At daybreak on the 4th of June the tocsin sounded from all the
bell-towers in the districts of Clisson, Montaigu, and Machecoul. The
tocsin is the drum-call of the Vendéans. Formerly, that is to say in
the days of the great war, when its harsh and sinister clang resounded
through the land the whole population rose in a mass and ran to meet
the enemy.
How many noble things those people must have done to enable us to
forget, almost forget, that their enemy was--France!
Happily,--and this proves the immense progress we have made in the
past forty years,--happily, we say, in 1832 the tocsin appeared to
have lost its power. If a few peasants, answering its impious call,
left their ploughs and seized the guns hidden in the hedges, the
majority continued calmly along the furrows, and contented themselves
by listening to the signal for revolt with that profoundly meditative
air which suits so well with the Vendéan cast of countenance.
And yet, by ten o'clock that morning, a rather numerous body of
insurgents had already fought an engagement with the regular army.
Strongly intrenched in the village of Maisdon, this troop sustained a
strong attack directed against it, and had only given way before
superior numbers. It then effected its retreat in better order than
was customary with the Vendéans even after a slight or momentary
reverse.
The reason was, and we repeat it, that La Vendée was no longer
fighting for the triumph of a great principle, but simply from a great
devotion. If we are now making ourselves the historian of this war
(after our usual fashion of writing history) it is because we hope to
draw from the very facts we relate the satisfactory conclusion that
civil war will soon be impossible in France.
Now, this devotion of which we speak was that of men of noble,
elevated hearts, who felt themselves bound by their fathers' past, and
who gave their honor, their fortunes, and their life in support of the
old adage, _Noblesse oblige_. That is the reason why the retreat was
made in good order. Those who executed it were no longer undisciplined
peasants, but gentlemen; and each man fought not only from devotion
but also from pride,--pride for himself, and, in a measure, for
others.
The Whites were immediately attacked again at Château-Thébaud by a
detachment of fresh troops sent by General Dermoncourt to pursue them.
The royalists lost several men at the passage of the Maine, but having
succeeded in putting that river between themselves and their pursuers,
they were able to form a junction on the left bank with the Nantes
men, whom we lately saw departing, full of enthusiasm, from the
Jacquet mill, and who since then had been reinforced by the men from
Légé and the division of the Marquis de Souday. This reinforcement
brought the effective strength of this column, which was under
Gaspard's command, to about eight hundred men.
The next morning it marched on Vieille-Vigne, hoping to disarm the
National Guard at that point; but learning that the little town was
occupied by a much superior force, to which would be added in a few
hours the troops assembled at Aigrefeuille (where the general had
collected a large body for the purpose of throwing them on any point
in case of necessity), the Vendéan leader determined to attack the
village of Chêne, intending to capture and occupy it.
The peasants were scattered through the neighborhood. Hidden among the
wheat, which was already of a good height, they worried the Blues with
incessant sharp-shooting, following the tactics of their fathers. The
men of Nantes and the country gentlemen formed in column and prepared
to carry the village by main force, attacking it along the chief
street which runs from end to end of it.
At the end of that street ran a brook; but the bridge had been
destroyed the night before, nothing remaining of it but a few
disjointed timbers. The soldiers, withdrawn into the houses and
ambushed behind the windows, protected with mattresses, poured a
cross-fire down upon the Whites, which repulsed them twice and
paralyzed their onset, until, electrified by the example of their
leaders, the Vendéan soldiers flung themselves into the water, crossed
the little river, met the Blues with the bayonet, hunted them from
house to house, and drove them to the extremity of the village, where
they found themselves face to face with a battalion of the 44th of the
line which the general had just sent forward to support the little
garrison of Chêne.
The sound of the firing reached the mill, which Petit-Pierre had not
yet quitted. She was still in that room on the first floor where we
have already seen her. Pale, with eager eyes, she walked up and down
in the grasp of a feverish agitation she could not quell. From time to
time she stopped on the threshold of the door, listening to the dull
roll of the musketry which the breeze brought to her ears like the
rumbling of distant thunder; then, she passed her hand across her
forehead, which was bathed in sweat, stamped her feet in anger, and at
last sat down in the chimney-corner opposite to the Marquis de Souday,
who, though no less agitated, no less impatient than Petit-Pierre,
only sighed from time to time in a dolorous way.
How came the Marquis de Souday, whom we have seen so impatient to
begin all over again his early exploits in the great war, to be thus
tied down to a merely expectant position? We must explain this to our
readers.
The day of the engagement at Maisdon Petit-Pierre, in accordance with
the promise she had given to her friends, made ready to join them and
share in the fight itself. But the royalist chiefs were alarmed at the
great responsibility her courage and ardor threw upon them. They felt
that the dangers were too many under the still uncertain chances of
this war, and they decided that until the whole army were assembled
they could not allow Petit-Pierre to risk her life in some petty and
obscure encounter.
Respectful representations were therefore made to her, all of which
failed to change her strong determination. The Vendéan leaders then
took counsel together and decided among themselves to keep her as it
were a prisoner, and to appoint one of their own number to remain
beside her, and prevent her, by force if necessary, from leaving her
quarters.
In spite of the care the Marquis de Souday (who was of the council)
took in voting and intriguing to throw the choice on one of his
colleagues, he himself was selected; and that is why he was now, to
his utter despair, compelled to stay in the Jacquet mill beside the
miller's fire, instead of being at Chêne and under the fire of the
Blues.
When the first sounds of the combat reached the mill Petit-Pierre
endeavored to persuade the marquis to let her join her faithful
Vendéans: but the old gentleman was not to be shaken; prayers,
promises, threats, were all in vain against his strict fidelity to
orders received. But Petit-Pierre could plainly see on his face the
deep annoyance he felt; for the marquis, who was little of a courtier
by nature, was unable to conceal it. Stopping short before him just as
one of the sighs of impatience we have already mentioned escaped him,
she said:--
"It seems to me, marquis, that you are not extraordinarily delighted
with my companionship?"
"Oh!" exclaimed the marquis, endeavoring, but without success, to give
a tone of shocked denial to his interjection.
"Yes," said Petit-Pierre, who had an object in persisting, "I think
you are not at all pleased with the post of honor assigned to you."
"On the contrary, I accepted that post with the deepest gratitude;
but--"
"Ah! there's a _but?_ I knew it!" said Petit-Pierre, who seemed
determined to fathom the old gentleman's mind on this point.
"Isn't there always a _but_ in every earthly thing?" replied the
marquis, evasively.
"What is yours?"
"Well, I regret not to be able, while showing myself worthy of the
trust my comrades have laid upon me, I certainly do regret not being
able to shed my blood on your behalf, as they are doing, no doubt, at
this very moment."
Petit-Pierre sighed heavily.
"I have no doubt," she said, "that our friends are even now regretting
your absence. Your experience and tried courage would certainly be of
the utmost help to them."
The marquis swelled with pride.
"Yes, yes," he said; "I know they'll repent of it."
"I am sure of it. My dear marquis, will you let me tell you, with my
hand on my conscience, the whole truth as I see it?"
"Oh, yes; I entreat you."
"Well, I think they distrusted you as much as they did me."
"Impossible!"
"Stop! you don't see what I mean. They said to themselves: 'A woman
would hinder us in marching; we should have to think of her if we
retreat. In any case we must devote to the security of her person a
troop of soldiers we could better employ elsewhere.' They did not
choose to believe that I have succeeded in conquering the weakness of
my body, and that my courage is equal to the greatness of my task; if
they think so of me, can you wonder if they think it of you?"
"Of me!" cried Monsieur de Souday, furious at the mere suggestion. "I
have given proofs of courage all my life!"
"All the world knows that, my dear marquis; but perhaps, remembering
your age, they may have thought that your bodily vigor, like mine, was
no longer equal to the ardor of your spirit."
"Oh, that's too much!" cried the old soldier of former days in a tone
of the deepest indignation. "Why! there hasn't been a day for the
last fifteen years that I haven't been six or eight hours in the
saddle,--sometimes ten, sometimes twelve! In spite of my white hairs I
can stand fatigue as well as any man. See what I can do still!"
Seizing the stool on which he was sitting, he struck it with such
violence against the stone chimney-piece that he shattered the stool
to bits and made a deep gash in the mantel. Brandishing above his head
the leg of the hapless stool which remained in his hand, he cried
out:--
"How many of your young dandies, Maître Petit-Pierre, could do that?"
"I never doubted your powers, my dear marquis; and that is why I say
those gentlemen have made a great mistake in treating you like an
invalid."
"An invalid! I? God's death!" cried the marquis, more and more
exasperated, and totally forgetting the presence of the person with
whom he was speaking. "An invalid! I? Well, this very evening, I'll
tell them I renounce these functions, which are those, not of a
gentleman, but a jailer."
"That's right!" interjected Petit-Pierre.
"Functions, which for the last two hours," continued the marquis,
striding up and down the room, "I have been sending to all the
devils."
"Ah, ha!"
"And to-morrow, yes, I say to-morrow, I'll show them who's an invalid,
that I will!"
"Alas!" said Petit-Pierre in a melancholy tone, "tomorrow may not
belong to us, my poor marquis; you are wrong to count upon it."
"Why so?"
"You know very well the uprising is not as general as we hoped it
might be. Who knows whether the shots we now hear may not be the last
fired in defence of the white flag?"
"Hum!" growled the marquis, with the fury of a bulldog tugging at his
chain.
Just then a call for help from the farther end of the orchard put an
end to their talk. They both ran to the spot, and there saw Bertha,
whom the marquis had stationed as an outside lookout, bringing in a
wounded peasant, whom she had scarcely strength enough to support.
Mary and Rosine had also rushed out at the cry. The peasant was a
young _gars_ from twenty to twenty-two years of age, with his
shoulder shattered by a ball. Petit-Pierre ran up to him and placed
him on a chair, where he fainted.
"For heaven's sake, retire," said the marquis to Petit-Pierre; "my
daughters and I will dress the poor devil's wound."
"Pray, why should I retire?" said Petit-Pierre.
"Because the sight of that wound is not one that everybody can stand;
I am afraid it is more than you have strength to bear."
"Then you are like all the rest; and you lead me to suppose that our
friends were right in the judgment they formed on you as well as on
me."
"I don't see that; how so?"
"You think, as they do, that I am wanting in courage." Then, as Mary
and Bertha were beginning to examine the wound, "Let the poor fellow's
wound alone," she continued, "I--and I alone, do you hear me?--will
dress it."
Taking her scissors Petit-Pierre slit up the sleeve of the Vendéan's
jacket, which was stuck to the arm by the dried blood, opened the
wound, washed it, covered it with lint and deftly bandaged it. Just as
she was finishing her work the wounded peasant opened his eyes and
recovered his senses.
"What news?" asked the marquis, unable to restrain himself a moment
longer.
"Alas!" said the man; "our _gars_, who were conquerors at first, are
now repulsed."
Petit-Pierre, who did not blanch while attending to the wound, grew as
white as the linen she was using for bandages; and putting in a last
pin to hold it, she seized the marquis by the arm and drew him toward
the door.
"Marquis," she said, "you, who saw the Blues in the great war, tell
me, what was done when the nation was in danger?"
"Done?" cried the marquis. "Why, everybody ran to arms."
"Even the women?"
"Yes, the women; even the old men, even the children."
"Marquis, it may be that the white flag will fall to-day never to rise
again. Why do you condemn me to making barren and impotent prayers and
vows in its behalf?"
"But just reflect," said the marquis; "suppose a ball were to strike
you."
"Oh! do you think my son's cause would be injured if my bloody and
bullet-riddled clothing were carried on a pike in front of our
battalions?"
"No, no!" cried the marquis, passionately. "I would curse my native
soil if the stones themselves did not rise at such a sight."
"Then come with me and let us join our troops."
"But," replied the marquis, with less determination than he had
previously shown against Petit-Pierre's entreaties,--as if the idea of
being regarded as an invalid had shaken the firmness with which he
executed his orders,--"but I promised you should not leave the mill."
"Well, I release you from that promise," said Petit-Pierre; "and I,
who know your valor, order you to follow me. Come, marquis, we may
still be in time to rally victory to our flag; if not, if we are too
late, we can at least die with our friends."
So saying, Petit-Pierre darted through the courtyard and orchard,
followed by Bertha and by the marquis, who thought it his duty to
renew, from time to time, his remonstrances; although, in the depths
of his heart, he was delighted with the turn affairs were taking.
Mary and Rosine remained behind to care for the wounded.