, he was a very black man, and when he was angered, it wasn't easy

to smooth him; the operation, however, was attempted by some of his

neighbours, and though they were not altogether successful, they

succeeded in making the old man a little proud of his family.

"Yes, Paul Rouel;" he said to the village innkeeper, who was an ancient

crony of his, "it's very well to talk of King and Church; but if King

and Church are to teach sons to fly against their fathers, we may, I

think, have a little too much of them; didn't I again and again tell the

boys not to go?"

"But, Michael Stein, how could you expect them to stay here, with a

score of old men like us, and a number of women and girls, when every

young fellow in the parish had gone to the wars? besides, they say, they

did gallantly at the wars, and gained great honour and glory."

"Gained a great fiddle-stick," said the smith.

"But, Michael Stein," said another old friend, named Gobelin, "you

wouldn't have your children disgraced, would you? think how sheepish

they would have looked, hiding themselves in the smithy here, when all

the other young men were parading round the green with the guns and

swords they have taken from the rebels, and the women and girls all

admiring them. Why, neighbour, not a girl in the parish would have

spoken to them."

"Girls spoken to them, indeed! I tell you, Gobelin, in the times now

coming, any girl will be ready enough to speak to a young man that has

a house over his head, and a five-franc piece in his pocket. No,

neighbour Gobelin; I gave my boys a good trade, and desired them to

stick to it; they have chosen instead to go for soldiers, and for

soldiers they may go. They don't come into my smithy again, that's all."

"You don't mean you won't speak to the lads, and after their fighting

so bravely and all!" said Paul Rouel, in a voice of horror.

"I didn't say I wouldn't speak to them, Rouel," said the father, "I am

as fond of my sons as another man; and as they were resolved to disobey

my commands, and to go fighting, why I'll not say but I'm glad they

didn't disgrace themselves. I'd have been sorry to hear that they'd run

away, or been the last to face the enemy; but they had no right to go,

when there was work for them to do at home; they are welcome now to come

and take the best I can give them, till their new trade calls them away

again, and then they'll be welcome to go soldiering again; not a hammer

shall they raise on my anvil, not a blast shall they blow in my smithy,

not an ounce of iron shall they turn in my furnace."

"You'll think better of these things after a day or two, neighbour,"

said Gobelin.

"When I think once about a thing, Gobelin, I'm not much given to think

again. But I tell you, I wish the boys no harm; let them be soldiers

now, and I pray God they may be good soldiers; only, if I save a little

money by hard work, I won't have them spend it among their comrades in

strong drink; it'll be all the better for Annot, when I die, that's

all."

In this resolution he remained fixed, and in this frame of mind he

received his truant sons on their return to Echanbroignes on the Sunday

morning. They entered the village together with Chapeau, about nine in

the morning, having been met about a mile from the town, by four or five

friends, who escorted them back. Annot was not there, for she was very

busy at home, preparing breakfast for her brothers and lover. She at any

rate was determined that the prodigal sons should be received with a

fatted calf.

Chapeau marched up through the village at the head of the little

procession to bear the brunt of the father's anger, as his station in

life, and standing in the army made him feel superior even to the fury

of old Michael Stein. As they approached the door of the smith's house,

they saw him sitting in the little porch with a pipe in his mouth, for

Michael was never found without one or two implements; he had always

either his hammer or his pipe in lull activity.

"Welcome back to Echanbroignes, M. Chapeau, welcome back," said the old

man. "I am heartily glad to see so brave a soldier in my poor cabin!"

and he gave his hand to Jacques.

"And here be two other brave soldiers, Michael Stein, who, I hope, are

also welcome to Echanbroignes; and this I will say, any father in Poitou

might be proud to own them for his Sons: for gallanter fellows there are

not in the whole army of La Vendée, and that is saying a long word."

There was a little crowd round the smith's house, and in spite of his

unmilitary predilections, he could not help feeling proud at the public

testimony that was paid to his sons' merits: he showed this by the tear

that stood in his eye, as he said:

"They are welcome too, M. Chapeau; they are very welcome too. I am glad

to see ye, safe and sound from the wars, lads. I am glad to see thee,

Jean: I am glad to see thee, Peter," and he gave a hand to each of the

two young men, who were delighted with their unexpected kind reception.

"And this I will say before the neighbours here, as ye would go to the

wars, and make soldiers of yourselves, I am well pleased to hear ye

behaved yourselves like gallant brave men should do. I'd sooner that

your friends should have had to tell me that ye were both stiff and

cold, than that ye should have returned yourselves with shamed faces to

own that ye had disgraced the trade ye have chosen to take up with."

"Bravo! Bravo!" said Chapeau, "I am glad in my heart, Michael Stein, to

hear you speak so kindly to the lads; and so will M. Henri be glad to

hear it, for they are two of his own especial troop--they are two of the

gallant red scarfs, who swam into Saumur with their muskets tucked under

their arms."

"But understand me, boys," continued the smith, still speaking so that

the neighbours standing round could hear him. "I am right glad to see

both of you, as I am to see M. Chapeau, or any other gallant friend who

is kind enough to visit me and Annot. But mind, it is as visitors I

receive you; in a few days, doubtless, you must go away to the wars

again; till then ye shall have the best I can give, both to eat and to

drink. Ye shall have your own way, and never be asked to do a turn of

work. Ye shall have gay holyday times, and holyday fare, and anything

the old man can do, and anything the old man can give to make you merry,

he will do, and he will give, because you have come back gallantly, and

have not brought dishonour to the roost where ye were hatched--but more

than this I will not agree to. Ye would not abide at home, as I desired,

and this therefore is no longer a home for you; ye would not be content

to be forgers of weapons, but ye must e'en use them too, and ye have had

your way. Now, lads, I must have my way; and for the rest of the time

I must have it alone. This is no longer your home, lads, and I am no

longer your master. Ye would be soldiers when I did not wish it; now let

ye be soldiers, and I'm the less sorry for it, as it seems like that

you'll prove good soldiers. And now, Peter and Jean, you're welcome both

of you. Jacques Chapeau you are most heartily welcome--come Annot, let

the lads have a swinging breakfast, for I know these soldiers fight not

well unless they be fed well," and so finishing his speech, he led the

way into the cottage.

The three men were too well pleased with their reception to grumble at

the smith's mode of expressing his feeling. Jean and Peter were

delighted to find that they were to be entertained with the best their

father could afford, instead of with black looks and hard words, and

that the only punishment to be immediately inflicted on them, was that

they were to do no work; the party, therefore, entered the cottage

tolerably well pleased with each other.

It is not to be supposed that Annot remained in the back-ground during

the whole of her father's oration. She had come out of the cottage, and

kissed her two brothers, and shaken hands with her lover; she then

returned in again, and Chapeau had followed her, and as the two were

left alone together, for a minute or two, I think it very probable that

she kissed him also; but I cannot speak positively on this point.

Then they all sat down to breakfast, and Paul Rouel and old Gobelin, who

had contrived to be of the party, were greatly surprised to hear and to

see how civil Michael was to his sons. He pressed them to eat of the

very best, as he did to Chapeau, and talked to them about the war,

listened to all their tales, and had altogether lost the domineering

authoritative tone of voice, with which he usually addressed his own

family; it was only in talking to Annot that he was the same

hot-tempered old man as ever. The two young men themselves were hardly

at their ease; but they eat their breakfast, and made the best they

could of it.

"Smothered fire burns longest, neighbour Gobelin," said Rouel, as he

left the house. "Take my word, Michael will never forgive those two boys

of his the longest day he has to live."

After breakfast, Michael Stein and his whole party went to mass, as did

all the soldier peasants, who had returned from Saumur; and the old Curé

of the parish, who had now recovered possession of his own church, with

much solemnity returned thanks to God for the great victory which the

Vendeans had gained, and sung a requiem for the souls of the royalists

who had fallen in the battle. When they left the church, the peasants

all formed themselves into a procession, the girls going first, and the

men following them; and in this manner they paraded round the green,

carrying a huge white flag, which had been embroidered in the village,

and which bore in its centre, in conspicuous letters of gold, those

three words, the loyal Shibboleth of La Vendée, "Vive le Roi!"

This flag they fixed on a pole erected in the centre of the green, and

then they set to work to amuse themselves with twenty different games.

The games, however, did not flourish--the men were too eager to talk of

what they had done, and the girls were too willing to listen--they

divided themselves into fifty little parties, in which fifty different

accounts were given of the taking of Saumur, and in each party three or

four different warriors were named as having been the most conspicuous

heroes of the siege. Each narrator had some especially esteemed leader

or chief, who in his eyes greatly exceeded the other leaders, and the

prodigious feats of valour performed by this favoured warrior was the

first and most wonderful subject of discourse. Then, but at a modest

distance, as regards the glory of the achievements related, each peasant

told what he had done himself; two or three probably made out their

little history together, and told of each other's valour: that homely

and somewhat vulgar Scotch proverb, "you scratch my back, and I'll

scratch yours," was certainly unknown to them, but nevertheless they

fully recognized the wise principle of mutual accommodation which that

proverb teaches.

"It's no use talking, but there isn't one of them able to hold a candle

to our M. Henri--is there, Louis? that is, for a downright thundering

attack."

This was said by Jean Stein to two or three of the village girls, by

whom he was looked on as a great hero, in consequence of his having gone

to the war in spite of his father's commands, as well as on account of

Chapeau's honourable testimony in his favour; and the man referred to,

was one Louis Bourdin, who, as well as Jean, had been of the party who

followed Henri through the moat.

"That there is not, Jean; that is, for positive standup fighting; not

one. And we ought to know, for we have seen most of 'em. There's

Cathelineau is a very good man at leading on the men."

"Oh, yes!" said Jean, "Cathelineau is a fine fellow too, and a very

holy man; but somehow I don't think he's quite so forward as M. Henri.

M. Henri is always the first."

"But doesn't he get dreadfully knocked about by the guns and bullets?"

asked one of the girls.

"He doesn't matter that a pinch of snuff," said Louis.

"No, not a pinch of snuff," said Jean. "Do you mind, Louis, how he leapt

off his horse, and dashed through the trenches, that first night at

Varin? wasn't it beautiful?"

"You may say that, Jean," answered Louis; "it was beautiful. And what

a night that was--you were along with him, Jean, and so was Chapeau. M.

Henri was up first, I can swear to that; but it would puzzle any one to

say who was second."

"Yourself Louis, was as quick as any one--I marked you well. Indeed

then, said I to myself, if all our men are as forward as Louis Bourdin,

the village will have a great name before the war is over."

"But tell me truly now, Louis Bourdin," said a little girl, who was

listening intently all the time, "when you went up into that place, were

there real soldiers in armour, with guns and cannon firing at you all

the time?"

"Truly then there were, Lolotte, hundreds of them," said Bourdin.

"Well, that is horrible!" said the girls all at once.

"And do you remember, Jean," continued Bourdin, "when M. Henri dashed

down again, how the traitor rebels hallooed out, 'Fire upon the red

scarf!' Well, I did think it was all up with him then. You were close

to him, Jean; nearer than I am to Lolotte now."

"And that's quite near enough," said Lolotte, giving him a push.

"Why I'm sure I was doing nothing; I was only wanting to show you. Jean

Stein there, was, as I was saying, quite close to M. Henri; and as they

leapt out of the camp together, twenty voices roared out at once, 'Fire

upon the red scarf! fire upon the red scarf!' Oh! that was a fearful

evening; it was dark then, and the light of the smoking, glaring torches

made it five times more horrible. I thought we were as good as dead men

then. I'm sure I for one can't guess how we ever got out alive."

"And yet, M. Henri wasn't wounded," said Jean; "well it was wonderful.

After all, General d'Elbée must be right; Providence must give a shake

to a rebel's arm, just as he's firing, so as to send his bullet anywhere

but where it's meant to go."

"Yes," said Bourdin, "and it directs the shot of a royalist right into

a rebel's heart."

"Well, if that be so," said Lolotte, "I'm sure I for one wouldn't like

to fight on the rebel's side. They must be wonderful brave men to hold

out at all, when Providence goes against them in that way."

"But they don't hold out, girl," said Jean, "they always run away; how

they did run, Bourdin, when M. Henri led us into the town, through the

broken wall; well, I believe they all thought at that time, the devil

himself was coming for them out of the moat."

"Only think, girls, three or four thousand men running away as fast as

their feet could carry them, from two hundred fellows, who hadn't a

charge of dry powder among them, and who were all themselves dripping

wet through; well that was fine."

Jacques Chapeau and Annot Stein had not joined any of these parties;

they had disappeared soon after mass, and were not heard of for three

or four hours afterwards; they took a long ramble by themselves, down

by the mill-stream, and far beyond the mill; sitting down, every now and

then among the willows, and then getting up and strolling on a bit

further; they did not, this day, waste their time in foolish quarrels

and fond reconciliations; but discoursed together, sundry serious

matters of important business, as becomes people to do, when they think

of arranging a partnership concern, from which each intends to get a

comfortable means of living for the remainder of his or her life; upon

the whole, they had but very few subjects of difference, and by their

return to the smith's house at supper-time, they had fully agreed that

no further time ought to be lost, in establishing a firm under the name

of Jacques and Annot Chapeau and Co. The Co. being left to come

afterwards or not, as God might please.

After supper was over, Annot had no difficulty in inducing her brothers

to leave the house, and thus the coast was left clear for Jacques to ask

the father's consent to his intended marriage. Neither he nor Annot

expected much difficulty in persuading Michael to accept of so promising

a son-in-law; but they were both determined that if they could not marry

with his consent, they would do so without it. So Chapeau lighted his

pipe, and sat himself down opposite the smith, and Annot retired to her

own little sleeping chamber, where she might conveniently hear what her

father and lover said to each other, respecting her intended nuptials.

"Well, Michael Stein, my old friend," said Jacques; "these are glorious

times, are they not? The rebels beaten hollow, till they haven't a face

to shew for themselves, and the King coming to La Vendée, to enjoy his

own again; it will be a fine thing to see the King riding into the

village of Echanbroignes to thank the gallant peasants, with his own

mouth, for what they have done for him!"

"Yes, M. Chapeau! those will be fine times when they come; pray God you,

and other young fellows like you, may live to see them; an old fellow

like me has little chance of such happiness."

"And why not, my friend? what is to make those days so far off? I tell

you, Michael Stein, the rebels were dead beaten at Saumur; they are

scattered like chaff; their very best soldiers are altogether hors de

combat; the war is as good as over. We may have to make a little trip

or two, just to receive the English, who are coming to help us; we may

have to go and meet them on the coast; or perhaps to Parthenay, to ask

M. Santerre what he wants in that part of the world; but that is all,

literally all; I tell you the rebels are clean beaten."

"I only wonder then, M. Chapeau, why you want the English to come and

help you, if, as you say, you have conquered all the republicans

yourselves?"

"Just to pay their respects to the King, and, perhaps, to lend us a hand

in driving those Jacobins out of Paris--that's all. Till that's done the

King is to live at Saumur."

"To live at Saumur, is he?"

"That's what those say who know most about it, and you know I'm in the

way to know what's really going forward. He's to hold his court at

Saumur, and Henri Larochejaquelin is to be commandant of the town, and

have the command of all the forces there. I tell you, Michael Stein, we,

that wear the red scarfs, will not be the worse off then."

"I hope not; in truth, M. Chapeau, I hope not; though they do say that

they be not wise who put their trust in princes."

"Princes!" said Jacques, "I am not talking of princes, I am talking of

the King himself, God bless him!"

"Well, perhaps, that does make a difference; and I say, God bless him

too, with all my heart."

"I suppose you've heard, Michael Stein, that our young General, M.

Henri, is going to be married?"

"Is he then?" said Michael. "No, truly, I did not hear a word of such

a matter; to some grand lady of the court, I suppose?"

"No, but to his own beautiful young cousin, Mademoiselle de Lescure, the

sister of our other General, you know."

"Well, may they be happy, both of them; I mind their fathers well; the

old Marquis is still alive, but greatly ailing they tell me. I have much

to be thankful for, and I do thank the Lord!" and as he spoke, Michael

Stein crossed himself. "Now, I'm as old in a manner as the Marquis

himself and yet you see I can still make the big hammer clink on the

anvil."

"Indeed you can, Michael, and better too than many a young fellow. But,

as we were saying, here is M. Henri going to be married, and his lady

will surely be wanting some nice, tidy, handy, good-looking, smart young

woman to be about her, more as a sort of a companion, you know, than a

servant; in the same way, you mind, as I am now to M. Henri: now,

wouldn't that be a nice berth for your daughter, Annot Stein?"

As Chapeau described the nice, tidy, smart, pretty young woman, that the

future Madame de Larochejaquelin would be sure to require, Annot

smoothed down her little apron with both her hands, gave a complaisant

glance at her own neat little feet, and her bright holiday shoes, and

then listened eagerly for her father's answer.

"I am sure, M. Chapeau, that Annot Stein is very thankful for your good

wishes," said he, "and so is her father, very thankful; but she has not

court-breeding enough for that sort of work; she has never learnt to

speak smooth, and say pretty little flattering sayings, such as ladies

like to hear. Nor when Madame would be out of sorts and ruffled, as

great ladies will be sometimes, would she know how to say the right

word just at the right time; and then Annot has too much of her father's

rough blood, and if Madame scolded at all, it's ten chances to one, but

she would scold again, and that, you know, wouldn't do. No, M. Chapeau,

Annot had better remain as she is, and keep her father's house, till she

marries some honest tradesman, like myself, when these deadly wars be

over."

"Well, but my dear friend," said Chapeau, "I had another little

proposition I wanted to make, which would fit in so well with what I

suggested; and I can assure you Madame Henri, that is Mademoiselle de

Lescure as she is now, you know, is the softest, sweetest-tempered

creature living--she wouldn't quarrel with any one, much less with such

a little angel as your daughter."

"I'm sure," said Michael, making a low bow to his guest, and pressing

the handle of his pipe to his breast. "I'm sure my daughter will be

very thankful for the great interest you take respecting her."

"But as I was saying, you know, about this other little proposition of

mine?"

"Well, M. Chapeau, I'm listening with all my ears, and very thankful for

your kind friendship."

"You see," said Jacques, "M. Henri is going to change his condition;

we've both been young fellows together; we've had our amusements and our

pleasures like other young men, and, maybe, been as fortunate as most.

Well, my friend, M. Henri is going to settle down, and marry the girl

of his heart, whom he loves better than all the world; and what can I

do better than follow his example? The truth is, I mean to settle down

too, Michael Stein."

"Well," said Michael, scratching his head, and listening for the

remainder of Chapeau's little proposition.

"And I want to marry the girl of my heart, whom I love better than all

the world, and her name is Annot Stein, and there's an end of it; and

now you know all about it."

Annot's heart beat quickly as she heard him make the last important

declaration; and beautifully she thought he made it. When Chapeau called

her a little angel, she swore to herself that he was the dearest fellow

that ever lived and when he finished by protesting that she was the girl

of his heart, and that he loved her better than all the world, she

longed to run out and throw her arms about his neck.

Michael Stein took a long pull at his pipe, and blew out a huge cloud

of tobacco before he made any answer, and then he said:

"M. Chapeau, I am sensible how great an honour you propose to do me and

my poor daughter; but I am not a proud man, no one can say that Michael

Stein was ever proud or ambitious; my only wish is to see my little girl

married to a decent hard-working fellow, like her father."

"Well, ain't I a hard-working fellow?"

"Let me look at your hands, M. Chapeau; the inside of your hands. No,

you are not a hard-working fellow; your hand is as soft as a lady's."

"What signifies my hand? I shan't make a worse husband, shall I, because

my hand is not as horny as your own."

"No, but a hard-fisted fellow is the only man that will suit my

daughter."

"But, Michael Stein, she herself thinks--"

"Who ever heard of asking a girl what she thinks herself? Of course

she'd sooner be a fine lady, and spend her time walking about a big

chateau than be milking cows and minding goats."

"But won't she be earning her living and her wages honestly?"

"Wages! I don't like those sort of wages, M. Chapeau. I don't mean to

say anything uncivil, and I hope you won't take it amiss, but there are

two trades I don't fancy for my children: the one is that of a soldier,

the other that of a great man's servant."

"Gracious me, Michael Stein! why I'm both," said Chapeau, rather

offended.

"I beg your pardon again and again, and I really mean no offence: clown

as I am, I hope I know better than to say anything to hurt my own guest

in my own house."

Chapeau assured him he was not offended, and begged to know why the old

man objected to see his children become soldiers or servants.

"They've no liberty," said Michael, "though they usually take a deal too

much licence. They never are allowed to call their time their own,

though they often misuse the time that ought to belong to other people."

For a long time Chapeau combatted such arguments as these, but without

avail; the smith declared that now, as his two sons had become soldiers,

it would break his heart if his daughter also were to marry one. He

assured Jacques, with tears running down his rough cheeks, that he could

not bring himself to give his daughter his blessing, if she left his

house without his leave to marry a soldier. He declared that he also

loved her better than all the world, and that he could not bear to part

with her; and his tears and kindly words had such an effect upon Annot,

that she could not restrain herself: she burst into tears herself and

running out of her little room, threw herself into her father's arms.

"Get up, thou simpleton; get up, thou little fool," said he. "Why,

Annot, what ails thee?"

"Oh, father! dear father!" said she.

"Get up then, Annot, and I'll speak to thee. I never saw thee in this

way before."

"Oh, father!" she said, sobbing violently, "do you love your poor

daughter so very, very much?"

"Love you, Annot! why yes, I do love you. If you'll be a good girl, that

is, I will love you."

"I will be a good girl, dear father; indeed I'll be a good girl; at any

rate I'll try. But then--" and she stood up, and commenced wiping her

eyes with her little apron.

"Well, what then, Annot?" said the smith.

"But then--I wouldn't anger you, father, for all the world; indeed I

wouldn't, for you always are so good to me, and I know I don't deserve

it," and poor Annot continued sobbing and rubbing her eyes with her

apron.

"Nonsense, girl, nonsense!" said Michael; "I don't find any fault with

you. Don't think of getting yourself married till these wars be over,

that's all," and he kissed her forehead, and patted her cheek as though

all the difficulty were over.

"But, father--?" continued Annot, with her apron still to her face.

"Well, child, what is it? By the blessed mass, M. Chapeau, I don't know

what the girl's crying for."

"Do you love your own little Annot so very, very much?" said she, and

she put her soft arm round his rough neck, and placed her cheek quite

close to his.

"There, Annot; why what nonsense, girl! Don't you know I love you?

didn't you hear me say so this minute? Leave off, will you, you little

slut! why, what will M. Chapeau think of us? Well, I declare she's

crying still!"

"But if you really, really love me, father--"

"Bother the girl! she knows I love her better than anything else; God

forgive me."

"If you really love me," repeated Annot, nestling her head in her

father's bosom, "you must, you must, you must--do something that I'll

ask you, father."

"And what is it, child? I doubt much it's nonsense."

"You must love Jacques Chapeau too, father," and having uttered these

important words, Annot clung fast to her father's arms, as if she feared

he was going to throw her off, and sobbed and cried as though her heart

were breaking.

The battle between the contending factions, namely, the father on one

side, and the daughter with her lover on the other, was prolonged for

a considerable time, but the success was altogether with Annot. Chapeau

would have had no chance himself against the hard, dry, common sense of

the smith; but Annot made her appearance just at the right moment,

before the father had irrevocably pledged himself, and the old man was

obliged to succumb; he couldn't bring himself to refuse his daughter

when she was lying on his bosom and appealing to his love; so at last

he gave way entirely, and promised that he would love Jacques Chapeau

also; and then Chapeau, he also cried; and, I shudder as I write it, he

also kissed the tough, bronzed, old wiry smith, and promised that he

would be a good husband and son-in-law.

As soon as Annot had got her wish, and had heard Jacques received as her

betrothed husband, she also was wonderfully dutiful and affectionate.

She declared that she didn't want to be married till the wars were

nearly over, and the country was a little more quiet; that she would

never go away and leave her father altogether, and that if ever she did

go and live at Durbellière, she would certainly make an agreement with

her master and mistress that she should be allowed to walk over to eat

her dinner with her father every Sunday.

As soon as the smith found himself completely conquered, he resigned

himself to his fate, and became exceedingly happy and good-humoured. He

shook Chapeau's hand fifty times, till he had nearly squeezed it off.

He sent to the inn for two bottles of the very best wine that was to be

had; he made Annot prepare a second supper, and that not of simple bread

and cheese, but of poached eggs and fried bacon, and then he did all

that he possibly could to make Chapeau tipsy, and in the attempt he got

very drunk himself, and so the day ended happily for them all.

CHAPTER V.

THE HOSPITAL OF ST. LAURENT.

De Lescure only remained three days at Durbellière, and then started

again for his own house at Clisson, and Henri accompanied him. They had

both been occupied during these three days in making such accommodation

as was in their power for the sick and wounded, who were brought back

into the Bocage in considerable numbers from Saumur. The safe and sound

and whole of limb travelled faster than those who had lost arms and legs

in the trenches at Varin, or who had received cuts and slashes and

broken ribs at the bridge of Fouchard, and therefore the good news was

first received in the Bocage; but those miserable accompaniments of

victory, low tumbrils, laden with groaning sufferers lying on straw,

slowly moving carts, every motion of which opened anew the wounds of

their wretched occupants, and every species of vehicle as could be

collected through the country, crammed with the wounded and the dying,

and some even with the dead, were not long in following the triumphal

return of the victorious peasants.

A kind of hospital was immediately opened at a little town called St.

Laurent sur Sèvre, about two leagues from Durbellière, at which a

convent of sisters of mercy had long been established. De Lescure and

Larochejaquelin between them supplied the means, and the sisters of the

establishment cheerfully gave their time, their skill, and tenderest

attention to assuage the miseries of their suffering countrymen. Agatha

knew the superior of the convent well, and assisted in all the necessary

preparations. She was there when the hospital was first opened, and for

a long time afterwards visited it once or twice a week, on which

occasions she stayed for the night in the convent; had it not been that

she could not bring herself to leave her father, she would have remained

there altogether, as long as the war continued to supply the little

wards with suffering patients. They were seldom, or rather never, empty

as long as the Vendeans kept their position in the country, the sick and

the wounded were nursed with the tenderest care at St. Laurent. The

sisters who had commenced the task never remitted their zeal, nor did

Agatha Larochejaquelin. The wards were by degrees increased in number,

the building was enlarged, surgical skill was procured, every necessary

for a hospital was obtained, whatever might be the cost, and whatever

the risk; till at last, in spite of the difficulties which had to be

encountered, the dangers which surrounded them, the slenderness of their

means, and the always increasing number of their patients, the hospital

of St. Laurent might have rivalled the cleanliness, care, and comfort

of the Hotel Dieu in its present perfection.

As soon as the first arrangements for the commencement of this hospital

had been made, de Lescure and Henri went to Clisson. It may easily be

supposed that de Lescure was anxious to see his wife, and that she was

more than anxious to see him. Henri also was not sorry to hear the

praises of his valour sung by the sweet lips of Marie. He stayed one

short happy week at Clisson, basking in the smiles of beauty, and they

were the last hours of tranquillity that any of the party were destined

to enjoy for many a long sad day. De Lescure's recovery was neither slow

nor painful, and before the week was over, he was able to sit out on the

lawn before the château, with one arm in a sling, and the other round

his wife's waist, watching the setting of the sun, and listening to the

thrushes and nightingales. Every now and again he would talk of the

future battles to be fought, and of the enemies to be conquered, and of

the dangers to be encountered; but he did not speak so sadly of the

prospects of his party as he did when he had only just determined to

take up arms with the Vendeans. The taking of Thouars, and Fontenay, of

Montreuil, and Saumur, had inspirited even him, and almost taught him

to believe that La Vendée would be ultimately successful in

re-establishing the throne.

De Lescure was delighted to see what he thought was a growing attachment

between his sister and his friend. Had he had the power of choosing a

husband for Marie out of all France, he would have chosen Henri

Larochejaquelin: he loved him already as he could only love a brother,

and he knew that he had all those qualities which would most tend to

make a woman happy.

"Oh, if these wars were but over," said he to his wife, "how I would

rejoice to give her to him, he is such a brave and gallant fellow--but

as tender-hearted and kind as he is brave!"

"These weary, weary wars!" said Madame de Lescure, with a sigh, "would

they were over: would, with all my heart, they had never been begun. How

well does the devil do his work on earth, when he is able to drive the

purest, the most high-minded, the best of God's creatures to war and

bloodshed as the only means of securing to themselves the liberty of

worshipping their Saviour and honouring their King!"

Henri himself, however, had not considered the propriety of waiting

until the wars were over before he took a wife for himself, or at any

rate before he asked the consent of the lady's friends: for the day

before he left Clisson, he determined to speak to Charles on the

subject; though he had long known Marie so well, and had now been

staying a week in the house, he had never yet told her that he loved

her. It was the custom of the age and the country for a lover first to

consult the friends of the young lady, and though the peculiar

circumstances of his position might have emboldened Henri to dispense

with such a practice, he was the last man in the world to take advantage

of his situation.

"Charles," said he, the evening before his departure, as he stood close

to the garden seat, on which his cousin was sitting, and amused himself

with pitching stones into the river, which ran beneath the lawn at

Clisson. "Charles, I shall be off tomorrow; I almost envy you the broken

arm which keeps you here."

"It won't keep me long now, Henri," said he; "I shall be at Chatillon

in a week's time, unless you and d'Elbée have moved to Parthenay before

that. Cathelineau will by that time be master of Nantes, that is, if he

is ever to be master of it."

"Don't doubt it, Charles. I do not the least: think of all Charette's

army. I would wager my sword to a case-dagger, that Nantes is in his

hands this minute."

"We cannot always have the luck we had at Saumur, Henri?"

"No," said Henri, "nor can we always have a de Lescure to knock down for

us the gates of the republicans."

"Nor yet a Larochejaquelin to force his way through the breach," said

the other.

"Now we are even," said Henri, laughing; "but really, without joking,

I feel confident that the white flag is floating at this moment on the

castle at Nantes; but it is not of that, Charles, that I wish to speak

now. You have always been an elder brother to me. We have always been

like brothers, have we not?"

"Thank God, we have, Henri! and I do not think it likely that we shall

ever be more distant to each other."

"No, that I'm sure we never shall. You are too good either to quarrel

yourself, or to let me quarrel with you; but though we never can be more

distant, we may yet be more near to each other. You know what I mean,

Charles?"

"I believe I do," said de Lescure; "but why do you not speak out? You

are not likely, I think, to say or to propose anything that we shall not

approve of--that is, Victorine and I."

"God bless you both!" said Henri. "You are too kind to me; but can you

consent to give me your own dear favourite sister--your sweet Marie? You

know what I mean in saying that I would be nearer to you."

De Lescure was in the act of answering his cousin, when the quick fall

of a horse's foot was heard in the avenue close to the house, and then

there was a sudden pause as the brute was pulled up violently in the

yard of the château, and the eager voices of domestics answering the

rapid questions of the man who had alighted.

Interested as the two friends were in their conversation, the times were

too full of important matters to allow of their remaining quiet, after

having heard such tokens of a hurried messenger. Larochejaqnelin ran off

to the yard of the château, and de Lescure followed him as quickly as

his wounded arm would allow.

Henri had hardly got off the lawn, when he met a couple of servants

coming from the yard, and between them a man booted, spurred, and armed,

covered with dust and spattered with foam, whom he at once recognized

as Foret, the friend and townsman of Cathelineau.

"What news, Foret, what news?" said Henri, rushing up to him, and

seizing him by the hand. "Pray God you bring with you good tidings."

"The worst news that ever weighed heavy on a poor man's tongue, M.

Henri," said Foret, sorrowfully.

"Cathelineau is not dead?" said Henri, but the tone of his inquiry

shewed plainly how much he feared what the reply would be.

"He was not dead," answered Foret, "when I left him five leagues on this

side Nantes, but he had not many days to live."

The two had turned back over the lawn, and now met de Lescure, as he

hastened to join them.

"Cathelineau," said Henri, "is mortally wounded! Victory will have been

bought too dear at such a price; but I know not yet even whether the

Vendeans have been victorious."

"They have not--they have not," said Foret. "How could they be

victorious when their great General had fallen?"

"Mortally wounded! Oh, Foret, you are indeed a messenger of evil," said

de Lescure, giving him his hand.

"Yes, mortally wounded," said Foret. "I fear before this he may have

ceased to breathe. I left him, gentlemen, a few leagues this side

Nantes, and at his own request hurried on to tell you these sad tidings.

Oh, M. de Lescure, our cause has had a heavy blow at Nantes, and yet at

one time we had almost beaten them; but when the peasants saw

Cathelineau fall, they would fight no longer."

"Where is he?" said Henri, "that is if he still lives."

"I crossed the river with him," answered Foret, "and brought him on as

far as Remouille. He wished to be carried to the hospital you have

opened at St. Laurent, and unless he has died since I left him, he is

there now. I hurried on by Montacué and Tiffauges to St. Laurent; and

there, M. Henri, I saw Mademoiselle Agatha, and told her what had

happened. If there be an angel upon earth she is one! When I told her

that the good Cathelineau was dying, every shade of colour left her

beautiful cheek; she became as pale as marble, and crossed her hands

upon her bosom; she spoke to me not a word, nor did I look for reply,

for I knew that in her heart she was praying that his soul might be

taken up to heaven."

Henri at that moment remembered the enthusiastic declaration of his

sister, that Cathelineau, despite his birth, was worthy of any woman's

love, and he did not begrudge her the only means which now remained to

her of proving her devotion to the character she had admired.

"I told her," continued Foret, "that if he lived so long, Cathelineau

would reach the hospital on the following day, and then I hurried on to

you. She told me I should find you here. It was then dark, but I reached

Chatillon that night, for they sent a guide with me from St. Laurent.

I left Chatillon again at the break of day, and have not lost much time

in arriving here."

"No, indeed, Foret; and surely you must need rest and refreshment," said

de Lescure. "Come into the château, and you shall have both."

"But tell us, Foret, of this reverse at Nantes," said Henri. "I will

at once start for St. Laurent; I will, if possible, see Cathelineau

before he dies; but let me know before I go to him how it has come to

pass that victory has at last escaped him."

"Victory did not escape him," said Foret: "he was victorious to the

last--victorious till he fell. You know, gentlemen, it had been arranged

that Nantes should be attacked at the same moment by Charette from the

southern banks of the Loire, and by Cathelineau from the northern, but

this we were not able to accomplish. Charette was at his post, and

entered the town gallantly over the Pont Rousseau, but we were unable

to be there at the appointed time. For ten hours we were detained by a

detachment of the blues at the little town of Nort, and though we

carried it at last, without losing many of our men, the loss of the

precious hours was very grievous. We pushed on to Nantes, however,

without losing another minute, and though we found the rebels ready to

receive us, they could not hold their ground against us at all. We drove

them from the town in every direction. We were already in the chief

square of Nantes, assured of our victory, and leading our men to one

last attack, when a musket ball struck Cathelineau on the arm, and

passing through the flesh entered his breast. He was on foot, in front

of the brave peasants whom he was leading, and they all saw him fall.

Oh, M. de Lescure, if you had heard the groan, the long wail of grief,

which his poor followers from St. Florent uttered, when they saw their

sainted leader fall before them, your ears would never forget the sound.

We raised him up between us, and carried him back to a part of the town

which was in our hands, and from thence over the Pont Rousseau to

Pirmil, where I left him for a while, and returned to the town, but I

could not get the peasants to follow me again--that is, his peasants;

and he was too weak to speak to them himself. It was not till two hours

after that he was able to speak a word."

"And you lost all the advantage you had gained?" asked de Lescure.

"We might still have been successful, for the blues would always rather

run than fight when they have the choice, but the Prince de Talmont, in

his eagerness, headed the fugitive rebels who were making for Savenay,

and drove them back into the town; when there, they had no choice but

to fight; indeed, their numbers were so much greater than our own, that

they surrounded us. Our hearts were nearly broken, and our arms were

weak; it ended in our retreating to Pirmil, and leaving the town in the

hands of the republicans."

"How truly spoke that General who said, 'build a bridge of gold for a

flying enemy!'" said de Lescure.

"And is Cathelineau's wound so surely mortal?" asked Henri.

"The surgeon who examined him in Pirmil said so; indeed, Cathelineau

never doubted it himself. He told me, as soon as he could speak, that

he should never live to see the Republic at an end. 'But,' added he,

'you, Foret, and others will; and it delights me to think that I have

given my life to so good a cause.'"

Henri's horse was now ready, and he made no longer delay than to say

adieu to his hostess, and to speak one or two last words to his cousin

Marie, and then he made the best of his way to Chatillon and St.

Laurent, hoping once more to see Cathelineau before he died. All his

spurring and his hurrying was in vain.

A few hours before Henri could reach the hospital, the Saint of Anjou

had breathed his last, and Agatha Larochejaquelin had soothed his dying

moments.

As Foret had related, Agatha, on hearing of Cathelineau's wound, had

turned deadly pale. It was not love that made her feel that the world

was darkened by his fall; that from henceforward nothing to her could

be bright and cheerful; at least not such love as that which usually

warms a woman's heart, for Agatha had never hoped, or even wished to be

more to Cathelineau than an admiring friend; nor yet was it grief for

the loss of services which she knew were invaluable to the cause she had

so warmly espoused. These two feelings were blended together in her

breast. She had taught herself to look to Cathelineau as the future

saviour of her country; she loved his virtue, his patriotism, and his

valour; and her heart was capable of no other love while that existed

in it so strongly. The idea of looking on Cathelineau as a lover, of

seeing him kneeling at her feet, or listening to him while he whispered

sweet praises of her beauty, had never occurred to her; had she dreamed

it possible that he could do so, half her admiration of him would have

vanished. No, there was nothing earthly, nothing mundane in Agatha's

love, for though she did love the fallen hero of La Vendée, the patriot

postillion of St. Florent, she did not shed a tear when she heard that

he was dragging his wounded body to St. Laurent, that he might have the

comfort of her tender care in his last moments; her hand did not shake

as she wrote a line to her father to say that she could not leave the

hospital that evening, or probably the next; nor did she for one half

hour neglect the duties which her less distinguished patients required

her to perform; but still she felt her heart was cold within her, and

that if God had so willed it, she could, without regret, take her place

in the grave beside the stricken idol of her admiration, who had fallen

at Nantes while fighting for his God and his King.

Early on the morning after Foret's departure for Clisson, the litter

which bore the wounded chief reached the hospital, and Agatha's arm

assisted him from the door-step to the death-bed, which she had prepared

for him. Agatha's feelings towards him have been imperfectly described;

but what were his feelings towards her? What was the nature of the

mysterious love, which no kind words had ever encouraged, which no look

had ever declared, which he had hardly dared to acknowledge to his own

heart, and which had yet induced the wounded man to make so painful a

journey, to travel over twenty long, long leagues, that he might once

more see the glorious face which had filled his breast with such an

unutterable passion? Not for a moment had he ever dreamt that Agatha

regarded him differently than she did the many others who had taken up

arms in the service of their country. His name he knew must be familiar

to her ears, for chance had made it prominent in the struggle; but

beyond that, it had never occurred to his humble mind that Agatha

Larochejaquelin had given one thought to the postillion of St. Florent.

For some time, Cathelineau had been unable to define to himself the

passion which he felt, but had gradually become aware that he loved

Agatha passionately, incurably, and hopelessly. Her image had been

present to him continually; it had been with him in the dead of night,

and in the heat of day; in the hour of battle, and at the council-table;

in the agony of defeat, and in the triumph of victory. When he found

himself falling in the square at Nantes, and all visible objects seemed

to swim before his eyes, still he saw Agatha's beautiful pale face, and

then she seemed to smile kindly on him, and to bid him hope. As soon as

his senses returned to him, he was made conscious that he was dying, and

then he felt that he should die more happily if he could see once more

the fair angel, who had illuminated and yet troubled the last few days

of his existence.

Cathelineau had heard that Agatha had taken under her own kind care the

hospital at St. Laurent, but he had not expected that she would be on

the step to meet him as he was lifted out of his litter; but hers was

the first face he saw on learning that his painful journey was at an

end. His wound had been pronounced to be inevitably mortal, and he had

been told that he might possibly live for two or three days, but that

in all probability his sufferings would not be protracted so long. The

fatal bullet had passed through his arm into his breast, had perforated

his lungs, and there, within the vitals of his body, the deadly missile

was still hidden. At some moments, his agony was extreme, but at others,

he was nearly free from pain; and as his life grew nearer to its close,

his intervals of ease became longer, and the periods of his suffering

were shortened. He had confessed, and received absolution and the

sacrament of his church at Remouille; and when he reached St. Laurent,

nothing was left for him but to die.

He tried to thank her, as Agatha assisted him to the little chamber

which she had prepared for him; but his own feelings, and his exertions

in moving were at first too much for him. The power of speech, however,

soon returned to him, and he said:

"How can I thank you, Mademoiselle, what am I to say to thank you for

such care as this?"

"You are not to thank us at all," said Agatha, (there was one of the

sisters of mercy with her in the room). "We are only doing what little

women can do for the cause, for which you have done so much."

Again he essayed to speak, but the sister stopped him with a kind yet

authoritative motion of her hand, and bade him rest tranquil a while,

and so he did. Sometimes Agatha sat by the window, and watched his bed,

and at others, she stole quietly out of the room to see her other

patients, and then she would return again, and take her place by the

window; and as long as she remained in the room, so that he could look

upon her face, Cathelineau felt that he was happy.

He had been at St. Laurent some few hours, and was aware that his

precious moments were fast ebbing. He hardly knew what it was that he

longed to say, but yet he felt that he could not die in peace without

expressing to the fair creature who sat beside him the gratitude he felt

for her tender care. Poor Cathelineau! he did not dream how difficult

he would find it to limit gratitude to its proper terms, when the heart

from which he spoke felt so much more than gratitude!

"Ah, Mademoiselle!" he began, but she interrupted him.

"Hush, hush, Cathelineau!" she said. "Did you not hear sister Anna say

that you should not speak."

"What avails it now for me to be silent?" said he. "I know,

Mademoiselle, that I am dying, and, believe me, I do not fear to die.

Your kind care can make my last few hours tranquil and easy, but it

cannot much prolong them. Let me have the pleasure of telling you that

I appreciate your kindness, and that I give you in return all that a

dying man can give--my prayers."

"And I will pray for you, Cathelineau," said Agatha. "But will not every

Vendean pray for the hero who first led them to victory, who first

raised his hand against the Republic?"

"How precious are the praises of such as you!" said he. "Pray for me

and for your other poor countrymen who have fallen in this contest; such

prayers as yours will assuredly find entrance into heaven."

He then again laid tranquil for a while, but his spirit was not quiet

within him; he felt that there was that which he longed to say before

he died, and that the only moments in which the power of speaking would

be left to him were fast passing from him.

"Do not bid me be silent," he said; "did I not know that no earthly

power could prolong my life, I would do nothing to defeat the object of

my kind nurses; but as it is, a few moments' speech are of value to me,

but an extra hour or so of torpid life can avail me nothing. Ah,

Mademoiselle, though I cannot but rejoice to see our cause assisted by

the nobility and excellence of the country, though I know that the

angelic aid of such as thou art--"

"Stop, stop," said Agatha, interrupting him, "if you will speak, at any

rate do not flatter; your last words are too precious to be wasted in

such idleness."

"It does not seem to be flattery in me to praise you, Mademoiselle;

heaven knows that I do not wish to flatter; but my rude tongue knows not

how to express what my heart feels. I would say, that valuable as is

your aid to our poor peasants, I almost regret to see you embarked in

a cause which will bathe the country in blood, and which, unless

speedily victorious, will bring death and desolation on the noble

spirits who have given to it all their energies and all their courage."

"Do you think so badly, Cathelineau, of the hopes of the royalists?"

"If we could make one great and glorious effort," said he, and his eyes

shone as brightly as ever while he spoke; "if we could concentrate all

our forces, and fill them with the zeal which, at different times, they

all have shewn, we might still place the King upon his throne, and the

white flag might still wave for ages from our churches, as a monument

of the courage of La Vendée. But if, as I fear, the war become one of

detached efforts, despite the wisdom of de Lescure, the skill of

Bonchamps, the piety of d'Elbée, the gallant enthusiasm of

Larochejaquelin, and the devoted courage of them all, the Republic by

degrees will devour their armies, will consume their strength, will

desolate the country, and put to the sword even their wives and

children: neither high nobility, nor illustrious worth, nor surpassing

beauty will shield the inhabitants of this devoted country from the

brutality of the conquerors, who have abjured religion, and proclaimed

that blood alone can satisfy their appetites."

"Surely God will not allow his enemies to prevail," said Agatha.

"God's ways are inscrutable," answered Cathelineau, "and his paths are

not plain to mortal eyes; but it is not the less our duty to struggle

on to do those things which appear to us to be acceptable to Him. But

should these sad days come, should atheism and the love of blood stride

without control through our villages; if it be doomed that our houses

are to be burnt and our women to be slaughtered, why should all remain

to be a prey to our enemies? Ah, Mademoiselle leave this devoted country

for a while, take your sweet cousin with you; bid M. de Lescure send

away his young wife: it is enough that men should have to fight with

demons; men can fight and die, and suffer comparatively but little, but

female beauty and female worth will be made to suffer ten thousand

deaths from the ruthless atrocities of republican foes."

Agatha shuddered at the picture which Cathelineau's words conjured up,

but her undaunted courage was not shaken.

"God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb," said she. "Neither I, nor

Marie will leave our brothers, nor will Madame de Lescure leave her

husband; it is little we can do to hasten victory, but we can lessen

suffering and administer comfort, when comfort is most required. Had

you, Cathelineau, loved some woman above all others, and been loved by

her; had you had with you in your struggle some dear sister, or perhaps

still dearer wife, would you have asked her to go from you, that you

might have battled on, and struggled, and at last have died alone?"

"By God's dear love, I would," said he, raising himself, as he spoke,

upon his bed. "My most earnest prayer to her should have been to leave

me."

"And when she refused to do so; when she also swore by God's dear love,

that she would stay with you till the last; as she would have done,

Cathelineau, if she loved you as--as you should have been loved; would

you then have refused the comfort her love so longed to give you?"

"I know not then what I would have done," said he, after lying with his

eyes closed for a few moments without answering. "I have never known

such love. Our women love their husbands and their brothers, but it is

only angels love with such a love as that."

"Such is the love a man deserves who gives his all for his King and his

country. If our husbands, and our brothers, and our dear friends,

Cathelineau, are brave and noble, we will endeavour to imitate them; as

long as there is an abiding-place for them in the country, there are

duties for us. If God vouchsafed to spare you your life a while, that

you might live to be the instrument of restoring His worship, do you

think that I would run from your bedside, because I heard that the

rebels were near you? Oh, Cathelineau! you do not know the passive

courage of a woman's heart."

Cathelineau listened to her with all his ears, and gazed on her with all

his eyes, as she spoke to him. It seemed to him as though another world

had opened to his view even before his death; as though paradise could

give him no holier bliss than to gaze on that face, and to listen to

that voice.

"I never knew what a woman was till now," said he; "and how much better

is it that I should die this moment, with your image before me, than

return to a world, such as mine has been, where all henceforward would

be distasteful to me."

"Should you live, Cathelineau, you would live to be honoured and valued.

If it be God's pleasure that you should die, your memory will be

honoured--and loved," said Agatha.

He did not answer her for a while, but lay still, with his eyes fixed

upon her, as she sat with her elbow leaning on the window. Oh! what an

unspeakable joy it was to him to hear such heavenly words spoken by her,

whom he had almost worshipped; and yet her presence and her words turned

his thoughts back from heaven to the earth which he had all but left.

Could she really have loved him had it been his lot to survive these

wars? Could she really have descended from her high pinnacle of state

and fortune to bless so lowly a creature as him with her beauty and her

excellence? As these thoughts passed through his brain, he began for the

first time to long for life, to think that the promised blessings of

heaven hardly compensated for those which he was forced to leave on

earth; but his mind was under too strong control to be allowed to wander

long upon such reflections. He soon recovered his wayward thoughts, and

remembered that his one remaining earthly duty was to die.

"It is God's will that I should die," said he at last, "and I feel that

He will soon release me from all worldly cares and sufferings; but you,

Mademoiselle, have made the last moments of my life happy," and again

he was silent for a minute or two, while he strove to find both courage

and words to express that which he wished to say. "How different have

been the last few weeks of my existence since first I was allowed to

look upon your face!" A faint blush suffused Agatha's brow as

Cathelineau spoke. "Yes, Mademoiselle," he continued, "I know you will

forgive, when coming from a dying man, words which would have been

insane had they been spoken at any other time--my life has been wholly

different since that day when your brother led me, unwilling as I was,

into your presence at Durbellière. Since that time I have had no other

thought than of you; it was you who gave me courage in battle, and, more

wonderful than that, enabled me to speak aloud, and with authority among

those who were all so infinitely my superiors. It was your beauty that

softened my rough heart, your spirit that made me dauntless, your

influence that raised me up so high. I have not dared to love you as

love is usually described, for they say that love without hope makes the

heart miserable, and my thoughts of you have made me more blessed than

I ever was before, and yet I hoped for nothing; but I have adored you

as I hardly dared to adore anything that was only human. I hardly know

why I should have had myself carried hither to tell you this, but I felt

that I should die more easily, when I had confessed to you the liberty

which my thoughts had taken with your image."

As he continued speaking, Agatha had risen from her seat, and she was

now kneeling at the foot of his bed, hiding her face between her hands,

and the tears were streaming fast down her cheeks.

"Tell me, Mademoiselle, that you forgive me," said he, "tell me that you

pardon my love, and above all, pardon me for speaking of it. I have now

but a few hours' breath, and in them I feel that I shall be but feeble;

but tell me that you forgive me, and, though dying, I shall be happy."

Agatha was too agitated to speak for a time, but she stretched her hand

out to him, and he grasped it in his own as forcibly as his strength

would allow.

"I know that you have pardoned my boldness," said he. "May God bless

you, and protect you in the dangers which are coming."

"May He bless you also, Cathelineau--dear Cathelineau," said Agatha,

still sobbing. "May He bless you, and receive you into His glory, and

seat you among His angels, and make you blessed and happy in His

presence for ever and ever through eternity." And she drew herself

nearer to him, and kissed the hand which she still held within her own,

and bathed it with her tears, and pressed it again and again to her

bosom. "The memory of the words you have spoken to me shall be dearer

to me than the love of man, shall be more precious to me than any homage

a living prince could lay at my feet--to remember that Cathelineau has

loved me--that the sainted Cathelineau has held my image in his heart,

shall be love enough for Agatha Larochejaquelin."

Cathelineau lingered on for the whole of that day, and the greater

portion of the night. Agatha did not leave his bed-side for a moment,

but sat during most of the time still holding his hand in hers. He spoke

no farther respecting the singular passion he had nursed in his heart,

nor did she allude to it; but when he spoke at all, he felt that he was

speaking to a dear, and tried, and valued friend, and he spoke,

therefore, without hesitation and without reserve. He desired her to

give various messages from him to the Vendean chiefs, but especially to

de Lescure, to whom he said he looked with most hope for a successful

issue to the struggle. He begged that they might be told that his last

breath was spent in advising that they should make one great, combined,

and final effort for the total overthrow of republicanism in France, and

not fritter away their strength in prolonged contests with an enemy so

infinitely their superior in numbers. Agatha promised faithfully to be

a true messenger of these last injunctions, and then she saw the Vendean

chief expire in perfect tranquillity, happy in an assured hope of

everlasting joy.

He died about three in the morning, and before five, Henri

Larochejaquelin arrived at St. Laurent from Clisson. He had ridden hard

through the previous day and the entire night, with the hope of once

more seeing the leader, whom he had followed with so much devotion, and

valued so truly; but he was too late.

He caught his sister in his arms as he ran up the hospital stairs.

"Where is he?" said he; "is he still alive? Is there any hope?"

"There is no hope for us," answered Agatha; "but there is perfect

certainty for him. The good Cathelineau has restored his spirit to Him

who gave it to avenge His glory."

CHAPTER VI.

COMMISSIONERS OF THE REPUBLIC.

The taking Saumur frightened the Convention much more than any of the

previous victories of the Vendeans. The republicans lost a vast quantity

of military stores, arms, gunpowder, cannons, and soldiers' clothing;

and, which was much worse than the loss itself these treasures had

fallen into the hands of an enemy, whose chief weakness consisted in the

want of such articles. The royalists since the beginning of the revolt

had always shewn courage and determination in action; but they had never

before been collected in such numbers, or combated with forces so fully

prepared for resistance, as those whom they had so signally conquered

at Saumur. The Convention began to be aware that some strong effort

would be necessary to quell the spirit of the Vendeans. France at the

time was surrounded by hostile troops. At the moment in which the

republicans were flying from the royalists at Saumur, the soldiers of

the Convention were marching out of Valenciennes, that fortified city

having been taken by the united arms of Austria and England. Condé also

had fallen, and on the Rhine, the French troops who had occupied Mayence

with so much triumph, were again on the point of being driven from it

by the Prussians.

The Committee of Public Safety, then the repository of the supreme power

in Paris, was aware that unless the loyalty of La Vendée was utterly

exterminated, the royalists of that district would sooner or later join

themselves to the allies, and become the nucleus of an overpowering

aristocratic party in France. There were at the time thousands, and tens

and hundreds of thousands in France who would gladly have welcomed the

extinction of the fearful Republic which domineered over them, had not

every man feared to express his opinion. The Republic had declared, that

opposition to its behests, in deed, or in word, or even in thought, as

far as thoughts could be surmised, should be punished with death; and

by adhering to the purport of this horrid decree, the voice of a nation

returning to its senses was subdued. Men feared to rise against the

incubus which oppressed them, lest others more cowardly than themselves

should not join them; and the Committee of Public Safety felt that their

prolonged existence depended on their being able to perpetuate this

fear. It determined, therefore, to strike terror into the nation by

exhibiting a fearful example in La Vendée. After full consideration, the

Committee absolutely resolved to exterminate the inhabitants of the

country--utterly to destroy them all, men, women, and children--to burn

every town, every village, and every house--to put an end to all life

in the doomed district, and to sweep from the face of the country man,

beast, and vegetable. The land was to be left without proprietors,

without a population, and without produce; it was to be converted into

a huge Golgotha, a burial-place for every thing that had life within it;

and then, when utterly purged by fire and massacre, it was to be given

up to new colonists, good children of the Republic, who should enjoy the

fertility of a land soaked with the blood of its former inhabitants.

Such was the deliberate resolution of the Committee of Public Safety,

and no time was lost in commencing the work of destruction.

Barrère, one of the members of the Committee, undertook to see the work

put in a proper train, and for this purpose he left Paris for the scene

of action. Westerman and Santerre accompanied him, and to them was

committed the task of accomplishing the wishes of the Committee. There

was already a republican army in La Vendée, under the command of General

Biron, but the troops of which it was composed were chiefly raw levies,

recruits lately collected by the conscription, without discipline, and,

in a great degree, without courage; but the men who were now brought to

carry on the war, were the best soldiers whom France could supply.

Westerman brought with him a legion of German mercenaries, on whom he

could rely for the perpetration of any atrocity, and Santerre was at the

head of the seven thousand men, whom the allied army had permitted to

march out of Valenciennes, and to return to Paris.

It was in the beginning of July that this worthy triumvirate met at

Angers, on their road to La Vendée. Cathelineau had driven the

republican garrison out of this town immediately after the victory at

Saumur, but the royalists made no attempt to keep possession of it, and

the troops who had evacuated it at their approach, returned to it almost

immediately. It was now thronged with republican soldiers of all

denominations, who exercised every species of tyranny over the

townspeople. Food, drink, forage, clothes, and even luxuries were

demanded, and taken in the name of the Convention from every shop, and

the slightest resistance to these requisitions, was punished as treason

to the Republic. The Vendeans, in possession of the same town only a

fortnight before, had injured no one, had taken nothing without paying

for it, aid had done everything to prevent the presence of their army

being felt as a curse; and yet Angers was a noted republican town; it

had shown no favours to the royalists, and received with open arms the

messengers of the Convention. Such was the way in which the republicans

rewarded their friends, and the royalists avenged themselves on their

enemies.

One hot July evening, five men were seated in a parlour of the Mayor's

house in Angers, but the poor Mayor himself was not allowed, nor

probably did he wish, to be one of the party. Glasses were on the table

before them, and the empty bottles, which were there also, showed, that

however important the subjects might be which they were discussing, they

still considered that some degree of self-indulgence was compatible with

their duties. The air of the room was heavy with tobacco smoke, and one

or two of the number still had cigars between their lips. They were all

armed, though two of them were not in uniform, and the manner in which

they had their arms disposed, showed that they did not quite conceive

themselves to be in security in these their convivial moments. The men

were Barrère, Westerman, and Santerre, and two of the republican

Generals, Chouardin and Bourbotte.

Westerman and the two latter were in uniform, and the fact of their

having arms, was only in keeping with their general appearance: but the

other two were in plain clothes, and their pistols, which were lying

among the glasses on the table, and the huge swords which stood upright

against their chairs, gave a hideous aspect to the party, and made them

look as though they were suspicious of each other.

Barrère alone had no sword. His hand was constantly playing with a

little double-barrelled pistol, which he continually cocked and

uncocked, the fellow of which lay immediately before him. He was a tall,

well built, handsome man, about thirty years of age, with straight black

hair, brushed upright from his forehead; his countenance gave the idea

of eagerness and impetuosity, rather than cruelty or brutality. He was,

however, essentially egotistical and insincere; he was republican, not

from conviction, but from prudential motives; he adhered to the throne

a while, and deserted it only when he saw that it was tottering; for a

time he belonged to the moderate party in the Republic, and voted with

the Girondists; he gradually joined the Jacobins, as he saw that they

were triumphing over their rivals, and afterwards was one of those who

handed over the leaders of the Reign of Terror to the guillotine, and

assisted in denouncing Robespierre and St. Just. He was one of the very

few who managed to outlive the Revolution, which he did for nearly half

a century.

His face was hardly to be termed prepossessing, but it certainly did not

denote the ruthless ferocity which the nature of the task he had

undertaken would require, and which he exercised in its accomplishment.

Nature had not formed him to be a monster gloating in blood; the

Republic had altered the disposition which nature had given him, and he

learnt among those with whom he had associated, to delight in the work

which they required at his hands. Before the Reign of Terror was over,

he had become one of those who most loudly called for more blood, while

blood was running in torrents on every side; it was he who demanded the

murder of the Queen, when even Robespierre was willing to save her. It

was he who declared in the Convention that the dead were the only

enemies who never returned; and yet this same man lived to publish a

pamphlet, in which he advocated the doctrine, that under no

circumstances could one human being be justified in taking the life of

another.

He was dressed in a blue dress-coat, which in spite of the heat of the

weather, was buttoned close round his body; he was rather a dandy in his

costume, for his tightly-fitted breeches were made to show the form of

his well-formed leg, and his cravat was without a wrinkle. Before the

Revolution, Barrère had been a wealthy aristocrat.

Santerre, who sat next to him, was in every respect unlike the ci-devant

nobleman. He was a large, rough, burly man, about forty years of age;

his brown hair was long and uncombed, his face was coarse and hot, and

the perspiration was even now running down it, though drinking and

smoking was at present his hardest work; his lips were thick and

sensual, and his face was surrounded by huge whiskers, which made him

look uncouth and savage; his cravat was thrown off, and his shirt was

open at the neck, so as to show his brown throat and brawny chest; a

huge horse pistol lay before him close to his glass, and a still huger

sword stood up against his chair. He was drinking hard and talking

loudly, and was evidently quite at ease with his company; he was as

completely at home in the Mayor's parlour at Angers, as when rushing

into the Tuilleries at the head of his fellow citizens from the faubourg

St. Antoine.

Santerre was of Flemish descent, and by trade a brewer. He was possessed

of considerable wealth, which he freely spent among the poor, while

famine pressed sore upon them; he was consequently loved, followed, and

obeyed. He was the King of the Faubourgs; and though the most ruthless

in his animosity to the royalists, he was not altogether a bad man,

neither was he by nature absolutely cruel. He had adopted the Revolution

from a belief that the great mass of the people would be better off in

the world without kings, nobility, or aristocrats; and having made

himself firm in this belief, he used to the utmost his coarse, huge,

burly power in upsetting these encumbrances on the nation. His love of

liberty had become a fanaticism. He had gone with the current, and he

had no fine feelings to be distressed at the horrid work which he had

to do, no humanity to be shocked; but he was not one of those who

delighted in bloodshed and revelled in the tortures which he inflicted

on others. He had been low in the world's esteem, and the Revolution had

raised him to a degree of eminence; this gratified his ambition, and

made him a ready tool in the hands of those who knew how to use his

well-known popularity, his wealth, his coarse courage and great physical

powers.

Westerman sat at the window a little away from the others. He was a man

of indomitable courage and undying perseverance. He was a German, who

had been banished from Prussia, and having entered the French army as

a private soldier had gradually risen to be an officer. A short time

before the storming of the Tuilleries he had foreseen that the

democratic party was prevailing, and he had joined it. Danton and

Santerre had discovered and appreciated his courage and energy, and he

soon found himself a leader of the people. It was he who directed the

movements of the populace on the 10th of August, when the Tuilleries was

sacked, and the Swiss guards were massacred on the steps of the King's

palace. Since that time Westerman had been a successful soldier in the

republican army, not that he was by any means a vehement democrat: his

object had been military success, and that only. He had neither

political theories or political ambition. Chance had thrown him in the

way of the Republic, and he had become a republican. He was then

attached to the army of Dumourier as aide-de-camp to that General, and

was in the confidence of him and of Danton, at the moment that Dumourier

was endeavouring to hand over the armies of the Republic to the power

of Prussia and of Austria. He again, however, was wise in time.

Dumourier calculated too entirely on the affection of the army to

himself and failed; but before he failed, Westerman had left him. He was

now again a trustworthy servant of the Republic, and as such was sent

to assist in the fearful work which the tyranny of the democrats

required.

His unnatural ruthlessness and prompt obedience were of no avail to him.

Soon after his return from the western provinces he perished under the

guillotine.

"And so the good Cathelineau is dead," said Santerre. "The invincible,

the invulnerable, the saint! ha, ha! What sweet names these dear friends

of ours have given themselves."

"Yes," said General Bourbotte; "the messenger who told me had come

direct from their hospital; Cathelineau breathed his last the day before

yesterday at St. Laurent."

"Let us drink to his health, gentlemen; his spiritual health," said

Santerre; "and to his safe journey;" and the brewer raised his glass to

his lips, and drank the toast which he had proposed.

"Bon voyage, my dear Cathelineau," said Bourbotte, following his

example.

"Cathelineau was a brave man," said Chouardin. "I am glad he died of his

wounds; I should have been sorry that so gallant a fellow should have

had to submit his neck to the sharp embraces of Mademoiselle

Guillotine."

"That is hardly a patriotic sentiment, citizen General," said Barrère.

"Gallantry on the part of an insurgent royalist is an inspiration of

the devil, sent to induce man to perpetuate the degradation and misery

of his fellow-men. Such gallantry, or rather such frenzy, should give

rise to anything but admiration in the breast of a patriot."

"My fidelity to the Republic will not be doubted, I believe," said

Chouardin, "because, as a soldier, I admire high courage when I find it

in a soldier."

"If your fidelity be unimpeachable, your utility will be much

questioned, if you wish to spare a royalist because he is a brave man,"

said Barrère. "By the same argument, I presume, you would refrain from

knocking an adder on the head, because he rose boldly in your path."

"Who talked of sparing?" said Chouardin. "I only said that I would

sooner that a brave enemy should die in battle than be handled by an

executioner. Talk as you will, you cannot disgrace such a man as

Cathelineau."

"Cannot I, indeed, citizen General?" said Westerman, rising from his

seat and coming into the middle of the room. "I do then utterly despise,

scorn, and abominate him, and all such as him. I can conceive nothing

in human form more deplorably low, more pitiably degraded, than such a

poor subservient slave as he was."

"There, Westerman, you are grossly wrong," said Santerre. "Your cowardly

Marquis, run-fling from the throne which he pretends to reverence, but

does not dare to protect; whose grand robes and courtly language alone

have made him great; who has not heart enough even to love the gay

puppets who have always surrounded him, or courage enough to fight for

the unholy wealth he has amassed: this man I say is contemptible. Such

creatures are as noxious vermin, whom one loathes, and loathing them

destroys. You no less destroy the tiger, who ravages the green fields

which your labour has adorned; who laps the blood of your flocks, and

threatens the life of your children and servants, but you do not despise

the tiger; you keep his hide, as a monument of your victory over a brave

and powerful enemy. Cathelineau was the tiger, who was destroying,

before it had ripened, the precious fruit of the Revolution."

"The tiger is a noble beast," said Westerman. "He is hungry, and he

seeks his prey; he is satisfied, and he lays down and sleeps; but

Cathelineau was a mean jackal, who strove for others, not for himself.

I can understand the factious enmity of the born aristocrat, who is now

called upon to give up the titles, dignities, and so-called honours,

which, though stolen from the people, he has been taught to look upon

as his right. He contends for a palpable possession which his hand has

grasped, which he has tasted and long enjoyed. I know that he is a

robber and a spoiler of the poor; I know, in short, that he is an

aristocrat, and as such I would have him annihilated, abolished from the

face of the earth. I would that the aristocrats of France had but one

neck, that with a grasp of my own hand, I might at once choke out their

pernicious breath," and the republican laid upon the table his huge

hand, and tightly clenched his fingers as though he held between them

the imaginary throat of the aristocracy of France; "but," continued he,

"much as I hate a gentleman, ten times more strongly do I hate, despise,

and abhor the subservient crew of spiritless slaves who uphold the power

of the masters, who domineer over them, who will not accept the sweet

gift of liberty, who are kicked, and trodden on, and spat upon, and

will not turn again; who will not rise against their tyrants, even

when the means of doing so are brought to their hands; who willingly,

nay, enthusiastically, lay their necks in the dust, that their

fellow-creatures may put their feet upon them. Of such was this

Cathelineau, and of such I understand are most of those who hound on

these wretched peasants to sure destruction. For them I have no pity,

and with them I have no sympathy. They have not the spirit of men, and

I would rejoice that the dogs should lick their blood from off the

walls, and that birds of prey should consume their flesh."

"Westerman is right," said Barrère; "they are mean curs, these Vendeans,

and like curs they must be destroyed; the earth must be rid of men who

know not how to take possession of their property in that earth which

nature has given them. Believe me, citizen General, that any sympathy

with such a reptile as Cathelineau is not compatible with the feeling

which should animate the heart of a true republican, intending honestly

and zealously to do the work of the Republic."

General Chouardin made no reply to the rebuke which these words

conveyed; he did not dare to do so; he did not dare to repeat the

opinion that there was anything admirable in the courage of a royalist.

Much less than had now been said had before this been deemed sufficient

to mark as a victim for the revolutionary tribunal some servant of the

Republic, and few wished to experience the tender mercies of Fouquier

Tinville, the public accuser. Even Santerre was silenced; despite his

popularity, his well-known devotion to the cause, his hatred of the

aristocrats, and his aversion to royalty, so horridly displayed at the

execution of the King, even he felt that it might not be safe for him

to urge that the memory of Cathelineau was not despicable.

"His death must have much weakened them," said Bourbotte. "I know them

well, the miscreants! I doubt if they will follow any other leader, that

is, in great numbers. The fools looked on this man as a kind of god;

they now find that their god is dead. I doubt whether there is another

leader among them, who can induce them to leave their parishes."

"If they won't come to us," said Barrère, "we must go to them; they have

gone too far now to recede. Whether they return to their homes, or again

take up arms, matters little; they must all be destroyed, for blood

alone can establish the Republic on a basis which can never be

overturned."

"The name of a royalist shall be as horrible in men's ears as that of

a parricide," said Santerre.

"But what will you do if you find no army to oppose you?" said

Bourbotte. "You cannot well fight without an enemy."

"Never fear," said Westerman, "your muskets shall not grow rusty for

want of use. We will go from parish to parish, and leave behind us dead

corpses, and burning houses."

"You will not ask soldiers to do the work of executioners?" said

Bourbotte.

"I expect the soldiers to do the work of the Convention," said Barrère;

"and I also expect the officers to do the same: these are not times in

which a man can be chary as to the work which he does."

"We must not leave a royalist alive in the west of France," said

Westerman. "You may be assured, Generals, that our soldiers will obey

us, however slow yours may be to obey you."

"Perhaps so," said Bourbotte; "my men have not yet been taught to

massacre unarmed crowds."

"It is difficult to know what they have been taught," said Westerman.

"Whenever they have encountered a few peasants with clubs in their

hands, your doughty heroes have invariably ran away."

Westerman as he spoke, stood leaning on the back of a chair, and

Bourbotte also rose as he answered him.

"I have yet to learn," aid he, "that you yourself ever were able to make

good soldiers out of country clowns in less than a month's time. When

you have done so, then you may speak to me on the subject without

impertinence."

"I give you my word, citizen General," answered Westerman, "I shall say

to you, then and now, whatever I, in the performance of my duty, may

think fits and if you deem me impertinent, you may settle that point

with the Convention, or, if you prefer it, with myself."

"Westerman, you are unfair to General Bourbotte," said Santerre; "he has

said nothing which need offend you."

"It is the General that is offended, not I," said Westerman; "I only beg

that he may not talk mawkish nonsense, and tell us that his fellows are

too valiant, and too noble to put to the sword unarmed royalists, when

everybody knows they are good for nothing else, and that they would run

and scatter from the fire of a few muskets, like a lot of plovers from

a volley of stones."

"I grant you," said Bourbotte, "that my soldiers are men and not

monsters. They are, as yet, French peasants, not German cut-throats."

"Now, by Heaven, Bourbotte," said the Prussian, "you shall swallow that

word," and he seized a pistol from off the table. "German cut-throat!

and that from you who have no other qualities of a soldier than what are

to be found in a light pair of heels. You shall, at any rate, have to

deal with one German, whether he be a cut-throat or not."

"In any way you please," said Bourbotte, "that is, in any open or honest

way." And as he spoke, he stepped back one step, and took his sword out

of the scabbard.

The pistol which Westerman had taken from the table belonged to

Santerre, and when he saw it in the hand of his friend, he leapt up and

seized hold of the German's arm.

"Are you mad Westerman," said he; "do you wish to fight here in the

Mayor's house? I tell you, you were wrong, in taunting him as you did;

sit quiet till I make peace between you."

"Taunting him! now, by Heaven, that is good. I will leave it to Barrère

to say who first taunted the other. Nonsense, Santerre, leave hold of

me I say: you do not think I am going to murder the man, do you?"

General Chouardin also got up and put himself between the two armed men.

"Put up your sword, Bourbotte," whispered he, leading him off to the

further window of the room; "you are no match for him here: if Barrère

chooses he will have you recalled to Paris, and your neck will then not

be worth a month's purchase."

"Gentlemen," said Barrère, "this will never do. You can neither of you

serve the nation well if you persist in quarrelling between yourselves.

General Bourbotte, you should apologize to our friend Westerman for the

insult which you offered to his countrymen."

"My country is the country of my adoption," said Westerman. "I ceased

to be a German when I took up the arms of France; but my soldiers are

my children, and an insult to them is an injury to myself."

"If your anger can wait till the revolt in La Vendée has been quelled,"

said Chouardin, "my friend Bourbotte will be ready enough to satisfy

your wishes as a citizen. Barrère truly says, this is no time for

private quarrels."

"So be it," said Westerman. "Let General Bourbotte remember that he owes

me an apology or redress."

"You shall have any redress, which any arms you may be pleased to name

can give you," said Bourbotte.

"By my honour then, you are two fools," said Santerre; "two egregious

fools, if you cannot at once forget the angry words which you each have

used. Have your own way, however, so long as you do not fight here."

As the brewer was yet speaking, a servant knocked at the door, and said

that a young man wished to say a few words to citizen Santerre on

especial business, and on the service of the Republic.

"On the service of the Republic?" said Santerre. "Show him in here then;

I have no official secrets from my colleagues."

The servant, however, stated that the young man would not make his

appearance in the room where the party were sitting, and he declared he

would go away if he could not see Santerre alone. The republican at

length yielded, and followed the servant into a small sitting-room,

where he found our friend, Adolphe Denot.

CHAPTER VII.

BATTLE OF AMAILLOU.

It will be remembered that Adolphe Denot left the council-room of the

royalist leaders at Saumur in anger; and that, after a few words with

Henri Larochejaquelin, departed no one knew whither, or for what

purpose. On leaving Henri in the street, he had himself no fixed resolve

as to his future conduct; he was only determined no longer to remain

leagued with men, among whom he felt himself to be disgraced. De Lescure

had seen him hesitate in the hour of danger, and had encouraged him in

vain; he knew that after this he could never again bear to meet the calm

grey eye of his friend's cousin; he had not only been not selected as

one of the Generals, but he had even been rejected, and that by the very

man who had seen his cowardice. His love, moreover, had been refused by

Agatha, and he deemed this refusal an injury which demanded vengeance

from his hands; from the moment in which he left her room in

Durbellière, schemes had floated across his half-bewildered brain for

the accomplishment of his object. He still loved Agatha, though his love

was, as it were, mingled with hatred; he still wished to possess her,

but he did not care how disagreeable, how horrible to herself might be

the means by which he accomplished his object. He entertained ideas of

seizing upon her person, taking her from Durbellière, and marrying her

during the confusion which the Revolution had caused in the country. At

first he had no distinct idea of treachery towards the royalists with

whom he had sided; though vague thoughts of bringing the soldiers of the

Convention to Durbellière, in the dead of night, had at different times

entered his mind, he had never reduced such thoughs to a palpable plan,

nor had he ever endeavoured to excuse to himself the iniquity of such

a scheme, as a man does when he resolves to sacrifice his honour and his

honesty to his passions.

It was in the council-room at Saumur that he first felt a desire to

betray the friends of his life; it was in the moment of his hot anger,

after leaving it, that he determined to put into effect the plan which

he had already conceived; it was then that insane ambition and selfish

love prompted him to forget every feeling which he had hitherto

recognized as honourable, and to commit himself to a deed which would

make it impossible that he should ever be reconciled with the companions

of his youth. He had no presentiment that he should ever rise to honour

or distinction in the army of the Republic; he never even thought of

what his future life would be: revenge was his object, and the sweet

delight of proving to Agatha Larochejaquelin that he was able to carry

out the bold threats, which he knew that she had scorned and derided.

It would be too much to say that Adolphe Denot was insane, for that

would imply that he was not responsible for his own actions; but there

certainly lacked something in his brain or mind, which is necessary to

perfect sanity. He was no fool; he had read, enjoyed, and perhaps

written poetry; he was, for the times, well educated; he could talk

fluently, and, occasionally, even persuasively; he understood rapidly,

and perceived correctly, the arguments and motives of others; but he

could not regulate his conduct, either from the lessons he had learnt

from books, or from the doings or misdoings of those around him. He

wished to be popular, powerful and distinguished, but he was utterly

ignorant of the means by which men gain the affection, respect, and

admiration of their fellow-men; he possessed talent without judgment,

and ambition without principle. As a precocious boy, he had been too

much admired; he had assumed at an early age the duty of a man, and had

at once been found miserably wanting.

On leaving Henri in the streets of Saumur, he went to his lodging, took

with him what money he had, got upon his horse, and rode out of the town

by the temporary bridge which had been put up for the transit of the

shaved prisoners. He had wandered about the country for three weeks,

remaining sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another, endeavouring

to mature his plans; and hearing of the arrival of Santerre in Augers,

had come thither to offer his services to the republicans, in the

invasion which he understood they contemplated making into the Bocage.

His appearance was not very attractive when first he introduced himself

to the republican, for he was lean with anxiety and worn with care; his

eyes were restless and bloodshot, and his limbs trembled beneath him.

Santerre was not a man who much regarded externals; but, as he

afterwards said, "he did not much like the hang-dog look of the royalist

cur."

Denot, in an awkward way, got through his story; he had been one of the

insurgent Vendeans, he said, but he now wished to serve the Republic.

He was intimately acquainted with the royalist leaders, especially the

two most popular of them, de Lescure and Larochejaquelin. He knew and

was willing to betray their plans. He would accompany Santerre to the

residences of these Vendean Generals, and undertake to give them, their

families, and possessions, into the power of the republicans, and for

these services he asked but one favour; that he should be present at the

contemplated burning of Durbellière, and be allowed to save the life of

one female who resided there. He represented that his animosity arose

entirely from the rejection of his love, and that his only object was

to carry off the sister of the Vendean chief from the burning ashes of

her father's château.

"Are you aware, young man," said Santerre, with something of generosity

in the warning which he gave--a generosity probably inspired by the wine

he had drunk: "are you aware, that should I agree to your proposal,

every other member of her family will be put to death before your eyes

--her brother, her old father, and every pestilent royalist we may find

about the place?"

"I suppose they will," said Denot moodily. "At any rate, they deserve

no protection at my hands."

"You have probably eaten their bread and drank their wine. You say,

indeed, you have lived long in this rambling château, and have fought

side by side with this hot-headed young brigand. Bethink you, my friend,

you are angry now, but it may turn your stomach, when you are cool, to

see the blood of those you know so well running like water; besides, you

are taking but an unlikely road to the heart of the girl you say you

love. No one has heard your plot but myself: I advise you to abandon it;

if you do so, I will forget that I have heard it. You are angry now; go

home and sleep on it."

"Sleep on it! I have slept on it these three weeks. No, I did not come

to you till I was fully resolved. As for these people, I owe them

nothing; they have scorned and rejected me; and as for the girl's heart,

it is not that I seek now. Let me gain her person, and her heart will

follow. A woman soon learns to love him whom she is forced to obey."

"Well, be it as you will," said Santerre. "It is all a matter of taste;

only remember, that before I accede to your proposal, I must consult

with my colleagues in the next room, and that when once I have spoken

to them it will be too late for me to go back."

Denot declared that he had formed his resolution after mature

consideration, and that he was ready and willing to carry through the

work he had proposed for himself; and Santerre, without making any

further objection, rejoined his friends in the next room, and explained

to them the offer which had been made to him. Barrère at first opposed

any treaty with Denot. He recommended that the young man should be kept

as a prisoner, and at once handed over to the revolutionary tribunal.

"What good can he do us?" said he; "we can find our way to this

Durbellière without his assistance; let him and the girl he wishes to

kidnap pay the penalty of their crimes against the Republic. She is, I

suppose, one of those modern Joans of Arc, who inspire the flagging

spirits of these peasants. Should she have beauty enough to make her

worth preserving, let her be the prize of some true republican. As for

him, let him stretch his neck beneath the guillotine."

Barrère, however, was overruled. The Generals who were with him knew too

well the nature of the country they were about to invade, not to

appreciate the value of such a guide as they might find in Denot: a

guide, who not only knew the nature of the country they had to traverse,

and the position of the places they wished to attack, but who was also

intimate with the insurgent chiefs, acquainted with their persons and

their plans, and who would probably disclose, under proper management,

every secret of the revolt. It was accordingly agreed that his offer

should be accepted, and he was introduced by Santerre to his four

confederates.

"Sit down, my friend," said Barrère, "sit down. Our colleague here

informs us that you are sick of these mawkish royalists, and are willing

to serve the Republic. Is it so, young man?"

"I have told M. Santerre--" said Denot. "Citizen Santerre, if you

please," said Barrère; "or General Santerre, if you like it better.

Monsieur and Monseigneur are a little out of fashion just at present on

this side of the Loire."

"As they soon also shall be on the other," said Westerman.

"Well, I have told him," and Denot pointed to Santerre, "what it is I

propose to do for you, and the terms on which I will do it."

"Terms indeed!" said Barrère. "The Republic is not accustomed to make

terms with her servants. Come, tell us at once: are you a republican?"

Denot hesitated; not that he was ashamed to own himself a republican,

but his blood was boiling with passion at the language and tone in which

he was addressed, and yet he did not dare to shew his anger.

"Of course he is a republican," said Santerre, "or why would he come

here? Take a glass of wine, friend Denot, and pluck up your courage,"

and Santerre passed the wine-bottle to him. "If you are true to us, you

need not fear us."

"He must pronounce himself a republican," said Barrère, "or we cannot

deal with him. Come, young man, can you put your mouth to so much

inconvenience as to give us some slight inkling of your present

political principles? All we know of you as yet is, that three weeks

since you were a pestilent royalist, and a leader of royalists."

"I am a republican," said Denot.

"The Republic is made happy by your adhesion," said Barrère, bowing to

him with mock solemnity across the table.

"What surety do you mean to offer us, citizen Denot," said Westerman,

"that you are acting with us in good faith?"

"Do I not give you my life?" said Denot. "What other surety can I give,

or can you require? What am I, or what are the royalists to gain by my

proving false?"

"You say truly," answered Westerman; "you give us your life as a surety

for your good faith to us. You may be assured that we will exact the

penalty, if we have the slightest suspicion of foul play."

Denot made no answer, and he was questioned no further. The party soon

after broke up, and the young deserter was handed over to the care of

one of Santerre's sub-officers, with injunctions that he should be well

and civilly treated, but that he should not be allowed to go abroad by

himself; in fact, he was to be regarded as a prisoner.

"Do not be disheartened," said Santerre to him. "You can understand that

under the circumstances, such precautions must be necessary. The day

after tomorrow we start on our march, and you shall ride close to

myself. When Clisson and Durbellière are in ashes, you shall be free to

take your own course; in the meantime, no indignity shall be offered to

you."

On the day named by Santerre, the whole republican army started from

Angers, and commenced their march towards the Bocage. They proceeded on

their route for several days without finding any enemy to contend with.

They kept on the northern shore of the Loire till they reached Saumur,

where they remained a couple of days, and employed themselves in

punishing the inhabitants in whose houses the leaders of the Vendeans

had been entertained. It was in vain that these poor men pleaded that

they had not even opened their doors to the royalists till after the

republican General had capitulated; that they had given nothing which

they had been able to refuse, and, in fact, that they had only sold

their goods and let their rooms to the Vendeans, when they could not

possibly have declined to do so. Their arguments were of no avail; they

were thrown into prison as criminals, and left for trial by the

revolutionary tribunal.

Although Saumur had so lately been besieged and taken by the royalists,

there was hardly a vestige of the conquerors left in it. Their attempt

to place a garrison in the town had proved entirely a failure; the

peasants who had undertaken the work had left the place by scores at a

time, and before a fortnight was over, the commandant found himself with

about twenty-five men, and consequently he marched back into La Vendée

after his army. The town was perfectly tranquil when the republicans

entered it, but the citizens were afflicted and out of spirits; their

shops were closed, and their goods hidden; the bakers had no bread, the

butchers no meat, and the grocers had neither oil nor sugar. They knew

well what it was to sell their merchandise to the troops of the

Convention, and to be paid for them by the government in assignats.

Many of those who had formed the former garrison of Saumur, were now

with the army; men whom Chapeau and his assistants had shaven, men still

bald, and smarting from the indignity to which they had been subjected.

They wreaked their vengeance on the scene of their disgrace, and on all

those who had in any way lent, or were suspected to have lent, their aid

to its consummation. The furniture of the Town-hall was broken in

pieces; the barbers' shops were ransacked, and their razors, brushes,

and basins scattered through the street; nor was this the worst; one

poor wretch was recognized who had himself wielded a razor on the

occasion; he was dragged from his little shop by those on whom he had

operated, and was swung up by his neck from a lamp-iron in the sight of

his wife and children, who had followed his persecutors through the

street. The poor woman pleaded on her knees for the life of her husband,

as a wife can plead for the life of him whom she loves better than the

whole world. She offered all her little wealth and her prayers; she

supplicated them with tears and with blessings; she seized hold of the

knees of the wretch who held the rope, and implored him by his

remembrance of his father, by his regard for his own wife, his love for

his own children, to spare to her the father of her infants; but she

asked in vain; the man, feeling that his legs were encumbered, spurned

the woman from him with his foot, and kept his hand tight upon the

lamp-rope till the dying convulsions of the poor barber had ceased.

No notice was taken by the republican Generals of this murder; at any

rate no punishment followed it; the next morning the army resumed its

march, and left the town hated, cursed, feared, and yet obeyed. The

people were now royalists in their hearts, but they did not dare to

express their feelings even in whispers to each other, so frightful to

them was the vengeance of the Republic. There was much policy in the

fearful cruelty of the Jacobins; it was the only means by which they

could have retained their power for a month.

The republicans marched on from Saumur to Montreuil, and from Montreuil

to Thouars, and still found no one in arms to oppose them. Here they

separated; a small party, headed by Santerre and Denot, penetrated at

once from Thouars into the Bocage, and made for the château of

Durbellière. It was believed that both de Lescure and Larochejaquelin

were there, and Santerre expected that by hurrying across the country

with a small force, he would be able to take them both and burn the

château, and afterwards rejoin Westerman at Chatillon. Barrère, whose

duties were not strictly those of a soldier, had not accompanied the

army beyond Saumur. Westerman and the main body of the army still

continued southward till they reached Parthenay, from which place it was

his intention to proceed through the revolted district, burning every

village; utterly destroying the towns which had not proved themselves

devoted to the Republic, and slaughtering the peasants, their wives, and

children wherever he could find them.

The Vendeans had not yet sufficiently matured their plans to enable them

to encounter successfully the republican army. The death of Cathelineau

had had a great effect upon the peasants: those who were with him had

returned home in sorrow and despair, and this feeling was general, even

among those who had not been at Nantes. De Lescure and Henri, however,

had not despaired; after having seen the body of his General consigned

to the dust, Henri had returned to Clisson, and he and his cousin were

again busy in raising recruits, or rather in collecting their men, when

they heard that Westerman, with an enormous army, was marching into

Parthenay, and that it was his intention to proceed from thence into the

Bocage, by way of Amaillou and Bressuire.

They had hardly heard this report, when the little village of Amaillou

was on fire; it was the first place that was utterly burnt down, and

laid in ashes by the republicans; not a house was left standing, or

hardly the ruined wall of a house. The church itself was set on fire and

burnt, with its pictures, its altars, and all its sacred treasures; the

peasants ran from the ruins, carrying with them their wives and

children, the old, the crippled, and infirm: hundreds were left dead and

dying among the smoking ashes. This feat having been accomplished,

Westerman continued on towards Bressuire, intending to burn the château

at Clisson, as he passed it on his way.

The district between Amaillou and Bressuire is thickly studded with

trees. The roads, or rather lanes, are all lined by avenues of limes and

beeches. The fields are small, and surrounded by lofty hedges, which are

also, in a great measure, composed of large trees, and the whole country

in July, when the foliage is at the thickest, has almost the aspect of

one continued forest.

Westerman had obtained guides to show him the road to Clisson. It was

about six o'clock in the evening when the advanced portion of his army,

consisting of three thousand men, had proceeded about a league from

Amaillou. He was himself riding nearly at the front of the column,

talking to his aide-de-camp and one of the guides, when he was startled

by hearing a noise as of disturbed branches in the hedge, only a few

feet in advance of the spot in which he was standing; he had not,

however, time to give an order, or speak a word on the subject, before

a long sudden gleam of fire flashed before his eyes; it was so near to

him that it almost blinded him: a cannon had been fired off close to his

face, and it was easy to track the fatal course of the ball; it had been

directed right along the road, and was glutted with carnage before its

strength was spent.

Nor did the cannon shot come alone: a fearful fire from about five

hundred muskets was poured from the hedge on either side, directly into

the road: the assailants were within a few feet of their enemy at the

moment they were firing, and every shot took effect. Out of the four

hundred men who headed the column, above half were killed, or so badly

wounded as to be incapable of motion. The narrow lane, for it was no

more than a lane, was nearly blocked up with carcases. Westerman, who

was possessed of a courage that was never shaken, was nevertheless so

thunderstruck, that he knew not what orders to give. The republicans at

the head of the column, who had not themselves been struck, fired their

fusils into the hedges, but their fire did no injury; it was all lost