IN WHICH LOVE LENDS POLITICAL OPINIONS TO THOSE WHO
HAVE NONE.
We left the young Baron Michel on the verge of coming to a great
resolution. Only, just as he was about to act upon it, he heard steps
outside his room. Instantly he throw himself on his bed and closed his
eyes, keeping his ears open.
The steps passed; then a few moments later they repassed his door, but
without pausing. They were not those of his mother, nor were they in
quest of him. He opened his eyes, sat up on the bed, and began to
think. His reflections were serious.
Either he must break away from his mother, whose slightest word was law
to him, renounce all the ambitions ideas she centred on him,--ideas
which had hitherto been most attractive to his vacillating mind,--he
must bid farewell to the honors the dynasty of July was pledged to
bestow on the millionaire youth, and plunge into a struggle which
would undoubtedly be a bloody one, leading to confiscation, exile, and
death, while his own good sense and judgment told him it was futile; or
else he must resign himself and give up Mary.
Let us say at once that Michel, although he reflected, did not
hesitate. Obstinacy is the first outcome of weakness, which is capable
of being obstinate even to ferocity. Besides, too many other good
reasons spurred the young baron to allow him to succumb.
In the first place, duty and honor both required him to warn the Comte
de Bonneville of the dangers that might threaten him and the person
who was with him. Michel already reproached himself for his delay in
doing so.
Accordingly, after a few moments' careful reflection, Michel decided
on his course. In spite of his mother's watchfulness, he had read
novels enough to know that if occasion came, a simple pair of sheets
could make an all-sufficient ladder. Naturally enough, this was the
first thought that came into his mind. Unfortunately, the windows of
his bedroom were directly over those of the kitchen, where he would
infallibly be seen when he fluttered down through mid-air, although,
as we have said, darkness was just beginning. Moreover, the height was
really so great from his windows to the ground that in spite of his
resolution to conquer, at the cost of a thousand dangers, the heart of
her whom he loved, he felt cold chills running down his back at the
mere idea of being suspended by such a fragile hold above an abyss.
In front of his windows was a tall Canadian poplar, the branches of
which were about six feet from his balcony. To climb down that poplar,
inexperienced though he was in all athletic exercises, seemed to him
easy enough, but how to reach its branches was a problem; for the
young man dared not trust to the elasticity of his limbs and take a
spring.
Necessity made him ingenious. He had in his room a quantity of
fishing-tackle, which he had lately been using against the carp and
roach in the lake of Grand-Lieu,--an innocent pleasure, which maternal
solicitude had authorized. He selected a rod, fastened a hook at the
end of the line, and put the whole beside the window. Then he went to
his bed and took a sheet. At one end of the sheet he tied a
candlestick,--he wanted an article with some weight; a candlestick
came in his way, and he took a candlestick. He flung this candlestick
in such a way that it fell on the other side of the stoutest limb of
the poplar. Then with his hook and line he fished in the end of the
sheet, and brought it back to him.
After this he tied both ends firmly to the railing of his balcony, and
he thus had a sort of suspension-bridge, solid beyond all
misadventure, between his window and the poplar. The young man got
astride of it, like a sailor on a yard-arm, and gently propelling
himself along, he was soon in the tree, and next on the ground. Then,
without caring whether he was seen or not, he crossed the lawn at a
run and went toward Souday, the road to which he now knew better than
any other.
When he reached the heights of Servière he heard musketry, which
seemed to come from somewhere between Montaigu and the lake of
Grand-Lieu. His emotion was great. The echo of every volley that came
to him on the breeze produced a painful commotion in his mind, which
reacted on his heart. The sounds evidently indicated danger, perhaps
even death to her he loved, and this thought paralyzed him with
terror. Then when he reflected that Mary might blame him for the
troubles he had not averted from her head and from those of her father
and sister and friends, the tears filled his eyes.
Consequently, instead of slackening speed when he heard the firing, he
only thought of quickening it. From a rapid walk he broke into a run,
and soon reached the first trees of the forest of Machecoul. There,
instead of following the road, which would have delayed him several
minutes, he flung himself into a wood-path that he had taken more than
once for the very purpose of shortening the way.
Hurrying beneath the dark, overhanging dome of trees, falling
sometimes into ditches, stumbling over stones, catching on thorny
briers,--so dense was the darkness, so narrow the way,--he presently
reached what was called the Devil's Vale. There he was in the act of
jumping a brook which runs in the depths of it, when a man, springing
abruptly from a clump of gorse, seized him so roughly that he knocked
him down into the slimy bed of the brook, pressing the cold muzzle of
a pistol to his forehead.
"Not a cry, not a word, or you are a dead man!" said the assailant.
The position was a frightful one for the young baron. The man put a
knee on his chest, and held him down, remaining motionless himself, as
though he were expecting some one. At last, finding that no one came,
he gave the cry of the screech-owl, which was instantly answered from
the interior of the wood, and the rapid steps of a man were heard
approaching.
"Is that you, Picaut?" said the man whose knee was on Michel's breast.
"No, not Picaut; it is I," said the new-comer.
"Who is 'I'?"
"Jean Oullier."
"Jean Oullier!" cried the other, with such joy that he raised himself
partially, and thus relieved, to some extent, his prisoner. "Really
and truly you? Did you actually get away from the red-breeches?"
"Yes, thanks to all of you, my friends. But we have not a minute to
lose if we want to escape a great disaster."
"What's to be done? Now that you are free and here with us, all will
go well."
"How many men have you?"
"Eight on leaving Montaigu; but the _gars_ of Vieille-Vigne joined us.
We must be sixteen or eighteen by this time."
"How many guns?"
"Each man has one."
"Good. Where are they stationed?"
"Along the edge of the forest."
"Bring them together."
"Yes."
"You know the crossway at the Ragots?"
"Like my pocket."
"Wait for the soldiers there, not in ambush but openly. Order fire
when they are within twenty paces. Kill all you can,--so much vermin
the less."
"Yes. And then?"
"As soon as your guns are discharged separate in two bodies,--one to
escape by the path to La Cloutière, the other by the road to
Bourgnieux. Fire as you run, and coax them to follow you."
"To get them off their track, hey?"
"Precisely, Guérin; that's it."
"Yes; but--you?"
"I must get to Souday. I ought to be there now."
"Oh, oh, Jean Oullier!" exclaimed the peasant, doubtfully.
"Well, what?" asked Jean Oullier. "Does any one dare to distrust me?"
"No one says they distrust you; they only say they don't trust any one
else."
"I tell you I must be at Souday in ten minutes, and when Jean Oullier
says 'I must,' it is because it _must_ be done. If you can delay the
soldiers half an hour that's all I want."
"Jean Oullier! Jean Oullier!"
"What?"
"Suppose I can't make the _gars_ wait for the soldiers in the open?"
"Order them in the name of the good God."
"If it were you who ordered them they would obey; but me-- Besides,
there's Joseph Picaut among them, and you know Joseph Picaut will only
do as he chooses."
"But if I don't go to Souday I have no one to send."
"Let me go, Monsieur Jean Oullier," said a voice from the earth.
"Who spoke?" said the wolf-keeper.
"A prisoner I have just made," said Guérin.
"What's his name?"
"I did not ask his name."
"I am the Baron de la Logerie," said the young man, managing to sit
up; for the Chouan's grip was loosened and he had more freedom to move
and breathe.
"Ah! Michel's son! You here!" muttered Jean Oullier, in a savage
voice.
"Yes. When Monsieur Guérin stopped me I was on my way to Souday to
warn my friend Bonneville and Petit-Pierre that their presence in the
château was known."
"How came you to know that?"
"I heard it last evening. I overheard a conversation between my mother
and Courtin."
"Then why, as you had such fine intentions, didn't you go sooner to
warn your friend?" retorted Jean Oullier, in a tone of doubt and also
of sarcasm.
"Because the baroness locked me into my room, and that room is on the
second floor, and I could not get out till to-night through the
window, and then at the risk of my life."
Jean Oullier reflected a moment. His prejudice against all that came
from la Logerie was so intense, his hatred against all that bore the
name of Michel so deep, that he could not endure to accept a service
from the young man. In fact, in spite of the latter's ingenuous
frankness, the distrustful Vendéan suspected that such a show of
good-will meant treachery. He knew, however, that Guérin was right, and
that he alone in a crucial moment could give the Chouans confidence
enough in themselves to let the enemy come openly up to them, and
therefore that he alone could delay their march to Souday. On the
other hand, he felt that Michel could explain to the Comte de
Bonneville better than any peasant the danger that threatened him, and
so he resigned himself, though sulkily, to be under an obligation to
one of the Michel family.
"Ah, wolf-cub!" he muttered, "I can't help myself." Then aloud, "Very
well, so be it. Go!" he said; "but have you the legs to do it?"
"Steel legs."
"Hum!" grunted Jean Oullier.
"If Mademoiselle Bertha were here she would certify to them."
"Mademoiselle Bertha!" exclaimed Jean Oullier, frowning.
"Yes; I fetched the doctor for old Tinguy, and I took only fifty
minutes to go seven miles and a half there and back."
Jean Oullier shook his head like a man who is far from being
satisfied.
"Do you look after your enemies," said Michel, "and rely on me. If it
takes you ten minutes to get to Souday it will take me five, I'll
answer for that."
And the young man shook from his clothes the mud and slime with which
he was covered, and prepared to depart.
"Do you know the way?" asked Jean Oullier.
"Know the way! As well as I do the paths at la Logerie." And darting
off in the direction of Souday, he called back, "Good luck to you,
Monsieur Jean Oullier!"
Jean Oullier stood thoughtful a moment. The knowledge the young baron
declared he possessed of the neighborhood of the château greatly
annoyed him.
"Well, well," he growled at last, "we'll put that in order when we get
time." Then addressing Guérin, "Come," said he, "call up the _gars_."
The Chouan took off one of his wooden shoes and putting it to his
mouth he blew into it in a way that exactly represented the howling of
wolves.
"Do you think they'll hear that?" asked Jean Oullier.
"Of course they will. I chose the farthest place to windward to make
sure of it."
"Then we had better not wait for them here. Let us get to the Ragot
crossways. Keep on calling as you go along; we shall gain time that
way."
"How much time have we in advance of the soldiers?" asked Guérin,
following Jean Oullier rapidly through the brake.
"A good half-hour and more. They have halted at the farm of
Pichardière."
"Pichardière!" exclaimed Guérin.
"Yes. They have probably waked up Pascal Picaut, who will guide them.
He is a man to do that, isn't he?"
"Pascal Picaut won't serve as guide to any one. He'll never wake up
again," said Guérin, gloomily.
"Ah!" exclaimed Jean Oullier; "then it was he just now, was it?"
"Yes, it was he."
"Did you kill him?"
"He struggled and called for help. The soldiers were within gunshot of
us; we had to kill him."
"Poor Pascal!" said Jean Oullier.
"Yes," said Guérin, "though he belonged to the scoundrels, he was a
fine man."
"And his brother?" asked Jean Oullier.
"His brother?"
"Yes, Joseph."
"He stood looking on."
Jean Oullier shook himself like a wolf who receives a charge of
buckshot in the flank. That powerful nature accepted all the
consequences of the terrible struggle which is the natural outcome of
civil wars, but he had not foreseen this horror, and he shuddered at
the thought of it. To conceal his emotion from Guérin he hurried his
steps and bounded through the undergrowth as rapidly as though
following his hounds.
Guérin, who stopped from time to time to howl in his shoe, had some
trouble in following. Suddenly he heard Jean Oullier give a low
whistle warning him to halt.
They were then at a part of the forest called the springs of Baugé,
only a short distance from the crossways.