LA PETITE VENDÉE.
For four or five days they all remained quiet in Laval, with nothing to
disturb their tranquillity, but rumours of what was going on on both
sides of the river. The men, with the exception of the old Marquis and
de Lescure, were hard at work from morning until night; but they had
hardly time or patience to describe accurately what was going on, to
those who were left within; and the time passed very heavily with them.
Two sofas had been carried to the windows of the sitting-room which they
occupied. These windows looked out into the main thoroughfare of the
town, and here the Marquis and the wounded man were placed, so that they
might see all that was passing in the street. Various reports reached
them from time to time, a few of which were confirmed, many proved to
be false, and some still remained doubtful; but two facts were
positively ascertained. Firstly, that the main army of the republicans
had passed the river at Angers, and were advancing towards Laval; and
secondly, that there was a considerable number of Breton peasants,
already under arms, in the country, who were harassing the blues
whenever they could meet them in small parties, and very frequently
menacing the garrisons which they found in the small towns.
This last circumstance created a great deal of surprise, not so much
from the fact of the Bretons having taken up arms against the
Convention, as from a certain degree of mystery which were attached to
the men who were roving about the country. It appeared that they were
all under the control of one leader, whose name was not known in Laval,
but who was supposed to have taken an active part in many of the battles
fought on the other side of the river. His tactics, however, were very
different from those which had been practised in La Vendée. He never
took any prisoners, or showed any quarter; but slaughtered
indiscriminately every republican soldier that fell into his hands. He
encouraged his men to pillage the towns, where the inhabitants were
presumed to be favourable to the Convention; and this licence which he
allowed was the means of drawing many after him, who might not have been
very willing to fight merely for the honour of defending the throne.
After the custom of their country, which was different from that which
prevailed in Poitou and Anjou, these peasant-soldiers wore their long
flaxen hair hanging down over their shoulders, and were clothed in rough
dresses, made of the untanned skins of goats or sheep, with the hair on
the outside. The singularity of their appearance at first added a terror
to their arms, which was enhanced by the want of experience and
cowardice of the republican troops through the country. This wild,
roving band of lawless men had assumed to themselves the name of La
Petite Vendée, and certainly they did much towards assisting the
Vendeans; for they not only cleared the way for them, in many of the
towns of Brittany, but they prepared the people to expect them, and
created a very general opinion that there would be more danger in siding
with the blues than with the royal party.
If the men of La Petite Vendée, had rendered themselves terrible, their
Captain had made--not his name, for that was unknown--but his character
much more so. He was represented to be a young man, but of a fierce and
hideous aspect; the under part of his face was covered with his black
beard, and he always wore on his head a huge heavy cap, which covered
his brows, shaded his eyes from sight, and concealed his face nearly as
effectually as a vizor. He was always on horseback, and alone; for he
had neither confidant nor friend. The peasant-soldiers believed him to
be invulnerable, for they represented him to be utterly careless as to
where he went, or what danger he encountered. The only name they knew
him by, was that of the Mad Captain; and, probably, had he been less
ugly, less mysterious, and less mad, the people would not have obeyed
him so implicitly, or followed him so faithfully.
Such were the tales that were repeated from time to time to Madame de
Lescure and her party by the little Chevalier and Chapeau; and according
to their accounts, the Mad Captain was an ally who would give them most
valuable help in their difficulties. The whole story angered de Lescure,
whose temper was acerbated by his own inactivity and suffering, and
whose common sense could not endure the seeming folly of putting
confidence in so mysterious a warrior.
"You don't really believe the stories you hear of this man, I hope," he
said to his wife and sister, one morning; "he is some inhuman ruffian,
who is disgracing, by his cruelty, the cause which he has joined, for
the sake of plunder and rapine."
"At any rate," said Marie, "he seems to have scared the blues in this
country; and if so, he must be a good friend to us."
"If we cannot do well without such friends, we shall never do well with
them. Believe me, whoever he may be, this man is no soldier."
De Lescure was, perhaps, right in the character which he attributed to
the Captain of La Petite Vendée; but the band of men which that
mysterious leader now commanded, held its ground in Brittany long after
the Vendean armies were put down in Poitou and Anjou. They then became
known by another name, and the Chouan bands for years carried on a
fearful war against the government in that part of the province which
is called the Morbihan.
About eight o'clock in the evening, Henri and Arthur Mondyon returned
to the house, after a long day's work, and were the first to bring new
tidings both of the blues and their new ally, the Mad Captain. A portion
of the republican army had advanced as far as Antrâmes, within a league
or two of Laval; and they had hardly taken up their quarters in the
town, before they were attacked, routed, and driven out of it by the men
of La Petite Vendée. Many hundreds of the republicans had been
slaughtered, and those who had escaped, carried to the main army an
exaggerated account of the numbers, daring, and cruelty of the Breton
rebels.
"Whoever he is," said Henri, in answer to a question from his sister,
"he is a gallant fellow, and I shall be glad to give him my hand. There
can be no doubt of it now, Charles, for the blues at Antrâmes certainly
numbered more than double the men he had with him; and I am told he
drove them helter-skelter out of the town, like a flock of sheep."
"And do you mean to let him have the rest of the war all to himself?"
said de Lescure, who was rather annoyed than otherwise at the success
of a man whom he had stigmatized as a ruffian.
"I am afraid we shan't find it quite so easy to get the war taken off
our hands," said Henri, laughing; "but I believe it's the part of a good
General to make the most of any unexpected assistance which may come in
his way."
"But, Henri," said Marie, "you must have some idea who this wonderful
wild man is. Don't they say he was one of the Vendean chiefs?"
"He says so himself," said Arthur. "He told some of the people here that
he was at Fontenay and Saumur; and he talked of knowing Cathelineau and
Bonchamps. I was speaking to a man who heard him say so."
"And did the man say what he was like?" said Marie.
"I don't think he saw him at all," answered Arthur. "It seems that he
won't let any one see his face, if he can help it; but they all say he
is quite a young man."
Chapeau now knocked at the door, and brought farther tidings. The Mad
Captain and all his troop had returned from Antrâmes to Laval, and had
just now entered the town.
"Our men are shaking the Bretons by the hand," said Chapeau, "and
wondering at their long hair and rough skins. Three or four days ago,
I feared the Vendeans would never have faced the blues again; but now
they are as ready to meet them as ever they were."
"And the Captain, is he actually in Laval at present, Chapeau?"
"Indeed he is, M. Henri. I saw him riding down the street, by the Hôtel
de Ville, myself, not ten minutes since."
"Did you see his face, Chapeau?" asked Marie.
"Did he look like any one you knew?" asked Madame de Lescure.
"Did he ride well?" asked the little Chevalier.
"Did he look like a soldier?" asked M. de Lescure.
"Who do you think he is, Chapeau?" asked Henri Larochejaquelin.
Chapeau looked from one to another, as these questions were asked him;
and then selecting those of M. de Lescure and his sister, as the two
easiest to answer, he said:
"I did not see his face, Mademoiselle. They say that he certainly is a
good soldier, M. Charles, but he certainly does not look like any one
of our Vendean officers."
"Who can it be?" said Henri. "Can it be Marigny, Charles?"
"Impossible," said de Lescure; "Marigny is a fine, robust fellow, with
a handsome open face. They say this man is just the reverse."
"It isn't d'Elbée come to life again, is it?" said Arthur Mondyon. "He's
ugly enough, and not very big."
"Nonsense, Arthur, he's an old man; and of all men the most unlikely to
countenance such doings as those of these La Petite Vendée. I think,
however, I know the man. It must be Charette. He is courageous, but yet
cruel; and he has exactly that dash of mad romance in him which seems
to belong to this new hero."
"Charette is in the island of Noirmoutier," said de Lescure, "and by all
accounts, means to stay there. Had he been really willing to give us his
assistance, we never need have crossed the Loire."
"Oh! it certainly was not Charette," said Chapeau. "I saw M. Charette
on horseback once, and he carries himself as though he had swallowed a
poker; and this gentleman twists himself about like--like--"
"Like a mountebank, I suppose," said de Lescure.
"He rides well, all the same, M. Charles," rejoined Chapeau.
"And who do you think he is, Chapeau?" said Henri.
Chapeau shrugged his shoulders, as no one but a Frenchman can shrug
them, intending to signify the impossibility of giving an opinion;
immediately afterwards he walked close up to his master, and whispered
something in his ear. Henri looked astonished, almost confounded, by
what his servant said to him, and then replied, almost in a whisper:
"Impossible, Chapeau, quite impossible."
Immediately afterwards, Chapeau left the room, and Henri followed him;
and calling him into a chamber in the lower part of the house, began to
interrogate him as to what he had whispered upstairs.
"I did not like to speak out before them all, M. Henri," said Jacques,
"for I did not know how the ladies might take it; but as sure as we're
standing here, the man I saw on horseback just now was M. Adolphe
Denot."
"Impossible, Chapeau, quite impossible. How on earth could he have got
the means to raise a troop of men in Brittany? Besides, he never would
have returned to the side he deserted."
"It does not signify, M. Henri, whether it be likely or unlikely: that
man was Adolphe Denot; I'd wager my life on it, without the least
hesitation. Why, M. Henri, don't I know him as well as I know yourself?"
"But you didn't see his face?"
"I saw him rise in his saddle, and throw his arms up as he did so, and
that was quite enough for me; the Mad Captain of La Petite Vendée is no
other than M. Adolphe Denot."
Henri Larochejaquelin was hardly convinced, and yet he knew that Chapeau
would not express himself so confidently unless he had good grounds for
doing so. He was aware, also, that it was almost impossible for any one
who had intimately known Denot to mistake his seat on horseback; and,
therefore, though not quite convinced, he was much inclined to suspect
that, in spite of improbabilities, his unfortunate friend was the
mysterious leader of the Breton army. He determined that he would, at
any rate, seek out the man, whoever he might be; and that if he found
that Adolphe Denot was really in Laval, he would welcome him back, with
all a brother's love, to the cause from which, for so Henri had always
protested, nothing but insanity had separated him.
"At any rate, Chapeau, we must go and find the truth of all this.
Moreover, whoever this man be, it is necessary that I should know him:
so come along."
They both sallied out into the street, which was quite dark, but which
was still crowded with strangers of every description. The wine-shops
were all open, and densely filled with men who were rejoicing over the
victory which had been gained that morning; and the Breton soldiers were
boasting of what they had done, while the Vendeans talked equally loudly
of what they would do when their Generals would once more lead them out
against the blues.
From these little shops, and from the house-windows, an uncertain
flicker of light was thrown into the street, by the aid of which Henri
and Chapeau made their way to the market-place, in which there was a
guard-house and small barrack, at present the position of the Vendean
military head-quarters. In this spot a kind of martial discipline was
maintained. Sentinels were regularly posted and exchanged; and some few
junior officers remained on duty, ready for any exigence for which they
might be required. Here they learnt that the Bretons, after returning
from Antrâmes, had dispersed themselves through the town, among the
houses of the citizens, who were willing to welcome their victorious
neighbours, but that nothing had been seen of their Captain since he
disbanded his men on the little square. They learnt, however, that he
had been observed to give his horse in charge to a man who acted as his
Lieutenant, and who was known to be a journeyman baker, usually employed
in Laval.
After many inquiries, Henri learnt the name and residence of the master
baker for whom this man worked, and thither he sent Chapeau, while he
himself remained in the guard-house, talking to two of the Breton
soldiers, who had been induced to come in to him.
"We none of us know his name, Monsieur," said one of them, "and it is
because he has no name, we call him the Mad Captain; and it is true
enough, he has many mad ways with him."
"For all his madness though, he is a desperate fine soldier; and he
cares no more for a troop of blues than I would for a flock of geese,"
said the other.
"I think its love must make him go on as he does," continued the first.
"There's something more besides that," said the second, "for he's always
fearful that people should take him for a coward. He's always asking us
whether we ever saw him turn his back to the enemy; and bidding us be
sure, whenever he falls in battle, to tell the Vendeans how well he
fought. That's what makes us all so sure that he came from the other
side of the water."
"Then, when he's in the middle of the hottest of the fight," said the
first, "he halloos out 'Now for Saumur--here's for Saumur--now for the
bridge of Saumur!' To be sure he talks a deal about Saumur, and I think
myself he must have been wounded there badly, somewhere near the brain."
Though Henri did not quite understand why Denot should especially allude
to Saumur in his mad moments, yet he understood enough of what the men
told him about their Captain, to be sure that Adolphe was the man; and
though he could not but be shocked to hear him spoken of as a madman,
yet he rejoiced in his heart to find that he had done something to
redeem his character as a loyal soldier. He learnt that Denot had been
above two months in Brittany; that he had first appeared in the
neighbourhood of Laval with about two hundred men, who had followed him
thither out of that province, and that he had there been joined by as
many more belonging to Maine, and that since that time he had been
backwards and forwards from one town to another, chiefly in the
Morbihan; and that he had succeeded in almost every case in driving the
republican garrison from the towns which he attacked.
After Henri had remained a couple of hours in the guard-house, and when
it was near midnight, Chapeau returned. He had found out the lodgings
of the journeyman baker, had gone thither, and had learnt, after many
inquiries, which were very nearly proving ineffectual, that the Mad
Captain, whoever he was, occupied a little bed-room at the top of the
same house, and that he was, at the very moment at which these inquiries
were being made, fast asleep in his bed, having given his Lieutenant,
the journeyman baker, strict orders to call him at three o'clock in the
morning.
Henri and Chapeau again started on their search; and making their way,
for the second time, through the dark, crowded streets, reached a small
miserable looking house, in a narrow lane, at one of the lower windows
of which Chapeau knocked with his knuckles.
'I told M. Plume that I should call again tonight,' said he, "and he'll
know its me."
"And is M. Plume the baker?" asked Henri.
"He was a baker till two months since," answered Chapeau, "but now he's
a soldier and an officer; and I can assure you, M. Henri, he doesn't
think a little of himself. He's fully able to take the command-in-chief
of the Breton army, when any accident of war shall have cut off his
present Captain; at least, so he told me."
"You must have had a deal of conversation with him in a very short time,
Chapeau."
"Oh, he talks very quick, M. Henri; but he wouldn't let himself down to
speak a word to me till I told him I was aide-de-camp-in-chief to the
generalissimo of the Vendean army; and then he took off the greasy
little cap he wears, told me that his name was Auguste Emile Septimus
Plume, and said he was most desirous to drink a cup of wine with me in
the next estaminet. Then I ran off to you, telling him I would return
again as soon as I had seen that all was right at the guard-house."
"Knock again, Chapeau," said Henri, "for I think your military friend
must have turned in for the night."
Chapeau did knock, and as he did so, he put his mouth close to the door,
and called out "M. Plume--Captain Plume--Captain Auguste Plume, a
message--an important message from the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean
army. You'll get nothing from him, M. Henri, unless you talk about
Generals, aide-de-camps, and despatches; advanced guards, flank
movements, and light battalions."
M. Plume, or Captain Plume, as he preferred being called, now opened the
door, and poking his head out, welcomed Chapeau, and assured him that
if he would step round to the wine shop he would be with him in a
moment.
"But, my dear friend Captain Plume, stop a moment," said Chapeau, fixing
his foot in the open doorway, so as to prevent it being closed, "here
is a gentleman--one of our officers--in fact, my friend," and he
whispered very confidentially as he gave the important information,
"here is the Commander-in-Chief, and he must see your General tonight;
to arrange--to arrange the tactics of the united army for tomorrow."
Auguste Emile Septimus Plume, in spite of his own high standing, in what
he was pleased to call the army of Brittany, felt himself rather
confused at hearing that a General-in-Chief was standing at the door of
his humble dwelling; and, as he again took off his cap, and putting his
hand to his heart made a very low bow, he hesitated much as to what
answer he should make; for he reflected within himself that the present
quarters of his General, were hardly fitting for such an interview.
"The General upstairs," said he, "is snatching a short repose after the
labours of the day. Would not tomorrow morning--early tomorrow
morning--"
"No," said Henri, advancing, and thrusting himself in at the open door,
"tomorrow morning will be too late; and I am sure your General is too
good a soldier to care for having his rest broken; tell me which is his
room, and I'll step up to him. You needn't mind introducing me." And as
he spoke he managed to pass by the baker, and ran up a few steps of the
creaking, tottering stairs.
The poor baker was very much annoyed at this proceeding; for, in the
first place, he had strict orders from his Commander to let no one up
into his room; and, in the next place, his own wife and three children
were in the opposite garret to that occupied by the Captain, and he was
very unwilling that their poverty should be exposed. He could not,
however, turn a Commander-in-Chief out of the house, nor could he
positively refuse to give him the information required; so he hallooed
out, "The top chamber to the right, General; the top chamber to the
right. It's a poor place," he added, speaking to Chapeau; "but the truth
is, he don't choose to have more comforts about him than what are
enjoyed by the poorest soldier in his army."
"We won't think any the worse of him for that," said Chapeau. "We're
badly enough off ourselves, sometimes--besides, your Captain is a very
old friend of M. Henri."
"An old friend of whose?" said Plume.
"Of M. Henri Larochejaquelin--that gentleman who has now gone upstairs:
they have known each other all their lives."
Auguste Plume became the picture of astonishment. "Known each other all
their lives!" said he; "and what's his name, then?"
"Why, I told you: M. Henri Larochejaquelin."
"No, but the other," and he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder up
the stairs. "My Captain, you know; if he's the friend of your Captain,
I suppose you know what his name is?"
"And do you mean to say, you don't know yourself, your own Captain's
name."
Plume felt the impropriety, in a military point of view, of the fact.
He felt that, as second in command, he ought to have been made
acquainted with his General's name, and that it would have been
difficult to find, in the history of all past wars, a parallel to his
own ignorance. He also reflected, that if Chapeau knew that the two
Generals had been friends all their lives, he must probably know both
their names, and that therefore the information so very necessary might
now be obtained.
"Well then, M. Chapeau," (he had learnt Chapeau's name), "I cannot say
that I do exactly know how he was generally called before he joined us
in Brittany. You know so many people have different names for different
places. What used you to call him now when you knew him?"
"But you have some name for him, haven't you?" said the other, not
answering the question.
"We call him General, or Captain, mostly," said Plume. "Those are the
sort of names which come readiest to a soldier's mouth. In the same way,
they don't call me Plume, or M. Plume, or Captain Plume, but just simply
Lieutenant; and, do you know, I like it better."
The Lieutenant was a tall, lanky, bony man, from whose body the heat of
the oven, at which he had always worked, seemed to have drawn every
ounce of flesh. He was about forty, or forty-five, years of age. He was
nearly bald, but a few light, long, straggling locks of hair stood out
on each side of his head. He still wore most of the dress in which he
had been accustomed to work, for proper military accoutrements had not
yet come within his reach. He had, however, over his shoulder an old
bawdrick, from which usually hung a huge sabre, with which he gallantly
performed the duties of his present profession. It cannot be said the
Lieutenant had none of the qualities of a soldier, for he was courageous
enough; but, beyond that, his aptitude for military duties was not
pre-eminent. He always marched, or rather shuffled along, with a stoop
in his back, which made his shoulders as high as his head. He had not
the slightest idea of moving in time; but this was of little
consequence, for none of his men could have moved with him if he had.
When on active duty, he rushed about with the point of his drawn sword
on a level with his breast, as though he were searching for "blues" in
every corner, with a fixed determination of instantly immolating any
that he might find. He had large saucer eyes, with which he glared about
him, and which gave him a peculiar look of insane enthusiasm, very
fitted for the Lieutenant, first in command, under a mad Captain. Such
was Auguste Plume, and such like were the men who so long held their own
ground, not only against the military weakness of the Directory, but
even against the military strength of Napoleon.
We will leave Chapeau and his new friend still standing in the passage,
for Plume could not invite him in, as none of the rooms were his own
except the little garret upstairs; and we will follow Henri as he went
in search of the Mad Captain, merely premising that all Plume's efforts
to find out the name of his superior officer were unavailing. Without
any farther invitation, Henri hurried up the stairs, snatching as he
went a glimmering rush-light out of the çi-devant baker's hands; and
when he got to the top he knocked boldly at the right-hand door. No one
answered him, however, and he repeated his knocks over and over again,
and even kicked and hallooed at the door, but still without effect. He
then tried to open it, but it was fastened on the inside: and then he
kicked and hallooed again. He distinctly heard the hard breathing within
of some one, as though in a heavy sleep; and be the sleeper who he
might, he was determined not to leave the stairs without waking him;
and, therefore, diligently sat to work to kick again.
"Is that you, Auguste?" said a hoarse, sickly woman's voice, proceeding
from the door of the opposite chamber. "Why don't you bring me the
candle?"
"No, Madame," said Henri, "the gentleman is now downstairs. He lent me
your candle for a minute or two, while I call upon my friend here. I
hope you'll excuse the noise I make, but I find it very difficult to
wake him."
"And why should you want to wake him?" said the woman. "It's three
nights now since he stretched himself on a bed, and he'll be up again
long before daylight. Give me the candle, and go away, and tell that
unfortunate poor man below to come to his bed."
There was a tone of utter misery in the poor woman's voice, which
touched Henri to the heart. She had uttered no complaint of her own
sufferings; but the few words she had spoken made him feel all the
wretchedness and the desolation of homes, which he and his friends had
brought upon the people by the war; and he almost began to doubt whether
even the cause of the King should have been supported at so terrible a
cost. He could not, however, now go back, nor was he willing to abandon
his present object, so he again shook and kicked the door.
"That'll never rouse him, though you should go on all night," said a
little urchin about twelve years old, the eldest hope of M. and Madame
Plume, who rushed out on the landing in his ragged shirt. "If Monsieur
will give me a sou, I'll wake him." Henri engaged him at the price, and
the boy, putting his mouth down to the key-hole, said, or rather
whispered loudly, "Captain--Captain--Captain--the blues--the blues."
This shibboleth had the desired effect, for the man within was instantly
heard to start from his bed, and to step out upon the floor.
"Yes, yes; I'm ready, I'm up," said he, in the confused voice of a man
suddenly awoke from a sound sleep. "Where's Plume? send Plume to me at
once."
Henri immediately recognized the voice of Adolphe Denot, and all doubt
was at an end. Denot came to the door, and undid the wooden bolt within,
to admit, as he thought, the poor zealous creature who had attached
himself to him in his new career; and when the door opened, the friend
of his youth--the man whom he had so deeply injured--stood before him.
Henri, in his anxiety to find out the truth of Chapeau's surmise, had
energetically and, as it turned out, successfully pursued the object of
his search; but he had not for a moment turned over in his mind, what
he would say to Denot if he found him; how he would contrive to tell him
that he forgave him all his faults; how he would explain to him that he
was willing again to receive him into his arms as a friend and a
brother. The moment was now come, when he must find words to say all
this; and as the awkward bolt was being drawn, Henri felt that he was
hardly equal to the difficulties of his position.
If Henri found it difficult to speak, with Denot the difficulty was much
greater. The injuries which he had inflicted on his friend, the insults
which he had heaped on his sister, rushed to his mind. He thought of his
own deep treachery, his black ingratitude; and his disordered
imagination could only conceive that Henri had chosen the present moment
to secure a bloody vengeance. He forgot that he had already been
forgiven for what he had done: that his life had been in the hands of
those he had injured, and had then been spared by them, when their
resentment was fresh and hot, and when he had done nothing to redeem his
treason. He had, he thought, reconciled himself to the cause of La
Vendée; but still he felt that he could not dare to look on
Larochejaquelin as other than an enemy.
Denot started back as he recognized his visitor, and Henri's first
object was to close and re-bolt the door, so that their interview might
not be interrupted. "Adolphe," he said, in a voice intended to express
all the tenderness which he felt, "I am delighted to have found you."
Denot had rushed to a miserable deal table which stood near his bed, and
seized his sword, which stood upon it; and now stood armed and ready for
assault, opposite to the man who loved him so dearly. His figure and
appearance had always been singular, but now it was more so than ever.
He had been sleeping in his clothes, and he had that peculiar look of
discomfort which always accompanies such rest. His black, elfish,
uncombed locks, had not been cut since he left Durbellière, and his
beard for many days had not been shorn. He was wretchedly thin and
gaunt; indeed, his hollow, yellow cheeks, and cadaverous jaws, almost
told a tale of utter starvation. Across his face he had an ugly
cicatrice, not the relic of any honourable wound, but given him by the
Chevalier's stick, when he struck him in the parlour at Durbellière.
Nothing could be more wretched than his appearance; but the most
lamentable thing of all, was the wild wandering of his eyes, which too
plainly told that the mind was not master of itself.
Henri was awe-stricken, and cut to the heart. What was he to say to the
poor wretch, who stood there upon his guard, glaring at him with those
wild eyes from behind his sword! Besides, how was he to defend himself
if he were attacked?
"Adolphe," he said, "why do you raise your sword against your friend?
Don't you see that I have come as your friend: don't you see that I have
no sword?"
The other hesitated for a moment, with the weapon still raised as though
for defence; and then flinging it behind him on the floor, exclaimed:
"There, there--you may kill me, if you will," and having said so, he
threw himself on the bed, and sobbed aloud, and wailed like an infant.
Henri knelt down on the floor, by the side of the low wooden stretcher,
and putting his arm over Adolphe's shoulder, thought for a while what
he could say to comfort the crushed spirit of the poor wretch, whose
insanity had not the usual effect of protecting him from misery. It
occurred to him that his late achievements, as leader of the Breton
peasants, in which, at any rate, he had been successful, would be the
subject at present most agreeable to him, and he determined, therefore,
to question him as to what he had done.
"Come, Adolphe," he said, "get up; we have much to say to each other,
my friend. I have heard much of what you have done here, in Laval and
in Brittany. You have been of great service to us; but we must act
together for the future. Of course you know that there are 80,000
Vendeans on this side of the river: men, women, and children together."
For some minutes Denot still lay with his face buried in the bed,
without answering, and Henri knelt beside him in silence, trying to
comfort him rather by the pressure of his hand, Than by the sound of his
voice; but then he raised himself up, and sitting erect, with his face
turned away from his friend, he said:
"It's no use for you to try to speak of what I have done in Brittany,
when we both know that your heart is full of what I did in Poitou."
"By the God of heaven, from whom I hope for mercy," said Henri,
solemnly, "I have freely, entirely forgiven you all cause of anger I
ever had against you."
Denot still sat with his face averted, and he withdrew his hand from
Henri's grasp, as he muttered between his teeth: "I have not asked for
forgiveness; I do not want forgiveness;" and then starting up on his
feet, he exclaimed almost with a shriek: "How dare you to talk to me,
Sir, of forgiveness? Forgiveness! I suppose you think I have nothing to
forgive! I suppose you think I have no injuries which rankle in my
breast! A broken heart is nothing! Shattered ambition is nothing! A
tortured, lingering, wretched life is nothing! I suppose you will offer
me your pity next; but know, Sir, that I despise both your forgiveness
and your pity."
"I will offer you nothing but my friendship, Adolphe," said Henri. "You
will not refuse my friendship, will you? We were brothers always, you
know; at least in affection."
"Brothers always! No, we were never brothers: we never, never can be
brothers," screamed the poor madman through his closed teeth. "Oh! if
we could have been brothers; if--if we could be brothers!" and the long
cherished idea, which, in his frenzy, he even yet had hardly quite
abandoned, flashed across his brain, and softened his temper.
"We can at any rate be friends," said Henri, approaching him, and again
taking his hand. "Come, Adolphe, sit down by me, and let us talk quietly
of these things."
"There are some things," said he, in a more composed manner, "of which
a man can't very well talk quietly. A man can't very well talk quietly
of hell-fire, when he's in the middle of it. Now, I'm in the very
hottest of hell-fire at this moment. How do you think I can bear to look
at you, without sinking into cinders at your feet?"
Henri was again silent for a time, for he did not know what to say to
comfort the afflicted man; but, after a while, Denot himself continued
speaking.
"I know that I have been a traitor--a base, ignoble, wretched traitor.
I know it; you know it; she knows it;" and as he confessed his
wretchedness, he put his bony hand to his forehead, and pushing back his
long matted hair, showed more clearly than he had yet done the ineffable
marks of bitter sadness, which a few months had graven on his face. "All
La Vendée knows it," continued he; "but no one knows the grief, the
sorrow, the wretched sorrow, which drove me to madness, and made me
become the thing I am. I know it though, and feel it here," and he put
his hand on his heart, and looked into his companion's face with a
melancholy gaze, which would have softened the anger of a sterner man
than Henri Larochejaquelin.
"My poor, poor Adolphe," said Henri, moving himself close to Denot's
side, and putting his arm round his neck and embracing him. "We all know
how you have suffered. We know--we always knew, it wasn't your proper
self that turned against the cause you loved so well; but, Adolphe, we
won't talk of these things now."
"You just now said we must talk of them, and you were quite right. After
what has passed, you and I cannot meet without having much to say," and
again the madman jumped to his feet; and as he paced up and down the
room, his fiercer humour again came upon him. "Henri," he exclaimed; and
as he spoke he stood still, close to the other, "Henri, why don't you
avenge your sister's honour? Why don't you punish the dishonour which
I brought on your father's hoary head? Henri, I say, why don't you seize
by the throat the wretched traitor who brought desolation and
destruction into your family?" and he stretched out his long gaunt neck,
as though he expected that Larochejaquelin would rise from his bed, and
take him at his word.
Henri felt that it was useless to endeavour to reason with him, or to
answer the raving of his madness, but he still hoped, that by a mixture
of firmness and gentleness, he might yet take him away from his present
miserable dwelling, and by degrees bring him back to a happier state of
mind. The difficulties in his way, however, were very great; for he knew
how serious would be the danger and folly of leading him again into
Agatha's presence.
"Nonsense, Adolphe," said he. "Why do you talk to your friend of
vengeance? Come, take up your sword, and come away. This is a cold, damp
place; and besides, we both want refreshment before our next day's work.
Before six hours are gone, the republican army will be near Laval, and
you and I must be prepared to meet them," and he picked up Denot's
sword, and handed him his cap, and took his arm within his own, as
though to lead him at once out of the room.
"And where are you going to?" said Denot, hesitating, but not refusing
to go.
"Why, first, we'll go to the guard-house, and I'll show you a few of our
picked men, who are there on duty; real dare-devils, who care no more
for a blue than they do for a black-beetle; and then we'll go to the
Angers gate. It's there that Lechelle will show himself; and then--and
then--why, then we'll go home, and get some breakfast, for it will be
nearly time for us to go to horse."
"Go home!" said Denot; "where's home?"
"Do you know the big stone house, with the square windows, near the
market-house?"
"Yes, I know it: but tell me, Henri: who are there? I mean of your own
people, you know--the Durbellière people?"
"Why, we're all there, Adolphe--Marie, and Victorine, and Charles, and
Agatha, and my father and all. Poor Charles! You've heard of his state,
Adolphe?"
"Yes, yes, I heard. I wish it had been me--I wish, with all my heart,
it had been me," and then he paused a while; and again laying down his
sword and cap, he said "Henri, you're an angel; I'm sure you are an
angel; but all are not like you. I will not go with you now; but if
you'll let me, I'll fight close by your side this day."
"You shall, Adolphe, you shall; up or down we'll not leave each other
for a moment; but you must come with me, indeed you must. We should be
sure to miss each other if we parted."
"I'll meet you at the gate, Henri, but I will not go with you. All men
are not like you. Do you think that I could show myself to your father,
and to de Lescure? Don't I know how their eyes would look on me? Don't
I feel it now?" and again it seemed as though he were about to relapse
into his frenzy; and then he continued speaking very gently, almost in
a whisper: "Does de Lescure ever talk about the bridge of Saumur?"
Now Henri, to this day, had never heard a word of the want of courage
which Denot had shown in the passage of the bridge of Saumur. No one but
de Lescure had noticed it; and though he certainly had never forgotten
it, he had been too generous to speak of it to any one. Henri merely
knew that his two friends, Charles and Adolphe, had been together at the
bridge.
He had heard from others of de Lescure's gallant conduct. It had
oftentimes been spoken of in the army, and Henri had never remarked that
an equal tribute of praise was not given to the two, for their deeds on
that occasion. He now answered quite at cross purposes, but merely with
the object of flattering the vanity of his friend:
"He will never forget it, Adolphe. No Vendean will ever forget the
bridge of Saumur. We will all remember that glorious day, when we have
forgotten many things that have happened since."
Poor Denot winced dreadfully under the blow, which Henri so innocently
inflicted; but he merely said "No--I will not go with you--you needn't
ask me, for my mind is made up. Do you know, Henri, I and de Lescure
never loved each other? never--never--never, even when we were seemingly
such good friends, we never loved each other. He loved you so well,
that, for your sake, he bore with a man he despised. Yes: he always
despised me, since the time you and I came home from school together.
I do not blame him, for he tried hard to conceal what he felt; and he
thought that I did not know it; but from the first day that we passed
together I found him out, and I was never happy in his company."
All this was perfectly unintelligible to Henri, and was attributed by
him to the frenzy of madness; but, in fact, there was truth in it.
Denot's irregular spirit had been cowed by de Lescure's cold reasoning
propriety, and he now felt it impossible to submit himself to the pardon
of a man who, he thought, would forgive and abhor him. It was to no
purpose Henri threatened, implored, and almost strove to drag him from
the room. Denot was obstinate in his resolve, and Henri was at last
obliged to leave him, with the agreement that they should both meet on
horseback an hour before daybreak, at the gate of the town, which led
towards Angers.
When Henri returned downstairs he found Chapeau still seated on the
lower step, and Plume standing by, discoursing as to the tactics and
probable success of the war.
"You found I was right, M. Henri?" said Chapeau, as he followed his
master out into the street.
"Yes, Chapeau, you were quite right."
"And is he very bad, M. Henri?" said he, touching his forehead with his
finger. "I suppose he cannot be all right there."
"He has suffered dreadfully since we saw him, and his sufferings have
certainly told upon him; but there is every reason to hope, that, with
kind treatment, he will soon be himself again; but, remember, till after
today we will say nothing to any of them about his being here."
It was now three o'clock, and Henri had to be on horseback before six;
he had but little time, therefore, either for rest or conversation.
Henri and Chapeau hurried home, after having given orders at the
guard-house that all the men on whom they could depend should be under
arms before day-break; and, having done so, they laid down and slept for
the one short hour which was left to them of the night.