WHICH SHOWS THAT IT IS NOT FOR FLIES ONLY THAT
SPIDERS' WEBS ARE DANGEROUS.
"You know, my dear marquis," began the general, by way of exordium,
"that I don't inquire into any of your secrets. I am so perfectly
sure, so profoundly convinced that everything happened precisely as I
tell you, that I'll excuse you from telling me that I am mistaken or
not mistaken. All I want to do is to prove to you, as a matter of
self-respect, that we have as good a nose for a scent in our camp as
you have in your forest,--a small satisfaction of vanity which I am
bent on getting, that's all."
"Go on, go on!" cried the marquis, as impatient as if Jean Oullier had
come to tell him on a fine snowy day that he had roused a wolf.
"We'll begin with the beginning. I knew that M. le Comte de Bonneville
had arrived at your house the night before last, accompanied by a
little peasant, who had all the appearance of being a woman in
disguise, and whom we suspect to be Madame. But this is only a report
of spies; it doesn't figure in my own inventory," added the general.
"I should hope not; pah!" said the marquis.
"But when I arrived here in person, as we military fellows say in our
bulletin French, without being, I must assure you, at all misled by
the extreme politeness which you lavished upon us, I at once remarked
two things."
"What were they?"
"First, that out of ten places laid at the supper-table, five had
napkins rolled up, evidently belonging to certain regular guests;
which fact, in case of a trial, my dear marquis--don't forget
this--would be an eminently extenuating circumstance."
"Why so?"
"Because if you had known the rank and quality of your guests you
would hardly have allowed them to roll their napkins like ordinary
country neighbors, would you? The linen closets of Souday can't be so
short of napkins that Madame la Duchesse de Berry couldn't have a
clean one for every meal. I am therefore inclined to believe that the
blonde lady disguised in the black wig was nothing more to your mind
than a dark young lad."
"Go on, go on!" cried the marquis, biting his lips at this revelation
of a perspicacity so far exceeding his own.
"I intend to go on," said the general. "So, as I say, I noticed five
rolled napkins, which proved that the supper, or dinner, was not so
entirely prepared for us as you tried to make me believe, and that you
simply gave us the places of Monsieur de Bonneville and his companion
and others, who had judged it best not to wait for our arrival."
"Now for your second observation?" said the marquis.
"Mademoiselle Bertha, whom I suppose and believe to be a very neat
young lady, was, when you did me the honor to present me to her,
singularly covered with cobwebs; they were even in her beautiful
hair."
"Well?"
"Well, certain as I was that she had not chosen that style of
adornment out of coquetry, I looked about this morning for a part of
the château that was well supplied with the toil of those interesting
insects, the spiders."
"And you discovered--?"
"Faith! what I discovered doesn't redound to the honor of your
religious sentiments, my dear marquis, or, at any rate, to your
practice of them; for it was precisely across the doorway of your
chapel that I found a dozen spiders working with unimaginable zeal to
repair the damage done last night to their webs,--a zeal no doubt
inspired by the belief that the opening of the door where they had
fixed their homes was only an accident not likely to occur again."
"You must allow, my dear general, that all these indications are
somewhat vague."
"Yes, but when your hounds turn their noses to the wind and strain at
the leash, that is nothing more than a vague indication, is it? And
yet on that indication yon beat the woods with care, and very great
care, too."
"Certainly," said the marquis.
"Well, that's my way also. Then, on your paths (where, by the bye,
gravel is essentially lacking), I have discovered some very
significant tracks."
"Steps of men and women?" exclaimed the marquis. "Pooh! they are
everywhere."
"No, there are not everywhere steps crowded together and going in one
direction, according to what I suppose to be the number of actors on
the scene,--steps, too, of persons who were not walking, but running
together."
"But how in the world could you tell that those persons were running?"
"Why, marquis, that's the A B C of the business."
"Tell me, quick!"
"Because their footmarks are more from the toes than the heels, and
the earth is pushed backward. Isn't that the way to tell, my dear
Master of Wolves?"
"Right," said the marquis, with the air of a connoisseur; "quite
right. What next?"
"Next?"
"Yes."
"I examined the footprints; there were men's steps of various sizes
and shapes, boots, shoes, and hob-nail soles. Then in the midst of all
these masculine feet what did I see but the print of a woman's foot,
slender and arched, Cinderella's foot,--a foot to put all the
Andalusian women to shame from Cordova to Cadiz; and that, too, in
spite of the heavy nailed shoes which contained it."
"Well, well! skip that."
"Skip it! why?"
"Because, if you say another word you'll be in love with that delicate
foot in a hobnailed shoe."
"The truth is, I would give anything to hold it. Perhaps I shall. It
was on the steps of the chapel and on the pavement within it that
these traces were most observable; mud had left its own marks on the
polished floor. I also found, near the altar, droppings from
wax-tapers close to a long, thin footprint, which I would swear to be
Mademoiselle Bertha's; and as other droppings were close to the
outside of the trap-door, I concluded that your daughter held the
light in her left hand, while she put the key with her right into the
lock. However, without this last proof, the cobwebs--in fragments at
the door, and tangled in her hair--proved to me conclusively that it
was she who aided the escape."
"Very well; continue."
"The rest is hardly worth telling. The lamb's paw was broken, and left
exposed a small steel button which worked a spring; therefore I had no
merit in that discovery. It resisted my efforts as it did those of
Mademoiselle Bertha, who, by the bye, scratched her finger and drew
blood, leaving a little fresh trace of it on the carved wood. Like
her, I looked for some hard thing to push in the little button, and
like her again, I spied the wooden handle of the bell, which retained
not only the marks of the pressure of the night before but also a
little trace of blood."
"Bravo!" cried the marquis, evidently beginning to take a double
interest in the narration.
"So, as you will readily believe," continued Dermoncourt, "I went down
into the vault. The footprints of the fugitives were perfectly
distinct on the damp, sandy soil. One of the party fell as they went
through the ruins; I know this because I saw a thick tuft of nettles
bruised and beaten down, which we may be sure, considering the
unamiable nature of that plant, was not done intentionally. In a
corner of the ruins, opposite to the door, stones had been moved, as
if to facilitate the passage of some delicate person. Among the
nettles growing beside the wall I found the two tapers, thrown away as
soon as the party reached the open air. Finally, and in conclusion, I
found footsteps in the road, and then, as they separated there, I was
able to class them in the manner I have already described to you."
"No, no; that's not the conclusion."
"Not the conclusion? yes, it is."
"No; who told you that one of these persons took another on his back?"
"Ah, marquis, you want to catch me tripping in discernment. The pretty
little foot in the hobnailed shoe,--that charming foot that captivates
me so much that I have neither peace nor rest till I have overtaken
it, that delicate little foot, no longer than a child's nor wider than
my two fingers,--well, I saw it in the vaults, also in the covered way
behind the ruins, and at the place where they all stopped and
deliberated before they parted. Then, suddenly, close to a huge stone,
which the rain must usually keep clean, but which, on the contrary, I
now found covered with mud, those dainty footsteps disappeared. From
that moment, like the hippogriffs who no longer exist in our days,
Monsieur de Bonneville, I presume, took his companion on his back. The
footprints of the said Monsieur de Bonneville became suddenly heavier;
they were no longer those of a lively, active youth, such as you and I
were at his age, marquis. Don't you remember how the wild-sows when
with young make heavier tracks, and their hoof-marks, instead of just
pricking the earth, are placed flat with the two points separate?
Well, from the stone I spoke of, M. de Bonneville's footsteps grew
heavier in the same way."
"But you have forgotten something, general."
"I think not."
"Oh! I sha'n't let you off yet. What makes you think that Monsieur de
Bonneville spent the day riding about to summon my neighbors to
council?"
"You told me yourself you had not gone out."
"Well?"
"Well, your horse, the one you always ride,--as that pretty little
wench who took my bridle told me,--your favorite horse, which I saw in
the stable when I went to make sure that my own Bucephalus had his
provender, was covered with mud to the withers. Now, some one had
ridden that horse, and you would never have lent him to any one for
whom you did not feel some special consideration."
"Good! Now another question."
"Certainly; I am here to answer questions."
"What makes you think that Monsieur de Bonneville's companion is the
august personage you named just now?"
"Partly because she is evidently made to pass first, before others,
and the stones are moved out of her way."
"Can you tell by a mere footprint whether the person who made it is
fair or dark?"
"No; but I can find it out in another way."
"How? This shall be my last question; and if you answer it--"
"If I answer it, what?"
"Nothing. Go on."
"Well, my dear marquis, you were so good as to give me the bedroom
occupied the night before by Monsieur de Bonneville's companion."
"Yes, I did so; what of it?"
"Well, here is a pretty little tortoise-shell comb, which I found at
the foot of the bed. You must admit, my dear marquis, that it is too
dainty and coquettish to belong to a peasant lad. Besides, it
contained, and still contains, as you may see, some long meshes of
light brown hair, not at all of the golden shade that adorns your
younger daughter's head,--the only blond head in your house."
"General!" cried the marquis, bounding from his chair, and flinging
his knife and fork across the room, "arrest me if you like, but I tell
you, once for all, I won't go to England; no, I won't, I won't, I
won't!"
"Well, well, marquis, what's the matter with you, hey?"
"The devil! You've stimulated my ambition, you've spurred my pride and
my self-love. Though I know, if you come to Souday--as you've
promised, mind you, after the campaign is over--I shall have nothing
to tell you equal to your own performances."
"Listen to me, my old and excellent enemy," said the general. "I have
given you my word not to arrest you, this time at least, and whatever
you may do, or rather, whatever you may have done, I shall keep my
word; but I do entreat you, in the name of the interest you have
inspired in me, in the name of your charming daughters, do not commit
the folly on which you are bent, and if you will not leave France, at
least stay quietly at home."
"And why?"
"Because the memories of those heroic times, which are making your
heart beat now are but memories; because the emotions of the great and
glorious actions you would like to see renewed are gone forever;
because the day of great deeds of arms, of devotion without
conditions, of deaths sublime in constancy, are passed without recall.
Oh! I knew her, I knew her well, that unconquerable Vendée. I can say
so,--I who bear the scars of her steel upon my breast. Well, I have
been for the last month in the midst of her, in the midst of the
places of the past, and I tell you I look for her old self in vain; I
cannot find it, and no one can find it. My poor marquis, count up the
few young gallant fellows, whose brave hearts dare to face the
struggle, count up the veteran heroes who, like you, think that the
duty of 1793 is still a duty in 1832, and see for yourself that a
struggle so unequal is sheer madness."
"It will not be less glorious for that, my dear general," cried the
marquis, forgetting in his enthusiasm the political position of his
companion.
"No, no; it will not be glorious in any sense. All that
happens,--you'll see, and when you do, remember that I foretold it to
you,--all that is now about to happen will be colorless, barren, puny,
stunted; and on both sides, too. Yes, my God! with us as well as with
you: with us, petty motives, base betrayals; with you, self-seeking
compromises, contemptible meannesses, which will cut you to the heart,
my poor marquis, which will kill you,--you, whom the balls of the
Blues have left untouched."
"You see things as a partisan of the established government, general;
you forget that we have many friends even in your own ranks, and that
when we say the word this whole region will rise as one man."
The general shook his shoulders.
"In my time, old comrade,--allow me to call you so," he said,--"all
that was Blue was Blue; all that was White was White. There was, to be
sure, something red,--the executioner and his guillotine: but don't
let us speak of that. You had no friends in our ranks, we had none in
yours; and it was that which made us equally strong, equally great,
equally terrible. At a word from you La Vendée will rise, you say? You
are mistaken. La Vendée, which went to its death in 1795, relying on
the coming of a prince whose word she trusted, and who failed her,
will not rise now; no, not even when she sees the Duchesse de Berry
within her borders. Your peasants have lost that political faith which
moves human mountains, which drives them one against another, clashing
together until they sink in a sea of blood,--that faith which begets
and perpetuates martyrs. We ourselves, marquis,--I am forced to
acknowledge it,--no longer possess that passion for liberty, progress,
glory, which shook the old worlds to their centres, and gave birth to
heroes. The civil war which is about to break out--if, indeed, there
must be a civil war, and if it must break out--will be just such a war
as Barême describes: a war in which victory is certain to be on the
side of the big battalions, the best exchequer. And that is why I say
to you, count the cost, count it twice over, before you fling yourself
into this mad folly."
"You are mistaken; I tell you, general, you are mistaken. We are not
without an army, without soldiers; and, more fortunate than in former
times, we have a leader whose sex will electrify the cautious, rally
all devotions, and silence contending ambitions."
"Poor, valorous young woman! poor, noble, poetic spirit!" said the old
soldier, in a tone of the deepest pity, dropping his scarred brow upon
his breast. "Presently she will have no more relentless enemy than
myself; but while I am still in this room, on neutral ground, I will
tell you how I admire her resolution, her courage, her persistent
tenacity, and how truly I deplore that she was born in an epoch that
is no longer of the measure of her soul. The times have changed,
marquis, since Jeanne de Montfort had but to strike the soil of
Brittany with her mailed heel for warriors to spring up fully armed
from it. Marquis, remember what I predict to you this day, and repeat
it to that poor woman, if you see her,--namely, that her noble heart,
more valiant even than that of Comtesse Jeanne, will receive, as the
reward of her abnegation, her energy, her devotion, her sublime
elevation of soul as princess and mother, only indifference,
ingratitude, baseness, cowardice, treachery of all kinds. And now, my
dear marquis, make your decision, say your last word."
"My last word, general, is like my first."
"Repeat it, then."
"I will not go to England," said the old man, firmly.
"Listen," continued Dermoncourt, laying a hand on the marquis's
shoulder, and looking him in the eyes. "You are as proud as a Gascon,
Vendéan though you be. Your revenues are small, I know that,--oh,
don't begin to frown in that way; let me finish what I have to
say,--damn it, you know I wouldn't offer you anything I wouldn't
accept myself."
The marquis's face returned to its first expression.
"I was saying," continued the general, "that your revenues are
slender; and in this cursed region of country it is not enough to
possess revenues, great or small,--you must also collect them. Well,
that's difficult; and if you can't get the money to cross the straits
and hire a little cottage somewhere in England,--well, I'm not rich, I
have only my pay, but I have managed to lay by a few hundred louis (a
comrade accepts such things, you know); won't you take them? After the
peace, as you say, you can pay them back."
"Stop! stop!" said the marquis; "you know me only since yesterday, and
you treat me like a friend of twenty years' standing." The old Vendéan
scratched his ear, and added, as if speaking to himself, "How could I
ever show my gratitude for such an act?"
"Then you accept it?"
"No, no; I refuse it."
"But you will go?"
"I stay."
"God keep you then in health and safety!" said the old general, his
patience exhausted. "Only, it is likely that chance, the devil take
it! will bring us face to face together once more, as we were
formerly; and now that I know you, if there is a hand-to-hand fight,
such as there used to be in the old days, at Laval, hey? I swear I'll
seek you out."
"And I'll seek you," cried the marquis; "I'll shout for you with all
my lungs. I'd be thankful and proud to show these greenhorns what the
men of the old war were."
"Well, there's the bugle sounding; I must go. Adieu, marquis, and
thank you for your hospitality."
"_Au revoir_, general, and thanks for a friendship which I must prove
to you I share."
The two old men shook hands, and Dermoncourt went away. The marquis,
as he dressed himself, watched the little column disappearing up the
avenue in the direction of the forest. At a couple of hundred paces
from the château the general ordered a half-turn to the right; then,
stopping his horse, he gave a last look at the little pointed turrets
of his new friend's abode. Seeing the marquis at a window, he waved
him a last adieu, and then, turning rein, he rejoined his men.
After following with his eyes, as long as they were visible, the
detachment and the man who commanded it, the marquis turned from the
window, and as he did so he heard a slight scratching on a little door
behind his bed, which communicated, through a dressing-room, with the
backstairs.
"Who the devil is coming this way?" he thought, drawing the bolt.
The door opened immediately, and gave entrance to Jean Oullier.
"Jean Oullier!" cried the marquis, in a tone of actual joy. "Is it
you? are you really here, my good Jean Oullier? Ha! faith! the day has
begun under good auspices."
He held out his hand to his keeper, who pressed it with a lively
expression of respect and gratitude. Then, disengaging his hand, Jean
Oullier produced from his pocket and gave to the marquis a piece of
coarse paper folded into the shape of a letter. M. de Souday opened
and read it. As he read his face beamed with joy unspeakable.
"Jean Oullier," he said, "call the young ladies; assemble all my
people! No, no; stop! don't assemble any of them yet. Polish up my
sword, my pistols, my carbine, all my war accoutrements; give Tristan
oats. The campaign opens! My dear Jean Oullier, the campaign is
opening! Bertha! Mary! Bertha!"
"Monsieur le marquis," said Jean Oullier, calmly, "the campaign has
been opened for me since yesterday at three o'clock."
The sisters now rushed in, hearing their father's call, Mary's eyes
were red and swollen. Bertha was radiant.
"Young ladies! girls!" cried the marquis; "you are in it! You are to
come with me! Here, read this."
And he held out to Bertha the letter Jean Oullier had just given him.
The letter was thus worded:--
MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY,--It is desirable for the cause of King
Henri V. that you hasten by several days the call to arms. Have the
goodness, therefore, to assemble all the most devoted men that you
have in the district which you command, and hold yourself and them,
especially yourself, at my immediate orders.
I think that two more amazons in our little army will help to spur on
the love and the self-love of our friends, and I ask you, my dear
marquis, to be so very kind as to grant me your beautiful and charming
huntresses as my aides-de-camp.
Your affectionate
PETIT-PIERRE.
"Well," said Bertha, "are we to go?"
"Of course!" exclaimed the marquis.
"Then allow me, papa," said Bertha, "to present to you a recruit."
"As many as you like."
Mary was silent and motionless. Bertha left the room, and returned in
a few moments, leading Michel by the hand.
"Baron Michel de la Logerie," said the girl, dwelling on the title,
"wishes to prove to you papa, that his Majesty Louis XVIII. was not
mistaken in granting his family a patent of nobility."
The marquis, who had frowned at the name of Michel, softened his
aspect.
"I shall follow with interest any efforts Monsieur Michel may make
with that object in view," he said, at last, uttering those dignified
words in a tone the Emperor Napoleon might have used on the eve of the
battle of Marengo.