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Tous las autres exemplaires originaux sont filmds en commenpant par la premiere page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparattra sur la derni6re image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole —^' signifie "A SUIVRE", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmds d des taux de r6duction diff6rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour etre reproduit en un seul clichd, il est film6 i partir de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m^thode. 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 \ vs^ \ \ s N \ ^^ // .V r NINETY-THREE. BY VICTOR HUGO. TRANSLATED BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT AND J. HAIN FRISWELL. MONTREAL: DAWSON BROTHERS. 1874. All rights reaeri^i-d. . Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1874, hy Dawson Brotheus, in the Office of the Minister of Agricidture. CONTENTS. PAKT THE FIRST. AT SEA. BOOK THE FIRST. The Wood of La Saudkaie -*<>•- PAOE 1 BOOK THE SECOND. The Corvette "Claymore." I. England and France in Concert n. Night on the Vessel and with the Passenger .. '.[ III. Noble and Plebeian in Concert .. .. t. !. '., IV. Tormentum Belli ^ V. VisetVir .. ,, .[ .. .. ** VI. The Two Ends of the Scale .. VII. He who sets Sail puts into a Lotter 7 VIII. 9 = 380 ' IX. Some one escapes X. Does he escape ? H'i 15 18 20 27 29 34 37 41 46 47 IV CONTENTS. BOOK THE THIRD. Halmalo. PAOK I. Speech is the " Word " 50 II. The Peasant's Memory is as good as the Captain'ij Science 55 »»• — BOOK THE FOURTH. Tellemarch. 1. The Top of the Dune 64 n. Aures Habet, et non Audiet 67 III. Usefulness of Big Letters 69 IV. The Caimand 72 V. Signed Gauvain 78 VI. The Whirligigs of Civil War 81 VII. " No Mercy ! " (Watchword of the Commune) — " No Quarter ! " (Watchword of the Royal Party) . . 86 PAET THE SECOND. ' IN PARIS. ; BOOK THE FIRST. CiMOUEDAIN. I. The Streets of Paris at that Time 95 II. Cimourdain 102 III. A Part not dipped in Styx 109 CONTENTS. BOOK THE SECOND. The Public-house of the Rue du Paon. 1. Minos, JEiicus, and Rhadamanthus II. Magna Testantur Voce per Umbras III. A Stirring of the Inmost Nerves I-AOK 111 114 1LI8 04 G7 69 72 78 81 —"No irty).. 8G BOOK THE THIRD. The Convention. I. .. II 138 iiL ;: ;: •• •• ^^^ IV •• ••' •• 141 V 146 YL : : 151 VII. .. •• 153 VIII. .. 154 IX. .. 156 X 158 XI.' ;. ' " • 159 xiT. .. ;; ;: ;; ;; ig2 XII. Marat in the Greon-room !n^ •• .. 164 '/■■■■*■'''' BOOK THE FOURTH. ' I. The Forests .. II. The Peasants '.'. *.'. " \\ " " '• - ™ III. Connivance of Men and Forests * " " !f I V. Life Underground ^ V. Their Life in Warfare . . zll JI. The Spirit of the Place . ". , «? VIL Brittany the Rebel .. ^^Jl Ion VI 0ONTKNT8. PART THE THIKI). IN VENDUE. BOOK THE FIRST. I. Plusquam Civilia Bella II. Dol HI. Small Armies and Great Battles IV. " It is the Second Time " V. The Drop of Cold Water VI. A Healed Wound ; a Bleeding Hear VII. The Two roles of the Truth VIII. Dolorosa IX. A Provincial Bastille X. The Breach . . . . XI. The Oubliette .. .. XII. The Bridge-Castle .. XIII. The Iron Door ., .. XIV, The Library .. .. XV. The Granary .. .. XVI. The Hostages .. .. XVII. Terrible as the Antique XVIII. Possible Escape XIX. What the Marquis was doing XX. What Imanus was doing .. VAOF. . 191 . 198 . 204 . 212 . 214 . 217 . 223 . 229 . 231 . 232 . 233 . 235 . 238 . 239 . 240 . 240 . 246 . 250 254 BOOK THE SECOND. The Massacre of Saint Bartholomew., ,. 256 CONTKNTH. VI I VAOF. . 191 . 198 . 204 ,. 212 .. 214 .. 217 .. 223 .. 229 .. 231 .. 232 233 .. 235 .. 238 .. 239 . 240 . 240 . 246 . 250 . 252 . 254 1. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIll. FX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. BOOK THE THIRD. The Mothku. PAOK Death passes 272 Death speaks 275 Mutterings amontj; the Peasants 279 A Mistake .. 282 Vox in Deserto 285 The Situation 287 Preliminaries 290 The Last Offer 294 Titans against Giants 297 Radoub 301 I'^esperate 308 Deliverance 311 The Executioner 313 I m3,nus also escapes 315 Never put a Watch and a Key in the same Pocket 318 -*o^ HOOK THE FOURTH. In D.kmone Deus, I. Found, but Lost II. From the Door of Stone to the Door of Iron HL The Children wake 321 328 330 -K>^ . BOOK THE FIFTH. The Combat after the Victory. 256 I. Lantenac taken II. Gauvain's Self-questioning.. III. The Commandant's Hood ,. .. 335 .. 337 .. 349 Viii * CONTENTS. BOOK THE SIXTH. Feudalism and Revolution. rAOR T. The Ancestor 851 II. Tlio Court-inartial 358 HI. The Votes 3(Jl IV. After Cimounlain the Judge comes Cimoindiiin the Master ,30(5 V. The Dungeon 308 VI. When the 8uu rose 370 PAOR .. 851 .. 358 .. 3GI 11 thu .. 300 .. 308 .. 37G PART THE FIRST. AT SEA. B ^ NINETY-THEEE. i :Mi PART THE FIRST. AT SEA. <( BOOK THE FIRST. THE WOOD OF LA SANDBAIE. During the last days of May 1793, one of the Parisian regiments thrown into Brittany by Santerre reconnoitred the dreaded wood of La Saudraie in Astill^. There were not more than three hundred men, for the battalion had been well nigh swept oif by this fierce war. It was the period when, after Argonne, Jemmappes, and Valmy, of the first regiment of Paris, which had numbered six hundred volunteers, there remained twenty-seven men ; of the second, thirty-three; and of the third, fifty-seven. It was a time of epic conflict. The regiments despatched from Paris into Vendee counted nine hundred and twelve men. Each regiment took with it three pieces of cannon. They had been quickly put on foot. On the 25tli of April, Gohier being luinister of justice :ind Bouchotte minister of war, thi section of the Bon Conseil proposed sending bat- talions of volunteers into Vendee. Lubin, member of the commune, made the report. On the 1st of May, Santerre was ready to marshal twelve thousand soldiers, thirty field-pieces, and a troop of gunners. These (that talious, formed so quickly, were formed so well they serve as models to-day ; regiments of the line are B 2 ^ ill M NINETY-THREE. constructed after their model ; they changed the old proportion between the number of soldiers and non-com- missioned officers. On the 28th of April the commune of Paris gave this pass-word to the volunteers of Santerre : No mercy ; no quarter. At the end of May, of the twelve thousand who left Paris eight thousand were dead. The regiment engaged in the wood of La Sandraie held itself on the watch. There was no appearance of haste. Each man looked at once to the right and to the left, before and behind. Kleber has said, " A soldier has an eye in his hack.^^ They had been on foot for a long while. What time could it be ? What period of the day was it ? It would have been difficult to say, for there is always a sort of dusk in such savage thickets, and it was never light in that wood. The forest of La Sandraie was tragic. It was in its copses that, from the month of November 1792, civil war commenced its crimes. Mousqueton, the ferocious cripple, ' came out of its fotal shades. The list of the murders that had been committed there was enough to make one's hair stand on end. There was no place more to be dreaded. The soldiers moved cautiously forward. The depths were full of flowers ; on each side was a trembling wall of branches and dew-wet leaves. Here and there rays of sunlight pierced the green shadows. The gladiola, that flame of the marshes, the meadow narcissus, the little wood daisy, harbinger of spring, and the vernal crocus,* embroidered the thick carpet of vegetation, crowded with every form of moss, from that resembling velvet (chenille) to tliat which looks like a star. The soldiers advanced in silence, step by step, pusliing the brushwood softly aside. The birds twittered above the ba von els. In former peaceable times La Sandraie was a favourite place for the Rouiche-ha, the hunting of birds by night ; now they hunted men there. * The gladiola is with us an autumnal, the crocus a spriug flower. — Trans. THE WOOD OF LA SAXDRAIE. The thicket was one of birch trees, beeches, and oaks ; the ground flat ; the thick moss and grass deadened the sound of the men's steps ; there were no paths, or only blind ones which quickly disappeared among the holly, wild sloes, ferns, hedges of rest-harrow, and high brambles. It wo\ild have been impossible to distinguish a man ten steps off. Now and then a heron or a moor-hen flew through the branches, indicating the neighbourhood of marshes. They pushed forward. They went at random, with uneasiness, fearing to find that which they sought. From time to time they came upon traces of encamp- ments ; burned spots, trampled grass, sticks arranged crosswise, branches stained with blood. Here soup had been made — there, mass had been said — yonder, they had dressed wounds. But all human beings had disap- peared. Where were they ? Very far off, perhaps ; perhaps quite near, hidden, blunderbuss in hand. The wood seemed deserted. The regiment redoubled its pru- dence. Solitude — hence distrust. They saw no one : so much the more reason for fearing some one. They had to do with a forest with a bad name. An ambush was probable. i • Thirty grenadiers, detac^''>d as scouts, and commanded by a sergeant, marched at a considerable distance in front of the main body ; the vivandiere of the battalion ace* .n- panied them. The vivandi^res willingly join the van- guard; they run risks, but they have the chance of seeing whatever happens. Curiosity is one of the forma of feminine bravery. Suddenly the soldiers of this little advance party st-'^^ed like hunters who have neared the hiding-place c r prey. They had heard something like a breathing irom the centre of a thicket, and seemed to perceive a move- ment among the branches. The soldiers made signals. In the species of watch and search confided to scouts, the officers have small need to interfere ; the right thing seems done by instinct. In less than a minute the spot where the movement had been noticed was surrounded; a Ime of pointed rll 6 NINETY-THREE. .;■ ■■ M muskets encircled it ; the obscure centre of the thicket was covered ou all sides at the same instant ; the soldiers, finger on trigger, eye on the suspected spot, only waited for the sergeant's order. Notwithstanding this, the vivandiere ventured to peer througli the under- brush, and at the moment when the sergeant was about to cry " Eire ! " this woman cried, " Halt ! " Turning towards the soldiers, she added — " Do not fire, comrades ! " She plunged into the thicket ; the men followed. There was, in truth, some one there. In the thickest of tlie brake, on the edge of one of those little round clearings left by the fires of the char- coal-burners, in a sort of recess among the branches — a kind of chamber of foliage — half open like an alcove — a woman was seated on the moss, holding to her breast a nursing babe, while the fair heads of two sleeping children rested on her knees. This was the ambush. " What are you doing here, you ? " cried the vivan- diere. Tlie woman lifted her head. The vivandiere added furiously, " Are you mad, tiiat you are there ? A little more and yor would have been blown to pieces ! " Then she addressed herself to the soldiers, " It is a woman." ; " Well, that is plain to be seen," said a grenadier. V The vivandiere continued, "To come into the wood to get yourself massacred ! The idea of such stupidity ! " The woman, stunned, petrified with fear, looked about like one in a dream at these guns, these sabres, these bayonets, thege savage faces. The two children woke, and cried. i , . " I am hungry," said the first. ,; - : ' " I am afraid," said the other. The baby was still suckling ; the vivandiere addressed it. " You are in the right of it," said she. The mother was dumb with terror. The sergeant cried out to her — " Do not be afraid ; we are the battalion of the Bonnet Rouge" The woman trembled from head to foot. She stared a V c t^ THE WOOD OF LA SANDUAIE. at the sergeant, of whose rough visage there was nothing visible hut the moustaches, the brows, and two burning coals for eyes. " Formerly the battalion of the lied Cross," added the vivandiere. The sergeant continued : " "Who are you, madame ? " The woman scanned him, terrified. She was slender, young, pale, and in rags ; she wore the large hood and woollen cloak of the Breton peasant, fastened about her neck by a string. She left her bosom exposed with the indifference of an animal. Her feet, shoeless and stock- ingless, were bleeding. "It is a beggar," said the sergeant. ' The vivandiere began anew, in a voice at once sol- dierly and feminine, but sweet : " What is your name ? " The woman stammered so that she was scarcely intelli- gible—" Michelle Flechard." The vivandiere stroked the little head of the sleeping babe with her large hand. " AVhat is the age of this mite ? " demanded she. The mother did not understand. The vivandiere per- sisted : " I ask you how old is it ? " " Ah ! " said the ijiother ; " eighteen months." ' " It is old," said the vivandiere ; " it ought not to suckle any longer. Ton must wean it ; we will give it soup." The mother began to feel a certain confidence ; the two children, who had wakened, were rather curious than scared — they admired the plumes of the soldiers. " Ah ! " said the mother, " they are very hungry." Then she added — " I have no more milk." "We will give them something to eat," cried the sergeant ; " and you too. But that's not all. What are your political opinions ? " The woman looked at him, but did not reply. " Did you hear my question ? " She stammered — "I was put into a convent very young — but I am married — I am not a nun. The sisters taught me to speak French. The village was set on fire. We ran away so quickly that I had not time to put on my shoes." i [i! 8 NINETY-THREE. 11: " 1 ask you what are your political opinions ? " " I don't know what that means." The sergeant continued — "There are such things as female spies. "We shoot spies. Come — speak ! You are not a gipsy ? "Which is your side ? " Slie still looked at him as if she did not understand. The sergeant repeated — " "Which is your side ? " " I do not know," she said. " How ? Tou do not know your own country ? " '■'■ *' Ah, my country ! Oh yes, I know that." " "Well, where is it ? " The woman replied, " The farm of Siscoignard, in the parish of Aze." It was the sergeant's turn to be stupified. He remained thoughtful for a moment, tlien resumed : "Tou say ? " "Siscoignard." " That is not a country." " It is my country," said the woman ; and added, after an instant's reflection, " I understand, sir. Tou are from France ; I belong to Brittany." "Well?" " It is not the same neighbourhood." " But it is the same country," cried the sergeant. The woman only repeated, " I am from Siscoignard." " Siscoignard, be it," returned the sergeant. " Tour family belong there ? " • , ^' "tes." ^ .■ . : ^ .-. .r- ■■;■ ■ , '■;[ ^ •• " "What is their occupation ? " / " They are all dead ; I have nobody left." The sergeant, who thought himself a fine talker, con- tinued his interrogatories : " What ? the devil ! One has relations, or one has had ! Who are you ? Speak ! " The woman listened, astounded by this — " Or one has had ! " which was more like the growl of an animal than any human sound. The vivandiere felt the necessity of interfering. She began again to caress the babe, and to pat the cheeks of the two other children. " How do you call the baby ? " she asked. " It is a little girl — this one ? " .. ^gg^^mi^^U^gggglg •V,"l'-v»' J-t-' THE WOOD OP LA SANDRAIE. The mother replied, " Georp^ette." " And the eldest fellow? For he is a mau, the small rascal ! " "Ren6 Jean." *' And the younger ? He is a mau too, and chubby- faced into the bargain." " Gros-Alain," said the mother. " They are pretty little fellows," said the vivandiere ; "they already look as if they were somebody! " Still the sergeant persisted. " Now speak, madame ! Have you a house ? " " I had one." ' ■ • - " Where was it ? " * "AtAze." " Why are you not in your house ? " " Because they burned it." "Who?" " I do not know — a battle." " Where did you come from ? " > ' " From there." " Where are you going ? " ^ "I don't know." ' " Get to the facts ! Who are you?" , " I don't know." ' ' " You don't know who you are ? " " We are people who are runuino^ away." " What party do you belong to ? " ; «# " I don't know." .. •'. " Are you Blues ? Are you Whites ? Who are you with?" " I am with my children." There was a pause. The vivandiere said, " As for me, 1 have no children ; I have not had time." The sergeant began again. " But your parents ? See here, madame ! give us the facts about your parents. My name is Eadoub ; I am a sergeant, from the street of Cherche Midi ; my father and mother belonged there. I can talk about my parents ; tell ua about yours. Who were they ? " " Their name was Flechafd — that is all." II m ^■ t i'1 at/saxt^tnaeWMt.^ 10 NINKTY-THREE. "Yes; the rU'clmrds are tlie Fleclmrcis, just as the Radouba are the Radoiibs. But people have a callintj. What was your parents' calling ? What was tlieir business, these riechards of yours ? " * "They were labourers. My father was sickly, and could not work on account of a beating that the lord — his lord — our lord — had given to him. It was a kindness, for my father had poached a rabbit — a thing for which one was condemned to death — but the lord showed him mercy, and said, ' You need only give iiim a hundred blows with a stick ; ' and my father was left crippled." *' And then ? " *' My grandfather was a Huguenot. The cure had him sent to tlie galleys. I was very little at the time." "And then?" " My husband's father smuggled salt. The king had him hung." " And your husband — what did he do ? " " Lately he fought." " Tor whom ? " " For the king." " And afterwards ? " " Well, for his lordship." "And next?'" " Well, then for the cure." " A thousand names of brutes I " cried a grenadier. The woman gave a start of terror. " You see, madame, we are Parisians," said the vivan- diere, graciously. The woman clasped her hands, and exclaimed, " my God and blessed Lord ! " " No superstitious ejaculations ! " growled the sergeant. Tiie vivandiere seated herself by the woman, and drew the eldest child betvreen her knees. He submitted quietly. Children show confidence as they do distrust, without any apparent reason ; some internal monitor warns them. " My poor good woman of this neighbourhood," said * How (lid thoy flesh theraselvtBS these flesh-hards ? The ser- geant makes a pun, Flechard, our Fletcher, is an arrow-maker. — Trans. the alw, yeai littl Will ma^ tali^ nanl Mail teei drii .4 THE WOOD OP LA SANDRAIE. 11 it as the calling. 3usiuess, dy, and e lord — indness, >r which ved him hundred )led." are had time." :ing liad lier. vivan- my ;'geant. u, and mitted strust, lonitor said 'lie ser- aker. — tlie vivandiere, " your brats are very pretty — babies are always tliat. I can guess their ages. The big one is four years old ; his brother is three. Upon my word, the little suclcing poppet is a greedy one I Oh, the monster ! Will you stop eating up your mother? See here, madame, do not be afraid. You ouglit to join the bat- talion — do like me. I call myself Houzarde. It is a nick- name ; but I like Houzarde better than being called Mamzelle Bicorneau, like my motlicr. I am the can- teen-woman ; that is the same as saying, she who oilers drink when they are firing and stabbing. Our feet are about the same size. 1 will give you a pair of my shoes. I was in Paris the 10th of August. I gave Westermann drink too. How things went ! I saw Louis XVI. guillotined — Louis Capet, oj they call him. It was against his will. Only just listen, now ! To tliink that the 13th of January he roasted chestnuts and laughed with his family. When they forced him down on the see-saw, as they say, he had neither coat nor shoes, nothing but his shirt, a quilted waistcoat, grey cloth breeches, and grey silk stockings. I saw that, I did ! The hackney-coach they brought him in was painted green. See here ; come with us ; the battalion are good fellows ; you shall be canteen number two; I will teach you the business. Oh, it is very simple ! You have your can and your hand- bell ; away you go into the hubbub, with the platoons firing, the cannon thundering — into the thickest of the row — and you cry, ' Who'll have a drop to drink, my children ? ' It's no more trouble than that. I give every- body and anybody a sup — yes, indeed — Whites the same as Blues, though I am a blue myself, and a good blue, too ; but 1 serve them all alike. Wounded men are all thirsty. They die without any difference of opinions. Dying fellows ought to shake hands. How silly it is to go fight- ing ! Do you come with us. If I am killed, you will step into my place. You see I am only so-so to look at ; but I am a good woman, and a brave chap. Don't you be afraid." AVhen the vivandiere ceased speaking, tlie woman mur- mured, " Our neiglibour was called Marie Jeanne, and our servant was named Marie Claude." 12 NINETY-XnnEE. Tn the meantime the sergeant reprimanded tlie grena- dier : " Hold your tongue ! You frighten niadauie. One docs not swear before hidies." " All the same ; it is a downright butchery for an liouest man to hear about," replied the grenadier ; " and to see Chinese Iroquois, that liavo had tlieir fatliers-in-law crippled by a lord, their grandfathers sent to the galleys by trie priest, and tlieir fathers hung by the king, and who fight — name of the little Blaek Man ! — and mix themselves up with revol* ^, and get smashed for his lord- ship, the priest, and the king ! " " Silence in the ranks ! " cried the serjeant. *' A man may hold his tongue, sergeant," returned the grenadier, "but that doesn't hinder the fact tliat it's a pity to see a pretty woman like this running the risk of getting her neck broken for the sake of a dirty robber." " Grenadier," said the sergeant, " we are not in the Pike-club of Paris — no eloqiienco ! " He turned towards the woman : " And your husband, madame ? What is he at ? What has become of him ? " " There hasn't anything become of him, because they killed him." " Where did that happen ? " . "In the hedge." " When ? " - ■ ; " Three days ago." • "Who did it?" " I don't know." "How? You do not know who killed your husband?" . "No." "Was it a Blue? AVas it a AVhite ? " ' •. "It was a bullet." "Three days ago?" ^: — -^ "Yes." ;; ■ • ■ . " In what direction ? " " Toward Ernee. My husband fell. That is all ! " " And what have you been doing since ^our husband was killed?" " I bear away my children." " Where are you taking them ? " " Straight ahead." THE WOOD OP LA 8AUDRAIE. 18 " Wlicre do you sleep ? " " On the ground." ♦'What do you eat?" " Nothing.'*' The sergeant made that military grimace which makes the moustache touch the nose. " Nothing? " " Til at is to say, sloes and dried berries left from last year, myrtle seeds, and forn shoots." " I'aith ! you might as well say nothing." Tlie eldest of the children, who seemed to understand, said, " I am hungry." The sergeant took a bit of regulation bread from his pocket, and handed it to the mother. She broke the bread into two fragments, and gave them to the children, who ate with avidit3% " She has kept none for herself," grumbled the sergeant. " Because she is not hungry," said a soldier. " Because she is a mother," said the sergeant. The children interrupted the dialogue. " I want to drink," cried one. "I want to drink," repeated the other. " Is there no brook in this devil's wood ? " asked the sergeant. The vivandi^re took the brass cup which hung at her belt beside her hand-bell, turned the cock of the can she carried slung over her shoulder, poured a few drops into the cup, and held it to the childrens' lips in turn. The first drank and made a grimace. The second drank and spat it out. " Nevertheless it is good," said the vivandiere. " It is some of the old cut-throat ? " asked the sergeant. *' Yes, and the best; but these are peasants." And she wiped her cup. The sergeant resumed — " And so, madame, you are trying to escape?" " There is nothing else left for me to do ! " " Across fields — going whichever way chance directs? " " I run with all my might — then I walk — then I fall." " Poor villager ! " said the vivandiere. " The people fight," stammered the woman. " They are shooting all around me. I do not know what it is u NINETY-THRBE. they wish. They killed my huaband ; that is all I under- stood." Tlie sergeant grounded the butt of his musket till tlio earth rang, and cried, " Wlmt a beast of a war — in the ' hangman's name ! " The woman continued : " Last night we slept in an ^moMssc." "All four?" " All four." "Slept?" " Slept." " Then," said the sergeant, " you slept standing." He turned towards the soldiers : " Comrades, what these savages call an emousse is an old hollow tree-trunk that a man may fit himself into as if it was a sheath. But what would you ? We cannot all be Parisians." " Slept in a hollow tree ? " exclaimed the vivandiere." " And with three children ! " "And," added the sergeant, "when the little ones howled, it must have been odd to anybody passing by and seeing nothing whatever, to hear a tree cry, ' Papa ! mamma ! ' " "Luckily it is summer," sighed the woman. She looked down upon the ground in silent resignation, her eyes filled with the bewilderment of wretchedness. The soldiers made a silent circle round this group of misery. A widow, three orphans ; flight, abandonment, solitude, war muttering around the horizon, hunger, thirst, no other nourishment than the herbs of the field, no other roof than that of heaven. The sergeant approached the women and fixed his eyes on the sucking baby. The little one left the breast, turned its head gently, gazing with its beautiful blue orbs into the formidable hairy face, bristling and wild, wliich bent towards it, and began to smile. The sergeant raised himself, and they saw a great tear roll down his cheek and cling like a pearl to the end of his moustache. He lifted his voice : " Comrades, from all this I conclude that the regiment is going to become a father. Is it agreed ? We adopt these three children ? " hisl thcl one em I a ri C.'U ENGLAND AND FRANCE IN OONOEHT. 16 1 1 uiider- et till the ir — in tlie ept in an tig." He mt these unk tliat th. But audiere." ones ;t]e ssing by , ' Papa I 1. She ion, her s. The misery, olitude, irst, no o other is eyes breast, il blue fi wild, at tear end of ?iment adopt •' Hurrah for the Republic ! " chorused the grenadiers. *' It is decided ! " said the sergeant. " He stretched his two liands above tlie mother and her babes. Behold the childriMi of tlie battalion of the Bonnet Itouge ! " The vivaudicrc lca[)ed for joy. " Throe heads under one bonnet ! " cried she. Then she burst into sobs, embraced the poor widow wildly, and said to her, " What a rogue the little girl looks already ! " " Vive la Uvpuhlique ! " repeated the soldiers. And the sergeant said to the mother, " Come, citizeness ! " BOOK THE SECOND. THE CORVETTE CLAYMOHE. -♦o•- I, — England and France in Concert. In the spring of 1793, ab the moment when France, simultaneously attacked on all its frontiers, suffered the pathetic distraction of the downfall of the Girondists, this was what happened in the Channel Islands. At Jersey, on the evening of the 1st of June, about an hour befo'^e sunset, a corvette set sail from the solitary little Bay of Bonnenuit, in that kind of foggy weather which is favourable to flight because pursuit is rendered dangerous. The vessel was manned by a French crew, though it made part of the English fleet stationed on the look-out at the eastern point of the island. The Prince de la Tour d'Auvergne, who was of the house of Bouillon, commanded the English flotilla, and it was by his orders, and for an urgent and special service, that the corvettfe had been detached. This vessel, entered at IVinity House under the name of the Claymore, had the appearance of a transport or trader, but was in reality a war corvette. She had the heavy, pacific look of a merchantman, but it would not have been IG NINETY-THREE. safe to trust to that. She had been built for a double purpose — cunning and strength ; to deceive if possible, to fight if necessary. For the service before her this night, the lading of the lower deck had been replaced by thirty carronades of heavy calibre. Either because a storm was feared, or because it was desirable to prevent the vessel having a suspicious appearance, these carronades were housed — that is to say, securely fastened within by triple chains, and the hatches above shut close. Nothing was to be seen Irom without. The ports were blinded ; the slides closed ; it was as if the corvette had put on a mask. Armed corvettes only carry guns on the upper deck ; but tliis one, built for surprise and cunning, had the deck free, and was able, as we have just seen, to carry a battery below. The Claymore was after a heavy squat model, but a good sailor nevertheless — the hull of the most solid sort used in the English navy ; and in battle was almost as valuable as a frigate, though for mizen she had only a small mast of brigantine rig. Her rudder, of a peculiar and scientific form, had a curved frame, of unique shape, which cost fifty pounds sterling in the dockyards of Southampton. The crew, all French, was composed of refugee officers and deserter sailors. They were tried men ; not one but was a good sailor, good soldier, and good royalist. They had a threefold fanaticism — for ship, sword, and king. A half regiment of marines, that could be disembarked in case of need, was added to the crew. ' . The corvette Claymore had as captain a chevalier of Saint Louis, Count du Boisberthelot, one of the best officers of the old Eoyal Navy ; for second, the Chevalier La Vieuville, who had commanded a company of French guards in which Hoche was sergeant; and for pilot, Philip Gacquoil, the most skilful mariner in Jersey. It was evident that the vessel had unusual business on hand. Indeed, a man who had just come on board had the air of one entering upon an adventure. He was a tall old man, upright and robust, with a severe counte- nance ; whose age it would have been difficult to guess accurately, for he seemed at once old and young ; one of thJ wli fori aui his ven sill i hi- I ThI 4 anc I or I we( ENGLAND AND FRANCE IN CONCERT. 17 a double )ssible, to liis night, by thirty borm wag he vessel des were by triple hing was blinded ; put on a 10 upper ing, had seen, to a heavy B hull of ; and in )ugh for g. Her I curved 3rling in French, sailors. I sailor, jreefold ■giment ;ed, was alier of le best levalier French pilot, y. less on rd had vras a (Hinte- guess one of those men who are full of years and of vigour ; who have white hair on their heads and lightning in their glance ; . forty in point of energy and eighty in power and authority. As he came on deck his sea-cloak blew open, exposing his large, loose breeches and top-boots, and a goat-skin vest which had one side tanned and embroidered with silk, while on the other the hair was left rough and bristling — a complete costume of the Breton peasant. These old-fashioned jackets answered alike for working and holidays ; they could be turned to show the hairy or embroidered side, as one pleased; goat-skin all the week, gala accoutrements on Sunday. As if to increase a resemblance which had been carefully studied, the peasant dress worn by the old man was threadbare at the knees and elbows, and seemed to have been long in use, while his coarse cloak might have belonged to a fisherman. He had on his head the round hat of the period, high, with a broad rim which, when turned down, gave the wearer a rustic look, but took a military air when fastened up at the side with a loop and cockade. The old man wore his hat with the brim flattened forward, peasant fashion, without either tassels or cockade. Lord Balcarras, the governor of the island, and the Prince de la Tour d'Auvergne, had in person conducted and installed him on board. The secret agent of the princes, Gclambre, formerly one of the Count d'Artois' body-guard, had superintended the arrangement of the cabin ; and, although himself a nobleman, pushed courtesy and respect so far as to walk behind the old man carrying his portmanteau. When they left him. to go ashore again. Monsieur de Gclambre saluted the peasant profoundly ; Lord Balcarras said to him, " Good luck, general ! " and the Prince de la Tour d'Auvergne added : " Au revoir, my cousin ! " " The peasant " was the name by which the crew immediately designated their passenger during the short dialogues which seamen hold ; but without understandiny further about the matter, they comprehended that he c mstffi m 18 NINETY-THREE. was no more a peasant than the corvette was a common sloop. There was little wind. The Claymore left Bonneiiuit, and passed in front of Boulay Bay, and was for some time in sight, tacking to windward; then slie lessened in the gathering night and finally disappeared. An hour after, Gelambre, having returned to his house at Saint Tlelier, sent by the Southampton express the following lines to tlie Count d'Artoia, at tlie Duke of York's head-quarters : " Monseigneur, — The departure has just taken place. Success certain. In eight days the Avliole coast will be on fire from Granville to Saint IMalo." Four days previous, Prieur, the representative of Marne. on a mission to the army along the coast of Cherbourg, an(^ momentarily residing at Granville, had received by a . ccret emissary this message, written in the same hand as the despatch above : " Citizen representative, — On the 1st of June, at the hour when the tide serves, the war corvette Claymore, with a masked battery, will set sail for tlie purpose of landing upon the shore of Trance a man of whom this is the description : tall, old, white hair, peasant's dress, hands of an aristocrat. I will send you more details to-morrow. He will land on the morning of the 2nd. Warn the cruisers ; capture the corvette ; guillotine the man." -•o* - II. — Night on the Vessel and with the Passengek. The corvette, instead of going south and making for Saint Catlierine's, headed north, then veered to the west, and resolutely entered the arm of the sea, between Sark and Jersey, called tlie Passage de la Deronte. At that time there was no lighthouse i^pon any point along either coast. The sun had set clear ; the night was dark, darker than summer nights ordinarily are : there was a moon, but vast clouds, rather of the equinox than the solstice. :i^l:iiiitMj0t-ik NIGHT ON THE VESSEL AND WITH THE PASSENGER. 19 a common 5SENGER. veiled tlie sk}', and according to all appearance the moon would not be visible till she touched the liorizon at the moment of setting. A few clouds hung low upon the water and covered it with mist. All this obscurity was favourable. The intention of pilot Gacquoil was to leave Jersey on the left and Guernsey on the right, and to gain, by bold sailing between the lianois and the Douvree, some bay of the Saint Malo shore — a route less short tiian that by the Minquiers, but safer, as the French cruisers had standing orders to keep an especially keen watch between Saint lielier and Granville. If the wind was favourable, and notliing occurred, Gacquoil hoped by setting all sail to touch the French coast at daybreak. All went well. The corvette had passed Gros-Nez. Toward nine o'clock the weather looked sulky, as sailors sa}-, and there was wind and sea, but the wind was good and the sea strong without being violent. Still, now and then, the waves swept the vessel's bows. The " peasant," whom Lord Balcari'as had called " General," and whom the Prince de la Tour d'Auvergne addressed as " My cousin," had a sailor's footing and paced the deck with tranquil gravity. He did not even seem to notice that the corvette rocked considerably. From time to time he took a cake of chocolate out of his pocket and munched a morsel ; his white hair did not prevent his having all his teeth. He spoke to no one, except now and then a few low, quick words to the captain, who listened with deference, and seemed to consider his passenger, rather than himself, the commander. TL. Claymorej ably piloted, skirted unperceived in the fog the long escarpment north of Jersey, hugging the shore on account of the formidable reef Pierres de Leeq, which is in the middle of the channel between Jersey and Sark. Gacquoil, standing at the helm, signalled in turn the Greve de Lecq, Gros-Nez, and Plemont, and slipped the corvette along among this chain of reefs, feeling his way to a certain extent, but with certitude, like a man familiar with the course and acquainted with the disposition of the 2 il! liiiiiii NINETY-THREE. sea. The corvette had no light forward, from a fear of be- traying its passage through these guarded waters. The fog was a cause for rejoicing. They reached the Grande Etaque. The mist was so thick that the outlines of the lofty pinnacle could scarcely be made out. Ten o'clock was heard to sound from the belfry of Saint Ouen, a proof that the wind was still abaft. All was yet going well. The sea grew rougher on account of the neighbourhood of La Corbiere. A little after ten, Count du Boisberthelot and the Chevalier La Yieuville reconducted the man in the pea- sant's garb to his cabin, which was in reality the captain's state room. As he went in, he said to them in a low voice " Gentlemen, you understand the importance of secrecy. Silence up to the moment of explosion. You two are the only ones here who know my name." ' " We will ^carry it with us to the tomb," replied Boisberthelot. < " As for me," added the old man, " were I in face of. death, I would not tell it." He entered his cabin. fw&ijgSm^ 1 III. — ^NoBLE AND Plebeian in Concert. ■" ^'^r and the second officer returned on deck The commanuc ^^t^ ^ ^ -j;> side by side, in conversation. wa^Ve dXgle.^lncU tfc wind dispersed among the '' Brb;rtl.elot gambled in a half-voice in the ear of La VieuviUe " We Ihall see if he la realljr a leader. ,, L7vTeuvilTe replied, " In the meantime he is a prmce. " NZeman in France, but prince in Brittany." " Like the La Tremoilles ; like the Hohans. NOBLE AND PLEBEIAN IN CONCERT. 21 ear of be- 3rs. The e Grande les of the m o'clock n, a proof 'ing well, urhood of P secrecy. are the " "With whom he is connected." Boisberthelot resumed : ' - " In Erance, and in the king's carriages, he is marquis, as I am count, and you are chevalier." " The carriages are far off!" cried La Vie'.ville. "We have got to the tumbril." There was a silence. Boisberthelot began again : " For lack of a French prince, a Breton one is taken." " For lack of thrushes — no, for want of an eagle — a crow is chosen." " I should prefer a vulture," said Boisberthelot. And La Vieuville retorted, " Tes, indeed ! a beak and talons." " We shall see." " Tes," resumed La Vieuville, "it is time there was a head. I am of Tinteniac's opinion — ' A true chief, and — gunpowder ! ' See, commander ; I know nearly all the leaders, possible and impossible — those of yesterday, those of to-day, and those of to-morrow : there is not one with the sort of headpiece we need. In that accursed Vendee it wants a general who is a lawyer at the same time. He must worry the enemy, dispute every mill, thicket, ditch, pebble ; quarrel with him ; take advantage of everything ; see to everything ; slaughter plentifully ; make examples ; be sleepless, pitiless. At this hour there are heroes among that army of peasants, but there are no captains. D'Elbee is nil ; Lescure is ailing ; Bonchampe shows mercy — he is kind, that means, stupid ; La E-oche- jacquelein is a magnificent sub-lieutenant ; Silz an officer for open country, unfit for a war of expedients ; Cathelineau is a simple carter; Stofilet is a cunning gamekeeper; Berard is inept ; Boulainvilliers is ridiculous ; Charette is shocking. And I do not speak of the barber Gaston. For, in the name of Mars, what is the good of opposing the Eevolution, and what is the difference between the republicans and ourselves, if we set hairdressers to com- mand noblemen i*" " You see that beast of a Eevolution has infected us also." 22 NINETY-THREE. " An itch tliat France has caught." " An itch of the Third Estate," replied Boisberthelot. " It ia only Eii<;land that can cure ua of it." " And she will cure us, do not doubt it, captain." *' In the meanwhile it is ugly." " Indeed, yea. Clowns everywhere ! The monarchy which has StofHet for commander-in-chief and De Maule- vrier for lieutenant, has nothing to envy in the republic that has for minister Pache, son of the IJuke de Castries' porter. What men this A^endean war brings out against each other ! On one side Santerre the brewer, on the other Gaston the wig-maker !" " My dear Vieuville, I have a certain respect for Gaston. He did not conduct himself ill in his command of Gue- raenee. He very neatly shot three hundred Blues, after making them dig their own graves." " Well and good : but I could have done that as well as he." "Zounds! no doubt; and I also." " The great acts of war," resumed La Vieuville, " re- quire to be undertaken by noblemen. They are matters for knights and not hairdressers." " Still there are some estimable men among tliis ' Third Estate,' " returned Boisberthelot. " Take, for example, Joby the clockmaker. He had been a sergeant in a Flanders regiment; he gets himself made a Vendean chief; he commands a coast band ; he has a son who is a republican, and while the son serves among the Blues, the father serves among the Whites, Encounter. Battle. The father takes the son prisoner, and blow^s out his brains." " He's a good one," said La Vieuville. " A royalist Brutus," replied Boisberthelot. " All that does not hinder the fact that it is insupport- able to be commanded by a Coquereau, a Jean-Jean, a Mouline, a Focart, a Bouju, a Chouppes ! " " My dear chevalier, the other side is equally disgusted. We are full of plebeians — they are full of nobles. Do you suppose the sans-culottes are content to be commanded by the Count de Candaux, the Viscount de Miranda, til til NOBLE AND PLEBEIAN IN CONCERT. 23 erthelot. m." lonarchy 3 Maule- I'epublie Castries' '' against , on the Gaston, of Gue- es, after as well le, "re- matters ' Third xample, it in a endean iho is a Blues, Battle. )ut his ipport- Tean, a ^^usted. i. Do landed randa. the Viscount do Bcauliarnais, the Count de Valence, liu; M.irquis de Custiue, and the Duke de Biron!" " W' hat a hash!" " And the Duke de Chartres !" ^ . " Sou of Egalite. xVh, then, when will he ever be kiiii??" .- - , ^ " Xevor," " He mounts towards the throne. He is aided by his crimes." " And hold back by his vices," said Boisberthelot. > There was silence again: then Boisb( 't^helot con- tinued : " Still he tried to bring about a reconciliation. He went to see the king. I was at Versailles when somebody spat on his back." " From the top of the grand staircase?" "Yes." " It was well done." " We call him Bourbon the Bourbeux." " He is bald ; he has pimples ; he is a regicide — poh ! " Then La Vieuville added, "I was at Onessant with him." " On the Saint Esprit V * "Yes." " If he had obeyed the signal that the Admiral d'Orvil- liers made him, to keep to the windward, he would have kept the English from passing." " Certainly." " Is it true that* he was hidden at the bottom of the hold?" " jS'o ; but it must be said all the same." And La Vieuville burst out lauffhins;. Boisberthelot observed, " There are idiots enough ! Hold ! that Boulainvilliers you were speaking of, La Vieu- ville. I knew him. I had a chance of studying him. In the beginning, thie peasants were armed vdth pikes : if he did not get it into his head to make pikemen of them ! Le wanted to teach them the manual of exercise, ^ de la pique-en-hiais et de la pique-trainante-le-fer-deiantJ He dreamed of transforming those savages into soldiers of the 24 NINETY-THREE. il line. lie proposed to show them how to mass battalions and form hollow squares. He jabbered the old-t'ashioned military dialect to them ; for chief of a squad he said un cap d'escade, which was tlie appellation of corporals under Louis XIV. He persisted in forming a regiment of those poachers : he had regular companies. The sergeants ranged themselves in a circle every evening to take the countersign from the colonel's sergeant, who whispered it to the sergeant of the lieutenants ; he repeated it to hia neighbour, and he to the man nearest ; and so on, from ear to ear, down to the last. He cashiered an officer be- cause he did not stand bareheaded to receive the watch- word from the sergeant's mouth. Tou can fancy how all succeeded. The booby could not understand that peasants must be led peasant fashion, and that one cannot make drilled soldiers out of woodchoppers. Yes, I knew that Boulainvilliers." They moved on a few steps, each pursuing his own thoughts. Then the conversation was renewed. " By the way, is it true that Dampierre is killed ? " " Yes, commander." "BoforeCondo?" " At the camp of Pamars — by a gun-shot." Boisberthelot sighed. "The Count de Dampierre. Yet another of ours who went over to them ! " " A good journey to him," said La Vieuville. " And the princesses ; where are they ? " "At Trieste." \Still?" " Still. Ah, this republic ! " cried Vieuville. " AVhat havoc from such slight consequences ! When one thinks that this revolution was caused by the deficit of a few millions ! " " Distrust small o'utbreaks," said Boisberthelot. " Everything is going badly," resumed La Vieuville. "Yes; La Bouarie is dead; Du Tresnay is an idiot. What pitiful leaders all those bishops are — that Coney, Bishop of liochelle ; that Beaupril Saint- Aulaire, Bishop of Poitiers ; that Mercy, Bishop of Lu9on and lover of Madame de I'Eschasserie " ■«l f? fJ^f^^V NOBLE AND PLEBEIAN IN CONCERT. 25 •' Whose name is Scrvanteau, you know, commander ; L'Escluissierio is the name of an estate." "And that false Bishop of Agra — who is cure of I Itnow not what." " Of Dol. He is called Guillot de Folleville. At least he is brave, and he fights." *' Priests when soldiers are needed ! Bishops who are not bishops ! Generals who are no generals ! " La Vieuville interrupted Boisberthelot. *' Commander, have you the Monileur in your cabin ? " "Yes." " AVhat arc they playing in Paris just now ? " ' j. " Adele and Poulin, aud TJie Cavern." - . " I should like to see that." " You will be able to. We shall be at Paris in a month." Boisberthelot reflected a moment, and added : " At the latest. Mr. Windham said so to Lord Hood." " But then, captain, everything is not going so ill." *' Zounds ! everything would go well, on condition that the war in Brittany could be properly conducted." La Vieuville shook his head. " Commander," he asked, " do we hmd the marinQS ? " " Yes ;*if the coast is for us — not if it is hostile. Some- times war must break down doors, sometimes slip in quietly. Civil war ought always to have a false key in its pocket. We shall do all in our power. The most im- portant is the chief." Then Boisberthelot added thought- t'aUy: " La Vieuville, what do you think of the Chevalier de Dieum'p 9 " igie " The vounger ? " " Yes." "For a leader?" " Yes." " That he is another officer for open country and pitched battles. Only the peasant understands the thickets," " Then resign yourself to General Stofflet and to General Cathelineau." i^ if >^i0^ 20 NINETY-TIIUKi:. '^ ■Hf i Mi La Vieuvillo imised nwhilo and then said, "It needs a prince ; a prince of France ; a prince of the blood — a true prince." " Why ? AVhoever say a prince " " Saya poltroon. I know it, captain. But one is needed for tiio effect on the big stupid eyes of the country lads." " ]\Iy dear chevalier, the princes will not come." " "We will «^et on without tliem." Boisbertlielot pressed his hand upon his forehead with the mechanical movement of a man endeavouring to bring out some idea. He exclaimed — " Well, let ua try the general we have here." " He is a great nobleman." " Do you b(*lieve he will answer ? " " Provided he is strong." " That is to say, ferocious," said Boisberthelot. The count and the chevalier looked fixedly at one another. " Monsieur du Boisberthelot, you have said the word — ferocious. ' Yes ; that is what we need. This is a war without pity. The hour is to the bloodthirt^ty. The regicides have cut off Louis XVI.'s head — we will tear off the four limbs of the regicides. Yes, the general necessary is General Inexorable. In Anjou and tipper Poitoii the chiefs do the niagnanimons ; the}' dabble in generosity — nothing moves on. In the Marais and the country of Retz, the chiefs are ferocious — everything goes forward. It is because Charette is savage that he holds his own against Parrein — it is hyaena against hyajna." Boisberthelot had no time to reply ; La Yieuville's words were suddenly cut sliort by a desperate cry, and at the same instant they heard a noise as unaccountable as it was awful. The cry and this noise came from the interior of the vessel. The captain and lieutenant made a rush for the gun- deck, but could not get down. All the gunners were hurrying frantically up. A frightful thing had just happened ! goe^ flm^r TORMEXTUM BELLI. 27 ; needs a — a true : one is country ead with to bring at one s word — s a war . Tlie tear off ecessary itou tlie rosity — mtry of brward. lis own euville's 2rv, and •untable rom the he gun- L's were IV. — TORMENTUM BeLLI. Ont of tlic carronudes of the battery, a [twonty-fo'ir- poiiiuK-'r, liad got loose. This is perhaps the most formidable of ocean accidents. Nothing more terrible can happen to a vessel in open sea and under full sail. A gun that breaks its moorings becomes suddenly some indescribable supernatural beast. It is a machine which transforms itself into a monster. This mass turns upon its wheels, lias the rapid movements of a billiard ball ; rolls with the rolling, pitches with the pitching ; goes, comes, pauses, seems to meditate ; resumes its course, rushes along the sliip from end to end like an arrow, circles about, springs aside, evades, rears, breaks, kills, exterminates. It is a battering-ram which assaults a wall at its own caprice. Moreover : the battering-ram is of metal, the wall wood. It is the entrance of matter into space. One might say that this eternal slave avenges itself. It seems as if the power of evil hidden in what we call inanimate objects finds a vent and bursts suddenly out. It has an air of having lost patience, of seeking some fierce, obscure retribution ; nothing more inexorable than this rage of the inanimate. The mad mass has the bounds of a panther, the weight of the elephant, the agility of the mouse, the obstinacy of the axe, the unexpectedness of the surge, tlie rapidity of lightning, the deafness of the tomb. It weighs ten thousand pounds, and it rebounds like a child's ball. Its flight is a wild whirl abruptly cut at right angles. What is to be done ? How to end this ? A tempest ceases, a cyclone passes, a wind falls, a broken mast is replaced, a leak is stopped, a fire dies out ; but how to control this enormous brute of bronze ? In what way can one attack it ? You can make a mastiff hear reason, astound a bull, fascinate a boa, frighten a tiger, soften a lion ; but there is no resource with that monster, a cannon let loose. You cannot kill it — it is dead ; at the same time it lives. It lives with a sinister life bestowed on it by Infinity. I 28 NINETY-THREE. Tlio plaiika boneatli it give it play. It is moved by the ship, wliicli is moved by tlie sea, whieh is moved * by tlic wind. Tliis destroyer is a plaything. The nhip, tiio waves, the blasts, all aid it; henee its frightful vitality. How to assail this fury of complication ? How to fetter this monstrous mechanism for wrecking' a ship ? How foresee its comings and goings, its returns, its stops, its shocks ? Any one of these blows upon the sides may stave out the vessel. How divine its avvfid gyrations? One has to deal witli a projectile which , thinks, seems to possess ideas, and which changes its direction at each instant. How stop the course of something which must be avoided ? Tiie horrible cannon flings itself about, advances, recoils, strikes to the right, strikes to the left, flees, passes, disconcerts ambushes, breaks down obstacles, crushes men like ilies. The great danger of the situation is in the mobility of its base. How combat an inclined plane which has caprices ? The ship, so to speak, has liglitning imprisoned in its womb which seeks to escape ; it is like thunder rolling above an earthquake. In an instant the whole crew were on foot. The fault was the chief gunner's ; he had neglected to lix home the screw-nut of the mooring-chain, and had so badly shackled the four wheels of the carronade that the play given to the sole and frame had separated the platform, and ended by breaking the breeching. The cordage had broken, so that the gun was no longer secure on tht; carriage. The stationary breeching which prevents recoil was not in use at that period. As a heavy wave struck the port, the carronade, weakly attached, recoiled, burst its chain, and began to rush wildly about. Conceive, in order to have an idea of this strange sliding, a drop of water running down a pane of glass. At the moment when the lashings gave way the gunners were in the battery, some in groups, others standing alone, occupied with such duties as sailors perform in expectation of the command to clear for action. The carronade, hurled forward by the pitching, dashed into this knot of men and crushed four at the first blow ; then, flung back and f)it1 twl t mmglM VIS KT VIB. 29 is moved by L'li JH moved . The ship, its frightful implication? or wrecking goings, its these blows nv divine its ectile which changes its Q course of 'ible cannon the right, ambushes, The great of its base, [•ices ? The n its womb ig above an The fault fix home d so badly lat the play e platform, le cordage ure on the k^ents recoil k^ave struck burst its ve, in order )p of water 10 gunners ling alone, xpectation ide, hurled ot of men back and shot out anew by the rolling, it cut in two a fifth poor fellow, glanced olf to the larboard side and struck a )iece of the battery witii such force as to unship it. Then rose the cry of distress which had been heard. The men rushed towards the ladder — the gun-deck emptied in the bwinkling of an eye. The enormous cannon was left ilonc. She was given up to herself. She was her own [mistress, and mistress of the vessel. She could do what he willed with both. This whole crew, accustomed to faugli in battle, trembled now. To de&cribe the universal [terror would be impossible. Captain Boisberthelot and Lieutenant La Vieuville, [although both intrepid men, stopped at the head of the 'stairs, and remained mute, pale, hesitating, looking down on the deck. Some one pushed them aside with his elbow and descended. It was their passenger— the peasant — the man of whom they had been speaking a moment before. When he reached the foot of the ladder, he stood still. -•o*- V. — Vis et Vir. The cannon came and went along the deck. One might have fancied it the living chariot of the Apocalypse. The marine-lantern oscillating from the ceiling added a dizzy- ing whirl of lights and shadows to this vision. The shape of the cannon was undistinguishable from the rapidity of its course ; now it looked black in the light, now it cast weird reflections through the gloom. It kept on its work of destruction. It had already shattered four other pieces, and dug two crevices in the side, fortunately above the wnter-line, though they would leak in case a squall should come on. It dashed itself frantically against the framework; the solid tie-beams resisted, their curved form giving them great strength, but they creaked ominously under the assaults of this terrible club, which seemed endowed.- with a sort of BB^ 30 NlNETY-THREE. If illPII' appalling ubiquity, striking on every side at once. The strokes of a bullet shaken iu a bottle would uot be madder or more rapid. The four wheels passed and repassed above the dead men, cut, carved, slashed them, till the five corpses were a score of stumps rolling about the deck ; the heads seemed to cry out ; streams of blood twisted in and out the planks witli every pitch of the vessel. The ceiling, damaged in several places, began to f^ape. The whole ship was filled with the awful tumult. The captain promptly recovered his composure, and at his order the sailors threw down into the deck everything Tthicli could deaden and check the mad rush of the gun — mattresses, hanunocks, spare sails, coils of rope, extra equipments, and the bales of false assignats of which the corvette carried a whole cargo ; an infamous deception which the English considered a fair trick iu war. But what could these rags avail ? No one dared descend to arrange them in any useful fashion, and in a few instants they were mere heaps of lint. There w^as just sea enough to render the accident as complete as possible. A tempest would have been desirable ; it might have thrown the gun upside down, and the four wheels once in the air, the monster could have been mastered. But the devastation increased. There were gashes and even fractures in the masts, which, imbedded in the woodwork of the keel, pierce the decks of ships like great round pillars. The mizen- mast was cracked, and the mainmast itself was injured under the convulsive blows of the gun. The battery was being destroyed. Ten pieces out of the thirty were dis- abled ; the breaches nmltiplied in the side, and the corvette began to take in water. The old passenger, who had descended to the gun-deck, looked like a form of stone stationed at the foot of the stair3. He stood motionless, gazing sternly about upon the devastation. Indeed, it seemed impossible to take a single step forward. Each bound of the liberated carronade menaced the destruction of the vessel. A few minutes more and ship- vrreck would be inevitable. ■:l. VIS ET VIR. 31 ^nce. The Id not be )assed and shed them, lliiig about fis of blood tch of the ?, began to Lil tumult. lU'o, and at everything the gun — ope, extra ' wliich the deception ir. one dared on, and in *^ Lccident as luive been iide down, ster could increased, sts, which, :)ierce the 16 mizen- as injured attery was were dis- le corvette gnn-deck, )ot of the 3 out upon to take a iiaced the and ship- They must perish or put a summary end to the disaster — a decision must be made — but liovv ? "What a combatant — this cannon ! They must check this mad monster. They must seize this flash of lightning. Tiiey must overtlirow this thunderbolt. Boisbert helot said to La Vieuville, " Do you believe in God, chevalier?" La Vieuville replied, " Yes. No. Sometimes." " Li a tempest 'i " "Yes; and in moments like this." " Only God can aid us here," said Boisbertlielot." All were silent — the cannon kept up its horrible fracas. The waves beat against the alnp ; their blows from without responded to the strokes of the cannon. It was like two hammers alternating. Suddenly, into the midst of this sort of inaccessible circus, where the escaped cannon leaped and bounded, there sprang a man with an iron bar in his liand. It was the author of this catastrophe, the gunner whose culpable negligence had caused the accident — the captain of the gun. Having been the means of bringing about the misfortune, he desired to repair it. He had caught up a handspike in one fist, a tiller-rope with a slipping noose in the c-her, and jumped down into the gun-deck. Then a strange combat began ; a titanic strife — the struggle of the gun against the gunner ; a battle between matter and intelligence : a duel between the inanimate and the human. The man was posted in an angle, the bar and rope in his two fists ; backed against one of the riders, settled firmly on his legs as on two pillars of steel ; livid, calm, tragic, rooted as it were in the planks, he waited. He waited for the cannon to pass near him. The gunner knew his piece, and it seemed to him that she nmst recognise her master. He had lived a long while with her. How many times he had thrust his hand between her jaws ! It was liis tame monster. He began to address it as he might have done his dog. " Come!" said he. Perhaps he loved it. II liii 32 NINETY-THEEE. He seemed to wish that it would turn towards him. But to come towards him would be to spring upon him Then he would be lost. How to avoid its crush ? There was the question. All stared in terrified silence. Not a breast respired freely, except perchance that of the old man who alone stood in the deck with the two combatants, a stern second. He might himself be crushed by the^ piece. He did not stir. Beneath them, the blind sea directed the battle. At the instant when, accepting this awful hand-to- hand contest, the gunner approached to challenge the cannon, some chance fluctuation of the waves kept it for a moment immoveable as if suddenly stupified. " Come on ! " the man said to it. It seemed to listen. Suddenly it darted upon him. The gunner avoided the shock. The struggle began — struggle unheurd of. The fragile matching itself against the invulnerable. The thing of flesh attacking the brazen brute. On the one side blind force, on the other a soul. The whole passed in a half-light. It was like] the indistinct vision of a miracle. A soul — strange thing ; but you would have said that the cannon had one also — a soul filled with rage and hatred. This blindness appeared to have eyes. The monster had the air of watching the man. There was — one might have fancied so at least — cunning in this mass. It also chose its moment. It became some gigantic insect of metal, having, or seeming to have, the will of a demon. Sometimes this colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the gun-deck, then fall back on its four wheels like a tiger upon its four claws, and dart anew on the man. He supple, agile, adroit, would glide away like a snake from the reach of these lightning-like movements. He avoided the encounters ; but the blows which he escaped fell upon the vessel and continued the havoc. An end of broken chain remained attached to the carrouade. This chain had twisted itself, one could not ff.«;;a.-a,/t^>ta i VIS ET VIR. 8S Is him. ipon him ? There e. ce that of 1 the two He did tie. hand-to- lenge the vept it for to listen. !!' avoided 'lie fragile ; thing of side blind like] the said that rage and es. The ere was — lis mass. gigantic will of a ier would fall back aws, and )it, would of these ounters ; essel and i to the ould not tell how, about the screw of the breech-button. One extremity of the chain was fastened to the carriage. The other, hanging loose, whirled wildly about the gun and added to the danger of its blows. Tlie screw held it like a clenched hand, and the chain, multiplying the strokes of the battering-ram by its strokes of a thong, made a fearful whirlwind about the cannon — a whip of iron in a fist of brass. This chain complicated tlie battle. . • Nevertheless, the man fought. Sometimes, even, it was the man who attacked the cannon. He crept along the side, bar and rope in hand, and the cannon had the air of understanding, and fled as if it perceived a snare. The man pursued it, formidable, fearless. j Such a duel could not last long. The gun seemed suddenly to say to itself, " Come, we must make an end ! " and it paused. One felt the approach of the crisis. The cannon, as if in suspense, appeared to have, or had — because it seemed to all a sentient being — a furious pre- meditation. It sprang unexpectedly upon the gunner. He jumped aside, let it pass, and cried out with a laugh, " Try again ! " The gun, as if in a fury, broke a carronade to larboard ; then, seized anew by the invisible sling wliich held it, was flung to starboard towards the man, who escaped. Three carronades gave way under the blows of the gun ; then, as if blind and no longer conscious of what it was doing, it turned its back on the man, rolled from the stern to the bow, bruising the stem and making a breach in the plankings of the prow. The gunner had taken refuge at the foot of the stairs, a few steps from the old man, who was watching. The gunner held his handspike in rest. The cannon seemed to perceive him, and, without taking the trouble to turn itself, backed upon him with the quickness of an axe-stroke. The gunner, if driven back against the side, was lost. The crew uttered a simultaneous cry. But the old passenger, until now immovable, made a spring more rapid than all those wild whirls. He seized a bale of the false assignats, and at the risk of being D 34 NINETY-THREE. cruslied, succeeded in flinging it between the wheels of the carronade. This manoeuvre, decisive and dangerous, could not have been executed with more adroitness and precision by a man trained to all the exercises set down in Durosel's ' Manual of Sea Gunnery.' The bale had the effect of a plug. A pebble may stop a log, a tree-branch turn an avalanche. The carronade stumbled. The gunner, in his turn, seizing this terrible chance, plunged his iron bar between the spokes of one of the hind wheels. The cannon w^as stopped. It staggered. The man, using the bar as a lever, rocked it to and fro. The heavy mass turned over wdth a clang like a falling bell, and the gunner, dripping with sweat, rushed forward headlong and passed the slipping noose of the tiller-roi:<3 about the bronze neck of the over- thrown monster. ■ It was ended. The man had conquered. The ant liad subdued the mastodon ; tlie pigmy had taken the thunder- bolt prisoner. The marines and the sailors clapped their hands. The whole crew hurried down with cables and chains, and in an instant the cannon was securely lashed. The gunner saluted the passenger. " Sir," he said to him, "you have saved my life." The old man had resumed his impassable attitude, and did not reply. -*o*- III VI. — The Two Ends of tue Scale. The man had conquered, but one might say that the cannon had conquered also. Immediate shipwreck had been avoided, but the corvette was by no means saved. The dilapidation of the vessel seemed irremediable. The sides had five breaches, one of which, very large, was in the bow. Out of the thirty carronades, twenty lay useless in their frames. The carronade, w'hich had been captured and re-chained, was itself disabled ; the screw of the breech-button was THE TWO ENDS OP THE SCALE. 35 ' i'i forced, and the levelling of the piece impossible in con- sequence. The battery was reduced to uine pieces. The hold had sprung a leak. It was necessary at once to repair the damages and set the pumps to work. The gun-deck, now that one had time to look about it, offered a terrible spectacle. The interior of a mad elephant's cage could not have been more completely dismantled. However great the necessity that the corvette should escape observation, a still more imperious necessity pre- sented itself — immediate safety. It had been necessary to light up the deck by lanterns placed here and there along tlie sides. But during the whole time this tragic diversion had lasted, the crew were so absorbed by the one question of life or death that they noticed little what was passing outside the scene of the duel. The fog had thickened ; tlie weather had changed ; the wind had driven the vessel at will ; it had got out of its route, in plain sight of Jersey and Guernsey, farther to the south than it ought to have gone, and was surrounded by a troubled sea. ' The great waves kissed the gaping wounds of ihe corvette — kisses full of peril. The sea rocked her menacingly. The breeze became a gale. A squall, a tempest per- haps, threatened. It was impossible to see before one four oars' length. - \ - • While the crew were repairing summarily and in haste the ravages of the gun-deck, stopping the leaks and ])utting back into position the guns which had escaped the disaster, the old passenger had gone on deck. He stood with his back against the mainmast. He had paid no attention to a proceeding which had taken place on the vessel. The Chevalier La Vieuville had drawn up the marines in line on either side of thq mainmast, and at the whistle of the boatswain the sailors busy in the rigging stood upright on the yards. Count du Boisberthelot advanced toward tlie passenger. Behind the captain marched a man haggard, breathless, his dress in disorder, yet wearing a satisfied look under it all. It was the gunner who had just now so opportunely D 2 36 NINETY-THREE. iii I I ii>i; III m ' shown liimself a tamer of monsters, and who had got the better of the cannon. The Count made a military salute to the unknown in peasant garb, and said to him — " General, here is the man." The gunner held himself erect, his eyes downcast, standing in a soldierly attitude. Count du Boisberthelot continued — " General, taking into consideration what this man has done, do you not think there is something for liis commanders to do ? " " I think there is," said the old man. " Be good enough to give the orders," returned Bois- berthelot. " It is for you to give them. Tou are the captain." " But you are the general," answered Boisberthelot. The old man looked at the gunner. " Approach," said he. The gunner moved forward a step. The old man turned towards Count du Boisberthelot, detached the cross of Saint Louis from the captain's uniform and fastened it on the jacket of the gunner. " Hurrah ! " cried the sailors. The marines presented arms. The old passenger, pointing with his finger towards the bewildered gunner, added — "iCow let that man be shot." Stupor succeeded the applause. Then, in the midst of a silence like that of the tomb, the old man raised his voice. He said : " A negligence has endangered this ship. At this moment she is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to face the enemy. A vessel at open sea is an army which gives battle. The tempest conceals, but does not absent itself The whole sea is an ambuscade. Death is the penalty of any fault committed in the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage ought to be rewarded and negli- gence punished." These words fell one after the other slowly, solemnly, with a sort of inexorable measure, like the blows of an axe upon an oak. And the old man, turning to the soldiers, added — " Do your duty." HE WHO SETS SAIL PUTS INTO A LOTTERY. 37 [ got the nown in be man." owncast, ], taking; you not do?" led Bois- )tain." thelot. Dproach," old man died the x)rm and assenger, I gunner, The man upon whose breast shone the cross of Saiut Louis bowed his head. At a sign from Count du Boisberthelot, two sailors descended between decks, then returned, bringing the hammock winding-sheet. The ship's chaplain, who since the time of sailing had been at prayer in the officer's quarters, accompanied the two sailors ; a sergeant de tached from the line twelve marines, whom he arranged in two ranks, six by six ; the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between the two files. The chap- lain, crucifix in hand, advanced and stood near him. ' " March ! " said the sergeant. Tlie platoon moved with slow steps towards the bow. The two sailors who carried the shroud followed. A gloomy silence fell upon the corvette. A hurricane moaned in the distance. A few instants later there was a flash ; a report fol- lowed, echoing among the shadows ; then all was silent ; then came the thud of a body falling into the sea. The old passenger still leaned back against the main- mast with folded arms, thinking silently. Boisberthelot pointed towards him with the forefinger of his left hand, and said in a low voice to La Vieuville : " The Vendee has found a head ! " :he tomb, At this face the ich gives nt itself. »enalty of No fault nd negli- jolemnlv, of an axe id—" Bo VIL — He who sets Sail puts into a Lottery. But what was to become of the corvette ? The clouds, which the whole night through had touched the waves, now lowered so thickly that the horizon was no longer visible; the sea seem covered with a pall. Nothing to be seen but fog — a situation always perilous, even for a vessel in good condition. Added to the mist came the surging swell. The time had been used to good purpose ; the corvette bad been lightened by throwing overboard everything which could be cleared from the havoc made by the *> iiiiiia I 4 88 NINETY-THREE. il 1 '■■■! 1 L, carronade — the dismantled guns, the broken carnages, framea twisted or unuailed, the fragments of splintered wood and iron ; the port-holes had been opened, and the corpses and parts of bodies, enveloped in tarpaulin, were slid down planks into the waves. The sea was no longer manageable. Not that the tempest was imminent ; it seemed on the contrary that the hurricane rustling behind the horizon decreased, and the squall was moving northward ; but the waves were very high still, which indicated disturbance in tlie depths ; the corvette could offer slight resistance to shocks in her crippled condition, so that the great waves might prove fatal to her. Gacquoil stood thoughtfully at the helm. To face ill fortune with a bold front is the habit of those accus- tomed to rule at sea. La Vieuville, who was the sort of man that becomes gay in the midst of disaster, accosted Gacquoil. " Well, pilot," said he, " the squall has missed fire. Its attempt at sneezing comes to nothing. We shall get out of it. We shall have wind, and that is all." Gacquoil replied seriously — " Where there is wind there are waves." Neither laughing or sad, such is the sailor. The response had a disquieting significance. For a leaky ship to encounter a high sea is to fill rapidly. Gacquoil em- phasised his prognostic by a frown. Perhaps La Vieu- ville had spoken almost jovial and gay words a little too soon after the catastrophe of the gun and its gunner. There are things which bring bad luck at sea. The ocean is secretive ; one never knows what it means to do ; it is necessary to be always on guard against it. La Yieuville felt the necessity of getting back to gravity. " Where are we, pilot ? " he asked. The pilot replied — " We are in the hands of God." A pilot is a master ; he must always be allowed to do what he will, and often he must be allowed to say what be pleases. Generally this species of man speaks little. La Vieuville moved away. He had asked a question ipp HE WHO SETS SAIL PUTS INTO A LOTTERY. 39 jecomes of the pilot ; it was the horizon which replied. The sea suddenly cleared. The fogs which spread across the waves were quickly- rent ; the dark confusion of the billows spread out to the horizon's verge in a shadowy half-light, and this was what became visible. The sky seemed covered with a lid of clouds, but they no longer touched the water ; in the east appeared a whiteness, which was the dawn; in the west trembled a corresponding pallor, which was the setting moon. These two ghostly presences drew opposite each other narrow bands of pale lights along the horizon, between the sombre sea and the gloomy sky. Across each of these lines of light were sketched black profiles upright and immovable. To the west, against the moonlit sky, stood out sharply three lofty rocks, erect as Celtic cromlechs. To the east, against the pale horizon of morning, rose eight sail ranged in order at regular intervals in a for- midable array. The three rocks were a reef; the eight ships a squadron. Behind the vessel was the Minquiers, a rock of an evil renown ; before her, the French cruisers. To the west, the abyss ; to the east, carnage ; she was between a shipwreck and a combat. For meeting the reef, the corvette had a broken hull, rigging disjointed, masts tottering in their foundations ; for facing battle, she had a battery where one-and-twenty cannon out of thirty were dismounted, and whose best gunners were dead. The dawn was yet faint ; there still remained a little night to them. This might even last for some time, since it was principally made by thick high clouds presenting tlie solid appearance of a vault. The wind, which had succeeded in dispersing the lower mists, was forcing the corvette towards the Minquiers. In her excessive feebleness and dilapidation, she scarcely obeyed the helm ; she rolled rather than sailed, and smitten by the waves she yielded passively to their impulse. The Minquiers, a dangerous reef, was still more rugged at 9} '• 40 NINETY-THREE. Ml r :|!ll that time than it is now. Several towers of this citadel of the tibyss liave been razed by the incessant chopping of the sea. The configuration of reefs changes ; it is not idly that waves are called the swords of tlie ocean ; each tide is the stroke of a saw. At that period, to strike on the Minquiers was to perish. As for the cruisers, tliey were the squadron of Cancale afterwards so celebrated under the command of that Captain Duchesne whom Loquinio called " Fatlier Duchesne." The situation was critical. During the struggle of the unchained carronade, the corvette had, unobserved, got out of her course, and sailed rather towards Granville than Saint Malo. Even if slie had been in a condition to have been handled and to carry sail, the Minquiers would have barred her return towards Jersey, and the cruisers would have prevented her reaching Trance. For the rest, tempest there was none. But, as the pilot had said, there was a swell. The sea, rolling under a rough wind and above a rocky bottom, was savage. The sea never says at once what it wishes. The gulf hides everything, even trickery. One might almost say that the sea has a plan ; it advances and recoils ; it proposes and contradicts itself; it sketches a storm and renounces its design; it promises the abyss and does not hold to it ; it threatens the north and strikes the south. All night the corvette Claymore had had the fog and the fear of the storm ; the sea had belied itself, but in a savage fashion ; it had sketched in the tempest, but developed the reef. It was shipwreck just the fame, under another form. So that to destruction upon the rocks was added ex- termination by combat — one enemy complementing the other. La Vieuville cried amidst His brave merriment — " Ship- wreck here — battle there ! We have thrown double- fives"! " 9 = 380 41 VIII.— 9 = 380. TiiK corvetto was little more than a wreck. lu the wall, dim light, midst the blackness of the clouds, in the confused, clianging line of the horizon, in the mysterious sullenness of the waves, there was a sepul- chral solemnity. Except lor the hissing breath of the hostile wind, all was silent. The catastrophe rose with majesty from the gulf. It resembled ratiior an apparition tliau au attack. Nothing stirred among the rocks ; nothing moved on the vessels. It was an indescribable, colossal silence. Had they to deal with something real ? One might have believed it a dream sweeping across the sea. There are legends of such visions ; the corvette was in a manner between the demon reef and the phantom tleet. Count du Boisberthelot gave orders in a haif-voice to La Vieuville, who descended to the gun-deck ; then the captain seized his telescope and stationed himself at the stern by the side of the pilot. Gacquoil's whole ellbrt was to keep the corvette to the wind ; for if struck on the side by the wind and the sea she would inevitably capsize. "■ Pilot," said the captain, " whe:'^ are we? " " Otf the Minqniers." " On which side ? " " The bad one." " What bottom ? " " Small rocks." " Can we turn broadside on ? " " We can always die," said the pilot. The captain levelled his glass towards the west and examined the Minquiers ; then he turned to the east and studied the sail in sight. The pilot continued, as if talking to himself— " It is the Minquiers. It is where the laughing sea-mew and the great black-hooded gull rest, when they make for Holland." In the meantime the captain counted the sail. 42 NINETY-THREE. 1i::i m J 'f,4-o you know Tliore were, indeed, eight vessels, drawn up in line, and lifting their warlike profiles above the water. In the centre was seen the lofty sweep of a three-decker. The captain questioned the pilot, those sliips?" *' Indeed, yes ! " replied Gaiiquoil. " Wlmt are they ? " " It ia the squadron." "Of France.?" , " Of the devil." There was a silence. The captain resumed — "The whole body of cruisers are there." " Not ail." In fact, on the 2nd of April, Valaze had announced to the Convention that ten frigates and six ships of the line were cruising in the Channel. The recollection of this came into the captain's mind. " Right," said he ; " ^he squadron consists of sixteen vessels. There are only eight here." "The rest," said Gacquoil, "are lagging below, the whole length of the coast, and on the look-out." The captain, still with his glass to his eye, murmured — "A three-decker, two first-class frigates, and five second-class." " But I too," growled Gacquoil, " have marked them out." " Good vessels," said the captain ; " I have done some- thing myself towards commanding them." "As for me," said Gacquoil, " I have seen them close by. I do not rhistake one for the other. I have their description in jtnj head." Tlae captaiii banded his telescope to the pilot. " Pilot, cjyti you make out the three-decker clearly ? " " Yes, captain : it ia the Cote d'Or." " Which they have re-baptized," said the captain. " She was formerly the ^tats de Bourgogne. A new vessel. A hundred and twenty-eight guns." He took a pencil and note-book from his pocket and made the figure 128 on one of the leaves. 9 = 380. 43 1 up in )ove the reep of a ou Imow 3d—" The ounced to )f the line >n of this of sixteen )elow, the nurmiired and five rked them one some- ;]iem close have their learly?" } captain. A new He continued—*' Pilot, what is the first sail to larboard ? " " It is the Expcrimentce. The " " First-class frigate. Fifty-two guns. She was fitted out at Brest two months since." The captain marked tlie figures 52 on his note-book. " Pilot," he asked, " what is the second sail to lar- board ? " " The Dryade" "First-class frigate. Forty eighteen-pounders. She has been in India. She has a good naval reputation." And beneath the 52 he put the figure 40 ; then lifting his head — " JNTow to starboard." " Commander, those are all second-class frigates. There are five of them." " Which is the first, starting from the vessel ? " " The Besoluter " Thirty-two pieces of eighteen. And the second ? " "The tticlicmontr " 8ame. The next ? " " The Atheiater * " Odd name to take to sea. What next ? " " The Calypso" " And then ? " " La Preneuse," " Five frigates, each of thirty-two guns." The captain wrote 160 below the first figures. " Pilot," said he, " you recognise them perfectly." " And you," replied Gacquoil, " you know them well, captain. To recognise is something, to know is better." The captain had his eyes fixed on his note-book, and added between his teeth — " One hundred and twenty- eight ; fifty-two ; forty ; a hundred and sixty." At this moment La Vieuville came on deck again. " Chevalier," the captain cried out to him, " we are in sight of three hundred and eighty cannon." " So be it," Hulu La Yieuviile. ♦ Marine Archives : State of the Fleet in 1793. wmm 44 NINETY-THREE. m\ ^^ " You come from the inspection, La Vieuville : how many guns exactly have we fit for tiring ? " " Nine." " So be it," said Boisberthelot, in his turn. He took the telescope from the pilot's hands and studied the horizon. v v' ^ > The eiglit vessels, silent and black, seemed motionless, but they grew larger. They were approaching imperceptibly. La Vieuville made a military salut3. " Commander," said he, " tliis is my report. I distrusted this corvette Claymore. It is always annoying to embark suddenly ou a vessel that does not know you or that does not love you. English ship — traitor to I'renchmen. That slut of a carronade proved it. I have made the round. Anchors good. They are not made of half finished iron, but forged bars soldered under the tilt-hammer. The flukes are solid. Cables excellent: easy to pay out; regulation length, a hundred and t'venty fathoms. Munitions in plenty. Six gunners dead. A hundred and seventy-one rounds apiece." " Because there are but nine pieces left," murmured the captain. Boisberthelot levelled his telescope with the horizon. The squadron was still slowly approaching. "^riie carronades possess one advantage — three men are enough to work them ; but they have one inconvenience — they do not carry so far or aim so true as guns. It would be necessary to let the squadron get within range of the carronades. The captain gave his orders in a low voice. There was silenc- hroughout the vessel. No signal to clear for battle nad been given, but it was done. The corvette wa8 as much disabled for combat with men as against the waves. Everything that was possible was done with this ruin of a war-vessol. By the gangway near the tiller- ropes were heaped all tlie hawsers and spare cables for strengthening the masts in case of need. The cockpit was put in order for the wounded. According to the naval use of that time, the deck was barricaded, which 1" 9 = 380. 45 uville : how hands aud motionless, )mmander," liis corvette suddenly ou ot love vou. 3 slut of a I. Anchors , but forged flukes are regulation unitions in 3eventy-one murmured he horizon. ee men are venience — guns. It get within There was o clear for 9rvette was igainst the e with this the tiller- cables for 'lie cockpit ing to the (1(m1, which IS a guaranty against balls, but not against bullets. The ball-gauges were brought, although it was a little late, to fcverifv the calibres ; but so many incidents had not been Iforeseen. Each sailor received a cartridge-box, and stuck {into his belt a pair of pistols and a dirk. The hammocks (were stowed away, the artillery pointed, the musketry (prepared, the axes and grappling^ laid out, the cartridge [and bullet stores made ready, and the powder-room [opened. Every man was at his post. All was done 'without a word being spoken, like arrangements carried oil in the chamber of a dying pcTiijii. All was haste aud gloom. : ' .!■ ■ ; ; ; /• Then the corvette showed her broadside. She had six anchors, like a frigate. The whole six were cast ; the cock-bill anchor forward, the kedger aft, the flood-anchor towards the open, the ebb-anchor ou the side to the rocks, the bower-anchor to starboard, and the sheet- i anchor to larboard. ; .■■■■ ;.• ■ .> r' The nine carronades still in condition were put into form ; the whole nine on one side, that towards the j enemy. The squadron had on its part not less silently com- pleted its manceuvres. The eight vessels now formed a semicircle, of which the Minquiers made the chord. The Claymore, enclosed in this semicircle, and into the bargain tied down by her anchors, was backed by the reef — that is to say, by shipwreck. It was like a pack of hounds about a wild boar, not yet giving tongue, but showing their teeth. It seemed as if on the one side and the other they awaited some signal. The gunners of the Clayrrare stood to their pieces. Boisberthelot said to La Vieuville, " I should like to open fire." " A coquette's whim," replied La Vieuville, ;v ■:. 46 NINETY-THREE. im "ill I llliUrl '. IX. — Some One Escapes. The passenger had not quitted the deck ; he watched all the proceedmgs with the same impassable mien. Boisberthelot approached. " Sir," be said to him, " tbe preparations are complete. We are now lashed fast to our tomb ; we shall not let go our hold. We are the prisoners of either the squadron or- the reef. To yield to the enemy, or founder among the rocks ; we have no other choice. One resource remains to us — to die. It is better to fight than be wrecked. I would rather be shot than drowned ; in the matter of death I prefer fire to water. But dying is the business of the rest of us ; it is not yours. You are the man chosen by the princes ; you are appointed to a great mission — the direction of the war in Vendee. Your loss is perhaps the monarchy lost, therefore you must live. Our honour bids us re- main here ; yours bids you go. General, you must quit the ship. I am going to give you a man and a boat. To reach the coast by a detour is not impossible. It is not yet day ; the waves are high, the sea is dark ; you will escape. There are cases when to fly is to conquer." The old man bowed his stately head in sign of ac- quiescence. Count du Boisberthelot raised his voice :, " Soldiers and sailors !" he cried. - Every movement ceased ; from each point of the vessel all faces turned towards the captain. He continued : " This man who is among us repre- sents the king. He has been confided to us ; we must save him. He is necessary to the throne of France ; in default of a prince he will be — at least this is what we try for — the leader in the Vendee. He is a great general. He was to have landed in Erance with us ; he must laud without us. To save the head is to save all." " Yes ! yes ! yes ! " cried the voices of the whole crew. The captain continued : " He is about to risk, he also, serious danger. It will not be easy to reach the coast. In order to tace the angry sea the boat should be large, wm. ill DOES HE ESCAPE? 47 atclied all I. [ to him, Dw lashed We are reef. To ; ; we have to die. It rather be prefer fire b of us ; it e princes ; rection of monarchy ids us re- must quit boat. To It is not ; you will uer." gn of ac- " Soldiers the vessel us repre- we must "ranee ; in s what wc it general, must land hole crew. I, he also, the coast. be large, ■^ and should be small in order to escape the cruisers. Wliat must be done is to make land at some safe point, and better towards Fougeres than in the direction of Coutanees. It needs an athletic sailor, a good oarsman and swimmer, who belongs to this coast, and knows the Channel. There is night enough, so that the boat can leave the corvette without being perceived. And besides, we are going to have smoke, which will serve to hide her. Her size will help her through the shallows. Where the panther is snared the weasel escapes. There is no outlet for us ; there is for her. The boat will row rapidly off; the enemy's ships will not see it; and moreover, during that time we are going to amuse them ourselves. Is it decided ? " " Yes ! yes ! yes ! " cried the crew. " There is not an instant to lose," pursued the captain. " Is there any man willing ? " A sailor stepped out of the ranks in the darkness, and said, "I." >o« X. — Does He Esoiipe? ^ A FEW minutes later, one of those little boats called a " g'o;" which are especially appropriated to the captain's service, pushed off from the vessel. There were two I men in this boat ; the old man in the stern, and the sailor who had volunteered in the bow. The night still lingered. The sailor, in obedience to the captain's orders, . rowed vigorously in the direction of the Minquiers. ^ For that matter, no other issue was possible. k Some provisions had been put into the boat ; a bag of biscuit, a smoked ox-tongue, and a cask of water. At the instant the gig was let down, La Vieuville, a scoffer even in the presence of destruction, leaned over ; the corvette's stern-post, and sneered this farewell to the boat : " She is a good one if one wants to escape, and excellent if one wishes to drown." " Sir," said the pilot, " let us laugh no longer." .? The start was quickly made, and there was soon a con- 48 NINETY- THREE. siderable distance between the boat and the corvette. Tlie wind and the waves were in the oarsman's favour ; the little barque fled swiftly, undulating through the twilight, and hidden by the height of the waves. The sea seemed to w^ear a look of sombre, indescribable expectation. Suddenly, amid the vast and tumultuous silence of the ocean, rose a voice, which, increased by the speaking- trumpet as if by the brazen mask of antique tragedy, sounded almost superhuman. It was the voice of Captain Boisberthelot giving his commands : "Royal marines," cried lie, "nail the white flag to the mainmast. We are about to see our last sun rise." And the corvette fired its first shot. " Long live the King ! " shouted the crew. Then from the horizon's verge echoed an answering shout, immense, distant, confused, yet distinct neverthe- less : " Long live the Eepublic ! " " ' '' And a din like the peal of three hundred thunderbolts burst over the depths of the sea. The battle began. The sea was covered wn'th smoke and fire. Streams of foam, made by the falling bullets, whitened the waves on every side. The Claymore began to spit flame on the eight vessels. At the same time the whole squadron, ranged in a half- moon about the corvette, opened fire from all its bat- teries. The horizon was in a blaze. A volcano seemed to have burst suddenly out of the sea. The wind twisted to and fro the vast crimson banner of battle, amid which the ships appeared and disappeared like phantoms. In front the black skeleton of the corvette show^ed against the red background. The white banner, with its fleurs-de-lys^ could be seen floating from the main. The two men seated in the little boat kept silence. The triangular shallows of the Minquiers, a sort of sub- marine Trinacrium, is larger than the entire island of Jersey ; the sea covers it ; it has for culminating point a DOES UE ESCAPE ? 49 corvette. I's favour ; rough the 3. escribable Qce of the speakirig- B tragedy, giving his the white ir last sun answenng neverthe- 1 underbolts streams of i waves on i ;ht vessel?, in a half- 11 its bat- QO seemed nd twisted mid which ims. te showed Id be seen 5t silence, rt of sub- island of ng point a platform, which even the higliest tides do not reach, from whence six mighty rocks detach themselves toward the north-east, ranged. in a straight line, and producing the effect of a great wall, wliich has crumbled here and there. The strait between the plateau and tlie six reefs is only practicable to boats drawing very little water. Beyond this strait is the open sea. The sailor who had undertaken the command of the boat made for this strait. By that means he put the Miuquiers between the battle and the little barque. He manoeuvred the narrow channel skilfully, avoiding the reefs to larboard and starboard. The rocks now masked the conflict. The lurid light of the horizon, and the awful uproar of the cannonading, began to lessen as the distance increased ; but the continuance of the reports proved that the corvette held firm, and meant to exhaust to the very last her hundred and seventy-one broadsides. Presently the boat reached safe water, beyond the reef, beyond the battle, out of reach of tlie bullets. Little by little the face of the sea became less dark ; the rays, against which the darkness struggled, widened ; the foam burst into jets of light, and the tops of the waves gave back white reflections. . Day appeared. The boat was out of danger so far as the enemy was concerned, but the most difficult part of the task re- mained. She was saved from the grape-shot, but not from shipwreck. She was a mere egg-shell, in a high sea, without deck, without sail, without mast, without compass, having no resource but her oars, in the presence of the ocean and the hurricane ; an atom at the mercy of giants. Then, amid this immensity, this solitude, lifting his face, whitened by the morning, the man in the bow of the boat looked fixedly at the one in the stern, and said : " I am the brother of him vou ordered to be shot." m ■I ' Mi f^ ■|Fif!f^- 50 NINKTY-THKEE. ■m BOOK THE TIIIRD. HALMALO. III! r II, I; i lip I. — Speech is the "Word."* The old man slowly raised his head. He who had spoken was a man of about thirty. His forehead was brown with sea-tan ; his eyes were peculiar ; they had the keen glance of a sailor in the open pupils of a peasant. He held the oars vigorously in his two hands. His air was mild. In his belt were a dirk, two pistols, and a rosary. " Who are you? " asked the old man. " I have just told you." " What do you want with me ? " The sailor shipped the oars, folded his arms, and replied : " To kill you." " As you please," said the old man. The other raised his voice. " Get ready ! " " For what ? " " To die." " Why ? " asked the old man. There was a silence. The sailor seemed for an instant confused by the question. He repeated, " I say that I mean to kill you." " And I ask you, what for ? " The sailor's eyes flashed lightning. " Because you killed my brother." The old man replied with perfect calmness, " I began by saving his life." " That is true. Ton saved him first, then you killed him." . " It was not I who killed him." . "Who then?" " His own fault." * 'La Parole c'est le Verbe.' Anyone familiar with the Now Testament will see tlie Author's meaning. — T. SPEECH IS THE " WOIID." 51 •ty. His peculiar ; 311 pupils 1 his two aiy. rms, and m instant jay that I iause you " I began you killed .h the New 'I -I '■'5 ■i The sailor stared open-mouthed nt the old man ; then his eyebrows met again in their murderous frown. " Wliat is your name ? " asked the old man. " Halmalo ; but you do not need to know my name in order to be killed by me." At this moment the sun rose. A ray struck full upon the sailor's face, and vividly lighted up that savage countenance. The old man studied it attentively. The cannonading, though it still continued, was broken and irregular. A vast cloud of smoke weighed down the horizon. The boat, no longer directed by the oarsman, drifted to leeward. The sailor seized in his right hand one of the pistols at his belt, and the rosary in his left. The old man raised himself to his full height. " You believe in God? '' said he. " Our Father which art in Heaven," replied the sailor. And he made the sign of the cross. " Have you a mother? " "Yes." He made a second sign of the cross. Then he re- sumed : " It is all said. I give you a minute, my lord." And he cocked the pistol. • " AYhy do you call me ' my lord ' ? " " Because you are a lord. That is plain enough to be seen." " Have you a lord, you ? " " Yes, and a grand one. Does one live without a lord ?" " Where is he ? " " I don't know. He has left this country. He is called the Marquis de Lantenac, Viscount de Fontenay, Prince in Brittany ; he is the lord of the Sept-Forets (Seven Forests). I never saw him, but that does not prevent his being my master." " And if you were to see him, would you obey him ? " " Indeed, ves. Why, I should be a h.eathen if I did not obey him. I owe obedience to God, then to the king, who is like God, and then to the lord, who is like the king. But we have nothing to do with all that ; you killed my brother — I must kill you." ' ■ , E 2 til 'J rl 5SI NINETY-THREE. Ill ii|i !;iii *"iii '^M The old man replied. " Agreed ; I killed your brother. I did well." The sailor clenched the pistol more tightly. " Come," said he. " So be it," said the old man. Still perfectly composed, he added, " Where is the priest ? " The sailor stared at him. " The priest ? " ■ " Yes ; the priest. I gave your brother a priest ; you owe me one." " I have none," said the sailor. And he continued : " Are priests to be found out at sea ? " The convulsive thunderings of battle sounded more and more distant. " Those who are dying yonder have theirs," said the old man. " That is true," murmured the sailor ; " they have the chaplain." The old man continued : " You will lose me my soul — that is a serious matter." The sailor »ent his head in thought. "And in osiug me my soul," pursued the old man, " you lose \ our own. Listen. I have pity on you. Do what you choose. As for me, I did my duty a little while ago, first in saving your brother's life, and after- wards in taking it from him ; and I am doing my duty now in trying to save your soul. Beflect. It is your affair. Do you hear the cannon-shots at this instant ? There are men perishing yonder, there are desperate creatures dying, there are husbands wlio will never again see their wives, fathers who will never again see their ciiildren, brothers who, like you, will never again see their brothers. And by whose fault ? Your brother's — yours. You believe in God, do you not ? Well, you know that Grod suffers in this moment ; He suffers in the person of His Most Christian Son the King of France, who is a child as Jesus was, and who is a prisoner in the fortress of the Temple. God suffers in His Church of Brittany ; He suffers in His insulted cathedrals, His de- m Ml SPEECH IS THE " WOBD." 53 )rother. Come," ! is the 3t ; you i out at id more said the ey have y soul — Id man, ou. Do a little d after- [iiy duty is your nstant ? asperate er again ee their li^ain see ther's — ell, you I's in the I'rauce, 3r in the iiu'ch of His de- secrated Gospels ; in His violated houses of prayer ; in His murdered priests. What did we intend to do, we, with that vessel which is perialiing at this instant ? We were going to succour God's children. If your brother had been a good servant, if he had faitlifully done his duty li ce a wise and prudcnit man, the accident of the carronade rt ould not have occurred, the corvette would not have been disabled, she would not have got out of her course, she would not f^m have fallen in with this fleet of perdition, and at this hour we should be landing in France, all, like valiant soldiers and seamen as we were, sabre in hand, the white flag un- furled — numerous, glad, joyful; and we should iiavegone to help tlie brave Vendeau peasants to save France, to save the king — we should have been doing God's w^ork. this was what we meant to do ; this was what we should have done. It is what I — the only one who remains — set out to do. But you oppose yourself thereto. In this con- test of the impious against the priests, in this strife of the regicides against the king, in this struggle of Satan against God, you are on the Devil's side. Your brother was the demon's first auxiliary ; you are the second. He com- menced ; you finish. You are with the regicides against the throne ; you are with the impious against the Churcli. You take away from God His last resource. Because I shall not be there — I, who represent the king — the hamlets will continue to burn, families to weep, priests to bleed, Brittany to suffer, the king to remain in prison, and Jesus Christ to be in distress. And who will have caused this ? You. Go on ; it is your affair. I depended on you to help bring about just the contrary of all this. I deceived myself. Ah, yes — it is true — you are right — I killed your brother. Your brother was courageous ; I recom- pensed that. He was culpable ; I punished that. He had failed in his duty ; I did not fail in mine. What I did, I would do again. And I swear by the great Saint Anne of Auray, who sees us, that, in a similar case, I would shoot my son jusi as I shot your brother. Now you are master. Y3s, I pity you. You have lied to your captain. You, Christian, are without faith ; you, Breton, are without honour ; I was confided to your loyalty and 54 NINETY-THIIEB. accepted by your treason ; you offer iriy dc^ath to those to whom you liad ])ronii8ed my life. Do you know who it is you are destroy in*; iiere ? It is yourself. You take my life from the king, and you give your eternity to the Devil. Go on ; commit your crime ; it is well. You sell cheaply your share in Paradise. Thanks to you, the Devil will coiKjuer ; thanks to you, the churches will fall ; thanks to you, the heathen Avill continue to melt the bells and make cannon of them ; tiiey will shoot men witli that which used to warn souls ! At this moment in wliich I speak to you, perha])s the bell tliat rang for your baptism is killing your motlier. Go on ; aid tlic Devil. Do not hesitate. Yes ; I condemned your brother, but know this — 1 am an instrument of God. Ah, you ])retend to judge tlie means God uses ! "Will you take it on yourself to judge Heaven's thunderbolt ? Wretched man, you will be judged by it ! Take care what you do. Do you even know whetlier I am in a state of grace ? No. Go on all the same. Do what you like. You are free to cast me into hell, and to cast yourself there with me. Our two damnations are in your hand. It is you who will be responsible before God. We are alone ; face to face in the abyss. Go on — finish — make an enu. I am old and you are young ; I am without arms and you are armed ; —kill me." While the old man stood erect, uttering these words in a voice louder than the noise of the sea, the undu- lations of the waves showed him now in the sliadow, now in the light : the sailor had grown lividly white. Great drops of sweat fell from his forehead ; lie trembled like a leaf ; he kissed his rosary again and again. When the old man finished speaking, he threw down his pistol and fell on his knees. " Mercy, my lord ! Pardon me ! " he cried ; " you speak like the good God. T have done wrong. My brother did wrong. I will try to repair his crime. Dispose of me. Command. I will obey." " I give you pardon," said the old man. TUE peasant's MEM0U\ EQUALS THE CAI'TAIN's SCIENCE. 55 those to wlio it is take my y to the II. You you, the will fall ; tlie bells with that 1 which I [• baptism Uo not know this [ to judge )urselt' to you will you even , Go on ee to cast me. Our 10 will be to face in n old and e armed ; ese words he undu- dow, now Great >led like a }n the old )1 and fell d ; " you mg. 'My lis crime. II.— The Peasant's Memory is as Good as the Cai'tain's Science. TiiK provisions which had been put into tlio boat proved most acceptable. The two fugitives, obliged to make long detours, took thirty-six hours to reach the coast. Thev passed a nigiit at 8ea; but the night was fine, though there was too much moou to be favourable to tiiose seeking concealment. Tl gain ley were obliged first to row away from France, and the open sea toward Jersey. They heard the last broadside of the sinking corvette as one hoars the final roar of the lion whom the hunters are killing in the wood. Then a silence fell upon the sea. The Clai/more died like the Avenger, but glory has ignored her. The man who fights afjainst his own country is never a hero. llalinalo was a marvellous seaman. He performed miracles of dexterity and intelligence ; his improvisation of a route amid the reefs, the waves, and the enemy's watch, was a masterpiece. The wind had slackened and the sea grown calmer. Ilalmalo avoided the Caux des Minquiers, coasted the Chaussee-aux-Banifs, and in order that they might have a few hours' rest, took slielter in the little creek on the north side, practicable at low water; then, rowing soutliward again, found means to pass between Granville and the Ciiausay Islands without being discovered by the look-out either of Granville or Chausay. He entered the bay of Saint Michael — a bold undertaking, on account of the neighbourhood of Cancale, an anciiorage for the cruising squadron. About an hour before sunset on the evening of the second day, he left Saint Michael's Mount behind him, and proceeded to land on a deserted beach, because the shifting sands made it dangerous. Fortunately the tide was high. Halmalo drove the boat as fiir up as he could, tried the sand, found it firm, ran the barque aground and sprang on shore. The old man strode over the side after him and examined the horizon. 66 NINETY-THREE. m : 'itl l'"l'l'i'r; 1 " Monseigneur," said llalinalo, "we are here at the rnouth of the Couesnon. Tliere is Beauvoir to starboard, and Huisnos to larboard. Tlio belfry in front of us is Ardeoon." The old man bent down to the boat and took a biscuit,, which he put in his pocket, and said to llalnialo, " Take the rest." Halmalo put the remains of tlie meat and biscuit into the bag and shnig it over liis slioulders. This done, he said, " Monseigncur, must I conduct or follow you." " Neither the one nor tlie otlier." Halmalo regarded the speaker in stupificd wonder. The old man continued, " ITalmalo, we must separate. It will not answer to be two. Tiiere must be a thousand or one alone." He paused, and drew from one of his pockets a green silk bow, rather like a cockade, with a gold lleur-de-lys embroidered in the centre. He resumed ; " Do you know how to read ?" " No." " That is fortunate. A man who can read is trouble- some. Have you a good memory." "Yes." " That will do. Listen, Halmalo. You must take to the right and I to the left. I shall go in the direction of Fougeres, you toward Bazouges. Keep your bag ; it gives you the look of a peasant. Conceal your weapons. Cut yourself a stick in the thickets. Creep among the fields of rye, which are high. Slide behind the hedges. Climb the fences in order to go across the meadows. Leave passers-by at a distance. Avoid the roads and the bridges. Do not enter Pontorson. Ah ! you will have to cross the Couesnon. How will you manage ? " " I shall swim." " That's right. And there is a ford — do you know where it is?" . .. " Between Ancy and Vieux-Viel." " That is riglit. You do really belong to the country." " But night is coming on. Where will monseigneur sleep ? " TUB peasant's memory EQUALS THE CAPTAIN's CCIENOE. 57 e at the tarboard, of lis ia !i biscuit, 0, " Take' jcuit into done, he ou." ider. separate. thousand i a green ur-de-lys Do you trouble- t take to rection of ; ; it gives )ns. Cut the fields !. Climb i. Leave and the w^ill have ?" low where country." useigneur '• I can take care of myself. And you — where will you sleep?" " Tliere are hollow trees. I was a peasant before I was a sailor." " Throw away your sailor's liat ; it will betray you. You will easily find a woollen cap." " Oh, a peasant's thatch is to be found anywhere. The first fisherman will sell me his." " Very good. Now listen. Ton know the woods ? " "All of them." "Of the whole district?" " From Noirinontier to Laval." • " Do you know their names too ? " " I know the woods ; I know their names ; I know about everything." " You will forget nothing ? " " Nothing." "Good. At present, attention. How many leagues can you make in a day ? " "Ten, fifteen — twenty, if necessary." " It will bo. Do not lose a word of what I am about to say. On the edge of the ravine between Saint-lteuil and Plediac, there is a largo chestnut-tree. You will stop there. You will see no one." " "Which will not hinder somebody's being there. I know." " You will give the call. Do you know how to give the call?" Halmalo puflfed out his cheeks, turned toward the sea and there sounded the " to-whit, to-hoo " of an owl. One would have said it came from the night-locked recesses of a forest. It was sinister and owl-like. " Good," said the old man. " You have it." He held out the bow of green silk to Halmalo. " This is my badge of commandant. It is important that no one should as yet know my name. But this knot will be sufficient. The fleur-de-lys was embroidered by Madame Hoyal in the Temple prison." Halmalo bent one knee to the ground. He trembled as he took the flower-embroidered knot, and brought it •<: ^ip 58 «r NINETY-THREE. near to his lips, then paused, as if frightened at this kiss. " Can I ? " he demanded. " Yes ; since you kiss ihe crucifix." Halinalo kissed the fleui'-de-lvs." " liise," said tlie old niun. Halmalo rose and hid the knot in his breast. The old man continued; "Listen well to tliis. This is the order: Up! llevolt ! No qvarter ! On the edge of this wood of Saint-Aubin you will give the calk You will repeat it thrice. The third time you will see a man spring out of the ground." " Out of a hole under the trees. I know." "This man will be Planchenault, who is also called the King's Heart. You will show him this knot. He will understand. Then, by routes which you must find out, you will go to the w^ood of Astille ; there you will find a cripple, who is surnamed IMousqueton, and who shows pity to none. You will tell him that I love him, and that he is to sat the parishes in motion. From there you will go to the wood of Couesbou, which is a league from Ploermel. You will give the owl-cry ; a man will come out of a hole ; it will be Thuault, seneschal of Ploermel, who has belonged to what is called the Con- stituent Assembly, but on the good side. You will tell him to arm the castle of Couesbon, which belongs to the Marquis de Guer, a refugee. Ravines, little woods, ground uneven — a good place. Thuault is a clever, straightforward man. Thence, you will go to Saint- Ouen-les-Toits, and you will talk with Jean Chouan, who is, in my mind, the real chief. From thence you will go to the wood of Ville-Anglose, where you will see Gruitter, whom they call Saint-Martin ; you will bid him have his eye on a certain Courmesnil, who is the son-in-law of old Goupil de Prefeln, and who leads the Jacobinery of Argentan. liecollect ail this. I write nothing, because nothing should be written. La Eouarie made out a list; it ruined all. Tlien you will go to the wood of Eougefeu, where is Mi^lette, who leaps the ravine on a long pole." --^r^. ed at this I. Tin? is le edge of 3all. You see a num ilso called t. He will iind out, will find a rho shows him, and roin there S a league man will leschal of the Con- u will tell telongs to tie woods, a clever, to Saint- ouan, who ou will go Gruitter, have his -in-law of abinery of because de out a wood of I THE peasant's MEMORY EQUALS THE CAPTAIn's SCIIENOE. 59 " It is called a leaping-pole." '* Do you know how to use it ? " " Am J not a Breton and a peasant ? The fcrte is )ur frieiul. Slie widens our arms and lengthens our legs." " That is to say, she makes tlie enemy smaller and Shortens the route. A good machine." '* Once on a time, ^^ ith my ferte, I lield my own igaiust three salt-tax men who had sabres." " AVhen was tliat ? " "Ten years ago." " Under tlie kmg ? " " Yes, of course." " Then you fought in the time of tlie king ? " " Yes, to be sure." " Against whom ? " " My faith, I do not know ! I was a salt-smuggler.' " Very good." " Tliey called that fighting against tlie excise officers. Were they the same thing as the king ? " " Yes. No. But it is not necessary that you should understand." " I beg monseigneur's pardon for having asked a ques- tion of monseigneur." " Let us continue. Do you know^ La Tourgue ? " " Do I know La Tourgue ? Why, I belong there." "How?" " Certainly, since I come from Parigne." " Li fact, La Tourgue is near Parigne." " Know La Tourgue ! Tlie big round castle that belongs [to my lord's family. There is a great iron door which separates the new part from the old that a cannon could iiot blow open. The famous book about Saint Bartholo- mew, which people go to look at from curiosity, is in the new build' "" nig. ivine on a There are frogs in the moat. When I I was little, 1 i. sed to go and tease them. And the under- I ground passaie! — I know that; perhaps thee is nobody [else left who does." "What underground passage? I do not know what [you mean." "It was made for old times, in the days wdien La I 60 NINETY-THREE. Tnl Tourgue was besieged. The people inside could escape by going througli the underground passage which leads into the wood." " There is a subterranean passage of that description in the castle of Jupelliere, and the castle of Hunandaye, and the tower of Champeon ; but there is nothing of the sort at La Tourgue." " Oh yes, indeed, monseigneur ! I do not know the passages that monseigneur spoke of; I only know that of La Tourgue, because I belong to the neighbourhood. Into the bargain, there is nobody but myself who does know it. It was not talked about. It was forbidden, because it had been used in the time of Monsieur de Eohan's wars. My father knew the secret, and showed it to me. I know how to get in and out. If I am in the forest, I can go into the tower, and if I am in the tower, I can go into the forest, without anybody's seeing me. When the enemy enters there is no longer anyone there.. That is what the passage of La Tourgue is. Oh, I know It. The old man remained silent for a moment. " It is evident that you deceive yourself : if there were such a secret, I should know it." " Monseigneur, I am certain. There is a stone that turns." "Ah, good! You peasants believe in stones that turn and stones that sing, and stones that go at night to drink from the neighbouring brook. A pack of nonsense." " But since I have made the stone turn " " Just as others have heard it sing. Comrade, La Tourgue is a fortress, sure and strong, easy to defend ; but anybody who counted or. a subterranean passage for getting out of it would be silly indeed." "But monseigneur" The old man shrugged his shoulders. " We are losing time ; let us talk of what concerns us." The peremptory tone cut short Halmalo's persiatAnce. The unknown resumed. " To continue. Listen. From Kougefeu you will go to the wood of Montchevrier ; Benedicite is there, the chief of the Twelve. There ia another good fellow. He says a blessing while he has 11 l\ uu i IpocI lis tl THE peasant's MEMORY EQUALS THE CAPTAIN's SCIENCE. 61 )uld escape rhich leads description lunandave, lung of the know the know that hbourhood. t'who does forbidden, onsieur de [ showed it . am in the the tower, seeing me. ^one there, 'h, I know ;liere were stone that that turn to drink !nse." irade, La 3 defend; issage for » ire losing sisf-mce. n. From clievrier ; There is he has fiicople shot. War and sensibility do not go together. il'roui Moutchevrier, you will go " I He broke oft'. " I forgot the money." I He tooli: from his pocket a purse and a pocket-book land put them in Halmalo's band. I " TljLio are thirty thousand francs in assignats in the something: like three livres ten sous ; it ^^1 pocket-book I is true tlie assignats are false, but the real ones are just -as worthless. In the purse — attention — there are a hun- dred gold ioiiis. I give you all I have. I have no need • of anything here. Besides, it is better that no money should be found on me. I resume. From Montchevrier vou will go to Autrain, where you will see Monsieur de Frotte ; from Autrain to La Jupelliere, where you will see De liochecotte ; from La Jupelliere to Noirieux, where you will hud the Abbe Baudoin. Can you recollect all this?" " Like my paternoster." " You will sec- Monsieur Dubois-Guy at Saint-Briee- on-Cogles, Monsieur de Turpiu at Morannes, which is a fortified town, and the Prince de Talmont at Chat^au- Goutliier." *' Will I be spoken to by a prince ? " " iSiiice I speak to you." ILalmalo "iook off his hat. " Madame 's lleur-de-lys will insure you a'good reception everywhere. Do not forget that you are goin^ into the country of mountaineers and rustics. Disguise yourself. It will be easy to do. These republicans are so stupid that you may pass anywhere with a blue coat, a three- cornered hat, and a tri-coloured cockade. Tliere are no longer regiments, there are no longer uniforms ; the companies an.^ not numbered; each man puts on any rag he pleases. You will go to Saint-Mherve ; there you will see Gautier, called Great Peter. You will go to the cantonment of l^arne, where the men blacken their faces. They put gravel into their guns, and a double charge of powder, in order to make more noise. It is well done ; but tell them, above all, to kill — kill — kill ! You will go to the field of the Vachc Noire, which is on a height ; to the middle of the wood i lii I m- 62 NINETY-THREE. of La Charnie, then to the camp Avoine, then to the camp Vert, then to tlie camp of the Fourmis. You will go to the Grand Bordage, which is also called the Haut de Pre, and is inhabited by a widow whose daughter married Treton, nicknamed the Englishman. Grand Bordage is in the parish of Quenilles. You will visit Epineux-le-Chevreul, Sille-le-Guillaume, Parannes, and all the men in all of the woods. You will make friends, and you will send them to the borders of the high and the low Maine ; you will see Jean Treton in the parish of Vaisges, Sans Regret at Bignon, Chambord at Bonchamps, the brothers Corbin at Maisoncelles, and the Petit-sans- Leur at Saint John-on-Erve. He is the one who is called Bourdoiseau. All that done, and the watch-word — Itevolt ! No quarter ! — given everywhere, you will join the grand army, the Catholic and royal army, wherever it may be. You will see D'Elbee, De Lescure, De Laroche- jacquelein, all the chiefs who may chance to be still living. You will show them my commander's ribbon. They all know what it means. You are only a sailor, but Cathelineau is only a carter. This is what you must i say to them from me : ' It is time to join the two wars, the great and the little. The great makes the most noise ; the little does the most execution. The "Vendee is 2:ood— Chouannerie is better ; for in civil war the fiercest is the best. The success of a war is judged by the amount of harm it does.' " He paused. " Halmalo, I say all this to you. You do ] not understand the words, but you comprehend the things themselves. I gained confidence in you from seeing you manage the boat. You do not understand geometry,! yet you perform sea-manoeuvres that are marvellous. He who can manage a boat can pilot an insurrection : from the way in which you have conducted this sea intrigue, i I am certain you will fulfill all my commands well. I resume. You will tell the whole to the chiefs, in your | own way of course, but it will be well told. I prefer the war of the forest to the war of the plain ; I have no wish to set a hundred thousand peasants in line and exposed to Carnot's artillery and the grape-shot of the Blues. In "W^sm THE peasant's MEMORY EQUALS THE CAPTAIn's SCIENCE. C3 en to the You will the Haut daughter Grand will visit nnes, and ie friends. 3 high anil e parish of onchamps, Petit-sans- 10 is called ch-word— ill join the herever it e Laroche to be still r's ribbon, .ly a sailor, : vou must I ) two wars, nost noise ; eis good— cest is the amount of] .. You do I the things | seeing you | geometry, llous. He I tion : from I ea intrigue, I ds well. I ! h, in your i prefer the | ivc no wish lid exposed Blues. In loss than a month I mean to have five hundred thousand sharpshooters ainbuslied hi the woods. The republican army is my game. Poacliing is our way of waging war. Mine is tlie strategy of the tliickets. Good ; there is still another expression you will not catch ; no matter, vou will seize this : No quarter, and amhusJws everywhere. 1 depend more on bush lighting than on regular battles. You will add that the English are with us. We catch the Eepublic between two fires. Europe assists us. Let us make an end of the revolution. Kings will wage a war of kingdoms against it ; let us wage a war of parishes. VTou will say this. Have you understood ? " " Yes. Put all to fire and sw^ord." "That is it." " No quarter." " Not to a soul. That is it." " I will go everywhere." " And be careful. For in this country it is easy to become a dead man." " Death does not concern me. He who takes his first [step uses perhaps his last shoes." " You are a brave fellow." " And if I am asked monseigneur's name ? " " It nuist not be known yet. You will say you do not [know it, and that will be the truth." " Where shall I see monseigneur again ? " "Where I shall be." " How shall I know ? " " Because all the world will know. I shall be talked jof before eight days go by ; I shall make examples ; I [shall avenge religion and the king, and you will know [well that it is I of whom they speak." " I understand." " Forget nothing." " Be tranquil." " Now go. May God guide you ! Go." " I will do all that you have bidden me. I will go. I [will speak. I will obey. I will command." "Good." "And if I succeed" 64 NINETY-THREE. Jiiifi !r . " I will make you a knight of Saint Louis." *' Like my brother. And if I fail, you will have me shot ? " '• Like vour brother." " Done, monseigneur." The old man bent his head and seemed to fall into a sombre revery. When he raised his eyes, he was alone. Halmalo was only a black spot disappearing on the horizon. The sun had just set. The sea-mews and the hooded gulls flew homeward from the darkening ocean. That sort of inquietude which precedes the night made itself felt in space. The green frogs croaked ; the king- fishers flew whistling out of the pools ; the gulls and the rooks kept up their evening tumult ; the cry of the shore birds could be heard, but not a human sound. The soli tude was complete. Not a sail in the bay, not a pea. in the fields. As far as the eye could reach stretcheu deserted plain. The great sand-thistles shivered. The white sky of twilight cast a vast livid pallor over the shore. In the distance the pools scattered over the plain looked like great sheets of pewter spread flat upon the ground. The wind hurried in from the sea with a moan. BOOK THE FOUKTBL TELLEMARCH. ^ ' • I. — The Top of the Dune. The old man waited till Halmalo disappeared, then he drew his fisherman's cloak closely about him and set out on his course. He walked with slow steps, thinking deeply. He took the direction of Huisnes, while Halmalo went | towards Beauvoir. ^aseaoiiSMeaieMmam MnaimmMr^iiiiiii THE TOP OP THE DUNE. 65 i Behind liim, an enormous black triangle with a cathe- dral for tiara and a fortress for breastplate, with its two great towers to the east, one round, the other square, helping to support the weight of the church and village, rose Mount Saint Michael, which is to the ocean what the Pyramid of Cheops is to the desert. The quicksands of Mciint Saint Michael's Bay insen- sibly displace their dunes.* Between Huisnes and Arde- von there was at that time a very high one, which is now completely effaced. This dune, levelled by an equinoctial storm, had the peculiarity of being very ancient ; on its summit stood a commemorative column, erected in the twelfth ce]Jtury, in memory of the council held at Avrr.a.?hes against the assassins of Saint Thomas of Can- terbury. From the top of this dune the whole district could be seen, and one could fix the points of the compass. The old man ascended it. When he reached the top, he sat down on one of the projections of the stones with his back against the pillar, and began to study the kind of geographical chart spread beneath his feet. He seemed to be seeking a route in a district which had once been familiar. In the whole of this vast landscape, made in- distinct by the twilight, there was nothing clearly defined but the horizon stretching black against the sky. He could perceive the roofs of eleven towns and vil- lages ; could distinguish for several leagues' distance all the bell-towers of the coast, which were built very high to serve in case of need as landmarks to boats at sea. At the end of a few minutes the old man appeared to have found what he sought in this dim clearness ; his eyes rested on an inclosure of trees, walls, and roofs, partially visible midway between tlie plain and the wood ; it was a farm. He nodded his head in the satisfied Wuy a man does who says to himself — " There it is," and began to trace with his finger a route across the fields and hedges. From time to time he examined a shapeless indistinct * Note by Translator. — Dunes is the name given to the great Kiind-hills on tlie coasts of Brittany, Normandy, and Holland. F it ! 66 NINETY-THREE. i'Efi liili object stirring on the principal roof of the farm, and seemed to ask himself : " What can it be ? " It was colourless and confused, owing to the gloom ; it floated, therefore it was not a w'eather-cock ; and there was no reason why it should be a flag. He was weary : he remained in his resting-place and yielded passively to the vague forgetfulness which the first moments of repose bring over a tired man. There is an hour of the day which may be called noise- less ; it is the serene hour of early evening. It w\is about him now. He enjoyed it ; he looked, he listened — to what ? The tranquillity. Even savage natures have their moments of melancholy. Suddenly this tranquillity was, not troubled, but accentuated by the voices of persons passing below — the voices of women and children. It was like a chime of joy-bells unexpectedly ringing amid the shadows. The underbrush hid the group from whence the voices came, but it was moving slowly along the foot of the dune loward the plain and the forest. The clear, fresh tones reached distinctly the pensive old man ; they were so near that he could catch every word. A woman's voice said, " We must hurry ourselves, Flecharde. Is this the way ? " "No; yonder." The dialogue went on between the two voices — one high-pitched, the other low and timid. " What is the name of the farm we are stopping at ? " "L'Herbe-eu-Pail." " Will it take us much longer to get there ? " " A good quarter of an hour." " We must hurry on to get our soup." j, " Yes ; we are late." " We shall have to run. But those mites of yours are tired. We are only two women ; we can't carry three brats. And you — you are already carrying one, my Fle- charde'. A regular lump of lead. You have weaned the little gormandiser, but you carry her all the same. A bad habit. Do me the favour to make her walk. Oh, very well- cold." -so much the worse ! The soup will be AURES HABET, ET NON AUDIET. 67 t'arni, and ' It was it floated, •e was no •place and which the illed noise- W08 about stenod — ti) have their iiilUty was, of persons en. It Wiif- r amid the )m whence n<2; the foot The clear, man; they ourselves, " Oh, what good shoes these are that you gnve mo ! 1 should think tliey had been made for nie." " It is better than going bare-footed, eh ? " " Hurry up, Rene-Jean ! " *' He is the very one that hindered us. He must needs ('hatter with all the little peasant girls he met. Oh, he shows the man already ! " " Yes, indeed ; why, he ia going on five years old." " I say, Rene-Jean, what made you talk to that little girl in the village ? " A child's voice — that of a boy — replied, " Because she was an acquaintance of mine." " What, you know her ? " asked the woman. " Yes, ever since this morning ; she played some games with me." " Oh ! what a man you are ! " cried the woman. " We liave only been three days in the neighbourhood ; that ci-eature there is no bigger than your fist, and he has tuund a sweetheart already ! " The voices grew fainter and fainter ; tlien every sound died away. -*^*- roices — one ping at ? : yours are carry three ne, my Fle- w-eaned the same. A alk. Oh, will be wi II. — AuRES HabET, ET NON AUDIET. ^HE old man sat motionless. He was not thinking, jsearcely dreaming. About him was serenity, rest, safety, solitude. It was still broad daylight on the dune, but ilmost dark in tlie plain, and quite night in the forest, ""he moon was floating up tlie east : a few stars dotted the pale blue of the zenith. This man, though full of pre- )Ccupation and stern cares, lost himself in the ineftable [sweetness of the infinite. He felt within him the obscure lawn of hope, if the word hope may be applied to the ;vorking8 of civil warfare. For the instant, it seemed to him tliat, in escaping from that inexorable sea and touching land once more, all danger had vanished. No one knew his name ; he was alone, escaped from tlie enemj', having pft no trace behind him, for the sea leaves no track ; p 2 68 NINKTY-THUEE. ,11 liidden, ignored ; not even suspected. He felt an inde- scribable calm; a little more and ho would have falluu asleep. What made the strange cliarm of this tranquil home to that man, a prey within and without to such tumults, was the profound silence alike in earth and sky. He heard nothing but the wind from tlio sea; but the ^^ind is a continual bass, which almost ceases to be a noise, so accustomed does the ear become to its tone. Suddenly he started to his feet. His attention had been quickly wakened ; lie looked about the horizon. Then his glance fixed eagerly upon a particular point. What he looked at was the belfry of Cormeray, which rose before him at the extremity of the plain. Something very extraordinary was indeed going on within it. The belfry was clearly defined against the sky ; he could see the tower surmounted by the spire, and between the two the cage for the bell, square, without penthouse, open to the four sides after the fashion of Breton belfries. Now this cage appeared alternately to open and shut, at regular intervals ; its lofty opening showed entirely white, then black ; the sky could be seen for an instant through it, then it disappeared; a gleam of light would] come, then an eclipse, and the opening and shutting suc- ceeded each other from moment to moment with the I regularity of a hammer striking its anvil. This belfry of Cormeray was in front of the old man, about two leagues from the place where he stood- He looked to his right at the belfry of Baguer-Pican, which rose equally straight and distinct against the horizon ; its cage was opening and shutting, like that of Cormeray. He looked to his Mt, at the belfry of Tanis ; the cage I of the belfry of Tanis opened and shut, like that of Baguer-| Pican. He examined all the belfries upon the horizon, one after another :>to his left those of Courtils, of Precey.i of Crollon, and the Croix-Avranchin ; to his right the! belfries of Eaz-sur-Couesnon, of Mordrey, and of the Pas;j in front of him, the belfry of Pontorsin. The cages of all[ these belfries were alternatelv white and black. USEFULNESS OF BIO LETTERS. 69 It an inde- luive fallen iqiiil home .'h tumults, a; but the ) be a noise, ; lie looked erly upon a he belfry of mity of the ideed going :y ; he could Detween the :house, open (elfries. jn and shut, ved entirely r an instant j light would hutting suc- it with the I 'his belfrv of two leagues ) his right at ally straight opening and lis ; the cage) at ofBaguer- the horizon, Is, of Precey,! lis right thej d of the Pas; e cages of all| bk. What did this mean? It meant that all the bells were swinging. In order to appear and disappear in this way they must be violently rung. AVIiat was it for? The tocsin, without doubt. The tocsin was souiuling, sounding madly — on every side, from all the belfrifs, in all the parishes, in all the villages ; and yet he could hear nothing. This was owing to the distance and the wind from the sea, which, sweeping in the opposite direction, carried every sound of the sliore out beyond the horizon. All these mad bells calling on every side, and at the same time this silence ; nothing could be more sinister. The old man looked aiul listened. He did not hear the tocsin ; he saw it. It was a strange sensation, that of seeing the tocsin. Against whom was this rage of the bells directed?. Against whom did this tocsin sound ? -•o»- III. — Usefulness of Big Letters. Assuredly some one was snared. AVho? A shiver ran through this man of steel. It could not be he ? His arrival could not have been discovered ; it was impossible that the acting representative should have received information ; he had scarcely landed. The cor- vette had evidently foundered, and not a man had escaped. And even on the corvette, Boisberthelot and La Vieuville alone knew his name. The belfries kept up their savage sport. He mechanically watched and counted them, and his meditations, pushed from one conjecture to another, had those fluctuations caused by a sudden change from complete security to a terrible consciousness of peril. Still, after all, this tocsin might be accounted for in many ways, and he ended by reassuring himself with the repe- tition of — " In short, no one knows of my arrival, and no one knows my name." 70 NINETY-THBEE. During the last few seconds tliere had bcon a slight noise above and beliind liim. Tliis noise was like the fluttering of leaves. lie paid no attention to it at first, but as the sound continued — one might have said insisted on making itself heard — he turned round at length. It was in fact a leaf, but a leaf of paper. The wind was trying to tear oft' a large placard pasted on the stone above his head. Tliis placard had been very lately fastened there, for it was still moist and offered a hold to th(» wind which had begun to play with and was detaching it. The old man had ascended the dune on the opposite side, and had not seen this placard as he came up. lie stepped on to the coping where he had been seated and laid his hand on the c«:rner of the paper which the wind moved. The sky was civjar, for the June twilights are long; the bottom of the dune v/as shadowy, but the top in liglit ; a portion of the placard was printed in large letters, and there was still light enough for him to make it out. He read this : — "The Prench Eepullic One and Inditisible. " We, Prieur of the Marne, acting representative of the people for the army of the coast of Cherbourg, give notice : The ci-devant 'MarqmB de Lantenac, Viscount de Fontenay, so-called Breton prince, secretly land'.d on the coast of Granville, is declared an outlaw. A price is set on his head. Any person bringing him, alive or dead, will receive the sum of sixty thousand francs. This amount will not be paid in assignats, but in gold. A battalion of the Cherbourg coast-guards will be immediately despatched for the apprehension of the so-called Marquis de Lantenac. " The parishes are ordered to lend every assistance. " Griven at the Town-hall of Granville, this 2iid of June 1703. "(Signed) Prieur du la Makne." Under this name was another signature, in much smaller characters, and which the failing light prevented the old man's deciphering. an III * USEFULNESS OF BIG LETTERS. 71 It was unsafe to remain longer on this summit. He had perhiipa already stayed too long; the top oftlv^ dune, waa the only point in the landscape which still remained visihie. Wiion he reached the obscurity of the bottom, ho slack- ened his pace. He took the route which he had traced for himself toward the farm, evidently having reason to believe that he should bo safe in that direction. The plain was deserted. There were no passers-by at that hour. He stopped behind a thicket of underbrush, undid his cloak, turned his vest the hairy side out, re- fusteued his rag of a mantle about his neck by its cord, and resumed his way. The moon was shining. He reached a point where two roads branched off; an old stone cross stood there. Upon the pedestal of the cross he could distinguish a white square which was most probably a notice like that he had just read. He went towards it. " Where are you going ? " said a voice. He turned round. A man was standing in the hedge- row, tall like himself, old like himself, with white hair like his own, and garments even more dilapidated — almost his double. This man leaned on a long stick. He repeated : " I ask you where you are going." " In the first place, where am I ? " returned he, with an almost haughty composure. The man replied : " You are in the seigneury of Tanis. I am its beggar ; you are its lord." "I?" " Yes, you, my Lord Marquis de Lantenac." 1- |i; 72 NINETY-THREK, IV. — The Caimand. The Marquis de Lanitnac — we shall lienceforth call him by his name — answered quietly, " So be it. Give me up." The man continued, " We are both at home here ; you in the castle, I in the bushes." " Let us finish. Do your work. Betray me," said the marquis. The man went on : " You were going to the farm of Herbe-en-Pail, were you not?" " Yes." " Do not go." "Why?" " Because the Blues are there." " Since how long?" " These three days." " Did the people of the farm and the hamlet resist?" " No ; they opened all the doors." " Ah ! " said the marquis. The man pointed with his finger towards the roof of the farmhouse, which could be perceived above the trees at a short distance. " You can see the roof, marquis ?" " Yes." " Do you see what there is above it ?" '* Something floating?" "Yes." " It is a flag." " The tricolour," sfiid the man. This was the object whicli liad attracted the marquis's attention as he stood on the top of tlie dune. " Is not the tocsin sounding?" asked the marquis. " Yes." " On what account?" " Evidently on yours." " But I cannot hear it." " The winu carries the sound the other way." ' The man added, " Did you see your placard?" THE CAIMAND. 7a ' eforth call ! It. Give here ; you ," said the he farm of resist?" lie rojf of e the trees marquis s rquis. " Do not go there." "Yes." " Tliey are hunting you ;" and casting a glance [toward the farm, he added, " There is a demi-battalion [there." "Of republicans?" " Parisians." " Very well," said the marquis ; " march on." And he took a step in the direction of the farm. The man seized his arm. ~ " Where do you wish me to go?" " Home with me." The marquis looked steadily at the mendicant. " Listen, my lord marquis. My house is not tine ; but it is safe. A cabin lower than a cave. For flooring a bed of seaweed, for ceiling a roof of branches and grass. Come. At the farm you will be shot. In my house you may go to sleep. You must be tired ; and to-morrow morning the Blues will march on, and you can go where you please." " The marquis studied this man. " AVhich side are you ou?" he asked. "Are you republican? Are you royalist ? " " I am a beggar." " Neither royalist nor republican ?" " I believe not." " Are you for or against the king?" " I have no time for that sort of thing." " AVhat do you think of what is passing r " " I have nothing to live on." " Still you come to my assistance." " Because I saw you were outlawed. What is the law? 80 one can be beyond its pale. I do not comprehend. Am I inside the law? Am I outside the law? I don't in the least know. To die of hunger — -is that being within the law?" " How long have you been dying of hunger ?" " All my life." "And you save me?" ■■' Yes.'' "Why?" ■ .-::;..r,ii^s'ii,'-A*t«^:.'i' m 74 NINETY-THREE. " Because I said to myself — ' There is one poorer than I. I have the right to breathe ; he has not.' " " That is true. And you save me ?" "Of course; we are brothers, monseigneur. I ask for bread — you ask for life. We are a pair of beggars." " But do you know there is a price set on my head?" " Yes." " How did you know ? " " I read the placard." " Tou know how to read?" " Yes ; and to write to. "Why should I be a brute ?" " Then since you can read, and since you have seen the notice, you know that a man w'ould earn sixty thousand francs by giving me up ? " " I know it." " Not in assignats." " Yes, I know ; in gold." " Sixty thousand francs — do you know it is a fortune ? " " Yes." " And that anybody apprehending me would make his fortune ? " " Very well — what next ? " " His fortune ! " . " That is exactly what I thought. When I saw you, I said : ' Just to think that anybody by giving up that man yonder would gain sixt}'- thousand francs, and make his fortune ! Let us hasten to hide him." The marquis followed the beggar. They entered a thicket ; the mendicant's den was there. It was a sort of chamber which a great old oak bad allowed the man to take possession of within its heart ; it was dug down among its roots, and covered by its branches. It was dark, low, hidden, invisible. Tliere Was room for two persons. " I foresaw that I might have a guest," said the mendicant. This species of underground lodging, less rare in Brit- tany than people fiincy, is called in the peasant dialect a carnichot. The name is also applied to hiding-places con- trived in thi«^k walls. It was furnished with a few jugs, a pallet of straw or m THE OAIMAND. 75 er than I. I ask for ars." head?" brute ?" e seen the thousand fortune ? " I make liis saw 3^011, g up that and make den was it old oak ithin its overed by e. There londicarit. e in Brit- dialect a aces con- straw or 1 • - jdrled wrack, with a thick covering of kersey ; some tallow- •Idips, a flint and steel, and a bundle of furze twigs for ttinder. I They stooped low, crept rather, penetrated into the fchamber which the great roots of the tree divided into Ifautastic compartments, and seated themselves on the Iheap of dry sea-weed which served as a bed. The space -between two of the roots, wliich made the doorway, tallowed a little light to enter. Night had come on, but Ithe eye adapts itself to the darkness, and one always finds ■at last a little day among the shadows. A reflection from he moon's rays dimly silvered the entrance. In a corner was a jug of water, a loaf of buckwheat bread, and some chestnuts. " Let us sup," said the beggar. Tliey divided the chestnuts; the marquis contributed his morsel of biscuit ; they bit into the same black loaf, and drank out of the jug, one after the other. They conversed. The marquis began to question tliis man. " So, no matter whether anything or nothing happens, it is all the same to you ? " " Pretty much. You are the lords, you others. Those ^are your affairs." " But after all, present events " " Pass away up out of my reach." ] Tlie beggar added presently, " Then there are things J that go on still higher up : the sun that rses, the moon Jtliat increases or diminishes; those are ^he matters I occupy myself about." He took a sip from the jug, and said, " The good fresh : water ! " Then he asked, " How do you find the water, mon- Iseigueur ? " " What is your name ? " inquired the marquis. "My name is Tellemarch; but I am called the I Caimund." " I understand. Caimand is a word of the district." " Which means beggar. I ara also nicknamed le Vieiix. jl have been called the old man these forty years.' 76 NINETY-THREE. " Forty years ! But you Avere a young man then." " I never was young. You remain so always, ou the contrary, my lord marquis. You have the legs of a boy of twenty ; you can climb the great dune ; as for me, 1 begin to find it difficult to walk ; at the end of a quarter of a league I am tired. Nevertheless, our age is the same. But the rich, tliey have an advantage over us— they eat every day. Eating is a preservative." After a silence the mendicant resumed. " Poverty, riches — that makes a terrible business. That is what brings on the catastrophes. At least, I have that idea, The poor want to be rich ; the rich are not willing to be poor. I think that is about what it is at the bottom. 1 do not mix myself up with matters. The events are the events. T am neither for the creditor nor for th ■ debtor, I know there is a debt, and that it is being paid. That is all. I would rather they had not killed the king ; but it would be difficult for me to say why. After that, somebody will answer, ' But remember how they used to hang poor fellows on trees for nothing at all.' See ; just for a miserable gunshot fired at one of the king's roe- bucks, I myself saw a man hung who had a wife and seven children. There is much to sny on both sides." Again he was silent for a little. Then — "I am a little of a bone-setter, a little of :i doctor ; I know the herbs, 1 study plants ; the peasants see )ne absent — pre-occupied - -and that makes me pass for a sorcerer. Because I dream, ihey think I must be wise." " You belong to the neighbourhood ? " asked Jie marquis. " I never was out of it." " You know me ? '" " Of course. The last time I saw you was when you passed through 1 ere two years ago. You went from here to England. A little while since I saw a man on the top of the dune — a very tall man. Tall men are rare ; Brit- tany is a country of small men. I looked close ; I had read the notice; I said to myself, ' Ah ha! ' And when you came do- n there was moonlight, and I recognised you." THE CAIMAND. 77 n then." [ways, ou the gs of a boy of as for me, I of a quarter IT age is the »e over us— e." . " Poverty, riiat is what ave that idea, viilling to be e bottom. I iventa are the )r th ' debtor. paid. That he king ; but After that, tbey used to .' See ; just e king's roe- 1 a wife and )th sides." I am a little] V the herbs, I -pre-occupied . Because I ' asked Jie ras when voui 3ut from here an on the top re rare ; Brit- closs ; I had And when I recognised! '' And yet I do not know you." " Tou have seen me, but you never looked at me." And Tellemareh the Caimand added — "I looked at vou, though. Tilt' giver and the beggar do not look with ■tlie same eyes." " Had I encountered you formerly ? " " Often — 1 am your beggar. I was the mendicant at the foot of the road from your castle. You have given me alms, but he who gives does not notice ; he who receives examines and observes. When you say mendi- cant, you say spy. But as for me, though I am often sad, I try not to be a malicious spy. I used to hold out my hand ; you only saw the hand, and you threw into it the charity I needed in the morning in order that I might not die in the evening. I have often been twenty-four hours without eating. Sometimes a penny is life. I owe you my life — I pay the debt." " That is true ; you save me." " Yes, I save you, monseigneur." And Tellemarch's voice grew solemn, as he added — " On one condition." " And that ? " " That you are not come here to do harm." " 1 come here to do good," said the marquis. " Let us sleep," said the beggar. They lay down side by side on the sea-weed bed. The mendicant fell asleep immediately. The marquis, althougli very tired, remained thinking deeply for a few moments, — he gazed fixedly at the beggar in the shadow and then lay back. To lie on that bed was to lie on the ground ; he projected by this to put his ear to the earth and listen. He could hear a strange buzzing underground. We know that sovmd stretches down into the depths : he could hear the noise of the bells. The tocsin was still sounding. The marquis fell asleep. % l I ■WW ir ' 78 NINETY-THREB. V. — Signed Gauvain. It was delightful when he woke. The mendicant was standing up — not in the den, for he could not hold him- self erect there — hut without, on tlie sill. He was lean- ing on his stick. The sun shone upon his face. " Monseigneur," said Tellemarch, " four o'clock has just sounded from the belfry of Tanis. I could count the strokes. Therefore, the wind has changed ; it is the land breeze ; I can hear no other sound, so the tocsin has ceased. Everything is tranquil about the farm and hamlet of Herbe-en-Pail. The Blues are asleep, or gone. The worst of the danger is over ; it will he wise for us to separate. It is my hour for setting out." He indicated a point in the horizon. " I am going that way." He pointed in the opposite direction. " Go you this way." The beggar made the marquis a gesture of salute. He pointed to the remains of the supper. " Take the chest- nuts with you if you are hungry." A moment after he disappeared among the trees. The marquis rose and departed in the direction which Tellemarch had indicated. It was that charming hour called in the old Norman peasant dialect " the song-sparrow of the day." The finches and the hedg -sparrows flew chirping about. The marquis followed tlu path by which they had come on the previous night. le passed out of the thicket and found himself at the fork of the road, marked by the stone cross. The plar ird was still there, looking white, fairly gay, in the rising sun. He remembered that there was something at the bottom of the placard which he had not been able to read the evening before, on account of the twilight and the size of the letters. He went up to the pedestal of the cross. Under the signature " Prieuk DE LA Makne," there were vet two other lines in small characters : SIGNED GAUVAIN. 79 " The identity of the ci-devant Marquis de Lantenac estahliahed, he will he immediately shot. Signed : Chief of battalion commanding the exploring column^ Gauvain." " Grauvain ! " said the marquis. He stood still thinking deeply, his eyes fixed on the notice. " Gauvain ! " he repeated. He resumed his march ; turned about ; looked again at the cross, walked back, and once more read the placard. Then he went slowly away. Had any person been near, he might have been heard to murmur, in a half voice, " Gauvain ! " From the sunken paths into which he retreated he could only see the roofs of the farm which lay to the left. He passed along the side of a steep eminence covered with furze of the species called long-thorn, in blossom. Tlie summit of this height was one of those points of hmd uamed in Brittanny a hure (head). At the foot of the eminence the gaze lost itself among the trees. The foliage seemed bathed in light. All nature was filled with the deep joy of the morning. Suddenly this landscape became terrible. It was like the bursting forth of an ambuscade. An appalling, indescribable trumpeting, made by savage cries and gun- shots, struck upon these fields and these woods filled \vith sunlight, and there could be seen rising from the side toward the farm a great smoke, cut by clear flames, as if the hamlet and the fiu'm buildings were consuming like a truss of burning straw. It was sudden and fearful ; the abrupt change from tranquillity to fury ; an explosion of hell in the midst of dawn ; a horror without transition. There was fighting in the direction of Herbe- en-Pail. The marquis stood still. There is no man in a similar case who would not feel curiosity stronger taan a sense of the peril. One must know what is happening, if one perishes in the attempt. He mounted the eminence along the bottom of which passed the sunken path by w^iiich he had come. From there he could see, but he could also be seen. He 80 NINETY-THREE. remained on the top for some iustants. He looked about. There was, in truth, a fusillade and a conflagration. He could lioar tlic cries, he could see the ihuiies. The farm appeared the centre of some terrible catastrophe. What could it be? Was the iarm of Ilerbe-en-Pail attacked ? But by whom ? Was it a battle ? Was it not rather a military execution ? Very often the Blues punished refractory farms and villages by setting thein on fire. They were ordered to do so by a revolutionary decree ; they burned, for example, every farm-house and hamlet where the tree-cutting prescribed by law had been neglected, or no roads opened among the thickets for the passage of the republican cavalry. Only very lately, the parish of Bourgon, near Ernee, had been thus destroyed. Was Herbe-en-Pail receiving similar treatment? It was evident that none of the strategic routes called for by the decree had been made among the copses and inclosures. Was this the punishment for such neglect ? Had an order been received by the advance-guard occupying the farm ? Did not this troop make part of on i of those exploring divisions called the '• infernttl columns " ? A bristling and savage thicket surrornded on all sides the eminence upon which the marquis had posted him- self for an outlook. This thicket, which was called the grove of Herbe-en-Pail, but which had the proportions of a wood, stretched to the farm and concealed, like all Breton copses, a network of ravines, bypaths, and deep cuttings, labyrinths where the republican armies lost themselves. The execution, if it was an execution, must have been a ferocious one, for it was short. It had been, like all brutal deeds, quickly accomplished. The atrocity of civil wars admits of these savage vagaries. While the marquis, multiplying conjectures, hesitating to descend, hesitating to remain, listened and watched, this crash of extern: na- tion ceased, or, more correctly speaking, vanished. Tiie marquis took note of something in the thicket that was 1 ike the scattering of a wild and joyous troop. A f -ightful rushing about made itself heard beneath the trees. From til ESBB- THE WHIRLIGIGS OF CIVIL WAR. 81 3 looked igration. es. The 1 strophe. 3-en-Pail Was it he Blues iig thein lUtionary uuse and had been ;» for the itely, the estroyed. ' It was or by the iclosures. Had an iving the of those all sides 5ted him- alled the portions like all and deep nies lost ave been like all y of civil marquis, esitating :terR/na- ed. The that was f'ightful 38. From tlie farm the band bad thrown themselves into the wood. Drums beat. So more gun-shots were fired. Now it resembled a battue; they seemed to search, follow, track. They were evidently hunting some person ; the noise was scattered nnd deep ; it was a confusion of words of wrath and triuii i ; of indistinct cries and clamour. Suddenly, as an oul c becomes visible in a cloud of smoke, some- thing is articulated clearly and distinctly amid this tumult ; it was a name — a name repeated by a thousand voices, and the marquis plainly heard this cry : " Lantenac ! Lantenac ! The Marquis de Lantenac ! " It was he whom they were hunting. -•o^ VI. — The Whirligigs of Civil War. Suddenly all about him, from all sides at the same time, the copse filled with muskets, bayonets and sabres, a tri- coloured flag rose in the half-liglit, the cry of " Lantenac !" burst forth in his very ear, and at his feet, behind the brambles and branches, ravage faces appeared. The marquis was alone, standing on a height, visible from every part of the wood. He could scarcely see those who shrieked his name ; but he was seen by all. If a thousand muskets were in the wood, there was he like a target. He could distinguish nothing among the brushwood but burning eyeballs fastened upon him. He took off his hat, turned back the brim, tore a long dry thorn from a furze-bush, drew from his pocket a white cockade, fastened the up-turned brim and the cockade to the hat with the thorn, and putting back on his head the hat, whose lifted edge showed the white cockade, and left his face in full view, he cried in a loud voice ^that rang hke a trumpet through the forest — "I am the man you seek. I am the Marquis de Lantenac, Viscount de Fontenay, Breton prince, lieutenant-general of the armies of the king. Now make an end ! Aim ! Fire ! " And, tearing open G ^Vf. 82 KINETY-THllEE. with both hands his goat-skiu vest, he bared his naked breast. He looked down, expecting to meet levelled guns, and saw himself surrounded by kneeling men. Then a great shout arose. " Long live Lantenac ! Long live Monseigncur I Long live the General ! " At the same time hats were flung into the air, sabf^s whirled joyously, and througli all the thicket could bo seen rising sticks on whose points waved caps of brown woollen. He was surrounded by a Vendean band. This troop had knelt at sight of him. Old legends tell of strange beings that were found in the ancient Thuringian forests — a ruce of giants, more and leas than men, who were regarded by the Komans as horrible monsters, by the Germans as divine incarna- tions, and who, according to the encounter, ran the risk of being exterminated or adored. Tiie marquis felt tiomething of the sentiment which must have shaken one of those creatures when, expecting to be treated like a monster, he suddenly found himseU' worshipped as a god. All those eyes, full of temble lightnings, were fastened on him with a sort of savage love. This crowd was armed with muskets, sabres, scythes, poles, sticks ; they wore great beavers or brown caps, with white cockades, a profusion of rosaries and amulets ; wide breeches open at the knee, jackets of skins, leathern gaiters, the calves of their legs bare, their hair long ; some with a ferocious look, all with an open one. A man, young and of noble mien, passed through the kneeling throng, and hurried toward the marquis. Like the peasants, he wore a turned-up beaver and a white cockade, and was wrapped in a fur jacket ; but his hands were white, and his linen fine, and he wore over his vest a white silk scarf, from whicli hung a gold-hilted sword. When he reached the hure, he threw aside his hat, untied his scarf, bent one knee to the ground, and pre- sented the sword and scarf to the marquis, saying — *'"W"e were indeed seeking you, and we have found THE WHIBLIOIGS OF CIVIL WAB. 83 s naked ma, and a great iigucur ! ', 8abrf?8 ;ould bo )t' brown .d. This foimd in iiore and mans as incarna- L the risk nt which •xpecting I hiniselt' f terrible of savage scythes, vvn caps, amulets ; leathern )nr; some ■oi ugh the IS. Like 1 a white lis hands T his vest d sword, his hat, and pre* ng — x\e found you. Accept the sword of command. These men are yours now. I was their leader; I mount in grade, for I become your soldier. Accept our homage, my lord. General, give me your orders." Then ho made a sign, and tho men who carried a tri- coloured flag moved out of the wood. They marched up to where the marquis stood and laid the banner at his feet. It was the flag which he had just caught sight of through the trees. " General," said tho young man who had presented to him the sword and scarf, '* this is the flag we just took from the Blues, who held the farm of Herbe-en-Pail. Monseigneur, I am named Gavard. I belong to the Marquis de la Eouarie." " It is well," said the marquis. And calm and grave he put on the scarf. Then he drew his sword, and waving it above his head, he cried, " Up ! Long live the king ! " All rose. Through the depths of the wood swelled a wild triumphant clamour : '* Long live the king I Long live our marquis ! Long live Lantenac t " The marquis turned towards Gavard, " How many are you?" " Seven thousand." And as they descended the eminence, while the peasants cleared away the furze-bushes to make a path for the Marquis de Lantenac, Gavard continued : *' Monseigneur, nothing more simple. All can be explained in a word. It only needed a spark. The reward offered by the Republic, in revealing your presence, roused the whole district for the king. Besides that, we had been secretly warned by the mayor of Granville, who is one of our men, the same who saved the Abbe Olivier. Last night they sounded the tocsin." " For whom ? " " For you." " Ah I " said the marquis. " And here we are," pursued Gavard. " And you are seven thousand ? " "To-day. We shall be fifteen thousand to-morrow, G 2 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V r^^o ^ / €<•. '^ 6 W. y A, 1.0 I.I ''' ilM IIIIIM llllitt IlM IlM izo 1.8 1.25 1 1.4 1.6 ■^ 6" ► JW m. ^^ A ^^ vl "^^ *1 ^ /^ //a /•^ d? 7^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 %<'.. 6 c?. jfpf" ■ 4! 84 : NINETY-THREE. It is the Breton contingent. When Monsieur Henri de la Rochejacquelein set out to join the Catholic army, the tocsin was sounded, and in one night six parishes, Isernay, Corqueux, the Echaubroignes, the Aubiers, Saint- Aubin, and JN'ueil, brought him ten thousand men. They had no munitions ; they found in the house of a quarry- master sixty pounds of blasting-powder, and M. de la Eochejacquelein set oif with that. We were certain you must be in some part of this forest, and we were seeking you." " And you attacked the Blues at the farm of Herbe- en-Pail?'" " The wind pre rented, their hearing the tocsin. They suspected nothing ; the people of the hamlet, who are a set of clowns, received them well. This morning we surrounded the farm, the Blues were asleep, and we did the thing out of hand. I have a horse. Will you deign to accept it, general ? " "Yes." A peasant led up a white horse with military capari- sons. The marquis mounted without the assistance Gavard offered him. " Hurrah ! " cried the peasants. The cries of the English were greatly in use along the Bretcn coast, in constant communication as it was with the Channel Islands. Gavard made a military salute, and asked, " Where will you make your headquarters, monseigneur ? " " At first in the Forest of Fougeres." " It is one of your seven forests, my lord marquis." ** We must have a priest." ** We have one." "Who?" " The curate of the Chapelle-Erbree." *' I know him. He has made the voyage to Jersey." A priest stepped out of the ranks, and said, " Three times." The marquis turned his head. " Good morning, Monsieur le cure. Ton have work before you." " So much the better, my lord marquis." " You will have to hear confessions. Those who wish. Nobody will be forced." ,W>P J> THE WHIRLIGIGS OF CIVIL WAE. 85 " My lord marquis," said the priest, " at Gruemen6e, Gaston forces the republicans to confess." " He is a hairdresser," said the marquis ; ** death ought to be free." Gavard, who had gone to give some orders, returned. " General, I wait your commands." "First, the rendezvous in the Forest of Fougeres. Let the men disperse, and make their way there." " The order is given." " Did you not tell me that the people of Herbe-en- Pail had received the Blues well ? " " Yes, general." "You have burnt the house?" "Yes." " Have you burnt the hamlet ? " " No." " Burn it." " The Blues tried to defend themselves, but they were a hundred and fifty, and we were seven thousand." ♦* Who were tliey ? " " Santerre's men." " The one who ordered the drums to beat while the king's head was being cut off. Then it is a regiment of Paris." " A half-regiment." "Its name?" " General, it had on its flag, * Battalion of the Bonnet Eouge.' " "Wild beasts." " What is to be dene with the wounded ? " " Put an end to them." " What shall we do with the prisoners ? " "Shoot them." *' There are about eighty." " Shoot the whole." " There are two women." "Them also." " There are three children." " Carry them off. We will see what shall be done with them." And the marquis rode on. > 1 f i ' » i5KSfri^?v«rfu.^v^-f«ffiv<6««A^llllMaiBl0HttM J J, i^rSj -jEaAfi*"^^"^ 86 NINETY-THEEE. ''■i\ii(if VII. — " No Mercy I " (Watchword of the Commune.) — " No Quarter 1 " (Watchword of the Koyal Party.) While all this was passing near Tanis, the mendicant liad gone toward CroUon. He plunged into the ravines, among the vast silent bowers of shade, inattentive to everything, and attentive to nothing, as he had himself said ; dreamer rather than thinker, for the thoughtful man has an aim, and the dreamer has none ; wandering, rambling, pausing, munching here and there a bunch of wild sorrel ; drinking at the springs, occasionally raising his head to listen to the distant tumult, again falling back into the bewildering fascination of nature, warming his rags in the sun, hearing sometimes the noise of men, but listening to the song of the birds. He was old, and moved slowly ; he could not walk far ; as he bad said to the Marquis de Lantenac, a quarter of a league fatigued him : he made a short circuit to the Croix-Avranchin, and evening had come before he re- turned. A little beyond Macee, the path he was following led to a sort of culminating point, bare of trees, from whence one could see very far, taking in the whole stretch of the western horizon to the sea. A column of smoke attracted his attention. Nothing calmer than smoke, but nothing more startling. There are peaceful smokes, and there are evil ones. The thickness and colour of a line of smoke marks the whole difference between war and peace, between fraternity and hatred, between hospitality and the tomb, between life and death. A smoke mounting among the trees may be a symbol of all that is most charming in the world — a hearth at home ; or a sign of that which is most awful — a conflagration. The whole happiness of man, or his most complete misery, is sometimes expressed in this thin vapour, which the wind scatters at will. The smoke which Tellemarch saw was disquieting. It was black, dashed now and then with sudden gleams of red, as if the brasier from which it flowed burned tak( I app^ thill had ^ Be Tell " NO MERCY I " — " NO QUARTER ! *' 87 irregularly, and had begun to die out ; and it rose above Herbe-en-Pail. Tellemarch quickened his steps, and walked toward this smoke. He was very tired, but he must know what this signified. He reached the summit of a hill, agaiast whose side the hamlet and the farm were nestled. There was no longer either farm or hamlet. A heap of ruins was burning still — it was Herbe-en-Pail. There is something which it is more painful to see burn than a palace — it is a cottage. A cottage on fire is a lamentable sight. It is a devastatiou swooping down on poverty, the vulture pouncing upon the worms of the ground; thei^e is in it a contradiction which chills the heart. If we believe the Biblical legend, the sight of a con- flagration changed a human being into a statue : for a moment Tellemarch seeme-d thus transformed. The spectacle before his eyes held him motionless. Destruc- tion was completing its work amid imbroken silence. Not a cry rose ; not a human sigh mingled with this smoke ; this furnace laboured, and finished devouring the village, without any noise being heard save the creaking of the timbers and the crackling of the thatch. At moments the smoke parted, the fallen roofs revealed the gaping chambers, the brasier showed ail its rubies ; rags turned to scarlet, and miserable bits of furniture, tinted with purple, gleamed .\mid these vermilion interiors, and Tellemarch was dizzied by the sinister bedazzlement of disaster. Some trees of a chestnut grove near the houses had taken fire, and were blazing. He listened, trying to catch the sound of a voice, an appeal, a cry ; nothing stirred except the flames ; every- thing was silent, save the conflagration. Was it that all had fled? Where was the knot of people who lived and toiled at Herbe-en-Pail ? What had become of this little band ? Tellemarch descended the hill. 88 NINETY-THEEE. m r 'ti till i !;fi A funereal enigma rose before him. He approached without haste, with fixed eyes. He advanced towards this ruin with the slowness of a shadow ; he felt like a ghost in this tomb. He rcched what had been the door of the farm-house, and looked into the court, which had no longer any walls, and was confounded with the hamlet grouped about it. What he had before seen was nothing. He had hitherto only caught sight of the terribJe ; the horrible appeared to him now. In the middle of the court was a black heap, vaguely outlined on one side by the flames, on the other by the moonlight. This heap was a mass of men ; these men were dead. All about this human mound spread a great pool, which smoked a little ; the flames were reflected in this pool, but it had no need of fire to redden it — it was blood. Tellemarch went closer. He began to examine these prostrate bodies one after another: they were all dead men. The moon shone ; the conflagration also. These corpses were the bodies of soldiers. All had their feet bare ; their shoes had been taken ; their weapons were gone also ; they still wore their uniforms, which were blue ; here and thevf* he could distinguish among these heaped-up limbs and heads shot-riddled hats with tricoloured cockades. They were republicans. They were those Parisians who on the previous evening had been there, all living, keeping garrison at the farm of Herbe-en-Pail. These men had been executed ; this was shown by the symmetrical position of the bodies ; they had been struck down in order, and with care. They were all quite dead. Not a single death-gasp sounded from the mass. Tellemarch passed the corpses in review without omit- ting one ; they were all riddled with balls. Those who had shot them, in haste probably to get elsewhere, had not taken the time to bury them. As he was preparing to move away, his eyes fell on a " NO MERCY 1 " — " NO QUARTER I " 89 low wall in the court, and be saw four feet protruding from one of its angles. They had shoes on them ; they were smaller than the others. Tellemarch went up to this spot. Tliey were women's feet. Two women were lying side by side behind the wail ; they also had been shot. Tellemarch stooped over them. One of the women wore a sort of uniform ; by her side was a canteen, bruised and empty ; she had been vivandiere. She had four balls in her head. She was dead. Tellemarch examined the other. This was a peasant. She was livid ; her mouth open. Her eyes were closed. Tliere was no wound in her head. Her garments, which long marches, no doubt, had worn to rags, were dis- arranged by her fall, leaving her bosom lialf naked. Tellemarch pushed her dress aside, and saw on one shoulder the round wound which a ball makes ; the shoulder-blade was broken. He looked at her livid breast. " Nursing mother," he murmured. He touched her. She was not cold. She had no hurts beside the broken shoulder-blade and the wound in the shoulder. He put his hand on her heart, and felt a faint throb. She was not dead. Tellemarch raised himself, and cried out in a terrible voice : " Is there no one here ? " " Is it you, Caimand i' " a voice replied, so low that it could scarcely be heard. At the same time a head was thrust out of a hole in the ruin. Then another face appeared at another aperture. They were two peasants, who had hidden themselves ; the only ones that survived. The well-knowai voice of the Caimand had reassured them, and brought them out of the holes in which they had taken refuge. They advanced towards the old man, both still trembling violently. Tellemarch had been able to cry out, but he could not talk ; strong emotions produce such effects. He pointed out to them with his finger the woman stretched at his feet. liiiMiiiiMiM 90 NINETY-THREE. ti " Is there still life in her ? " asked one of the peasants. Tellemarch gave an aflfirmative nod of the head. " Is the other woman living ? " demanded the second man. Tellemarch shook his head. The peasant who had first shown himself continued, "All the others are dead, are they not? I saw the whole. I was in my cellar. How one thanks God at such a moment for not having a family ! My house burned. Blessed Saviour ! They killed , /erybody. This woman here had three children — all little. The chil- dren cried — 'Mother ! ' The mother cried — ' My children ! ' Those who massacred everybody are gone. They were satisfied. They carried off the little ones, and shot the mother. I saw it all. But she is not dead, didn't yon say so ? She is not dead ? Tell us, Caimand, do you think you could save her ? Do you want us to help carry her to your carnichot ? " Tellemarch made a sign, which signified " Yes." The wood was close to the farm. They quickly made a litter with branches and ferns. They laid the woman, still motionless, upon it, and set out towards the copse, the two peasants carrying the litter, one at the head, the other at the feet, Tellemarch holding the woman's arm, and feeling her pulse. As they walked, the two peasants talked ; and over the body of the bleeding woman, whose white face was lighted up by the moon, they exchanged frightened ejaculations. " to kill all 1 " " To burn everything ! " , " Ah, my God ! Is that the way things will go now ? " " It was that tall old man who ordered it to be done." *' Tes ; it was he who commanded." " I did not see while the shooting went on. "Was he there ? " " No. He had gone. But no matter ; it was all done by his orders." " Then it was he who did the whole." " He had said, ' ICill ! burn ! no quarter ! ' " laiiHfilliiii " NO MEUOY 1 " — " NO QUAUTEH." 91 " He is a marquis." " Of course, since he is our marquis." " How is it thev call him now ? " " He is the lore} of Lantenac." Tellcmarch raised his eyes to heaven, and murmured : " If I liad known ! " y^^ Hi' PART THE SECOND. IN I'AMS. Ill Peop the (I made andtl were musk their was, gmile( did at play-l " the Flami Bang] " The Tlu thatt Every myste of Me every nounc playir leisuri cocka AllP, were ( 05 ) PART THE SECOND. IN PARIS. -•o^ BOOK THE FIRST. CIMOVRDAIN. -•o*- I. — TfHE Stbeets of Paris at that Time. People lived in public ; they ate at tables spread outside the doors ; women seated on the steps of the churches made lint as they sang the Marseillaise. Park Monceaux and the Luxembourg Gardens were parade-grounds. There were gunsmiths' shops in full work ; they manufactured muskets before the eyes of the passers-by, who clapped their hands in applause. The watchword on every lip was, ^^ Patience ; we are in Bevolution.** The people smiled heroically. They went to the theatre as they did at Athens during the Peloponnesian war. One saw play-bills such as these pasted at the street corners : — " The Siege of Thionville ; " " A Mother saved from the Flames;" ''The Club of the Careless;'' ''The Eldest Daughter of Pope Joan ; " " The Philosopher-Soldiers ; " " The Art of Village Love-making." The Germans were at the gates ; a report was current that the King of Prussia had secured boxes at the Opera. Everything was terrible, and no one was frightened. The mysterious law against the suspected, which was the crime of Merlin of Douai, held a vision of the guillotine above every head. A solicitor named Leran, who had been de- nounced, awaited his arrest in dressing-gown and slippers, playing his flute at his window. Nobody seemed to hav^ leisure : all the world was in a hurry. Every hat bore u. cockade. The women said, " We are pretty in red caps." All Paris seemed to be removing. The curiosity shops were crowded with crowns, mitreSj sceptres of gilded nriniiinllMHuiriili fan ■'■',' V ni>''W ff*"'3BO 'W y 96 NINETY-THREE. fn wood, and fleurs-de-lys — torn down from royal dwelliugs : it was the demolition of monarchy that went on. Copes were to be seen for sale at the old clothe^men's, and rochets Lang on hooks at their doors. At Ramponneau's and the Poncherons, men dressed out in surplices and stoles, and mounted on donkeys caparisoned with chasu- bles, drank wine at the doors from cathedral ciboriums. In the Rue Saint Jacques, bare-footed street-pavers stopped the wheelbarrow of a pedlar who had boots for sale, and clubbed together to buy flfleeu pairs of shoes, which they sent to the Convention " for our soldiers." Busts of Franklin, Rousseau, Brutus, and, we must add, of Marat, abounded. Under a bust of Marat in the Rue Cloche-Perce was hung in a black wooden frame, and under glass, an address against Malouet, witli testimony in support of the charges, and these marginal lines : — " These details were furnishe.i me by the mistress of Silvain Bailly, a good patriotess, who had a liking for me. " (Signed) Makat." ' The inscription on the Palais Royal fountain — " Quantos effundit in usus!^' was hidden under two great canvasses painted in distemper, the one representing Cahier de Gerville denouncing to the National Assembly the rallying cry of the " Chiifonistes " of Aries ; the ether, Louis XVI. brought back from Varennes in his royal carriage, and under the carriage a plank fastened by cords, on each end of which was seated a grenadier with fixed bayonet. Very few of the Iprger shops were open ; peripatetic haberdashery and toy-shops were dragged about by women, lighted by candles' which dropped their tallow on the merchandise. Open air shops were kept by ex-nuns, in blonde wigs. This mender, darning stockings in a stall, was a countess ; that dressmaker a marchioness. Madame de Boufflers inhabited a garret, from whence she could look out at her own hotel. Hawkers ran about offering the " papers of news." Persons who wore cravats that hid their chins were called " the scrofulous." Street-singers THE STREETS OF PAllIS AT THAT TIME. 97 swnrnicd. The crowd hooted Pitou,the royalist song-writer, and a valiant man into the bargain ; he was twenty-two times imprisoned and taken before the revolutionary tri- bunal for slapping his coat-tails as he pronounced the word civism. Seeing that his liead was in danger, he ex- claimed, " But ifc is just the opposite of my head that is iu fault !" — a witticism which made the judges laugh, and saved his life. This Pitcu ridiculed the rage for Greek and Latin names ; his favourite song was about a cobbler, whom he called Ciijus, and to whom he gave a wife named Cujusdam. They danced the Carmagnole in great circles. They no longer said gentleman and lady, but citizen and citizeness. They danced in the ruined cloisters with the church-lamps lighted on the altars, with cross-shaped chandeliers hanging from the vaulted roofs, and tombs beneatli tiieir feet. Blue "tyrant's waistcoats" were worn. There were liberty-cap shirt-pins made of white, blue, and red stones. The B/ue de E-ichelieu was called the Street of Law ; the Faubourg Saint- Antoine was named the Faubourg of Glory ; a statue of Nr.ture stood in the PL.ce de la Bastille. People pointed out to one another certain well-known personages — Chatelet, Didier, Nicholas and Garnier Delaunay, who stood guard at the door of Duplay the joiner', Voulland, who never missed a guillo- tine-day, and followed tlie carts of the condemned — he called it going to " the red mass ;" Montflabert, revolu- tionary juryman ; and a marquis, who took the name of JJix Aout (Tenth of August). People watched the pupils of the Ecole Militaire file past, qualified by the decrees of the Convention as " as- pirants in the school of Mars," and by the crowd as " the })agea of Eobespierre." They read the proclamations of Freron denouncing those suspected of the crime of "negotiantism." Young scamps collected at the doors of the mayoralties to mock at the civil niarriages, thronging about the brides and grooms as they passed, and shouting "Municipal marriages!" At the Invalides, the statues of the saints and kings were crowned with Phrygian caps. They played cards on the kerb-stones at the crossings. The packs of cards were also in the full tide of revolution : the mM i^ggygr. 98 NINETY-THREE. j •■' .If "■m i Hii m kings were replaced by genii ; the queens by tbe goddess of Liberty ; the knaves by figures representing Equality, and the aces by impersonations of Law. They tilled the public gardens ; the plough worked at the Tuileries. AVith all these excesses was mingled, especially among the conquered parties, an indescribable haughty weari- ness of life. A man wrote to Fouquier-Tinville, *■'• Ham the goodness to free me from existence. TJiis is my address.'^ Champanetz was arrested for having cried in the midst of the Palais Royal garden, " When are we to have the revolution of Turkey ? I want to see the republic a la Porte" Newspapers appeared in legions. The hairdressers' men curled the wigs of women in public, while the master read the Moniteur aloud Others, surrounded by eager groups, commented with violent gestures upon the journal Listen to Us of Dubois Crance, or the Trumpet of Fatiier Bellerose. Sometimes the barbers were pork-sellers as well, and hams and chitterlings might be seen hanging side by side with a golden- haired doll. Dealers sold in the open street the wines of the refugees ; one merchant advertised wines of fi^fty- two sorts. Others displayed har[)-shaped clocks and sofas " a la duchesse." One hairdresser had for sign, " I shave the Clergy ; I comb the Nobility ; I arrange the Third Estate." People went to have their fortunes told by Martin, at No. 173 in the Eue d'Anjou, formerly Rue Dauphine. There was a lack of bread, of coals, of soap. Elocks of milch- cows might be seen coming in from the country. At the Vallee, lamb sold for fifteen fraucs the pound. An order of the Commune assigned a pound of meat per head every ten days. People stood in rank at the doors of the butchers' shoj)s. One of these files had remained famous; it reached from a grocer's shop in the Rue du Petit Caneau to the middle of the Rue Montorgueil. To form a line was called " holding the cord," from a long rope which was held in the hands of those standing in the row. Amid this wretchedness, the women were brave and mild : i. mmm^ THE STREETS OF PARIS AT THAT TIME. 99 )ddes8 iiality, ed the leries. among weari- •' Have 'dress.'' midst Lve the lie a li' ressers' ile the ided by s upon or the barbers terlings golden- wines Df fifty- 3ks and )r sign, arrange they passed entire nights awaiting their turn to get into the bakers' shops. The Revolution resorted to expedients which were successful ; she alleviated this wide-spread distress by two perilous means — the assignat and the maximum. The assignat was the lever, the maximum was the fulcrum. This empiricism saved France. The enemy, whether of Coblenz or London, gambled in assignats. Girls came and went, offering lavender- water, garters, false hair, and selling stocks. There were jobbers on the steps of the Rue Yivienne, with muddy shoes, greasy hair, and fur caps decorated with fox-tails ; and there were waifs from " the cesspool of Agio in tiie Eue Valois," with varnished boots, toothpicks in their mouths, and smooth hats on their heads, to whom the girls said, " thee and thou." Later, the people gave chase to them as they did to the thieves whom the royalists styled " active citizens." For the time, theft was rare. There reigned a terrible destitution and a stoical probity. Tlie barefooted and the starving passed with lowered eyelids before the jewellers' shops of Palais Egalite. During a domiciliary visit that the Section Antoine made to the house of Beaumarchais, a woman. picked a flowei' in the garden ; the crowd boxed her ears. Wood cost four hundred francs in coin per cord ; people could be seen in the streets sawing up their bedsteads. In the winter the fountains were frozen ; two pails of water cost twenty sous : every man made himself a water-carrier. A gold louis was worth three thousand nine hundred and fifty francs. A course in a hackney- coach cost six hundred francs. After a day's use of a carriage this sort of dialogue might be heard : "Coach- man, how much do I owe you ? " " Six thousand francs." A greengrocer woman sold twenty thousand francs' worth of vegetables a day. A beggar said, " Help me, in tlie name of charity ! I lack two hundred and thirty francs to finish paying for my shoes." At the ends of the bridges might be seen colossal figures sculptured and painted by David, which Mercier insulted. " Enormous wooden Punches ! " said he. The H 2 ''I'-jaLKJlUU!, -,rat!iaiaitei»^«.^aa 1 * > , i| ii^^i ■ 100 NIKETY-THREE. gigantic shapes syml)olised Fedemlism and Coalitiou overturned. There was no faltering among this people. Tliere was the sombre joy of having made an end of thrones. Volunteers abounded ; each street furnished a battalion. Tlie flags of the districts came and went, every one with its device. On the banner of the Capucliin district could be read, " Nobody can cut our beards." On anotiier, " No other nobility than that of the heart." On all the walls were placards, large and small, white, yellow, green, red, printed and written, on which might be read this motto, "Long live the republic!" The little children lisped " ga ira." These children were in themselves the great future. Later, to the tragical city succeeded the cynical city. Tlie streets of Paris have oiFered two revolutionary aspects entirely distinct — that before and that after the 9th Thermidor. The Paris of Saint Just gave place to the Paris of Tallien. Such antitheses are perpetual; after Sinai, the Courtille appeared. A season of public madness made its appearance. It had already been yeen eighty years before. The peo{)le came out from under Louis XIV. as tb<^y did from under Eobespierre, with a great :.^eed to breathe ; hence the regency which opened that century and the directory which closed it. Two. saturnalia after two terrorisms. Prance snatched the wicket-key and got beyond the Puritan cloister just as it did beyond that of monarchy, w4th the joy of a nation that escapes, After the 9th Thermidor Paris was gay ; but with an insane gaiety. An unhealthy joy overflowed all bounds. To the frenzy for dying succeeded the frenzy for living, and . grandeur eclipsed itself. They had a Trimalciou, calling himself Grimod de la Eegniere ; there was the *Almanac of the Gourmands.' People dined in the entresols of the Palais Boyal to the din of orchestras of women beating drums and blowing trumpets ; the " rigadooner" reigned, bow in hand. People supped Oriental fashion at Meot's surrounded by perfumes. The artist Boze painted his daughters, innocent and charming heads of six- iM&^&, mF THE STREETS OF PARIS AT THAT TIME. 101 th an )ouiids. living, aloiou, as the tresols teen, en guillotinees ; that is to say, with bare necks and red shifts. To the wild dances in the ruined churches succeeded the balls of Ruggieri, of Luquet, Wenzel, Mauduit, and the Montansier; to grave citizenesses making lint suc- ceeded sultanas, savages, nymphs ; to tlie naked feet of the soldiers covered with blood, dust and mud suc- ceeded barefooted women decorated with diamonds ; at the same time, with shamelessness, improbity reappeared; and it had its purveyors in high ranks, and their imi- tators among the class below. A swarm of sharpers filled Paris, and every man was forced to guard well liis " /«c," -that is, his pocket-book. One of the amusements of the day was to go to the Palace of Justice to see the female thieves ; it was necessary to tie fast their petti- coats. At the doors of the theatres the street boys opened cab doors, saying, " Citizen and citizeness, there is room for two." The Old Cordelier and tbe Friend of the People were no longer published. In their ])lace were cried Puncli's Letter and tlie Rogues' Petition. The Marquis de Sade presided at the section of the Pikes, Place Vendome. The reaction was jovial and ferocious. The Dragons of Liberty of '92 were reborn under the name of the Clievaliers of the Dagger. At the same time there appeared in the bootiis that type, Jocrisse. There were " the Wonders," and in advance of these feminine marvels came " the Inconceivables." People swore by strange and outlandish oaths ; they jumped back from Mirabeau to Bobeche. Thus it is that Paris, sways back and forth ; it is the enormous pendulum of civilisation ; it touches either pole in turn, Thermopylae and Gomorrali. After '03 the Eevolution traversed a singular occul- tation ; the century seemed to forget to finish that which it had commenced ; a strange orgie interposed itself, took tlie foreground, swept backward to the second awful Apocalypse ; veiled the iruuieasurable vision and laughed aloud after its fright. Tragedy disappeared in parody, and rising darkly from the bottom of the horizon a smoke of carnival effaced Medusa. But in '93, where we are, the streets of Paris still wore 102 NINETY-THREE. the grandiose and savage aspect of the beginning. They Imd their orators, such as Varlet, who promenaded in a booth on wheels, from the top of which he harangued the passers-by ; they had their heroes, of whom one was called the " Captain of the iron-pointed sticks ; " their favourites, among whom ranked Gouftroy, the author of the pamplilet Bovgiff. Certain of these popularities were mischievous, others had a healthy tone ; one amongst them all, honest and fatal — it was that of Cimourdain. m m ! I II. — CimourDain. CiMOTJRDAiN had a conscience pure, but sombre. There was something of the absolute within him. He had been a priest, which is a grave matter. A man may, like tlie sky, possess a serenity which is dark and unfathomable ; it only needs that sometning should have made night within his soul. Tlie priesthood had made night in that of Cimourdain. He who has been a priest remains one. What makes night within a man may leave stars. Cimourdain was full of virtues and verities, but they shone among shadows. His history is easily written. He had been a village curate and tutor in a great family; then he inherited a small legacy and gained his freedom. He was above all an obstinate man. He made use of meditation as one does of pincers ; he did not think it i^ight to quit an idea until he had followed it to the end ; he thought stubbornly. He understood all the European languages, and something of others besides; this man studied incessantly, which aided him to bear the burden of celibacy ; but nothing can be more dangerous than such a life of repression. He had from pride, chance, or loftiness of soul, been true to his vows, but he had not been able to guard his belief. Science had demolished faith ; dogma had fainted within him. Then, as he examined himself, he felt that his soul was CIMOURDAIN. 103 mutilated ; be could not nullify his priestly oath, but tried to remake himself man, though in an austere fashion. His family had been taken from him ; he adopted his country. A wife had been refused him ; he espoused humanity. Such vast plenitude has a void at bottom. His peasant parents, in devoting him to the priesthood, had desired to elevate him above the common people ; he voluntarily returned among them. He went back with a passionate energy. He regarded the suffering with a terrible tenderness. From priest he had become philosopher, and from philosopher, athlete. While Louis XV. still lived, Cimourdain felt himself vaguely republican. But belonging to what republic? To that of Plato perhaps, and perhaps also to the re- public of Draco. Forbidden to love, he sp^t himself to hate. He hated lies, monarchy, theocracy, his garb of priest ; be hated the present, and he called aloud to the future ; he had a presentiuient of it, he caught glimpses of it in advance ; he pictured it awful and magnificent. In his view, to end the lamentable wretchedness of humanity required at once an avenger and a liberator. He worshipped the catastrophe afar off. In 1789 this catastrophe arrived and found him ready. Cimourdain flung himself into this vast plan of human regeneration on logical grounds — that is to say, for a mind of his mould, inexorably ; logic knows no softening. He lived among the great revolutionary years and felt the shock of their mighty breaths ; '89, the fall of the Bastille, the end of the torture of the people ; on the 4th of August, '90, the end of feudalism ; '91, Varennes, the end of royalty ; '92, the birth of the Eepublic. He saw the revolution loom into life : he was not a man to be afraid of that giant ; far from it. This sudden growth in everything had revivified him, anu though already nearly old — he was fifty, and a priest ages faster than another man — he began himself to grow also. From year to year he saw events gain in grandeur, and he increased with them. He had at first feared that the revolution would prove abortive ; he watched it ; ^jm^tmt' 104 NINETY-THREE. fl J gi- lt had reason and riglit on its side, he demanded success lor it lil^ewise ; in proportion to tlie fear it caused the timid, his confidence grew strong. He desired that this Minerva, crowneii with the stars of the future, should be Pallas also, witli the Gorgon's head for buckler. He demanded that her divine glance sliould be able at need to fling back to the demons tlieir infernal glare and give them terror for terror. Thus he reached '93. '93 was the war of Europe against France and of Prance againsi; Paris. And what was the revolution? It was the victory of France over Europe, and of Paris over France. Hence the immensity of that terrible moment, '93, grander than all the rest of the century. Nothing could be more tragic : Europe attacking France and France attacking Paris ! A drama which reaches the stature of an epic. '93 is a year of intensity. Tiie tempest is there in all its wrath and all its grandeur. Cimourdain felt himself at home. This distracted centre, terrible and splendid, suited the span of his wings. Like the sea-eagle amid the tempest, this man preserved his internal composure and enjoyed the danger. Certain winged natures, savage yet calm, are made to battle the winds — souls of the tempest : such exist. He had put pity aside, reserving it only for the wretched. He devoted himself to those sorts of sufter- ing which cause horror. Nothing was repugnant to him. Tliat was his kiud of goodness. He was divine in his readiness to succour what was loathsome. He searched for ulcers in order that he might kiss them. Noble actions w^ith a revolting exterior are the most difficult to undertake ; he preferred such. One day at the Hotel Hieu a man was dying, suffocated by a tumour in the throat — a foetid, frightful abscess — contagious perhaps, which iiust be at once opened. Cimourdain was there ; he put iiis lips to the tumour, sucked it, spitting it out as his motjth filled, and so emptied the abscess and saved the man. As be still wore his priest's dress at the time, some one said to him, "If vou were to do that for the king, you would be made a bishop." " I would not do it for p OIMOURDAIN. 105 for the king," Cimourdain replied. The act and the response rendered him popular in the sombre quarters of Paris. They gave him so great a popularity that he could do wliat he liked with those who suifered, wept, and threat- ened. At the period of the public wrath against mono- polists, a wrath which was prolific in mistakes, Cimourdain bv a word prevented the pillage of a boat loaded with soup at the quay Saint Nicholas, and dispersed the furious bands who were stopping the carriages at tlie barrier of Saint Lazare. It was he who, two days after the 10th of August, lieaded the people to overthrow tlie statues of the kings. They slaughtered as they fell ; in the Place Vendome, a woman called Reine Violet was crushed by the statue of Louis XIV., about whose neck she had put a cord, which she was pulling. This statue of Louis XIV. had been standing a hundred years; it was erected the 12th of Ausrust, 1G92, it was overthrown the 12th oi August, 1792. In tiie Place de la Concorde, a certain Guin- guerlot was butchered on the pedestal of Louis XV. 's statue for having called the demolishers scoundrels. The statue was broken in pieces. Later, it was melted to coin, into sous. The arm alone escaped ; it was the right arm, which was extended with the gesture of a Roman em- peror. At Cimourdain's request the people sent a depu- tation with this arm to Latude, the man who had been thirty-seven years buried in the Bastille. When Latude was rotting alive, the collar on his neck, the chain about his loins, in the bottom of thit prison where he had been cast by the order of that king whose statue overlooked Paris, who could have prophesied to him that this prison would fall — this statue would be destroyed ? that he would emerge from the sepulchre and monarchy enter it ? that he, the prisoner, would be the master of this hand of bronze which had signed his warrant; and that of this kiug of Mud there would remain only his brazen arm ? Cimourdain was one of those men who have an interior voice to which they listen. Such men seem absent- winded ; no, they are attentive. 106 NINETY-THREE. Cimourtlain was at once learned and ignorant. He understood all science and was ignorant of everything in regard to lite. Hence his severity. He Imd his eyes bandaged, like the Themis of Homer. He had the blind certainty of the r.rrow, which, seeing not the goal, yet goes straight to it. In a revolution there is nothing so formidable as a straight line. Cimourdaiu went straight before him, fatal, unwavering. He believed that in a social Genesis the farthest point is the solid ground, an error peculiar to minds wiiich replace reason by logic. He went beyond the Conven- tion ; he went beyond the Commune ; he belonged to tlie Eveche. The Society called the Eveeh^, because its meeungs were held in a hall of the former episcopal palace, was rather a complication of men than a union. There assisted, as at the Commune, those silent but significant dpectatora who, as Garat said, " had as many pistols as pockets." The Eveche was a strange mixture ; a crowd at once cosmopolitan and Parisian. This is no contradiction, for Paris is the spot where beats the heart of the peoples. The great plebeian incandescence was at the Eveche. In comparison to it, the Convention was cold and the Com- mune lukewarm. The Eveche was one of those revo- lutionary formations similar to volcanic ones ; it contained everything, ignorance, stupidity, probity, heroism, choler, the police. Brunswick had agents there. It numbered men worthy of Sparta, and men who deserved the galleys. The greater part were mad and honest. The Gironde had pronounced by the mouth of Isnard, temporary president of the Convention, this monstrous warning : — " Take care, Parisians ! There will not remain one stone upon another of your city, and the day will come when the place wiiere Paris stood shall be searched for." This speech created the Eveche. Certain men — and, as we have just said, they were men of all nations — felt the need of gathering themselves close about Paris. Cimour- dain joined this club. The society contained reactionists. It was born out wm "^\^, "P'y' r CIMOURDAIN. 107 He H of that public necessity for violehce whicli is the formid- able and inysteriona side of revolutions. Strong]; with this strengtli, the Eveelie at once began its work. In the coinmotions of Paris it was the Commune that fired the cannon ; it was the Eveche that sounded the tocsin. In his implacable ingenuousness, Cimourdain believed that cverytliing in the service of truth is justice, which rendered liini fit to dominate the extremists on either side. Scoundrels felt that lie was honest and were satisfied. Crime is flattered by having virtue to preside over it. It is at once troublesome and pleasant. Palloy, the ar- chitect who had turned to account the demolition of the Bastille, selling its stones to his own profit, and who, aj)pointed to whitewash the cell of T^ouia XVJ., in his zeal covered the wall with bars, chains, and iron rings ; Gouchon, the suspected orator of the Faubourg Saint Antoine, whose quittances were afterwards found ; Four- iiier, the American, who on the 17th of July fired at Lafayette a pistol-shot, paid for, it was said, by Lafayette himself; Henriot, who had come out of- Bicetre, and who had been valet, mountebank, robber, and spy, before being a general and turning the guns on the Conven- tion; La Eegnie, formerly grand-vicar of Chartres, who had replaced his breviary by The Pere Duchesne; — all tliese men were held in respect by Cimourdain, and at certain moments, to keep the worst of them from stumbling, it was sufBcient to feel his redoubtable and beheving candour as a judgment before them. It was thus that Saint-Just terrified Schneider. At the same time, the majority of the Eveche, composed principally as it was of poor and violent men who were honest, believed in Cimourdain and followed him. He had for curate or aide-de-camp, as you please, that other republican priest, Danjou, whom the people loved on account of his height, and had christened Abbe Six-Foot. Cimourdain could have led where he would that intrepid chief called General la Pique, and that bold Truchon named the Great Nicholas, who had tried to save Madame de Lamballe, and had given her his arm, and made her spring over the corpses ; an attempt which would have succeeded. 4 II 108 NINETY-THREE. liacl it not been for the ferocious pleaauiitry of tlie barber Cliarlot. The Commune watclied the Convention ; the Eveclio watched the Commune. Cimourduin, naturally upri^iit and detestinj^ intriguo, had broken more than one mys- terious thread in the hand of Pache, who?n Bour- nonville called " the black man." Cimourdain at the Evocho was on confidential terms with all. He was con- sulted by Dotsent and Mormoro. He spoke Spanish with Gusman, Italian with Pio, English with Arthur, Flemish with Poreyra, German with the Austrian Proby, the bastard of a prince. He cronted a harmony betweea these discordances. Hence his position was obscure and strong. Hebert feared him. In tliese times and among these tragic groups, Cimour- dain possessed the power of the inexorable. He was an impeccable, who believed himself infallible. No person had ever seen him weep. He was Virtue inaccessible and glacial. He was the terrible offspring of Justice. There is no halfway possible to a priest in a revo- lution. A priest can only give himself up to this wild and prodigious chance either from the highest or the lowest motive ; he must be infamous or he must be sublime. Cimourdain was sublime, but in isolation, in rugged inaccessibility, in inhospitable secretiveness ; sublime amid a circle of precipices. Lofty mountains possess this sinister freshness. Cimourdain had the appearance of an ordinary man ; dressed in every-day garments, poor in aspect. AVhen young, he had been tonsured ; as an old man he was bald. What little hair he had left was grey. His fore- head was broad, and to the acute observer it revealed his character. Cimourdain had an abrupt way of speak- ing, which was passionate and solemn; his voice was quick, his accent peremptory; his mouth bitter and sad; his eye clear and profound; and over his whole counte- nance an indescribable indignant expression. Such was Cimourdain. No one to-day knows his name. History has many of these great Unknown. MiiiiiHiiiliilikilii A rAKT NOT DIlTIiD IN BTYX. 109 III. — A Part not dipped in Styx. Was Hiicli a man indeed a man ? Could tlio servant of the Imnuin race know fondness? Was lie not too entirely !i soul to possess a heart? This wide-spread embrace, which included everythin