The day on which all these events--namely, those in the house of the
Widow Picaut, in the château de Souday, the forest of Touvois, and the
farmhouse of Banl[oe]uvre--took place, the door of a house, No. 19 rue
du Château, at Nantes, opened about five in the afternoon to give exit
to two individuals, in one of whom we may recognize the civil
commissioner Pascal, whose acquaintance we have already made at the
château de Souday, and who, after leaving it, as we related, with the
Duchesse de Berry, poor Bonneville, and the other Vendéan leaders, had
returned without difficulty to his official and private residence at
Nantes.
The other, and this is the one with whom we are for the present
concerned, was a man about forty years of age, with a keen,
intelligent, and penetrating eye, a curved nose, white teeth, thick
and sensual lips, like those which commonly belong to imaginative
persons; his black coat and white cravat and ribbon of the Legion of
honor indicated, so far as one might judge by appearances, a man
belonging to the magistracy. He was, in truth, one of the most
distinguished members of the Paris bar, who had arrived at Nantes the
evening before and gone straight to the house of his associate, the
civil commissioner. In the royalist vocabulary he bore the name of
Marc,--one of the several names of Cicero.
When he reached the street door, conducted, as we have said, by the
civil commissioner, he found a cabriolet awaiting him. The two men
shook hands affectionately, and the Parisian lawyer got into the
vehicle, while the driver, leaning over to the civil commissioner,
asked him, as if aware that the traveller was ignorant on the
subject:--
"Where am I to take the gentleman?"
"Do you see that peasant at the farther end of the street on a
dapple-gray horse?" asked the civil commissioner.
"Yes."
"Then all you have to do is to follow him."
This information was hardly given before the man on the gray horse, as
though he had overheard the words of the legitimist agent, started,
went down the rue du Château, and turned to the right, so as to keep
along by the bank of the river, which flowed to his left. The coachman
whipped up his horse, and the squeaking vehicle on which we have
bestowed the unambitious name of "cabriolet," began to rattle over the
uneven pavement of the capital of the Loire-Inférieure, following, as
best it could, the mysterious guide before it.
Just as it reached the corner of the rue du Château and turned
in the direction indicated, the traveller caught sight of the
rider, who, without even glancing behind him, began to cross
the Loire, by the pont Rousseau, which leads to the high-road of
Saint-Philbert-de-Grand-Lieu. Once on the road the peasant put his
horse to a trot, but a slow trot, such as the cabriolet could easily
follow. The rider, however, never turned his head, and seemed not only
quite indifferent as to what might be happening behind him, but also
so ignorant of the mission he himself was performing that the
traveller began to fancy himself the victim of a hoax.
As for the coachman, not being trusted with the secrets of the affair,
he could give no information capable of quieting the uneasiness of
Maître Marc. Having asked of the civil commissioner, "Where am I to
go?" and being told, "Follow the man on the dapple-gray horse," he
followed the man on the dapple-gray horse, seeming no more concerned
about his guide than his guide was concerned about him.
They reached Saint-Philbert-de-Grand-Lieu in about two hours and just
at dusk. The man on the gray horse stopped at the inn of the Cygne de
la Croix, got off his horse, gave the animal to the hostler, and
entered the inn. The traveller in the cabriolet arrived five minutes
later and entered the same inn. As he crossed the kitchen the rider
met him, and without appearing to take notice of him, slipped a little
paper into his hand.
The traveller entered the common room, which happened at the moment to
be empty; there he called for a light and a bottle of wine. They
brought him what he asked for. He did not touch the bottle, but he
opened the note, which contained these words:--
"I will wait for you on the high-road to Légé; follow me, but do not
attempt to join me or speak to me. The coachman will stay at the inn
with the cabriolet."
The traveller burned the note, poured himself out a glass of wine,
with which he merely wet his lips, told the coachman to stay where he
was and expect him on the following evening, and left the inn on foot,
without attracting the inn-keeper's attention, or at any rate, without
the inn-keeper's attention seeming to be attracted to him.
At the end of the village he saw his man, who was cutting a cane from
a hawthorn hedge. The cane being cut, the peasant continued his way,
stripping the twigs off the stick as he walked along. Maître Marc
followed him for a mile and a half, or thereabout.
By this time it was quite dark, and the peasant entered an isolated
house standing on the right of the road. The traveller hastened on and
went in almost at the same moment as his guide. No one was there when
he reached the threshold except a woman in the room that looked out on
the high-road. The peasant was standing before her, apparently
awaiting the traveller. As soon as the latter appeared the peasant
said to the woman:--
"This is the gentleman to be guided."
Then, having said these words, he went out, not giving time to the
traveller he had conducted to reward him with either thanks or money.
When the traveller, who followed the man with his eyes, turned his
astonished gaze on the mistress of the house, she merely signed to him
to sit down, and then without taking further notice of his presence,
and without addressing him a single word, she went on with her
household avocations.
A silence of half an hour ensued, and the traveller was beginning to
get impatient, when the master of the house returned home. Without
showing any sign of surprise or curiosity, he bowed to his guest; but
he looked at his wife, who repeated, _verbatim_, the words of the
peasant: "This is the gentleman to be guided."
The master of the house then gave the stranger one of those uneasy,
shrewd, and rapid glances, which belong exclusively to the Vendéan
peasantry. Then, almost immediately, his face resumed its habitual
expression, which was one of mingled good-humor and simplicity, as he
approached his guest, cap in hand.
"Monsieur wishes to travel through this region?" he said.
"Yes, my friend," replied Maître Marc; "I am desirous of going
farther."
"Monsieur has his papers, no doubt?"
"Of course."
"In order?"
"They cannot be more so."
"Under his war name, or his real name?"
"Under my real name."
"I am obliged, in order that I make no mistake, to ask monsieur to
show me those papers."
"Is it absolutely necessary?"
"Yes; because until I have seen them I cannot tell monsieur whether he
will be absolutely safe in travelling in these parts."
The traveller drew out his passport, which bore date the 28th of
February.
"Here they are," he said.
The peasant took the papers, cast his eyes over them to see if the
description tallied with the individual before him, refolded the
papers, and returned them, saying:--
"It is all right. Monsieur can go everywhere with those papers."
"And will you find some one to guide me?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"I wish to start as soon as possible."
"I will saddle the horses at once."
The master of the house went out. In ten minutes he returned.
"The horses are ready," he said.
"And the guide?"
"He is waiting."
The traveller went out and found a farm-hand already in his saddle,
holding another horse by the bridle. Maître Marc perceived that the
led horse was intended for his riding, the farm-hand for his guide. In
fact, he had scarcely put his foot in the stirrup before his new
conductor started, not less silently than his predecessor. It was nine
o'clock, and the night was dark.