A few weeks had sufficed to bring about a radical upsetting of the
lives of all those personages who, from the beginning of this
narrative, have successively passed under the eyes of the reader.
Martial law was proclaimed in the four departments of La Vendée. The
general who commanded them issued a proclamation inviting the
country-people to give in their submission, promising to receive it
with indulgence. The attempt at insurrection had so miserably failed
that the greater part of the Vendéans abandoned all hope for the
future. A few of them, who were openly compromised, followed the
advice of their own leaders, given when they disbanded them, and gave
up their arms. But the civil authorities would not accept this
capitulation; they seized the offered arms and arrested their owners.
A goodly number of these confiding persons were thrown into prison,
and this impolitic severity paralyzed the pacific intentions of those
who with greater prudence were awaiting events.
Maître Jacques owed to these proceedings a large increase in the
number of his troop; he made so much, and made it so cleverly, out of
the conduct of his adversaries, that he finally gathered about him a
body of men large enough to still hold out in the forests while the
rest of La Vendée disarmed itself.
Gaspard, Louis Renaud, Bras-d'Acier, and other leaders put the sea
between them and a stern government. The Marquis de Souday alone
could not resolve upon that step. Ever since he had parted from
Petit-Pierre--that is, ever since Petit-Pierre had left him--the
unfortunate gentleman had completely lost the jovial good-humor with
which, as a matter of honor, he had, up to the last moment, opposed
the gloomy views of his co-leaders; but as soon as duty no longer
forced him to be gay, the marquis dropped to the lower extreme and
became, as we may say, sad unto death. The defeat at Chêne not only
wounded him in his political sympathies, but it knocked over to their
foundations all the castles in Spain he had been so gleefully
erecting. He now saw in this partisan existence, which his imagination
had been endowing with romantic charm, things he had never dreamed
of,--reverses which overwhelmed him, obscure poverty, the mean and
trivial privations of an exile's life. He reached a point,--even he,
who so recently had thought life in his little castle insufferably
insipid,--he reached a point at which he regretted the good, pleasant
evenings which the caresses and chatter of his girls made so
pleasant,--above all, he missed his gossip with Jean Oullier; and he
was so unhappy over the latter's continued absence that he made
inquiries about his huntsman's fate with a solicitude not in any way
customary with him.
The marquis was in this frame of mind when he one day encountered
Maître Jacques loitering about the environs of Grand-Lieu and watching
the movements of a column of soldiers. The Marquis de Souday had never
had much liking for the master of "rabbits," whose first act of
discipline had been to defy his authority. The independent spirit
displayed by Maître Jacques had always seemed to the old gentleman a
fatal example set to the Vendéans. Maître Jacques, on the other hand,
hated the marquis, as he hated all whose birth or social position gave
them naturally the position of leaders; and yet he was so touched by
the misery to which he saw the old gentleman reduced in the cottage
where, after Petit-Pierre's departure, the marquis had taken refuge,
that he offered to hide him in the forest of Touvois; promising,
besides the good cheer which always reigned in his little camp, and
which he proposed to share with him, some amusement in occasional
frays indulged in with the soldiers of King Louis-Philippe. Needless
to say that the marquis always bluntly called that king "Philippe."
It was the last consideration we have mentioned which determined
Monsieur de Souday to accept Maître Jacques' proposals. He burned to
avenge the ruin of his hopes, and to make some one pay for his
disappointments, for the annoyance his separation from his daughters
caused him, and for the grief he felt at Jean Oullier's disappearance.
He accordingly accompanied the lord of the burrows, who, from being
his subordinate--or rather his insubordinate--now became his
protector; and the latter, really touched by the simplicity and
good-nature of the marquis, showed him much more considerate attention
than his rough exterior and ways of life would seem to promise.
As for Bertha, the day after her retreat to Courtin's house, and as
soon as she recovered some strength, she plainly perceived that to be
under the same roof with the man she loved, far from the protection of
her father, and without Jean Oullier, who could in a way replace him,
was, to say the least of it, an impropriety; and, in spite of the fact
that Michel was wounded, might be interpreted in a way to injure her
reputation. She therefore left the farmhouse and installed herself
with Rosine in the Tinguy cottage. This was about three quarters of a
mile distant from Courtin's house, where she went daily to give Michel
all the care of a sister, and the delicate attentions of a loving
woman.
The tenderness, devotion, and self-abnegation of which Bertha gave
Michel so many proofs touched the young man deeply; but as they did
not in any degree affect his feelings for Mary, his situation became
more and more difficult and embarrassing. He dared not think of the
despair he might bring into the heart of the young girl to whom he
owed his life. Nevertheless, little by little, a gentle resignation
did succeed the bitter and violent repulsion he had felt at first, and
without habituating himself to the idea of the sacrifice Mary demanded
of him, he replied by smiles, which he tried to make affectionate, to
the attentions which Bertha showered on him; and when she left his
bedside the sigh that escaped him, and which she interpreted as meant
for her, alone testified to his inward feelings.
If it had not been for Courtin, who always came to his room as soon as
Bertha had disappeared through the trees of the garden, and sitting
beside him talked of Mary, Michel's tender and impressionable soul
might have ended in resigning itself to the necessities of the
situation, and in accepting the fate they made for him. But Courtin
talked to his young master so incessantly of Mary, he showed so
earnest a wish to see him happy according to his heart's desire, that
Michel, as the wound in his arm healed and his strength returned, felt
his inward wound reopening, and his gratitude to Bertha disappearing
before the image of her sister.
Courtin was doing a work analogous to that of Penelope; he undid at
night that which Bertha, with so much care, had done by day. When he
brought the young baron to his house the latter's feebleness precluded
all necessity of asking pardon for his former conduct; and now,
having, as we have heard him tell, got possession of Michel's secret,
he managed, by protestations of devotion to his interests and by
cleverly encouraging the young man's love for Bertha's sister, to worm
himself back entirely into his master's confidence. Michel had
suffered as much from not being able to tell his woes as from the woes
themselves. Courtin seemed to be so sympathizing, he flattered his
dreams so pleasantly, he seemed to admire Mary so truly, that, little
by little, he led Michel to betray, if not to confess, what had passed
between him and the sisters.
Courtin was very careful, however, not to assume a position hostile to
Bertha. He managed, cleverly enough, to make her think he was devoted
to the idea of her marriage with his young master. When they met away
from Michel he always spoke to her as though to his future mistress;
and he did this so well that Bertha, knowing nothing of his
antecedents, was constantly talking to Michel of the great devotion of
his farmer, whom she called "our good Courtin."
But no sooner was he alone with Michel than he entered, as we have
said, into all the latter's secret feelings. He pitied him; and
Michel, under the influence of that pity, allowed himself to tell his
farmer the incidents of his relation to Mary. Courtin constantly
repeated to him, "She loves you;" insinuating that he, Michel, ought
to force Mary with a gentle violence, for which she would certainly be
grateful, to follow the dictates of her own heart. He even went beyond
Michel's own hopes and assured him that as soon as he was well and
communications were once more open, he could so arrange matters that,
without ingratitude to Bertha, she could be brought to renounce, of
herself, the projected marriage.
Michel's convalescence did not progress as rapidly as Courtin desired.
He saw, with deep anxiety, the days go by without affording any clue
as to Petit-Pierre's actual hiding-place; and he restlessly awaited
the moment when he could let loose his young master on Mary's
traces,--for, of course, the reader has understood that Michel was the
"bloodhound" he had talked of using.
Bertha, relieved of all anxiety about Michel's wound, had made, with
Rosine, several trips into the forest of Touvois to see her father in
his present refuge. Two or three times after such excursions Courtin
had led the conversation to persons concerned in the insurrection in
whom the sisters would probably take an interest; but Bertha remained
impenetrable; and the farmer was too well aware that the topic was
dangerous, and that the slightest imprudence on his part would
speedily awaken suspicion, to press such inquiries. Still, as Michel
grew better and stronger, he urged him, whenever they were alone
together, to come to a determination; offering to take a letter at any
time to Mary and bring back her answer, doing his best to make it
favorable.
This state of things lasted six weeks. At the end of that time Michel
was almost well; his wound had healed and his strength returned. The
neighborhood of the post which the general had established at La
Logerie prevented the young man from showing himself during the
daytime; but as soon as it was dark he walked about the orchard
leaning on Bertha's arm. These evening promenades annoyed Courtin,
who, so long as Bertha and Michel talked together in the house, could
overhear what they said by eavesdropping; and one day he told them
positively that their nocturnal rambles must cease. On being asked
why, he produced a judgment by default which condemned Michel de la
Logerie to death.
This communication produced but little effect on Michel, but Bertha
was terror-stricken. She almost flung herself at the young man's feet,
and begged his pardon for having enticed him into this fatal position;
and that night when she left the farmhouse she was in a state of
pitiable agitation.
The next day she came early. All night she had dreamed dreadful
dreams, and they followed her waking. She saw Michel discovered,
arrested, shot! Two hours earlier than usual she was at the farmhouse.
Nothing had happened; nothing seemed to make that day more alarming
than other days. It passed as usual,--full of charm mingled with
anguish for Bertha; full of melancholy internal aspirations for
Michel.
Evening came,--a beautiful summer's evening. Bertha was leaning
against a little window looking out into the orchard; she was watching
the sunset beyond the great trees of the forest of Machecoul, the tops
of which were undulating like waves of verdure. Michel was sitting on
his bed breathing in the soft odors of the coming night. Suddenly they
heard the wheels of a carriage coming up the avenue.
The young man darted to the window. Both saw a calèche entering the
courtyard. Courtin ran to the carriage, hat in hand; a head looked
out,--it was that of the Baronne de la Logerie.
Michel, on seeing his mother, felt a cold chill run through his veins;
it was evident that she had come for him. Bertha questioned him with
her eyes to ask what she ought to do. Michel pointed to a dark
corner,--a sort of closet or recess without a door,--where she might
hide, and hear all without being seen herself. He thought he should
gather strength from her secret presence. Five minutes later the
stairs creaked under his mother's step.
Bertha had rushed to her hiding-place and Michel had seated himself
near the window, as if he had neither seen nor heard anything. The
door opened and the baroness appeared.
Perhaps she had come with the intention of being harsh and stern as
usual; but on seeing Michel by the paling light, pale himself as the
twilight, she abandoned all severity, and opening her arms, cried
out:--
"Oh, my unhappy child! have I found you?"
Michel, who did not expect this reception, was greatly moved; and he
flung himself into his mother's open arms crying:--
"Oh, mother,--mother! My good mother!"
She, too, was greatly changed; traces were plainly to be seen upon her
face of incessant tears and sleepless nights.