IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
1.0
I.I
IIIM
lllliM
'|ll!3^
II 2.2
1 2.0
1.8
1.25 1.4
1.6
^ 6"
>■
v:
<^
/}
^;.
o
e).
e.
C/A
'<3
/
o
7
/A
Photographic
Sciences
Corporation
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580
(716) 872-4503
%s'.
X?
1^ MP.
CIHM/ICMH
Microfiche
Series.
CIHM/ICMH
Collection de
microfiches.
Canadian 'nstitute for Historical Microreproductions Institut canadien de microreproductions historiques
1980
Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques
The Institute has attempted to obtain the best
original copy available for filming. Features of this
copy which may be bibliographically unique,
which may alter any of the images in the
reproduction, or which may significantly change
the usual method of filming, are checked below.
L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire
qu'il lui a 6X6 possible de se procurer. Les details
de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques ou
point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier
une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une
modirication dans la m6thode normale de filmage
sont indiqu^s ci-dessous.
□
Coloured covers/
Couverture de couleur
□ Coloured pages/
Pages de couleur
D
Covers damaged/
Couverture endommagde
□ Pages damaged/
Pages endonimag^es
D
Covers restored and/or laminated/
Couverture restaurde et/ou pellicul6e
□ Pages restored and/or laminated/
Pages restaurdes et/ou peMiculdes
D
Cover title missing/
Le titre de couverture manque
I l/Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/
LkJ Pages d^color^es, tachet^es ou piqu6es
□
Coloured maps/
Cartes gdographiques en couleur
□Pages detached/
Pages d^tach^es
□
Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/
Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire)
I l/Showthrough/
I \J[ Transparence
D
Coloured plates and/or illustrations/
Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur
□ Quality of print varies/
Qualit^ in^gale de I'impression
D
Bound with other material/
Reli6 avec d'autres documents
□ Includes supplementary material/
Comprend du rr.at^riel supplementaire
Q
Tight binding n^.ay cause shadows or distortion
^'' along interior margin/
La reliure serree peut causer de I'ombre ou de la
distortion le long de la marge intdrieure
□
Blank leaves added during restoration may
appear w'thin the text. Whenever possible, these
have been omitted from filming/
II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajout6es
lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte,
mais, lorsque cela dtait possible, ces pages n'ont
pas 6t6 film6es.
□ Only edition available/
Seule Edition disponible
D
Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata
slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to
ensure the best possible image/
Les pages totalement ou partiellement
obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure,
etc., ont 6t6 filmdes d nouveau de fagon d
obtenir la meilleure image possible.
D
Additional comments:/
Commentaires suppl6mentaires:
This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/
Ce document est film^ au taux de reduction indiqu6 ci-dessous.
10X
14X
18X
22X
26X
30X
^
12X
16X
20X
24X
28X
32X
The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanks
to the generosity of:
National Library of Canada
L'exemplaire film6 fut reproduit grdce d la
gdn^rositd de:
Bibliothdque nationale du Canada
The images appearing here are the best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keeping with the
filming contract specifications.
Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed
beginning with the front cover and ending on
the last page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, or the back cover when aporopriate. All
other original copies are filmed beginning on the
first page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, and ending on the last page with a printed
or illustrated impression.
The last recorded frame on each microfiche
shall contain the symbol — ► (meaning "CON-
TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"),
whichever applies.
Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at
different reduction ratios. Those too large to be
entirely included in one exposure are filmed
beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to
right and top to bottom, as many frames as
required. The following diagrams illustrate the
method:
Les images suivantes ont 6td reproduites avec le
plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et
de la nettetd de l'exemplaire filmd, et en
conformity avec les conditions du contrat de
filmage.
Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en
papier est imprimde sont film6s en commengant
par le premier plat ex en terminant soit par la
dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second
plat, selon le cas. 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</K'>,"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<i; and everybody, could it narrow
ilvst'lfdown to one? Could Cimourdain love? We answer
-Yes.
\\ hen young, and tutor in an almost princely family,
he had had a pupil whom ho loved — the son and lieir of '
the house. It is so easy to love a child. What can one
not pardon a child? One forgives him for being a lord,
a prince, a king. The innocence of his age makes one
forget the crime of race ; the feebleness of the creature
causes one to overlook the exaggeration of rank. lie is
so little that one forgives him for being great. The slave
forgives him for being his master. The old negro idolises
the white luirsling. Cimourdain had conceived a passion
for his pu])il. Childhood is so ineffable that one may
unite all affections ujjon it. Cimourdain's whole power
of loving prostrated itself, so to speak, before this boy ;
that sweet, innocent being became a sort of prey for that
lieart condemned to solitude, lie loved vith a mingling
of all tendernesses ; as i'ather, as brother, as friend, as
maker. The child was his son, not of his flesh, but of
his mind. He was not the father, and this was not his
work; but he was the master, and this his masterpiece.
Of this little lord he had made a man. Who knows ?
Perhaps a great man. Such are dreams. Has one need
oftlie permission of a family to create an intelligence, a
will, an upright character? He had comm.unicated to
the young viscount, his scholar, all the advanced ideas
which he held himself; he had inoculated him with the
redoubtable virus of his virtue ; he had infused into his
veins his own convictions, his own conscience and ideal ;
into this brain of an arisiocrat he bad poured the soul of
the people. *
The spirit suckles ; the intelligence is a breast. There
is an analogy between the nurse who gives her milk and
M
i
'■;
!
i
1
- '--
■
^^^^"^^
i
iiiiiiliiii
"'(r
110
NINEi'Y-THREE.
Ill:
ir-
the preceptor who gives his thought. Sometiir.es the
tutor is more father tliiiu is the fatiier, just as often the
nurse is more niotlier tlian the mother.
This deep spiritual paternity bound Cimcurdain to his
pupil. The very sight of the child softened him.
Let us add this : to replace the father was easy ; the
boy no longer had one. He was an orphan ; his father
and mother were both dead. To keep watch over him he
had only a blind grandmother and an absent great-uncle.
The grandmother died ; the great-uncle, head of the family,
a soldier and a man of high rank, provided with appoint-
ments at court, avoided the old family dungeon, lived at
Versailles, went forth with the army, and left the orphan
alone in the solitary castle. So the preceptor was master
in every sense of tlie word.
Let us add still further, Cimourdain had seen the child
born. The boy, while very little, was seized with a severe
illness. In this peril of death, Cimourdain watched day
and night. It is the physician who prescribes, it is the
nurse w^ho saves, and Cimourdain saved the child. Not
only did his pupil owe to him education, instruction,
science, but he owed him also convalescence and health;
not only did his pupil owe him the develop (iient of his
mind, he owed him life itself. "We worship those who
owe us all : Cimourdain adored this child.
The natural separation came about at length. The
education completed, Cimourdain was obliged to quit the
boy, grown to a young man. With what cold and uncon-
scionable cruelty these separations are insisted upon !
How tranquilly families dismiss the preceptor, who leaves
his spirit in a child, and the nurse, who leaves her heart's
blood!
Cimourdain, paid and put aside, went out of the grand
world and returned to the sphere below. The partition
between the great and the little closed again ; the young
lord, an officer of birth, and made captain at the outset,
departed for some garrison ; the humble tutor (already at
the bottom of his heart an unsubmissive priest) hastened
to go down again into that obscure ground-floor of the
MINOS, .'EAOUS, AND RHADAMANTHUS.
Ill
Church occupied by the under clergy, and Cimourdain
lost sight of his pupil.
The revolution came on; the recollection of that
being whom he had made a man brooded within him,
hidden but not extinguished by the immensity of public
affairs.
It is a beautiful thing to model a statue and give it
life; to mould an intelligence and instil truth therein is
still more beautiful. Cimourdain was the Pygmalion of
a soul.
The spirit may own a child.
This pupil, this boy, this orphan, was the sole being on
earth whom he loved.
But even in such an aflfection would a man like this
prove vulnerable ?
We shall see.
BOOK THE SECOND.
THE PUBLIC-HOUSE OF THE HUE DU PAON.
-*o*-
[ I. — Minos, ^Eacus, and Khadamanthus.
There was a public-house in the !Rue du Paon which
was called a cafe. This cafe had a back room, which is
to-day historical. It was there that often, almost secretly,
met certain men, so powerful and so constantly watched
that they hesitated to speak with one another in public.
]jb was thero that on the 23rd of October 1792, the
Mountain and the Gironde exchanged their famous kiss.
It was there that Garat, although he does not admit it in
his Memoirs, came for information on that lugubrious
night wlien, after having put Claviere in safety in the Eue
de Beaune, he stopped his carriage on the Pont Royal to
Hsten to the tocsin.
^,|
■xmattumtan
qm
112
NINETY-THREE.
I
'■ ! 'J!
On the 28th of June 1793, three men were seated
about a table in this backchamber. Their chairs did not
touch ; they were placed one on either of the three sides
of the table, leaving the fourth vacant. It was about
eight o'clocli in the evening ; it was still light in the street,
but dark in the back-room, and a lamp, hung from a hook
in the ceiling — a luxury there — lighted the tabic.
The first of these three men was pale, young, grave, with
thin lips and a cold glance. He had a nervous movement
in his cheek, which must have made it difficult for him to
smile. He wore his hair powdered; he was gloved;
his light-blue coat, well brushed, was wdthout a wrinkle,
carefully buttoned. He wore nankeen breeches, white
stockings, a high cravat, a plaited shirt-frill, and shoes
with silver buckles.
Of the other two men, one was a species of giant, the
other a sort of dwarf. The tall one was untidily dressed
in a coat of scarlet cloth, his neck bare, his iniknotted
cravat falling down over his shirt-frill, his vest gaping from
lack of buttons. He wore top-boots ; his hair stood sciffly
up and was disarranged, though it still showed traces of
powder ; his very peruke was lik'^ a mane. His face was
marked with small-pox ; there was a power betokening a
choleric temperament between his brows ; a wrinkle that
signified kindness at the corner of his mouth ; his lips
were thick, the teeth large ; he had the fist of a porter
and eyes that blazed. Tlie little one was a yellow man,
who looked deformed when seated. He carried his head
thrown back, the eyes were injected with blood, there
were livid blotches on his face; he had a handkerchief
knotted about his greasy, straiglit hair ; he had no fore-
head ; the mouth was enormous and horrible. He wore
pantaloons instead of knee-breeches, slippers, a waistcoat
which seemed originally to have been of white satin, "and
over this a loose jacket, under whose folds a hard straight
line showed that a poignard was hidden. The first of
these men was named Bobespierre ; the second, Dautou ;
the third, Marat.
They were alone in the room. Before Danton was set a
glass and a dusty wine-bottle, reminding one of Luther's
.^'m^!limS^I»SIBI»itlA*'i,ii>.-mmiK^
MINOS, ^ACrS, AND RHADAMANTHUS.
113
half-piut of beer ; before Marat a cup of coffee ; before
Eobespierre onl}'" papers.
Near the papers stood one of those heavy, round, ridged
leaden inkstands which will be remembered by men who
were schoolboys at the beginning of this century. A pen
was throw^n carelessly by the side of the inkstand. On the
papers lay a great brass seal, on which could be read
Palloy fecit, and wiiich was a perfect miniature model of
the Bastille.
A map of France was spread in the middle of the table.
Outside the door w^as stationed Marat's "watch-dog,"
a certain Laurent Easse, ticket-porter, of No. 18, Kue des
Cordeliers, who some fifteen days after this 28th of June,
say the 13th of July, was to deal a blow with a chair on
the head of a woman, named C rlotte Corday, at this
moment vaguely dreaming in Caen. Laurent Basse was
the proof carrier of the Friend of iJie Peo^ple. Brought
this evening by his master to the cafe of tlie Hue du Paon,
he had been ordered to keep the room closed when Marat,
Dantou, ai^d Robespierre were seated, and to allow^ no
person to enter unless it might be some member^ of the
Committee of Public Safety, the Commune, or the Eveche.
Robespierre did not wish to shut the door against Saint-
Just ; Dauton did not want it closed against Pache ;
Marat would not shut it against Gusman.
The conference had already lasted a long time. It
was iu reference to papers spread on the table, which
Robespierre had read. The voices began to grow louder.
Symptoms of anger arose between these three men. From
without eager words could be caught at moments. At
that period the example of the public tribunals seemed
to have created the right to listen at doors. It was
the time when the copying-clerk Fabricius Paris looked
through the keyhole at the proceedings of the Committee
of PubHc Safety ; a feat which, be it said by the way, was
not without its use, for it was this Paris w^ho warned
Danton on the night before the 31st of March 1799.
Laurent Basse had his ear to the door of the back-room
wliere Danton, Marat, and Robespierre were. Laurent
Basse served Marat, but he belonged to the Eveche.
ill
114
NINETY-THREE.
II. — Magna Testantur Voce per Umbras.
Danton had just risen and pushed his chair hastily
back. "Listen!" he cried. "There is only one thing
imminent — the peril of the Eepublie. I only know one
thing — to deliver France from the enemy. To • accom-
plish that all means are fair. All ! All ! All ! "When I
have to deal with a combination of dangers, I have
recourse to every or any expedient ; when I fear all, I
have all. My thought is a lioness. No half-measures.
No squeamishness in resolution. Nemesis is not a con-
ceited prude. Let us be terrible and useful. Does the
elephant stop to look where he sets his foot ? "We must
crush the enemy."
Kobespierre replied mildly : " I shall be very glad."
And he added — " The question is to know where the
enemy is."
" It is outside, and I have chased it there," said Danton.
" It is within, and I watch it." said Robespierre.
" And I will continue to pursue it," resumed Danton.
" One does not drive away an internal enemy."
" What then do you do ? "
" Exterminate it."
" I agree to that," said Danton in his turn. Then
he continued : " I tell you, Robespierre, it is without."
" Danton, I tell you it is within."
" Robespierre, it is on the frontier."
" Danlon, it is in Vendee."
" Calm yourselves," said a third voice. *' It is every-
where, and you are lost." It was Marat who spoke.
Robespierre looked at him and answered tranquilly—
" Truce to generalities. I particularise. Here are
facts."
« Pedant ! " grumbled Marat.
Robespierre laid his hand on the papers spread before
him and continued : " I have just read you the despatches
from Prieur of the Marne. I have just comnii iiicated to
you the information given by that Gelambre. Danton,
#1
MAGNA TE8TANTUR VOCE PEE UMBRAS.
115
now one
listen ! The foreign war is nothing ; the civil war is all.
The foreign war is a scratch that one gets on the elbow ;
civil war is the ulcer which eats up the liver. This is
the result of what I have been reading ; the Vendee, up
to this day divided between several chiefs, is concen-
trating herself. Henceforth she will have one sole
captain " ■
" A central brigand," murmured Danton.
" Who is," pursued Robespierre, " the man that
landed near Pontorson on tl>e 2nd of June. Tou have
seen who he was. Remember this landing coincides
with the arrest of the acting representatives, Prieur of
the Cote-d'Or, and Romme of Bayeux, by the traitorous
district of Calvados, the 2nd of June — the same day."
" And their transfer to the castle of Caen," said
Danton.
Eobespierre resumed : " I continue my summing up
of the despatches. The war of the Woods is organising
on a vast scale. At the same time, an English invasion
is preparing ; Vendeans and English — it is Briton with
Breton. The Hurons of Finistere speak the same lan-
guage as the Topinambes of Cornwall. I have shown
you an intercepted letter from Puisage, in which it is
said that ' twenty thousand red-coats distributed among
the insurgents will be the means of raising a hundred
thousand more.' When the peasant insurrection is pre-
pared, the English descent will be made. Look at the
plan — follow it on the map."
Eobespierre put his finger on the chart and went on :
"The English have the choice of landing-place from
Cancale to Paimpol. Craig would prefer the Bay of Saint-
Brieuc ; Cornwallis, the Bay of Saint-Cast. That is mere
detail. The left bank of the Loire is guarded by the
rebel Vendean army, and as to the twenty-eight leagues
of open country between Ancenis and Pontorson, forty
Norman parishes have promised ^ their aid. The descent
will be made at three points — Plerin Iffiniac, and Ple-
neuf. From Plerin they can go to Saint-Brieuc, and
from Pleneuf to Lamballe. The second day they will
reach Dinan, where there are nine hundred English
I 2
31
■ 'I'SrUt- .''iii, .J^:r- :..-jr.:aMmM
■^F
116
NINETY-THREE.
■i
lllr
i'J
i
'1
prisoners, and at the same time they will occupy Saint-
Jouan and Saint-Meen ; tliey will leave cavalry there.
On tlie third day, two columns will march, the one from
Jouan oil Bedee, the other from Dinan on Becheral,
which is a natural fortress, and where they will establish
two batteries. The; fourth day they will reach Rennes.
Kennes is the key of Brittany. Whoever has Kennes
has the whole. Rennes captured, Ciiateauneuf and Saint-
Malo will fall. There are at Rennes a million cartridges
and fifty artillery field pieces "
" Which they will sweep off," murmured Danton.
Robespierre continued : " I conclude. From Rennes
three columns will fall, the one on Eougeres, the other
on Vitre, the third on Redon. As the bridges are cut,
the enemy will furnish themselves— -you have seen this
fact particularly stated — with pontoons and planks, and
they will have guides for the points fordable by the
cavalry. From Fougeres they will radiate to Avranches;
from Redon to Ancenis ; from Vitre to Laval. Nantes
w^U capitulate. Brest will yield. Redon opens the whole
extent of the Vilaine ; Fougeres gives them the route of
Normandy ; Vitre opens the route to Paris. In fifteen
days they will have an army of brigands numbering three
hundred thousand men, and all Brittany will belong to
the King of France. "
" That is to say, to the King of England," said
Danton.
" No, to the King of France."
And Robespierre added — " The King of France is
worse. It needs fifteen days to expel the stranger, and
eighteen hundred years to eliminate monarchy."
Danton, who had reseated himself, leaned his elbows
on the table and rested his head in his hands in a
thoughtful attitude.
" You see the peril," said Robespierre. " Vitr6 lays
open to the English the road to Paris."
Danton raised his head and struck his two great
clenched hands on the map as on an anvil.
" Robespierre, did not Verdun open the route to Paris
to the Prussians ? "
MAGNA TE8TANTUR VOCE PEft UMBRAS.
117
" Very well ! "
" Very well, we will expel the English as we expelled
the Prussians." And Danton rose again.
Kobospierre laid his cold hand on the feverish fist of
the other.
" Danton, Champagne was not for the Prussians, and
Brittany is for the English. To retake Verdun was a
foreign war ; to retake Vitre will be civil war."
And Eobespierre murmured in a chill, deep tone —
" A serious difference." He added aloud —
" Sit down again, Danton, and look at the map instead
of knocking it with your fist."
But Danton was wholly given up to Irla own idea.
" That is madness ! " cried he. " To look for the
catastrophe in the west when it is in the east. Eobes-
pierre, 1 grant you that England is rising on the ocean ;
but Spain is rising among the Pyrenees ; but Italy is
rising among the Alps ; but Germany is rising on the
Rhine. And the great Russian bear is at the bottom.
Robespierre, the danger is a circle, and we are within it.
On the exterior, coalition ; in the interior, treason. In
the south, Lervaut half opens the door of Trance to the
King of Spain. At the north, Dumouriez passes over to
the enemy. For that matter he always menaced Holland
less than Paris. Nerwinde blots out Jemappes and
Valmy. The philosopher Rebaut Saint-Etienne, a traitor
like the Protestant he is, corresponds with the courtier
Montesquieu. The army is destroyed. There is not a
battalion that has more than four hundred men remaining;
the brave regiment of Deux-Ponts is reduced to a hundred
and fifty men ; the camp of Pamars has capitulated ;
there are only five hundred sacks of flour left at Givet ;
we are falling back on Landau ; Wurrarer presses Kleber ;
Mayence succumbs bravely ; Conde, like a coward. Valen-
ciennes also. But all that does ivot prevent Chancel,
who defends Valenciennes, and old" Feraud, who defends
Conde, being heroes, as well as Meunier, who defended
Mayence. But all the rest are betraying us. Dharville
betrayed us at Aix-la-Chapelle ; Mouton at Brussels ;
Valence at Breda ; Neuilly at Limbourg ; Miranda at
118
NINETY-THREE.
Maestricht; Stingel, traitor; Laiivue, traitor; Ligon-
nier, traitor; Meuoii, traitor; Dillon, traitor, hideous
coin of Dumouriez. We must make examples. Custine's
counter-marches look suspicious to me ; 1 suspect Custine
of preferring the lucrative prize of Frankfurt to the useful
capture of Cobienz. Frankfurt can pay for your millions
of war tribute ; so be it. What would that be in com-
parison with crushing that nesi/ of refugees ? Treason, I
say. Meunier died on the 1 3th of J une. Kleber is alone.
In the meantime, Brunswick strengthens and ad^'ances.
He plants the German flag on every French place that
he takes. The Margrave of Brandenburg is to dog the
arbiter of Europe ; he pockets our provinces ; he will
adjudge Belgium to himself — you will see. One would
say that we were working for Berlin. If this continues,
and we do not put things in order, the French revolution
will have been made for the benefit of Potsdam ; it will
have accomplished for unique result the aggrandisement
of the little state of Frederick II., and we shall have
killed the King of France for the King of Prussia's
sake."
And Danton burst into a terrible laugh. Danton's
laugh made Marat smile.
" You have each one your hobby," said he. " Danton,
yours is Prussia ; Robespierre, yours is the Yendee. I
am going to state facts in my turn. You do not perceive
the real peril : it is this — the cafes and the gaming-houses.
The Cafe Choiseul is Jacobin ; the Cafe Pitou is lioyalist ;
the Cafe Hendez-Vous attacks the National Guard ; the
Cafe of the Porte Saint-Martin defends it ; the Cafe Ee-
gence is against Brissot ; the Cafe Coratza is for him ; the
Cafe Procope swears by Diderot ; the Cafe of the Theatre
Fran9ais swears hy Voltaire; at the Eotunde they tear
up the assignatvs ; the Cafes Saint-Marceau are in a fury;
the Cafe Manouri debates the question of flour; at the
Cafe Foy uproars and isticuflFs ; at the Perron the hornets
of the finance buzz. These are the matters which are
serious."
Danton laughed no longer. Marat continued to smile.
The smile of a dwarf is worse than the laugh of a giant.
\
MAGNA TESTANTUR VOCE PER UMBRAS.
119
((
Do you sneer at yourself, Marat?" growled Danton.
Marat gave that convulsive movement of bis hip vvliich
was celebrated. His smile died.
" All, I recognise you, Citizen Danton ! It is indeed
you wlio in full Convention called me ' tbe individual
Marat.' Listen ; I forgive you. Wo are playing tbe
fool! All! 7 mock at myself! See \\bat I have done.
I denounced Cbazot ; I denounced Petion ; I denounced
Kersaint ; I denounced Moreton ; I denounced Du-
friche Velaze ; I denounced Ligonnier ; I denounced
Menou ; I denounced Banneville ; I denounced Gensonne ;
I denounced Biron ; I denounced Lidon and Ciiambon.
Was I mistaken ? I smell treason in the traitor, and
I find it best to denounce tbe criminal before he can
commit his crime. I have the habit of saying in tbe
evening that which you and others say on the following
day. 1 am the man who proposed to the Assembly a
perfect plan of criminal legislation. What have 1 done
up to the present ? I have nsked for the instruction of
the sections in order to discipline them for the lievolu-
tion ; I have broken the seals of thirty-tw^o boxes ; I have
reclaimed the diamonds deposited in the hands of Roland ;
I proved that the Brissotins gave to the Committee of the
General Safety blank warrants ; I noted the omissions in
the report of Lindal upon tbe crimes of Capet ; I voted
the torture of tbe tyrant during the twenty-four hours ;
I defended the battalions of Manconseil and the Eepub-
licain ; I prevented the reading of the letter of Narbonne
and of Malonet ; I made a motion in favour of the wound' d
soldiers ; I caused the suppression of the Commission of
Six ; I foresaw the treason of Dumouriez in the affair of
Mons ; I demanded the taking of a hundred thousand
relatives of the refugees as hostages for the commissioners
delivered to the enemy ; I proposed to declare traitor any
representative who should pass the barriers ; I unmasked
the Roland faction in the troubles at Marseilles ; I
insisted that a price should be set on the head of Egalit^'s
son ; I defended Bonchotte ; I called for a nominal appeal
in order to chase Isnard from the chair ; I caused it to
be declared that the Parisians had deserved well of the
iHi^
120
NINETY-THREE.
Ill ',
lli;'
country. That is why I am called a dancing-puppet by
Louvct ; that is why Finisterre demands my expulsion ;
why tlie city of London desires that I should be exiled,
the city of Amiens that I should be muzzled ; why Coburg
wishes me to be arrested, and Leceintre Tuiraveau pro-
poses to the Convention to decree me mad. Ah there!
Citizen Danton, why did you ask me to come to your
conventicle if it was not to have my opinion ? Did 1 ask
to belong to it? Far from that. 1 have no taste for
dialogues with counter-revolutionists like Robespierre and
you. For that matter I ought to have known that you
would not understand me ; you no more than Robes-
pierre — Robespierre no more than you. So there is not a
statesman here ? You need to be taught to spell at poli-
tics ; you must have the dot put over the i. What I said
to you meant this: you both deceive yourselves. The
danger is not in London, as Robespierre believes ; nor in
Berlin, as Danton believes : it is in Paris. It consists in
the absence of unity ; in the right of each one to pull on
his own side, commencing with you two ; in the blinding
of minds ; in the anarchy of wills "
" Anarchy ! " interrupted Danton. " Who causes that,
if not you ? "
Marat did not pause. " Robespierre, Danton, the
danger is in this heap of cafes, in this mass of gaming-
houses, this crowd of clubs — Clubs of the Blacks, the
Federals, the Women — the Club of the Imperialists,
which dates from Clermont-Tonnerre, and which was the
Monarchical Club of 1790, a social circle conceived by
the priest Claude Fauchet ; Club of the Woollen Caps,
founded by the gazetteer Prudliomme, et cetera ; without
counting your Club of the Jacobins, Robespierre, and
your Club of the Cordeliers, Danton. The danger comes
from the famine which caused the sack-porter Blin to
hang up to the lamp of the Hotel de Ville the baker of
the Market Palu, Frangois Denis^ and in the justice which
hung the sack-porter Blin for having hanged the baker
Denis. The danger is in tlie paper-money which the
people depreciate. In the Rue du Temple an assignat of
a hundred francs fell to the ground, and a passer-by, a
MAGNA TKSTANTUR VOCE FEU UMBRAS.
121
r comes
man of the people, snid, ' It is not worth the pains of picking
it up.' Tlie atockbrokers and the inonopoliats — there is
the danger, lo have nailed tlie bhick ihvj^ to tliC Hotel
de Ville — a fine advance 1 You aireat Baron Trenck;
that ia not auilieient. I want thia old prison intriguer's
neck wrung. You believe that you liave ^ot out of the
difliculty because the President of the Convention puts a
civic crown on the head of Labertiche, who received forty-
one sabre cuts at Jemmappea, and of wlioin Chenier makes
himself the elephant driver? Comedies and juggling!
Ah, you will not look at Paris ! You seek the danger
at a distance when it is close at hand. What is tlie use
of your police, Robespierre ? For you have your spies —
Pazan at the Conunune — Coffitdial at the Revolutionary
Tribunal — David at the Committee of General Safety —
Coutiion at the Committeeof Public Well-being. You see
that I know all about it. Very well, learn this : the
danger is over your heads ; the danger is under your feet ;
conspiracies — conspiracies — conspiracies I The people in
the streets read the newspapers to one another and ex-
change nods ; six thousand men, without civic papers,
returned emigrants, Muscadins and Mathevons, are hidden
in cellars and garrets and the wooden galleries of the
Palais Royal. People stand in a row at the baker's shops ;
the women stand in the doorways and clasp their hands,
crying, ' When shall we have peace ? ' You may shut
yourselves up as close as you please in the hall of the
Executive Council, in order to be alone ; every word you
speak is known, and as a proof, Robespierre, here are the
words you spoke last night to Saint-Just — ' Barbaroux
begins to show a fat paunch ; it will be a trouble to him
in his flight.' Yes ; the danger is everywhere, and above
ail in the centre. In Paris the ' Retrogrades ' plot, while
patrols go barefooted ; the aristocrats arrested on the 9th
of March are already set at liberty ; the high-bred horses
which ought to be harnessed to the frontier- cannon
spatter mud on us in the streets ; a loaf of bread w^eighing
four pounds costs three francs twelve sous ; the theatres
play indecent pieces, and Robespierre will presently
hijve Danton guillotined."
122
NINETY-THREE.
m\
W;;»iVv.-
" oil, thorc, there ! " said Daiiton.
Robespierre attentively studied tlie map.
** Wluit in needed," cried jNlarat abruptly, "is a
dictator. Kobeapierre, you know that i want a
dictator."
Robespierre raised his head. " I know, Marat ; you or
me."
" Me or you," said Marat.
Danton grumbled between his teeth — " The dictator-
ship ; only try it ! "
Marat cau<»ht Panton's frown. "Hold!" he besan
again : " One last ejiort. Let U8g(?t ,oine agreement. The
situation is worth the trouble. Did we not come to an
agreement for the day of the JUst oT May? The entire
question is a more serious one <'.iu that of Girondisin,
which was a question of detail. There is truth in what
you say ; but the truth, the whole truth, the real truth, is
what I say. In the south, Federalism ; in the west,
Royalism ; in Paris, the duel of the Convention and the
Commune; on the frontiers, the retreat of Custine and
the treason of Dumouriez. What does all this sijifnity?
Dismemberment. What is necessary to \is? Unity.
There is safety ; but we must hasten to reach it. Paris
must assume the government of the Revolution. If we
lose an hour, to-morrow the Vendeans may be at Orleans,
and the Prussians in Paris. I grant you this, Danton ; I
accord you that, Robespierre. So be it. Well, the con-
clusion is — a dictatorship. Let us seize the dictatorship,
we three who represent the Revolution. We are the three
heads of Cerberus. Of these three heads, one talks, that
is you, Robespierre ; one roars, that is you, Danton."
'* The other bites," said Danton; " that is you, Marat."
" All three bite," said Robespierre.
There was a silence. Then the dialogue, full of dark
threats, recommenced.
" Listen, Marat ; before entering into a marriage, people
must know each other. How did you learn what I said
yesterday to Saint-Just?"
" That is my affair, Robespierre."
" Marat ! "
MAGNA TE8TANTDR VOOR PER UMBRAS.
123
" It is my tlut/V to enlighten myself, and my business
to inform nivself."
" Marat ! "
" I like to know things."
•' Marat ! "
" Robes|)ierre, I know vvliat you say to Saint- Just, as I
know what Dantoii miys to ]iacroix ; as I know what
J)arf^^es on the Quay of the Theatina, at the Hotel La-
brill'e, the den where the nymphs of the emigration
meet ; as I know what hap[)ena in the house of the
Thilles, near Gonease, which belongs to Valmerange,
tnriiicr administrator of the ])orts, where since Maurzand
Cazalis went where, since then, Sieves and Vergniaud
went, and wliere now some another goes once a week." In
saying *' another," Marat looked signilicantly at Danton.
Danton cried, " If I had two farthings' worth of
power, this would be terrible."
Marat continued : " I know what I am saying to you,
Robespierre, just as I knew what was going on in the
Temple tower when they fattened Louis XVI. there, so
well that the he-wolf, the she-wolf, and the cubs ate up
eighty-six baskets of peaches in the month of September
alone. During that time the people were starving. I
know that, as I know that Roland was hidden in a lodging
looking on a back-court, in the Rue de la Ilarpe ; as I
know that (300 of the pikes of July 14th were manu-
factured by Faure, the Duke of Orleans' locksmith ; as
I know what they do in the house of the Saint-Hilaire,
the mistress of Sillery ; en the days when there is to be
a ball, it is old Sillerv himself who chalks the floor of the
yellow saloon of the Hue Neuve des Mathurins ; Buzol
and Kcrsaint dined there. Saladin dined there on the
27th, and with whom, Robespierre ? With your friend
Lasource."
" Mere words," muttered Robespierre. " Lasource ia
not my friend."
And he added, thoughtfully, " In the meanwhile there
are in London eighteen manufactories of false asaignats."
Marat went on in a voice still tranquil, though it had
a slight tremulousness that was threatening : " You are
m
mg^lgmiisMM^
^".^y^l'JW-WWBWg
■.■g.>»»;b,-Ttfi<isaBu.% * «» M>*> ' *^ "* i ' ' '"**
124
NINETY-THREE.
Nfi
the faction of the All-Importants ! Tea ; I know every-
thing, in spite of what Saint- Just calls ' tlie silence
of State'"
Marat emphasised these last words, looked at Eobea-
pierre, and continued :
'* I know what is said at your table the days wlien
Lebas invites David to come and eat the dinner cooked
by his betrothed, Elizabeth Duplaz — ^your future sister-
in-law, Robespierre. I am the far-seeing eye of the
people, and from the bottom of my cave I watch. Yes,
I see ; yes, I hear ; yes, I know ! Little things content
you. You admire yourselves. Eobespierre poses to be
contemplated by his Madame de Chalabre, the daughter
of that Marquis de Chalabre who played whist with
Louis XV. the evening Daraiens was ext-cuted. Yes.
yes ; heads are carried high. Saint- Just lives in a cravat.
Legendre's dress is scrupulously correct ; new frockcoat
and white waistcoat, and a shirtfrill to make people for-
get his apron. Eobespierre imagines that history will be
interested to know that he wore an olive-coloured frock-
coat a la Constiluante^ and a sky-blue dresscoat a la Con-
vention. He had his portrait hanging on all the Vv'alls of
his chamber "
Robespierre interrupted him in a voice even more com-
posed than Marat's own : " And you, Marat, have yours
in all the sewers."
They continued this style of conversation, in whicb
the slowness of their voices emphasised the violence of
the attacks and retorts, and added a certain irony to
menace.
" Robespierre, you have called those who desire the
overthrow of thrones ' the Don Quixotes of the human
race
» j>
" And you, Marat, after the 4th of August, in No.
559 of "^he Friend of the People (ah, I have remem-
bered the number ; it may be useful !), you demanded
that the titles of the noMlity should be restored to them.
You said, ' A duke is always a duke.' "
"Robespierre, in the sitting of December 7th, you
defended the woman Roland against Viard."
im
MAGNA TESTANTUR VOCE PER UMBRAS.
125
" Just as my brother defended you, Marat, when you
were attacked at the Jaeobiu Club. What does that
prove ? Nothing ! "
" Eobespierre, we know the cabinet of the Tuileriea
where you said to Garat, ' I am tired of the Ilevohition ! ' "
" Marat, it was here, in this public-house, that, on the
29th of October, you embraced Barbaroux."
" Robespierre, you said to 73uzot, ' The Eepublic I what
is that?'"
"Marat, it was also in this piTblic-house that you
invited three Marseilles suspects to keep you company."
"Robespierre, you have yourself escorted by a stout
fellow from the market, armed with a club."
" And you, Marat, on the eve of the 10th of August,
you asked Buzot to help you flee to Marseilles disguised
as a jockey."
" During the prosecutions of September you hid your-
self, Robespierre."
" And you, Marat, you showed yourself."
" Robespierre; you flung the red cap on the ground."
" Yes, when a traitor hoisted it. That which decorates
Duniouriez sullies liobespierre."
" Robespierre, you refused to cover Louis XVI.'s head
with a veil while Chateauvieux's soldiers were passing."
" I did better than veil his head ; I cut it oft'."
Danton interposed, but it was like oil flung upon
flames.
" Robespierre, Marat," said he ; " calm yourselves."
Marat did not like being named the second. He
turned about. " With what does Danton meddle ? " he
asked.
Danton bounded.
"With what do I meddle? With this! That we
must not have fratricide ; that there must be no strife
between two men who serve the people ; that it is enough
to have a foreign war ; that it is enough to have a civil
war; that it would be too much to have a domestic war ;
that it is I who have made the Kevolution, and I will
not permit it to be spoiled. Now you know what it is I
meddle with ! "
n&> . sM^b'
-''-"'-'"•'^'
yiilaiflw
■HMiiiiiilil
126
NINETY-THREE.
f
1
1
1
1
(
Marat replied, without raising his voice, "You had
better be getting your accounts ready."
" My accounts ! " cried Danton. " Go ask for them
in the defiles of Argonne — in Champagne delivered— in
Belgium conquered — of the armies where I have already
four times offered my breast to the musket-shots. Go
demand tliem at the Place de la Eevolution, at the scaffold
of January 21st, of the throne flung to the ground, of
the guillotine; that widow "
Marat interrupted him : " The guillotine is a virgin
Amazon ; she exterminatefi ; she does not give birth."
" Are you. sure ? " retorted Danton. " I tell you 1
will make her fruitful."
" We shall see," said Marat. He smiled.
Danton saw this smile.
" Marat," cried he, " you are the man that hides ; I
am the man of the open air and broad day. I hate the
life of a reptile. It would not suit me to be a wood-
louse. You inhabit a cave ; I live in the street. You
hold communication with none ; whosoever passes may
see and speak with me."
"Pretty fellow! will you mount up to where I live?"
snarled Marat.
Then his smile disappeared, and he continued, in a
peremptory tone, " Danton, give an account of the thirty-
three thousand crowns, ready money, that Montmorin
paid you in the King's name under pretext of indemni-
fying you for your post of solicitor at the Chatelet."
" I made one on the 14th of July," said Danton,
haughtily.
" And the Gardez-Meuble ? and the crown diamonds?"
" I was of the 6th of October."
" And the thefts of your alter ego, Lacroix, in Bel-
gium ? "
" I was of the 20th of June."
" And the loans to the Montansier ? "
" I urged the people on to the return from Yarennes."
"And the opera-house, built with money that you
furnished ? "
" I armed the sections of Paris."
a-iEiiiafifflii
a!|il!;ii!i:»u!!!li
MAGNA TE8TANTUR VOCE PER UMBRAS.
127
" And the hundred thousand livres, secret funds of the
Ministry of Justice ? "
"I caused the 10th of August."
" And the two millions for the Assembly's secret ex-
penses, of which you took the fourth ? "
" I stopped the enemy on their march, and I barred
the passage to the kings in coalition."
" Prostitute ! " said Marat.
Danton was terrible as he rose to his full height.
" Yes ! " cried he. " I am ! I sold myself, but I
saved the world ! "
liobespierre had gone back to biting his nails. As
for bim, he could neither laugli nor smile. The laugh —
the lightning — of Danton and the smile — the sting — of
Marat were both wanting to him.
Danton resumed : " I am like the ocean, I have my ebb
and flow ; at low water my shoals may be seen ; at high
tide you may see my waves."
" You foam," said Marat.
" My tempest," said Danton.
Marat had risen at the same moment as Danton.
He also exploded. The snake became suddenly a
dragon.
" Ah ! " cried he. " Ah, Eobespierre I Ah, Danton !
You will not listen to me ! Well, you are lost ; I tell
you so. Your policy ends in an impossibility to go
farther ; you have no longer an outlet ; and you do
things which shut every door against you, except that of
the tomb.
" That is our grandeur," said Danton.
He shrugged his shoulders.
Marat hurried on : " Danton, beware. Verginaud has
also a wide mouth, thick lips, and frowning eyebrows;
Verginaud is pitted too, like Mirabeau and like thee ;
that did not prevent the 31st of May. Ah, you shrug
your shoulders ! Sometimes a shrug of the shoulders
makes the head fall. Danton, I tell thee, tliat big voice,
that loose cravat, those top-boots, those little suppers,
those great pockets — all those are things which concern
Louisette."
128
NINETY-THREE.
Louisette was Marat's pet name for the guillotine.
He pursued ;
*' Aud as for thee, Eobespierre, thou art a Moderate,
but that will serve nothing. Go on — pow^der thyself,
dress thy hair, brush thy clothes, play the vulgar cox-
comb, have clean linen, keep curled and frizzed and be-
dizened ; none the less thou w^ilt go to the Place de la
Greve ! Eead Brunswick's proclamation ! Thou wilt get
a treatment no less than that of the regicide Damiens !
Fine as thou art, thou wilt be dragged at the tails of
four horses."
"Echo of Coblenz ! " said Eobespierre between his
teeth.
'* I am the echo of nothing — I am the cry of the whole,
Eobespierre ! "
" Ah, you are young, you ! How old art thou, Danton ?
Four-and- thirty. How many are your years, Eobespierre ?
Thirty-three. Well, I — I have lived always ! I am the
old human suffering — I have lived six thousand years."
" That is true," retorted Danton. " For six thousand
years Cain has been preserved in hatred, like the toad in
a rock ; the rock breaks, Cain springs out among men,
and is called Marat."
" Danton ! " cried Marat, and a livid glare illuminated
his eyes.
" Well, what ? " asked Danton.
Thus these three terrible men conversed.
They were conflicting thunderbolts !
III. — A Stireing of the Inmost Nerves.
There was a pause in the dialogue ; these Titans withdrew
for a moment each into his own reflections.
Lions dread hydras. Eobespierre had grown very
pale, and Dantou very red. A shiver ran through the
frames of both.
The wild-beast glare in Marat's eyes had died out ; a
A STIRRING OP THE INMOST NERVES.
129
calm, cold and imperious, settled again on the face of
this man, dreaded by his formidable a8social;es.
Danton felt himself conquered, but he would not yield.
He resumed :
"Marat talks very loud about the dictatorship and
unity, but he has only one ability — that of breaking to
pieces."
Robespierre parted his thin lips, and said : '* As for
me, I am of the opinion of Anacharsis Cloots, I say —
Neitlier Eoland nor Marat."
" And I," replied Marat, " I say — Neither Danton nor
Robespierre."
He regarded both fixedly, and added : " Let me give
you advice, Danton. You are in love, you think of
marrying again ; do not meddle . ny more with politics —
be wise."
And moving backward a step towards the door as if to
go out, he made them a menacing salute, and said,
"Adieu, gentlemen."
Danton and Robespierre shuddered. At this instant
a voice rose from the bottom of the room, saying, " You
are wrong, Marat."
All three turned about. During Marat's explosion,
some one had entered unperceived by the door at the end
of the room.
"Is it vou, Citizen Cimourdain?" asked Marat.
« Good day."
It was indeed Cimourdain.
"I say you are wrong, Marat," he re])eated.
Marat turned green, which was his way of growing
pale.
" You are useful, but Robespierre and Danton are
necessary. Why threaten them ? Union, union, citizens !
The people expect unity."
This entrance acted like a dash of cold water, and
had the effect that the arrival of a stranger does on a
family quarrel, it calmed the surface, if not the depths.
Cimourdain advanced towards the table. Danton and
Robespierre knew him. They had often remarked among
the public tribunals of the Convention this obscure but
^f(
130
NINETY-THREE.
])o\verful man, whom the people saluted. Nevertheless.
Kobespierre, always a stickler for forms, asked :
" Citizen, how did you enter? "
" He belongs to the Eveche," replied Marat in a
voice in which a certain submission was perceptible.
Marat braved tlie Convention, led the Commune, and
feared the Evecho. This is a law.
Mirabeau felt Robespierre stirring at some unknown
depth b( ^ow ; Robespierre felt Marat stir ; Marat felt
Hebert stir; Hebert, Babeuf. As long as the underneath
layers are still, the politician can advance, but under the
most revolutioiyiry there must be some subsoil, and the
boldest stop in dismay when they feel under their feot
the earthquake they have created.
To be able to distinguish the movement which covetous-
ness causes from that brought about by principle; to
combat the one and second the other, is the genius and
the virtue of great revolutionists.
Danton saw that Marat faltered. " Oli, Citizen
Cimourdain is not one too many," said he. And he held
out his liand to the new comer.
Then he said : " Zounds, explain the situation to
Citizen Cimourdain. He appears just at the right
moment. I represent the Mountain ; Eobespierre repre-
sents the Committee of Public Safety ; Marat represents
the Commune; Cimourdain represents the Eveche. He
is come to give the casting vote."
" So be it," said Cimourdain, simply and gravely.
" What is the matter in question ? "
" Tiie Vendue," replied Robespierre.
" The Vendue ! " repeated Cimourdain.
Then he continued : " There is the great danger. If the
ile volution perishes, she will perish by the Vendee. One
Vendee is more formidable than ten Germanics. In
order that France may live, it is necessary to kill the
Vendee."
These few words won him Robespierre.
Still he asked this question, " AVere you not formerly
a priest ? "
Cimourdain's priestly air did not escape Robespierre.
A STIKRING OF THE IN3I08T NERVES.
131
He recognised in another that which he had within
himself.
Cimourdain replied, " Yes, citizen."
"What difference does that make?" cried Dantou.
" When priests are good fellows, they are w^orth more
than others. In revolutionary times, the priests melt into
citizens, as the bells do into arms and cannon. Danjou
is a priest ! Daunou is a priest ; Thomas Lindet is the
Bishop of Evereux. Eobespierre, you sit in the Conven-
tion side by side with Massieu, Bishop of Beauvais. The
Grand Vicar Vaugeois was a member of the Insurrection
Committee of August 10th. Chabot is a Capuchin. It
was Dom Gerle who devised the tennis-court oath ; it
was the Abbe Audran who caused the National
Assembly to be declared superior to the King; it was
the Abbe Goutte who demanded of the Legislature that
the dais should be taken away from Louis XVI.'s arm-
chair ; it was the Abb^ Gregoire who instigated the
abolition of royalty.
" Seconded," sneered Marat, " by the actor Collot
d'Herbois. Between them they did the work ; the priest
overturned the throne, the comedian flung down the
king."
" Let us get back to the Vendue," said Eobespierre.
*' Well, what js it ? " demanded Cimourdain. " What is
this Vendee doing now?"
Robespierre answered, " This : she has found a chief.
She becomes terrible."
" Who is this chief, Citizen Robespierre?"
" A ci-deiant Marquis de Lantenac, who styles himself
a Breton prince."
Cimourdain made a movement.
" I know him," said he ; " I was chaplain in his
house."
He reflected for a moment, then added : " He was a
man of gallantry before being a soldier."
" Like Biron, who was a Lauzun," said Danton.
And Cimourdain continued, thoughtfully: *' Yes; an
old man of pleasure. He must be terrible."
" Frighttul," said Robespierre. " He burns the villages,
K 2
iPli
132
NINETY-THREE.
I
kills the wounded, massacres the prisoners, shoots the
women."
" The women!"
" Yes. Among others he had the mother of three
children shot. Nobody knows what became of tlie little
ones. He is really a captain : he understands war."
" Yes, in truth," replied Cimourdain, " he was in the
Hanoverian war, and tlie soldiers said, Richelieu in
appearance, Lantenac at the bottom. Lantenac was
the real general. Talk about him to your colleague,
Dusaulx."
Robespierre remained silent for a moment ; then the
dialogue began anew between him and Cimourdain.
" Well, Citizen Cimourdain, this man is in Vendee."
" Since when?"
" The last three weeks."
" He must be declared an outlaw."
" That is done."
" A price must be set on his head."
" It is done."
" A large reward must be offered to whoever will take
him."
" That is done."
" .Not in assignats."
" That is done."
" In gold."
" That is done."
" And he must be guillotined."
" That will be done.
" By whom ?"
" By you."
"By me?"
" Yes ; you will be delegated by the Committee of
Public Safety with unlimited powers."
" I accept," said Cimourdain.
Robespierre made his choice of men rapidly — the
quality of a true statesman. He took from the portfolio
before him a sheet of white paper, on which could be read
this printed heading : — " The French Republic One and
Indivisible. Committee of Public Safety."
A STIRRING OF THE INMOST NERVES.
133
Ciraourdciin continued : " Tea, I accept. The terrible
against the terrible. Lantenac is ferocious ; I shall be so
too. War to the death against this man. I will deliver
the Republic from him, please God."
He checked himself ; then resumed : " I am a priest ;
no matter ; I believe in God."
" God has gone out of date," said Danton.
" I believe in God," said Cimourdain, unmoved.
Robespierre gave a sinister nod of approval.
Cimourdain asked : " To whom am I delegated ?"
'* The commandant of the exploring division sent
against Lantenac. Only — I warn you — he is a nobleman."
Danton cried out : " That is another thing which
matters little. A noble ! Well, what then ? It is with
the nobles as with the priests. When one of either class
is good, he is excellent. Nobility is a prejudice ; but we
should not have it in one sense more than the other ; no
more against than in favour of it. Robespierre, is not
Saint- Just a noble ? Florelle de Saint- Just, zounds !
Anacharsis Cloots is a baron. Our friend Charles Hesse,
who never misses a meeting of the Cordeliers, is a prince,
and the brother of the reigning Landgrave of Hesse-
Rothenburg. Montaut, the intimate of Marat, is the
Marquis de Montaut. There is in the Revolutionary Tri-
bunal a juror who is a priest — Vilate ; and a juror who is
a nobleman — Leroy, Marquis de Montflabert. Both are
tried men."
" And you forget," added Robespierre, " the foreman
of the revolutionary jury. "
" Antonelle ?"
" Who is the Marquis Antonelle ?" said Robespierre.
Danton replied : *' Dampierre was a nobleman, the one
who lately got himself killed before Conde for the Re-
public ; and Beaurepaire was a noble, he who blew his
brains out, rather than open the gates of Verdun to the
Prussians."
" All of which," grumbled Marat, " does not alter
the fact that on the day Condorcet said, ' The Gracchi
were nobles,' Danton cried out, ' All nobles are traitors,
beginning with Mirabeau and ending with thee.' "
'im
134
-i
NINETY-THRKE.
Ciinourdain'a grave voice made itself heard : ** Citizen
Danton, Citizen Kobospierre, you are perhaps riglit to
have coulidence, but the people distrusts them, and the
people is not wrong in so doing. When a priest is
charged with the surveillance of a nobleman, the respon-
sibility is doubled, and it is necessary for the priest to be
inflexible."
" True," said Eobespierre.
Cimourdain added, " And inexorable."
Robespierre replied, " It is well said. Citizen Cimour-
dain. You will have to deal with a young man. You
will have the ascendency over him, being double his age.
It will be necessary to direct him, but he must be care-
fully managed. It appears that he possesses military
talent — all the reports are unanimous as to that. He
belongs to a corps which has been detached from the
Army of the Rhine to go into Vendee. He arrives from
the frontier where he was noticeable for intelligence and
courage. He leads the exploring column in a superior
way. For fifteen days he has held the old Marquis de
Lantenac in check. He restrains and drives him before
him. He will end by forcing him to the sea, and tum-
bling him into it headlong. Lantenac has the cunning
of an old general, and the audacity of a youthful captain.
This young man has already enemies, and those who
are envious of him. The Adjutant- General Lechelle is
jealous of him."
" That L'Echelle * wants to be commander-in-chief,"
interrupted Danton : "there is nothing in his favour but
a piin — ' It needs a ladder to mount into a cart.' All
the same. Charette f beats him."
" And he is not willing," pursued Eobespierre, " that
anybody besides himself should beat Lantenac. The
misfortune of the Vendean war is in such rivalries,
Heroes badly commanded — that is what our soldiers are.
A simple captain of hussars, Cherin, enters Saumur with
trumpets playing ^a ira ; he takes Saumur; he could
keep on and take Cholet, but he has no orders, so he
* A ladder.
t Charrette — a cart.
A 8TIUUINO OF THE INMOST ^EUVE8.
135
halts. All those cominauds of the Veudee must be re-
modelled. The Body Guards are scattered, tho forces
dispersed; a scattered army is an army paralysed ; it is a
rock crinnbled into dust. At the camp of Parame there
are uo longer any tents. There are a hundred useless
little companies posted between Tr(5guier and Dinan,
of which a division might bo formed that could guard the
whole coast. Lechelle, supported by Pallain, strips the
uortliern coast under pretext of protecting the southern,
and so opens France to the English. A half million
peasants in revolt and a descent of England upon France
— that is Lantenac's plan. The young commander of
the exploring column presses his sword against Lan-
tenac's loins, keeps it there, and beats him without
Leehelle's permission ; now Lechelle is his general, so
Lechelle denounces him. Opinions are divided in regard
to this young man. Lechelle wants to have him shot.
The Prieur of the Marne wants to make him adjutant-
general."
" This youth appears to me to possess great qualities,"
said Cimourdain.
" But he has one fault ! " The interruption came from
Marat.
" What is it ? " demanded Cimourdain.
" Clemency," said Marat.
Then he added, " He is firm in battle and weak after-
wards. He shows indulgence ; he pardons ; he grants
mercy; he protects devotees and nuns; he saves the
wives and daughters of aristocrats ; he releases prisoners ;
he sets priests free."
" A grave fault," murmured Cimourdain.
" A crime," said Marat.
" Sometimes," said Danton.
" Often," said Eobespierre.
*' Almost always," chimed in Marat.
" When one has to deal with the enemies of the
country — always," said Cimourdain.
Marat turned towards him. " And what then would
you do with a Republican chief who set a Royalist chief
at liberty ? "
186
NINETY-THREE.
It
ii
" I should be of Lochelle'a opiuion ; I would Imvo liiin
shot."
" Or guillotin , said Marat.
" He luijjfljt liave his choice," said Cimourdaiii.
Dantou begau to laugh. " 1 like one as well as tlie
other."
" Thou art sure to have one or the other," growled
Marat.
His glance left Danton and settled again on Cimourdaiii.
" So, Citizen Cimourdaiu, if a liepublican leader were
to flinch, you would cut otf his head?"
" Within twenty-four hours."
"Well," retorted Marat, "I am of Eobespierre'a
opinion ; Citizen Ciraourdain ought to be sent as dele-
gate of the Com 'ttee of Public Safety to the comman-
dant of the ex| 'ig division of the coast army. How
is it you call thiia .nmandant?"
E-obespierre answered, " He is a ci-devant noble."
He began to turn over the papers.
" Get the priest to guard the nobleman," said Danton.
" I distrust a priest when he is alone ; I distrust a noble
when he is alone. When they are together, I do not fear
them. One watches the other, and they do well."
The indignant look always on Cimourdain's face grew
deeper, but without doubt finding the remark just at
bottom, he did not look at Dantou, but said in his stern
voice :
" If the Republican commander who is confided to me
makes one false step, the penalty will be death."
Robespierre, with his eyes on the portfolio, said, " Here
is the name, Citizen Cimourdain. The commandant, in
regard to whom full powers will be' granted you, is a so-
called viscount ; he is named Gauvain."
Cimourdain turned pale. " Gauvain I " he cried.
Marat saw his sudden pallor.
*' The Viscount Gauvain I " repeated Cimourdain.
'* Yes," said Robespierre.
" Well ? " said Marat, with his eyes fixed on the
priest.
There was a brief silence, which Marat broke.
A STIRUINQ OF TUE INMOST NKttVES.
137
"Citizen Cimourdain, on the cuiuiitiona nnniod by
voursL'H', do you accept the mission as contmisaioner
delcgato near tlie Commandant Gauvain ? Is it de-
cided V "
" It ia decided," replied Cimourdain. He grew paler
and paler.
llubespiorre took the pen which lay near him, wrote in
his slow, even hand I'oiir lines on tlie sheet of paper
which bore the headiiinj Committkk or Puulio Safety,
signed them and passed the sheet and the pen to Danton ;
Daiiton signed, and Marat, whose eyes had not left
Ciniourdain's livid face, signed after Danton.
Kobespierre took the paper again, dated it, and gave it
to Cimourdain, who read : —
"Yeah 1 of the Republio.
" Full powers are granted to Citizen Cimourdain, dele-
" gated Commissioner of Public Safety near the Citizen
" Gauvain, commanding the Exploring Division of the
" Army of the Coasts.
" RoBESriEHRE.
" Danton.
" Marat."
And beneath the signatures — " June 28th, 1793."
The revolutionary calendar, called the Civil Calendar,
had no legal existence at this time, and was not adopted
bv the Convention, on the proposition of Romme, until
October 5th, 1793.
While Cimourdain read, Marat watched him.
He said in a half-voice, as if talking to himself, " It
will be necessary to have all this formalised by a decree
of the Convention, or a special warrant of the Committee
of Public Safety. There remains something yet to be
done."
" Citizen Cimourdain, where do you live ? " asked
Robespierre.
" Court of Commerce."
" Hold, so do I too," said Danton. " You are my
neighbour."
Ailh
•; ■ "J
1
*i
1
1
in
■
J(
fflitflffi
1
';
'
iill
138
NINETY-THREB.
Robespierre resumed : " There is not a moment to
lose. To-morrow you will receive your commission in
form, signed by all the members of the Committee of
Public Safety. This is a confirmation of the commission.
It will accredit y^u in a special manner to the acting
representatives, Philli,jeaux, Prieur of the Marne, Le-
cointre, Alquier, and tlie others. We know you. Your
powers are unlimited. You can make Gauvain a general
or send him to the scaffold. You will receive your com-
mission to-morrow at three o clock. When shall you set
out?"
" At four," said Cimourdain.
And they separated.
As he entered his house, Marat informed Simonne
Evrard that he should go to the Convention on tlie
morrow.
BOOK THE THIRD.
THE CONVENTION.
I.
We approach the grand summit. Behold i:he Con-
vention !
The gaze grows steady in presence of this height,
Never has a more lofty spectpcle appeared on the horizon
of mankind.
There is one Himalaya and there is one Convention.
The Convention is perhaps the culminating point of
History.
During its lifetime — for it lived — men did not quite
understand what it was. It was precisely the grandeuf
which escaped its contemporaries ; they were too much
THE CONVENTION.
139
scared to be dazzled. Everything grand possesses a
sacred horror. It is easy to admire mediocrities and
hills, but whatever is too lofty, wliether it be a genius or
a mountain — an assembly as well as a masterpiece —
ularms when seen too near. An immense height appears
an exaggeration. It is fatiguing to climb. One loses
breath upon acclivities, one slips down declivities, one
is hurt by sharp rugged lieights which are in themselves
beautiful ; torrents in their foaming reveal the preci-
pices ; clouds hide the mountain tops ; a sudden ascent
terrifies as much as a fall. Hence there is a greater
sensation of fright than admiration. What one feels is
fantastic enough — an aversion to the grand. One sees
the abyss and loses sight of the sublimity; one sees
the monster and does not perceive the marvel. Thus
the Convention was at first judged. It was measured
by the purblind — it, which needed to be looked at by
eagles.
To-day we see it in perspective, and it throws across
the deep and distant Heavens, agaiust a bacitground at
once serene and tragic — the immense profile of the
French E-evolution.
I
It
it
m^
-•c*-
n.
The 14th of July delivered.
The 10th of August =''indered. ♦
The 2l8t of Septembei. bounded.
The 21st of September was the Equinox — was
Equihbrium.
Libra — the balance. It was, according to the remark
of Roussecu, that under tliis sign of Equality and Justice
the Republic was proclaimed. A constellation heralded
it.
The Con7ention is the first avatar of ^\e peoples. It
t^as by the Convention that the grand new page opened
and the future of to-day commenced.
140
NINETY-THREE.
m
It
Every idea must have a visible enfolding ; a habitation
is necessary to any principle ; a church is God between
four 'Walls; every dogma must have a temple. When
the Convention became a fact, the first problem to be
solved was how to lodge the Convention.
At first the Manege, then the Tuileries, was taken.
A platform was raised, scenery arranged — a great grey
painting by David imitating bas-reliets — benches were
placed in order; there was a square tribune, parallel
pilasters with plinths like blocks and long rectilinear
stems ; square enclosures, into which the spectators
crowded, and which were called the public tribunes ; a
Eoman velarium, Grecian draperies ; and in these right
angles and these straight lines the Convention was in-
stalled — the tempest confined within this geometrical
plan. On the tribune, the Eed Cap was painted in grey.
The Royalists began by laughing at this grey red cap,
this theatrical hall, this monument of pasteboard, this
sanctuary of papier-mach^, tuis pantheon of mud and
spittle. How quickly it would disappear ! The columns
were made of the staves from hogsheads, the arches were
of deal boards, the bas-reliefs of mastic, the entablatures
were of pine, the statues of plaster ; the marbles were
paint, the walls canvass, and of this provisional shelter
France has made an eternal dwelling.
When the Convention began to hold its sessions in the
Riding School, the walls were covered with the placards
which filled Paris at the period of the return from
Varennes.
Ou one might be read : — The king returns. Any person
who cheers Mm shall he beaten ; any person who insults
him shall be hanged.
On another : — Peace I Mats on heads. He is about to
pass before his judges.
Ou another: — The king has levelled at the nation. He
has hung fire ; it is now the natioii's turn.
On another : — The Law / The Law I
It was within those walls that the Convention sat in
judgment on Louis XVl.
At the Tuileries, where the Convention began to sit
■11!
THE CONVENTION.
141
on the 10th of May 1793, and which was called tlie
Palais-National, the assembly-hall occupied the whole
space between the Pavilion de ITIorloge (called the
Pavilion of Unity) and the Pavilion Marsan, then named
Pavilion of Liberty. The Pavilion of Plora was called
Pavillon-Egalite. The hall was reached by the grand
staircase of Jean Bnllant. The whole ground-floor of
the palace, beneath the story occupied by the assembly,
was a kind of long guard-room, littered with bundles and
camp-beds of the armed troops who kept watch about the
Convention. The assembly had a guard ol honour styled
" the Grenadiers of the Convention."
A tri-coloured ribbon separated the palace where the
assembly sat from the garden in which the people came
aud went.
Mi
»o«
III.
Let us finish the description of that sessions-hall. Every-
thing in regard to this terrible place is interesting.
What first struck the sight of anyone entering was a
great statue of Liberty placed between two wide windows.
One hundred and Ibrty feet in length ; thirty-four feet in
width ; thirty-seven feet in height ; such were the dimen-
sions of this room, which had been the king's theatre,
and which became the theatre of the Revolution. The
elegant and magnificent hall, built by Vigarani for the
courtiers, was hidden by the rude timber-work which in
'93 supported the weight of the people. This framework,
whereon the public tribunes were erected, had (a detail
deserving notice) one single post for its only point of
support. This post was of one piece, ten metres (32 feet
*) inches) in circumference. Few caryatides have laboured
Hke that beam ; it supported for years the rude pressure
of the Kevolution. It sustained applause, enthusiasm,
insolence, noise, tumult, riot — the immense chaos of op-
posing rages. It did not give way. After the Convention,
it witnessed the Council of the Ancients. The 18th
Brumaire relieved it.
142
NINETY-THREE.
11
il
^'^W
Percier then replaced the wooden pillar by columns of
marble, which did not last so well.
The ideal of architects is sometimes strange; the
architect of the Hue de Rivoli had for his ideal the trajec-
tory of a cannon-ball; the architect of Carlsruhe, a tan;
a gigantic drawer wonld seem to have been the model of
the architect who built the hall where the Convention
began to sit on the 10th of May 1793 ; it was long, high,
and flat. At one of the sides of the parallelogram was a
great semicircle ; this amphitheatre contained the seats of
the representatives, but without tables or desks. Garan-
Coulon, who wrote a great deal, held his paper on his
knee. In front of the seats was the tribune ; before the
tribune, the bust of Lepelletier Saint-Fargeau ; behind
was the President's arm-chair.
The head of the bust passed a little beyond the ledge
of the tribune, for which reason it was afterwards moved
away from that position.
The amphitheatre was composed of nineteen semi-
circular rows of benches, rising one behind the other;
the supports of the seats prolonging the amphitheatre
into the two corners.
Below, in the horse-shoe at the foot of the tribune, the
ushers had their places.
On one side of the tribune, a placard nine feet in
length was fastened to the wall in a black wooden frame,
bearing on two leaves, separated by a sort of sceptre, the
" Declaration of the Rights of Man " ; on the other side
was a vacant place, at a later period occupied by a similar
frame, containing the Constitution of Year II., with the
leaves divided by a sword. Above the tribune, over the
head of the orator, from a deep loge with double com-
partments always filled with people, floated three immense
tri-coloured flags, almost horizontal, resting on an altar
upon which could be read the word — Law. Behind this
altar there arose, tall as a column, an enormous Eoman
fasces like the sentinel of free speech. Colossal statues,
erect against the wall, faced the representatives. The
President had Lycurgus on his right hand and Solon on
his left ; Plato towered above the Mountain.
!iiiiii»^jdjKraiuaaih>ju^:;'.>H'y,s.''«nisssi<f>.v^^^^^^^^ ~
THE CONVENTION.
143
These statues had plain blocks of wood for pedestals,
resting' on a long cornice whicli encircled the hall, and
separated the people from the assembly. The spectators
could lean their elbows on this cornice.
The black wooden frame of the proclamation of the
Eights of Man reached to the cornice and broke the
regularity of the entablature, an infraction of the straight
line which caused Chabot to murmur. "It is ugly," he
said to Vadier.
On the heads of the statues alternated crowns of oak-
leaves and laurel. A green drapery, on which similar
crowns were painted in deeper green, fell in heavy folds
straight down from the cornice of circumference and
covered the whole wall of the ground-floor occupied by
the assembly. Above this drapery the wall was white
and naked. In it, as if hollowed out by a gigantic axe,
without moulding or foliage, were two stories of public
tribunes, the lower ones square, the upper ones round.
According to rule, the archivolts were superimposed upon
the architraves. There were ten tribunes on each side of
the hall, and two huge boxes at either end ; in all, twenty-
four. There the crowds gathered thickly.
The spectators in the lower tribunes, overflowing their
borders, grouped themselves along the reliefs of the
cornice. A long iron bar, firmly fixed at the point of
support, served as a rail to the upper tribunes and
guarded the spectators against the pressure of the throngs
mounting the stairs. Nevertheless, a man was once thrown
headlong into the assembly ; he fell partly upon Massieu,
Bishop of Beauvais, and thus was not killed ; he said
"Hallo ! Why a bishop is really good for something ! "
The hall of the Convention could hold two thousand
persons comfortably — on the days of insurrection it held
three.
The Convention held tu'o sittings, one in the davtime
and one in the evening.
The back of the president's chair was curved, and
studded with gilt nails. The table was upheld by
four winged monsters, with a single foot — one might
have thought they had come out of the Apocalypse to
ill
^^j±3aii
•^-"'■— -'
i' ' IB T Ilia
144
NINETY-TIIKEE.
ii
assist at the Revolution. They seemed to have been
unharnessed from Ezekiel's chariot to drag the dung-cart
of ISamson.
On the president's table was a huge hand-bell, almost
large enougli to have served for a church ; a great copper
inkstand, and a parchment folio, which was the book of
official reports.
Many times freshly severed heads, borne aloft on the
tops of pikes, sprinkled their blood-drops over this table.
The tribune was reached by a staircase of nine steps.
These steps were high, steep, and hard to mount ; one
day Gensonnr stumbled as he was going up. " It ia a
scaffold-ladder," said he. " Serve your apprenticeship,"
Carrier cried out to him.
. In the angles of the hall, where the wall had looked too
naked, the architect had put Roman fasces for decorations,
with the axe turned to the people.
At the right and left of tlie tribune were square
blocks supporting two candelabra twelve feet in height,
having each four pairs of lamps. There was a similar
candelabrum in each public box. On the pedestals
were carved circles, which the people called " guillotine-
collars."
The benches of the assembly reached almost to the
cornice of the tribunes ; so tbat the representatives and
the spectators could talk together.
The outlets from the tribunes led into a labyrinth ot
sombre corridors, often filled with a savage din.
The Convention overcrowded the palace and flowed into
the neighbouring mansions — the Hotel de Longueville
and the Hotel de Coigny. It was to the Hotel de Coigny,
if one may believe a letter of Lord Bradford's, that Hie
royal furniture was carried after the 1 0th of August. It
took two months to empty the Tuileries.
The committees were lodged in the neighbourhood of
the hall ; in the Pavillon-Egalite were those of Legis-
lation, Agriculture, and Commerce ; in the Pavilion of
Liberty were the Marine, the Colonies, Finance, Assig-
nats, and Public Safety ; the War Departu^ent was at the
Pavilion of Unity.
THE CONVENTION.
145
Tlie Committee of General Security communicated
directly with that of Public Safety by an obscure pas-
sage, lighted day and night with a reflector lamp, wliere
the spies of all parties came and went. People spoke
there in whispers.
Tiie bar of the Convention was several times displaced.
Generally it' was at the right of the president.
At the far ends of the hall the vertical partitions
which closed the concentric semicircles of the amphi-
theatre left between them and the wall a couple of
narrow, deep passages, from which opened two dark
square doors.
The representatives entered directly into the hall by a
door opening on the Terrace des Feuillants.
This hall, dimly lighted during the day by de(^p-set
windows, took a strange nocturnal aspect, when, with
the approach of twilight, it was badly illuminated by
lam])s. Their pale glare intensified the evening shadows
and ilie lamplight sessions were lugubrious.
It was impossible to see clearly ; from the opposite
ends of the hall, to the right and to the left, indistinct
groups of faces insulted each other. People met without
recof,niising one another. One day Laiguelot, hurrying
toward the tribune, hit against some person in the
sloping passage between the benches. " Pardon, Kobes-
pierre," said he. " For whom do you take me ? "
rephed a hoarse voice. " Pardon, Marat," said Laiguelot.
At the bottom, to the right and left of the president,
were tw^o reserved tribunes, for, strange to say, the Con-
vention had its privileged spectators. These tribunes
were the only ones that had draperies. In the middle
of the architrave two gold tassels held up the curtains.
The tribunes of the people were bare. The whole sur-
roundings were peculiar and savage, yet correct. Eegu-
larity in barbarism is rather a type of revolution. The
hall of the Convention offered the most complete speci-
men of what artists have since called "architecture
Messidor ;" it was massive, and yet frail. The builders
of that time mistook symmetry for beauty. The last word
of the lienaissance had been uttered under Louis XV.,
H:
146
NINETY-THREE.
and a reaction followed. The noble was pushed to
insipidity and the pure to absurdity. Prudery may
exist in architecture. After the dazzling orgies of form
and colour of tlie eighteenth century, Art took to fasting
'ji
and only allowed herself the straight line. This species
of progress ends in ugliness, and art reduced to a skeleton
is the phenomeno}! which results. The fault of this sort
of wisdom and abstinence is that the style is so severe
that it becomes meagre.
Outside of all political emotion, there was some-
thing in the very architecture of this hall which
made one shiver. One recalled confusedly the ancient
theatre with its garlanded boxes, its blue and crimson
ceiling, its prisraed lustres, its girandoles with diamond
reflections, its brilliant hangings, its profusion of Cupids
and Nymphs on the curtain and draperies, the whole
royal and amorous idyl, painted, sculptured, gilded,
which had brightened this sombre spot with its smile,
where now one saw on every side hard rectilinear angles,
cold and sharp as steel ; it was something like Boucher
guillotined by David.
IV.
But when one saw the Assembly, the hall was forgotten.
Whoever looked at the drama no longer remembered the
theatre. Nothing more chaotic and more sublime. A
crowd of heroes ; a mob of cowards. Fallow deer on Ji
mountain ; reptiles in a marsh. Therein swarmed, elbowed
one another, provoked one another, threatened, struggled,
and lived, all those combatants who are phantoms to-day.
A convocation of Titans.
To the right, the Gironde, a legion of thinkers ; to the
left, the Mountain, a group of athletes. On one side
Brissot, who had received the keys of the Bastille;
Barbaroux, whom the Marseilles troops obeyed ; Kerve-
legan, who had under his hand the battalion of Brest,
garrisoned in the Faubourg Saint-Mar9eau ; Gensonne,
THE CONVENTION.
U7
who had established the supremacy of the representatives
over the generals ; the fatal Gaudet, to whom the Queen
one night, at the Tuileries, showed the sleeping Dauphin ;
Gaudet kissed the forehead of the child and caused the
heaa of the father to fall. Sallez, the crack-brained
denouncer of the intimacy between the Mountain and
Austria. Sillery, the cripple of the Right, as Couthon
was the paralytic of the Left. Lause Duperret, who
having been called a scoundrel by a journalist, invited
him to dinner, saying, " I know that by scoundrel you
simply mean a man who does not think like yourself."
Kabaut Saint-Etienne, who commenced his Almanac for
1790 with this saying — " The Eevolutiou is ended."
Quinette, one of those who overtl)revv Louis XVL ; the
Jansenist Camus, who drew up the civil constitution of
the clergy, believed in the miracles of the Deacon Paris,
and prostrated himself each night before a figure of
Christ seven feet high, w'hicli was nailed to the wall
of his chamber. Fouch- ' , a priest, who, with Camilla
Desmoulins, brought ab at the 14th of July ; Isnard,
who committed the crime of saying, "Paris will be
destroyed," at the same moment when Brunswick was
saying, "Paris shall be burnt." Jacob Dupont, the
first who cried, " I am an Atheist," and to whom Robes-
pierre replied, " Atheism is aristocratic." Lanjuinais,
stern, sagacious, and valiant Breton ; Duces, the Euryalea
of Boyerfrede ; Rebecqui, the Pylades of Barbaroux ;
Rebecqui gave in his resignation because Robespierre
had not yet been guillotined. Richaud, who combatted
the permanency of the Sections. Lasource, who had
given utterance to the murderous apophthegm : " "Woe to
grateful nations !" and who was afterwards to contradict
himself at the foot of the scaffold by this haughty sar-
casi, flung at the Mountainists : " We die because the
people sleep ; you will die because the people awake."
Biroteau, who caused the abolition of inviolability to be
decreed, who was also, without knowing it, the forger of
the axe, and raised the scaffold for himself. Cliarles
Villatte, who sheltered his conscience behind this pro-
test, " I will not vote under the hatchet." Louvet, the
L 2
lill
Ill
148
NINETY-THREE.
uutbor of Fauhlns, who was to end as a bookseller in
tl\e Palais Koyal witli Lodoiska behind the counter.
Mercier, author of the Picture of Parisy who ex-
claimed — " Ou the 2lHt of January, ail kings felt for
the bacits of tlieir necks!"* IVIarie, wliose anxiety was
" tlie faction of the ancient limits." The journalist
Carra, who said to the headsman at the foot of tlie
scaffold, " It bores me. to die. I would have liked to
see the continuation." Vigee, who called himself a
grenadier in the second battalion of Mayenne and Loire,
and who, when menaced by the public tribunals, cried,
" I demand that at the first murmur of the tribunals wo
all withdraw and march on Versailles, sabre in hand ? "
Buzot, reserved for death by famine ; Valaze, destined
to die by his own dagger ; Condorcet, who was tu
perish at Bourg-la-Keine (become Bourg-!figalite), be-
trayed by the Horace which he had in his pocket ;
Petion, whose destiny w^as to be adored by the crowd in
1792 and devoured by wolves in 1794; twenty others
still, — Pontecoulent, Marboz, Lidon, Saint-Martin, Dus-
saulx, the translator of Juvenal, who had been in the
Hanover campaign ; Boileau, Bertrand, Lesterp Beau-
vais, Lesage, Gomaire, Gardieu, Mainveille, Duplentur,
Lacaze, Antiboul, and at their head a Barnave, who was
styled Vergniaud.
On the other side, Antoine Louis Leon Elorelle de
Saint-Just, pale, with a low forehead, a regular profile,
eye mysterious, a profound sadiiess, aged twenty-three.
Merlin de Thionville, whom the Germans called Feuer-
teufel — " the fire-devil." Merlin de Douai, the culpable
author of the Laip of the Suspected. Soubranz, whom
the people of Paris at the first Prairial demanded for
general. The ancient priest Lebon, holding a sabre in
the hand which had sprinkled holy water ; Billaud
Varennes, who foresaw the magistracy of the future,
without judges or arbiters; Fabre d'Eglantine, who fell
upon ? delightful God-send— the republican calendar,
just as Itouget de Lisle had a single sublime inspiration
— the Marseillaise ; neither one nor the other ever pro-
* BoswoU, the laird, father of Johnson's biographer, had said the
same some years before of Cromwell.
mmm
THE CONVENTION.
149
duecd a second. jVEanuel, the attorney of the Commune,
who had said, " A dead king is not a man tlie less."
Goujon, who had entered Tripstadt, Neustadt, and
Spires, and liad seen the Prussian army flee. Lacroix, a
lawyer turned into a gcMieral, named Chevalier of Saint
Louis, six days before the 10th of August. Freron
Thersite, the son of Freron Zoilus. Ruth, the inexorable
of the iron press, [)redestiued to a great republican
suicide — he was to kill himself the day the Eepublic died.
Fc'iche, with the soul of a demon and the face of a
corpse. Camboulas, the friend of Father Duchesne, who
said to Guillotin, " Tliou belongest to the Club of the
Feuillants, but thy daughter belongs to the Jacobin
Club." Jagot, who to such as complained to him of the
nudity of the prisoners replied by this savage say^nr.
"A prison is a dress of stone." Javogues, the terrible
desecrator of the tombs of Saint-Denis. Osselin, a pro-
scriber, who hid one of the proscribed (Madame Charry)
in his house. Beiitabole, who, when he was in the chair,
made signs to the tribunes to applaud or hoot. The
journalist Robert, the husband of Mademoiselle Keralio,
who wrote, "Neither Robespierre nor Marat come to
my house. Robespierre may come when he wishes —
Marat, never." Garan Coulon, who, when Spain inter-
fered in the trial of Louis XVI., haughtily demanded
that the Assembly should not deign to read the letter of
a king in behalf of a king. Gregoire, a bishop, at first
worthy of the Primitive Church, but who afterwards, under
the Empire, effiiced Gregoire the republican beneath the
Count Gregoire. Amar, who said, " The whole earth
condemns Louis XVI. To whom then appeal for judg-
ment? To the*planets ?" Rouger, who, on ihe 21st of
January, opposed the firing of the cannon of Pont Neuf,
saying, "A king's head ought to make no more noise in
falling than the head of another man."
Chenier, the brother of Andre ; Vadier, one of those
who laid a pistol on the tribune ; Panis, who said to
Momoro, " I wish Marat and Robespierre to embrace
at my table."— " Where dost thou live?"— "At Cha-
renton." — " Anywhere else would have astonished me,"
replied Momoro Legendre, -who was the butcher of
aijii
150
NINETY-THREE.
H
tlio French Revolution, as Pride had been of the Enulisli.
" Come, that I may knock you down," lie cried to Laii-
juinais. " Firat have it decreed that I am a bullock,"
replied Lanjuinais. Collot d'lTerbois, that lugubrious
comedian \\'\\o had the face of the antique mask 'rith two
mouths which said yes and no, approving with one while
he blamed with the other ; brandiiifj Carrier at Nantes
and defying Chalier at Lyons ; sending Kobespierrc to
the scaffold and Marat to the Pantheon. Genissieux,
who demanded the penalty of death against whomsoever
should have upon him a medallion of " Louis XVL,
martyrized." L(5onard Bourdon, the schoolmaster, who
had offered his house to the old men of IVIont Jura.
Topseut, sailor; Goupilleau, lawyer; Laurent Lecointre,
merchant ; Duhem, pliysiciau ; Sergent, sculptor ; David,
painter ; Joseph ifegalite, prince.
Others still : Lecointe Puiraveau, who asked that a
decree should be passed declaring Marat mad. Robert
Lindet, the disquieting creator of that devil-fish whose
head was the Committee of General Surety, and which
covered France with its one-and-twenty thousand arms
called revolutionary committees. Lebanif, upon whom
Girez-Dupr4, in his Christinas of False Patriots, had made
this epigram : " Lehoeuf vit Legendre et heugla."
Thomas Payne, the gentle American;* Anacharsis
Cloots, German, baron, millionaire, atheist; Hebertist, out-
spoken. The upright Lebas, the friend of the Duplays.
Rovere, one of those strange men who are wicked for
wickedness' sake ; for the art, from love of the art,
exists more frequently than people believe. Charlier,
* "Thomas Payne, Araerioain et clement" — "Thomas Payne,
an American and moic'rul." M. Huf>:() here means Tom Paine, tbe
stay-maker and revolutionary Englishman, the author of the Age
of Reason, and Mr. Carlyle's "rebellious needleman." Paine
voted against the death of Louis XVI., was himself denounced,
and escaped the guillotine as by miracle, his door, marked for
his execution, being turned back. So far from being an American,
he hitd returned thence and liad lived for yoiirs in England; he
was born atThetford, in Norffdk, and was nn English busybody, in-
truding in an assembly wiiicli should have been entirely French.
He died in America, and Williiim Cobbett brought his bones to
England. They excited no attention.
wmm
m^a
THE CONVKNTION.
151
who wished thnt "you" shouhl bo omployed in addreas-
in<T aristocrats. Tidlien, pleguic juid ferocious, who will
bring about the 9th Therinidor I'roiri love. Cuuibacore.s, a
lawyer, who will be a ])rinco later. Carrier, an attorney,
who will tiecoine a tiger. Laphuiche, who will one day
crv, " I demand j)riority for the ahirrn-gun." Thuriot,
who desired the vote of tlie Kevolutionary Tribunal to
bo given aloud. Bourdon do I'Oise, who challenged
Chauibon to a duel, denounced Payne, and was himself
'lenounced by Hubert. Fayau, who proposed the send-
ing of "an army of incendiaries" into the Vendee.
Tiivaux, who, on the 13th of April, was almost a mediator
bctwuen the Girondo and the Mountain. Vernier, who
proposed that the chiefs of the Gironde and the Mountain
should be sent to serve as common soldiers. liewbell,
who shut himself up in Mayence. Bourbotte, who had
his horse killed undrr him at the taking of Saumur.
Guimberttau, who directed the army of the Cherbourg
coast. Jarc* Panvilliers, who managed the army of the
coasts of Ilochelle. Lecarpentier, who led the squadron
of Cancale. Eoberjot, for whom the ambush of liastadt
was waiting. Prieur of the Marne, who bore in camp
his old rank of major. Levasseur de la Sarthe, who by
a word decided Serrent, commandant of the battalion of
Saiut-Amand, to kill himself. Eeverchon, Maure, Ber-
nard de Saintes, Charles Ilicliard, Lequinio, and at the
summit of this group, a Mirabeau, who was called
Danton.
Outside the two camps, and keeping both in awe, rose
the man Eobespierre.
»0*
V.
Below crouched Dismay, which may be noble ; and
Fear, which is base. Beneath passions, beneath heroisms,
beneath devotion, beneath rage, was tlie gloomy cohort
of the Anonymous. The shoals of the assembly were
called the Plain. There was everything which floats;
the men who doubt, W'ho hesitate, who recoil, who
adjourn, who wait, each one fearing somebody. The
Jtamtitiim
^Hjgl^H
mmii
tiiiiwi
■ III II m
irtiiiii-iiitili
BUM II— Wl
152
NINETY-THREE.
the Gironde of
The Plain was
Mountain was made up of the Select
the Select ; the Plain was a crowd,
summed up and condensed in Sieyes. -->
Sieves, a profound man, who had grown chimerical.
He had stopped at the Tiers-Erat, and had not been able
to mount u]) to the people. Certain minds are made to
rest halfway. Sieyes called llobespierre a tiger, and
was called a mole by Eobespierre. This metaphysician
had stranded, not on wisdom, but prudence. He waa
the courtier, not the servitor-, of the Kevolution. He
seized a shovel and went with the people to work in the
Champ de Mars ; harnessed to the same cart as Alexander
de Beauharnais. He counselled energy, but never showed
it. He said to the Girondists, " Put the cannon on
your side." There were thinkers who were wrestlers;
those were like Condorcet, with Vergniaud; or, hke
Camille Desmoulius, with Danton. There w^ere thinkers,
whose aim was* to preserve their lives ; such w^ere with
Sieyes. The best working vati? have their lees. Under-
neath the Plain even was the Marsh, a hideous stagna-
tion which exposed to view the transparencies of egotism.
There shivered the fearful in dumb expectation. Notinng
could be more abject. A conglomeration of shames feel-
ing no shame ; hidden rage ; revolt under servitude.
They were afraid in a cynical fashion ; they had all the
desperation of cowardice ; they preferred the Gironde
and chose the Mountain ; the final catastrophe depended
upon them ; they poured toward the successful side ;
they delivered Louis XVI. to Vergniaud, Vergniaud to
Danton, Danton to Eobespierre, Robespierre to Tallien.
They put Marat in the pillory when living, and deified
him when dead. They upheld everything up to the day
when they overturned everything. They had the instinct
to give the decisive push to whatever tottered. In tlieir
eyes — since they had undertaken to serve on condition
that the basis was solid — to waver was to betray them.
They were number; they were force; they were fear.
From thence came the audacity of turpitude.
Thence came May 31st, the 11th Terminal, the 9th
Thermiaor; tragedies knotted by giants and untied by
dwarfs.
mil
THE CONVENTION.
153
. VI.
Among tliese men full of passions were mingled men
filled with dreams. Utopia was there under all its forms :
under its warlike form, which admitted the sca.^old, and
under its innocent form, which would abolish, capital
punishment ; phantom as it faced thrones ; angel as it
regarded the people. Side by side witli tiie spirits that
fought were the spirits that brooded. These had war in
their heads, those peace. One brain, Carnot, brought
forth fourteen armies ; another intellect, Jean Debry,
meditated a universal democratic federation.
Amid this furious eloquence, among these shrieking
and growling voices, there were fruitful silences. Lakanal
remained voiceless, and combined in his thoughts the
system of public national education ; Lanthenas held his
peace, and created the primary schools ; Kevelliei-e Lepeaux
kept still, and dreamed of the elevation of Philosophy to
the dignity of lieligion. Others occupied themselves with
questions of detail, smaller and more practical. Guyton
Morveaux studied means for rendering the hospitals
healthy ; Maire, the abolition of existing servitudes ; Jean
Bon Saint-Andre, the suppression of imprisonment for
deht and constraint of the person ; Romme, the proposi-
tion of Chappe ; Duboi3, the putting the archives in
order; Coren Fustier, the creation of the Cabinet of
Anatomy and the Museum of Natural History ; Guyo-
mard, iver navigation and the damming of the Escaut.
Art had its fanatics and even its monomaniacs. On the
21st of January, while the head of monarchy was falling
on the Place de la llevolution, Bezard, the representa-
tive of the Oise, went to see a picture of Kubens, which
bad been found in a garret in the liue Saiut-Lazare.
Artists, oratorL, prophets, men-giants like Danton, child-
men like Cloots, gladiators, and philosophers, all had the
same goal — Progress. Nothing disconcerted them. The
grandeur of the Convention was, the searcfiing hovv
much reality there is in uhat men call the impossible.
At one extreme, liobespierre had his eye fixed on Law ;
h 'f'--^
mmmmmmmm
154
NINETY-THREE.
at the other, Coiidorcet had his fixed on Duty. Condorcet
was a man of revery and enlightenment ; E-obespierre
was a man of execution ; and sometimes in the final
crises of worn-out orders, execution means extermina-
tion. Revolutions have two currents — an ebb and a
flow ; and on these float all seasons, from that of ice to
flowers. Each zone of these currents produces meu
adapted to its climate, from those who live in the sun to
tiiose who dwell amonfj the tliunderbolts.
—o*-
VII.
People showed each other the recesc of the left-hand
passage, where Robespierre had uttered low in tlio ear of
Garat, Claviere's friend, this terrible epigram, " Claviore
has conspired wherever he has respired." In this same
recess, convenient for words needed ^to be spoken aside
and for h.if-voiced cholers, Fabre d'Eglantine had quar-
relled with Romme and reproached hiin for having
disfigured his calendar by changing Fervidor into Ther-
mido.r. So, too, was sliown the angle wliere, elbow to
elbow, sat the seven representatives of the Haute-Garonne
who, first called to pronounce their verdict upon Louis
XVI., thus responded, one after the other — Maillie,
"Death;" Delmas, "Death;" Projean, "Death;"
Gales, " Death ; " Ayral, " Death ; " Julien, " Death ; "
Desaby, "Death."
/ ^Eternal reverberation, which fills all history, and which,
j since human justice has existed, has always given an echo
\^of the sepulchre to the wall of the tribunal. People
pointed out with their fingers, among that group of
stormy faces, all the men from whose mouths had come
the uproar of tragic notes. Paganel, who said — " Death !
A king is only made useful by death." Millaud, who
said — " To-day, if death did not exist, it would be neces-
sary to invent it." The old Raffbn du Trouillet, who
said — " Speedy death ! " Goupilleau, who cried — " The
THE CONVENTION.
155
scaftbld at once. Delay aggravates dying." Sieyes, who
said, with funereal brevity — " Death." Thuriot, who had
rejected the appeal to the people proposed by Buzot,
"What! The primary assemblies ! "What! Forty-four
thousand tribunals ! A case without limit. The head of
Louis XVI. would have time to whiten before it would
fall" Augustin Bon Eobespierre, who, after his brother,
cried — " I know nothing of the humanity which slaughters
the people and pardons despots. Death ! To demand
a reprieve is to substitute an appeal to tyrants for the
appeal to the people." Foussedoire, the substitute of
Bernardin de Saint- Pierre, who had said — I have a
horror of human bloodshed, but the blood of a king is
not a man's blood. Death ! " Jean Bon Saint-Andre,
who said — " Ko free people without a dead tyrant."
Lavicomterie, who proclaimed this formula — " So long as
the tyrant breathes, Liberty is suflbcated ! Death ! "
Chateauneuf Eandon, who had uttered this cry,
"Death to the last Louis." Guyardin, who had said,
"Let the Barriere Eenversee (the overturned barrier)
be executed." The Barriere Renversee was the Barriere
dii Trone. Tellier, who had said, " Let there be forged,
to aim against the eiiemy, a cannon of the calibre of
Louis XVI.'s head." And the indulgents — Gentil, who
said, "I vote for confinement. To make a Charles I. is
to make a Cromwell." Bancal, who said, "Exile. I want
to see the first king of the earth condemned to a trade
in order to earn his livelihood." Albouys, who said,
"Banishment! Let this living ghost go wander among
tiie thrones." Zangiacomi, who said, "Confinement.
Let us keep Capet alive as a scarecrow." Chaillon, who
said, " Let him live. I do not wish to make a dead man
! of whom Rome will make a saint."
While these sentences fell from those severe lips and
! dispersed themselves one after another into history,
[Women in low-necked dresses and decorated with gems
sat in the tribunes, list in hand, counting the voices and
[pricking each vote with a pin.
Where tragedy entered, horror and pity remain.
To see the Convention, no matter at what period of its
B3Si<:
\
m
156
NINETY-THREE.
reign, was to see anew the trial of the last Capet. The
legend of the 21st of January seemed mingled with all
its acts ; the formidable assembly was full of those fatal
breaths whicli blew upon tlie old torch of monarch}-, that
had burned for eighteen centuries, and extinguished it,
The decisive trials of all kings in that judgment pro-
nounced upon one king was like the point of departure
in the great war made against the Past. AVhatever
might be the sitting of the Convention at which one \m
present, the shadow of Louis XVI.'s scaffold was seen
thrust forward within it. Spectators recounted to one
another the resignation of Kersaint, the resignation of
Roland, Duchatel, the deputy of the ^)eux-Sevres, who
being ill, had himself carried to the Convention on his
bed, and dying voted the king's life, whicli caused Marat
to laugh'; aud they sought with their eyes the repre-
sentative whom history has forgotten, he who, after tliat
session of thirty-seven hours, fell back on his bouch
overcome by fatigue and sleep, and when roused by tlie
usher as his turn to vote arrived, half opened his eyes,
said " Death," and fell asleep again.
At the moment Louis XVI. was condemned to death,
Robespierre had still eighteen months to live ; DantoD,
fifteen months ; Vergniaud, nine months ; Marnt, five
months and three weeks ; Lepelletier Saint-Fargeaii, one
day. Quick and terrible blasts from human mouths !
withi
thou£
iiiterr
the
houoi
by \\
pairs
citizoi
Aubi<
to mai
be pn
Del
hand -
heaps
countr
'
' VIII.
The people had a window opening on the Convention-
tbe public tribunes ; and, when the window was not suffi-
cient, they opened the door, and the street entered the
Assembly. These invasions of the crowd into that senate
make one of the most astounding visions of history.]
Ordinarily those irruptions were amicable. The market-
place fraternised with the curule chair. But it wasaj
formidable cordiality, that of a people who one day tool
loilof
THE CONVENTION.
157
ht it was a
witliin tliree lioiirs the cannon of the Invalidea and forty
thout.i'id 'uuskets besides. At eacli instant a troop
interrupted tlie deliberations ; deputations presented at
the bar petitions, homages, offerings. The pike of
honour of tlie Faubourg Saint-Antoine entered, borne
by women. Certain English offered twenty thousand
pairs of shoes for the naked feet of our soldiers. " The
citizoii Arnoux," announced the 3Ioniteur, " Cure of
Aubignan, Commandant of the Battalion of Drunie, asks
to march to the frontiers, a^d desires that his cur($ may
be preserved to hixii."
Delegates from the Sections arrived, bringing, on
hand-barrows, dishes, patens, chalices, monstrances,
heaps 0^;' gold, silver, and enamel, presented to the
country by this multitude in rags, wiio demanded for
recompense tlie permission to dance the Carmagnole
before tlie Convention. Chenard, Narbonne, and Val-
liere came to sing couplets in honour of the Mountain.
The Section of Mont Blanc brought the bust of Lepel-
ktier, and a woman placed a red cap on the head of the
president, who embraced her. The citizenesses of the
Section of the Mail " flung flowers " to the legislators.
"The |)upils of the country" came, headed by music, to
thank the Convention for having prepared the prosperity
of the century. The women of the Section of the Gardes
Fran^aises offered roses ; the women of the Champs
Elysees Section gave a crown of oak-leaves ; 11 e women
[ of the Section of the Temple came to the bar to swear
"only to unite themselves with true republicans." The
Section of Moliere presented a medal of Franklin, which
j was suspended by decree to the crown of the statue of
Liberty. The Foundlings — declared the Children of the
Republic — filed through, habited in the national uniform.
I The young girls of the Section of Ninety-two arrived in
long white robes, and the Moniteur of the following
morning contained this line — " The president received.
a bouquet from the innocent hands of a young beauty."
The orators saluted the crowds, sometimes flattered
them ; they said to the multitude, " Thou art infallihle ;
mou art irreproachable; thou art sublime." The people
m
ti.
m
I
I'l I i M ii iT -fi-f i n iM Hi ii n i f r-t f"
158
NINETY-THREE.
has an infantile side ; it likes tliose sugar-plums. Some-
times Kiot traversed the Assembly ; entered furious and
withdrew appeased, like the Rhone which traverses Lake
Leman, and is mud when it enters and pure and azure
when it pours out.
Sometimes the crowd was less pacific, and ITenriot
was obliged to come with his " bullet-heaters " to the
entrance of llie Tuileries.
-♦o^
fcH
I
IX.
At the same time that it threw off revolution, tlik
Assembly produced civilisation. Furnace, but forge too,
In this cauldron, where terror bubbled, progress fer-
mented. Out of this chaos of shadow, this tumultuous
flight of clouds, spread immense rays of light ])arallel tn
the eternal law^s. Eays that have remained on tlie
horizon, visible for ever in the heaven of the people*,
and which are, one. Justice ; another, Tolerance ; another
Goodness ; another, Right ; another, Truth ; another
Love. The Convention promulgated this grand axiom;
" The liberty of each citizen ends where the liberty of anoth
citizen coramences ;'' which comprises in two lines al!
human social law. It declared 'ndigence sacred ; it de-
clared infirmity sacred in the blind and the deaf aud
dumb, who became wards of the state ; maternity sacreil
in the girl-mother whom it consoled and lifted up:
infancy sacred in the orphan whom it caused to be
adopted by the country ; innocence sacred in the accud
who w^as acquitted, whom it indemnified. It branded
the slave-trade ; it abolished slavery. It proclaimed
civic joint responsibility. It decreed gratuitous in-
struction. It organized national education by tk
normal school of Paris ; central schools in the chief
towns ; primary schools in the communes. It created
the academies of music and the museums. It decreed
the unity of the Code, the unity of weights and measure?
THE CONVENTION.
159
and tlie unity of calculation by the decimal system. It
cstablislicd the finances of France, and caused public
credit to succeed to the long monarchical bankruptcy.
I? it put the telegraph in operation \ to old age it gave
'endowed almshouses ; to sickness, purified hospitals ;
to instruction, the Polytechnic School ; to science, the
Bureau of Longitudes ; to human intellect, the Institute.
At tlie snme time that it was national it was cosmo-
politan. Of the eleven thousand two hundred and ten
decrees which emanated from the Convention, a third
had a political aim, t wo-thi rds a human aim.
It declared universal morality tlie basis of Society, and
universal conscience the basis of Law. And all that
servitude abolished, fraternity proclaimed, humanity pro-
tected, human conscience rectified, the law of work
transformed into right and from onerous made honour-
able, national riches consolidated, childhood instructed
and raised up, letters and sciences propagated, light illu-
minating all heights, aid to all suflerings, promulgation
of all principle, — the Convention accomplished, having
in its bowels that hydra, the A'"endee, and upon its
shoulders that heap of tigers, the kings.
X.
Stupendous concourse ! All types were there, human,
inhuman, superhuman. Epic gatiiering of antagonisms.
Guillotin avoiding David, Bazire insulting Chabot, Gaudet
mocking Saint- Just, Vergniaud disdaining Danton, Louvet
attacking Robespierre, Buzot denouncing Egalite, Cham-
bon branding Pache, all execrating Marat. And how
many names remain still to be registered ! Armonville,
styled Bonnet Eouge, because he always attended the
sittings in a Phrygian cap, a friend of Robespierre, and
wisliing, "after Louis XVL, to guillotine Robespierre
in order to restore an equilibrium." Massieu, colleague
and counterpart of that good Lamourette, a bishop
*
mm
dHIIU<
160
NINETY-THREE.
'•til
destined to leave his name to a kisa. Leliardy du Mor-
bihan, stigmatiHing the priests of Brittany ; Barere, the
man of majorities, who presided when Louis XVI. ap-
peared at the bar, and who was to Pamela what Loiivet
was to Lodoiska ; the Oratorian Daunou, who said,
"Let us gain time;" Dubois Crance, close to wliose ear
leant Marat ; the Marquis de Chateauneuf, Laclos,
Herault de Sechelles, who recoiled before Ilenriot,
crying, " Gunners, to your pieces ! " Julien, who com-
pared the Mountain to Tliermopyla) ; Gamon, who desired
a public tribune reserved solely for women ; Laloy, who
adjudged the honours of the seance to tlie Bishop Gobel
coming into the Convention to lay down his mitre and
put on the red cap ; Lecomte, who exclaimed, " So the
honours are for whosoever will unfrock himself! "
Feraud, whose head Boissy d' Anglas saluted, leaving
this question to history, " Did Boissy d' Anglais isalute
the head, tliat is to say the victim, or the pike, that is to
say, the assassins?" The two brothers Duprat, one a
member of the Mountain, the other of the Gironde, who
hated each other like the two brothers Chenier.
At this tribune were uttered those mysterious words
which sometimes possess unconsciously to those who
pronounce them the prophetic accent of revolutions,
and in whose wake material facts appear suddenly to
assume an inexplicable discontent and passion, as if they
had taken umbrage at the things just heard ; events
seem angered by words ; catastrophes follow furious, and
as if exasperated by the speech of men. Thus a voice
upon a mountain suffices to set the avalanche in motion.
A word too much may be followed by a landslip. If
no one had spoken, the catastrophe would not have
happened. You might say sometimes that events are
irascible.
It was thus, by the hazard of an orator's ill-compre-
hended word, that Madame Elizabeth's head fell. At
the Convention intemperance of language was a right.
Threats flew about and crossed one another like sparks
in a conflagration.
Petion: " Robespierre, come to the point."
THE CONVENTION.
IGl
Bohespierre : " The point la yourself, Potion, I shall
come to it, and you will see it."
A voice : " Death to Marat."
Marat : " The d:iy Marat dies tliere will be no more
Paris, anrl the day that Pai*^ expires there will be no
lousier a Republic."
r>illaud Varennes rises, and savs, " We wish "
Barore interrupts hiiu : " Thou speakest like a
lilll!^.
Another day, Philippeaux says, " A member has drawn
his aword upon me."
Aiidmin : " President, call the assassin to order,"
The President : " Wait."
Panls : " President, I call you to order, I ! "
TluM'e was rude laughter moreover.
Lecointre : " The cure of Chant de Bout complains of
Faiichet, his bishop, who forbids his marrying."
A voice : "I do not see why Faucliet, wiio has mis-
tresses, slinuld wish to hinder others from havinji wives."
A second voice : " Priest, take a wife ! "
The galleries joined in the conversation. They said
'•thee" and "thou" to the members. One day the
representative Euamps mounted to the tribune. He
liad one hip very mucli larger than the other. A spec-
tator, crying out, thus jeered him : " Turn that toward the
liJDjht, since thou hast a cheek a la David"
8uch were the liberties the people took with the
Convention.
On one occasion, however, during the tumult of the
Uth of April, 1793, the president commanded a dis-
orderly person in the tribunes to be arrested.
One day wlien the session had for witness the old
Buonarotti, Eobespierre t^kes the floor and speaks for
two hours, staging at Danton, sometimes straight in the
tace, which was serious, sometimes obliquely, which was
worse. He thunders on to the end, however. He closes
with an indignant outburst full of menacing words.
"The conspirators are known; the corrupters and the
j corrupted are known ; the traitors are known ; they are
ill this assembly. They hear us; we see them tmd we
162
NINETY-THREE.
do not move our eyes from them. Let them look above
their licads, and they will see the sword of the law ; let
them look into their conscience, and thev will see tlicir
own infamy. Let tliem bew^are." And, when llobes-
])ierro lias finished, Danton, with his face raised toward
the ceiling, his eyes half-closed, one arm hang'ing looaeiy
down, throws himself back in his seat, and is heard to
hum —
** Cudet Ilnussel fait des discours,
Qui ne sont pas longs quniid ild sont courts." *
Imprecations followed one anotlier. Conspirator!
Assassin ! Scoundrel ! Factionist ! Moderate ! They
denounced each other to the bust of Brutus that stood
there. Apostrophes, insults, challenges. Furious
glances from one side to the otlier ; fists shaken ;
pistols allowed to be seen ; poignards half-drawn.
Terrible blazing forth in the tribune. Certain persons
talked as if they were driven back against the guillotine.
Heads wavered, frightened and awed. Mountainists,
Girondists, Feuillantists, Moderates, Terrorists, Jacobins,
Cordeliers, eighteen regicide priests.
All these men, a mass of vapours driven wildly in
every direction.
XL
Spirits which were a prey of tlie wind.
But this was a miracle-working wind. To be a mem-
ber of the Convention was to be a wave of the ocean.
This was true even of the greatest there. Tlio force of
impulsion came from on high. There was a Will in tlie
Convention which was that of all and yet not that of any
one person. This Will was an Idea, an idea indomitable
and immeasurable, which swept from the summit of
* " Cadet Roussel doth make his speecli
Quite short when it no length doth reacli."
TUE CONVENTTON.
163
IIoavcTi into tlie dnrknoss below. AVe call this Eevolution.
When tliat idea i)as!se(l, it beat down one and raised up
another : it seattered this man into foam and dashed that
one upon the reefs. This idea knew whither it was
{Toing, and drove tlie whirlpool before it. To ascribe the
Uevohition to men is to ascribe the tide to the waves.
The Kevolution is a work of the Uidcnown. Call it
pood or bad, aceordinsj as j'ou yearn toward the future
or the past, but leave it to tlie Power which caused it.
It seems the joint work of grand events and grand
individualities mingled, but it is iu reality the result of
events. Events dispense ; men suffer. Events dictate ;
men sign. Tiie 14th of July is signed Caniille Des-
jnoulins ; the 10th of August is signed Danton ; tlie 2nd
of September is signed IMarat ; the 21st of September is
sisued Gregoire ; the 21st of January is signed Robes-
pierre ; but Desmoulins, IJanton, Marat, Gregoire, and
Kobespierre are mere scribes. The great and mysterious
writer of these grand pages has a name — God; and a
mask — Destiny. Kobespierre believed in God — yea,
verily !
The Revolution is a form of the eternal phenomenon
wliicli presses upon us from every quarter, and which we
call Necessity.
Before this mysterious complication of benefits and
euU'rrings arises thu Wherefore of History.
Because — Tliis iinswer of him who knows nothing is
equally the response of him who knows all.
Id presence of these climacteric catastrophes which
devastate and revivify Civilisation, one hesitates to judge
tlieir details. To blame or praise men on account of
the result is almost like ])raising or blaming cyphers on
account of the total. That which ought to happen
happens ; the blast which ought to blow blows. The
Eternal Serenity does not sufier from these north winds.
Above revolutions Truth and Justice remain as the starry
sky lies above and beyond tempests.
M 2
J t
,l;«l
1G4
NINKTY-TIiriEK.
'l!#
4
XII.
Such was this unineasiired and ininioasurable Convonlioii ;
a camp cut oil' from the luimau ra('(>, attacked by all the
powers ot'darkneHH at once ; the ni<i;ht-lires of the besieged
army of Ideas ; a vaat bivouac of Minds upon the edji^e ol'
a precipice. There is nothing in history comparable to
tliis group, at the same time senate and populace ; con-
clave and street-crossing; Areopagus and public square;
tribunal and the accused.
The Convention always bent to the wind; but tliat
wind came from the mouth of the people and was the
breath of God. And to-day, after eighty-four years have
passed away, always when the Convention presents itself
before the rellection of any man, whosoevei he may be,
liistorian or philosopher, that man pauses and meditates.
It would be impossible not to remain thoughtfully atten-
tive before this grand procession of shadows.
XIII. — Marat in the Green-room.
Marat, in accordance with his declaration to Simonnc
Evrard, went to the Convention on the morning after
that interview in the B-ue du Paon.
There was in the Convention a marquis who was ;i
jMaratist, Louis de Montaut, the same who afterwards
presented to the Convention a decimal clock surmounted
by the bust of Marat.
At the moment Marat entered, Chabot had approached
De Montaut. He began : " Ci-devant "
Montaut raised his eyes. " Why do you call me
ci-devant ? "
" Because you are so."
"I?"
" For you were a marquis."
" Xever.*'
MARAT IN THE GUEEN-IIOOM.
165
million ;
all thf
esieged
e(1<i;e of
•able to
3 ; 0011-
squiire ;
lilt that
was the
ars luivi'
its itself
may be,
editates.
ly attcn-
iSiinoniK'
v)'^^ after
|io was a
"terwards
[mounted
Iproached
call me
"Bah!"
" My father was a soldier ; my grandfather was a
weaver."
" W liat song is that you are singing, Montaut ? "
*' T do not call myaelf Montaut."
*' What do you call yourself theu? "
"Maribuu."
" lu point of fact," said Chabot," " it is all the same to
me." And he added, b(!t\veen his teeth, " No marquis
oil any terms,"
Marat paused in the corridor to the left and watched
Montaut and Chabot.
Whenever Marat entered, there was a bu. z, but afar
from liim. About him people kept silence. Marat paid
no attention thereto. He disdained " the croaking of
the mud-pool."
Ill the gloomy obscurity of the lower row of seats,
Coii])6 do rOise, Prunelle, Villars, a bishop who was after-
wards a member of the French Academy, Boutroue,
Petit, Plaichard, Bonet, Thibeaudeau, and Valdruche,
j)oiiited hiin out to one another.
" See, Marat ! " '
" Then he is not ill ? "
" Yes, for he is here in a dressing-gown."
" In a dressing-gown ! " ,
" Zounds, yes ! "
" He takes liberties enough ! "
" He dares to come like that into the Convention ! "
" As he came one day crowned with laurels, he may
certainly come in a dressing-gown."
" Face of brass and teeth of verdigris."
" His dressing-gown looks new."
"What is it made of?"
"Keps." .
"Striped."
" Look at the lapels."
"They are fur."
"Tiger skin." .:.. J^ • .-: :
" No; ermine."
" Imitation."
mm
166
VINETY-THREE.
" He has stockings ou ! "
" That is r Id."
" And shoes with buckles ! "
" Of silver ! "
" Camboulas's sabots will not pardon that."
People in other seats aft'ected not to see Marat. They
talked of indifferent matters. Santliouax accosted Dus-
saulx. " Have you heard, Dussaulx ? "
-What?"
" The ci-devant Count de Brienne ? "
" Who was in La Force with the ci-devant Duke de
Villeroj?"
" Yes."
" I kiiew them both. Well?"
" They w- ere so horribly frightened that they saluted all
the red caps of all the turnkeys, and one day they recused
to play a game of piquet because somebody offered ^cm
cards that had kings and queens among them."
"Well?'
" They were guillotined yesterday."
" The two of them ? "
" Both."
" Indeed ; how had they behaved in prison ? "
" As cowards."
" And how did they show on the scaffold ? "
" Intrepid."
Then D ussaul x ejacuk ted, " It is easier to die than tolive !"
Barere was readinj* r* rr,.jrt; it was in regard to the
Vendee. Nine hundred men of Morbihan had started
witli cannon to assist Nantes, lledon was menaced by
the peasants. Paimboeuf had been attacked. A fleet
was cruising about Maindrin to prevent invasions. Fi-oiu
Ingrande, as far as Maure, the entire left bank of the
Loire was bristling with lioyalist batteries. Three thou-
sand peasants were masters of Pornic. ' They cried, " Loiig
live the English ! " A letter from Snnterre to the Conveu-
tion, which Barerewas re.^ding, ended with these words:
" Seven thousand pea^^aats attac'ced Vanues. We
repulsed !:heni, and they have left m our hands four
cannon " — — ■
.■■^:
MARAT IN THE GR:3EN-R00M.
167
ufc Duke de
" And how many prisoners? " interrupted a voice.
Barere continued : " Postscript of the letter. ' We
have no prisoners, because \\& no longer make any.' " *
Marat, standing motionless, did not listen ; he ap-
peared absorbed by a stern preoccupation. He held
in iiis hand a paper, which he crumpled between his
lingers ; had anyone unfolded it, he might have read
these lines in Momoro's writing — probably a response
to some qi'3stiou he had been asked by Marat —
"No opposition can be offered to the full powers of
delegated commissioners, above all, those of the Commit-
tee of Public Safety. Geuissieux said, in the sitting of
May 6th, ' Each Commissioner is more than a king ; ' it
had no effect. Life and death are in their hands. Massade
to Angers; Trullard to Saint- Amand ; Ny on near General
Maree ; Parreiu to the army of Sables ; Millier to the army
of Niort ; they are all-powerful. The Club of the Jacobins
has njone so far as to name Parrein brigadier-general.
The circumstances excusa everything. A delegate from
the Committee of Public Safety holds in check a com-
mander-in-chief."
Marat ceased crumpling the paper, put it in his pocket,
and walked slowly toward Montaut and Chabot, who con-
tinued to converse, and had not seen him enter.
Chabot was saying : " Maribon, or Montaut, listen to
this : I have just come from the Committee of Public
Sai'oty."
" And what is being done there ? "
" They are setting a priest to watch a noble."
" Ah ! "
" A noble like yourself "
" I am not a noble," interrupted Montaut.
" To be watched by a priest "
" Like you."
'^ I am not a priest," said Chabot.
They both began to laugh.
" Make your story explici^^/' resumed Montaut.
"Here it is, then. A priest named Cimourdain is
■¥/
%
* Moniteur, h. xix. p. 81.
ttC
168
NINETY-THREE.
delegated with full powers to a viscount named Gauvain ,
this viscount commands the exploring column of tho
army of the coast. The question will be to keep the
nobleman from trickery and the priest from treason."
"It is very simple," replied Montaut. "It is oulv
necessary to bring death into the matter."
" I come for that," said Marat.
The}-- looked up.
" Good morning, IMarat," said Chabot. " You rarely
attend our meetings."
" j\Iv doctor has ordered me baths," answered Marat.
" One should beware of baths," returned Chabot.
" Seneca died in one."
Marat smiled.
" Ciiabot, there is no Nero here."
" Yes, there is you," said a rude voice.
It was Danton who passed and ascended to his seat.
Marat did not turn round. He thrust his head in
between Montaut and Chabot.
" Listen ; I come about a serious matter ; one of us
three must propose to-day the draft of a decree to the
Convention."
" Not I," said Montaut ; " I am never listened to.
I am z„ marquis."
" And I," said Chabot, " I am not listened to. I am
a Capuchin."
" And I," said Marat, " I am not listened to. I am
Marat."
There was a silence among them.
It was not safe to interrogate Marat when he appeared
preoccupied, still Montaut hazarded a question.
"Marat, what is the decree that you wish pass^ d?"
" A decree to punish with death any military chief
wlu) allow^s a rebel prisoner to escape."
Chabot interrupted : " The decree exists ; it was
passed in April."
*' Then it is just the same a«( if it did not exist," said
Marat. "Everywhere, all th'ough Vendee, anybody
who chooses helps ppsoners to '.escape and gives them au
asylum with impunity."
MARAT IN THE GREEN-ROOM.
1G9
"Marat, the fact is the decree has fallen into disuse."
'• Cliabot, it must be put into force auew."
- AVithout doubt."
" And to do that the Convention must be addressed."
'• Marat, the Convention is not necessary ; the Com-
iuitte{> of Public Safety will suffice."
"The end will be gained," added Montaut, "if the
Committee of Public Safety cause the decree to be pla-
carded in all the communes of the Vendee, and make two
or three good examples."
"Of men in high position," retiu-ned Cbabot ; "of
generals."
Marat grumbled : " In fact, that will answer."
" Marat," resumed Chabot, " go yourself and say that
to the Committee of Public Safety."
Marat stared straight into his eyes, which was not
pleasant, even for Chabot.
"The Committee of Public Safety," said he, "sits iu
Robespierre's house — I do not go there."
" I will go myself," said Montaut.
" Good," said Marat.
The next morning an order from the Committee of
i'liblic Safety was sent iu all directions among the towns
and villages of Vendee, enjoining the publication and
strict execution of the decree of death against any person
eoiniiving at the escape of brigands and captive insur-
<,'ents. This decree proved only a first step ; the Con-
vention was to go further than that. A few months
later, the 11th Brumaire, Year II. (November 1793),
when Laval opened its gates to the Vendean fugitives,
the Convention .ecreed that any city giving asylum to
the rebels should be demolislied and destroyed. On
their side, the princes of Europe, in the manifesto of the
Duke of Brunswick, conceived by the emigrants and
ili'awn up by the Marquis de Linnon, intendant of the
Duke of Oi'leans, had declared that every Prerchman
taken wi!-h arms in his hand should be shot, and that, if
a hair of the king's head fell, Paris should be razed to the
ground.
Cruelty against barbarity.
170
NINETY-THREE.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
I. —The Forests.
There were at tliat time seven ill-famed forests in Brit-
tany. The Yendean war was a revolt of priests. This
revolt had the forests as auxiliaries. These spirits of
darkness aid one another.
The seven Black Forests of Brittany were — The forest
of Fougeres, whicli stopped the way between Dol and
Avrauehes ; the forest of Prince, which was eight leagues
in circumference ; the forest of Paimpol, full ot" ravines
and brooks, almost inaccessible on the side toward
Baignon, with an easy retreat upon Concornel, which
was a royalist town ; the forest of Rennes, from whence
could be lieard the tocsin of the republican parishes—
always numerous in the neighbourhood of the cities,— it
was in this forest that Puysage lost Focard ; the forest
of Machecouh which had Charette for its wild beast ; the
forest of Garnache, which belonged to the Tremouilles,
the Gauvains, and the Rolians ; and the forest of Bro-
celiande, which belonged to the fairies.
One gentleman of Brittany bore the title of Lord of
the Seven Forests ; this was the Viscount de Fontenaj,
Breton prince. For the Breton prince existed distinct
from the French prince. The liohans were Breton
princes. Garnier de Saintes, in his report to the Con-
vention of the 15th Nivose, Tear IL, thus distinguishes
the Prince de Talmont : " This Capet of the brigands,
Sovereign of Maine and of Normandy." Tlie record of
the Breton forests, from 1792 to 1800, would form ^
history of itself, mingling lii^e a legend with the vast uu-
dertaklng of the Vendee.
History has its truth : Legend has hers. Legendary
truth is wholly different from historic. Legendary truth
is inve :tiou that has reality for a result. Still history
THE FORESTS.
171
and legend have the same aim, that of depicting the
external type of humanity.
The Vendee can only be completely nnderstood by
adding legend to history ; the latter is needed to describe
its entirety, the former the details.
AVe may say, too, that the Vendee is worth the pains.
The Vendee was a prodigy.
This war of the Ignorant, so stupid and so splendid,
so abject yet magnificent, was at once the desolation
and the pride of France. The Vendee is a wound which
is lit the same time a glory.
At certain crises human society has its enio^mas ;
enigmas which resolve themselves into light for sages,
but which the ignorant in their darkness translate into
violence and barbarism. The pliilosopher is slow to ac-
cuse. He takes into consideration the agitation caused
by tliese problems which cannot pass without casting
about them shadows dark as those of the storm-cloud.
If one wishes to comprehend the Vendee, one must
picture to oneself this antagonism : on one side the
French Revolution, on the other the Breton peasant.
In face of these unparalleled events — an immense promise
of all benefits at once — a fit of rage for civilisation — an
excess of maddened progress — an improvement that ex-
ceeded measure and comprehension-^-must be placed this
gravp, strange, savage man, with an eagle glance and
tlounig hair, living on milk and chestnuts, his ideas
bounded by his thatched roof, his hedge, and his ditch,
able to distinguish the sound of each village bell in the
neighbourhood, using water only to drink, wearing a
leather jacket covered wit^'. silken arabesques — uncul-
tivated but clad embroidered — tattooing his garments as
his ancestors the Celts had tattooed their faces, looking up
to a master in his executioner, speaking a dead language,
which was like forcing his thoughts to dwell in a tomb;
driving his bullocks, sharpening his scythe, winnowing
his black grain, kneading his buckwheat biscuit, vene-
rating his plough first, his grandmotner iicxt, believing in
tlie Blessed Virgin and the White Lady, devoted to the
altar but also to the lofty mysterious stone standing in
m
172
NINETY-THREE.
tho midst of tlio moor; a labourer in the plain, a fisher
on the coast, a poacher in the thicket, loving his kings,
his lords, his ])riests, his very lice ; pensive, often im-
movable for entire hours upon the great deserted sea-
shore, a raelanciioly listener to the sea.
Tlien ask yourself if it would liave been possible for
tliis blind man to welcome that lijiht.
,' 1
1, ; i
II. — The Peasants.
The peasant had two points on which he leant; the field
which uourisiied hiui, the wood which concealed him.
It is dilHcult to picture to oneself what those Breton
forests really were ; they were towns. Kothing could be
more secret, more silent, and more savage, than those
inextricable entanglements of thorns and branches ; those
vast thickets were tlie home of immobility and silence;
no solitude could present an appearance more death-like
and sepulchral; yet if it had been possible to fell those
trees at one blow, as by a flash of lightning, a swarm of
men would have stood revealed in those shades. There
were wells, round and narrow, masked by coverings of
stones and branches, the interior at first vertical, then
horizontal, spreading out underground like funnels, and
ending in dark chambers ; Cambyses found such in Egypt,
and Westermann found the same in Brittany. There
they were found in the desert, here in the forest ; the
caves of Egypt held dead men, the caves of Brittany were
filled w^ith the living. One of the wildest glades of the
wood of Misdon, perforated by galleries and cells amid
which came and went a mysterious society , was called
" tlie great city." Auotlier glade, not less deserted above
ground and not less inhabited beneath, w-as styled "the
place royai." This subterranean life had existed in Brit-
tany from time immemorial. From the earliest days man
had there hidden flying from man. Hence those hiding-
places, like the dens of reptiles, hollowed out below the
2 .AiuMiai*^
THE PEASANTS.
173
trees. They dated from the era of the Druids, and cer-
tain of those crypts were as ancient as tlie cromlechs.
Tlie larvte of legend and tlie monsters of history all
passed across that shadowy land. Teutntcs, Ca\sar, lloei,
Xoriienes, Geoffry of Eiij^land, Alain of the iron glove,
Pierre jNianclerc, the l^rench house of Blois, the English
house of Montfort, kings and dukes, the nine barons of
Brittany, the judges of the Great Days, the Comte of
Xantes contesting with tlie Counts of liennes, highway-
men, banditti, Free Lances, Kene IL, Viscount de Eohan,
the governors for the King, " tlie good Duke of Chaul-
iies," aiming at the peasants under the windows of Madame
(le Sevigne ; in the fifteenth century, the butcheries by
the nobles ; in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,
the wars of religion ; in the eighteenth century, the tliirty
thonsand dogs trained to hunt men ; beneatii these piti-
less tramplings the inhabitants made up their minds to
disappear. Each in turn — tlie Troglodytes to escape the
Celts, the Celts to escape the Pomans, the Bretons to
escape the Normans, the Huguenots to escape the Roman
Catholics, the smugglers to escape the excise-officers —
tock refuge first in the forests and then underground. The
retmrce of hunted animals. It is this to which tyranny
reuuees nations. During two thousand years despotism
under all its forms, conquest, feudality, fanaticism, taxes,
beset this wretched, distracted Brittany ; a sort of in-
exorable battue, which only ceased under one shape to re-
commence under anotlier. Men hifl underground. AVhen
the i^'rench llepublic burst fortl Terror, w^hich is a
species of rage, was already latent i human souls, and
when the lleiDublic burst forth, the dens v»'ere ready in
the woodp. Brittany revolted, finding itself oppressed
bv tills forced deliverance — a mistake natural to slaves.
Mm
174
NINETY-TIIEEE.
m
.Wi'i
III. — Connivance of Men and Forests.
The gloomy Breton forests took up anew their ancient roli'.
and were the servants and accornpHces of this rebellion,
as they had been of all others. The sub-soil of every
forest was a sort of madrepore, pierced and traversed in
all directions by a secret highway of mines, cells, and
galleries. Each one of these blind cells could shelter fivf
or six men. There are in existence certain strange lists
which enable one to understand the powerful organiza-
tion of that vast peasant rebellion. In Ille-ct-Vilaine, in
the forest of Pertre, the refuge of the Prince de Talmont.
not a breath was to be heard, not a human trace to be
found, yet there were collected six thousand men under
Focard. In the forest of Meulac, in Morbihan, not a soul
was to be seen, yet it held eight thousand men. Still,
these two forests, Pertre and Meulac, do not count among
the great Breton forests. If one trod there, the explosion
was terrible^ Those hypocritical copses, filled with hghters^
■"w-aTtnig in a sort of underground labyrinth, were like
enormous black sponges, whence, under the pressure ot',
the. gigantic foot of Eevolution, civil war spurted out.^
"^^ Invisible battalions lay there in wait. These uutrack-
able armies wound along beneath the Republican troops ;
burst suddenly forth from the earth and sank into it again,
sprang up in numberless force and vanished at will, gifted
with a strange ubiquity and power of disappearance; an
avalanche at one instant, gone like a cloud of dust at the
next ; colossal, yet able to become pigmies at will ; giants
in battle, dwarfs in ability to conceal themselves — -jaguars
with the habits of moles.
There were not only the forests, there were the woods.
Just as below cities there are villages, below these forests
there were vvoods and underwoods.
The forests were united by the labyrinths (everywhere
scattered) of the woods. The ancient castles, w'hich were
fortresses, the hamlets, which were camps, the farms,
which were inclosures for ambushes and snares, traversed
'^l,v'.%f.'!T'',
CONNIVANCE OF 31EN AND FORESTS.
175
bv ditches and palisaded by trens, were the m9s])es of
the net in wliich the Kepublican armies were caught.
This \vhoh> formed wliat was called the Bocage.
'" There was the wood of Misdon, which had a pond in
il3 centre; -md which was lieUl hy^^pHLXlliQUMi '^ there
was tlie wood of Gennes, which l)elon«2;ed to Taillefer ;
there was the wood of Iluisserie, which belonsjed to
Goiige-le-Brnant ; the wood of Charnie, where lurked
Court ilk'-le-T3atard, called Saint Paul, chief of the camp
of the Vache Noire ; the wood of Jiurrjault, wdiich was
held by that enigmatical Monsieur Jaques, reserved
for a mysterious end in the vault of Juvardeil ; there
was the wood of Charreau, where Pimousse and Petit-
Prince, when attacked by the garrison of Cljateauneuf,
rushed forward and seized the grenadiers in the re-
puhlican ranks about the waist and carried them back
prisoners ; tlie wood of La llenreusine, the witness
of the rout of the military post of Longue-Faze ; the
wood of Aulne, wdienee the route between Rennes and
Laval could be overlooked ; the wood of La Travalle,
which a prince of La Tremouille had won at a game of
bowls ; the wood of Lorges, in the Colis-du-Xord, where
Charles de Boishardy reigned after Bernard de V illeneuve ;
the wood of Baynard,. near Pontenay, wliere Lescure
oftered battle to Chalbos, who accepted the challenge,
although one against five; the v/ood of Iia Durondais,
which in old days had been disputed by Alain le Pedru
and Ilerispoux, the son of Charles the Bold ; the wood of
Croqueloup, upon the edge of that moor where Coquereau
sheared the prisoners ; the wood of Croix-Bataille, which
witnessed the Homeric insults of Jambe d'Argent to
Moriere, and of Moriere to Jambe d'Argent ; the wood
(if La Sandraie, which we hiive seen being searched by a
Paris regiment. There were many others besides. In
several of these forests and woods there were not only
subterranean villages grouped about the burrow of the
chief, but also actual hamlets of low huts, hidden under
the trees, sometimes so numerous that the forest was
filled with them. Frequently they were betrayed by the
smoke. Two of these hamlets of the wood of Misdon have
■i J W«fc.i - iM ^ mt-mm^i^M^Mdlmmm^
17G
NINETY-THUEE.
fiff
remained famous ; Lorrierc, near the pond, and the crroup
of cabins called theKue de Bau, on the side toward .Saiiit-
Ouen-les-Torts.
The women lived in the huts, and the men in the cellars.
In carryiu!]^ on the war, they nlilistd the <j;alleries of the
fairies and the old Celtic mines. Food was carried to tlu;
buried men. Some were forgotten and died of hiuirrer;
but these were awkward fellows who had not known how-
to open the mouth of their wxdl. Usually the cover,
made of moss and branches, was so artistically fashioned
that although impossible on the outside to distingiiisli
from the surrouniling turt, it was very easy to open and
close on the inside. These hiding-pliu'es were du^r with
care. The earth taken out of the well was Hung into
some neighbouring pond. The sides and the bottom wore
Diii'peled vviLii fernsi alld tnoss. — These nooks" v\H3re"cIiTre^"
" h)dges." The men were as comfortable there as could
be expected, considering thatlliey laclved_ light, tire, bread,
and air.
Tt was a difllcult matter to unbiiry themselves and
come up among the living without great precaution. Thfv
might tind themselves between the legs of an army on the
march. These were formidable woods ; snares witii ii
double trap. The Blues dared not enter, the AVhites
dared not come out.
-*>•-
IV. — Life Underground.
The men gre w weary of their wild-beast lairs. Sometimes
in the night they came forth at any risk, and went to
dance upon the neighbouring moor, else thev prayed, iu
order to kill time. "Every day," says Bourdoiseau,
" Jean Chouan made us count our rosaries."
It was almost impossible to keep those of the Bas-
Maine from going out for the Fete de la Gerbe, when the
season came. Some of them had ideas peculiar to them-
selves. " Denys," says Eranche Montague, " disguised
LIFE UNDERGROUND.
177
liimself as a woman, in order to go to the theatre at Laval,
then went back into his hole."
Siuldenly they would rush forth in search of death ;
excliaiiging the dungeon for the sepulchre.
Soinetimea they raised the cover of their trench, and
listened to hear if there was fighting in the distance ;
they followed the combat with their ears. The firing of
the republicans was regular; the firing of the royalists
open and dropping; this guided them. If the platoon-
firing ceased suddenly, it was a sign that the royalists
were defeated ; if the irregular firing continued, and
retreated towards the horizon, it was a sign that they
had the advantage. The Whites always pursued; the
Blues never, because they had the country against them.
Tiiese underground belligerents were kept perfectly
informed of what was going on. Nothing could be more
rapid, nothing more mysterious, than their means of com-
munication. They had cut all the bridges, broken up all
the waggons, yet they found means to tell each other
everything, to give each other timely warning. Relays
of emissaries were establislied from forest to forest, from
village to village, from farm to iiirm, from cottage to
cottage, from bush to bush. A peasant with a stu])id air
passed by ; — he carried despatches in his hollow stick.
A former constituent, Boetidoux, furnished them,
to pass from one end of Brittany to the other, with
republican passports according to the new form, with
blanks for the names, of which this traitor had bundles.
It was impossible to discover these emissaries. Puysage
says : " The secrets confided to more than four hundred
thousand individuals were religiously guarded."
It appeared that this quadrilateral, closed on the south
by the line of the Sables to Thenars, on the east by the
line of Thouara to Saumur and the river of Thoue, on
the north by the Loire, and on the west by the ocean,
possessed everywhere the same nervous activity, and not
a single point of this soil could stir without shaking the
whole. In the twinkling of an eye LuQon had informa-
tion in regard to Noirmoutier, and the camp of La Loue
knew what the camp of Croix-Morineau was doing. It
N
%..
.►i,^ ^a
.^^. %%^
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-S)
/.
//
6?^
y
iv ^/-
/^/
%
^
1.0
I.I
1.25
1111=
U III 1.6
.^3
yf
'm
/y
(P3
/
/
Of^^
//a
Photographic
Sciences
Corporation
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, NY. 14S80
(716) 872-4b03
e^
s%^
V
\
\
^9)
V
■^?
<*.
<x
^;
rv
^
C<P<
Q-
^^
=9B
iiij
II I
178
NINETY-THREE.
seemed as if the very birds of the air carried tidingg.
The 7th Messidor, Tear III., Hoche wrote : *' One might
bielieve that they have telegraphs."
They were in clans, as in Scotland. Each parish had
its captain. In that war my father fought, and I can
speak advisedly thereof.
»o»
V. — Their Life in Warfare.
Many of them were only armed with pikes. Good
fowling-pieces were abundant. No marksmen could be
more expert than the poachers of the Bocage and the
smugglers of the Loroux. They were strange com-
batants — terrible and intrepid. The decree for the levy
of three hundred thousand men had been the signal for
the tocsin to sound in six hundred villages. The blaze
of the conflagration burst forth in all quarters at the
same time. Poitou and Anjou exploded on one day.
Let us add that a premonitory rumbling had made itself
heard on the moor of Kerbader upon the 8th of July,
1792, a month before the 10th of August. Alain Eedeler,
to-day forgotten, was the precursor of La E/Ochejacquelein
and Jean Chouan. The royalists forced all able-bodied
men to march under pain of death. They requisitioned
harnesses, carts, and provisions. At once Sapinaud had
three thousand soldiers, Cathelineau ten thousand, Stofflet
twenty thousand, and Charette was master of Noirinoutier.
The Viscount de Scepeaux roused the Haut Anjou ; the
Chevalier de Dienzie, the approaches of Vilaine et Loire;
Tristan I'Hermit, the Bas-Maine ; the barber Gaston, the
city of Guemenee ; and Abbe Bernier all the rest. It
needed but little to rouse all those multitudes. In the
altar of a sworn priest — a "priest swearer," as the
people said — was placed a great black cat, which sprang
suddenly out during mass. "It is the devil ! " cried the
peasants, and a whole canton rose in revolt. A breath
of fire issued from the confessionals. In order to attack
the Blues and to leap the ravines, they had their poles
fifteen feet in length, called ferte, an arm available for
combat and for flight. In the thickest of the frays, when
THEIR LIFE IN WARFARE.
179
the peasants were attacking the republican squares, if
they chanced to meet upon the battle-field a cross or
a chapel, all fell upon their knees and said a prayer
under the enemy's fire ; the rosary counted, such as were
still living sprang up again and rushed upon the foe.
Alas, what giants ! They loaded their guns as they ran ;
that was their peculiar talent. They were made to
believe whatever their leaders chose. The priests showed
them other priests whose necks had been reddened by
means of a cord, and said to them, " These are the
guillotined who have been brought back to life." Tliey
had their spasms of chivalry : they honoured Fesque, a
republican standard-bearer, who aliawed himself to be
sabred without his losing hold of his flag. The peasants
had a vein of mockery : they called the republican and
married priests " des sans-calottes devenus sans-culottea "
("the un-tonsured become the un-hreeched").
They began by being afraid of the cannon, then they
dashed forward with their sticks and toolt them. They
captured first a fine bronze cannon, which they baptized
" The Missionary ;" then another which dated from the
Roman Catholic wars, upon which were engraved the
arms of Richelieu and a head of the Virgin; this
they named " Marie Jeanne." When they lost Fon-
tenay, they lost Marie Jeanne, about which six hun-
dred peasants fell without flinching ; then they retook
Fontenay in order to recover Marie Jeanne : they brought
it back beneath a fleur-de-lys-embroidered banner and,
covered with flowers, forced the women who passed to
kiss it. But two cannons were a small store. Stofflet
had taken Marie Jeanne ; Cathelineau, jealous of his
success, started out of Pin-en-Mange, assaulted Jallais,
and captured a third. Forest attacked Saint-Florent
and took a fourth. Two other captains, Choupee and
Saint-Pol, did better; they simulated cannons by the
trunks of trees, gunners by mannikins, and with this
artillery, about which they laughed heartily, made the
Blues retreat to Mareuil. This was their great era.
* La calotte noire is the black cap of a priest ; b . . the anti-
thesis perhaps requires the above rendering.
N 2
m
i
!SSf!
180
NINETY-THREE.
Later, when Clialbos routed La Massoniere, the peasants
left behind them on the dishonoured field of battle
thirty-two cannon bearing the arms of England. Eng-
land at that time paid the French princes, and, as Nan-
tial wrote on the 10th of May, 1794, "sent funds to
Monseigueur, because Pitt had been told that it was
proper so to do."
Mellinel, in a report of the 31st of March, said, " ' Long
live the English,' is the cry of the rebels ! " * The peasants
delayed themselves by pillage. These devotees were
robbers. Savages have their vices. It is by these that
civilisation captures them later. Puysage says, volume ii.
page 187 : " I several times preserved the burg of Phelan
from pillage." And further on, page 434, he recounts
how he avoided entering MontfoH : " I made a circuit
in order to prevent the plundering of the Jacobins'
houses."
They robbed Choiet ; they sacked Chalons. After
having failed at Granvillo, they pillaged Yille-Dieu. They
styled the " Jacobin herd " those of the country people
who had joined the Blues, and exterminated such with more
ferocity than other foes. They loved battle like soldiers,
and massacre like brigands. To shoot the " clumsy
fellows," that is, the bourgeois, pleased them ; they called
that " breaking Lent." At Fontenay, one of their
priests, the Cure Ba^'botin, struck down an old man by
a sabre stroke. At Saint-Germain-sur-Ille, one of their
captains, a nobleman, shot the solicitor of the Commune
and took his watch. At Machecoul, for five weeks, they
shot republicans at the rate of thirty a day, setting them
in a row, which was called " the rosary." Back of the
line was a trench, into which some of the victims fell alive ;
they were buried all the same. We have seen a revival of
such actions. Joubert, the president of the district, had
his hands sawed off. They put sharp handcuffs, forged
expressly, on the Blues whom they made prisoners.
They massacred them in the public places, uttering fierce
war-whoops.
♦ Puysage, vol. 11. p. 35.
-m^
THEIR LIFE IN WARFARE.
181
easants
battle
Eng-
18 Nan-
mda to
it was
" ' Long
)easants
js were
jse that
)lume ii.
■ Phelan
[•ecGunta
b circuit
Jacobins'
. After
[I. They
y people
rith more
soldiers,
clumsy
ey called
of their
man by
of their
ommune
eks, they
ing them
k of the
ell alive ;
revival of
trict, had
s, forged
)risoner8.
ing fierce
Charette, who signed " Fraternity, the Chevalier
Charette," and who wore for head-covering a handker-
chief knotted about his brows after Marat's fashion,
burned the city of Pornic and the inhabitants in their
houses. Paring that time Carrier was horrible. Terror
replied to terror. The Breton insurgent had almost the
appearance of a Greek rebel with his short jacket, his
gun slung over his shoulder, his leggings, and large
breeches similar to tlie capote. The peasant lad resembled
the Sciote.
Henri de la Eochejacquelein, at the age of one-and-
twenty, set out for this war armed with a stick and a
pair of pistols. The Vendean army counted a hundred
and fifty-four divisions. They undertook regular sieges ;
they held Bressuire invested for three days. One Good
Friday ten thousand peasants cannonaded the town of
the Sables with red-hot balls. They succeeded in a
sinL, day in destroying fourteen republican cantons,
from Montigne to Courbevilles. On the high wall of
Thouars this dialogue was heard between La Roche-
jacquelein and a peasant lad as they stood below : —
"Charles ! — Here I am. — Stand so that I can mount on
your shoulders. — Jump up. — Tour gun. — Take it." And
Eochejacquelein leaped into the town, and the towers
which Duguesclin had besieged were taken without the
aid of ladders. They preferred a cartridge to a gold louis.
They wept when they lost sight of their village belfry.
To run away seemed perfectly natural to them ; at
such times the leaders would cry, " Throw off your
sabots, but keep hold of your guns." When munitions
were wanting, they counted their rosaries and rushed
forth to seize the powder in the caissons of the republican
artillery ; later, D'Elbee demanded powder from the
English. If they had wounded men among them, at
the approach of the enemy they concealed these in the
grain-fields or among the ferns, and went back in search
of them when the fight was ended. They had no uniforms.
Tlieir garments were torn to bits. Peasants and nobles
wrapped themselves in any rags they could find. Roger
Mouliniers wore a tui-ban and a pelisse taken from the
— -" - "'taTit£azit^^-utoi-u-
mmm
182
NINETY-THREE.
'IIH '
wardrobe of the theatre of Fleche ; the Chevalier do
Beauvilliers wore a barrister's gown, and set a woman's
bonnet on his head over a woollen cap. All wore the
white belt and a scarf; different grades were marked by
the knots. Stofflet had a red knot ; La Eochejacquelein
had a black knot ; Wimpfen, who was half a Girondist,
and who for that matter never left Normandy, wore
the leather jacket of the Carabots of Caen. They had
women in their ranks ; Madame de Leseure, who became
Madame de la liochejacquelein ; Therese de Mollien, the
mistress of La llouarie ; she who burned the list of
the chiefs of the parishes ; Madame de'la Kochefoucauld,
beautiful, young, who, sabre in hand, rallied the peasants
to the foot of the great tower of the castle of Puy Koiis-
seau ; and that Antoinette Adams, styled the Chevalier
Adams, who was so brave that, when captured, she was
shot standing, out of respect for her courage.
This epic period was a cruel one. Men were mad.
Madame de Leseure made her horse tread upon the
republicans stretched on the ground ; they were dead,
she averred ; they were only wounded perhaps. Some-
times the men proved traitors ; the women, never.
Mademoiselle Eleury, of the Thedtre rran5ais, went
from La Rouarie to Marat, but it was for love.
The captains were often as ignorant as the soldiers.
Monsieur de Sapinaud could not spell ; he was at fault
in regard to the orthography of the commonest word.
There was enmity among the leaders. The captains of
the Marais cried — " Down with those of the High
County ! " Their cavalry was not numerous and difficult
to form. Puysage writes : " Many a man who would
cheerfully give me his two sons grows lukewarm if I ask
for one of his horses." Poles, pitchforks, reaping-hooks,
guns (old and new), poachers' knives, spits, cudgels
bound and studded with iron, these were their arms ;
some of them carried crosses made of dead men's
bones.
They rushed to an attack with loud cries, springing
up suddenly from every quarter, from the woods, the
hills, the bushes, the hollows of the roads, killing.
maei!fVH.'^xr'
THE SPIRIT OF THE PLACE.
183
exterminating, destroying, then were gone. "When they
marched through a republican town, they cut down the
Liberty Pole, set it on fire, and danced in circles about
it as it burned. All their habits were nocturnal. The
A^endean rule w^as always to appear unexpectedly. They
would march fifteen leagues in silence, not so much as
stirring a blade of grass as they went. When evening
came, after the chiefs had settled what republican posts
should be surprised on the morrow, the men loaded their
guns, mumbled their prayers, pulled off their sabots, and
filed in long columns through the woods, marching bare-
fout across the heath and moss, without a sound, without
a word, without an audible breath. It was like the
inarch of wild cats throuj^h the darkness.
VI. — The Spirit of the Place.
The Vendee in insurrection did not number less than
five hundred thousand, counting men, women, and
children. A half-million of combatants is the sum total
given by Tuffin de la Eouarie.
The Federalists helped them; the Vendee had the
Gironde for accomplice. La Lozere sent thirty thousand
men into the Bocage. Eight departments coalesced ; five
in Brittany, three in Normandy. Evereux, which frater-
nised with Caen, was represented in the rebellion by
Chaumont, its mayor, and Gardembas, a man of note.
Buzot, Grorsas, and Barbaroux, at Caen ; Brissot, at
Moulins ; Chassau, at Lyons ; Babant Saint-Etienne, at
Nismes; Moillen and Duchetel, in Brittany; all these
mouths blew the furnace.
There were two Vendean armies ; the great, which
carried on the war of the forests, and the little, which
waged i;he war of the thickets ; it is that shade
which separates Charette from Jean Chouan. The little
Vendee was honest, the great corrupt; the little was
much the better. Charette was made a marquis, lieu-
iljfl
M\
im
iltii'
184
NINETY-THREE.
liin^:^
'i^Bi''
: ■ ^ ■/.
tenant-general of the King's armies, and received the
great cross of 8aint Louis ; Jean (Jhouan remained Jean
Chouan. Charette borders on the bandit ; Jean Chouan
resembled a paladin.
As to the magnanimous chiefs, Bonchamps, Lescure,
La Rochejacquelein, they deceived tliemselves. The grand
Catholic army was an insane attempt ; disaster could
not fail to follow it. Let anyone imagine a tempest
of peasants attacking Paris, a coalition of villages be-
sieging the Pantheon, a troop of herdsmen flinging them-
selves upon a host governed by the light of intellect. Le
Miv. 3 and Savenay chastised this madness. It was im-
possible for the Vendue to cross the Loire. She could
accomplish everything except that leap. Civil war does
not conquer. To pass the Rhine establishes a Caesar and
strengthens! a Napoleon ; to crost. the Loire killed La
Rochejacquelein. The real strength of Vendee was
Vendee at home ; there she was invulnerable, unconquer-
able. The Vendean at home was smuggler, labourer,
soldier, shepherd, poacher, sharpshooter, goatherd, bell-
ringer, peasant, spy, assassin, sacristan, wild beast of the
wood.
La Rochejacquelein is only Achilles ; Jean Chouan is
Proteus.
The rebellion of the Vendue failed. Other revolts
have succeeded ; that of Switzerland for example. There
is this difference between the mountain insurgent like the
Swiss and the forest insurgent like the Vendean that
the one almost always fights for an ideal, the other for a
prejudice. The one soars, the other crawls. The one
combats for humanity, the other for solitude. The
one desires liberty, the other wishes isolation. The one
defends the commune, the other the parish. " Commons !
commons ! " cried the heroes of Marat. The one has to
deal with precipices, the other with quagmires ; the one
is the man of torrents and foaming streams, the other of
stagnant puddles, where pestilence lurks ; the one has his
head in the blue sky, the other in the thicket: the one is
on a summit, the other in a shadow.
What we learn from heights and shallows is very
THE SPIRIT OP THE PLACE.
185
dirterent. The mountain is a citadel ; the forest is an
ambuscade ; the one inspires audacity, the other teaches
trickery. Antiquity placed the gods on heights and the
satyrs in copses. The satyr is the savage, half man, half
brute. Free countries have Apennines, Alps, Pyrenees,
an Olympus. Parnassus is a mountain. Mont Blanc is
the colossal auxiliary of William Tell. Below and above
those immense struggles of souls against the night which
tills the poems of India, the Himalayas may be seen.
Greece, Spain, Italy, Helvetia have for force the moun-
tain; Cimmeria, be it Germany or Brittany, has the
wood. The forest is barbarous.
The configuration of soil decides many of man's actions.
The earth is more his accomplice than people believe,
la presence of certain savage landscapes one is tempted
to exonerate man and criminate creation ; one feels a
certain hidden provocation on the part of nature ; the
desert is sometimes unhealthy for the conscience, especially
for the conscience that is little illuminated ; conscience
may be a giant — then it produces a Socrates, a Christ ;
it may be a dwarf — then it moulds Atreus and Judas.
The narrow conscience becomes quickly reptile in its
instincts ; forests where twilight reigns, the bushes, the
thorns, the marshes beneath the branches, all have a
fatal attraction for it ; it undergoes the mysterious in-
filtration of evil persuasions. Optical illusions, unex-
plained mirages, the terrors of the hour, or the scene,
throw man into this sort of fright, half religious, half
bestial, which engenders superstition in ordinary times,
and brutality at violent epochs. Hallucinations hold the
torcli which lights the road to murder. The brigand is
dizzied by a vertigo. Nature in her immensity has a
double meaning which dazzles great minds and blinds
savage souls. When man is ignorant, when his desert is
peopled with visions, the obscurity of solitude adds itself
to the obscurity of intelligence ; hence come depths in
the human soul black and profound as an abyss. Certain
rocks, certain ravines, certain thickets, certain wild
openings in the trees through which night looks down,
push men on to mad and atrocious actions. One might
m
.am
wm
186
NINETY-THRE^.
almost say that there are places which are the home of
the spirit of evil.
How many tragic sights have been watched by the
sombre hill between Baignon and PJ(51an !
Vast horizons lead the soul on to wide, general ideas;
circumscribed horizons engender narrow, one-sided con-
ceptions, which condemn great hearts to be little in
-iut of soul. Jean Chouan was an example of this
truth. Broad ideas are hated by partial ideas ; this is in
fact the struggle of progress.
Neighbourhood — country. These two words sum up
the whole of the Vendean war ; a quarrel of the local
idea against the universal; of the peasant against the
patriot.
-♦0*-
VII. — Brittany the Eebel.
Beittant is an ancient rebel. Each time she revolted
during two thousand years she was in the right; but
the last time she was wrong. Still at bottom, against
the revolution as against monarchy, against the acting
representatives as against governing dukes and peers,
against^ the rule of assignats as against the sway of
excise officers ; whosoever might be the men that fought,
Nicolas Eapin, Eranfois de la None, Captain Pluviant,
and the Lady of La Garnache, Stcfflet, Coquereau and
Lechandelier de Pierreville ; under De Rohan against the
King and under La Bochejacquelein for the King, it was
always the same war that Brittany waged — the war of
the Local spirit against the Central.
Those ancient provinces were ponds ; that stagnant
water could not bear to flow ; the wind which swept
across did not revivify, it irritated them.
Finisterre formed the bounds of France: there the
space given to man ended, and the march of generations
8 opped. '* Plait ! " the ocean cried to the land, to
barbarism and to civilisation. Each time that the centre
— Paris — gives an impulse, whether that impulse comes
BRITTANY THE REBEL.
187
from royalty or republicauism, whether it be in tlie
interest of despotism or liberty, it is something New, and
Brittany bristles up against it. " Leave us in peace !
What is it they want of us ? " Tiio Maraia seizes the
pitchfork, the Boeage its carbine. All our attempts, our
initiative movement in legislation and in education, our
encyclopedias, our philosophies, our genius, our glories,
all fail before the Houroiix ; the tocsin of Bazouges
menaces the French Revolution, the moor of Faon rises
in rebellion against the voice of our towns, and the bell
of the Haut-des-Peres declares war against the Tower of
the Louvre.
Terrible blindness !
The Vendean insurrection was the result of a fatal
mii^understanding.
A colossal scuffle, a jangling of Titans, an immeasurable
rebellion, destined to leave in history only one word —
the Vendee — word illustrious yet dark ; cc fitting
suicide for the absent, devoted to t;5otism, passing its time
in making to cowardice the ofifer of a boundless bravery ;
without calculation, without strategy, without tactics,
without plan, without aim, without chief, without respon-
sibility ; showing to what extent Will can be hnpotent ;
chivalric and savage ; absurdity at its ( iimax, a building up
a barrier of black shadows against the light; ignorance
making a long resistance at once idiotic and superb
against justice, right, reason, and deliverance ; the terror
of eight years, the rendering desolate fourteen depart-
ments, the devastation of fields, the destruction of
harvests, the burning of villages, the ruin of cities,
the pillage of houses, the massacre of women and chil-
dren, the torch in the thatch, the sword in the heart,
the terror of civilisation, the hope of Mr. Pitt ; such
was this war, the unreasoning effort of the parricide.
In short, by proving the necessity of perforating in
every direction the old Breton shadows, and piercing
this thicket with arrows of liglit from every quarter at
once, the Vendee served Progress. The catastrophes had
their uses.
i
ff'lfp
mmmrw
1
1
HS
i
h
n
>i
1
j'2
H
ii
i
«
■
?
m{i
PART THE THIRD.
IN VENDEE.
The
ofl7f
there
it was
season
Ati
sunset
of Avi
Croix-
sou, ai
ouits
all day
This
coverec
with ii
thiug
where
about
aud bei
and t\V(
the cloi
the iun
his hai]
and nig
house,
said he,
( 191 )
PART THE THIRD.
IN VEND]^]E.
-•o*-
BOOK THE FIRST.
I. — Plusquam Civilia Bella.
Tee summer of 1792 had been very rainy ; the summer
of 1793 was dry and hot. In consequence of the civil war
there were no roads left, so to speak, in Brittany. Still
it was possible to get about, thanks to the beauty of the
season. Dry fields make an easy route.
At tlie close of a lovely July day, about an hour before
sunset, a man on horseback, who came from the direction
of Avranches, drew rein before the little inn called the
Croix-Brancard, which stood at the entrance of Pontor-
son, and which for years past had borne this inscription
on its sign — " Good cider sold here." It had been warm
all day, but the wind was beginning now to rise.
This traveller was enveloped in an ample cloak which
covered the back of his horse. Ho wore a broad hat
with a tri-coloured cockade, which was a sufficiently bold
thing to do iu this country of hedges and gunshots,
where a cockade w^as a target. The cloak, fastened
about his neck, was thrown back to leave his arms free,
and beneath glimpses could be had of a tri-coloured sash
and two pistols thrust in it. A sabre hung down below
the cloak. At the sound of the horse's hoofs the door of
the inn opened and the landlord appeared, a lantern in
his band. It was the intermediate hour between day
and night ; still light along the highway, but dark in the
house. The host looked at the cockade. " Citizen,"
said he, " do you stop here ? "
" No."
II—- 1.
192
KINETY-THREE.
" Where are you going then ? "
« To Dol."
" In that case go back to Avranches or remain at
Pontorson."
"Why?"
" Because there is fighting at Dol."
*' Ah ! " said the horseman.
Then he added : " Give my horse some oats."
The host brought the trough, emptied a measure of
oats into it, and took the bridle off the horsej'which began
to snuff and eat.
The dialogue continued.
" Citizen, is that a horse of requisition ? "
" No."
" It belongs to you ? "
" Yes. I bought and paid for it."
" Where do you come from ? "
" Paris."
"Not direct?"
" No."
" I should think not ! The roads are closed. But
the post runs still."
" As far as Alen^on. I left it there."
" Ah ! Very soon there will be no longer any posts in
Prance. There are no more horses. A horse worth
three hundred francs costs six hundred, and fodder is
beyond all price. I have been postmaster, and now I am
keeper of a cookshop. Out of thirteen hundred and
thirteen postmasters that there used to be, two hundred
have resigned. Citizen, you travelled according to the
new tariff? '
"That of the 1st of May— yes."
"Twenty sous a post for a carriage, twelve for a
gig, five sous for a van. You bought your horse at
Alentjon ? "
"Yes."
" You have ridden all day ? "
" Since dawn."
" And yesterday ? "
" And the day before."
■■-m
fpif*i§
W
PLUSQUAM CIVILIA BELTiA.
193
cau
5>
see that. You came by Dorafront aud
"I
3Iortain.
" And Avrauches."
" Take my advice, citizen ; rest yourself. You must
be tired. Your horse is certainly."
" Horses have a right to be tired ; men have not."
The host again fixed his eyes on the traveller. It was
a grave, calm, severe face, framed by grey hair.
The innkeeper cast a glance along the road, which was
deserted as far as the eye could reach, and said, '* And
you travel alone in this fashion ? "
" I have an escort."
" Where is it ? "
" My sabre and pistols."
The innkeeper brought a bucket of water, aud,
while the horse was drinking, studied the traveller, and
said mentally, " All the same, he has the look of a priest."
The horseman resumed. " You say there is fighting
at Del ? "
"Yes. That ought to be about beginning."
" Who is fighting ? "
" One ci-devant against another ci-devant."
"You said?"
"I say that an ex-noble who is for the Kepublic is
fighting against another ex-noble who is for the King."
"But there is no longer a king."'
"There is the little fellow! The odd part of the
business is that these two ci-devant& are relations."
The horseman listened attentively. The innkeeper con-
tinued : " One is young, the other old. It is the grand-
nephew who fights the great-uncle. The uncle is a royalist,
the nephew a patriot. The uncle commands the Whites,
the nephew commands the Blues. Ah, they will show
no quarter, I'll warrant you. It is a war to the death."
"Death?"
"Yes, citizen. Hold! would you like to see the
compliments they fling at each other's heads ? Here is a
notice the old man finds means to placard everywhere,
on all the houses and all the trees, aud tiiat he lias had
stuck up on my very door."
i^
:
1
-1
1
am
f!
V,
'',;
_^
L-
194
NINETY-THREE.
M
The host held up his lantern to a square of paper
fastened on a panel of the double door, and, as the
placard was written in large characters, the traveller
could read it as he sat on his horse.
•' The Marquis de Lantenac has the honour of in-
forming his grand-nephew, the A^iscount Gauvaiu, that, if
the Marquis has the good fortune to seize his person, he
will cause the Viscount to be decently shot."
" Here," added the host, "is the reply."
He went forward, and threw the light of tbe lantern
upon a second placard placed on a level with the first
upon the other leaf of the door. The traveller read:
" Gauvaiu w^arns Lantenac that, if he takes him, he will
have him shot."
" Yesterday," said the host, " the first placard was
stuck on my door, and this morning the second. There
was no waiting for the answer."
The traveller in a half-voice, and as if speaking to
himself, uttered these words, which the inkeeper heard
without really comprehending.
*' Yes ; this is more than war in the country, it is war
in families. It is necessary, and it is w^ell. Tlie grand
restoration of the people must be bought at this price."
And the traveller raised his hand to his hat and saluted
the second placard, on which his eyes were still fixed.
The host continued : " So, citizen, you understand how
the matter lies. In the cities and tlie large towns we
are for the devolution, in the country they are against
it ; that is to say, in the towns people are Erenchmen,
and in the villages thev are Bretons. It is a war of the
townspeople against the peasants. Tliey call us clowns,
we call them boors. The nobles and the priests are
with them."
" Not all," interrupted the horseman.
" Certainly not, citizen, since we have here a viscount
against a marquis."
Then he added, to himself — " And I feel sure I am
speaking to a priest."
The horseman continued : "And which of the two has
the best of it ? "
; tf
PLUSQUAM CIVILIA BELLA.
195
•'The viscount so far. But lie has to work hard.
The old man is a tough one. They belong to the
Gaiivuin family — nobles of these parts. It is a family
witli two branches ; there is the great branch, Avhose
chief is called the Marquis de Lantenac, and there is the
lesser brancli, whose head is called the Viscount Gauvain.
To-day the two branches fight each other. One does
not see that among trees, but one sees it among men.
This IMarquia de Lantenac is all-powerful in Brittany ;
the peasants consider him a prince. The very day he
lauded, eight thousand men joined him ; in a week, three
hundred parishes had risen. If he had been able to get
foothold on the coast, the English would have landed.
Luckily this Gauvain was at hand — the other's grand-
nephew — odd chance ! He is the republican commander,
and he has checkmated his frreat-uncle. And then, as
good luck would have it, when this Lantenac arrived, and
was massacring a heap of prisoners, he had two women
shot, one of whom had three children that had been
adopted by a Paris battalion. And that made a terrible
battalion. They call themselves the Battalion of the
Bonnet Rouge. There are not many of those Parisians
left, but they are furious bayonets. Tliey have been
incorporated into the division of Commandant Gauvain.
Nothing can stand agrinst them. They mean to avenge
the women, and retake the children. Nobody knows
what the old man has done with the little ones. That
is what enraged the Parisian grenadiers. Suppose those
babies had not been mixed up in the matter — the war
would not be what it is. The viscount is a good, brave
young man ; but the old fellow is a terrible marquis.
The peasants call it the war of Saint Michael against
Beelzebub. You know, perhaps, that Saint Michafel is
an angel of the district. There is a mountain named
after him out in the bay. They say he overcame the
demon, and buried him under another mountain near
here, which is called Tombelaine."
" Yes," murmured the horseman ; " Tamba Beleni,
the tomb of Belenus — Bel, Belial, Beelzebub."
" I see that you are well informed."
02
196
NINETY-THREE.
And the host again spoke to liimsclf. "He under-
stands Latin ! Decidedly lio is a priest."
Then he resumed : " Well, citizen, for the peasants it
is that war heginning over again. For them the royalist
general is Saint Michael, and Beelzebub is the republican
commander. But if there is a devil, it is certainly Lan-
tenae, and if there is an angel, it is Gauvain. You will
take nothing, citizen ? "
" 1 have my gourd and a bit of bread. But you do not
tell me what is passing at Dol ! "
" This. Gauvain commands the exploring column of
the coast. Lantenao's aim was to rouse a general iisur-
rection, and sustain Lower Brittany by the aid of Lower
Normandy, open the door to Pitt, and give a shove
forward to the Vendean army, with twenty thousand
English and two hundred thousand peasants. Gauvain
cut this plan short. He holds the coast, and he drives
Lantenac into the interior and the English into the sea.
Lantenac was here, and Gauvain has dislodged him ; has
taken from him the Pont-au-Beau, has driven him out of
Avranches, chased him out of Villedieu, and kept him
from reaching Granville. He is manoeuvring to shut
him up again in the Eorest of Fougeres, and to surround
him. Yesterday everything was going well ; Gauvain
was here with his division. All of a sudden — look
sharp! — the old man, who is skilful, made a point;
information comes that he has marched on Dol. If
he takes Dol and establishes a battery on Mount Dol
(for he has cannon), then there will be a place on the
coast where the English can land, and everything is lost.
That is why, as there was not a minute to lose, that
Gauvain, who is a man with a head, took counsel with
nobody but himself, asked no orders and waited for none,
but sounded the signal to saddle, put to his artillery,
collected his troop, drew his sabre, and, while Lantenac
throws himself on Dol, Gauvain throws himself on Lan-
tenac. It is at Dol that these two Breton heads will
knock together. There will be a fine shock. They are
at it now."
" How long does it take to get to Dol ? "
riiUSQUAM CIVILIA BELLA.
197
" At least three liours for a troop with camion; but
they are there now."
Tlie traveller listened, and said : " In fact, I think I
hear cannon."
The host listened. *' Yes, citizen ; and the musketry.
They have opened the ball. You would do well to pass
the iiii»ht here. There will be nothing good to, catch
over there."
" I cannot stop. I must keep on my road."
" You are wrong. I do not know your business ; but
the risk is great, and unless it concerns what you hold
dearest in the world "
" III truth, it is that which is concerned," said the
cavalier.
" Something like your son "
" Very nearly that," said the cavalier.
The innkeeper raised his head, and said to himself —
"Still this citizen gives me the impression of being a
priest." Then, after a little reflection — " All the same,
a priest may have children."
" Put the bridle back on my horse," said the traveller.
"How much do I owe you ? "
He paid the man.
The host set the trough and the bucket back against
the wall and returned toward the horseman.
" Since you are determined to go, listen to my advice.
It is clear that you are going to Saint-Malo. Well, do
not pass by Dol. There are two roads ; the road by
Dol, and the road along the sea-shore. There is scarcely
any difference in their length. The sea-shore road passes
by Saint-Georges-de-Brehaigne, Cherrueix, and Hirel-le-
Yivier. You leave Dol to the south and Cancale to the
north. Citizen, at the end of the street you will find the
branching off of the two routes ; that of Dol is on the left,
that of Saint-Georges-de-Brehaigne on the right. Listen
well to me ; if you go by Dol, you will fall into the middle
of the massacre. That is why you must not take to the
left, but to the right.
"Thanks,' said the traveller.
He spurred his horse forward. The obscurity was
1
1
,ii f B
1
1
Hi
'1
p
H
Rl'i '
H{
if
Jj I
iMMa
198
NINETY-THREE.
now complete ; he hurried on into the niglit. The inn-
keeper lost sij^lit of him.
When the traveller reached the end of the street where
the two roads branched off, he heard the voice of the
innkeeper calling to him from afar — " Take the right ! "
He took the left.
i
II.— DOL.
DoL, a Spanish city of France in Brittany, as the guide-
books style it, is not a town ; it is a street. A great old
Gothic street, bordered all the way on the right and the
left by houses with pillars, placed irregularly, so that
they form nooks and elbows in the highway, which is never-
theless very wide. The rest of the town is only a net-
work of lanes, attaching themselves to this great dia-
metrical street, and pouring into it like brooks into a
river. The city, without gates or walls, open, overlooked
by Mount Dol, could not have sustained a siege, but the
street might have sustained one. The promontories of
houses, which were still to be seen fifty years back, and
the two-pillared galleries which bordered the street, made
a battle ground that was very strong and capable of offer-
ing, great resistance. Each house was a fortress in fact,
and it would be necessary to take them one after another.
The old market was very nearly in the middle of the street.
The innkeeper of the Croix-Brancard had spoken truly
— a mad conflict tilled Dol at the moment he uttered the
words. A nocturnal duel between the Whites, that
morning arrived, and the Blues, who had come upon
them in the evening, burst suddenly over the town. The
forces were unequal ; the Whites numbered six thousand
— there were only fifteen hundred of the Blues ; but there
was equality in point of obstinate rage. Strange to say,
it was the fifteen hundred who had attacked the six
thousand.
On one side a mob, on the other a phalanx. On
one side six thousand peasants, with blessed medals on
DOL.
199
their leathern vests, whito ribands on their round hats,
Cliristian devices on their braces, chaplets at their belts,
carrying more pitchforks than aabres, carbines witliout
bayonets, dragging cannon with ro])es ; badly equipped,
ill disciplined, poorly armed, but frantic. In opposition
to them were fifteen lunidred soldiers, wearing three-
cornered hats, coats with largo tails and wide lapels,
gjioulder-belts crossed, copper-hilted swords, and carrying
guns with long bayonets. They were trained, skilled ;
docile, yet lierce ; obeying like men who would know
how to command. Volunteers also, shoeless and in rags
too, but volunteers for their ccuntry. On tlio side of
Monarchy, peasants who were paladins ; for the Kevolu-
tion, barefooted heroes, and each troop possessing a soul
in its leader; the royalists having an old man, the
republicans a young one. On this side, Lantenac ;
ou the other, Gauvain.
The devolution, side by side witli its faces of youthful
giants like those of Danton, Saint-Just, and liobespierre,
has faces of ideal youth, like those of Hoche and Marceau.
Gauvain was one of these. He was thirty years old ; he had
a [erculean bust, the solemn eye of a prophet, and the
laugh of a child. He did not smoke, he did not drink, he
did not swear. He carried a dressing-case through the
whole war ; he took care of his nails, his teeth, and his
liair, which was dark and luxuriant. During halts he
himself shook in the wind his military coat, riddled with
bullets and white with dust. Though always rushing
headlong into an affray, he had never been wounded.
His singularly sweet voice had at command the harsh
imperiousness needed by a leader. He set the example
of sleeping on the ground, in the wind, the rain, and
the snow, rolled in his cloak and with his noble head
pillowed on a stone. His was an heroic and innocent
soul. The sabre in his hand transfigured him. He had
that effeminate air which in battle turns into something
formidable.
With all that, a thinker and a philosopher — a youthful
sage. Alcibiades in appearance ; Socrates in speech.
In that immense improvisation of the French Kevolu-
r,m
200
NINETY-THUEE.
tion, this younj» man liad become at once a leader. His
division, formed by liimself, was lilie a Roman lepjion,
a kind of comj)lete little army ; it was composed of
infantry and cavalry ; it had its scouts, its pioneers, its
sappers, pontooners; and as a lloman legion had its
catapults, this one liad its cannon. Tliree pieces, well
mounted, rendered the column strong, while leaving it
easy to guide.
Lantenac was also a thorough soldier — a more con-
summate one. He was at the same time wary and
hardy. Old heroes have more cold determination tlian
young ones, because they are far removed from the
warmth of life's morning ; more audacity, because they
are near death. What have they to lose ? So very little.
Hence the manoeuvres of Lantenac were at once rasli and
skilful. But in the main, and almost always, in tliis
doggL?- hand-to-hand conflict between the old man and
the young, Gauvain gained the advantage. It was rather
the work of fortune than anything else. All good luck-
even successes which are in themselves terrible — go to
youth. Victory is feminine. Lantenac was exasperated
against Gauvain ; justly, because Gauvain fought against
him ; in the second place, because he was of his kindred.
What did he mean by turning Jacobin ? This Gauvain!
This mischievous dog! His heir — for the marquis had no
children — his grand-nephew, almost his grandson. " Ah,"
said this quasi-grandfather, " if I put my hand on him, I
will kill him like a dog ! "
For that matter the Revolution was right to disquiet
itself in regard to this Marquis de Lantenac. An earth-
quake followed his landing. His name spread through
the "Vendean insurrection like a train of powder, and
Lantenac at once became the centre. In a revolt of
that nature, where each is jealous of the other, and each
has his thicket or ravine, the arrival of a superior rallies
the scattered leaders who have been equals among them-
selves. Nearly all the forest captains had joined Lantenac,
and, whether near or far off, they obeyed him. One
man alone had departed ; it was the first who had joined
him — Gavard. Wherefore ? Because . he had been a
DOL.
201
innu of trust. Gavard Imd known all tlio Hccrets and
adopted uU tlie plana of tlicancieiit systoni of civil war;
Luitenac appeared to ro[)lace and Hupplant him. One
(loea not inherit from a man of trust ; the shoe of La
Koiifiin did not lit Lantenac. Gnvard departed to rejoin
Ijoiicliamp.
Lantenac, aa a military man, belonged to tho school of
Fivdoric IE. ; ho understood combining tlie great war
with the little. He would have neither a " confused.
mass," like the great Catnolic and royal army, a crowd
tk'stined to be crushed, nor a troop of guerillas scattered
iiinoug the hedges and copses, good to harass, impotent
to destroy. Guerilla warfare liniahes nothing, or finishes
ill; it begina by attacking a republic and ends by rilling
;i diligence. Lantenac did not comprehend thia Breton
war as the other chiefa had done ; La liochejacqueleia
■ was all for open country campaigns, Jean Chouan all for
the forest ; he would have neither Vendee nor Chouan-
iierie ; he wanted real warfare ; he would make use of the
peasant, but he meant to depend on the soldier. He
wanted bands for strategy and regiments for tactics.
lie found these village armies admirable for attack, for
ambush and surprise, quickly gathered, quickly dispersed ;
but he felt that they lacked solidity ; they were like
water in his hand ; he wanted to create a solid base in
this floating and diffused war : he wanted to join to the
savage army of the forests regularly drilled troops that
would make a pivot about which he could manoeuvre the
peasants. It was a profound and terrible conception ;
if it had succeeded, the Vendee would have been uncon-
querable.
Bat where to find regular troops ? Where look for
ai'Miers ? Where seek for regiments ? Where discover
an army ready-made ? In England. Hence Lantenae's
determined idea — to land the English. Thus the con-
science of parties compromises wdth itself. The white
cockade hid the red uniform from Lantenae's sight. He
had only one thought ; to get possession of some point
on the coast and deliver it up to Pitt. That was why,
seeing Dol defenceless, he flung himself upon it ; the
r
m
m
202
NINETY-THREE.
takini:; of tlio town would give liim Mount Dol and ^lomU
Dol iho coast.
The place was well chosen. The cannon of ^foiint
Dol would sweep the Presnois on one side and Saint-
Brelade on tlie other ; woukl keep the eruisera of Caiicalo
at ft distance, and leave the whole beach, from ]{az.
Hur-Coucrfuon to Saint-Meloir-des-Oudes, clear for an
invasion.
I'or the carryinf^-out of this decisive attempt, Lantenac
had brought with hini only a little over six thousand men,
the Mower of the bands which he had at ids disposal,
and all his artillery — ten sixteen-pound culverins, a demi-
culverin, and a four-pounder. His idea was to establiali
n. strong battery on Mount Dol, upon the principle that
a thousand shots iired from ten cannon do more execu-
tion than fifteen hundred fired with Wvo,. Success ap-
peared certain. They were six thousand men. Towards
Avranches, they had only Grauvain and his fifteen hundred
men to fear, and Lecheile in the direction of Dinan. It
was true that Lecheile had twenty-five thousand men,
but he was twenty leagues away. So Lantenac felt eon-
iidence; on Leciielle's side he put the great distance
against the great numbers ; witli Gauvain, the size of the
force against their propinquity. Let us add that Le-
cheile was an idiot, who later on allowed his twenty-five
thousand men to be exterminated in the landes of the
Croix-Bataille, a blunder which he atoned for by suicide.
So Lantenac felt perfect security. His entrance into
Dol ■A'^as sudden and stern. The Marquis de Lantenac
had a stern reputation ; he was known to be without
pity. No resistance was attempted. The terrified iii-
liabitants barricaded themselves in their houses. The
six thousand Vendeans installed themselves in the town
with rustic confusion ; it was almost like a fair-ground,
without quartermasters, without allotted camp, bivouack-
ing at hazard, cooking in the open air, scattering them-
selves among the churches, forsaking their guns for their
rosaries. Lantenac went in haste with some artillery
officers to reconnoitre Mount Dol, leaving the command to
Gouge-le-Bruant, whom he had appointed field-sergeaut
4m»M'
DOL.
203
This Goiigo-lt'-T»runnt lias left a vnf^uo trnco in history,
lie iijul two iiicknaiiios, Iiri8c-hleu, on account of liis nma-
sK'i'c of patriots, and Iniunus, because lie iiad in liini a
soinctliing that was indescribably iiorrible. Imdnus, derived
from imanis, is an okl bas-Nornian word which expresses
suporluunan ugliness, soinetliingalnHjst divine in its awful-
nes.s — a demon, a satyr, an ogre. An ancient manuscript
^avs— "With my two eyes I saw liuanus." The old
people of tiie Bocage no longer know to-day who (rouge-
It-l'ruant was, nor what Brise-bleu signifies; b\it they
know, confusedly, Imaiuis ; Imunus is mingled with the
loctd suj)erstitions. They talk of him still at Tremorel
and at Plumaugat, two villages where Gouge-le-liruant
has left the trace of his sinister course. In the Vendee
the others were savages ; Gouge-le-Bruant was the bar-
harian. He was a species of Cacique, tattooed with
Christian crosses and lleur-de-lys ; he had on his face tlie
hideous, almost supernatural glare of a soul which no
other humji'.i soul resembled. He was infernally brave
in combat ; atrocious afterwards. His was a heart full
of tortuons intricacies, capable of all forms of devotion,
inclined to all madnesses. Did he reason ? Yes ; but as
serpents crawl — in a twisted fashion. He started from
heroism to reach murder. It was impossible to divine
whence his resolves came to him — they were sometimes
grand from their very monstrosity. He was capable of
every possible unexpected horror. His ferocity was epic.
Hence his mysterious nickname — Imunus.
The Marquis de Lantenac had confidence in his
cruelty.
It was true that Imunus excelled in cruelty, but in
strategy and in tactics he was less clever, and perhaps
the marquis erred in making him his field-sergeant.
However that might be, he left Imanus behind him with
instructions to replace him and look after everything.
Gouge-le-Bruant, a man more of a fighter than a soldier,
was fitter to cut the throats of a clan than to guard a
town. Still he posted main-guards.
When evening came, as the Marquis de Lantenac was
returning toward Dol, after having decided upon the
Mi'
llfC 1
204
NINETY-THREE.
jj^round for Ins battery, he suddenly lieard the report of
cannon. lie looked forward A red smoke was risiufr
from the principal street, irhere had been surprise, in-
vasion, assault ; tlie}-- were fif^hting in the town.
Although very dilficult to astonish, he was stupified.
He had not been prepared for anything of the sort. AVho
could it be ? Evidently it was not Gauvain. No man
would attack a force that numbered four to his one.
Was it Lechelle? But could ho have n.ade such a forced
inarch ? Lechelle was improbable ; Gauvain, impossible.
Lantenac urged on his horse ; as he rode forward, he
encountered^the flying inhabii ants ; he questioned them ;
they were mad with terror ; they cried, " The Blues 1
the Blues!" When he arrived, the siiuation was a bad
one.
This is what had happened.
.11
III. — Small ArxMies and Great Battles.
As we have just seen, the peasants, on arriving at Dol,
dispersed tliemselves through the town, each maa follow-
ing his own fancy, as happens when troops " obey from
friendship '* — a favourite expression with the Vendeans
— a species of obedience which makes heroes, but not
troopers. They thrust the artillery our. jf the way along
with the baggage, under the arches of the old market-
hall. They were weary ; they ate, draidt, counted their
rosaries, and lay down pell-mell across the principal
street, which was encumbered rather than guarded.
As night came on, the greater portion fell asleep, with
their heads on their knapsacks, some having their wives
beside them, for the peasant women often followed their
hu sbands, and the robust ones acted as spies. It was a
mi Id July evening ; the constellations glittered in the
deep purple of the sky. The entire bivouac, which re-
se mblcd rather tiie halt of a caravan than an army en-
camped, gave itself up to repose. Srddenly, amid the
p»?ap,-t^
SMALL AIIMIES AND GREAT BATTLES.
205
dull gleams of twilight, sut*li as had not yet closed their
eyes saw three pieces of ordnance pointed at the entrance
of the street.
It was Gauvain's artillery. He had surprised the
main-guard. He was in the town, and his column held
ihe top of the street.
A peasant started up, cried, " Who goes there ? " and
tired iiis musket ; a cannon shot replied. Then a furious
discharge of musketry burst forth. The whole drowsy
crowd sprang up with a start. A rude shock, to fall
asleep under the stars and wake under a volley of grape-
.jliot. The first moments were terrific. There is nothing
so tragic as the aimless swarming of a thunderstricken
crowd. They flung themselves on their arms. They
veiled, they ran ; many fell. The assaulted peasants no
longer knew what they were about, and blindly shot each
other. The townspeople, atunHed witli fright, rushed in
aud out of their houses, and wandered frantically amid
the hubbub. Families shrieked to one another. A dismal
combat, in which women and children were mingled.
The balls, as they whistled overhead, streaked the dark-
ness with rays of light. A fusillade poured from every
dark corner. There was nothing but smoke and tumult.
The entanglement of the baggage-waggons and the
cannon-carriages was added to the confusion. The
horses became unmanageable. The wounded were
trampled under foot. The groans of the poor wretches,
helpless on the ground, filled the air. Horror here —
stupefaction there. Soldiers and officers sought for one
another. In the midst of all this could be seen creatures
made indifferent to the awful scene by personal preoccu-
pations. A woman sat nursing her new-born babe,
seated on a bit of wall, against which her husband leaned
with his leg broken ; and he, while his blood was flowing,
tranquilly loaded his rifle and fired at random, straight
before him into the darkness. Men lying flat on the
ground fired across the spokes of the waggon-wlieels. At
moments there rose a hideous din of clamours, then the
great voices of the cannon drowned all. It was awful.
It was like a felling of trees ; they dropped one upon
■aiate^i II y"
m
206
NINETY-THREE.
another. Gauvain poured out a deadly fire from his
ambush, and suffered little loss.
Still the peasants, courageous amid their disorder
ended by putting themselves on the defensive ; they
retreated into the market — a vast obscure redoubt, a
forest of stone pillars. There they again made a stand ;
anything which resembled a wood gave them confi.
dence. Imunus supplied the absence of Lantenac ,18
best he could. They had cannon, but, to the great
astonishment of Gauvain, they did not make use of
it ; that was owing to the fact that the artillery offi-
cers had gone with the marquis to reconnoitre Mont
Dol, and the peasants did not know how to manage the
culverins and demi-culverins ; but they riddled with
balls the TBlues who cannonaded them. They replied
to the grapeshot by volleys of musketry. It was now
they W'ho were sheltered. They had heaped torrether
the drays, the tumbrils, the casks, all tlie litte jf the
old market, and improvised a lofty barricade, witli open-
ings through which they could pass their carbines. From
these holes their fusillade was murderous. The whole
was quickly arranged, ^n a quarter of an hour the
market presented an impregnable front.
This became a serious matter for Gauvain. This
market suddenly transformed into a citadel was unex-
pected. The peasants were inside it, massed and solid.
Gauvain's surprise had succeeded, but he ran the risk of
defeat. He got down from his saddle. He stood atten-
tively studying the darkness, his arms folded, clutching
his sword in one hand, erect, in the glare of a torch which
lighted his battery.
The gleam, falling on his tall figure, made him visible
to the men behind the barricade. He became an aim for
them, but he did not notice it.
The shower of balls sent out from the barricade fell
about him as he stood there, lost in thought.
But he could oppose cannon to all these carbines, and
cannon always ends by getting the advantage. Victory
rests with him who has the artillery. His battery, well-
manned, insured him the superiority.
SMALL ARMS AND GREAT BATTLES.
207
Suddenly a Ughtning-llke flash burst from the shadowy-
market ; there was a sound like a peal of thunder, and a
ball broke through a house above Gauvain's liead. The
barricade was replying to the cannon with its own voice.
What had happened ? Something new liad occurred.
The artillery was no longer confined to one side.
A second ball followed the first and buried itself in the
wall close to Grauvain. A third knocked his hat oft" on
the ground.
These balls were of a heavy calibre. It was a sixteen-
pounder that fired.
" They are aiming at you, commandant," cried the
artillerymen.
"^hey extinguished the torch. Gauvain, as if in a
reverie, picked up his hat.
Some one had in fact aimed at Gauvain — it was Lante-
nac. The marquis had just arrived within the barricade
from the opposite side.
Imilnus had hurried to meet him.
" Monseigneur, we are surprised."
" By whom ? "
" J do not know."
" Is the route to Dinan free ?"
" I think so."
"We must begin a retreat."
" It has commenced. A good many have run away."
*' We must not run ; we must fall back. Why are you
not making use of this artillery ? "
" The men lost their heads ; besides, the officers were
not here."
" I am come."
" Idonseigneur, I have sent towards Fougeres all I
could of the baggage, the women, everything useless.
Uliat is to be done with the three little prisoners ? "
"Ah, those children ! "
" Yes."
"They are our hostages. Have them taken to La
Toiu'gue."
This said, the marquis rushed to tlie barricade. With
the arrival of the chief the whole face of aifairs changed.
?
208
NINETY-THREE.
The barricade was ill-constructed for artillciy ; there was
only room for two cannon ; the marquis j)ut in position
a couple of sixteen-pounders, for which looplioles were
made. As lie leaned over one of the guns, watching tlie
enemy's battery through the opening, he perceived
Gauvain.
" It is he ! " cried the marquis.
Tlien he took the swab and rammer himself, loaded
the piece, sighted it, and fired.
Thrice he aimed at Gauvain and missed. The third
time he only succeeded in knocking his hat oft".
" Numbskull ! " muttered Lantenac ; " a little lower,
and I sliould have taken his liead."
Suddenly the torch went out and he had only darkness
before him.
"So be it," said he.
Then turning toward the peasant gunners, he cried,
" Now let tliom have it."
Gauvain, on his side, was not less in earnest. The
seriousness of the situation increased. A new phase of
the combat developed itself. The barricade had begun
to use cannon. AVho could tell if it was not about to
pass from the defensive to the offensive ? He had before
him, after deducting the killed and fugitives, at least
five thousand combatants, and he had left only twelve
hundred serviceable men. What would happen to the
republicans if the enemy perceived their paucity of
numbers ? The roles were reversed. He had been the
assailant — he would become the assailed. If the barricade
were to make a sortie, everything might be lost.
What was to be done ? He could no longer think of
attacking the barricade in front ; an attempt at main
force would be foolhardy ; twelve hundred men cannot
dislodge five thousand. To rush upon them was impos-
sible ; to wait would be fatal. He must make an end.
But how?
Gauvain belonged to the neighbourhood ; he was ac-
quainted with the town ; he Ituew that the old market-
liouse where the Vendeans were entrenched was backed
by a labyrinth of narrow and crooked streets.
SMALL ARMIES AND GUEAT BATTLES.
209
He turned toward his lieutenant, who was that valiant
Captain Gu^champ, afterwards famous for clearing out the
forest of Concise, where Jean Chouan was born, and for
preventing the capture of Bourgneuf by holding the dyke
of La Cliaine against the rebels.
" Guechamp," said he, " I leave you in command.
Fire as fast as you can. Riddle tlie barricade with
cannon-balls. Keep all those fellows over yonder busy."
" I understand," said Guechamp.
" Mass the whole column with their guns loaded, and
hold them ready to make an onslaught."
He added a few words in Guechamp's ear.
"I hear," said Guechamp.
Gauvain resumed : " Are all our drummers on foot ? "
"Yes."
" We have nine. Keep two, and give me seven."
The seven drummers ranged themselves in silence in
front of Gauvain.
Then he said, " Battalion of the Bonnet Rouge ! "
Twelve men, of whom one was a sergeant, stepped out
from the main body of the troop.
"I demand the whole battalion," said Gauvain.
" Here it is," replied the sergeant.
" You are twelve ! "
" Tliere are tw^elve of us left."
"It is well," said Gauvain.
This sergeant was the good, rude trooper Radoub, who
had adopted, in the name of the battalion, the three
children they had encountered in the wood of La
Sandraie.
It will be remembered that only a demi-battalion had
been exterminated at Herbe-en-Pail, and Radoub was
fortunate enough not to have been among the number.
There was a forage-waggon standing near; Gauvain
pointed towards it with his finger.
" Sergeant, order your men to make some straw-ropes
and twist them about their guns, so that there will be no
uoise if they knock together."
A minute passed ; the order was silently executed in
the darkness.
^m
"^r
210
NINETY-THREE.
Riiiiii
r >
hm
" It is> done," said the sergeant.
" Soldiers, take ott' your shoes," commanded Gauvain.
" We liave none," returned the sergeant.
They numbered, counting the drummers, nineteen
men ; Gauvain made ihe twentieth.
He cried : " Follow me ! Single file ! The drummers
next to rne — the battalion behind them. Sergeant, you
will command the battalion."
He put himself at the head of the column, and while
the firing on both sides continued, these twenty men,
gliding along like shadows, plunged into the deserted
lanes. The line marched thus for some time, twisting
along the fronts of the houses. The whole town seemed
dead ; the citizens were hidden in their cellars. Every
door was barred ; every shutter closed. No light to be
seen anywhere.
Amid tliis silence the principal street kept up its din;
the cannonading continued ; the republican battery and
the royalist barricade spit forth their volleys with un-
diminished fury.
After twenty minutes of this tortuous march, Gauvain,
who kept his way unerringly tlirough the darkness,
reached the end of a lane which led into the broad
street, but on the other side of the market-house.
The position was altered. In this direction there was
no intrenchment, according to the eternal imprudence of
barricade-builders ; the market was open and the entrance
free, among the pillars where some baggage-waggons stood
ready to depart. Gauvain and his nineteen men had the
five thousand Vendeans before them, but their backs
instead of their faces.
Gauvain spoke in a low voice to the sergeant; the
soldiers untwisted the straw from their gims ; the twelve
grenadiers posted themselves in line behind the angle of
the lane, and the seven drummers waited with their drum-
sticks lifted. The artillery firing was intermittent. Sud-
denly, in a pause between the discharges, Gauvain waved
his sword, and cried, in a voice which rang like a trumpet
through the silence : " Two hundred men to the right-
two hundred men to the left — all the rest in the centre! "
8MALL ARMIES AND GREAT BATTLES.
211
The twelve muskets fired, and the seven drums beat.
Gauvaiu uttered tlie formidable battle-cry of the Blues
— " To your bayonets ! Down upon them ! "
The effect was prodigious.
This wliole peasant mass felt itself surprised in the
rear, and believed that it had a fresh army at its back.
At the same instant, on hearing the drums, the column
which Guechamp commanded at the head of the street,
began to move, sounding the charge in its turn, anf^ 'lung
itself at a run on the barricade. The peasants found
themselves between two fires. Panic magnifies ; a pistol-
shot sounds like the report of a cannon : in moments of
terror the imagination heightens every noise ; the barking
of a dog sounds like the roar of a lion. Add to this the
fact that the peasant catches fright as easily as thatch
catches fire, and as quickly as a blazing thatch becomes
a conflagration, a panic among peasants becomes a rout.
An indescribably confused flight ensued.
In a few instants the market-hall was empty ; the
terrified rustics broke away in all directions ; the officers
were powerless ; Imanus uselessly killed two or three
fugitives ; nothing was to be heard but the cry : " Save
ourselves ! " The army poured through the streets of
the town like water through the holes of a sieve, and
dispersed into the open country with the rapidity of a
cloud carried along by a whirlwind. Some fled toward
Chateauneuf, some toward Plerguer, others toward
Autrain.
The Marquis de Lantenac watched this stampede. He
spiked the guns with his own hands and then retreated
—the last of all, slowly, composedly, saying to himself:
"Decidedly the peasants will not stand. We must have
the English."
p 2
^
212
NINETY-THIIEE.
^4^;
Mi
IV. — " It is the Second Time."
The victory was complete.
Gauvain turned toward the men of the Bonnet Eoiige
battalion, and said — " You are twelve, but you are equal
to a thousand."
Praise from a chief was the cross of honour of those
times.
Guechamp, despatched beyond the town by Gauvain,
pursued the fugitives and captured a great number.
Torches were lighted and the town was searched. All
who could not escape surrendered. They illuminated
the principal street with fire-potS. It was strewn with
dead and dying. The root of a combat must always be
torn out ; a few desperate groups here and there still
resisted ; they were surrounded, and threw down their
arms.
Gauvain had remarked, amid the frantic pell-mell of
the retreat, an intrej)id man, a sort of agile and robust
form, who protected the flight of others, but had not
himself fled. This peasant had used his gun so ener-
getically — the barrel for firing, the butt-end for knocking
down — that he had broken it ; now he grasped a pistol in
one hand and a sabre in the other. No one dared ap-
proach him. Suddenly Gauvain saw him reel and sup-
port himself against a pillar of the broad street. The
man had just been wounded. But he still clutched the
sabre and pistol in his fists. Gauvain put his sword
under his arm and went up to him.
" Surrender," said he.
The man looked steadily at him. The blood ran
through his clothing from a wound which he had re-
ceived, and made a pool at his feet.
" You are my prisoner," added Gauvain.
The man remained silent.
" "What is your name ? "
The man answered, " I am called the Shadow-Dancer."
" You are a brave man," said Gauvain.
And he held out his hand.
"it is the second time."
213
The man cried, " Long live the King ! "
Gathering up all his remaining strength, he raised
both arms at once, fired his pistol at Gauvaiu's heart, and
dealt him a blow on the head with his sabre.
He did it with the swiftness of a tiger, but some one
else had been still more prom*"t. This was a man on
liorseback, who had arrived unobserved a few minutes
before. This man, seeing the Vendean raise the sabre
and pistol, rushed between him and Gauvain. But for
this interposition, Gauvain would have been killed. The
horse received the pistol-shot ; the man received the
sabre-stroke ; and both fell. It all happened in the time
it would have needed to utter a cry.
The Vendean on his side sank upon the pavement.
The sabre had struck the man full in the face ; he lay
Benseless on the stones. The horse was killed.
Gauvain approached. " Who is this man ? " said he.
He studied him. The blood from the gash inundated
the wounded man, and spread a red mask over his face.
It was impossible to distinguish his features, but one
could see that his hair was grey.
"This man has saved my life," continued Gauvain.
" Does anyone here know him ? "
"Commandant," said a soldier, "he came into the
town a few minutes ago. I saw him enter ; he came by
the road from Pontorson."
The chief surgeon hurried up with his instrument-case.
The wounded man was still insensible. The surgeon
examined him and said :
" A simple gash. It is nothing. It can be sewed up.
In eight days he will be on his feet again. It was a
beautiful sabre-stroke ! "
The sufferer wore a cloak, a tri-coloured sash, pistols,
and a sabre. He was laid on a litter. They undressed
him. A bucket of fresh water was brought ; the surgeon
washed the cut ; the face began to be visible. Gauvain
studied it with profound attention.
" Has he any papers on him ? " he asked.
The surgeon felt in the stranger's side-pocket and drew
out a pocket-book, which he handed to Gauvain.
1
i
1
;I^^I
;|; ■
214
NINETY-THREE.
f^^i
§
tJ'
The wounded man, restored by the cold water, began
to come to himself. His eyelids moved slightly.
Gauvain examined the pocket-book ; he found in it a
sheet of paper, folded four times ; he opened this and
read : " Committee of Public Safety. The Citizen
Cimourdain."
He uttered a cry : " Cimourdain ! "
The wounded man opened his eyes at this exclamation.
Gauvain was absolutely frantic.
" Cimourdain ! It is you ! This is the second time
you have saved my life."
Cimourdain looked at him. A gleam of ineffable joy
lighted his bleeding face.
Gauvain fell on his knees beside him, crying : " My
master ! "
" Thy father," said Cimourdain.
-*o*-
V. — The Drop of Cold Water.
They had not met for many years, but their hearts had
never been parted ; they recognised each other as if they
had separated the evening before.
An ambulance had been improvised in the town-hall
of Dol. Cimourdain was placed on a bed in a little room
next the great common chamber of the other wounded.
The surgeon sewed up the cut and put an end to the
demonstrations of affection between the two men, judging
that Cimourdain ought to be left to sleep. Besides,
Gauvain was claimed by the thousand occupations which
are the duties and cares of victory. Cimourdain remained
alone ; but he did not sleep ; he was consumed by two
fevers, that of his wound and that of his joy.
He did not sleep, and still it did not seem to himself
that he was awake. Could it be possible that his dream
was realised? Cimourdain had long ceased to believe
that such happiness could come to him, yet here it was.
He had refound Gauvain. He had left him a child, he
mm
THE DROP OF COLD WATER.
215
found him a mtm ; he found him great, formidable,
intrepid. He found him triumphant, and triumj)hing
for tlio people. Gauvain was the real support of the
Revolution in Vendee, and it was he, Cimourdain, who
had given this tower of strength to the Republic. This
victor was his pupil. The light which he saw illuminating
this youthful face — reserved perhaps for the republican
I'antlicon — was his own thought ; his, Cimourdain's.
Ilis disciple — the child of his spirit — was from henceforth
a hero, and before long would be a glory. It seemed to
Cimourdain that he saw the apotheosis of his own soul.
He had just seen how Gauvain made war ; he was like
Chiron, who had watched Achilles light. There was a
mysterious analogy between the priest and the centaur,
for the priest is only half-man.
All the chances of this adventure, mingled with the
sleeplessness caused by his wound, filled Cimourdain
with a sort of mysterious intoxication. He saw a glorious
youthful destiny rising, and what added to his profound
joy was the possession of full power over this destiny ;
auother success like that which he had just witnessed,
and Cimourdain would only need to speak a single word
lo induce the Republic to confide an army to Gauvain.
Nothing dazzles like the astonishment of complete victory.
It was an era when each man had his military dream ;
each one wanted to make a general ; Danton wished to
appoint Westermann, Marat wished to appoint Rossignol,
liebert wished to appoint Rousin, Robespierre wished to
put these all aside. Why not Gauvain? asked Cimour-
dain of himself ; and he dreamed. All possibilities were
before him ; he passed from one hypothesis to another ;
all obstacles vanished ; when a man puts his foot on that
ladder, he does not stop ; it is an infinite ascent ; one
starts from earth and one reaches the stars. A great
general is only a leader of armies ; a great captain is at
the same time a leader of ideas ; Cimourdain dreamed
of Gauvain as a great captain. He seemed to see — for
reverie travels swiftly — Gauvain on the ocean, chasing
the English ; on the Rhine, chastising the northern kings ;
on the Pyrenees, repulsing Spain ; on the Alps, making
■^H^^^
i
i
h ^
i&^BS^ia^ss^^^
216
NINBTY-THREE.
.!
a signal to Rome to rouse itself. There were two men
in Ciniourdain, one tender, tiio other stern ; both were
satisfied, for tlie inexorable was his ideal, and at the same
time that he saw Gauvain noble, he saw him terrible.
Ciniourdain thought of all that it was necessiiry to
destroy before beginning to build up, and said to lumself
— " Verily, this is no time for tendernesses. Gauvaia
will be ' up to tl»e mark ' " (an expression of the period).
Cimourdain pictured Gauvain spurning the shadows
with his foot, with a breast-plate of liglit, a meteor-glare
on his brow, rising on the grand ideal wing,^ of Justice,
Eeasou, and Progres?", but with a sword in his hand : an
angel — a destroyer likewise.
In the height of this r<»verie, which was almost an
ecstacy, he heard through liio half open door a conversa-
tion in the great hall of the ambulance which was next
his chamber. He recogni:Jed Gauvain's voice ; throu(];h
all those years of separation that voice had rung ever in
his ear, and the voice of the man had still a tone of the
childish voice he had loved. He listened. There was a
sound of soldier's footsteps ; one of the men said :
" Commandant, this is the man that fired at you.
While nobody was watching, he dragged himself into a
cellar. We found him. Here he is."
Then Cimourdain heard this dialogue between Gauvain
and the prisoner.
" You are wounded ? '*
" I am well enough to be shot."
" Lay that man on a bed. Dress hia wounds ; take
care of him ; cure him."
« I wish to die."
" You must live. You tried to kill me in the King's
name ; I show you mercy in the name of the Republic."
A shadow passed across Cimourdain's forehead. He
was like a man waking up with a start, and he murmured
with a sort of sinister dejection —
" In truth, he is one of the merciful."
"^
A HEALED WOUND; A BLEEDINQ HEART.
217
VI. — A Healed Wound ; a Bleeding Heart.
A CUT heals quickly ; but there was in a certain place a
peraon more seriously wounded than Cimourdain. It
was the woman who had been shot, whom the ben^gar
Telleinarch had picked up out of the great lake of blood
at the farm of Herbe-en-Pail.
Michelle Floehard was even in a more critical situation
than Tellemareh had believed. There was a wound in
the shoulder-blade corresponding to t^e wound above the
breast ; at the sajiie time that the bull broke her collar-
bone, another ball traversed her shoulder, but, as the
lungs were not touched, she might recover. Tellemareh
was a " philosopher," a peasant phrase which means a
little of a doctor, a little of a surgeon, and a little of
a sorcerer. He carried the wounded woman to his forest
lair, laid her upon his seaweed bed, and treated her by
the aid of those mysterious things called " simples," and
thanks to him she lived.
The collar-bone knitted together, the wounds in the
breast and shoulder closed ; after a few weeks, she was
convalescent. One morning she was able to walk out of
the carniehot, leaning on Tellemareh, and seat herself
beneath the trees in the sunshine. Tellemareh knew
little about her ; wounds in the breast demand silence,
and during the almost death-like agony which had pre-
ceded her recovery she had scarcely spoken a word.
When she tried to speak, Tellemareh stopped her, but
she kept up an obstinate reverie ; he could see in her
eyes the sombre going and coming of poignant thoughts.
But this morning she was quite strong ; she could almost
walk alone ; a cure is a paternity, and Tellemareh watched
her with delight. The good old man began to smile. He
said to her :
"We are upon our feet again; we have no more
wounds."
" Except in the heart," said she.
She added, presently — " Then you have no idea where
they are." '
218
NINETY-THREE.
" Who are ' they ' ? " demanded Tellfimarch.
" My children."
This *' then " expressed a whole world of thoughts ; it
signified — " Since you do not talk to me, since you have
been so many days beside me without opening your
mouth, since you stop me each time I attempt to break
the silence, since you seem to fear that I shall speak, it
is because you have nothing to tell me."
Often, in her fever, in her wanderings, her delirium,
she had called her children, and liad seen clearly (for
delirium makes its observations) that the old man did
not reply to her.
The truth was, Tellemarch d'd not know what to say
to her. It is not easy to tell a mother that her children
are lost. And then, what did lie know ? Notliing. He
knew that a motlier had been shot, that this mother had
been found on the ground by himself, that w^hen he had
taken her up she was almost a corpse, that this quasi-
corpse had three children, and tliat Lantenac, after having
had the mother shot, carried ofi' the little ones. All his
information ended there. What had become of the chil-
dren? Were they even living? He knew, because he
had inquired, that there were two boys and a httle
girl, barely weaned. Nothing more. He asked himself
a host of questions concerning this unfortunate group,
but could answer none of them. The people of the
neighbourhood whom he had interrogated contented
themselves with shaking their heads. The Marquis de
Lantenac was a man of whom they did not willingly
talk.
They did not willingly talk ofDe Lantenac, and they did
not willingly talk to Tellemarch. Peasants have a speciefa
of suspicion peculiar to themselves. They did not like
Tellemarch. Tellemarch the Caimand was a puzzling
man. Why was he always studying the sky? What
was be doing, and what was he thinking in his long
hours of stillness ? Yes, indeed, he was odd ! In
this district in full warfare, in full conflagration, in high
tumult ; where all men had only one business — devasta-
tion, and one work — carnage; where W'hosoever could
Mm
A HEALED WOUliD ; A BLEEDING HEART.
219
burned a house, cut the throats of a family, massacred
an outpost, sacked a village ; where nobody thought of
anything but laying ambushes for one another, drawing
one another into snares, killing one another. This soli-
tary, absorbed in nature, as if submerged in the immense
peacefulness of its beauties, gathering herbs and plants,
occupied solely with the flowers, the birds, and the stars,
was evidently a danger© is man. Plainly he was not in
possession of his reason ; ho did not lie in wait behind
thickets ; he did not fire a shot at any one. Hence he
created a certain dread about him.
"Tliat man is mad," said the passers-by.
Tellemarch was more than an isolated man, he was
shunned. People asked iiim no questions and gave him
few answers ; so he had not been able to inform himself
as he could have wished. The war had drifted else-
where ; the armies had gone to fight farther off; the
Marquis de Lantenac had disappeared from the horizon,
and in Tellemarch's state of mind for him to be conscious
there was a war it was necessary for it to set its foot
on him.
After that cry — " My children" — Tellemarch ceased to
smile, and me woman went back to her* thouglits.
IVhnt was passing in that soul ? It was as if she looked
out from the depths of a gulf. Suddenly she turned
[toward Tellemarch, and cried anew, almost with an
j accent of rage, " My children ! "
Tellemarch drooped his head like one guilty. He was
I thinking of this Marquis de Lantenac, who certainly was
not thinking of him, and who probably no longer remem.-
liered that he existed. He accounted for this to himself,
saying, " A lo' d — when he [is in danger, he knows you ;
when he is once out of it, he does not know you any
I longer."
And he asked himself, " But why, then, did I save this
llord?" And he answ^ered his own question, "Because
lie was a man." Thereupon he remained thoughtful for
home time, then began again mentally, " Am I very sure
lofthat?"
He repeated his bitter words, " If I had known ! "
V.4
!
220
NINETY-THREE.
This whole adventure overwhelmed him, for in that
whicli he had done he perceived a sort of enigma. He
meditated dolorously? A good action might sometimes
te evil. He who saves the wolf kills the sheep. He who
sets the vulture's wing is responsible for his talons. He
felt himself in truth guilty. The unreasoning an^er
of this motlier was just. Still, to have saved her con-
soled liim for having saved the Marquis.
But the cliildren ?
The mother meditated also. The reflections of these
two went on side by side ; and, perhaps, though without
speech, met one another amid the shadows of reverie.
The woman's eyes, with a night-like gloom in their
depths, fixed themselves anew on Teliemarch.
" Nevertheless, that cannot be allowed to pass in this
way," said she.
"Hush!" returned Teliemarch, laying his finger on
his lips.
She continued : " You did wrong to save me, and I
am angry with you for it. I would ratlier be dead,
because I am sure I should see them then. I should
know where they are. They would not see me, but I
should be near them. The dead — they ought to have
power to protect."
He took her arm and felt her pulse. *
*• Calm yourself; you are bringing back your fever."
She asked him almost harshly, " When can I go away
from here ? "
" Go away ? "
"Yes. Walk."
" Never, if you are not reasonable. To-morrow, if|
you are wise."
" "What do you call being wise ?"
" Having confidence in God."
" God ! What has He done with my children ? '
Her mind seemed wandering. Her voice became very]
sweet.
"You understand," she said to him, "I cannot rest!
like this. You have never had any children, but I have.
That makes a difiereuce. One cannot judge of a thmgl
i>»
A HEALED WOUND ; A BLIiEDING HE/ TwT.
221
when one does not know what it is. Tou never had
any children, had you ? "
"No," replied Tellemarch.
"And I — I had nothing besides them. What ami
\rithout my children ? I should like to have somebody
explain to me why I have not my children. I feel that
things happen, but I do not understand. They killei
mv husband ; they shot me ; all the same, I do not
understand it."
" Come," said Tellemarch, " there is the fever taking
vou agnin. Do not talk any more."
She looked at him and relapsed into silence.
From this day she spoke no more.
Tellemarch was obeyed more abs »lutely than he liked.
She spent long hours of stupefaction, crouched at the
foot of an old tree. She dreamed, and held her peace.
Silence makes an impenetrable refuge for simple souls
that have been down into the innermost depths of suffer-
ing. She seemed to relinquish all effort to understand. To
a certain extent despair is unintelligible to the despairing.
Tellemarch studied her with sympathetic interest. In
presence of this anguish the old man had thoughts such
as might have come to a woman. " yes," he said to
himself, " her lips do not speak, but her eyes talk. I
know well what is the matter — what her one idea is.
To have been a mother, and to be one no longer I To
have been a nurse, and to be so no more ! She cannot re-
sign herself. She thinks about the tiniest child of all, that
she was nursing not long ago. She thinks of it ; thinks —
thinks. In truth, it must be so sweet to feel a little rosy
mouth that draws your very soul out of your body, and
who, with the life that is yours, makes a life for itself."
He kept silence on his side, comprehending the im-
potency of speech in face of an absorption like this.
The persistence of an all-absorbing idea is terrible. And
how to rr.ake a mother thus beset hear reason ? Maternity
is inexplicable ; you cannot argue with it. That it is
which renders a mother sublime ; she becomes unreasou-
iug; the maternal instinct is divinely animal. The
mother is no longer a woman, she is a wild creature.
\ : ! i .i
t; : If :
222
NINETY-THREE.
Pll^*i
Her ciiildren are her cubs. Hence in the mother there
is soniethiiig at once inferior and superior to argumeiii,.
A mother has an unerring instinct. The immense
mysterious Will of creation is within her and guides her.
Hers is a blindness superhumanly enlightened.
Now Tt' 'march desired to make this unhappy creature
speak ; he did not succeed. On one occasion he said to
her, " As dl-luck will have it, I am old, and I cannot
walk any longer. At the end of a quarter of an hour
my strength is exhausted, and I am obliged to rest ; if
it were not for that, I would accompany you. After all
perhaps it is fortunate that I cannot. I should be rather
a burthen than useful to you. I am tolerated here; but
the Blues are suspicious of me, as being a peasant; and
the peasants suspect me of being a wizard."
He waited for her to reply. She did not even raise
her eyes. A fixed idea ends in madness or heroism.
But of what heroism is a poor peasant woman capable?
JNone. She can be a mother, and that is all. Each day
she buried herself deeper in her reverie. Tellemarcli
watched her. He tried to give her occupation ; he
brought her needles and thread, and a thimble ; and at
lengtii, to the satisfaction of the poor Caimand, she began
some sewing. She dreamed, but she worked, a sign of
health ; her energy was returning little by little. She
mended her linen, her garments, her shoes ; but her eyes
looked cold and glassy as ever. As she bent over her
needle, she sang unearthly melodies in a low voice. She
murmured names — probably the names of children— but
not distinctly enough for Tellemarcli to catch them. She
would break oft* abruptly and listen to the birds, as if
she thought they might have brought her tidings. She
watched the weather. Her lips would move — she was
speaking low to herself. She made a bag and filled it
with chestnuts. One morning Tellemarch saw her pre-
paring to set forth, her eyes gazing away into the depths
of the forest.
" Where are you going?" he asked.
She re()lied, " I am going to look for them."
He did not attempt to detain her.
THE TWO POLES OF THE TRUTH.
223
VII. — The Two Poles of the Truth.
At the end of a few weeks, which had been filled with
the vicissitudes of civil war, the district of Fougerea
could talk of nothing but the two men who were opposed
to each other, and yet were occupied in the same work,
that is, fighting side by side the great revolutionary
combat.
The savage Yendean duel continued, but the Vendee
was losing ground. In Ille-et-Vilaine in particular,
thanks to the young commander who had at Dol so op-
portunely replied to the audacity of six thousand royalists
by the audacity of fifteen hundred patriots, the insurrec-
tion, if not quelled, was at least greatly weakened and
circumscribed. Several lucky hits had followed that one,
and out of these successes had grown a new position of
affairs.
Matters had changed their face, but a singular compli-
cation had arisen.
lu all this portion of the Vendee the Republic had the
upper hand ; that was beyond a doubt ; but which re-
public ? In the triumph which was opening out, two
forms of republic made themselves felt — the republic of
terror, and the republic of clemency — the one desirous to
conquer by rigour, and the other by mildness. AVhich
would prevail ? These two forms — the conciliating and
the implacable — 'Were represented by two men, each of
whom possessed his special influence and authority ; the
one, a military commander, the other, a civil delegate.
Which of them would prevail ? One of the two, the
delegate, had a formidable basis of support ; he had ar-
rived bearing the threatening watchword of the Paris
Commune to the battalions of Santerre, " No mercy ; no
quarter ! " He had, in order to put everything under his
control, the decree of the Convention, ordaining " death
to whomsoever should set at liberty and help a captive
rebel chief to escape." He had full powers, emanating
from the Committee of Public Safety, and an injunc-
tion commanding obedience to him as delegate, signed
iilj
224
NINETY-THREE.
EoBESPiEERE, Danton, Marat. The other, tlie soldier
had on his side only this strength — pity.
He had only his own arm, which chastised the enemy,
and his heart, which pardoned them. A conqueror, he
believed that he had the right to spare the conquered.
Hence arose a conflict, hidden but deep, between
these two men. The two stood in different atmospheres ;
both combating the rebellion, and each having his own
thunderbolt — that of the one, victory ; that of the other,
terror.
Throughout all the Bocage nothing was talked of but
them ; and what added to the anxiety of those who
watched them from every quarter was the fact tliat these
two men so diametrically opposed were at the same time
closely united. These two antagonists were friends.
Never sympathy loftier and more profound joined two
hearts ; the stern had saved the life of the clement, and
bore on his face the wound received in the effort. These
two men were the incarnation — the one of life, the other
of death ; the one was the principle of destruction, the
other of peace, and they loved each other. Strange
problem. Imagine Orestes merciful and Pylades pitiless.
Picture Arimanes the brother of Ormus !
Let us add that the one of the pair, called "the
ferocious," was, at the same time, the most brotherly of
men. He dressed the wounded, cared for the sick, passed
his days and nights in the ambulance and hospitals, was
touched by the sight of barefooted children, had nothing
for himself, gave all to the poor. He was present at all
the battles ; he marched at the head of the columns, and
in the thickest of the fight, armed (for he had in his belt
a sabre and two pistols) yet disarmed, because no one
had ever seen him draw his sabre or touch his pistols.
He faced blows, and did not return them. It was said
that he had been a priest.
One of these men was Gauvain; the other was
Cimourdain.
There was friendship between the two men, but hatred
between the two principles ; this hidden war could not
fail to burst forth. One morning the battle began.
THE TWO POLES OF THE TRUTH.
225
Cimourdaiu said to Gauvain : "What have we ac-
complished ? "
Gauvam replied: "Ton know as well as I. I have
dispersed Lantenac's bauds. He has only a few men
left. Then he is driven back to the forest of Fougeres.
hi eight days he will be surrounded."
" And in fifteen days ? "
" He will be taken."
"And then?"
"You have read my notice ? "
"Yes. Well?"
" He will be shot."
" More clemency ! He must be guillotined."
" As for me," said Gauvain, " I am for a military
tleath."
"And I," replied Cimourdain, "for a revolutionary
death."
He looked Gauvain in the face, and added : " Why did
you set at liberty those nuns of the convent of Saiut-
Mare-le-Blanc?"
" I do not make war on women," answered Gauvain.
" Those women hate the people. And where hate is
concerned, one woman outweighs ten men. Why did you
ivfuse to send to the Eevolutionary Tribunal all that herd
of old fanatical priests who were taken at Louvigne ? "
" I do not make war on old men."
" An old priest is worse than a young one. Rebellion
is more dangerous preached by white liairs. Men have
faith in wrinkles. No false pity, Gauvain. The regicides
are liberators. Keep your eye fixed on the tower of the
Temple."
" The Temple tower ! I would bring the Dauphin out
of it. I do not make war on children."
Cimourdain's eyes grew stern.
" Gauvain, learn that it is necessary to make war on a
woman when she calls herself Marie-Antoinette, on an
old man when he is named Pius VI. and Pope, and upon
a child when he is named Louis Capet."
" My master, I am not a politician."
" Try not to be a dangerous man. Why, at the attack
226
NINETY-THREE.
OH tlio post of Cosso, when the rebel Jean Treton, driven
•back and loat, flung himself alone, sabre in hand, against
the whcio column, didst thou cry, ' Open the ranks ! Let
hi in pass ! ' ? "
" liecause one does not set fifteen hundred to kill a
single man."
" Why, at the Cailleterie d'Astille, when you saw your
soldiers about to kill the Vendean, Joseph Be/.ier, who
was wounded and dragging himself along, did you ex-
claim : ' Go on before ! This is my aftair ! ' and then fire
your pistol in the air ? "
" Because one does not kill a man on the ground."
" And you were wrong. Both are to-day chiefs of
bands. Joseph Bezier is Moustache, and Jean Treton is
.lambe d' Argent. In saving those two men you gave
two enemies to the Republic."
" Certainly I could wish to give her friends, and not
enemies."
" Why, after the victory of Landean, did you not shoot
your three hundred peasant prisoners."
" Because Bonchamp had shown mercy to the repub-
lican prisoners, and I wanted it said that the Eepublic
showed mercy to the royalist prisoners."
" But then, if you take Lantenac, you will pardon
liim ? "
"No."
" AV^hy ? Since you showed mercy to the three hundred
peasants ? "
" The peasants are ignorant men ; Lantenac knows
what he does."
" But Lantenac is your kinsman."
" France is the nearest."
" Lantenac is an old man."
" Lantenac is a stranger. Lantenac has no age. Lan-
tenac summons the English. Lantenac is invasion.
Lantenac is the enemy of the country. The duel be-
tween him and me can only finish by his death or mine."
" Gauvain, remember this vow."
" It is sworn."
There was silence, and the two looked at each other.
THE TWO P0LE8 OF THE TRUTH.
227
Then Gauvjvin resumed: "It will be a bloody date,
this year 'UiJ in which we live."
" Take care ! " cried Ciniourdain. " Terrible duties exist.
Do not accuse that which is not accusable. Since when is
it that tiie illness is the fault of the phyt^ician ? Tes, the
characteristic of this tremendous year is its i)itilessness.
^•Vhy ? Because it is the grand revolutionary year. This
year in wiiich we live is the incarnation of the lievolution.
The lievolution has an enemy — the old world — and it
is without pity for it ; just as the surgeon lias an enemy —
pmgrene — and is witliout pity for it. The Kevolution
extirpates royalty in the king, aristocracy in the noble,
despotism in the soldier, superstition in the priests, bar-
barism in the judge ; in a word, everything which is
tyranny, in all which is the tyrant. The operation is
fearful; the Eevolution performs it with a sure hand.
As to the amount of sound flesh which it sacrifices,
demand of Boerhaave what he thinks in regard to that.
What tumour does not cause a loss of blood in its cutting
away? Does not the extinguishing of a conflagration
demand an energy as fierce as that of the fire itself?
These formidable necessities are the very condition of
success. A surgeon resembles a butcher : a healer may
have the appearance of an executioner. The Ee volution
devotes itself to its fatal work. It mutilates, but it saves.
What ! You demand pity for the virus ! You wish it
to be merciful to that which is poisonous ! It will not
listen. It holds the post ; it will exterminate it. It
makes a deep wound in civilisation, from whence will
spring health to the human race. You sufler ? Without
doubt. How long will it last ? The time necessary for
the operation. After that, you will live. The Kevolu-
tion amputates the world. Hence this haemorrhage — '93."
"The surgeon is calm," said Gauvaiu, "and the men
that I see are violent."
"The Eevolution," replied Cimourdain, "needs savage
workmen to aid it. It pushes aside everv hand that
trembles. It has only faith in the inexorabbs. Danton
is the terrible ; Robespierre is the inflexible ; Saint-
Just is the immovable ; Marat is the implacable. Take
Q 2
228
NINETY-THREE.
m
care, Gauvaiu. Thoao iiamea are necessary. They
are worth as much as armies to us. They will territy
•iUro))e.
" And porhajis the future also," said Gauvaiu.
He checked himself, and resumed : " For tliat matter,
my master, you err ; I accuse no one. According to me,
the true point of view of the Kevolution is its irresponsi-
bility. Nobody is iimocent, nobody is guilty. Louis XYI.
is a sheej) thrown among lions. He wishes to escape, he
tries to llee, he seeks to defend himself; he would bite if
he could. But one is not a lion at will. His absurdity
passes for crime. This enraged sheep shows his teetli.
'The traitor!' cry the lions. And they eat him. That
done, they fight among themselves."
" The sheej) is a brute."
" And the lions, what are they ? "
This retort set Cimourdain thinking. He raised his
head, and answered, " Tliese lions are consciences. Tliese
lions are ideas. These lions are principles."
" They produce the reign of terror."
" One day, the Eevolution will be the justificalioji of
this terror."
" Beware lest the terror become the calumny of the
Eevolution."
Gauvain continued : " Liberty, Equality, Fraternity !
these are the dogmas of peace and harmony. AVhy
give them an alarming aspect ? What ia it wc want ?
To bring the peoples to a universal republic. Well,
do not let us make them afraid. What can intimida-
tion |serve ? The people can no more be attracted by
a scarecrow than birds can. One must not do evil to
bring about good. One does not overturn the throne
in order to leave the gibbet standing. Death to kings,
and life to nations ! Strike oft' the crowns ; spare the
heads. The Eevolution is concord, not fright. Clement
ideas are ill served by cruel men. Amnesty is to me
the most beautiful word in human language. I will
only shed blood in risking my own. Besides, I simply
know how to fight ; I am nothing but a soldier. But
if I may not pardon, victory is not w^orth the trouble
/
T'l
DOLOUOSA.
229
it costs. During buttle let us bo tlio enemies of our
enemies, find after the victory their brothftra."
"Take care!" repeated Cimourdain, for the third
time. " Gauvaiu, vou are more to me tliau a son; take
care
rp
»"
Then he added, thoui^htfuU}', " In a period like ours,
pity may become one of the forms of treason."
Anv one listening: to the talk of these two men mijxht
have fancied he heard a dialogue between the aword anil
the axe.
-•o*-
VIII. — Dolorosa.
In the meanwliile the mother was seeking her little ones.
She went straight forward. How did she live? It is im-
possible to say. She did not know herself. She walked
(lay and night ; she begged, she ate herbs, she lay on the
ground, she slept in the open air, in tlie thickets, inider
the stars, sometimes in the rain and wind.
She wandered from village to village, from farm to
farm, seeking a clue. Slie stopped on the thresholds of
the peasants' cots. Her dress was in rags. Sometimes
she was welcomed, sometimes she was driven away.
When she could not get into the houses, she went into
the woods.
She was not known in the district ; she was ignorant
of everything except Siscoignard and the parish of
Aze ; she had no route marked out ; she retraced her
steps ; travelled roads already gone over ; made useless
journeys. Sometimes she followed the highway, some-
times a cart-track, as often the paths among the copses.
In these aimless wanderings she had worn out lier
miserable garments. She had shoes at first, then she
walked barefoot, then with her feet bleeding. She
crossed the track of warfare, among gunshots, hearing
nothing, seeing nothing, avoiding nothing — seeking her
children. Revolt was everywhere ; there were no more
gendarmes, no more mayors, no authorities of any sort.
She had only to deal with chance passers.
. u*i^.
230
NINETY-TIIREB.
Slio spoke to tliein. She asked, " Have you seen tlirei'
little children anywhere? "
Those she addresMed would look at her.
" Two boys and a girl," she would say.
Tlien she would name them : '' Reno-Jean, Gros-Ahiin,
Georgette. You have not seen tljcmV"
She would ramble on tlius : "The eldest is four years
and a half old ; tlie little girl is twenty nionths."
Then would come the cry, "Do you know where they
are ? They have been taken from nie."
Tlu> listeners would stare at her, and tliat was all.
When she saw tiiat she was not understood, she would
say, " It is because they belong to me — that is why."
The people would pass on tlieir way. Then she would
stand still, uttering no further word, but digging at her
breast with her nails. However, one day, a peasant
listened to her. The good man set himself to thinking.
"Wait now," said he. " Three children? "
" Yes."
"Two boys?"
" And a girl."
" You are hunting for them ? "
"Yes."
" I have heard talk of a lord who had taken three little
children and had them with him."
"Where ia this man?" she cried. " AVhere are
they ? "
The peasant replied, " To La Tourgue."
" Shall I find my children there V "
" It may easily be."
" You say ? "
p " La Tourgue."
' " What is that, La Tourgue ? "
' " It is a place."
" Is it a village — a castle — a farm ? "
" I never was there."
" Is it for ? "
" It is not near."
" In which direction ? "
" Toward Fougeres."
A PUOviNCiAL bastillp:.
281
'• Which way must I go ? "
" You aro tit Vautortos," said the peasant ; " you
must k'aVo Ern6e to tlio left and Coxtdles to the ri^ht ;
you will pass by Lc rchainp aud cross the Leroux." He
pointed his linf^er to the west. " Always straight before
you and toward tiie sunset."
Ere the peasant liad dropped hia arm, she was
hurrying on.
He cried after her, " But take care. They are fighting
over there."
She did not answer or turn round ; on she went,
straight before her.
IX. — A Provincial Bastille.
FoiiTT years ago, a traveller who entered the forest of
Fongeres, from the side of Laignel(?t, and left it toward
Parigue, was met on the border of this vast old wood by
a sinister spectacle. As he came out of the thickets, La
Tourgue rose abruptly before him.
Not La Tourgue living, but La Tourgue dead. La
Tourgue cracked, battered, seamed, dismantled. The
ruin of an edifice is as much its gliost as a phantom is
tli!it of man. No more lugubrious vision could strike
the gaze tlian that of La Tourgue. "What the traveller
had before his eyes was a lofty round tower, standing
alone at the corner of the wood like a malefactor. This
tower, rising from a perpendicular rock, was so severe
aud solid that it looked almost like a bit of Roman
arcliitecture, and the frowning mass gave the idea of
strength even amid its ruin. It was lloman in a way,
siuce it was Romanic. Begun in the ninth century, it
had been finished in the twelfth, after the third Crusade.
The peculiar ornaments of the mouldings told its age.
On ascending the height one perceived a breach in the
wall ; if one ventured to enter, he found himself within
the tower — it was empty. It resembled somewhat the
inside of a stone trumpet set upright on the ground.
-..Wjt
•*f!«m
«P
232
NINETY-THREE.
From top to bottom no partitions, no ceilings, no floors •
there were places where arches and chimneys had been
torn away ; falconet embrasures were seen ; at different
heights, rows of granite corbels, and a few transverse
beams marked wlrere the different storeys had been;
these beams were covered with the ordure of night
birds. The colossal wall was fifteen feet in thickness at
the base and twelve at tlie summit ; here and there were
chinks and ho'les which had been doors, through which
one caught glimpses of staircases in the shadow'v interior
of the wall. The passer-by who penetrated there at
evening heard the cry of the wood-owl and the Brittanv
heron, and saw beneath liis feet braiivbies, stones, reptiles,
and, above his head, across a black circle which looked
like tiie mouth of an enormous well, he could perceive
the stars.
The neighbourhood kept a tradition that in the upper
storeys of this tower there were secret doors formed like
those in the tombs of the Indian kings, of great stones
turning on pivots ; opening by a spring and forming part
of the wall when closed ; an architectural mystery whicli
the Crusaders had brought from the East along with the
pointed arch. AVhen these doors were shut, it was im-
possible to discover them, so accurately were they fitted
into the other stones. At this day such doors may still
be seen in those mysterious Lybian cities which escaped
the burial of the twelve towns in the time of Tiberius.
■'^ir"<'
► !:
r
X. — The Breach.
The breach by which one entered thb uin had been the
opening of a mine. Eor a connoisseur, familiar with
Errard, Sardi, and Pagan, this mine had been skilfully
planned. The fire-chaniber, shaped like a mitre, was
proportioned to the st^-ength of the keep it had been
intended to disembowel. It must have held at least two
hundredweidit of powder. The channel was serpentine,
ti'- ,, J?' I •* ,
^F^
THE OUBLIETTE.
233
whieli does better service than a straight one. The
cruinbhng of the mine left naked among the broken
stones the sancissc which had the requisite diameter,
that of a hen's egg.
The explosion had left a deep rent in the wall by
which the besiegers could enter. This tower had evi-
dently sustained at different periods real sieges conducted
according to rule. It was scarred with balls, and these
balls were not all of the same epoch. Each projectile
has its peculiar way of marking a rampart, and those of
t'very sort had left their traces on this keep, from the
jtone balls of the fourteenth century to the iron ones of
the eighteenth.
The breach gave admittance into what must have been
the ground-floor. In the wall of the tower opposite the
breach there opened the gateway of a crypt cut in the
rock and stretching among the foundations of the tower
under the whole extent of the ground-floor hall.
This crypt, three-fourths filled up, was cleared out in
1855 under tlie direction of Monsieur Auguste Le
Prevost, the antiquary of Bernay.
¥'
XI. — The Oubliette.
This crypt was the oubliette. Every keep had one.
This crypt, like many penal prisons of that era, had two
stories. The upper fioor, which was entered by the
i^ateway, was a vaulted chamber of considerable size, on
a level witli the ground-floor hall. On the walls could
be seen two parallel and vertical furrows, extending from
one side to the other, and passing along the vault of tlie
roof, iu which they had left deep ruts like old wheel-
tracks. It was what they were in fact. These two
furrows had been hollowed by two ^vheels. Formerly,
in feudal days, victims were torn limb from limb in this
ciiajiiber by a method less noisy than dragging them
at the tails of horses. There had been two wheels so
■
■
;?rsJiBS8«»»»«pw
234
NINETY-THREE.
rtiii
immense that they touched the walls and the arch. To
each of these wheels an arm and a leg of the victim were
attached, then the wheels were turned in the inverse
direction, which crushed the man. It required great
force, hence the furrows which the wheels had worn in
the wall as they grazed it. A chamber of this kind mav
still be seen at Viandin.
Below this room there was another. That was the
real dungeon. It was not entered by a door ; one pene-
trated into it by a hole. The victim, stripped naked,
was let down by means of a rope placed under his arm-
pits into the dungeon, tlirough an opening left in the
centre of the flagging of the upper chamber. If he per-
sisted in living, food was flung to him through this
aperture. A hole of this sort may yet be seen at
Bouillon. '
The wind swept up through this opening. The lower
room, dug out beneath the ground-floor hall, was a well
rather than a chamber. It had water at the bottom, and
an icy wind filled it. Tliis wind, which killed the prisoner
in the depths, preserved the life of the captive in the
room above. It rendered his prison respirable. The
captive above, groping about beneath his vault, only got
air by this hole. For the rest, whatever entered or fell
there, could not get out again. It was for the prisoner
to be cautious in the darkness. A false step might make
the prisoner in the upper room a prisoner in the dungeon
below. That was his aflair. If he clung to life, this hole
was a peril ; if he wished to be rid of it, this hole was
his resource. The upper floor was the dungeon; the
lower the tomb. A superposition which resembled Society
at that period.
It was what our ancestors called a moat-dungeon.
The thing having disappeared, the name has no longer
any significance in our ears. Thanks to the Revolution,
we hear the words pronounced with indifterence.''
Outside the tower, above the breach, which was forty
years since the only means of ingress, might be seen an
opening larger than the other loopholes, from which hung
an iron grating bent and loosened.
THE BRIDGE-CASTLE.
235
)e seen at
XII. — The Bbidge-Castle.
Ox the opposite side from tlie breach a stone bridge was
connected with the tower, having three arches still -in
almost i)erfect preservation. This bridge had supported
a building of which some fragments reniaiiiod. Jt had
evidently been destroyed by fire ; there were only left
portions of the framework, between whose blackened ribs
tiie daylight peeped, as it rose beside the tower like a
skeleton beside a phantom.
This ruin is to-day completely demolished — not a trace
of it is left. It only needed one day and a single peasant
to destroy that whicli it took many centuries and many
kings to build. La Tourgue is a rustic abbreviation
kLa Tour-Gauvain (the Tower (iauvain), just as La
Jupelle stands for La Jupelliere, and Pinson-le-Tort,
I the nickname of a hunchbacked leader is put for Pinson
le Tortu.
La Tourgue, which forty years since was a nun, and
I which is to-day a shadow, was a fortress in 1793. It
was the old bastille of the Gauvains ; toward the west
jiarding the entrance to the forest of Fougeres, a forest
which is itself now hardly a grove.
This citadel had been built on one of the great blocks
[of slate which abound between Mayenne and Dinan,
scattered everywhere among the thickets and heaths like
missiles that had been flung in some conflict between
iTitans.
Tlie tower made up the entire fortress ; beneath the
Itower was the rock ; at the foot of tlie rock one of those
Iwatercourses which the month of January turns into a
|torrent, and which the month of June dries up.
Thus protected, this fortress was in tlie middle ages
lahiiost impregnable. The bridge alone weakened it.
|The Gothic Gauvains had built without a bridge. They
ptiiito it by one of those swinging foot-bridges which a
Wow of an axe sufficed to break away. As long as the
j'luvains remiuned viscounts, they contented themselves
^ith this, but when they became marquises, and left the
r r
236
NINETY-THREE.
r
M
1
4
-
i^
cavern for tlie court, they flung tliree arches across the
torrent and made themselves accessible on the side otl
the phiin just as they had made themselves accessible tu
the king. The marquis of the seventeenth century, amil
the marquiees of the eighteenth, no longer wislied to be
impregnable. An imitation of Versailles replaced tlit
traditions of their ancestors.
Facing the toAver, on the western side, there was
liigh plateau which ended in two plains ; this plateai
almost touched the tower, only separated from it bv
very deep ravine through which ran the watercourso
which was a tributary of the Couesnon. The bridge]
which, joined the fortress and the plateau, was built up
high on piers, aud on these piers was constructed, as ;ii
Chenonceaux, an edifice in the Mansard style, uiord
habitable than the tower. But the customs were still
very rude ; the lords continued to occupy chambers in
the keep which were like dungeons. The building od
the bridge, which was a sort of small castle, was madJ
into a long corridor that served as an entrance, and wai
called the hall of the guards ; above this hall of guards!
which was a kind of entresol, a library was built ; abov(
the library, a granary. Long wandows, with small pane]
in Bohemian glass ; pilasters between the casements
medallions sculptured on the wall ; three stories ; belowl
partisans and muskets; in the middle, books; on highj
sacks of oats ; the whole, at once somewhat savage aii(
very princely.
The tower rose gloomy and stern at the side. Ij
overlooked this coquettish building with all its liiguj
brious height. From its platform one could destroy tlij
bridge.
The two edifices, the one rude, the . other eleganlj
clashed rather than contrasted. The two styles lia
nothing in keeping with one another. Although
should seem that two semicircles ought to be identical
nothing can be less alike than a full Koman arch aud tiij
classic archivault.
That tower, in keeping with the forests, made
strange neighbour for. that bridge, worthy of Versaille^
Imagine Alain Barbe-Torte giving his arm to Louis XIj
THE BRIDGE-CASTLE.
237
iTbe juxtaposition was sinister. Those two majesties
ilius niinffled made up a whole which had something
inexpressibly menacing in it.
From a military point of view, the bridge — we must
iasist upon this — was a traitor to the tower. It em-
^llished, but disarmed ; in gaining ornament the fortress
lost strength. The bridge put it on a levrl \\ith the
plateau. Still impregnable on the side toward the forest
;i became vulnerable toward the plain. Tormerly it
commanded the plateau ; now it was commanded thereby.
Id enemy installed there would speedily become master
oltlie bridge. The library and the granary would be for
liie assailant and against the citadel. A library and a
jrasary resemble each other in the fact that both books
ind straw are combustible. Eor an assailant who serves
iiniselt by fire — to burn Homer or to burn a bundle of
itraw, provided it makes a flame — is all the same. The
freDcli proA'ed this to the Germans by burning the
fary of Heidelberg, and the Germans proved it to
ie French by burning the library of Strassburg. This
jridge, built on to the Tourgue, was, therefore, strate-
jcaily, an error ; but in the ses^enteenth century, under
lert and Louvois, the Gauvaiu princes no more con-
liiilered themselves besiegable than did the princes of
Mian or the princes of La Tremouille. Still the builders
fthe bridge had used certain precautions. In the first
lace they had foreseen the possibility of conflagration ;
Mow the three casements that looked down tlie stream
iey liad fastened transversely to cramp-irons, which
uld still be seen half a century back, a strong ladder,
liose length equalled the height of the two first stories
ftlie bridge, a height which surpassed that of three
dinary stories. Secondly, they had guarded against
Bsault. They had cut off the bridge by means of a low,
avy iron door ; this door was arched ; it was locked by
great key which was hidden in a place known to the
aster alone, and, once closed, this door could defy a
ttering ram and almost brave a cannon-ball. It was
eessary to cross the bridge in order to reach this door,
d to ])ass through the door in order to enter the
i^w. There was no other entrance.
I!
{
■p
238
NINETY-THREE.
XIII. — The Iron Door.
The second story of the small castle on the brid^o wis
raised by the arclies, so that it corresponded with the
second story of the tower. It was at this height, for
greater security, that the iron door had been placed.
The iron door opened toward the library on the
bridge-side, and toward a grand vaulted hall, with a
pillar in the centre, on the side to the tower. Tiiis hall,
as has already been said, was the second story oi thei
keep. It was circular, like the tower ; long loopliokji,
looking out on the fields, lighted it. Tho rude wall was
naked, and nothing hid the stones, which were, 'low-
ever, symmetrically laid. This hall was reached bv' a
winding staircase built in tlie wall, a very simple
thing when walls are fifteen feet in thickness. In the
middle ages a town had to be taken street by street, a
street house by house, a house room by room. A fortrcs;
was besieged story by story. In this respect La Tourgupj
was very skilfull}^ disposed, and was intractable and
difficult. A spiral staircase, at first very steep, led froin
one jloor to the other. The doors were sloping, and were
not of the height of a man. To pass through, it was neces
sary to bow the head ; now a head bowed was a heai
cut off, and at each door the besieged awaited tin
besiegers.
Below the circular hall with the pillar were tw
similar chambers, which made the first and the ground floor,
and above were three. Upon these six chambers, placec
one upon another, the tower was closed by a lid of stone,
which was the platform, and which could only be reachc
by a narrow watch-tower. The fifteen-feet thickness (
w-all which it had been necessary to pierce in order t
place the iron door, and in the middle of which it wa
set, imbedded it in a long arch, so that the door, wliei
closed, Avas, both on the side toward the bridge, and tl
side toAvard the tower, under a porch six or seven fei
deep; when it was open, these two porches joined and
made the entrance-arch.
THE LIBRARY.
239
111 the thickness of the wall of the porch toward the
idge opened a low gate with a Saint Gilles' bolt,
nhich led into the corridor of the first Htory beneath the
library. This offered another dilficulty to besiegers. The
jiuall castle of the bridge showed, on the side toward
the plateau, onl} a perpendicular wall ; and the bridge
was cut there. A drawbridge put it in communication
with the plateau; and this drawbridge (on account of
tiie height of the plateau never lowered except at an
inclined plane) allowed access to the long corridor, called
the guard-room. Once masters of tliis corridor, besiegers,
in order to reach the iron door, would have been obliged
to carry by main force the winding staircase which led
to the second story.
-*o*-
XIV. — The Library.
As for the library, it was an oblong room, the widtli and
length of the bridge, and a single door — the iron one.
*8'-5
A false leaf-door, hung with green cloth, whicli it was
only necessary to push, masked in the interior the
entrance-arch of the tower. The library wall from floor
to ceiling was filled with glazed book-cases, in the beau-
tiful style of the seventeenth-century cabinet-work. Six
?reafc windows, three on either side, one above each arch,
j lighted this library. Through these windows the interior
could be seen from the height of the plateau. In the
jpaces between these windows stood six marble busts on
pedestals of sculptured oak ; Hermolaiis of Byzantium,
Athenoeus the ancient grammarian, Suidas, Casaubon,
Clovis, King of France, and his chancellor, Anachalus,
ivho, ' for that matter, was no more chancellor than
I Clovis was king.
There were books of various sorts in this library. One
IS remained famous. It was an old folio with prints,
kviug for title, ' Saint Bartholomew,' in great letters ;
and for second title, ' Gospel according to Saint Bartho-
"wm
V\
i
240
NINETY-TniiEE.
lomew, preceded by a dissertation by Pantoenus, Christian
philor^opher, as to \vliether this gospel ought to be coii-
sidered apocryphal, and wliether Saint Bartholomew was
t^-^ same as Natlianael. This book, considered a imiquf
' ra^ was placed on a reading-desk in the middle of the
library. In the last century, people came to see it as a
curiosity.
-•o*-
XV. — The Granarst.
As for the granary, which took, like the library, tlic
oblong form of the bridge, it was simply that space
beneath the woodwork of the roof. It was a great room
illled with straw and hay, and lighted by six mansard
windows. There was no ornament, except a figure of
Saint Bartholomew carved on the door, with this line
beneath — , •
" Barnabas sanctus falcem jubet ire r or herbam."
A lofty, wide tower, of six stories, pierced here and
there with loopholes, having for entrance and egress a
single door of iron, leading to a bridge-castle, closed by a
draw^-bridge. Behind the tower a forest ; in front a plateau
of heath, higher th^^n the bridge, lower than the tower.
Beneath the bridge, a deep, narrow ravine full of brush-
wood ; a torrent in winter, a brook in spring-time, a
stony moat in summer. This was the Tower Gauvain,
called La Tourgue.
••o^
XVI. — The Hostages.
July floated past, August came. A blast, fierce and
heroic, swept over France. Tv/o spectres had just passed
beyond the horizon ; Marat with a dagger in his heart,
Charlotte Corday headless. Affairs everywhere were
waxing formidable. As to the Vendee, beaten in grand |
THE HOSTAGES.
211
rwhere were
strategic schemes, slie took refuge in little ones — more
redoubtable, we have already said. This war was now
an immense fight, scattered about among the woods.
The disasters of the large army, called the Catholic and
royal, had commenced. Tiie army from Mayence had
been ordered into the Vendee. Eight tliousand Vendeans
had fallen at Ancenis; they liad been repulsed from
Nantes, dislodged from Montaigu, expelled from Tliouars,
chased from Noirmoutier, flung headlong out of Cliollet,
Mortagne, and Saumur; they had evacuated Parthenay ;
they had abandoned Clisson; fallen back from Chatillon;
lost a flag at Saint-llilaire ; had been beaten at Pornic,
at the Sables, at Eontenay, Dou6, at the Chitteau d'Eau,
at the Ponts-de-Ce ; they were kept in check at Lu9on,
were retreating from the Chataigneraye, and routed at
the Roche-sur-Yon. But on tho one hand they were
menacing Rochelle, and on the other an English fleet in
the Gruernsey waters, commanded by General Craig and
bearing several English regiments, and some of the best
ofHcers of the French navy, only waited a signal from.
the Marquis de Lantenac to land. This landing -.night
make the royalist revolt again victorious. Pitt was in
truth a state malefactor. Policy has treasons sure as an
assassin's dagger. Pitt stabbed our country and betrayed
his own. To dishonour his country was to betray it ;
under him and through him England waged a Punic
war. She spied, she cheated, she hid. Poacher and
forger, she stopped at nothing; she descended to the
very minutia) of hatred. She monopolised tallow, which
cost five francs a pound. An Englishman was taken at
Lille on whom was found a letter from Prigent, Pitt's
agent in Vendee, which contained these lines : " I beg
you to spare no money. We hope that the assassina-
tions will be committed with prudence ; disguised priests
and women are the persons most fit for this duty.* Send
sixty thousand francs to Eouen and- fifty thousand to
Caen." This letter was read in the Convention on the
* One need hardly sny that this letter is apocryphal ; at least,
that it never emanated from Pitt. — Tiuns.
B
hJdUtili
.MWct»A':i>Kiv!!ti-Bii
'•v,'„-..j,r.-
242
NINETY-THREE.
lat of August by Barore. The cruelties of Parrein
and later, the atrocities of Carrier, replied to tlieso per-
fidies. The republicans of Metz and the republiciuia of
the South were eager to inarch against the rebels. A
decree ordered tlie formation of eighty companies of
pioneers for burning tlie copses and thickets of the
Bocage. It was an unheard-of crisis. Tiio war only
ceased on one footing to begin on another. " No mercy !
no prisoners ! " was the cry of both parties. The his-
tory of that time is black with awful sliadows.
During this month of August, La Tourgue was be-
sieged. One evening, just as the stars were rising amid
the calm twilight of the dog-days, when not a leaf
stirred in the forest, not a blade of grass trembled on
the plain, across the stillness of the night, swept the
sound of a horn. This horn was blown from the top of
the tower.
The peal was answered by the voice of a clarion from
below. On the summit of the tower stood an armed
man ; at the foot, a camp spread out in the shadow.
In the obscurity about the Tower Gauvaiu could be
distinguished a moving mass of black shapes. It was a
bivouac. A few fires began to blaze beneath the trees
of the forest and among the heaths of the plateau,
pricking the darkness here and there with luminous
points, as if the earth were studding itself with stars at
the same instant as the sky ; but they were the sinister
stars of war! On the side toward the plateau, the
bivouac stretched out to the plains, and on the forest
side extended into the thicket. La Tourgue was in-
vested.
The outstretch of the besiegers' bivouac indicated a
numerous force. The camp tightly clasped the fortress,
coming close up to the rock on the side toward the
tower, and close to the ravine on the bridge-side.
There was a second sound of the horn, followed by
another peal from the clarion.
This time the horn questioned and the trumpet
replied.
i^ It was the demand of the tower to the camp. " Can
THE HOSTAGES.
243
we speak to you?" The clarion was the answer from
the camp : " Yes."
At this period, the Vendeans, not being considered
belligerents by tlie Convention, and a decree having for-
bidden the exchange of ilags of truce with " the brigands,"
the armies supplemented as they could the means of com-
iiuiiiication which the law of nations authorises in ordi-
nary war and interdicts in civil strife. Hence on occasion
a certain understanding between the peasant's horn
and the military trumpet. The first call was only
to attract attention ; the second put the question,
"Will you listen?" If on this second summons the
clarion kept silent, it was a refusal ; if the clarion
replied, it was a consent. It signified, " Truce for a few
moments."
The clarion hiiving answered this second appeal, the
man on the top of the tower spoke, and these words
coulu be heard :
" Men, who listen to me, I am Gouge-le-Bruant, sur-
nanied Brise-bleu (Crush-the-Blues), because 1 have ex-
terminated many of yours ; surnamed also Imunus, because
1 mean to kill still more than I have already done. My
linger was cut off by a blow from a sabre on the barrel
of !ny gun in the attack at Granville ; at Laval you
guillotined my father, my mother, and my sister Jacque-
line, aged eighteen. This is who I am.
"I speak to you in the name of my lord Marquis
Gauvain de Lantenac, Viscount de Foutenay, Breton
prince, lord of the Seven Forests — my master.
" Learn first that Monseigneur the Marquis, before
shutting himself in this tower where you hold him
blockaded, distributed the command among six chiefs,
his lieutenants. He gave to Deliere the district between
the route of Brest and the route of Ernee ; to Treton,
the district between Roe and Laval; to Jacquet, called
Taillefer, the border of the Haut-Maine ; to Gaulier,
named Grand Pierre, Chateau Gonthier; to Lecomte,
Craon ; Fougeres to Dubois Guy, and all Mayeuue to De
Rochambeau. So the taking of this fortress will not
end matters for you; and if even Monseigneur the
K 2
Mii
.
««
244
NINETY-THREE.
Mnrquia should die, the Vendee of God and the King will
still live.
" That which I say — know this — is to warn you. IMon-
seigneur is here by my side. I am the mouth throun;h
which hia words pass. You who are besiegiug us keep
silence.
" Tills is what it is important for you to hear :
"Do not forget that the war you are making against
us is without justice. "We are men inhabiting our own
country, ami v,e fight honestly ; we are simple and j)uro,
beneath the will of God, as the grass is beneath the dew.
It is the Kepublic which has attacked us; she comes to
trouble us in our flehls ; she has burned our houses, our
harvests, and ruined our farms, while our women and
children were forced to wander with naked feet amons:
the woods while the winter robin was still singing.
"You who are down there and who hear me, you have
enclosed us in the foret t and surrounded us in this tower;
you have killed or disjiorsed those who joined us; you
have cannon ; you have added to your troop the garrisons
and posts of Mortain, of J-^nrenton, of Teilleul, of Landivy,
of Evran, of Tinteniac, and of Vitre, by which means you
are four thousand five hundred soldiers who attack us,
and we — we are nineteen men who defend ourselves.
" You have provisions and munitions.
"You have succeeded in mining and blowing up a
corner of our rock and a bit of our wall.
" That has made a gap at the foot of the tower, and
this gap is a breach by which you can enter, although it
is not open to the sky ; and the tower, still upright and
strong, makes an arch above it.
" Now, you are preparing the assault.
' " And we — first, Monseigneur the Marquis, who is
prince of Brittany, and secular prior of the Abbey of
Saint Marie de Lantenac, where a daily mass was
established by Queen Jeanne ; and, next to liim, the other
defenders of the tower, who are : the Abbe Turmeau,
whose military name is Grand Francoeur ; my comrade,
Guinoiseau, who is captain of Camp Vert; my comrade,
Chaute-en-Hiver, w ho is captain of Camp Avoine ; my
THE UOSTAGKS.
215
comrade Musotto, who U oaptain of Camp Fotirinis ; and
I, peasant, born in the town of Daon, tlirouLjli wliioli
runs the brook Moriaudre ; — wo all, ull Imve oue tluug to
say to you.
"Men who arc at tlie bottom of tins tower, listen.
" We have ill our liands three prisonera, who are three
children. Thene children were ado|)ted by one of your
regiments, and they beion^j; to you. We offer to surrender
these three children to you.
" On one condition.
" It is, tliat we sluill depart freely.
" If you refuse — listen well — you can only attack us in
one of two ways : by the breaeii, on the side of tlie forest,
or by the bridge, on the side of the plateau. Tlie building
on the bridge has tiiree stories; in the lower story I,
Iiuunua, I, wlio speak to you, have put six hogsheads of
tar and a Imndred fiiscines of dried heath ; in tlie top
story there is straw ; in the middle story there are
books and papers : the iron door which communicates
between the bridge and the tower is closed, and jMon-
seigneur carries the key; I have myself made a hole
under the door, and through this hole passes a sulpluir
slow-match, one end of which is in the tar and the other
within reach of my hand, inside the tower. I can fire
it when I choose. If you refuse to let us go out, the
three children will be placed in the second floor of the
bridge, between the story where the sulphur-match
touches the tar and the floor where the straw is, and
the iron door will be shut on tliem. If you attack by the
bridge, it will be you who set the building on fire ; if you
attack by the breach, it will be we ; if you attack by the
breach and the bridge at the same time, the fire will be
kindled at the same instant by us both, and, in any case,
the three children will perish. ,
" Now, accept or refuse.
" If you accept, we come out.
" If you refuse, the children die.
" I have spoken."
The man speaking from the top of the tower became
silent.
1
1
, 1'
t;
«
1
iSK
ili
:;
ill
1
I.ii
246
NINETY-THREE.
A voice from below cried —
" We refuse."
This voice was abrupt and severe. Another voice, lesa
harsh, though firm, added —
" "VVe give you four-and-twenty hours to surrender at
discretion."
Tliere was a silence, then the same voice continued —
" To-morrow, at this hour, if you have not surrendered,
we commence the assault."
And the first voice resumed — " And then, no quarter ! "
To this savage voice another replied from the top of
the tower. Between the two battlements a lofty figure
bent forward, and in the star-light the stern face of
the Marquis de Lantenac could be distinguished ; his
sombre glance shot down into the obscurity and seemed
to look for some one ; and he cried —
" Hold, it is thou, priest ! "
"Yes, traitor; it is I," replied the stern voice from
below.
-•o^
XVII. — Terrible as the Antique.
The implacable voice was, in truth, that of Cimourdain ;
tlie younger and less imperative, that of Gauvain.
The Marquis de Lantenac did not deceive himself in
fancying that he recognised Cimourdain.
As we know, a few weeks in this district, made bloody
by civil war, had r 'ndered Cimourdain famous ; tliere was
no notoriety more darkly sinister than his ; people said :
Marat at Paris, Chalier at Lyons, Cimourdain in Vendee.
They stripped the Abbe Cimourdain of all the respect
which he had formerly commanded ; that is the con-
sequence of a priest's unfrocking himself. Cimourdain
inspired horror. The severe are unfortunate ; tliose who
note their acts condemn them, though perhaps, if their
consciences could be seen, they would stand absolved. A
Lycurgus misunderstood appears a Tiberius. Those two
men, the Marquis de Lantenac and the Abbe Cimour-
TERRIBLE AS THE ANTIQUE.
247
daiu, were equllay poised iu the balance of hatred. The
maledictions of the royalists against Cimoiirdain made a
counterpoise to the execrations of the republicans against
Lantenac. Each of these men was a monster to the
o{)posing camp ; so far did this equality go that, while
Prieur of the Marne was setting a price on the head of
Lantenac, Charette at Noirmoutiers set a price on the
bead of Cimourdain.
Let us add, tliese two men, the marquis and tlie priest,
were up to a certain point the same man. The bronze
mask of civil war has two profiles, the one turned toward
the past, the other set toward the future, but botli equally
tragic. Lantenac was the first of tliese profiles, Cimour-
dain the second ; only the bitter sneer of Lantenac was
full of shadow and night, and on the fatal brow of
Cin.ourdain shone a gleam from the morning.
And now the besieged of Tourgue had a respite.
Thanks to the intervention of Gauvain, a sort of truce
for twenty-four hours had been agreed upon.
LnJluus had, indead, been well informed; through the
requisitions of Cimourdain, Gauvain had now four thousand
five hundred men under his command, part national guards,
part troops of the line ; with these he had surrounded
Lantenac in La Tourgue, and was able to level twelve
cannon at the fortress ; a masked battery of six pieces
on the edge of the forest toward the tower, and an open
battery of six on the plateau, toward the bridge.
He had succeeded in springing the mine, and making
a breach at the foot of the tower.
Thus, when the twenty-four hours' truce was ended, the
attack would begin under these conditions :
On the plateau and in the forest were four thousand
five hundred men. ■♦.•
In the tower, nineteen !
History might find the names of those besieged
nineteen in the list of outlaw^s. We shall perhaps en-
counter them.
As commander of these four thousand five liundred
men, whicli made almost an army, Cimourdain had
wished Gauvain to allow himself to be ma,de adjutai.>t-
IP
248
NINETY-THREE.
general. Gauvain refused, saying, " Wlien Lantenac is
taken, we will see. As yet, I have merited notliing."
Those great commands, with low regimental rank, were,
for that matter, a custom among the republicans. Bona-
parte was, after this, at the same time colonel of artillery
and general-in-chief of the army of Italy.
The Tower Gauvain had a strange destiny ; a Gauvain
attacked, a Gauvain defended it. From that fact rose a
certain reserve in the attack, but not in the defence, for
Lantenac was a man who spared nothing ; moreover, he
had always lived at Versailles, and had no personal
associations with La Tourgue, which he scarcely knew
indeed. He had sought refuge there because he had no
other asylum — that was all. He would have demolished
it without scruple. Gauvain had more respect for the
place.
The weak point of the fortress was the bridge, but in
the library, which was on the bridge, were the family
archives; if the assault took place on that side, the burning
of the bridge would be inevitable ; to burn tlie archives
seemed to Gauvain like attacking his forefathers. The
Tourgue was the ancestral dwelling of the Gauvaius ; in
this tower centred all their fiefs of Brittany just as all
the fiefs of France centred in the tower of the Louvre ;
the home associations of Gauvain were there ; he had
been born within those walls ; the tortuous fiitalities of
life forced him, a man, to attack this venerable pile
which had sheltered him when a child. Could he be
guilty of the im4)iety of reducing this dwelling to ashes ?
Perhaps his very cradle was stored in some corner of
the granary above tlie library. Certain reflections are
emotions. Gauvain felt himself moved in the presence
of this ancient house of his family. That was why he
had spared the bridge. He had confined himself to
making any sally or escape impossible by this outlet,
and had guarded the bridge by a battery, and chosen the
opposite side for the attack. Hence the mining and
sapping at the foot of the tower.
Cimourdain had allowed him to take his own way ; lie
reproached himself for it ; his stern spirit revolted against
''i^
TERBIBLE AS THE ANTIQUE.
249
all these (rotliic relics, and he no more believed in pity
for buildings than for men. S[iaring a castle was a,
beginning of clemency. Now clemency was Gauvain's
weak point. Cimourdain, as we have seen, watched him,
drew him back from this, in his eyes, fatal weakness.
Still he himself, though he felt a sort of rage in being
forced to admit it to his soul, had not seen La Tourgue
again without a secret shock ; he felt himself softened at
the sight of that study where were still the first books
he had made Gauvain read. He had been the priest of
the neighbouring village, Parigne; he, Cimourdain, had
dwelt in the attic of the bridge-castle ; it was in the
library that he had held Gauvain between his knees as a
child and taught him to hsp out the alphabet ; it was
within those four old walls that he had seen grow this
well-beloved pupil, the son of his soul, incn-ase physically
and strengthen in mind. This library, this small castle,
these walls full of his blessings upon the child, was he
about to overturn and burn them ? He had shown them
mercy. Not without remorse.
He had allowed Gauvain to open the siege from the
opposite point. La Tourgue had f^s savage side, the
tower, and its civilised side, the library. Cimourdain
had allowed Gauvain to batter a breach in
side alone.
In truth, attacked by a Gauvain, defended by a Gau-
vain, this old dwelling returned in the height of the
French Eevolution to feudal customs. Wars between
kinsmen make up the history of the middle ages ; the
Fteocles and Polynices are Gothic as well as Grecian,
and Hamlet does at Eisinore what Orestes did in
Argos.
the savage
250
mm
NINETY-THREE.
XVIII.— Possible Escape.
The whole iiiglit was consumed 'n preparations on the
one side and the other.
As soon as the sombre parley which we have just
heard had ended, Gauvain's first act was to call bis
lieutenant.
Guechamp, of whom it will be necessary to know some-
what, was a man of secondary order, honest, intrepid,
mediocre, a better soldier than leader, rigorously intel-
ligent up to the point where it ceases to be a duty to
understand; never softened; inaccessible to corruption
of any sort, whether of venality which corrupts the con-
science, or of pity, which corrupts justice. He liad on
soul and heart those two shades — discipline and the
countersign, as a horse has his blinkers on both eyes,
and he walked unflinchingly in the space thus left
visible to him. His way was straight, but narrow.
A man to be depended on ; rigid in command, exact
in obedience. Gauvain spoke rapidly to him.
" Guechamp, a ladder."
" Commandant, we have none." •
" One must be had."
" For scaling ? "
" No ; for escape."
Guechamp reflected an instant, then answered ; " I
understand. But for what you want, it must be very high."
" At least three stories."
" Yes, commandant, that is pretty nearly the height."
" It must even go beyond that, for we must be certain
of success."
" Without doubt."
" How does it happen that you have no ladder? "
'' Commandant, you did not think best to besiege La
Tourgue by the plateau ; you contented yourself with
blockading it on this side ; you wished to attack, not by
the bridge, but the tower. So we only busied our-
selves with the mine, and the escalade was given up-
That is wliy we have no ladders."
POSSIBLE ESCAPE.
251
'• Have one made immediately."
"A ladder three stories high cannot be improvised."
'• Have several short ladders joined together."
•' One must have them in order to do that."
"Find them."
"There are none to be found. All through the
country the peasants destroy the ladders, just as they
break up the carts and cut the bridges."
" It is true ; they try +o paralyse the Eepublic."
" Tliey vi^ant to manage so that we can neitlier trans-
port baggage, cross a river, nor escalade a wall."
"Still, I must have a ladder."
" I just remember, commandant, at Javene, near
Fougeres, there is a large carpenter's shop. They might
liave one there."
*' There is not a minute to lose."
" When do you want the ladder ? "
"To-morrow at this hour, at the latest."
"I will send an express full speed to Javene. He can
take a requisition. There is a post of cavalry at Javene
which will furnish an escort. The ladder can be here
to-morrow before sunset."
"It is well; that will answer," said Gauvain ; "act
quickly — go."
Ten minutes after Guechamp came back and said to
Trauvain, " Commandant, the express has started for
■Lwene."
Gauvain ascended the plateau and remained for a long
time with his eyes fixed on the bridge-castle across the
ravine. The gable of the building, without other means
of access than the low entrance closed by the raising of
the drawbridge, faced the escarpment of the ravine. In
order to reach tlie arches of the bridge from the plateau,
it was necessary to descend this escarpment, a feat
possible to accomplisli by clinging to tlie brushwood.
But once in the moat, the assailants would be exposed
to all the projectiles that might rain from the three
stones. Gauvain finished by convincing himself that,
at the point which the siege had reached, the veritable
attack ought to be by the breach of the tower.
f
4
1
'
ill
252
NINETY-THREE.
He took every measure to render any eiscape out of
the question ; he increased the strictness of the invest-
ment ; drew closer tiie ranks of his battalions, so that
nothing could pass between. Gauvain and Ciinourdaiii
divided tlie investment of the fortress between them.
Gauvain reserved the forest side for himself and (][ave
Cimourdain the side of the plateau. It was agreed that
while Gauvain, seconded by Guechamp, conducted the
assault through the mine, Cimourdain should guard the
bridge and ravine with every match of the open battery
lighted.
;;
ff'
XIX. — What the Marquis was doing.
Whilst without every preparation for the attack was
going on, within everything was preparing for resistance.
It is not without a real analogy that a tower is called a
" douve," * and sometimes a tower is breached by a mine
as a cask is bored by an auger. The wall opens like a
bung-hole. This was wliat had happened at La Tourgue.
Ti\e great blast of two or three hundredweight of
powder had burst tlie mighty wall through and through.
This breach started from the foot of the tower, traversed
the wall in its thickest part, and made a sort of shapeless
arch in the ground-floor of the fortress. On the outside
the besiegers, in order to render this gap practicable for
assault, had enlarged and finished it off by cannon shots.
The ground-floor which this breach penetrated was a
great round hall, entirely empty, witli a central pillar
w^hich supported the keystone of the vaulted roof. This
chamber, the largest in the whole keep, was not less
than forty feet in diameter. Each story of the tower
was composed of a similar room, but smaller, with guards
to the embrasures of the loopholes. The ground-floor
chamber had neither loopholes nor airholes ; there was
about as much air and light as in a tomb.
* Douve, a stave, cask made of staves.
S^SSwS
WHAT THE MARQUIS WAS DOING.
253
The door of the diinpfeons, made more of iron tlian
wood, was in this ground-floor room. Another door
opened upon a staircase whicli led to tlie upper chambers.
All the staircases were contrived in the interior of
the wall.
It was into this lower room that the besiegers could
arrive by the breach they had made. This hall taken,
tliere would still be the tower to take.
It had always been impossible to breathe in that hall
for any length of time. Nobody ever passed twenty -four
lioiirs there without suffocating. Now, thanks to the
breach, one could exist there.
That was why the besieged had not closed the breach.
Besides, of what service would it have been ? The cannon
voiild have re- opened it.
They stuck an iron toroh-holder into the wall, and put
a torch in it, which ligh the ground-iloor.
Now how to defend tlu >elves ?
To wall up the hole would be easy, but useless. A
retirade would be of more service. A retirade is an
entrenchment with a re-entering angle ; a sort of raftered
barricade, which admits of converging the fire upon the
assailants, and while leaving the breach open exteriorly,
blocks it on the inside. Materials were not lacking ; they
constructed a retir'^de with fissures for the passage of the
gun-barrels. Thb angle was supported by the central
pillar ; the wings touched the wall on either side. The
liiarquis directed everything. Inspirer, commander,
guide, and master — a terrible spirit.
Lantenac belonged to that race of warriors of the
eighteenth century who, at eighty years of age, saved
cities. He resembled that Count d' Alberg who, almost a
centenarian, drove the King of Poland from the Eiga.
" Courage, friends," said the marquis ; " at the com-
mencement of this century, in 1713, at Bender, (^harles
XII., shut up in a house with three hundred Swedes,
lield his own against twenty thousand Turks."
They barricaded the two lower floors, fortified the
I chambers, battlemented the alcoves, supported the doors
with joists driven in by blows from a mallet; and thus
^!9
W ^1!
p
11 Nil ^liM
NINETY-TUllEE.
formed a sort of buttress. It was necesaary to leave free
the spiral staircase which joined tl>e different flours, fur
they must be able to get up and down, and to stop it
against the. besiegers would have been to close it aLjaiust
themselves. The defence of any place has thus always
some weak side.
The marquis, indefatigable, robust as a young man
lifted beams, carried stones, sot an example, put his haiul
to the work, commanded, aided, fraternised, laughed with
this ferocious clan, but remained always the noble still-
haughty, familiar, elegant, savage.
He permitted no reply to his orders. He had said :
"If the lialf of you should revolt, I would have them shot
by the other half, and defend the place with those that
were left."
XX. — What ImAnus was doing.
While the marquis occupied himself with the breach
and the tower, Iiuanus was busy with the bridge. At
the beginning of the siege, the escape-ladder which
hung transversely below the windows of the second
story had been removed by the marquis's orders, and
Imanus had put it in the library. It was, perhaps, the
loss of this ladder which Gauvain wished to supply.
The windows of the lower floor, called the guard-room,
were defended by a triple bracing of iron bars, set in the
stone, so that neither ingress or egress was possible by
them. The library windows had no bars, but they were
very high. Imanus took three men with him who, Hke
himself, possessed capabilities and resolution that would
carry them through anything. These men were Hoianard,
called Branche d'Oi , and the two brothers Pique-en-Bois.
Imanus, carrying a dark lantern, opened the iron door
and carefully visited the three stories of the bridge-
castle. Iloisnard Branche d'Or was as implacable as
Imanus, having had a brother killed by the republicans.
WHAT IMANUS WAS DOING.
255
;o leave free
t tluora, fur
L to stop ic
ie it a<j;iiinst
thus always
^oiinj]; man,
)ut his hand
!iuj2;hed with
tioble still-—
.0 had said :
/e them shot
1 those that
the breach
bridge. At
,dder which
the second
orders, and
perhaps, the
to supply.
guard-room,
rs, set in the
possible by
ut they were
lim who, like
11 that would
ere Hoianard,
'ique-en-Bois.
he irou door
' the bridge-
implacable as
republicans,
Imaiius examined tlie upper room, filled with hay and
jtraw, and the ground-floor, where he liad several fire-pota
added to the tuns of tar ; he placed the heap of fascinea
so that they touched the casks, and assured himself of tho
food condition of the sulphur-match, of which one end
WHS in the bridge and the other in the tower. He spread
over the floor, under the tuns and fascines, a pool of tar,
ill which he dipped the end of tho sulphur-match. Tlien
he brought into the library, between the ground-floor
where the tar was and the garret filled witli straw, the
three cribs in which lay liene-Jean, Gros-Alain, and
Georgette, buried in deep sleep. They carried the
cradles very gently in order not to waken the little
ones.
They were simple village cribs, a sort of low osier basket
wliich stood on the floor so that a child could get out
uuaided. Near each cradle Imanus placed a porringer of
soup, with a wooden spoon. The escape-ladder, unhooked
from its cramping irons, bad been set on the floor against
the wall ; Imanus arranged the three cribs, end to end,
ill front of the ladder. Then, thinking that a current of
air might be useful, he opened wide the six windows of
the library. The summer night was warm and starlight.
He sent the brothers Pique-en-Lois to open the windows
of the upper and lower stories. He had noticed on the
eastern la9ade of the building a great dried old ivy, the
colour of tinder, which covered one whole side of the
bridge from top to bottom and framed in the windows of
the three stories. He thought this ivy might be left.
Imauus took a last watchful glance at everything ; that
doue, the four men left the chatelet and returned to
the tower. Imanus double-locked the heavy iron door,
studied attentively the enormous bolts, and nodded his
head in a satisfied way at the sulphur-match which passed
through the hole be had drilled, and was now the sole com-
munication between the tower and the bridge. This train
or wick started from the round chamber, passed beneath
the iron door, entered under the arch, twisted like a snake
down the spiral staircase leading to the lower story of the
bridge, crept over the floor, and ended iu the heap of
^^MHBrikMiHrifea
■tH^^HHil
J
'■■
!
256
NINETY THREE.
dried fascines laid on the pool of tar. Iniunus had calcu-
lated that it would take about a (juarter ot un hour tor
this wick, when lij^htcd in the interior of the toner, to set
tire to the pool of tar under the library. These arraiif^e-
nients all concluded, and every work carefully ins[)ected,
he carried the key of the iron door back to the marquia,
who put it in his pocket. It was important that every
movement of the besiegers should be watched. Imunus,
with his cow-herd's horn in his belt, posted hiniselt' aa
sentinel in the watch-tower of the platform at the top
of the tower. While keeping a constant look-out, one
eye on the forest and one on the plateau, he worked at
making cartridges, having near him, in the embrasure
of the watch-tower window, a powder-horn, a canvass
bag full of good-sized balls, and some old newspapers,
which he tore up for wadding.
"When the sun rose, it litihted in the forest eicht
battalions, with sabres at their sides, cartridge-boxes on
their backs, and guns with iixed bayonets, ready for the
assault ; on the plateau, a battery, with caissons, car-
tridges, and boxes of case-shot ; within the fortress, nine-
teen men loading several guns, muskets, blunderbusses,
and pistols ; — and three children sleeping in their cradles.
BOOK THE SECOND.
THE MASSACRE OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW.
The children woke. The little girl was the first to open
her eyes.
The waking of children is like the unclosing of flowers,
a perfume seems to exhale from those fresh young souls.
Georgette, twenty months old, the youngest of the three,
who waa still a nursing baby in the month of May,
THE MASSACRE OF SAINT BAllTnoLOMEW.
257
Imd calcu-
n hour for
)>ver, to set
so arraufi^e-
iuspccted,
\(i iiuirqiUH,
tlmt every
, Imamis,
luinself iia
at the top
ok-out, one
worked at
embrasure
, a canvasa
lewspapera,
'orest eight
i^e-boxes on
?ady for the
lissons, car-
rtress, nine-
mderbusses,
heir cradles.
first to open
g of flowers,
•oung souls,
of the three,
th of May,
)
raised lier little head, sat up in her cradle, looked at her
feet, and began to ciuitter.
A ray of tiio morning fell across her crib ; it would
have been diilicult to decide which was the rosiest,
Georgette's foot or Aurora.
Tlie other two still slept — the slumber of boys is
heavier. Georgette, gay and happy, began to chatter.
Rene- Jean's hair was brown, Gros-Alaiu's was auburn,
Georgette's blonde. Tliese tints would change later
in life. Reno- Jean had the look of an infant Hercules ;
he slept lying on his stomach, with his two fists in his
eyes. Gros-Alain had thrust liis legs outside his little
bed.
xiU three were in rags ; the garments given them by
the battalion of the Bonnet Rouge had worn to shreds ;
they had not even a shirt between them. The two boys
were almost naked; Georgette was muffled in a rag
which had once been a petticoat, but was now little
more than a jacket. Who had taken care of these
children? Impossible to say. Not a mother. These
savage peasant fighters, who dragged them along from
forest to forest, had given them their portion of soup.
That was all. The little ones lived as they could. They
had everybody for master, and nobody for father. But
even about the rags of childhood there hangs a halo.
These three tiny creatures were lovely.
Georgette prattled.
A bird sings — a child prattles — but it is the same .<
hymn ; hymn indistinct, inarticulate, but full of profound
meaning. The child, unlike the bird, lias the sombre
destiny of humanity before it. This thought saddens
any man who listens to the joyous song of a child. The
most sublime psalm that can be heard on this earth is
the lisping of a human soul from the lips of childhood.
This confused murmur of thought, which is as yet only
instinct, holds a strange, unreasoning appeal to eternal
justice ; perchance it is a protest against life while stand-
ing on its threshold ; a protest unconscious, yet heart-
rending; this ignorance, smiling at infinity, lays upon
all creation the bui'den of the destiny which shall be
I '
258
NINETY-THREE.
offered to tlu8 feeble, unarmed creature. If unhappiacas
comes, it seems like a betrayal of confidence.
The babble of an infant is more and less than speech ;
it is not measured, and yet it is a song ; not syllables,
and yet a lan<;nage ; a murmur that began in heaven and
will not finish on earth ; it commenced before human
birtli, and will continue in the sphere beyond ! These
lispiiigs are the echo of what the cliild said when it was
an angel, and of what it will say when it enters eternity.
The cradle lias a Yesterday, just as the grave has a
To-morrow ; this morrow and this yesterday join their
ilouble mystery in that ineompreliensible warbling, and
tliere is no such proof of God, of eternity, and the duality
of destiny, as in this awe-inspiring shadow flung across
that flower-like soul.
There was nothing saddening in Georgette's prattle ,
her whole lovely face was a smile. Her mouth smiled,
ber eyes smiled, tbe dimples in her cbeek smiled. There
was a serene acceptance of the morning in this smile.
Tlie soul has faith in the sunlight. The sky was blue,
warm, beautiful. This frail creature, who knew notliing,
who comprehended nothing, softly cradled in a dream
which was not thought, felt herself in safety amid the
loveliness of nature, these sturdy trees, this pure verdure,
this landscape fair and peaceful, with its noises of birds,
brooks, insects, leaves, above which glowed the brightness
of the sun.
After Georgette, Eene-Jean, the eldest, who was past
four, awoke. He sat up, jumped in a manly way over the
side of his cradle, found out the porringer, considered
that quite natural, and so sat down on the floor, and
began to eat his soup.
Georgette's prattle had not awakened Gros-Alain, but
at the sound of the spoon in the porringer, he turned
over with a start, and ''opened his eyes. Gros-Alain was
the one of three years old. He saw his bowl. He had only
to stretch out his arm and take it, so, without leaving his
bed, he followed Een^-Jean's example, seized the spoon
in his little fist, and began to eat, holding the bowl on
his knees.
THE MASSACRE OP SAINT BARTHOLOMEW.
259
Georgette did not hear them ; tlie modulations of lier
•e seemed measured by the cradling of a dream. Her
groat eyes, gazing upward, were divine. No matter how
dark the ceiling in the vault above a child's head, Heaven
la reflected in its eyes.
When Rene-Jean had finished his portion, he scraped
the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, sighed, and said
with dignity, " I have eaten my soup."
This roused Georgette from her re very.
" Thoup ! " said she.
Seeing that Rene-Jean had eaten, and that G-ros-Alain
was eating, she took the porringer wliich was placed by her
cradle, and began to eat in her turn, not without carrying
the spoon to her ear much oftener than to her mouth.
From time to time she renounced civilisation, and ate
with her fingers.
When Gros-Alain had scraped the bottom of his por-
ringer too, he leaped out of bed and joined his brother.
-•o*-
SuDDENLT from without, down below, on the side of the
forest, came the stern, loud ring of a trumpet.
To this clarion-blast a horn from the top of the tower
replied.
This time it was the clarion which called, and the horn
which made answer.
The clarion blew a second summons, and the horn again
replied.
Then from the edge of the forest rose a voice, distant
but clear, which cried thus : " Brigands, a summons ! If
at sunset you have not surrendered at discretion, we
commence the attack."
A voice, which sounded like the roar of a wild
animal, responded from the summit of the tower :
"Attack!"
The voice from below resumed, "A cannon will be
ired, as a last warning, half an hour before the assault."
• s 2
ilfll
iiMI
U :; if ■jttft;-
2G0
NINETY-THREE.
The voice from on high repeated, " Attack ! "
These voices did not reach the '3hildren, but the
trumpet and the horn rose loud and clear. At the first
sound of the claricn, Georgette lifted her head, a:.J
stopped eating ; at the sound of the horn, she dropped
her spoon into the porringer ; at the second blast oi" the
trumpet, she lifted the little forefinger of her right hand,
and, raising and depressing it in turn, marked the cadences
of the flourish which prolonged the blast. AV^hen the
trumpet and the horn ceased, she remained with her
finger pensively lifted, and murmured, in a half-voice,
" Mutliic."
We suppose that she wished to say " Music."
The two older children, Kene-Jean and Gros-Alain, had
paid no attention to the trumpet and horn ; they were
absorbed by something else ; a wood-louse was just
making a journey across the library-floor.
Gros-Alaiu perceived it, and cried, " There is a little
jreature ! "
liene-Jean ran np.
Gros-Alaiu continued, " It pricks."
'' Do not hurt it," said Rene-J ?an.
And both remained watching the traveller.
Georgette proceeded to finish her soup ; that done, she
looked about for her brothers. liene-Jean and Gros-
Alain were in the recess of one of the windows, gravely
stooping over the wood-louse, their foreheads touching,
their curls mingling. They held their breath in wonder,
and examined the insect, which had stopped, and did not
attempt to move, though not appreciating the admiration
it received.
G?orgette, seeing that her brothers were watching
something, must needb know what it was. It was not
an easy matter to reach them — still she undertook the
journey. The way was full of difficulties ; there v.ere
things scattered over the floor. There were footstools over-
turned, heaps of old papers, packing-cases, forced open
and empty ; trunks, rubbish of all sorts, in and out of
wliicli it was necessary to sail— p. vv^^ole archipelago of
reefs — but Georgette risked it. The Urst task was to get
THE MASSACRE OP SAINT BARTHOLOMEW.
£61
but the
b the first
head, a:.d
D dropped
ast 01 the
iglit hand,
e cadences
When the
. with her
half-voice,
,- Alain, had
they were
5 was just
5 is a little
at done, she
and Gros-
)ws, gravely
Is touching,
in wonder,
and did not
admiration
> watching
It was not
idertook the
there were
itstools over-
forced open
and out of
■chipelago of
k was to get
out of her crib ; then she entered the cliain of reefs,
twisted herself through the straits, pushed a footstool
aside, crept between two coffers, got over a heap of
papers, climbing up one side and rolling do\. n the other,
regardless of the exposure to her poor little naked legs,
and succeeded in re;i hing what a sailor would have called
an open sea, tliat is, a sutllciently wide space of the lloor
which was not littered ov^r, and where there were no
more perils ; tiien she bounded forward, traversed this
space, which was the whole width of the room, on all
fours with the agility of a kitten, and got near to the
window. There a fresh and formidable obstacle en-
countered her; the great ladder lying along the wall
reached to this Aindow, the end of it passing a little
beyond the corner of the recess. It formed between
Georgette and her brothers a sort of cape, which must be
crossed. She stopped and meditated; her internal mono-
logue ended, she came to a decision. She resolutely
twisted her rosy fingers about one of the rung!', which
were vertical as the ladder lay along its side. She tried
to raise herself on her feet, and fell back; she began
again, and fell a ,.,econd time ; the third etfort was suc-
cessful. Then, standing up, she caught hold of the rounds
in succession, and walked tlu' length of the ladder. When
she reached the extremity there was nothing more to
support her. She tottered, but seizing in her two hands
the end of one of the great poles, which held the rungs,
she rose again, doubled the promontory, looked at Kcue-
Jeau and Gros-Alain, and began to laugh.
At that instant, Rene- Jean, satisfied with th'^ result of
his investigations of the wood-louse, raised his head, and
announced, " 'Tis a she creature."
Greorgette's laughter made Rene-.Tean laugh, and Rene-
Jean's laughter made Gros-Alain laugh.
Georgette seated herself beside her brothers, the recess
^mm
2G2
NINETY-THREE.
M
forming a sort of little reception chamber, but their guest,
the wood-louse, had disappeared.
It had taken advantage of Georgette's laughter to hide
itself in a crack of the floor.
Other incidents followed the wood-louse's risit.
First, a flock of swallows passed. They probably had
their nests under the edge of the overhanging roof. Tliey
flew close to the window, a little startled by the sight of
the children, describing great circles in the air, and utter-
ing their melodious spring song. The sound made the
three little ones look up, and the wood-louse was for-
gotten.
Georgette pointed her finger toward the swallows, and
cried, " Chicks ! "
Eene-Jean reprimanded her. " Miss, you must not
say ' chicks ; ' they are birds."
" Birz," repeated Georgette.
And all three sat and watched the swallows.
Then a bee entered. There is nothing so like a soul
as a bee. It goes from flower to flower as a soul from
star to star, and gathers honey as the soul does liglit.
This visitor made a great noise as it came in ; it buzzed
at the top of its voice, seeming to say, " I have come. I
have first been to see the roses, now I come to see the
children. "What is going on here ? "
A bee is a housewife — its song is a grumble. The
children did not take their eyes ofi" the new-comer as long
as it stayed with them.
Tlie bee explored the library, rummaged in the corners,
fluttered about with the air of being at home in a hive,
and wandered, winged and melodious, from bookcase to
bookcase, examining the titles of the volumes through
the glass doors as if it h" . an intellect. Its exploratiou
finished, it departed.
" It is going to its own house," said Een^-Jean.
"It is a beast," said Gros- Alain.
" No," replied Eenc-Jean, "it is a fly.'*
"Af'y," said Georgette.
Thereupon Gros-Alain, who had just found on the
floor a cord, with a knot in one end, took the opposite
■'i-j'srs '^'
THE MASSACRE OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW.
263
exti mity between liis tliunib and forefinger, and made a
sort of windmill of the string, watching its whirls with
profound attention.
On her side, Georgette, having turned into a quadruped
again, and recommenced her capricious course back and
forwards across the floor, discovered a venerable tapestry-
covered armchair, so eaten by moths that the horsehair
stuck out in several places. She stopped before tliis seat.
She enlarged the holes, and diligently pulled out the long
hair.
Suddenly she lifted one finger ; that meant, " Listen ! "
The two brothers turned their heals.
A vague, distant noise surged up from without ; it was
probably the attacking camp executing some strategic
manoeuvre in the forest ; horses neighed, drums beat,
caissons rolled, chains clanked, military calls and re-
sponses ; a confusion of savage sounds, whose mingling
formed a sort of harmony. The children listened in
delight.
" It is the good God who does that," said Eene-Jean.
The noise ceased. Eene-Jean remained lost in a dream.
How do ideas vanish and re-form themselves in the
brains of those little ones ? "What is the ni; sterious
motive of those memories at once so troubled and so
brief? There was in that sweet, pensive little soul a
mingling of ideas of the good God, of prayer, of joined
hands, tlie light of a tender smile it had formerly known
and knew no longer, and Eene-Jean murmured, half
aloud, " Mamma I "
" Mamma ! " repeated Gros-Alain.
" Mamma ! " cried Georgette.
Then Eene-Jean began to leap. Seeing this, Gros-
Alain leaped too. Gros-Alain repeated every movement
and gesture of his brother. Three years copies four
years, but twenty months keeps its independence.
jfi
I
264
NINETT-THEEB.
Georgette remaiuecl seated, uttering a word from time to
time. Georgette could not yet manage sentences. 8he
was a thinker ; she spoke in apophthegms. Slie was
monosyllabic.
Still, after a little, example proved infectious, and she
ended by trying to imitate her brothers, and these three
little pairs of naked feet began to dance, to run, to totter
amid the dust of the old polished oak floor, beneath the
grave aspects of the marble busts toward which Georgette
from time to time cast an unquiet glance, murmuring
" Ma-mans."
Probably in Georgette's language this signified some-
thing which looked like a man, but yet which she compre-
hended w^as not one — perhaps the first glimmering of au
idea iu regard to phantoms.
Georgette, oscillating rather than walking, followed
her brothers, but her favourite mode of locomotion was
on all fours.
Suddenly Eene-Jean, who had gone near a window,
lifted his head, then dropped it, and hastened to hide
himself in a corner of the wall made by the projecting
window-recess. He had just caught sight of a man
looking at him. It was a soldier, from the encampment
of Blues on the plateau, who, profiting by the truce, and
perhaps infringing it a little, had ventured to the very
edge of the escarpment,, from whence the interior of the
library was visible. Seeing Rene-Jean hide himself, Gros-
Alain hid too : he crouched down beside his brother, and
Georgette hurried to hide herself behind them. So they
remained, silent, motionless, Georgette pressing her
finger against her lips. After a few instants, Rene-
Jean ventured to thrust out • his head ; the soldier
was there still. Reno- Jean retreat d quickly, and the
three little ones dared not even breathe. This suspense
lasted for some time. Finally the fear began to bore
Georgette ; she gathered courage to look out. The soldieF
had disappeared. They began again to run about and
play. Gros-Alain, although the imitator and admirer of
Rene-Jean, had a speciality — that of discoveries. His
brother and sister saw him suddenly galloping wildly
n
THE MASSACRE OF SAINT BARTH0L03IEW.
265
about, dragging after bim a little cart, which he had un-
earthed behind some box.
This doll's waggon had lain forgotten for years among
the dust, living amicably in the neighbourhood of the
printed works of genius and the busts of sages. It was
perliaps one of the toys that Gauvain had played with
when a child.
Gros- Alain had made a whip of his string, and cracked
it loudly ; he w^as very proud. Such are discoverers.
The child discovers a little waggon, the man an America
—the spirit of adventure is the same.
But it was necessary to share the godsend. Rene-
Jean wished to harness himself to the carriage, and
Georgette wished to ride in it.
She succeeded in seating herself. Rene-Jean was the
horse. Gros-Aiain was the coachman. But the coach-
iium did not understand his business ; the horse began to
teach him.
Rene- Jean sh )uted, " Say, * Whoa ! U'
" AVhoa! " repeated Gros- Alain.
The carriage upset. Georgette rolled out. Child-
anofels can shriek ; Georgette did so.
Then she had a vague wish to weep.
" jMiss," said Rene-Jean, " you are too big."
" Me big ! " stammered Georgette.
And her size consoled her for her fall.
The cornice of entablature outside the windows was
very broad ; the dust blowing from the plain of heath
had collected there ; ^e rains had hardened it into soil,
the wind had brought seeds ; a blackberry bush had pro-
fited by the shallow bed to grow up there. This bush
belonged to the species called fox blackberry. It was
August now, and the bush was covered with berries ; a
branch passed in by the window, and hung down nearly
to the floor.
Gros-Alain, after having discovered the cord and the
waggon, discovered this bramble. He went up to it. He
gatiiered a berry and ate.
'•' I am hungry," said Rene-Jean.
Georgette arrived, galloping upon her hands and knees.
f'f
■)iv
'iV,
j|»,i|Mir?asfe
266
NINETY-THREE.
The three between tliem stripped the branch, and
ate all the berries. They stained tlieir faces and liauds
with the purple juice till the trio of little seraphs waa
clianf];ed into a knot of little fauns, which would have
shocked Dante and charmed Virgil. They shrieked with
laughter.
Erom time to time the thorns pricked their finders.
There is always a pain attached to every pleasure.
Georgette held out her finger to Ileno-Jean, on which
showed a tiny drop of blood, and, pointing to the bush,
said, "P'icks."
Gros- Alain, who had suffered also, looked suspiciously
at the branch, and said, " It is a beast."
" jN'o," replied Eene- Jean ; " it is a stick."
" Tlien a stick is wicked," retorted Gros- Alain.
Again Georgette, though she had a mind to cry, burst
out laughing.
In the meantime Eene-Jean, perhaps jealous of the dis-
coveries made by his younger brother, had conceived a
grand project. Tor some minutes past, while busy
eating the berries and pricking his fingers, hiir. eyes
turned frequertly toward the chorister's desk mounted
on a pivot, and isolated like a monument in the centre
of the library. On this desk lay the celebrated volume
of Saint Bartholomew.
It was, in truth, a magnificent and priceless folio. It
had been published at Cologne by the fai >u.s publisher
of the edition of the Bible of 1682, Blat , or in Latin
Ca)sius.
It was printed, not on Dutch paper, but upon that
beautiful Arabian paper so much admireu by Edrisi,
which was made of silk a^d cotton and never grew
yellow; the binding was of gilt leather, and the clasps
were of silver, the boards of that parchment wiiicli the
parchment sellers of Paris took an oath to buy at the
Ilall Saiut-Mathurin, " and nowhere else."
THE MASSACRE OF SAINT BARTUOLOMEW.
2G7
The volume was full of engravings on wood and copper,
with geographical maps of many countries ; it had on a
fly-leaf a protest of the printers, papermakers, and pub-
lishers, against the edict of 1635, which set a tax on
"leather, fur, cloven-footed animals, sea-fish, and paper,"
and at the back of the frontispiece could be read a dedi-
cation to the Gryphes, who were to Lyons what the Elze-
viers were to Amsterdam. These combinations resulted
iu a famous copy, almost as rare as the Apostol at Moscow.
The book was beautiful ; it was for that reason Kenc-
Jeau looked at it, too long perhaps. The volume
chanced to be open at a great print representing Saint
Bartholomew carrying his skin over his arm. He could
see this print where he stood. When the berries were
all eaten, Rene-Jean watched it with a feverish longing,
and Georgette, following the direction of her brother's
eyes, perceived the engraving, and said, " Pic'sure."
This exclamation seemed to decide Kene-Jean. Then,
to the utter stupefaction of Gros-Alain, an extraordinary
thing happened. A great oaken chair stood in one
corner of the library ; liejie-Jean marched towards it,
seized and dragged it unaided up to the desk. Then
he mounted thereon and laid his two hands on the
volume.
Arrived at this summit, he felt a necessity for being
magnificently generous ; he took hold of the upper end
of the "pic'sure" and tore it carefully down; the tear
went diagonally over the saint, but that was not the
fault of Kene-Jean ; it left in the book the left side, one
eye and a bit of the halo of the old apocryphal Evan-
gelist : he offered Georgette the other half of the saint
and all his skin. Georgette took the saint, and observed,
" Ma-mans."
" And I ! " cried Gros-Alain.
The tearing of the f.rst page of a book by children is
Hke the shedding of the first drop of blood by meji — it
decides tlie carnage.
Rene- Jean turned the leaf; next to the saint came the
commentator Pantsenus. Rene-Jean bestowed Pantjjenus
upon Gros-Alain.
2G8
NINETY-THREE.
Meanvrliile Georgette tore lier large piece into two
little morsels, then the two into four, and continued lier
work till history might have noted that Saint Bartho-
lomew, after having been flayed in Armenia, was torn
limb from limb in Brittany.
■Ot
; I I", '!?!(•
The quartering completed, Georgette held out her hand
to Kene-Joan, and said, " More ! "
After tlie saint and the eomtnentator followed por-
traits of frowning glossarists. The lirst in the procession
wasGavantus; Rene-Jean tore him out and putGavautua
into Georgette's hand.
The whole group of Saint Bartholomew's commentators
met the same fate in turn.
Tliere is a sense of superiority in giving. Kene-Jean
kept nothing for himself. Gros-Alaiu and Georgette
were watching him ; he was satisfied with that ; the
admiration of iiis public was reward enough.
Rene-Jean, inexhaustible in his magnanimity, offered
Fabricio Pignatelli to Gros-Alain, and Eatlier Stilting to
Georgette ; he followed these by the bestowal of Alphouse
Tostat on Gros-Alain, and Cornelius a. Lapide unon
Georgette. Then Gros-Alain received Henry Hammond,
and Georgette Father Roberti, togetlier with a view of
the city of Douai, where that father was born in 1619.
Gros-Alain received the protest of the stationers, ai'.d
Georgette obtained the dedication to the Gryphes.
Then it was the turn of the maps. Rene- Jean proceeded
to distribute them. He gave Gros-Alaiu Etliiopia, and
Lycaonia fell to Georgette. This done, he tumbled the
book upon the floor.
This was a terrible moment. With mingled ecstacy
and fright Gros-Alain and Georgette saw Rene-Jeau
wrinkle his brows, stiffen his legs, clench his fisls, and
push the massive folio off the stand. Tiie majestic old
tome was fairly a tragic spectacle. Pushed from its
resting-place, it hung for an instant on the edge of the
THE MASSACIIE OF SAINT BARTHOLOMEW.
2G9
lit Giivautu3
uimentators
desk, seemed to hesitate, trying to balance itself, then
crashed down, and broken, crumpled, torn, ripped from
its binding, its clayj)s fractured, llattened itself miserably
upon the floor. Fortunately it did not fall on the
children. They were only bewildered, not crushed.
Victories do not always liiiish so w< '
Like all glories, it made a great ;se, and left a cloud
of dust.
Having flung the book on the ground, Rene-Jean
ilesccnded from the chair.
There was a moment of silence and fright ; victory haa
its terrors. The three children seized one another's
liands and stood at a distance, looking toward the vast
dismantled tome. But, after a brief reverie, Gros- Alain
approached it quickly and gave it a kick.
Nothing more was needed. The a])petite for destruc-
tion grows rapidly. Eene-Jean kicked it, Georgette
dealt a blow with her little foot which overset her,
though she fell in a sitting position, by which she:^
profited to fling herself on Saint Bartholomew. The
spell was completely broken. Kene-Jean pounced npon
the saint, Gros-Alain dashed npon him, and joyous, dis-
tracted, triumphant, pitiless, tearing the prints, slashing
the leaves, pulling out the markers, scratching the
binding, ungluing the gilded leather, breaking off the
nails from the silver corners, ruining the parchment,
making mincemeat of the august text, working with feet,
hands, nnds, teeth ; rosy, laughing, ferocious, the three
angels of prey demolished the defenceless evangelist.
They luinihiluted Armenia, Judea, Benevento, where
rest the relics of the saint ; Nathanael, who is, perhaps,
the same as Bartholomew, the Pope Gelasius, who
declared the Gospel of Saint Bartholomew apocryphal.
Nathanael; all the portraits, all the maps, and the in-
exorable massacre of the old book, absorbed them so
entirely that a mouse ran past without their per-
ceiving it.
It was an extermination.
To tear \v. pieces history, legend, science, miracles,
whether trut or false, the Latin of the Ciiurch; super-
270
NINETY-THREE.
'•
1
■
wmiK^m
1
J
mm I
' ■■
Btitions, fanaticisms, mysteries, to rend a whole religion
from top to bottom, would be a work for three giants
but the three children completed it. Hours pnssetl in
the labour, but they reached the end ; nothing remained
of Saint Bartholomew.
When they had finished, when the last page was
loosened, the la^'t print lying on the ground, when
nothing was left of the book but the edges of the text
and pictures in the skeleton of the binding, Reno-Jean
sprang to his feet, looked at the floor covered with
scattered leaves, and clapped his hands.
Gros-Alain clapped his hands likewise.
Georgette took one of the pages in her hand, rosp,
leaned against the window-sill, which was on a level with
her chin, and commenced to tear the great leaf into tmy
bits, and scatter tiiem out of the casement.
Seeing this, Eene-Jean and Gros-Alain began the same
work. They picked up and tore into small bits, picked
up again and tore, and flung the pieces out of the window,
as Georgette had done, page by page ; rent by these little
desperate fingers, the entire ancient volume almost flew
down the wind. Georgette thoughtfully watched these
swarms of little white papers dispersed by the breeze, and
said —
"Butterf'ies!" ^
So the massacre ended with these tiny ghosts vanishing
in the blue of heaven !
Thus was Saint Bartholomew for the second time made
a martyr ; he who had been the first time sacrificed in
the year of our Lord 49.
Then the evening came on ; the heat increased ; there
was sleep in the air ; Georgette's eyes began to close ;
Eene-Jean went to his crib, pulled out the straw sack
which served instead of a mattress, dragged it to the
window, stretched himself thereon, and said, " Let us go
to bed."
\i\
THE MASSACttE OF SAINT BAllTHOLOMEW.
271
Groa- Alain laid his head against Eene-Jean, Georgette
placed hera on Groa-Aiaiu, and tlio three malefactors fell
asleep.
The warm breeze entered by the open windows, the
perfume of wild flowers from the ravinea and hills mingled
with the breath of evening; nature was calm and pitiful ;
everything beamed, was at peace, full of love. The sun
rrave his caress, which is light, to all creation ; everywhere
could be heard and felt that harmony which is thrown oft*
froni the infinite sweetness of inanimate things. There
is a motherhood in the iidinite ; creation is a miracle in
full bloom ; it perfects its grandeur ^by its goodness.
It seemed as if one could feel some invisible Being
take those mysterious precautions which, in the formid-
able conflict of opposing elements of life, protect the
weak against the strong; at the same time there was
beauty everywhere : the splendour equalled the gentle-
ness. The landscape that seemed asleep had those lovely
hazy eff'ects which the chaugings of light and shadow
produce on the fields and rivers ; the mists mounted
toward the clouds like reveries changing into dreams;
the birds circled noisily about La Tourgue ; the swallows
looked in through the windows, as if they wished to be
certain that the children slept well. They were prettily
grouped upon one another, motionless, half-naked, posed
like little Cupids ; they were adorable and pure ; the
united ages of the three did not make nine years ; they
were dreaming dreams of paradise, which were reflected
on their lips in vague smiles. Perchance God whispered
ill their ears; they were of those whom all human
languages call the weak and blessed ; tliey were made
majestic by innocence. All was silence about them, as
if the breath from their tender bosoms were the care of
the universe, and listened to by the whole creation ; the
leaves did not rustle ; the grass did not stir. It seemed
as if the vast starry world held its breath for fear of
disturbing these three humble angelic sleepers, and
nothing could have been so sublime as that reverent
lespect of nature in presence of this littleness.
The sun was near his setting ; he almost touched the
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
/
o
%
w-
Q>,
y
1.0
LI
l!l.25
"IIIM ilM
■ itt mm
2.0
iiiib
1.4
1.6
V]
&
/a
m
%.
^
c^:
e).
m.
I?- ^'
sm
"^/a
Photographic
Sciences
Corporation
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, NY )4S80
(716) 872-4503
C^x
^^ Jp,
Q'
w.
272
NINETY-THREE.
horizon. Suddenly across this profound peace burst a
lightning-like glare, which came from the forest ; then
a savage noise. A cannon had just been fired. The
echoes seized upon this thundering, and repeated it with
an infernal din. The prolonged growling from hill to
hill was terrible. It woke Georgette.
She raised her head sliglitly, lifted her little finger,
and said, " Boom ! "
The noise died away ; the silence swept back ;
Georgette laid her head on Gros- Alain, and fell asleep
once more.
BOOK THE THIED.
TEE MOTHER.
■*o^
I. — Death passes.
"When this evening came, the mother whom we saw
wandering almost at random had walked the whole day.
This was indeed the history of all her days — to go straight
before her without stopping. For her slumbers of ex-
haustion, given in to in any corner that chanced to be
nearest, were no more rest than the morsels she ate here
and there, as the birds pick up crumbs, were nourishment.
She ate and slept just what was absolutely necessary to
keep her from falling down dead.
She had passed the previous night in an empty barn ;
civil wars leave many such. She had found in a bare
field four walls, an open door, a little straw beneath the
ruins of a roof, and she had slept on the straw under the
rafters, feeling the rats slip about beneath, and watching
the stars rise through the gaping wreck above. She slept
for several hours, then she woke in the middle of the
night and set out again, in order to get over as much
DEATH PASSES.
273
road as possible before the great heat of the day should
set in. For any one who travels on foot in the summer
midnight is more fitting than noon.
She had followed to the best of her ability the brief
itinerary the peasant of Vautortes had marked out for
lier ; she had gone as straight as possible toward the
west. Had there been any one near, he might have
beard her ceaselessly murmur, half aloud, " La Tourgue."
Except the names of her children, this word was all she
knew.
As she walked, she dreamed. She thought of the adven-
tures with which she had met; she thought of all she
had suffered, all which she had accepted ; of the meet-
ings, the indignities, the terms offered ; the bargains pro-
posed and submitted to, now for a shelter, now for a
morsel of bread, sometimes simply to obtain from some
one information as to her route. A wretched woman is
more unfortunate than a wretched man. Frightful wan-
dering march ! But nothing mattered to her, provided
she could discover her children.
Her first encounter this day had been a village ; the
dawn was beginning to break. Everything was still
tinged wdth the gloom of night ; a few doors were already
half open in the principal streets, and curious faces looked
out of the windows. The inhabitants were agitated like
a disturbed beehive. This arose from a noise of w'heels
and chains which had been heard.
On the church square, a frightened group, with their
heads raised, watched something descend a high hill along
the road towards the village. It was a four-wheeled
waggon, drawn by five horses, harnessed with chains.
On this waggon could be distinguished a heap like a pile
of long joists, in the middle of which lay some shapeless
object, covered with a large canvass, resembling a pall.
Ten horsemen rode in front of the waggon, and ten
others behind. These men wore three-cornered hats, and
above their shoulders rose what seemed to be the points
of naked sabres. This whole cortege, advancing slowly,
showed black and distinct against the horizon. The
waggon looked black ; the harness looked black ; the
T
m
274
NINETT-THREB.
or
horsemen looked black. Behind them gleamed the pall
of tlie morning.
They entered the village and moved towards the square.
Daylight had come on while the waggon was going down
the hill, and the cortege could be distinctly seen ; it was
like watching a procession of shadows, for not a man iu
the party uttered a word.
The horsemen were gendarmes ; they did in truth carry
drawn sabres. The covering was black.
The wretched wandering mother entered the village
from the opposite side, and approached the mob of
peasants at the moment the gendarmes and the waggon
reached the square. Among the crowd voices whispered
questions and j plies.
"What is it?"
" The guillotine."
" "Whence does it come ? "
" Prom Fougeres."
" "Where is it going ? "
" I do not know. They say to a castle in the neigh-
bourhood of Parigue."
" Parigue ! "
" Let it go where it likes, provided it does not stop
here."
This great cart with its lading hidden by a sort of
shroud, this team, these gendarmes, the noise of the
chains, the silence of the men, the grey dawn, all made
up a whole that was spectral. The group traversed the
square and passed out of the village. The hamlet lay in
a hollow between two hills. At the end of a quarter of
an hour, the peasants, who had stood still as if petri-
fied, saw the lugubrious procession re-appear on the
summit of the western hill. The heavy wheels jolted
along the ruts, the chains clanked in the morning wind,
the sabres shone in the rising sun ; then the road turned
off, and the cortege disappeared.
It was the very moment when Georgette woke in the
library by the side of her still sleeping brothers, and
wished her rosy feet good morning.
DEATH SPEAKS.
275
the pallor
)C3 not stop
woke in the
)rotbers, and
II. — Death speaks.
The mother watched this mysterious procession, but
neither comprehended nor sought to understand ; her
eyes were busy with another vision — her children, lost
amid the darkness.
She went out of the village also, a little after the
cortege which had filed past, and followed, the same route
at some distance behind the second squad of gendarmes.
Suddenly the word " guillotine " recurred to her. " G-uil-
lotine ! " she said to herself. Tins rude peasant, Michelle
Flechard, did not know what that was, but instinct
warned her; she shivered, without being able to tell
wherefore ; it seemed horrible to her to walk behind this
thing, and she turned to the left, quitted the high-road,
and pas-^ed into a wood, which was the forest of
Fougen ,
After wandering for some time, she perceived a belfry
aud some roofs ; it was one of the villages scattered
along the edge of the forest. She went towards it. She
was hungry.
It was one of the villages in which the republicans
had established military posts.
She passed on to the square in front of the mayoralty
house. In this village there was also fright and anxiety.
A crowd pressed up to the flight of steps which led to
the mansion. On the top step stood a man, escorted by
soldiers ; he held in his hand a great open placard. At
his right was stationed a drummer, at his left a billsticker,
carrying a paste-pot and brush.
Upon the balcony over the door appeared the mayor,
wearing a tri-coloured scarf over his peasant dress.
The man with the placard was a public crier. He wore
his shoulder-belt, with a small wallet hanging from it, a
sign that he was going from village to village, and had
something to publish throughout the district.
At the moment Michelle Flechard approached ; he had
unfolded the placard, and was beginning to read. He
read in a loud voice : —
T 2
TaiiiiiMi ilmiiifrhif
276
NINETY-THREE.
" The French Republic One and Indivisible."
The drum beat. There was a sort of movement among
the assembly. A few took off their ^'aps ; others
pulled their hats closer over tiieir heads. At that
time, and in that country, one could almost recognise
the political opinions of a man by his head-gear; hats
were royalist, caps republican. The confused murmur
of voices ceased ; everybody listened ; the crier read : —
" In virtue of the orders we have received, and tlie
authority delegated to us by the Committee of Public
Safety "
The drum beat the second time. The crier con-
tinued : —
" And in execution of the decree of the National Con-
vention, which puts beyond the law all rebels taken with
arms in their hands, and which ordains capital punish-
ment to whomsoever shall give them shelter, or help
them to escape "
A peasant asked, in a low voice, of his neighbour,
" "What is that — capital punishment ? "
His neighbour replied, " I do not know."
The crier fluttered the placard.
" In accordance with Article 17th of the law of April
30th, which gives full power to delegates and sub-dele-
gates againts rebels : We declare outlaws "
He made a pause, and resumed —
*' The individuals known under the names and sur-
names which follow "
The whole assemblage listened intently.
The crier's voice sounded like thunder, He read : —
" Lantenac, brigand."
" That is monseigneur," murmured a peasant. And
through the whole crowd went the whisper : " It is
monseigneur."
The crier resumed : —
" Lantenac, ci-devant marquis, brigand ; Imauus,
brigand "
Two peasants glanced sideways at each other. , "That
is Gouge-le-Bruant." ~~ - - -
ilm
n
Yes ; it is Brise-bleu."
DEATH SPEAKS.
277
Tier con-
The crier continued to read the list. " Grand-Frau-
coeur, brigand "
The assembly murmured, " He is a priest. Yes ; the
Abbe Turmeau. Yes ; he is cure somewhere in the
nei{?hbourhood of tlie wood of Chapelle." " And brigand,"
said a man in a cap.
The crier read: " Boisnouveau, brigand; the two
brothers Pique- en -Bois, brigands; Houzard, bri-
gand " ■
" That is Monsieur de Quelen,"" said a peasant.
" Panier, brigand "
" That is Monsieur Seplier."
" Place Nette, brigand "
" That is Monsieur Jamois."
The crier continued his reading without noticing these
commentaries : —
" Guinoiseau, brigand ; Chatenay, styled Eobi. bri-
gand "
A peasant wliispered, " Guinoiseau is the same as Le
Blond ; Chatenay is from Saint-Ouen."
" Hoisnard, brigand," pursued the crier.
Among the crowd could be heard, " He is from Huille."
"Yes ; it is Branche d'Or." " His brother was killed in
tlie attack on Pontorson." " Yes ; Hoisnard Malonniere."
" A fine young chap of nineteen."
" Attention ! " said the crier. " Listen to the last of
the list.
" Belle Vigue, brigand ; La Musette, brigand ; Sabre-
tout, brigand ; Brin d' Amour, brigand "
A lad pushed the elbow of a young girl. The girl
smiled.
The crier continued, " Chante-en-hiver, brigand ; Le
Chat, brigand"
A peasant said, " That is Moulard."
" Tabouze, brigand "
Another peasant said, " That is GaufFre."
" There are two of the Gauffres," added a woman.
" Both good fellows," grumbled a lad.
The crier shook the placard, and the drum beat.
The crier resumed his reading : — " The above-named.
■I!
aX
:»1 . i i '■vn:
278
NINETY-THREE.
in whatsoever place taken, and their identity established,
shall bo immediately put to death."
There was a movement among the crowd.
The crier went on : " Any one affording them shelter,
or aiding their escape, will be brought before a court-
martial and put to death. Signed "
The silence grew profound.
" Signed : The Delegate of the Committee of Public
Safety, Cimourdain."
" A priest," said a peasant.
" The former cure of Parigue," said another.
A townsman added, " Turmeau and Cimourdain. A
Blue pri. t and a White."
" Both black," said another townsman.
The mayor, who was on the balcony, lifted his hat, and
cried, " Long live the Republic ! "
A roll of the drum announced that the crier had not
finished.
He was niaking a sign with his hand. " Attention ! "
said he. " Listen to the last four lines of the govern-
ment proclamation. They are signed by the Chief of
the exploring column of the North Coasts, Commandant
Gauvain."
" Listen ! " exclaimed the voices of the crowd.
And the crier read :
" Under pain of death "
All were silent.
*' It is forbidden, in pursuance of the above order, to
give aid or succour to the nineteen rebels above named,
at this time shut up and surrounded in La Totirgue."
" What ? " cried a voice.
It was the voice of a woman ; of the mother.
MUTTERINGS AMONG THE PEASANTS.
279
III. — MUTTERINGS AMONG THE PEASANTS.
Michelle Plecuabd had mingled with the crowd. She
had listened to nothing, but one hears certain things
without listening. She caught the words La Tourgue.
She raised her head.
" What ? " she repeated. " La Tourgue ! "
People stared at her. She appeared out of her mind.
She was in rags.^
Voices murmured, " She looks like a brigand."
A peasant- woman, who carried a basket of buckwheat
biscuits, drew near, and said to her in a low voice,
•' Hold your tongue ! "
Michelle Flechard gazed stupidly at the woman.
Again she understood nothing. The name. La Tourgue,
had passed through her mind like a flash of lightning,
aud the darkness closed anew behind it. Had she not a
right to ask information ? What had she done that they
should stare at her in this way ?
But the drum had beat for the last time; the bill-
sticker posted up the placard; the mayor retired into
the house ; the crier set out for some other village, aud
the mob dispersed.
A group remained before the placard ; Michelle
Flechard joined this knot of people.
They were commenting on the names of the men
declared outlaws. There were peasants and townsmen
among them ; that is to say, Whites and Blues.
A peasant said : " After all they have not caught
everybody. Nineteen are only nineteen. They have
not got Eion, they have not got Benjamin Mouline, nor
Groupil, of the Parish of Andouille."
*' Nor Lorieul of Monjean," said another.
Others added, " Nor Brice Denys."
" Nor Francois Dudonet."
Fran9(
"Yesj of Laval."
" Nor Huet of Launey-Villiers.
" Nor Gregis."
" Nor Pilon."
Mi
280
riNETY-THREE.
" Nor Filleul."
" Nor Menicent."
♦' Nor Gu^harree."
" Nor the three brothers Logeraia."
" Nor Monsieur Lechandelier de Pierreville."
" Idiots ! " said a stern-faced, white-haired old mau.
"They have all if they have Lantenac."
" They have not got him yet," murmured one of tlie
youi men.
Tne old man added : " Lantenac taken, the soul is
taken. Lantenac dead, Vendue is slain."
*' "Who, then, is this Lantenac ? " ask jd a townsman.
A townsman replied, " He is a ci-devant."
Another added, " He is one of those who shoot
women."
Michelle Flechard heard and said, " It is true."
They turned towards her.
She went on, " For he shot me."
It was a strange speech ; it was like hearing a living
woman declare herself dead. People began to look at
her a little suspiciously.
She was indeed a startling object ; trembling at every-
thing, scared, quaking, showing a sort of wild-animal
trouble, so frightened that she w^as frightful. There ia
always something terrible in the feebleness of a despairing
woman. She is a creature who has reached the furthest
limits of destiny. But peasants have not a habit of
noticing details. One of them muttered, " She might
easily be a spy."
" Hold your tongue and get away from here," the
good woman who had already spoken to her said in a
low tone.
Michelle Flechard replied : " I am doing no harm.
I am looking for my children."
The good woman glanced at those who were staring
at Michelle, touched her forehead with one finger, and
winked, saying, " She is a simpleton."
Then she took her aside and gave her a biscuit.
Michelle Flechard, without thanking her, began to
eat greedily.
MUTTERINQ8 AMONG THE PEASANTS.
281
" Yes," said the peasauts, " slie eats like on animal —
she is ail idiot."
So the tail of the mob dwindled away. They all went
away, one after another.
AVhen Miclielle Elechard had devoured her biscuit, she
said to the peasant-woman, " Good ! 1 have eaten. JS^ow
where is La Tourgue ? "
" It is taking her afi;ain ! " cried the peasant.
" I must go to La Tourgue ! Show lue the way to La
Tourp;ue ! "
" Never ! " exclaimed the peasant. *♦ Do you want to
get yourself killed, eh ? Besides, I don't know. Oh, see
liere ! You are really crazy ! Listen, poor woman, you
look tired. Will you come to my house and rest
yourself? "
" I never rest," said the mother.
" And her feet are torn to pieces ! " murmured the
peasant.
Michelle Flechard resumed, " Don't I tell j ^i that
they have stolen my children ! JS. little girl and two
boys. I come from the carmichot in the forest. .You
can ask Tellemarch the Caimand about me. And the
man I met in the field down yonder. It wa* ■ the Caimand
who cured me. It seems I had something broken. All
that is what happened to me. Then there is Sergeant
Radoub besides. You can ask him. He will tell tliee.
Why he was the one we met in the wood. Three !
I tell you three children ! Even the oldest one's name
— Rene-Jean — I can prove all that. The other's name is
Gros-Alain, and the little girl's is Georgette. My
husband is dead. They killed him. He was the farmer
at Siscoignard. You look like a good woman. Show
me the road ! I am not crazy — I am a mother ! I have
lost my children ! I am trying to find them. That is
all. I don't know exactly which way I have come.
I slept last night in a barn on the straw. La Tourgue,
that is where I am going. I am not a thief. You must
see that I am telling the truth. You ought to help me
find my children. I do not belong to the neighbourhood.
I was shot, but I do not know where."
282
NINETY-THREE.
The peasant shook her head, and said, " Lisl'^n, tra-
veller. In times of revolution you mustn't sav things that
cannot be understood ; you may get yourselt taken up iu
that way."
" But La Tourp^ie! " cried the mother. " Madam, for
the love of the Child Jesus and the Blessed Virgin up
in Paradise, T beg yon, madam, I entreat you, I con-
jure you, tell me which way I must go to get to La
Tourgue ! "
The peasant-woman went into a passion.
" I do not know ! And if 1 knew, I would not tell !
It is a bad place. People do not go there."
" But I am going," said the mother.
And she set forth again. The woman watched her
depart, muttering, " Still, she must have something to
eat."
She ran after Michelle Pilchard and put a roll of
black bread in her hand.
" There is for your supper."
Michelle Flechard took the buckwheat bread, did not
answer, did not turn her head, but walked on.
She went out of the village. As she reached the last
houses, she met three ragged, barefooted little children.
She approached thtm, and said, " These are two girls
and a boy."
Noticing that they looked at the bread, she gave it to
them.
The children took the bread, then grew frightened.
She plunged into the forest.
-•o*-
IV. — A Mistake.
On the same morning, before the dawn appeared, this
happened amid the obscurity of the forest, along the
cross-road which goes from Javene to Lecousse.
All the roads of the Breage are between high banks,
but of all the routes, that leading from Javene to Parigue
A MISTAKE.
283
if)
iv^n, tra-
in gs that
:eu up in
idam, for
irgin up
a, I con-
et to La
not tell!
tchcd her
ethiiig to
a roll of
d, did not
d the last
children,
two girls
gave it to
itened.
eared, this
along the
e.
igh banks,
to Parigue
bv tlie way of Leeousae is the most deeply imbedded.
Besides tlmt, it is winding. It is a ravine ratiier than a
road. This road comes from Vitre, and had the honour
ofjolting Madame de Sevigno's carriage. It is enclosed to
t!ie right and left by hedges. There could be no better
place for an ambush.
On this morning, an hour before Michelle F16chard
from anotlier point of the forest reached the first village
where she had seen the sepulchral apparition of the
waggon escorted by gendarmes, a crowd of men filled the
copses where the Javene road crosses the bridge over
the Couesnon. The branches hid them. These men
were peasants, all wearing jackets of skins which the
kings of Brittany wore in the sixteenth century and the
peasants in the eighteenth. The men were armed, some
with guns, others with axes. Those who carried axes
liad just prepared in an open space a sort of pyfe of
dried faggots and billets which only remained to be set
on fire. Those who had guns were stationed at the two
sides of the road in watchful positions. Anybody who
could have looked through the leaves would have seen
fverywhere fingers on triggers and guns aimed toward
the openings left by the interlacing branches. These
men were on the watch. All the guns converged toward
the road, which the first gleams of day had begun to
whiten.
In this twilight low voices held converse.
" Are you sure of that ? "
" Well, tliey say so."
" She is about to pass ? "
" They say she is in the neighbourhood."
" Slie must not go out."
" She must be burned."
" We are three villages who have come out for that."
" Yes ; but the escort ? "
"The escort will be killed."
" But will she pass by this road ? "
" They say so."
" Then she cott^cg from Yitre ? "
"AVhvnot?"
i
284
NINETY-THPEE.
"But somebody said she was coming from Eougeres."
" Whether she comes from Fougores or Vitre, she comes
from the Devil."
" Yes."
" And must go back to him."
"Yes."
" So, sbo is going to Parigue ? "
" It appears so."
*' She will not go."
" No."
" No, no, no ! "
♦' Attention."
It became prudent now to be silent, for the day was
breaking.
Suddenly these ambushed men held their breath ; they
caught a sound of wheels and horses' feet. They peered
through the branches, and could perceive indistinctly a
long waggon, an escort on horseback, and somethiDg on
the waggon, coming towards them along the high-bauked
road.
"There she is," said one, who appeared to be the
leader.
" Yes," said one of tiie scouts ; " with the escort."
" How many men ? "
" Twelve."
" We were told they were twenty."
" Twelve or twenty, we must kill the whole."
" Wait till they get within sure aim."
A little later, the waggon and its escort appeared at a
turn in the road.
" Long live the King ! " cried the chief peasant.
A hundred guns were fired at the same instant.
When the smoke scattered, the escort was scattered
also. Seven horsemen had fallen; five had fled. The
peasants rushed up to the waggon.
" Hold ! " cried the chief ; " it is not the guillotine ! It
is a ladder."
A long ladder was, in fact, all the waggon carried.
The two horses had fallen wounded ; the driver bad
been killed, but not intentionally.
vox IN DESERTO.
285
•'All the same," said the chief; "a ladder with an
escort looks suspicious. It was going towards Parigue.
It was for the escalade of La Tourgue, very sure."
" Let us burn the ladder ! " cried the peasants.
And they burned the ladder.
As for the funereal waggon for which they had been
waiting, it was pursuing another road, and was already
two leagues off, in the village where Michelle Flechard
saw it pass at sunrise.
hish-bauked
V. — Vox IN Deserto.
When Michelle riechard left the three children to whom
she had given her bread, she took her way at random
through the wood.
Since nobody w^ould point out the road, she must find
it out for herself. Now and then she sat down, then
d to be the | rose, then reseated herself again. She was borne down
by that terrible fatigue which first attacks the muscles,
then passes into the bones — weariness like that of a slave.
She was a slave in truth. The slave of her lost children.
She must find them ; each instant that elapsed might be
to their hurt ; whoso has a duty like this woman's has no
rights ; it is forbidden even to stop to take breath. But
she was very tired. In the extreme of exhaustion which
she had reached, another step became a question. Can
one make it? She had walked all the day, encountering
no other village, not even a house. She took first the
right path, then a wrong one, ending by losing herself
amid leafy labyrinths, resembling one another precisely.
Was she approaching her goal ? Was she nearing the
term of her Passion? She was in the Via Dolorosa, and
felt the overwhelming of the last station.* Was she
* In reference to the pictures in Roman Catholic churches. The
last station is that wherein our Lord falls under the weight of the
cross. — Trans.
easant.
Qstant.
vas scattered |
ad fied.
The
'uillotine
It
1 carried.
e driver
bad
286
NINETY-THREE.
4
liMM^H
about to fall in the road, aud die there ? There came a
moment when to advance farther seemed impossible to
her. The sun was declining, the forest growing dark •
the paths were hidden beneath the gjrass, and she was
helpless. She had noticing left but God. She began to
call ; no voice answered.
She looked about ; she perceived an opening in the
branches, turned in that direction, and found herself
suddenlv on the edge of the wood.
She had before her a valley, narrow as a trench, at the
bottom of which a clear streamlet ran along over tlie
stones. She discovered then she was burning with thirst.
She went down to the stream, knel*^ by it, and drank.
She took advantage of her kneeling position to say her
prayers.
When she rose, she tried to decide upon a course. She
crossed the brook.
Beyond the little valley stretched, as far as tlie eye
could reach, a plateau, covered witli short underbrush,
which, starting from the brook, ascended in an inclined
plane, and filled the whole horizon. The forest had been
a solitude ; this plain was a desert. Behind every bush
of the forest she might meet some one ; on the plateau,
as far as she could see, nothing met her gaze. A few
birds, which seemed frightened, were flying away over
the heath.
^ Then, in the midst of this awful abandonment, feehng
her knees give way under her, and, as if gone suddenly
mad, the distracted mother flung forth this strange cry
into the silence : *' Is there any one here ? "
She waited for an answer. It came. A low, deep
voice burst forth ; it proceeded from the verge of the
horizon, was borne forward from echo to echo ; it was
either a peal of thunder or a cannon, and it seemed as if
the voice replied to the mother's question, and that it
said: "Yes."
Then the silence closed in anew.
The mother rose, animated with fresh life ; there was
some one ; it seemed to her as if she had now some person
with whom she could speak. She had just drunk and
THE SITUATION.
287
course. She
prayed ; her strength came back ; she began to ascend
the plateau in the direction whence she had heard that
vast and far-off voice.
Suddenly she saw a lofty tower start up on the extreme
edge of the horizon. It was the only object visible amid
the savage landscape ; a ray from tlie setting sun
crimsoned its summit. It was more than a league away.
Behind the tower spread a great sweep of scattered
verdure, lost in the mist — it was the forest of Fougeres.
This tower appeared to her to be the point whence
came the thundering which had sounded like a summons
iu her ear. Was it that which had given the answer to
her cry ?
Michelle Flechard reached the top of the plateau ; * she
had nothing but the plain before her.
She walked towards the tower.
-•o«-
VI. — The Situation.
The moment had come. The inexorable held the pitiless.
Cimourdain had Lantenac in his hand.
The old royalist rebel was taken in his form ; it was
evident that he could not escape, and Cimourdain meant
that the marquis should be beheaded here — upon his
own territory — his own lands — on this verj'- spot — in
sight of his ancestral dvv elling-place, that the feudal
stronghold might see the head of the feudal lord fall, and
the example thus be made memorable.
It was with this intention that he had sent to Fou-
geres for the guillotine which we lately saw upon its
road.
To kill Lantenac was to slay Vendee ; to slay Vendee
was to save France. Cimourdain did not hesitate. The
conscience of this man was quiet ; he was urged to ferocity
by a sense of duty.
The marquis appeared lost ; as far as that went,
Cimourdain was tranquil, but there was a consideration
1
.1 !
I-.
■I
m
288
NINETY-THREE.
wliicli troubled liim. The stnigc;le must inevitably be a
terrible one. Gauvaiu would direct it, and, perhaps,
would wish to tal^ part ; tliis younqf cliief was a soldier
nt heart ; he was just the man to fling himself into the
thick of this pugilistic combat. If he should be killed?
Gauvain — his child ! The unique aifection he possessed
on earth ! So far fortune had protected the youth, but
fortune might grow weary. Cimourdain trembled. His
strange destiny had placed him here between these two
Gauvains, for one of whom he wished death, for the
other life.
The cannon shot which had roused Georgette in her
cradle and summoned the mother in the depths of her
solitude, had done more than that. Either by accident,
or owing to the intention of the man who fired the piece,
the ball, although only meant as a warning, had struck
the guard of iron bars which protected the great loop-
hole of the first floor of the tower, broken and half
wrenched it away. The besieged had not had time to
repair this damage.
The besieged had been boastful, but they had very
little ammunition. Their situation, indeed, was much
more critical than the besiegers supposed. If they had
had pow^der enough, they would have blown up La
Tourgue when they and the enemy should be together
within it ; this had been their dream ; but their reserves
were exhausted. They had not more than thirty charges
left for each man. They had plenty of guns, blunder-
busses, and pistols, but few cartridges. They had loaded
all the weapons in order to keep up a steady fire — but
how long could this steady firing last ? They must
lavishly exhaust the resources w^hich they required to
husband. That was the difiiculty. Fortunately (sinister
fortune) the struggle would be mostly man to man;
sabre and poignard would be more needed than fire-arms.
Tl)e conflict w^ould be rather a duel with knives than a
battle with guns. This was the hope of the besieged.
The interior of the tower seemed impregnable. In the
lower hall, which the mine had breached, the retirade so
skilfully constructed guarded the entrance. Behind the
I
THE SITUATION.
289
tably be u
, perhaps,
1 a soldier
f into the
be killed?
possessed
youth, but
bled. His
these two
;h, for the
3tte in her
)ths of her
•y accident,
[i the piece,
had struck
great loop-
n and half
lad time to
y had very
was much
If they had
)wn up La
DC together
eir reserves
irty charges
ns, blunder-
had loaded
dy tire — but
They must
required to
;ely (sinister
an to man;
an fire-arms,
lives than a
besieged,
ible. In the
retirade so
Behind the
retirade was a lonij table covered with loaded weapons,
blunderbusses, carbines, and muskets ; sabres, axes, and
poignards. Since they had no powder to blow up tlie
tower, the crypt of the oubliette could not bo utilised ;
therefore the marquis had closed the door of the dungeon.
Above the ground-floor hall was the round chamber
which could only be reached by the narrow, winding
staircase. This chamber, in which tliere was also placed
a table covered with loaded weapons ready to hand,
was lighted by the great loophole, the grating of which
had just been broken by the cannon-ball. From this
chamber the spiral staircase led to the circular room on
the second floor, in which was the iron door cornnuni-
cating with the bridge-castle. This chamber was called
indiflerently the room with the iron door, or the mirror
room, from numerous small looking-glasses hung to rusty
old nails on the naked stoneg of the wall — a fantastic
mingling of elegance and rude desolation.
Since the apartments on the upper floor could not be
successfully defended, this mirror room became what
Manesson Mallet, the lawgiver in regard to fortified
phices, calls " the last post where the besieged can
capitulate." The struggle, as we have already said,
would be to keep the assailants from reaching this room.
This second floor rovmd ♦^hamber was lighted by loop-
holes, still a torch burned therein. This torch, in an iron
holder like tne one in the hall below, had been kindled
by Imunus, and the end of the sulphur-match placed
near it. Terrible carefulness !
At the end of the ground-floor hall was a board placed
upon trestles, which held food, like the arrangement in
an Homeric cavern ; great dishes of rice, with porridge
of black grain, hashed veal, biscuits, stewed fruits, and
jugs of cider. Whoever wished could eat and drink.
The cannon-shot set them all on the watch. Not more
than a half-hour of peace remained to them.
From the top of the tower Imunus watched the
approach of the besiegers. Lantenac had ordered his
men not to fire as the assailants came forward. He said,
"They are four thousand five hundred. To kill outside
290
XINETY-THREE.
is useless. "When they try to enter, we are as stroiia
as thej."
Then lie laughed, and added, " Equality, Fraternity."
It had been agreed that Imanus should sound a
warning on his horn when the enemy began to advance.
The little troop, posted behind the retirade or on the
stairs, waited with one hand on their muskets, the other
on their rosaries.
This was what the situation had resolved itself into :
For the assailants a breach to mount, a barricade to
force, three rooms, one above the other, to take in suc-
cession by main strength, two winding staircases to be
carried step by step under a storm of bullets ; for the
besieged — to die.
VII. — Preliminaries.
Gauvain on his side arranged the order of attack. He
gave his last instructions to r'imourdain, whose part iu
tlie action, it will be remembered, was to guard the
plateau, and to Guechamp, who was to wait with the
main body of the army in the forest camp. It was
understood that neither the masked battery of the wood
nor the open battery of the plateau should fire unless
there were a sortie or an attempt at escape on the part
of the besieged. Gauvain had reserved for himself the
command of the storming column. It was this that
troubled Ciniourdain.
The sun had just set.
A tower in an open country resembles a ship in
open sea. It must be attacked in the same manner.
It is a boarding rather than an assault. No cannon.
Nothing useless attempted. What would be the good of
cannonading walls fifteen feet thick ? A port-hole ; men
forcing it on the one side, men guarding it on the other ;
axes, knives, pistols, fists and teeth — that is the under-
taking. Gauvain felt that there was no other way of
■WTTO
m
PRELIMINAUIES.
2yi
carrying La Tourgiie. Nothing can be more murderous
than a couflict so close tliat tlie combatants look into one
another's eyes. He liad lived in this tower when a child,
aud knew its formidable recesses by heart.
He meditated deeply. A few paces from him his
lieutenant, Guechamp, stood with a spy-glass in hia
hand, examining the horizon in the direction of Parigue.
Suddenly he cried, " Ah ! at last ! "
Tliis exclamation aroused Gauvain from his reverie.
"What is it, Guechamp?"
" Commandant, the ladder is coming." ■»
" The escape-ladder ? "
" Yes."
" How ? It is not yet here ? "
" No, commandant. And I was troubled. The express
that I sent to Javene came back."
" I know it."
" He told me that he had found at the carj)enter's shop
in Javene a ladder of the requisite length — lie took
it — lie had it put on a cart, be demanded an escort of
twelve horsemen, and he saw them set out from Parigue
—the cart, the escort, and the ladder. Then he rode
back full speed, and made his report. And he added that
the horses being good and the departure having taken
phice about two o'clock in the morning, the waggon
would be here before sunset."
" I know all that. AVell?"
" Well, commandant, the sun has just set, and the
waggon which brings the ladder has not yet arrived."
"Is it possible? Still we must commence tlie attack.
The hour has come. If we were to wait, the besieged
would think we hesitated."
" Commandant, the attack can commence."
" But the escape-ladder is necessary."
" Without doubt."
" But we have not got it."
" We have it."
"How?"
" It was that made me say, ' All ! at last ! ' The
waggon did not arrive; I took my telescope, and ex-
u 2
m4 \
L.
If.
292
NlNETY-THllEE.
atiiined the route from Parigue to La Torgue, and, com-
mandant, I am satisfied. The waggon and the escort iire
coming down yonder ; they are descending a liill. You
can see tliem."
Gauvaiu took tlie ghiss, and looked. " Yea ; tliere it
is. There is not light enough to distinguish very dearlv.
But I can see tlie escort — it is certainly that. Only tliu
escort appears to me more numerous than you said,
Gueohamp."
" And to me also."
" They are about a quarter of a league off'."
" Commandant, the escape-ladder will be here in a
quarter of an hour."
" We can attack."
It was indeed a waggon which they saw approaching,
but not the one they believed. As Gauvain turned, he
saw Sergeant Kadoub standing behind him, upright, his
eyes downcast, in tlie attitude of military salute.
" What is it, Sergeant Kadoub ? "
" Citizen commandant, we, the men of the Battalion
of the Bonnet Ilouge, have a favour to ask of you."
"What?"
" To have us killed."
" Ah ! " said Gauvain.
" Will you have tliat kindness? "
" Well ! — that is according to circumstances," said
Gauvain.
" Listen, commandant. Since the affair of Dol, you
are careful of us. We are still twelve."
"Well?"
" That humiliates us." '
" You are the reserve."
" We would rather be the advance-guard."
" But I need you to decide success at the close of the
engagement. I keep you back for that."
" Too much."
" No. You are in the column. You march."
" In the rear. Paris has a right to march in front."
" I will think of it, Sergeant Kadoub."
"Think of it to-day, commandant. There is an
PBELIMIN ARIES.
293
opportunity. Hard blows will be given and taken. It
will be lively. I<a Tourgiie will burn the lingers of
those that touch it. We ask the favour of being of the
party."
The sergeant paused, twisted his moustache, and added
ill an altered voice, " Besides, look you, commandant,
our little ones are in this tower. Our children are there
—the children of the battalion — our three children. That
abominable beast called Brise-bleu and Imaiius, this
Cxouge-le-Bruant, this Bouge-le-Gruant, this Fouge-le-
Truant, this thunderclap of the devil, threatens our chil-
dren. Our children are poppets, commandant. If all
the earthquakes should mix in the business, we cannot
let any misfortune happen to them. Do you hear that
—authority ? AVe will have none of it. A little while
ago I took advantage of the truce, and mounted the
plateau, and looked at them through a window — yes, they
are certainly there — you can see them from the edge of
the ravine. I did see them, and they were afraid of me,
the darlings. Commandant, if a single hair of their
little cherub pates should fall, I swear by the thousand
names f everything sacred, I, Sergeant Radoub, that I
will have revenge out of somebody. And that is what
all the battalion say ; either we want the babies saved or
we want to be all killed. It is our right — yes — all killed.
And now, salute and respect."
Grauvain held out his hand to Radoub, and said, " You
are brave men. You shall have a place in the attacking
column. I will divide you into two parties. I will put
six of you in the vanguard to make sure that the troops
advance, and six in the rear-guard to make sure that
nobody retreats.
" Shall I command the twelve, as usual ? "
" Certainly."
" Then, commandant, thanks. For I am of the van-
guard."
I^adoub made another military salute, and went back
to his company. Gauvain drew out his watch, spoke a
few words in Guechamp's ear, and the storming column
began to form.
■m^m
"'Hi
294
NINETY-THRER.
VIII. — The Last Offeu.
Kow, Cimourclain, who had not yet gone to his post on
the plateau, went to a trumpeter.
" Demand a parley," said he.
The clarion sounded ; the horn replied.
A^ain the trumpet and the horn exclianged a blast.
" Wiiat does that mean?" Gauvain asked Guechaiiin.
*' What is it Cimourdain wants ? "
Cimourdain advanced towards the tower, holding u
white handkerchief in his hand.
He spoke in a loud voice, " Men who are in the tower,
do you know me V "
A voice — the voice of Imanus — replied from the sum-
mit, "Yes."
The following dialogue between the two voices reached
the ears of those who were near enough.
*' I am the envoy of the Republic."
" You are the former cure of Parigue."
" I am the delegate of the Committee of Public Safety."
" You are a priest."
" I am the representative of the law."
•' You are a renegade."
" I am the commissioner of the Ilevolution."
" You are an apostate."
" I am Cimourdain."
" You are the Devil."
*' Do you know me ? "
" We hate you."
" Would you be content if you had me in your power? '"
"■ We are here eighteen, who would give our heads to
have yours."
" Very well ; I come to deliver myself up to yon."
From the top of the tower rang a burst of savage
laughter, and this cry — " Come ! "
The camp waited in the breathless silence of ex-
pectancy.
Cimourdain resumed, " On one condition."
"What?"
THE LAST OFFEIi;
2D5
Dices reached
our heads to
ilence of ex-
t(
Ytci
"Listen."
" Speak."
" You hate me ? "
" Yes."
" And I love you. I am your brother."
Tlie voice from the top of the tower replied-
-Cain."
Cimourdain went on in a Bingnlar tone at once loiul
and sweet : " Insult me ; but listen. I come here under
a ilag of truce. Y^es, you are my brothers. You are
poor mistaken creatures. I am your friend. I am the
light, and I speak to ignorance. Light is always brother-
hood. Besides, have we not all the same mother — our
cohiitry ? Well, listen to me: you will know hereafter,
or your children will know, or your children's children
will know, that what is done in this numient is brought
ahout by the law" above, and that the devolution is the
work of God. While awaiting the time when all con-
sciences, even yours, shall understand this; when all
fanaticisms, even yours, shall vanish ; while waiting for
tliis great light to spread, will no one have pity on your
darkness ? I come to you ; I ofter you my head ; I do
more. I hold out my hand to you. I beg of you the
favour to destroy me in order to save yourselves. I
have unlimited authority, and that which 1 say I can do.
Tiiis is a supreme moment. I make a last effort. Yes,
he who speaks to you is a citizen, and in this citizen —
yes — there is a priest. The citizen defies you, but the
priest implores you. Listen to me. Many among you
have wives and children. I am defending your clnldren
and your wives — defending them against yourselves. Oh,
my brothers "
" Go on ! Preach ! " sneered Imanus.
" My brothers, do not let the terrible horn sound.
Tliroats are to be cut. Many among us who are here
before you will not see to-morrow's sun ; yes, many of us
will perish, and you — you all are going to die. Show
mercy to yourselves. "Why shed all this blood wdien it
is useless? Why kill so many men when it would
suffice to kill two ? "
290
NINETY'TIIUEIJ.
"Two?" roponted Inianus.
" Yes. Tvvu."
"Who?"
" Lautenac and myself."
Cimoiirdain spoko more loudly. " Two men are too
many. Lantenac for ua ; I for you. This is what I
])ropo8c to you, and you will all have your lives safe,
(live lis Lantenac and take me. Lantenac will be
guillotined, and you shall do what you choose with me."
"Priest," howled Imanus, "if we had thee, we would
roast thee at a slow fire ! "
" I consent," said Cimourdain.
He went on: "Tou, the condemned who are in this
tower, you can all in an hour be living and free. 1 bring
you safety. Do you accept ? "
Iniilnus burst forth : " You are not only a villain, you
are a madman. Ah, there, why do you come here to
disturb us ? Who asked you to come and speak to
us ? We give up monseigneur ? What is it you
want ? "
" His head. And I offer "
" Your skin. Oh, we would flay you like a dog. Cure
Cimourdain ! Well, no ; your skin is not worth his head.
Get away with you."
" The massacre will be horrible. For the last time —
reflect."
Night had come on during this strange colloquy, which
could be heard without and within the tower. The
Marquis de Lantenac kept silence and allowed events to
take their course. Leaders have such an indirect kind
of self-love ; it is one of the rights of responsibility.
Imanua no longer addressed himself to Cimourdain. he
shouted, " Men, who attack us, we have submitted our
propositions to 3'ou — they are settled — we have nothing
to change in them. Accept them, else — woe to all !
Do you consent ? AVe will give you up the three
children, and you will allow liberty and life to us all."
" To all, yes," replied Cimourdain, " except one."
" And that ? "
" Lantenac."
wn^^
TITANS AGAINST GIANTS.
297
1 are too
} wlmt I
ives safe,
will be
,'itli mo."
we would
re in this
1 bring
illain, you
e here to
speak to
18 it you
*' ^Fonseignejir! (live up monaeif»neur ? Never ! "
" We can only treat witii you on tiiut condition."
"Then boRiu.*"
Silenw^ fell. Imrmus descended after having sounded
the signal on hia horn ; the marquis took his sword in
his hand ; the nineteen besieged grouped themselves in
silence behind the retirade of the lower hall and sank
upon their knees. They could hear the measured tread
of the column as it advanced toward the tower in the
gloom. The sound came nearer. Suddenly they heard
it close to them, at the very mouth of the breach. Then
all, kneeling, aimed their guns and blunderbusses across
the openings of the barricade, and one of them — Grand-
FranccBur, who was the priest Tunneaii— raised himself
with a naked sabre in his right hand and a crucifix in his
loft, saying in a solemn voice: "In the luime of the
Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost ! "
All tired at the same time, and the battle began.
-*»«-
dog, Cure
I his head.
ist time —
iiy, which
er. The
events to
rect kind
ity.
urdain. he
nitted our
nothing
e to all!
the three
us all."
one."
IX. — Titans against Giants.
The encounter was frightful. This hand-to-hand contest
went beyond the power of fancy in its awfulness. To
liiid anything similar it would be necessary to go back to
the great duels of ^achylus, or the ancient feudal
butcheries, to " those attacks with short arms " which
lasted down to the seventeenth century, w^'en men pene-
trated into fortified places by concealed breaches ; tragic
assaults, where, says the old sergeant of the province of
Alentejo, " wlieu the mines had done their work, the
besiegers advanced bearing planks covered with sheets of
tin, and armed with round shields, and furnished with
grenades, they forced those who held the intrenchments,
or retirades, to abandon them, and, thus become masters,
they vigorously drove in the besieged."
The place of attack was terrible; it was what in
military language is called " a covered breach," that is
298
NINETY-THREE.
to say, a crevasse traversing the wall through and through
and not an extended fracture open to the day. The
powder ha-i acted like an auger. The effect of the
explosion had been so violent that the tower was cracked
for more than forty feet above the chamber of the mine,
but this was only a crack ; the practicable rent which
served, as a breach, and gave admittance into the lowei*
hall, resembled a thrust from a lance, which pierces,
rather than a blow from an axe, which gashes. It was a
puncture in the flank of tlie tower ; a long cut, something
like the mouth of a well, a passage, twisting and mounting
like a gut along the wall fifteen feet in thickness ; a
misshapen cylinder, encumbered with obstacles, traps,
stones broken by the explosion ; w^here any une entering
struck his iiead against the granite rock, his feet against
the rubbish, wliile the darkness blinded him.
The assailants saw before them this black gap, tlie
mouth of a ^vlf, which had for upper and lower jaws all
the stones of the jagged wall • a shark's mouth lias not
more teeth than had this frightful opening. It was
necessary to enter this gap and to get out of it.
Within was the wall ; without rose the retirade.
Without — tliat is to say in the luall of the ground-floor.
The encounters of sappers in covered galleries when
the counter -mine succeeds in cutting the mine, the
butcheries in tlie gun-decks of vessels boarded in a naval
engagement, alone have tins ferocity. To fight in the
bottom of a grave — iz is the supreme degree of horror.
It is frightful for men to meet in the death-struggle in
such narrow bounds. At the instant when the first rush
of besiegers entered, the whole retirade blazed with
lightnings^ it was like a thunderbolt bursting under-
ground. Tlie thunder of the assailants replied to that of
the ambuscade. The detonations answered one auother;
Gauvain's voice was heard shouting, " Break them in ! "
Then Lantenac's cry, "Hold firm against the enemy ! "
Then Imanus's yell, " Here, you men of the Main ! "
Then the clash of sabres clashing against sabres, and
echo after echo of terrible discharges that killed right
and left. The torch fastened against the wall dimly
TITANS AGAINST GIANTS.
299
1 throuo;h.
lay. The
ct of the
as cracked
the mine,
eiit which
the lowei-
h pierces,
It was a
8omethin<r
moiintiri<r
ckriess ; a
les, traps,
e entering
iet against
c gap, tlie
iv jaws all
3h has not
f. It was
J.
i retirade.
md-floor.
eries when
mine, the
, in a naval
ght in the
of horror,
jtruggle in
3 first rush
lazed with
ing under-
1 to that of
le another ;
them in!"
e enemy ! "
le Main!"
jabres, and
tilled right
wall dimly
lighted the horrible scene. It was impossible clearly to
distinguish any thing ; the combatants struggled amid a
lurid night ; whoever entered was suddenly struck deaf
and blind ; deafened by the noise, blinded by the smoke.
The combatants trod upon the corpses; they tore
the wounds of the injured men lying helpless amid the
rubbish; stamped recklessly up.'i limbs already broken ;
the suli'erers uttered awful groans ; the dying fastened
their teeth in the feet of their unconscious tormentors.
Then for an instant would come a silence more dreadful
than the tumult. The foes collared each other ; the
hissing sound of their breath could be heard, the gnashing
of teeth, death-groans, curses ; then the thunder would
reconnnence. A stream of blood flowed from the tower
through the breach and spread away across the darkness,
and formed smoking pools upon the grass. One might
have said that giant, the tower, had been wounded and
was bleeding.
Strange thing, scarcely a sound of the struggle could
be heard w-ithout. The night was very black, and a sort
of funereal calm reigned in plain and forest around
the beleaguered fortress. Hell was within ; the grave
without. This shock of men exterminating each other
amid the darkness, these musket volleys, these clamours,
these shouts of rage, all that din expired beneath that
mass of walls and arches ; air was lacking, and suffo-
cation added itself to the carnage. Hardly a sound
reached those outside the tower. Tlie little children
slept.
The desperate strife grew madder. The retirade held
firm. Nothing more difficult than to force a barricade
with a re-entering angle. If the besieged had numbers
against them, they had at least the position in their
favour. The storming column lost many men. Stretched
in a long line outside the tow-er, it forced its way slowly
in through the opening of the breach like a snake
twisting itself into its den.
Gauvain, with the natural imprudence of a youthful
leader, was in the hall in the thickest of the melee, with
the bullets flying in every direction about his head.
'«
- 3
300
NINETY-THREE.
Besides the imprudence of his age he had the assuraTice
of a man who has never been wounded.
As he turned about to give an order, the glare of a
volley of musketry lighted up a face cloye beside him.
he cried
w
i-'hat
are
you
doiuor
He replied, " I have come
" Cimourdaiu ! "
here?"
It was indeed Cimourdain.
to be near you."
"But you will be killed!"
" Very well — you — what are you doing then ? "
" I am necessary here ; you are not."
" Since you are here, I must be here too."
" No, my master."
" Yes, my child ! "
And Cimourdain remained near G-auvain.
The dead lay in heaps on the pavement of the hall.
Although the retirade was not yet carried, numbers would
evidently conquer at last. The assailants were sheltered
and the assailed under cover ; ten besiegers fell to c
among the besieged, but tlie besiegers were constantly
renewed. The assailants increased, and the assailed grew
less.
The nine leen besieged were all behind the retirade,
because the attack was made ti.ere. They had dead and
wounded among them. Not more tlian fifteen could fight
now. One of the most furious, Chaute-en-hiver, had
been horribly mutilated. He was a stubby, woolly-
haired Breton ; little and active. He had an eye gouged
out and his jaw broken. He still could walk. He
dragged himself up the spiral staircase, and reached the
chamber of the first floor, hoping to be able to say a
prayer there and die. He backed himself against the wall
near the loophole in order to breathe a little fresh air.
Beneath, in front of the barricade, the butchery became
more and more horrible. In a pause between the answering
discharges, Cimourdain raised his voice. "Besieged!"
cried he; "why let any more blood flow? You are
beaten. Surrender ! Think — we are four thousand five
hundred men against nineteen — that is to say, more than
two hundred against one. Surrender ! "
RADOUB.
301
" Let us put a stop to those hypocritical babblin«^s,"
retorted the Marquis de Lantenac.
And twenty balls answered Cimourdain.
The retirade did uot reach to the arched roof; this
space permitted the besieged to fire from the barricade,
but it also gave the besiegers an opportunity to scale it.
" Assault the retirade ! " cried Grauvain. " Is there
any man willing to scale the retirade ? "
•* I," said Serjeant Eadoub.
*■ It
Ut
X. liADOUB.
Here a sort of stupor seized the assailants. Radoub had
entered the breach at the head of the column, and of those
men of the Parisian battalion of which he made the sixth,
tour had already fallen. After he had uttered that shout
— " I ! " he was seen to recoil instead of advance. Doubled
up, bent forward, almost creeping between the legs of the
combatants, he regained the opening of the breach and
rushed out. Was it a flight ? A man like this to fly ?
What did it mean ?
"When he was outside, Eadouo, still blinded by the
smoke, rubbed his eyes as if to clear them from the horror
of the cavernous night he had just left, and studied the
wall of the tower by the starlight. He nodded his head,
as if to say, " I was not mistaken."
Eadoub had noticed that the deep crack made by the
explosion of the mine extended above the breach to the
loophole of the upper story, the iron grating of which had
been shattered by a ball. The network of broken tars
hung loosely down, so that a man could enter.
A man could enter, but could he climb up ? By the
crevice it might have been possible for a cat to mount.
Such was Eadoub. He belonged to the race whicli
Pindar calls " the active athletes." One may be an old
soldier and a young man. Eadoub, who had belonged
302
NINETY-THREE.
m
to the French guards, was not yet forty. He was a
nimble Hercules.
Radoub threw his musket on the ground, took off his
shoulder-belts, laid aside his coat and jacket, guardinf' iiis
two pistols, which he thrust in his trousers' belt, and his
naked sabre, which lie lield between his teeth. The butt-
ends of the pistols protruded above liis belt.
Thus lightened of everything useless, and followed in
the obscurity by the eyes of all such of the attackin*^
column as had not yet entered the breach, he began to
climb the stones of the cracked wall as if they had been
the steps of a staircase. Having no shoes was an advan-
tage — nothing can cling like a naked foot — he twisted
his toes into the lioles of the stones. He hoisted himself
with his fists, and bore his weight on his knees. The ascant
was a hazardous one ; it was somewhat like climbing
along the teeth of a gigantic saw. " Luckily," thought
he, " there is nobody in the chamber of the first story,
else I should not be allowed to climb up like this."
He had not more than forty feet left to mount. He
was somewhat encumbered hy the projecting butt-ends
of his pistols, and as he climbed the crevice narrowed,
rendering the ascent more and more difficult, so that the
danger of falling increased as he went on.
At last he reached the frame of the loophole and pushed
aside the twisted and broken grating, so that he had space
enough to pass through. He raised himself for a last
powerful efl:brt, rested his knee on the cornice of the
ledge, seized with one hand a bar of the grating at the
left, with the other a bar at the right, lifted half his body
in front of the embrasure of the loophole, and sabre
between his teeth, hung thus suspended by his two fists
over the abyss.
It only needed one spring more to land him in the
chamber of the first fioor.
But a face appeared in the opening. Eadoub saw a
frightful spectacle rise suddenly before him in the gloom ;
an eye torn out, a jaw fractured, a bleeding mask.
This mask, which had only one eye left, was watching
him.
RADOUB.
303
belonged to Chante-en-
Thls mask had two hands : tliese two liands thrust
themselves out of the darkness of this loophole and
clutched at Radoub ; one of them seized the two pistols
iu his belt, the other snatched the sword from between
his teeth.
Radoub was disarmed. His knee slipped upon the
inclined plane of the cornice ; his two fists, cramped about
the bars of the grating, barely sufficed to support him,
and beneath was a sheer descent of forty feet.
This mask and these iiands
hiver.
iSulfocated by the smoke which rose from tlie room
below, Chante-eii-hiver had succeeded in entering the em-
brasure of the loophole : the air from without had revived
him ; the freshness of the night had congealed the blood,
and his strength had in a measure come back. Suddenly
he perceived the torso of Radoub rise in front of the
embrasure. Radoub, having 1 Is hands twisted about the
bars, had no choice but to let himself fall or allow himself
to be disarmed, so Chante-en-hiver, with a horrible
quietness, had takeu the two pistols out of his belt and
the sabre from between his teeth.
Then commenced an unheard-of duel — a duel between
the disarmed and the wounded. Evidently the dying
man had the victory in his own hands. A single siiot
would suffice to hurl Radoub into the yawning gulf
beneath his feet.
Luckily for Radoub, Chante-en-hiver held both pistols
in the same hand, so that he could not fire either, and
was forced to make use of the sabre. He struck Radoub
a blow on the shoulder with the point. The sabre-stroke
wounded Radoub, but saved his life.
The soldier was unarmed, but in full possession of his
strength. Regardless of his wound, which indeed was
only a flesh-cut, he swung his body vigorously forward,
loosed his hold of the bars, and bounded through the
loophole.
There he found himself face to face with Chante-en-
hiver, who had thrown the sabre behind him, and was
clutching a pistol in either hand.
^w
1^04
NINETY-THREE.
' Chante-en-liiver had liadoiib close to tlu; muzzle aa lie
took aim upon his knees, but his enfeebled arm trembled
and he did not fire at once.
Radoub took advantage of this respite to burst out
laughing. "I say, ugly face!" cried he, "do you sup-
pose you frighten me wi1h your raw bullock's head?
Thunder and Mars, how tliey have shattered your fea-
tures ! "
Chante-en-hiver took aim.
Radoub continued : " It is not polite to mention it, but
the grape-shot has dotted your mug very neatly. Bellona
has peppered your physiognomy, my lad. Come, come;
spit out your little pistol-shot, my good fellow !"
Chante-en-hiver fired ; the ball passed so close to Ea-
doub's head that it carried away part of his ear. His foe
raised the second pistol in his other hand, but Radoub
did not give him time to take aim.
" It is enough to lose one ear," cried he. " You have
wounded me twice. It is my turn now."
He flung himself on Chante-en-hiver, knocked aside his
arm with such force that the pistol went off and the ball
whizzed against the ceiling. He seized his enemy's broken
jaw in both hands and twisted it about. Chante-en-hiver
uttered a howl of pain and fainted. Radoub straddled
across his body and left him lying in the embrasure of
the loophole.
" Now that I have announced my ultimatum, don't you
stir again," said he. " Lie there, you ugly crawling snake.
You may fancy that I am not going to amuse myself
massacring you. Crawl about on the ground at your ease
— under foot is the place for you. Die — you can't get
over that. In a little while you will learn what non-
sense your priest has talked to you. Away with you
into the great mystery, peasant ! " And he huiried for-
ward into the room.
• " One cannot see an inch before one's nose," grumbled
be.
Chante-en-hiver began to writhe convulsively upon the
floor and utter fresh moans of agony. Radoub turned
back.
EADOUB.
305
" Hold your tongue ! Do me the favour to be silent,
citizen, without knowing it. I cannot trouble myself
further witli you. I sliould scorn to make an end of you.
Just let me have quiet."
Then he thrust his liands into his hair as he stood
watching Chante-en-hiver.
" But here, what am I to do now? It is all very fine,
but I am disarmed. I had two shots to fire, and you have
robbed me of them, animal ! And with all that, a smoke
that would blind a dog ! "
Tlieu his hand touched his wounded ear. "Oh!" 1. •
exclaimed.
Then he went on : " Tou have gained a great deal by
confiscating one of my ears ! However, I would rather
have one less of them than anything else — an ear is only
an ornament. You have scratched my shoulder too ; but
that is nothing. Expire, villager — I forgive you."
He listened. The din from the lower room was fearful.
The combat had grown more furious than ever.
" Things are going well down there," he muttered.
How they howl ' Long live the King ! ' One must admit
that they die bravely."
His foot struck against the sabre. He picked it up, and
said to Chante-en-hiver, who no longer stirred, and who
might indeed be dead — " See here, man of the woods, I
will take my sabre ; you have left me that, anyway. But
I wanted my pistols. The Devil fly away with you, savage !
Oh there ! what am I to do ? I am no good whatever here."
He advanced into the hall trying to guide his steps in
the gloom. Suddenly, in the shadow behind the central
pillar, he perceived a long table upon which something
gleamed faintly. He felt the objects. The}^ were blunder-
busses, carbines, pistols, a whole row of fire-arms laid
out in order to his hand ; it was the reserve of weapons
the besieged had provided in this chamber, which would
be their second place of stand.
" A whole arsenal ! " cried Radoub.
And he clutched them right and left, dizzy with joy.
Thus armed, he became formidable. He could see, at the
back of the table, the door of the staircase, which commu-
m\
1
306
NINETY-XnilEE.
iiicatecl with the rooms above a!id below, standing wide
open. Radoub seized two pistols, and fired them at
random through the doorway ; then he snatched a
blunderbuss, and fired that ; then a gun, loaded with
buckshot, and discharged it. The troniblon, voniitinf*
forth its fifteen balls, sounded like a volley of grapeshot.
He got his breath back, and shouted down the staircase,
in a voice of thunder, " Hurrah for Paris ! "
Then seizing a second blunderbuss, still bigger than
the first, he aimed it towards the staircase, and waited.
The confusion in the lower hall was indescribable. This
unexpected attack from behind paralysed the besieged
with astonishment. Two balls from Eadoub's triple tire
had taken effect ; one had killed the elder of the brothers
Pique-en-Bois, the other had killed De Quelen, nicknamed
Houzard.
" They are on the floor above ! " cried the marquis.
At this cry the men abandoned the retirade ; a flock of
birds could not have fled more quickly ; they plunged
madly toward the staircase. The marquis encouraged the
flight.
" Quick, quick ! " he exclaimed. " There is most
courage now in escape. Let us all get up to the second
floor. We will begin again tliere." He left the retirade
the last. This brave act saved his life.
Radoub, ambushed at the top of the stairs, watched
the retreat, finger on trigger. The first who appeared at
the turn of the spiral steps received the discharge of his
gun full in their faces, and fell. Had the marquis been
among them, he would have been killed.
Before Eadoub had time to seize another weapon, the
others passed him ; the marquis behind all the rest, and
moving more slowly.
Believing the first-floor chamber filled with the be-
siegers, the men did not pause there, but rushed on and
gained the room above, which was the bail of the mirrors.
There was the iron door ; there was the sulphur-match ;
it was there they must capitulate or die.
Gauvain had been as much astounded as the besieged
by the detonations from the staircase, and was unable to
RADOUB.
307
ing wide
them at
atched a
ded with
vomiting
^rapeshot.
staircase,
gger than
waited.
h\e. Thia
} besieged
triple fire
e brothers
nicknamed
larquis.
; a flock of
iy plunged
)uraged the
•e is most
the second
;lie retirade
•s, watched
ippeared at
uirge of his
arquia been
weapon, the
le rest, and
ith the be-
hed on and
he mirrors.
Ihur-match ;
le besieged
IS unable to
understand how aid could have readied him in that
quarter ; but ho took advantage without waiting to com-
prehend, lie leaped over the retirade, followed by liia
men, and pursued the fugitives up to the first floor.
There he found Kadoub.
The sergeant saluted, and said : " One minute, com-
mandant. I did that. I remembered Dol. I followed
your plan. I took the enemy betwe n two fires."
" A good scholar," answered Gauvain, with a smile.
After one has been a certain length of time in the
darkness, the eyes, like those of a night-bird, become
accustomed to the obscurity. Gauvain perceived that
Radoub was covered with blood.
" But you are wounded, comrade ! " he exclaimed.
" Never mind that, commandant ! What difference
does it make — an ear more or less ! I got a sabre thrust,
too, but it is nothing. One always cuts oneself a little
in breaking a window. It is only losing a little blood."
The besiegers made a halt in the first-floor chamber,
which had been gained by Kadoub. A lantern was
brought. Cimourdain rejoined Gauvain. They held a
council. It was indeed time to reflect. The besiegers
were not in the secrets of their f6es ; they were unaware
of the lack of ammunition ; they did not know that the
defenders of the tower were short of powder ; that the
second floor must be the last post where a stand could be
made ; the assailants could not tell but the staircase
might be mined.
One thing was certain, the enemy could not escape.
Those who had not been killed were as safe as if under
lock and key. Lantenac was in the trap.
Certain of this, the besiegers could afford to give
tliemselves time to choose the best means of bringing
about the end. Numbers among them had been killed
already. The thing now was to spare the men as much
as possible in this last assault. The risk of this final
attack would be great. The first fire would without
doubt be a hot one.
The combat was interrupted. The besiegers, masters
of the ground and first floors, waited the orders of the
X 2
'f.il
308
NINETY THREE.
commnncler-in-clnof to renew the conflict. Gauvain and
Cimourdain wore holdinp^ counsel. Kadoub assisted in
silence at their deliberation. At length he timidly
hazarded another military salute.
" Commandant?"
*' What 18 it, Kadoub?"
" Have I a right to a little recompense ? "
" Yes, indeed. Ask what you like."
" I ask permission to be first to mount."
It was impossible to refuse him; in fact, he would
have done it without permission.
XT. — Desperate.
AViiiLE this consultation took place on the first floor, the
besieged were barricading the second. Success is fury ;
defeat is madness. The encounter between the foes
would be frenzied. To be close on victory intoxicates.
The men below were inspired by hope, which would be
the most powerful of human incentives if despair did not
exist. Despair was above. A calm, cold, sinister
despair.
"When the besiegers reached the hall of refuge, beyond
which they had no resource, no hope, their first care had
been to bar the entrance. To lock the door was useless ;
it was necessary to block the staircase. In a position
like theirs an obstacle across which they could see, and
over which they could fight, was w^orth more than a closed
door.
The torch, which Imanus had planted in the wall near
the sulphur-match, lighted the room.
There was in the chamber one of those great, heavy
oak chests, which were used to hold clothes and linen
before the invention of chests of drawers.
They dragged this chest out, and stood it on end in
the doorway of the staircase. It -fitted solidly and closed
the entrance, leaving open at the top a narrow space, by
which a man could pass, but it was scarcely probable that
DESPERATE.
309
le wall near
tho assailants would run the risk of being killed one after
another by any attenii)t to pass the barrier in single
tile.
This obstruction of the entrance afforded them a
respite. Tliey numbered their company. Out of the
nineteen only seven remained, of whom Imanus made one.
With the exception of Imanus and tho marquis they
were all wounded.
The five wounded men (active still, for in the heat of
combat any wound less than mortal leaves a man able to
move about) were Chatenay, called Itobi ; Guinoiseau,
Hoisnard Branche d'Or, J3rin d'Amour, and Grand-
Francoeur. All the others were dead.
They had no ammunition left. The cartridge-boxes
were almost empty ; they counted. How many shots
were there left for the seven to fire ? Four.
They had reached the pass where nothing remained but
to fall. They had retreated to the precipice ; it yawned
black and terrible ; they stood upon the very edge.
Still the attack was about to recommence — slowly, but
all the more surely on that account. They could hear the
butt-ends of the muskets ring along the staircase step by
step, as the besiegers advanced.
No means of escape. By the library ? On the plateau
bristled six cannons, with every match lighted. By the
upper chambers ? To what end ? They look up on the
platform. The only resource when that was reached
would be to fling themselves from the top of the
tower.
The seven survivors of this Homeric band found them-
selves inexorably enclosed and held fast by that thick
wall, which at once protected and betrayed them. They
were not yet taken, but they were already prisoners.
The marquis spoke : " My friends, all is finished."
Then, after a silence, he added, " Grand-Francceur,
be again the Abbe Turmeau."
All knelt, rosary in hand. The measured stroke of
the muskets sounded nearer.
Grand-Francoeur, covered with blood from a wound
which had grazed his skull, and torn away his leather
810
NINETY-THKKE.
cap, raised the crucifix in his ripjht hand. The mfirquis,
a 8cej)tic at bottom, bent liis knee to tlie ground.
"Let each one confess his faults aloud," said Grand-
FrancaMir. " Monseigneur, speak."
The marquis auHwcred, *' I have killed."
" I liave killed," said Jloisnard.
"I have killed," said Guinoiseau.
"I have killed," said Brin d'Amour.
" I have killed," said Chatenay.
"I have killed," said Imanus.
And Grand-]!'rancoour replied : " Tn the name of the
most Holy Trinity, I absolve you. May your souls depart
in peace."
" Amen," replied all the voices.
The marquis then rose. " Now let us die," he said.
" And fall to slaying," added Iv 'mus.
The blows from the butt-end of the besiegers' muskets
began to shako the chest which barred the door.
" Think of God," said tlie priest ; " earth no longer
exists for you."
" It is true," replied the marquis ; " we are in the
tomb."
All bowed their heads and smote their breasts. The
marquis and the priest were alone standing. The priest
prayed, keeping his eyes cast down ; the peasants prayed ;
the marquis reflected. The coffer echoed dismally, as if
under the stroke of hammers.
At this instani; a rapid, strong voice sounded suddenly
behind them, exclaiming, " Did I not tell you so,
monseigneur ? "
All turned their heads in stupified wonder. An
outlet was just opening in the wall.
A stone, perfectly fitted into the others, but not
cemented, and having a pivot above and a pivot below,
had just revolved like a turnstile, leaving the wall open.
The stone having revolved on its axis, the opening was
double, and offered two means of exit, one to the right
and one to the left, narrow, but leaving space enough to
allow a man to pass. Beyond this door, so unexpectedly
opened, could be seen the first steps of a spiral staircase
DELIVERANCE.
311
A face appeared in the openiug. The marquis re-
coffuiaed llulmalo.
-•o«-
XII. — Deliverance.
"'Tisyou, Halmalo?"
" It is I, mouseigneur. You see there are stones tliat
turn ; they really exist ; you can get out of here. I am
just in time ; but come quickly. In ten minutes you
will be in the heart of the forest."
" God is great," said the priest.
"Save yourself, moliseigneur ! " cried the men in
concert;
" All of you go first," said the marquis.
" You must go first, mouseigneur," returned the Abb6
Turmeau. " I go the last."
And the marquis added, in a severe tone, " No
struggle of generosity. We have no time to be mag-
nanimous. You are wounded. I order you to live and
to fly. Quick ! Take advantage of this outlet. Thanks,
Halmalo."
" Marquis, must we separate ? " asked the Abbe
Turmeau.
" Below, without doubt. We can only escape one by
one."
" Does monseigneur appoint a rendezvous ? "
"Yes. A glade in the forest, the Pierre Gauvaine.
Do you know the place ? "
" We all know it."
" I shall be there to-morrow at noon. Let all those
who can walk meet me at that time."
" Every man will be there."
" And we will begin the war anew," said the marquis.
As Halmalo pushed against thf* turning-stone, lie found
that it did not stir. The aperture could not hv closed
r
again.
" Monseigneur," he said, " we must hasten.
The
Ih,
I
lit:
312
NINETY-THREE.
stone will not move. I was able to open the passaf^e,
but I cannot shut it."
The stone in fact had become deadened, aa it were, on
its liinges from long disuse. It was impossible to make
it revolve back into its place.
" Monseigneur," resumed Halmalo, " I had hoped to
close the passage, so that the Blues, when they got in
and found no one, would think you must have flown off
in the smoke. But the stone will not stir. The
enemy will see the outlet open, and can follow. At least,
do not let us lose a second. Quick ; everybody make for
the staircase ! "
Imanus laid his hand on Halmalo's shoulder.
" Comrade, how much time will it take to get from here
to the forest and to safety ? "
" Is there anyone seriously wounded ? " asked
Halmalo.
They answered, " Nobody."
" In that case, a quarter of an hour will be enough."
" Go," said Imanus ; " if the enemy can be kept out of
here for a quarter of an hour "
" They may follow ; they cannot overtake us."
" But," said the marquis, " they will be here in five
minutf}s ; that old chest cannot hold out against them
any longer. A few blows from their muskets will end
the business. A quarter of an hour I Wno can keep
them back for a quarter of an hour ? "
" I," said Imanus.
" You, Gouge-le-Bruant ? "
" I, monseigneur. Listen. Five out of six of you are
wounded. I have not a scratch."
" jN'or I," said the marquis.
" You are the chief, monseigneur. I am a soldier.
Cliief and soldier are two."
" I know we have each a different duty."
" No, monseigneur, we have, you and I, the same
duty ; it is to save you."
Imanus turned towards his companions.
" Comrades, the thing necessary to be done is to hold
the enemy in check and retard the pursuit as long as
THE EXECUTIONER.
313
possible. Listen. I nm in possession of my full
strength ; I have not lost a drop of blood ; not being
wounded, I can hold out longer than any of the others.
Fly, all of you. Leave me your weapons. I will make
good use of them. I take it on myself to stop tlie
enemy for a good half-hour. How many loaded pistols
are there ? "
" Four."
" Lay them on the floor."
His command was obeyed.
" It is well. I stay here. They will find somebody to
talk with. Now — quick — get away."
Life and death hung in the balance ; there was no
time for thanks — scarcely time for those nearest to grasp
his hand.
" We shall meet soon," the marquis said to him.
" No, monseigneur; I hope not — not soon — for I am
about to die."
, They got through the opening one after another and
pssed down the stairs — the wounded going first. "While
the men were escaping, the marquis took a pencil out of
r. note-book which he carried in his pocket, and wrote a
few words on the stone, which, remaining^ motionless,
left the passage gaping open.
" Come, monseigneur, they are all gone but you," said
Halmalo. And the sailor began to descend the stairs.
The marquis followed.
Lnanus was alone.
XIII. ^-The Executioner.
The four pistols had been laid on the flags, for the
chamber had no flooring to cover them. Imauus grasped
a pistol in each hand. He moved obliquely towards the
entrance to the staircase which the chest obstructed and
masked.
The assailants evidently feared some surprise — one of
those final explosions which involve conqueror and con-
S!'
314
NINETY-THREE.
quered in the same catastrophe. This last attack was as
slow and prudent as the first had been impetuous. Thev
had not been able to push the chest backward into the
chamber — perhaps would not have done it if they could.
They had broken the bottom with blows from their
muskets, and pierced the top with bayonet holes ; by
these holes they were trying to look into the hall before
entering. The light from the lanterns with which they
had illuminated the staircase shone through these chinks.
Imanus perceived an eye regarding him through one
of the holes. He aimed his pistol quickly at the place
and pulled the trigger. To his joy a horrible cry followed
the report. The ball had entered the eye and passed
through the brain of the soldier, who fell backward down
the stairs.
The assailants had broken two large holes in the
cover ; Imanus thrust his pistol through one of these
and fired at random into the mass of besiegers. The
ball must have rebounded, for he heard several cries as if
three or four were killed or wounded, then there ^vtas a
great trampling and tumult as the men fell back. Imanus
threw down the two pistols whicli he had just fired, and,
takirg the two whicli still remained, peered out through
the holes in the chest. He was able to see what execution
bis shots had done.
The assailants had descended the stairs. Tlie twisting
of the spiral staircase only allowed him to look down
three or four steps ; the men he had shot lay writhing
there in the death agony. Imanus waited. " It is so
much time gained," thought he.
Then he saw a man flat on his stomach creeping up
the stairs ; at the same instant the head of another
soldier appeared lower down from behind the pillar about
which the spiral wound. Imanus aimed at this head and
fired. A cry followed, the soldier fell, and Imanus,
while watching, threw away the empty pistol and changed
the loaded one from his left hand to his right.
As he did so, he felt a horrible pain, and, in his turn,
uttered a jell of agony. A sabre had traversed his
bowels. A fist — the fist of the man who had crept up
IMANUS ALSO ESCAPES.
315
the stairs — had just been thrust throuGjh tlie decond hole
in the bottom of the chest, and tliis fist had plunged a
sabre into Imanus' body. The wound was frightful ;
the abdomen was pierced through and through.
Imanus did not fall. He set his teeth together and
muttered, "Good!"
Then he dragged himself, tottering along, and retreated
to the iron door at the side of wliicli the torch was still
burning. He laid his pistol on the stones and seized the
torch, and while with his left hand he held together the
terrible wound through which his intestines protruded,
with the right he lowered the torch till it touched the
sulphur-match.
It caught fire instantaneously — the wick blazed.
Imanus dropped the torch — it lay oi the ground still
burning. He seized his pistol anew, dropped forward
upon the flags, and with what breath he had left blew
the wick. The flame ran along it, passed beneath the
iron door and reached the bridge-castle.
Then seeing that his execrable exploit had succeeded
— prouder, perhaps, of this crime than of the courage he
had before shown — this man, who had just proved himself
a hero only to sink into an assassin, smiled as he stretched
himself out to die, and muttered, " They will remember
me. I take vengeance on these little ones for the fate of
the little one who belongs to us all— the king imprisoned
in the Temple ! "
-•♦•-
XIV. — Imanus also escapes.
At this moment there was a great noise — the chest was
hurled violently back into the hall, and gave passage to
a man who rushed forward, sabre in hand, crying, " It is
I — Eadoub — what are you going to do ? It bores me to
wait. I have risked it. Anyway I have just disem-
bowelled one. Now I attack the whole of you. Whether
the Tf^st follow me, or don't follow me. here I am. How
many are there of you ? "
316
NINETY-THREE.
It was indeed Radoub, and he was alone !
After the massacre Iiiulnua had caused upon the stairs
Gauvain, fearing some secret mine, liad drawn back his
men and consulted witli Cimourdain.
Radoub, standing sabre in hand upon the threshold,
sent his voice anew into the obscurity of the chamber
across which the .early extinguished torch cast a faint
gleam, and repeated his question. " I am one. How
many are you ? "
There was no answer. He stepped forward. One of
those sudden jets of light which an expiring fire some-
times sends out, and which seem like its dying throes,
burst from the torch and illuminated the entire chamber.
Radoub caught sight of himself in one of the mirrors
hanging against the wall — approached it, and examined
his bleeding face and wounded ear.
" Horrible mutilation ! " said he.
Then he turned about, and, to his utter stupefa ■'tion,
perceived that the hall was empty.
" Nobody here ! " he exclaimed. " Not a creature."
Then he saw the revolving stone and the staircase
beyond the opening.
" Ah ! I understand ! The key of the fields. Come
up, all of you ! " he shouted. " Comrades, come up !
Tliey have run away. They have filed oif — dissolved—
evaporated — cut their lucky. This old jug of a tower
had a crack in it. There is the "hole they got out by,
the beggars. How is anybody to get tlie better of Pitt
and Coburg while they can play such comedies as this!
The very devil himself came to their rescue. There
is nobody here."
Tlie report of a pistol cut his words short — a hall
grazed his elbow and flattened itself against the wall.
" Aha ! " said he. " So there is somebody left. Who
was good enough to show me that little politeness ? "
" 1," answered a voice.
Eadoub looked about and caught sight of Imanus in
the gloom.
'* Ah ! " cried he. " I have got one at all events. The
others have escaped, but you will not, I promise you."
IMANUS ALSO ESCAPES.
317
" Do you believe it; ? " retorted Imanus.
Radoub made a step forward and paused.
" Hey, you, lying on the ground there — who are you ? "
" I am a man who laughs at you who are standing up."
" What is it you are holding in your right hand ? "
" A pistol."
" i^nd in your left hand ? "
" My bowels."
" You are my ])risoner."
"I defy you! "
Imanus bowed his head over the burning wick, spent
his last breath in stirring the flame, and expired.
A few seconds after, Gauvain and Cimourdain, followed
by the whole troop of soldiers, were in the hall. They
all saw the opening. They searched the corners of the
room and explored the staircase ; it had a passage at the
bottom which led to the ravine. The besieged had
escaped. They raised Injtmus — he was dead. Gauvain,
lantern in hand, examined the stone which had afforded
an outlet to the fugitives ; he had heard of the turning-
stone, but he, too, had always disbelieved the legend.
As he looked, he saw some lines written in pencil on the
massive block ; he held the lantern closer and read the
words : " Au revoir, Vicomte Lanienac."
Guechamp was standing by his commandant. Pursuit
was utterly useless ; the fugitives had the whole country
to aid them — tliickets, ravines, copses, the inhabitants.
Doubtless they were already far away. There would be
no possibility of discovering them — they had the entire
forest of Fougeres, with its countless liiding-places, for
a refuge. "What was to be done ? The whole struggle
must begin anew. Gauvain and Guechamp exchanged
conjectures and expressions of disappointment. Cimour-
dain listened gravely, but did not utter a word.
" And the ladder, Guechamp ? " said Gauvain.
" Commandant, it has not come."
" But we saw a waggon escorted by gendarmes." *
Guechamp only replied, " It did not bring the ladder."
" What did it bring then ? "
" The guillotine," said Cimourdain.
318
NINETY-THREE.
XV. — Never put a Watch and a Key in the sajie
Pocket.
The Marquis de Lantenac was not so far away as they
believed. But he was none the less in safety, and com-
pletely out of their reach. He had followed Halmalo.
The staircase by which they descended in the wake of
the other fugitives ended in n narrow vaulted passa<^e
close to the ravine and the arches of the bridge. Thia
passage opened into a deep natural fissure which led into
the ravine on one side and into the forest on the other.
The windings of the path were completely hidden among
the thickets. It would have been impossible to discover
a man concealed tliere. A fugitive, once arrived at this
point, had only to twist away like a snake. The opening
from the staircase into the secret passage was so com-
pletely obstructed by brambles that the builders of the
passage had not thought it necessary to close the way in
any other manner.
The marquis had only to go forward now. He was
not placed in any difficulty by lack of a disguise. He
had not thrown aside his peasant's dress since coming to
Brittany, thinking it more in character.
When Halmalo and the marquis passed out of the
passage into the cleft, the five otlier men, Guinoiseau,
Hoisuard Branche-d'Or, Brin d' Amour, Cliatenay, and
the Abbe Turmeau were no longer tliere.
" They did not take much time to get away," said
Halmalo.
" Follow their example," returned the marquis.
"Must I leave monseigneur ? "
" Without doubt. I have already told you so. Each
must escape alone to be safe. One man passes where two
cannot. We should attract attention if we were together.
You would lose my life and I yours."
" Does monseigneur know the district ? "
"Yes."
*'Does monseigneur still appoint the rendezvous for
the Pierre Gauvaine ? "
A WATCU AND A KEY.
319
THE SAME
" To-morrow, at noon."
" I sluill bo there. We shall all be there."
Then Halmalo burst out, " Ah, monseigueur ! When I
think that we were together in the open sea, that we
were alone, that I wanted to kill you, that you were my
master, that you could have told me so, and that you did
not speak ! What a man you are ! "
The marquis replied, " England ! There is no other
resource. In fifteen days the English must be in
France."
" I have much to tell monseigneur. I obeyed his
orders."
" We will talk of all that to-morrow."
" Farewell till to-morrow, monseigneur."
" By the way — are you hungry ? "
" Perhaps I am, monseigneur. I was in such a hurry
to get here that I am not sure whether I have eaten
to-day."
The marquis took a cake of chocolate from his pocket,
broke it in half, gave one piece to Halmalo, and began to
eat the other himself.
" Monseigneur," said Halmalo, " at your right is the
ravine; at your left, the forest."
" Very good. Leave me. Go your own way."
Halmalo obeyed. He hurried oft' tlu'ough the dark-
uess. For a few instants the marquis could hear the
crackling of the underbrush, then all was still. By that
time it would have been impossible to track Halmalo.
This forest of the Breage w^as the fugitive's auxiliary. He
did not flee — he vanished. It was this facility for dis-
appearance w^iich made our armies hesitate before this
ever retreating Vendee, so formidable as it fled.
The marquis remained motionless. He was a man
who forced himself to feel nothing, but he could not
restrain his emotion on breathing this free air after
having been so long stifled in blood and carnage. To
feel himself completely at liberty after having seemed so
utterly lost ; after having seen the grave so close, to be
swept so suddenly beyond its reach ; to come out of
death back into life ; — it was a shock even to a man like
820
NINETY-THREE.
i.;>
Lantenac. Familiar as he was with danger — in spite of
all the vicissitudes he had passed through — he could not
at first steady his soul under this.
He acknowledged to himself that he was content. But
he quickly suodued this emotion which was more like joy
than any feeling he had known for years. He drew out
his watch and struck the hour. "What time was it ?
To his great astonishment he found that it was but
ten o'clock. When one has just passed through some
terrible convulsion of existence in which every hope and
life itself were at stake, one is always astounded to find
that those awful minutes were no longer than ordinary
ones. The warning cannon had been fired a little before
sunset, and La Tourgue attacked by the storming party
half an hour later — between seven and eight o'clock —
just as night was falling. This colossal combat, begun
at eight o'clock, had ended at ten. This whole epopee
had only taken a hundred and twenty minutes to enact.
Sometimes catastrophes sweep on with the rapidity of
lightning. The climax is overwhelming from its sudden-
ness.
On reflection, the astonishing thing was thai; the
struggle could have lasted so long. A resistance for two
hours of so small a number against so large a force was
extraordinary, and certainly it had not been short or
quickly finished, this battle of nineteen against four
thousand.
But it was time he should be gone. Halmalo must be
far away, and the marquis judged that it would not be
necessary to wait there longer. He put his watch back
into his vest, but not into the same pocket, for he dis-
covered that the key of the iron door given him by
Imanus was there, and the crystal might be broken
against the key. Then he moved towards the forest in
his turn. As he turned to the left, it seemed to him that
a faint gleam of light penetrated the darkness where he
stood.
He walked back, and across the underbrush, suddenly
cut clearly against a red background and become visible
in their tiniest outlines, he perceived a great light in the
FOUND, BUT LOST.
821
ravine. Only a few paces separated him from it. He
hurried forward, then stopped, remembering ^vllat folly
it was to expose himself in the light. Whatever might
have happened, after all it did not concern him. Again
he set out in the direction Halmalo had indicated, and
walked a little way towards the forest.
Suddenly, deep as he was hidden among the brambles,
he heard a terrible cry echo over his head : this cry
seemed to proceed from the very edge of the plateau
which stretched above the ravine. The marquis raised
his eyes and stood still.
BOOK THE FOURTH.
IN D2EM0NE DEUS.
I. — Found, but Lost.
At the moment when Michelle Flechard had caught sight
of the tower, she was more than a league off. She, w ho
could scarcely take a step, did not hesitate before these
miles which must be traversed. The woman was weak,
but the mother found strength. She walked on.
The sun set ; the twilight came, then the night.
Still pressing on, she heard a bell afar off, hidden by
the darkness, strike eight o'clock, then nine. The peal
probably came from the belfry of Parigu^. From time
to time she paused to listen to strange sounds like the
deadened echo of blows, which perhaps might be the wind
in the distance.
She walked straight on, breaking the furze and the
sharp heath-stems beneath her bleeding feet. She w-as
guided by a faint light which shone from the distant
tower, defining its outlines against the night, and giving
a mysterious glow to the tow^er amid the surrounding
gloom. This light became more distinct when the noise
sounded louder, then faded suddenly.
322
NINETY-TIIREB.
The vast platoaii across wliicli Miehollo Flocliard jour-
neyed was covered with grass and lieatli ; not a liouso,
not a tree appeared. It rose gradually, and, as far as the
eye could reach, stretched in a straiglit hard line against
the sombre horizon where a few stars gleamed. She had
always the tower before her eyes — the sight kept her
strength from failing.
She saw the massive pile grow slowly as she walked on.
We have just said the smothered reports and the pale
gleams of light starting from the tower were intermit-
tent ; they stopped, then began anew, olfering an enigma
full of agony to the wretched mother.
Suddenly they ceased ; noise and gleams of light both
died; there was a moment of complete silence: an omi-
nous tranquillity.
It was just at this moment that Michelle Flechard
reached the edge of the plateau.
She saw at her feet a ravine whose bottom was lost
in the wan indistinctness of the night; at a little dis-
tance, on the top of the plateau, an entanglement of
wheels, metal, and harness, which was a battery ; and
before her, confusedly lighted, by the matches of the can-
non, an enormous edifice that seemed built of shadows
blacker than the shadows which surrounded it. This
mass of buildings was composed of a bridge whose
arches were imbedded in the ravine, and of a sort of
castle which rose upon the bridge ; both bridge and
castle were supported against a lofty circular shadow —
the tower towards which this mother had journeyed from
so far.
You could see lights come and go in the loopholes of
the tower, and from the noise which surged up, she
divined that it was filled with a crowd of men — indeed
now and then their gigantic shadows were flung out on
the night.
Near the battery was a camp whose outposts Michelle
Flechard might have perceived through the gloom and the
underbrush, but she had as yet noticed nothing.
She went close to the edge of the plateau, so near the
bridge that it seemed to her she could almost touch it
FOUND, BUT LOST.
323
: an omi-
with her hand. The depth of tlie ravine alone kept her
from reaching it. She could make out in the gloom the
three stories of the bridge-castle. How long she stood
there she could not have told, for her mind, absorhcd
in her mute contemplation of tliis gaping ravine and tiiis
shadowy edifice, took no note of time. What was this
building? What was going on within? AVas it La
Tourgue? A strange dizziness seized her; in her con-
fusion she could not tell if this were the goal she had
been seeking on tlie starting-point of a terrible journey.
She asked herself why she was there. Slie looked ; she
Hstened.
Suddenly a great blackness shut out every object. A
cloud of smoke swept up between her and the pile she
was watching : a sliarp report forced her to close her
eyes. Scarcely had she done so wiien a great light red-
dened the lids. She looked again.
It was no longer the night siie iiad before her — it was
the day — but a fearful day — the day born of fire. She
was watching the beginning of a conflagration.
From black the smoke had become scarlet, filled with
a mighty flame which appeared and disappeared, writhing
and twisting in serpentine coils. The flame burst out like
a tongue from that which resembled blazing jaws —
it was the embrasure of a window filled with fire. This
window, crossed by iron bars, already reddening in the
heat, was a casement in the lower story of the bridge-
castle. Nothing of the edifice was visible except this
window. The smoke covered even the plateau, leaving
only the mouth of the ravine black against the vermilion
flames. Michelle Fleehard stared in dumb wonder. It
was like a dream — she could no longer tell where reality
ended and the confused fancies of her poor troubled brain
began. Ought she to fly ? Should she remain? There
was nothing real enough for any definite decision to
steady her mind.
A wind swept up and tore away the curtain of smoke ;
in the opening the frowning bastille rose suddenly in view :
donjon, bridge, chatelet ; dazzling in the terrible gilding
of conflagration which framed it from top to bottom. The
Y 2
234
NINETY-THIIEE.
ajjpalling illiiniinatiou sliowed Midielle Flediard every
detail of the aiieieiit keep.
Tlie lowest story of tlie bridge-castle was burninj^.
Above rose the otlier two stories, still untouciied, but U8
it \v(M'e supported ou a pedestal of flames.
From the edge of the plateau wliero Michelle Flechard
stood, she could catcli broken glimjjses of tho interior
between the clouds of smoke and lire. The windows
were all open.
Through the great casements of the second storv,
Michelle Flechard could make out the cupboards stretchecl
along tlie walls, which looked to her full of books, and bv
one of the windows could see a little group lying on the
floor, in the shadow, indistinct and massed together like
birds in a nest, which at times she fancied she saw move.
She looked iixedly in this dirccticm.
What was that little group lying there in the shadow?
Sometimes it flashed across her mind that those were
living forms ; but she had fever, she had eaten nothing
since morning, she had walked without intermission, she
was utterly exhausted, she felt iierself giving way to a
sort of hallucination which she had still reason enough to
struggle against. Still her eyes fixed themselves ever
more steadily upon that one point ; she could not look
away from that little heap upon the floor — a mass of
inanimate objects doubtless that had been left in. that
room below which the flames roared and billowed.
Suddenly the fire, as if animated by a will and purpose,
flung downward a jet of flame toward the great dead ivy
which covered the fagade at which Michelle F'lechard was
gazing.
It seemed as if the fire had just discovered this outwork
of dried branches ; a spark darted greedily upon it, and
a line of flame spread upward from twig to twig with
frightl'ul rapidity. In the twinkling of an eye it reached
the second story. As they rose, the flames illuminated
the chamber of the first floor, and the awful glare threw
out in bold relief the three little creatures lying asleep
upon the floor. A lovqly, statuesque group of legs and
arms interlaced, closed eyes, and angelic, smiling faces.
FOUND, BUT LOST.
325
The mother rcco^niMed her children !
Sl»e uttered a lerrihlo cry. That cry of indescribable
agony is only given to mothers. No Hound la at once so
savage and so touching. When a woman uttcra it, you
seem to hear the yell of a she-wolf; when the she-wolf
cries thus, you seem to hear the voice of a woman.
This cry of INlicheile I'lochard was a howl. Hecuba
howled, says Homer.
It was this cry whicii reached the Marquis de Lantenac.
When he heard it, he stood still. The marquis was
between the outlet of the passage through which he had
been guided by ITalinalo and the ravine. Across the
brambles which enclosfd him ho saw the bridge in flames
and La Tourgue red with the reflection. Looking up .vard
through the opening which tlie branches left above his
head, he perceived close to the edge of the plateau on the
opposite side of the gulf, in front of the burning castle, in
the full light of the conflagration, the haggard, anguish-
stricken face of a woman bending over the depth.
It was this woman who had uttered that cry.
The face was no longer that of Michelle Flechard ; it
was that of Medusa. She was appalling in her agony. The
peasant woman was tranaformeil into oneof the Eumenides.
This unknown villager, vulgar, ignorant, unreasoning, had
risen suddenly to tiie epic grandeur of despair. Great
sufferings swell the soul to gigantic proportions. This was
no longer a simple mother — the voice of all motherhood
cried out through hers; whatever sums up and becomes
a type of humanity grows superhuman. There she
towered on the edge of the .ravine, in front of the con-
flagration, in presence of that crime, like a ])Ower from
beyond the grave ; she moaned like a wild beast, but her
attitude was that of a goddess ; the mouth, which uttered
imprecations, was set in a flaming mask. Nothing could
have been more despotic than her eyes shooting lightnings
through her tears.
The marquis listened. Her voice flung its echoes
down upon his head : inarticulate, heartrending — sobs
rather than words.
" Ah my God, my children ! Those are my children !
ii'i
"^m
326
NINETY-THREE.
Help! Tire! fire! fire! O you brigands! Is there
no one here? My cliiklren are burning! Georgette!
My babies! Gros-Alain — Kene- Jean ! What does it
mean? "Who put my children there? They are asleep.
Oil, I am mad ! It cannot be ! Help, help !"
Still a great bustle and movement was apparent in La
Tourgue and upon the plateau. The whole camp rushed
out to the fire which had just burst forth. The besiegers,
after meeting the grape-shot, had now to deal with the
conflagration. Gauvnin, Cimourdain, and Guechamp
were giving orders. AVhat was to be done? Only a
few buckets of water could be drained from the half
dried brook of the ravine. The consternation increased.
The whole edge of tiie plateau was covered with men
whose troubled faces watched the progress of the
flames.
AVhat they saw was terrible. They gazed, and could do
nothing.
The flames had spread along the ivy and reached the
topmost story, leaping greedily upon the straw with
which it was filled. The entire granary was burning now.
The flames wreathed and danced as if in fiendish joy. A
cruel breeze fanned the flames. One could tancy the evil
spirit of Imaiius urging on the fire, and rejoicing in the
destruction which had been his last earthly crime.
The library, though between the two burning stories,
was not yet on fire ; the height of its ceiling and the
thickness of the walls retarded the fatal moment — but it
was fast approaching ; the flames from below licked the
stones — the flames from above whirled down to caress
them with the awful embrace of death : beneath, a cave
of lavM — above, an arch of embers. If the floor fell first,
the children would be flung into the lava sn im ; if the
ceiling gave way, they would be buried beneatL a braisier
of burning coals.
The little ones slept still ; across the sheets of flame
and smoke which now^ hid, now exposed the casements,
they were visible in that fiery grotto, within that meteoric
glare, peaceful, lovely, motionless, like three confident
cherubs slumbering iu a hell ; a tiger might have wept to
FOUND, BUT LOST.
327
see those angels in that furnace, those cradles in that
tomb.
And the mother was shrieking still — " Fire ! I say,
fire ! Are they all deaf, that nobody comes ? They are
burning my children ! Come — come — you men that I see
yonder. Oh, the days and days that I have searolied — and
this is where I find them ! Eire ! Help ! Three angels
— to think of three angels burning tiiere ! What had
they done, the innocents? They shot me — they are
burning my little ones. Who is it does these things?
Help! Save my children! Do you not hear me? A
dog — one would have pity on a dog ! My children — my
children ! They are asleep. O Georgette — I see her
face! Eene-Jean! Gros-Alain ! Those are their names.
You may know I am their mother. Oh, it is horrible ! I
liave travelled days and nights ! Why, this very morning
1 talked of them witii a woman. Help, help ! Where
are those monsters ? Horror, horror ! The eldest, not
five years old — the youngest, not two. I can see their
little bare legs. They are asleep. Holy Virgin ! Heaven
gave them to me, and devils snatch them away. To tiiink
how far I have journeyed. My children, that I nourished
with my milk ! I, who thought myself wretched because
I could not find them ! Have pity on me. I want my
children — I must have my children ! And there they are
in the fire. See how my poor feet bleed ! Help ! It is
not ])ossible, if there are men on the earth, that my little
ones will be left to die like thi.s. Help ! Murder ! Oh,
such a thing was never seen ! O assassins ! What is
that dreadful house there? They stole my children
from me in order to kill them. God of mercy, give
me my children ! They shall not die ! Help — h(^lp —
help ! Oh, I shall curse Heaven itself if thev die like
that!"
While the mother's awful supplications rang out, other
voices rose upon the plateau and in the ravine.
"A ladder!"
" There is no ladder !"
"Water!" —
" There is no water ! "
m
328
NINETY-THREE.
" Up yonder — in the tower — on tlie second story
there is a door."
" It is iron."
"Break it in!"
" Impossible ! "
And the mother redoubled her agonised appeals :
" Fire ! Help ! Hurry, I say — it* you will not kill me !
My children, my children ! O the horrible fire ! Take
them out of it — or throw me in."
In the interval between these clamours the triumphant
crackling of the ilames co ild be heard.
The marquis put his hand in his pocket and touched
the key of the iron door. Then, stooping again beneath
the vault through which he had escaped, he turned back
into the passage from whence he had just emerged.
XL — FiioM THE Door of Stone to the Door or Iron.
A WHOLE army r'istracted b}'- the impossibility of giving
aid ; four thousand men unable to succour three children ;
such was the situation.
Not even a ladder to be had ; that sent from Javene
had not arrived. The flaming space widened like a crater
that opens. To attempt the staying of the fire by means
of the half-dried brook would have been mad folly — like
flinging a glass of water on a volcano.
Cimourdain, Guechamp, and liadoub had descended
into the ravine ; Gauvain remounted to the room in the
second story of the tower, where were the stone that
turned, the secret passage, and the iron door leading into
the library. It was there that the sulphur-match had
been lighted by Imanus ; from these the conflagration had
started.
Gauvain took with him twenty sappers. There was
no possible resource except to break open the iron door
— its lastenings were terribly secure.
Thev
beijan
by blows with axes. The axes broke.
^«p
FROM THE DOOR OF STONE TO THE DOOR OF IRON. 329
glass
aiiamst
tluit
A sapper said : " Steel snaps like
iron."
The door was made of double sheets of wrouGflit iron,
bolted together; each sheet tliree fingers in thickness.
They took iron bars and tried to sliake the door beneath
tlieir blows ; the bars broke " like matches ! " said one of
the sappers.
Gauvain murmured gloomily : " Nothing but a ball
could open that door. If we could only get a cannon up
here."
" But how to do it !" answered the sapper. '
Tiiere was an overwhelming moment. Those power-
less arms ceased their elforts. Mute, conquered, dis-
mayed, tiiese men stood staring at the immovable door.
A red reflection crept from beneath it. Behind, the con-
flagration was each instant increasing.
The friglitful corpse of Imanus \u,y on the floor — a
demoniac victor. Only a few moments more and the
wliole bridge-castle might fall in. What could be done ?
There was not a hope left.
Gauvain, with his eyes fixed on the turning-stone and
the secret passage, cried furiously, " It was by that the
Marquis de Lanfcenac escaped."
" And returns," said a voice.
The face of a white-haired man appeared in the stone
frame of the secret opening. It was the marquis !
Many years had passed since Gauvain had seen that
face so near. He recoiled. The rest stood petrified with
astonishment.
The marquis held a large key in his hand ; he cast a
haughty glance upon the sappers standing before him,
walked straight to tlie iron door, bent beneath the arch,
and put the key in tiie lock. The iron creaked ; the door
opened revealing a gulf of flame — the marquis entered it.
He entered with a firm step — his head erect. The
lookers-on followed him with their eyes.
The marquis had scarcely moved half a dozen paces
down the blazing hall when the floor, undermined by the
fire, gave way beneath his feet and opened a precipice
between him and the door. He did not even turn his
n
ttm
m
,i0l^'°
330
NINETY-THREE.
head — he walked steadily od. He disappeared in the
smoke. Nothing more could be seen.
Had he heen able to advance farther? Had a new-
slough of fire opened beneath his feet? Had he only
succeeded in destroying himself? They could not tell.
They had before them only a wall of smoke and flame.
The marquis was beyond that, living or dead.
"liftoff V-
III. — The Children wake.
The little ones at last opened their eyes.
The conflagration had not yet entered the library, but
it cast a rosy glow across the ceiling. The children
had never seen an aurora like that ; they watched it.
G-eorgette was in ecstasies. The (fonflagration unfurled
all 'ts splendours ; the black hydra and the scarlet dragon
appeared amid the wreathing smoke in awful darkness and
gorgeous vermilion. Long streaks of flame shot far out
and illuminated the shadows, like opposing comets pur-
suing one another. Fire is recklessly prodigal with its
treasures ; its furnaces are filled with gems which it flings
to the winds ; it is not without reason that charcoal is
identical with the diamond.
Fissures had opened in the wall of the upper story
through which the embers poured like cascades of jewels ;
the heaps of straw and rats burning in the granary began
to stream out of the windows in an avalanche of golden
rain, the rats turning to amethysts and the straw to
carbuncles.
"Pretty!" said Georgette. -
They all three raised themselves.
*' Ah ! " cried the mother. " They have woke ! "
Bene-Jean got up, then Gros-Alain, and Georgette
followed.
Eene-Jean stretched his arms towards the window, and
said, " I am warm."
" Me warm," cooed Georgette.
THE CHILDREN WAKE.
331
)'iii:>
The motlier shrieked : " My children ! Reno ! ALiin !
Georgette ! "
The little ones looked about. They strove to com-
prehend. When men are frightened, children are only
curious. He who is easily astonished is difficult to
alarm; ignorance is intrepidity. Children have so little
claim to purgatory that, if they saw it, tliey would
look at it in pleased wonder !
The mother repeated, " Eene ! Alain ! Georgette ! "
Eene-Jean turned his head ; that voice roused him
from his reverie. Children have short memories, but
their recollections are swift ; the whole past is yesterday
to them. Rene-Jean saw his mother, found that per-
fectly natural, and feeling a vague want of support in
the midst of those strange surroundings, he called,
"Mamma!"
"Mamma!" said Gros-Alaiu.
"M'ma!" said Georgette. *
And she held out her little arms.
" My children ! " shrieked the mother.
All three went close to the window-ledge : fortunatelv
the fire was not on that side.
" I am too warm,
burns." Then his
here, mamma ! " he cried
" Tum, m'ma," repeated Georgette.
The mother, with her hair streaming about her face,
her garments torn, her feet and hands bleeding, let
herself roll from bush to bush down into the ravine.
Cimourdain and Guechamp were there, as powerless as
Gauvain was above. The soldiers, desperate at being
able to do nothing, swarmed about. The heat was
insupportable, but nobody felt it. They looked at the
bridge — the height of the arches — the diiferent stories of
the castle — the inaccessible windows. Help to be of any
avail must come at once. Three stories to climb, ^o
way of doing it.
Radoub, wounded, with a sabre-cut on his shoulder
and one ear torn off, rushed forward dripping with sweat
and blood. He saw Michelle Flechard.
" said Rene-Jean. He added, " It
eves sought the mother. " Come
!!F
1:^
m
332
NINETY-THREE.
" Hallo ! " cried he. " Tlie woman that was shot !
So you have come to life again ? "
" My children ! " groaned the mother.
" You are right," answered Radoub ; " we have no
time to busy ourselves about ghosts."
He attempted to climb the bridge, but in vain ; he
dug his nails in between the stones and clung there for a
few seconds, but the layers were as smoothly joined as
if the wall had been new — Eadoub foil back. The con-
flagration swept on each instant, grov ing more terrible.
They could see the heads of the three children framed in
tlie red light of the window. In his frenzy liadoub
shook his clenched hand at the sky, and shouted, " Is
there no mercj'' yonder ! "
The mother, on her knees, clung to one of tlie piers
crying, " Mercy, mercy ! "
The hollow sound of cracking timbers rose above the
roar of the flames. The panes of glass in the bookcases
of tlie library cracked and fell with a crash. It was
evident that tlie timber-work had given way. Human
strength could do nothing. Another moment and the
whole would fall. The soldiers onh- waited for the final
catastrophe. They could hear the little voices repeat,
" Mamma ! mamma ! "
The whole crowd was paralysed with horror. Suddenly,
at the casement near that where the children stood, a
tall form appeared against the crimson background of
the flames.
Every head was raised — every eye fixed. A man was
above there — a man in the library — in the furnace. The
face showed black against the flames, but they could see
the white hair — they recognised the Marquis de Lantenac.
He disappeared, then appeared again.
The indomitable old man stood in the window shoving
out an enormous ladder. It w^as the escape-ladder depo-
sited in the library — he had seen it lying upon tlie floor
and dragged it to the window. He held it by one end —
with the marvellous agility of an athlete he slipped it
out of the casement and slid it along the wall down into
ttie ravine.
THE CHILDKEN WAKE.
333
Racloub folded his arms about the hiddei* as it descendt'd
within his reach, cryinpr, " Long live the Eepublic ! "
The marquis shouted, " Long live the King ! "
lladoub muttered, " You may cry what you like, and
talk nonsense it' you please; — but you are an angel of
mercy all tlie same."
The ladder was sa/ely grounded, and a communication
established between tlie burning floor and the ground.
Twenty men rushed up, Eadoub at their head, and in the
tv\ inkling of an eye they were hanging to the rungs from
tlie top to the bottom, making a human ladder, lladoub,
on the topmost rung, touched the window. He luid his
face turned towai-d the conflagration. The little arniv
scattered among the heath and along the sides of the
ravine pressed forward, overcome by contending emotions,
upon the plateau, into the ravine, out on the platform of
the tower. . ■ •
Tlie marquis disappeared again, then reappeared bearing
a child in his arms. There was a tremendous clapping of
hands.
The marquis had seized the first little one that he
found within reach. It was Gros-Alain.
Gros-Alain cried, " I am afraid."
The marquis gave the boy to Radoub ; Eadoub passed
him on to the soldier behind, who passed him to another,
and just as Gros-Alain, greatly frightened and sobbing
loudly, was given from hand to hand to the bottom of
the ladder, the marquis, who had been absent for a
moment, returned to the window with Eene-Jean, Avho
struggled and wept and beat Kadoub with his little fi[sts
as the marquis passed him on to the sergeant.
The marquis went back into the chamber that was now
filled with flames. Georgette was there alone. He went
up to her. She smiled. This man of granite felt his
eyelids grow moist. He asked, " What is your name ? "
" Orgette," she said.
He took her in his arms ; she was still smiling, and,
at the instant he handed her to Kadoub, that conscience
so lofty and yet so darkened was dazzled by the beauty
of innocence ; the old man kissed the child.
!':h<i
M i\
834
NINETY-THREE.
" It is the little girl ! " said the soldiers ; and Georgette
in her turn descended from arm to arm till she reached
the ground, amid cries of exultation. They clapped their
hands ; they leaped ; the old grenadiers sobbed, and she
smiled at them.
The mother stood at the foot of the ladder breathless,
mad, intoxicated by this change — flung, without a
pause, from hell into paradise. Excess of joy lacerates
the heart in its own way. She extended her arms ; siie
received first Gros-Alain, then Eene-Jean, then Georgette.
She covered them with frantic kisses, then burst into a
wild laugh, and fainted.
A great cry rose : " They are all saved ! "
All were indeed saved, except the old man.
But no one thought of him — not even he himself,
perhaps. He remained for a few instants leaning against
the window-ledge lost in a reverie, as if he wished to
leave the gulf of flames time to make a decision. Then,
without the least haste, slowly indeed and proudly, he
stepped over the window-sill, and erect, upright, his
shoulders against the rungs, having the conflagration at
his back, the depth before him, he began to de> end the
ladder in silence with the majesty of a phant' m. The
men who were on the ladder sprang oft'; every witness
shuddered ; around this man thus descendin;^' from that
height there was a sacred horror as about a vision. But
he plunged calmly into the darkness before him ; they
recoiled, he drew nearer them ; the marble pallor of his
face showed no emotion ; his haughty eyes were calm
and cold ; at each step he made toward those men whose
wondering eyes gazed upon him out of the darkness, he
seemed to tower higher, the ladder shook and echoed
under his firm tread — one might have thought him the
statue of the commandatore descending anew into his
sepulchre.
As the marquis reached +he ground, and his foot left
the last rung and plantea itself on the earth, a hand
seized his shoulder. He turned about.
" I arrest you," said Cimourdain.
" I approve of what you do," said Lantenac.
•%ia'?il.frt|'|hwnif(iiii
wf
LANTENAC TAKEN.
835
BOOK THE FIFTH.
THE COMBAT AFTER THE VICTOIiY.
I. — Lantenao taken.
The marquis had indeed descended into the tomb. He
was led away.
The crypt dungeon of the ground-floor of La Tourgue
was at once opened und(U' Cimourdain's lynx-eyed
superintendence. A lamp was placed within, a jug of
water and a loaf of regulation bread ; a bundle of straw
was flung on tlie groujid, and in less than a quarter
of an hour from the instant when the priest's hand
seized Lantenac, the door of the dungeon closed upon
him.
This done, Cimourdain went to find Gauvain ; at that
instant eleven o'clock sounded from the distant church-
clock of Parigue. Cimourdain said to his former pupil,
" I am going to convoke a court-martial ; you will not be
there. You are a Glauvain, and Lantenac is a Gauvain.
You are too near a kinsman to be liis judge ; I blame
Egalite for having voted upon Capet's sentence. The
court-martial will be composed of three judges : an oflicer,
Captain Guechamp ; a non-commissioned officer, Sergeant
Eadoub, and myself— I shall preside. But none of
this concerns you any longer. We will conform to the
decree of the Convention ; we will confine ourselves to
proving the identity of the ci-devant Marquis de Lan-
tenac. To-morrow the court-martial— the day after to-
morrow the guillotine. Vendee is dead."
Gauvain did not answer a word, and Cimourdain, pre-
occupied by the closing task which remained for him to
fulfil, left the young man alone. Cimourdain had to
decide upon the hour and choose the place. He had,
like Lequinio at Granulle, like Tallien at Bordeaux, like
Chalier at Lyons, like Saint-Just at Strassburg, the habit
of assisting personally at executions ; it w^as considered a
336
NINETY-THREE.
good example for the judge to come and see tlje heads-
man do hia work — a custom borrowed by tlie Terror of
'93 from the parliauienta of Prance and tlie Jnquisitiuu
of Spain.
Gauvain also was preoccupied.
A cold wind moaned u\) from the forest ; Gauvain
left Guechamp to give the necessary orders, went to his
tent in the meadow which stretched along the edge of
the wood at the foot of La Tourgue, toolt his hooded
cloak, and enveloped himself therein. This cloak was
bordered with the simple galoou which, according to the
republican custom, chary of ornament, designated the
commander-in-chief. He began to walk about in tiiis
bloody field where the attack had commenced. He was
alone there. The fire still continued, but no one any
longer paid attention to it. Eadoub was beside the
children and their mother, almost as maternal as she.
The bridge-castle was nearly consumed — the sappers
hastened the destruction. The soldiers were digging
trenches in order to bury the dead ; the wounded were
being cared for ; the retirade had been demolished ; the
chambers and stairs disencumbered of the dead ; the
soldiers were cleansing the scene of carnage, sweeping
away the terrible rubbish of the victory ; with true
military rapidity setting everything in order after the
battle. Gauvain saw nothing of all this.
So profound was his reverie that he scarcely cast a
glance toward the guard about the tower, doubled by the
orders of Cimourdain.
He could make out the breach through the darkness,
perhaps two hundred feet away from the corner of the
field where he had taken refuge. He could see the
black opening. It was there the attack had commenced
three hours before ; it was by this dark gap that he —
Gauvain — had penetrated into the tower; there was the
ground-floor where the retirade had stood ; it was on
that same floor that the door of the marquis' prison
opened. The guard at the breach watched this dungeon.
While his eyes were absently fixed upon the heath,
in his ear rang confusedly, like the echo of a knell, these
-';t» J-SJHK
GAUVAIN 8 8ELF-QUE8 riONlNa.
337
the hends-
3 Terror of
luquiaition
; Oauvain
eut to his
lie edge of
his liooded
cloak was
ling to the
gnated the
Hit in this
1. He Mas
10 one any
beside the
nal as she.
le sappers
re digging
Luaded were
^shed ; the
dead ; the
, sweeping
with true
after the
cely cast a
jle'd by the
darkness,
•ner of the
d see the
;onimeneed
that he —
re was the
it w^as on
uis' prison
s dungeon.
the heath,
:uell, these
words : " To-morrow the court-martial ; the day after to-
morrow the guillotine."
The conflagration, which had been isolated, and upon
which the sappers had thrown all the water that could he
procured, did not die away without resistance; it still
cast out intermittent flames. At moments tlio cracl<iii{r
of the ceilings could be heard, and the crash one upon
another of the dilfercnt storii's as they fell in a connnon
ruin; then a whirlwind of sparks would fly through the
air, as if a gigantic torch had been shaken ; a glare like
lightning illuminated the farthest verge of the horizon,
and the shadow of La Tourgue, growing suddenly colossal,
spread out to the edge of the forest. Gauvain walked
slowly back and forth amid the gloom in front of the
breach. At intervals he claspc^d liis two hands at the
back of his head, covered with his soldier's hood. lie
was tiiiuking.
II. — G AU V ain's Self-questioning.
His reverie was fathomless. A seemingly impossible
change had taken place.
The Marquis de Lautenac had been transformed.
Gauvain had been a witness of this transformation.
He could never have believed that such a state of
affairs would arrive from any complication of events
whatever they might be. Never could he have ima-
gined, even in a dream, that anything similar would be
possible.
The unexpected — that inexplicable power which plays
with man at will — had seized Gauvain, and held him fast.
He had before him the impossible transformed into a
reality, visible, palpable, inevitable, inexorable. What did
he think of it — he, Gauvain ?
There was no chance of evasion ; the decision must be
made. A question w^as put to him ; he could not avoid
it. Put by whom ? By events.
And not alone by events. For when events, which are
I', if....
338
NINETY-THREE.
mutable, address a question to our souls, Justice, wlilcli
is uTiehangeablc, summons us to reply.
Above the cloud which casts its shadow upon us is the
star tliat sends its light towards us. We can uo more
escape from the light tlian from the shadow.
Gffuvain was undergoing an interrogatory. lie had
been arraigned before a judge. Before a terrible judge.
His 'Conscience.
Gauvain felt every power of his soul vacillate. His
most sclid resolutions, his most piously uttered promises,
his most irrevocable decisions, all tottered in this terrible
overthrow and burial of his will. Tlieso are moral earth-
quakes. Tiie more Ka reflected upon that which he had
lately seen, the more confused he became.
Gauvain, republican, beb'eved himself, and was, just.
A higher justice had revealed itself. Beyond the justice
of revolutions is that of humanity.
What had liappened could not be eluded ; the case was
grave ; Gauvain made part ol it ; he could not withdraw
himself, and, althougli Cimourdain had said, " It concerns
you no furtiier," he felt within his soul that pang w^bich a
tree may feel when torn up by i(" roots.
Every man has a basis; a disturbance of this base
causes a profound trouble — it was what Gauvain now felt.
He pressed his head between his two hands, searching for
the truth. To state clearly a situation like his is not
easy ; nothing could be more painful ; he had before him
the formidable figures which he must sum up into a
total ; to judge a human destiny by mathematical rules —
his head whirled. He tried ; he endeavoured to consider
the matter; he forced himself to collect his ideas, to
discipline the resistance which he felt witliin himself,
and to recapitulate the facts. He set them all before
his mind.
To whom has it not happened to make such a report,
and to interrogate himself in some supreme circumstances
upon the route which must be followed, whether to ad-
vance or retreat ?
Gauvain had just been witness of a miracle. Before
the earthly combat had fairly ended, there came a celestial
OAUVAIN 8 SELF-QUESTIONING.
339
struggle. The conflict of good against evil. A heart of
adamant had been conquered.
Given tlie man, with all the evil that he had within him,
violence, error, blindness, unwliolesome obstinacy, pride»
egotism — Qauvain had just witnessed a miracle. The
victory of humanity over the man. Humanity had con-
quered the inhuman. And by what means? In what
manner? How hud it been able to overthrow that co-
lossus of rage and hatred ? What arms had it employed ?
VV^hat implement of war ? Tlie cradle !
Gauvain had been dazzled. In the midst of social war,
in the very acme of all hatreds and all vengeances, at the
darkest and most furious moment of the tumult, at the
hour when crime gave all its tires and hate all its black-
ness, at that instant of conflict, when every sentiment
becomes a projectile, wiien the melee is so fierce that one
no longer knows v/hat is justice, honesty, or truth, sud
denly the Uuknow^n — mysterious warner of som/«— darted
the grand rays of eternal truth resplendent across human
light and darkness.
Above that dark duel between the false and the rela-
tively true, there, in the depths, the face of truth itself
suddenly appeared. At a moment the face of the feeble
had interposed.
He had seen three poor creatures, almost new-born,
unreasoning, abandoned, orphaned, unaided, lisping
smiling, having against them civil war, retaliation, the
horrible logic of reprisals, murder, carnage, fratricide, rage,
hatred, all the Gorgons — triumph against those powers.
He had seen the defeat and extinction of a horrible
conflagration kindled to commit a crime ; he had seen atro-
cious plots disconcerted and brought to nought ; he had
seen ancient feudal ferocity, inexorable disdain, the pro-
fessed experiences of the necessities of war, the reasons
of State, all the arrogant resolves of a savage old age,
vanish before the clear gaze of those who had not yet
lived, and this was natural, for he who has not yet lived
has done no evil ; he is justice, truth, purity; and the
highest angels of heaven hover about those souls of little
children.
z 2
II if
m
NINETY-THREE.
A useful spectacle, a counsel, a lesson. The mad-
dened, merciless conibatjints, in face of all the projects,
all the outrages of war, fanaticism, assassination, rever.go
kindlinn; the faggots, death coming torch in hand, had
suddenly seen all powerful Innocence raise itself above this
enormous legion of crimes. And Innocence had conquered.
One could say : No, civil war does not exist ; barbarism
does not exist; hatred does not exist; crime does not
exist ; darkness does not exist. To scatter these spectres
it only needed that divine aurora — Innocence.
Never in any conflict had Satan and God been more
plainly visible. This conflict had a human conscience for
its arena. The conscience of Lantenac.
Now the battle began again, more desperate, more
decisive still perhaps, in another conscience. The con-
science of Gauvain.
What a battle-ground is the soul of man ! "VVe are
given up to those gods, those monsters, those giants — our
thoughts. Orten these terrible bellig^erents trample our
very souls down in their mad conflict.
Grauvain meditated.
' The Marquis de Lantenac, surrounded, doomed, con-
demned, outlawed, shut in like the wild beast of the
circus, held like a nail in the pincers, enclosed in his
refuge now made his prison, bound on every side by a wall
of iron and fire, had succeeded in stealing away. He had
performed a miracle in esca])ing. He had accomplished
that masterpiece — the most diflicult of all in such a war *
— flight. He had again taken possession of the forest to
entrench himself therein — of the district to fight there —
of the shadow to disapi)ear witliin it. He had once more
become the formidable, the dangerous wanderer — the
captain of the iuvincibles — the chief of the underground
forces — the master of the woods. Gauvain had the vic-
tory, but Lantenac had his liberty. Henceforth Lantenac
had safety before him, limitless freedom, an inexhaustible
choice of asylums. He was not to be seen, unap-
proachable, inaccessible. The lion had been taken in
the snare, and had broken through. Well, he had re-
entered it.
:^:mi
GAUVAIN S SELF-QUESTIONING.
341
The Miirquis do Lantenac had voluntarily, sponta-
neously, by his own free act, left the forest, tlie shadow,
security, liberty, to return to that horrible peril ; intrepid
when Gauvain saw him the first time plunge into the
conflagration at the risk of being engulfed tlierein ; in-
trepid a second time, when he descended that ladder
which delivered liim to iiis enemies — a ladder of escape to
o' hers, of perdition to himself.
And why had he thus acted? To save three children.
And now what was it they were about to do to this man ?
Guillotine hiin.
Had these three cliildren been his own ? No. Of his
family ? No. Of liis rank ? No. For three little beg-
gars — chance children, foundlings, unknown, ragged,
barefooted — this noble, this prince, this old man, free,
safe, triumphant — for evasion is a triumph — had risked
all, cor.ipromised all, lost all ; and at the same time he
restored the babes, had proudly brought his own head ;
and this liead, hitherto terrible, but now august, he offered
to his foes. And what were they about to do ? .Accept
the sacrifice.
The Marquis de Lantenac liad had the choice between
the life of others and his own ; in this superb option he
had chosen death. And it was to be granted him. He
was to be killed. What a reward for heroism ! llespond
to a generous act by a barbarous one ! What a de-
grading of the Eevolution ! AVhat a lowering of the
liepublic !
As this man of prejudice and servitude, suddenly
transformed, returned into tlie circle of humanity, the
men who strove for deliverance and freedom elected to
cling to the horrors of civil war, to the routine of blood,
to fratricide ! The divine law of forgiveness abnegation,
redemption, sacrifice, existed for the combatt uts of error,
and did not exist for the soldiers of trntli !
What ! Not to make a struggle in magnanimity ?
Eesign themselves to this defeat? They, the stronger,
to show themselves the weaker? They, victorious, to
become assassins, and cause it to be said that there were
those on the side of Monarchy who saved cluldren.
342
NINETY-THREE.
,::f.
and those on the side of the Kepublic who slew old
men !
The world would see this great soldier, this powerful old
man of eighty, this disarmed warrior, stolen rather than
captured, seized in the performance of a good action,
seized by his own permission with the sweat of a noble
devotion still upon his brow, mount the steps of the
scaffold as he would mount to the grandeur of an
apotheosis ! "Would they lay beneath the knife that head
about which would circle, as suppliants, the souls of
the three little angels he had saved! And before this
punishment — infamous for the butchers — a smile would
be seen on the face of that man, and the blush of shame
on the face of the Eepublic! And this would be ac-
complished iu the presence of Gauvain, the chief! And
he who might hinder this would abstain. He would rest
content under that haughty absolution: "IVm's concerns
thee no hnger." And he was not even to say to himself
that in such a case abdication of authority was com-
plicity ! He was not to perceive that, of two men en-
gaged in an action so hideous, he who permits the thing
is worse than the man who does the work, because he is
the coward !
But this death — had he not threatened it ! Had not he,
Grauvain, the merciful, declared that Lantenac should
have no mercy, that he woiild himself deliver Lantenac
to Cimourdain? That head — he owed it. Well, he would
pay the debt. So be it. But was this, indeed, the same
head ?
Hitherto, Gauvain had seen in Lantenac only the bar-
barous warrior, the fanatic of royalty and feudalism, the
slaught'^rer of prisoners, an assassin whom war had let
loose, a man of blood. That man he had not feared ; he
had proscribed that proscription ; the implacable would
have found him inexorable. Nothing more simple; the
road was marked out find terribly plain to follow ; every-
thing foreseen ; he would kill tliose who killed ; the path
of horror was clear and straight. Unexpectedly that
straight line had been broken ; a sudden turn in the way
revealed a new horizon; a metamorphosis had taken
rac
GAUVAIN S SELF-QUESTIONING.
343
place. An unknown Lanteuac entered upon tlie scene.
A hero sprang up from the monster ; more than a hero —
a man. More than a soul — a heart. It was no longer a
murderer that Gauvain had before liim, but a saviour.
Gauvain was flung to the earth by a flood of celestial
radiance. Lantenac had struck him with the thunderbolt
of generosity.
And Lantenac transformed could not transform Gau-
vain !
What ! Was this stroke of light to produce no
counter-stroke : Was the man of the Past to push on
in front, and the man of the Future to fall back ? Was
the man of barbarism and superstition suddenly to unfold
angel pinions, and soar aloft, to watch the man of tlie ideal
crawl beneath him in the mire and the night ? Gauvain
to lie wallowing in the blood-stained rut of the Past,
while Lantenac rose to a new existence in the sublime
Future?
Another tiling yet. Their family !
This blood which he was about to spill — for to let it
be spilled was to spill it himsedf — was not this his blood,
his, Gauvain's ? His grandfather was dead, but his great-
uncle lived, and this great-uncle was the Marquis de
Lantenac. W^ould not that ancestor who nad gone to the
grave rise to prevent his brother from being forced into
it ? Would he not command his grandson henceforth to
respect that crown of white hair become pure as his own
angelic halo ? Did not a spectre loom with indignant
eyes between him, Gauvain, and Lantenac ?
Was, then, the aim of the Revolution to denaturalise
man? Had it been born to break the ties of family
and to stifle the instincts of humanity ? Far from it. It
was to affirm these glorious realities, not to deny them,
that '89 had risen. To overturn the bastilles was to
deliver humanity ; to abolish feudality was to found
families. The aul' or being the point from whence au-
thority sets out, and autliority being included in the
author, there can be no other authority than paternity ;
hence the legitimacy of the queen-bee who creates her
people, and who, being mother, is queen ; hence the ab-
i^ufiahiiui
344
NINETY-THREE.
■t
surdity of tlie king-men, who, not being fnthor, cannot
be master. Hence the suppression of the King; hence
the liepublic that comes from all this ? Pamily, huma-
nity, revolution, lie volution is the accession of the
people, and, at the bottom, the People is Man.
The thing to decide was wliether, when Lantenac re-
turned into humanity, Gauvaiii should go back to his
family. The thing to decide was whether the uncle and
nephew sliould meet again in a higher light, or whether
the nephew's recoil should reply to the uncle's progress.
The question in this pathetic debate between Gauvain
and his conscience had resolved itself into this, and the
answer seemed to come of itself — ht must save Lantenac.
Yes ; but France ?
Here the dizzying problem suddenly changed its face.
What ! France at bay ? France betrayed, flung open,
dismantled ? Having no longer a moat, Germany would
cross the Ehine ; no longer a wall, Italy would leap the
Alps and Spain the Pyrenees. There would remain for
France that great abyss, the ocean. She had for her the
gulf. She could back herself against it, and, giantess,
supported by the entire sea, could combat the whole earth.
A position, after all, impregnable. Yet no ; this position
would fail her. The ocean no longer belonged to her.
In this ocean was England. True, England was at a loss
how to cross it. Well, a man would Hing her a bridge ;
a man would extend his hand to her ; a man would go to
Pitt, to Craig, to Cornwallis, to Dundas, to the pirates,
and say : " Come ! " A man would cry, " England, seize
France ! " And this man wa3 the Marquis de Lantenac.
This man was now held fast. After three months of
chase, of pursuit, of frenzy, he had at last been taken.
Tlie hand of the Revolution had just closed upon the
accursed one ; the clenched fist of '93 had seized this
royalist murderer by the throat. Through that mysterious
premeditation from on high which mixes itself in human
affairs, it was in the dungeon belonging to his family that
this parricide awaited his punishment. The feudal lord
was ill the feudal oubliette. The stones of his own castle
rose against him and shut him in, and he who had sought
mis^miiMSiiMmiMMimm
GAUVAIN S SELF-QUESTIONING.
345
lor, cannot
ing; henee
lily, luima-
on of the
mtenac re-
ack to his
uncle ami
or whether
progress,
■n Gauvaiu
is. and the
Lautenac.
;d its face,
lung open,
lany would
d leap the
remain for
for lier the
, giantess,
hole earth.
lis position
ed to her.
IS at a loss
:• a bridge ;
ould go to
le pirates,
land, seize
Lanteuac.
months of
len taken,
upon tlie
seized this
uysterious
in human
amilj that
eudal lord
own castle
lad sought
to betray his country had been betrayed by his own
dwelling. God had visibly arranged all this ; the hour
liad sounded ; the devolution had taken prisoner this
public enemy ; he coidd not longer light, he could no
longer struggle, he could no longer harm ; in this Vendee,
which owned so many arms, his \yas the sole brain ; with liis
extinction, civil war would be extinct. He was held fast ;
tragic and fortunate conclusion. After so many massacres,
so much carnage, he was a captive. This man, wlio had
slain so pitilessly — it was his turn to die. And if some
one should be found to save him !
Cimourdain, that is to say, '93, held Lanteuac, that is
to say. Monarchy, and could any one be found to snatch
its prey from that hand of bronze ? Lautenac, the man
in whom concentrated that sheaf of scourges called the
Past — the jMarquis de Lanteuac was in the tomb — the
heavy eternal door had closed upon him — would some one
come from w^ithout to draw back the bolt? This social
malefactor was dead, and with him died revolt, fratricidal
contest, bestial war ; and would anyone be found to
resuscitate him? Oh, how that death's head would grin !
That spectre would say : " It is well ; I live again — the
idiots ! "
How he would once more set himself at his hideous
work ; how joyously and implacably this Lanteuac would
plunge anew into the gulf of war and hatred, and on the
morrow would again be seen houses burning, prisoners
massacred, the wounded slain, women shot.
But, after all, did not Gauvaiu exaggerate this action
which had fascinated him? Three children were lost ;
Lautenac saved them. But who had flung them into that
peril ? Was it not Lanteuac ? "Who had set those three
cradles in the heart of the conflagration? Was it not
Lnanus? Who was Luauus? The lieutenant of the
marquis. The one responsible is the chief. Hence the
incendiary and the assassin was Lautenac. What had he
done 80 admirable ? He had not persisted — that was all.
After having conceived the crime, he had recoiled before
it. He! had become horrified at himself. That mother's
cry had wakened in him tiiose remains of human mercy
346
NINETY-THREE,
wliicli exist in all souls, even the most hardened. At this
cry he had returned upon his steps. Out of the niglit
where he had buried himself, he hastened toward the day.
After having brought about the crime, he caused its
defeat. His whole merit consisted in this — not to have
been a monster to the end. And in return for so little,
to restore hi in all ! To give him freedom, the fields, the
plains, air, day ; restore to him the forest which he would
employ to shelter his bandits ; restore him liberty, which
he would use to bring about slavery ; restore life, which
he would devote to death.
As for trying to come to an agreement with him,
attempting to treat with that arrogant soul, propose his
deliverance under certain conditions, demand if he would
consent were his life spared, henceforth to abstain from
all hostilities and all revolt — what an error such an offer
would be — what an advantage it would give him — what
scorn would the proposer hurl against himself — how he
would baffle the questioner by his answer — " Keep such
shame for yourself— kill me !"
There was, in short, nothing to do with this man but
to slay or set him free. He stood upon a pinnacle. He
was ever ready to soar or to plunge down. To himself
he was both an eagle and a preci]uce. Marvellous soul !
To slay him ? "What anxiety ! To set him free ? What
a responsibility !
Lantenac saved, all would begin anew with Vendee,
like a struggle with a hydra whose heads had been
spared. In the twinkling of an eye, with the rapidity
of a meteor, the flame extinguished by this man's disap-
pearance would blaze up again. Lantenac would never
rest until he had carried out that execrable plan — of
flinging, like the cover of a tomb. Monarchy upon the
Bepublic, and England upon Prance. To save Lantenac
was to sacrifice France. Life to Lantenac was death to
a host of innocent beings — men, women, children, caught
anew in that domestic war; it was the landing of the
English, the retreat of the lievolution ; it was the sacking
of the villages, the rending of the people, the mangling of
Brittany ; it was flinging the prey back into the tiger's
GAUVAIN S SELF-QUESTIONING.
347
I. At this
the night
rd the day.
caused its
lot to have
)r so little,
fields, the
li he would
;rty, which
life, which
with him,
)ropose liis
f he would
stain from
ch an offer
him — what
f — how he
Keep such
s man but
lacle. He
To himself
llous soul !
e? What
h Vendee,
had been
le rapidity
an's disap-
Duld never
( plan — of
upon the
) Lantenac
s death to
en, caught
ing of the
he sacking
langling of
the tiger's
claw. And Gauvaiii, in the midst of uncertain gleams and
rays of introverted light, beheld vaguely rise upon his
reverie this problem wliich stood before him — the setting
the tiger at liberty.
And then the question reappeared under its first aspect ;
the stone of Sysiphus, which is no other than the combat
of man with iiimself, fell back — Was Lantenac that tiger^?
Perhaps he had been ; but was he still? Gauvain was
dizzy beneath the whirl and conflict in his soul ; his
thoughts turned and circled upon themselves wath snake-
like swiftness. After the closest examination could
anyone deny Lantenac's devotion, his stoical self-abne-
gation, his superb disinterestedness? What! To prove
his humanity in the presence of the open jaws of civil
war ! AVhat ! In this contest of inferior truths, to bring
the highest truth oi all ! What ! To prove tliat above
royalties, beyond revolutions, above earthly questions, is
the grand tenderness of the 'an soul, the recognition
of the protection due to the ic. ole from the strong, the
safety due to those who are perishing from those who are
saved, the paternicy due to all little children from all old
men ! To prove these magnificent truths by giving up
his life. To be a general, and renounce strategy, battle,
revenge ! What ! To be a royalist, and to take a balance
and put in one scale the king of France, a monarchy of
fifteen centuries, old laws to re-establish, ancient society
to restore, and in the other, three little unknown pea-
sants, and to find the king, the throne, the sceptre, and
fifteen centuries of monarchy too light to weigh against
these three innocent creatures. And then ! — w as all that
nothing? What ! Could he who had done this remain a
tiger ? Ought he to be treated like a w ild beast ? No, no,
no ! The man w^ho had just illuminated the abyss of civil
war by the light of a divine action was not a monster.
The sword-bearer was metamorphosed into the angel of
light. The infernal Satan had again become the celestial
Lucifer. Lantenac had atoned for all his barbarities
by one act of sacrifice ; in losing himself materially
he had saved himself morally ; he had become innocent
again ; he had signed his own pardon. Does not the
348
NINETY-TUUEE.
'if ^f'
right of self- forgiveness exist? From this time he was
to bo venerated.
Lautenuc had just shown himself almost superhuman.
It was now Gauvaiu's turn. Gauvain was called upon to
answer him. The struggle of good aud evil passions made
the worhl a cliaos at this epocii ; Lantenae, dominating
the chaos, had just brought humanity out of it ; it now
remained for Gauvain to bring forth their family from
thence. What was he about to do? Was Gauvain about
to betray the trust Providence had shown in him ? No.
And he murmured within himself: " Let us save Lan-
tenae." And a voice answered — "It is well. Go on;
aid the English. Desert. Pnss over to the enemy. Save
Lantenae and betray France." And Gauvain shuddered.
" Thy solution is no solution, O dreamer!"
Gauvain saw the Sphynx smile bitterly in the shadow.
This situation was a sort of formidable cross-way where
hostile truths met one another, and where the three
highest ideas of man — humanity — famil}'' — country —
looked in each other's faces. Each of these voices took
up the word in its turn and each uttered truth. Each
in its turn seemed to find the point where wisdom
and justice met, and said — "Do this!" Was that the
thing he ought to do? Yes. No.. Argument said one
thing, and feeling another ; the two counsels were in
direct opposition. Logic is only reason ; feeling is often
conscience ; the one comes from man himself, the other
from a higher source. Hence it is that sentiment has
less clearness and more power.
Still, what force stern reason possesses ! Gauvain
hesitated. Maddening perplexity. Two abysses opened
before him. Should he let the marquis perish ? Should
he save him ? He must plunge into one depth or the
other. In which of these two gulls lay Duty ?
■dilMUitfiiiillB
TUE COMMANDANTS HOOD.
Ud
time he was
'iporhuman.
lied upon to
ssioiis made
dominating
' it ; it now
family from
luvain about
liim ? No.
? save Lan-
II. Go on;
lemy. Save
I shuddered.
the shadow.
3-way where
3 the three
-country —
voices took
Lith. Eaoli
ere wisdom
as that the
nt said one
ds were in
ing is often
f, the other
itiment has
Gail vain
sses opened
h ? Should
spth or the
III. — The Commandant's Hood.
It was, after all, with Duty that these victors had to
deal. Dutv came forlli — stern to Cimourdain's eves —
terrible to those of Gauvain. Simple before the one;
complex, diverse, tortuous, before the other.
Midnight sounded ; then one o'eloek.
AVithoiit being conscious of it, Gauvain had gradually
approached the entrance to the breach. The expiring
conflagration only flung out intermittent gleams. The
plateau on the other side of the tower canglit the reflec-
tion and became visible for an instant, then disappeared
from view as the smoke swept over the flames. This glare,
reviving in jets and cut by sudden shadows, threw objects
out of proportion and made the sentinels look like plian-
toms. Lost in his reverie, Gauvain mechanically watched
the strife between the flame and smoke. These appear-
ances and disappearances of tli light before his eyes had
a strange, subtle analogy with the revelation and conceal-
ment of truth in his soul.
Suddenly, between two clouds of smoke, a long streak
of flame shot out from the decreasing furnace, lit up
vividly the summit of the plateau, and brought out the
shadow of a waggon against the vermilion background.
Gauvain stared at this waggon ; it was surrounded by
horsemen Avearing gendarmes' hats. It seemed to him
the waggon which he had looked at through Guechamp's
glass several hours before, when the sun was setting and
the waggon away ofi' on the verge of the horizon. Some
men were mounted on the cart and appeared to be unload-
ing it. That which they took oft' seemed to be heavy, and
now and then gave out the sound of clanking iron. It
would have been difiicult to tell what it was ; it looked like
beams for a framework. Two of the men lifted between
them and set upon the ground a box, which, as well as
he could judge by the shape, contained a triangular object.
The streak of light faded ; all was again buried in dark-
ness. Gauvain stood with fixed eyes lost in thought upon
that which the darkness hid.
350
NINKTY-XnUEE.
'■^r
Lnnterna were lighted; men came and went on tlic
plateau ; but the forms of those inoviuf^ about were con
fused, and, moreover, Gauvuin was below and on tlie
other aide of the ravine, and therefore could see little oi
what was passing. Voices spoke, but he could not catch
the words. Now and then came a soinid like the shock
of timbers striking together. He could hear also a strange
metallic creaking, like the sharpening of a scythe.
Two o'clock struck.
Slowly, and like one who strove to retreat and yet was
forced by some invisible power to advance, Gauvaiu
approached the breach. As be came near, the sentinel
recognised in the shadow the cloak and braided hood of
the commandant, ai t presented arms. Gauvain entered
the hall of the ground-floor, which had been made
into a guard-room. A lantern hung from tlie roof. It
cast just light enough so that one could cross the liall
without treading upon the soldiers who lay, most of them
asleep, upon the straw.
There they lay ; they had been fighting a few hours
before ; the grape-shot, partially swept away, scattered
its grains of iron and lead over the floor and troubled their
repose somewhat, but they were weary, and so slept.
This hall had been the battle-ground — tlie scene of
frenzied attack ; there men had groaned, howled, ground
their teeth, struck out blindly in their death agony, and
expired. Many of these sleepers' companions had fallen
dead upon this floor, where they now lay down in their
weariness ; the straw which served them for a pillow had
drunk the blood of their comrades. Now all was ended ;
the blood had ceased to flow ; the sabres were dried ; the
dead were dead; these sleepers slumbered peacefully.
Such is war. And then, perhaps to-morrow, the slumber
of sleeping and dead will be the same.
At Gauvain's entrance a few of the men rose — among
others, the ofiicer in command, Gauvain pointed to the
door, of the dungeon.
" Open it," he said to the ofiicer.
The bolts were drawn back ; the door opened.
Gauvain entered the dungeon.
The door closed behind him.
THE ANCESTOR.
351
BOOK THE SIXTH.
*
FEUDALISM AND liEVOLUTION.
-•o«-
I. — The Ancestor.
A LAMP set on the flags of tlie crypt at the side of the
air-hole. There could also be seen on the stones a jiip; of
water, a loaf of army bread, and a truss of straw. The
crypt being cut out in the rock, the prisoner who had
conceived the idea of setting fire to the straw, would have
done it to his own hurt ; no risk of conflagration to the
prison, certainly of sufibcation to the prisoner.
At the instant the door turned on its hinges the
marquis was walking to and fro in his dungeon ; that
mechanical pacing back and forth natural to wild animals
in a cage.
At the noise of the opening and shutting of the door
he raised his head, and the lamp, placed on the floor
between Gauvain and the marquis, struck full upon the
faces of both men.
They looked at one another, and something in the
glance of either kept the two motionless.
At length the marquis burst out laughing, and ex-
claimed, " Good evening, sir. It is a long time since I
have had the pleasure of meeting you. You do me the
favour of paying me a visit. I thank you. I ask nothing
better than to talk a little. I was beginning to bore
myself. Your friends lose a great deal of time — proofs
of identity — court-martials — all those ceremonies take a
long while. I could go much quicker at need. Here I
am in my own house. Pray come in. Well, what
do you say of all that is happening ? Original, is it
not? Once on a time there was a king and a queen;
the king was the king ; the queen was — France. They
cut the king's head ofl' and married the queen to Robes-
pierre ; this gentleman and that lady have a daughter
named Guillotine, with whom it appears that I am to
w^
W
352
NINETY-THREE.
mako ncquaintance to-morrow mo.-ni'ng. I nliall bo
deli«]jhto(l — aa 1 am to seo you. Did you como about
that? Have you risen iu rank? Shall you bo tin;
lieadsmaii ? It" it is a simple visit of Iriondsbij), lam
touched. Porha))H, viscount, you no longer know wliat a
nobleman is. VVell, you see one — it is 1. Look at
the specimen. 'Tis a curiosity ; it believes in God, it
believes in tradition, it believes in family, it believes in
its ancestors, it believes in the example of its father,
in fidelity, loyalty, duty towards its prince, respect to
ancient laws, virtue, justice — and it would shoot you
with pleasure. Have the goodness to sit down, I pray
you. Oil the stones, it must be, it is true, for 1 have no
arm-chair in my drawing-room ; but he who livi's in the
mud can ait on the ground. 1 do not say that to ofi'end you,
for, what we call the mud you call tiie nation. I fancy
that you do not insist 1 shall shout Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity ? This is an ancient chamber of my house ;
formerly the lords imprisoned clowns here; now rustics
imprison the lords. These fooleries are called a revo-
lution. It appears that my head is to be cut off in
thirty-six hours. I see nothing inconvenient in that.
Still, if my captors had been j)olite, they would have sent
me my snuff-box ; it is up in tiie chamber of the mirrors,
where you used to play when you were a child — where I
used to dance you on my knees. Sir, let me tell you one
thing ! You call yourself Gauvain, and, strange to say,
you have noble blood in your veins ; yes, by Heaven, the
same that runs in mine ; yet the blood that made me a
man of honour makes you a rascal. Such are personal
idiosyncrasies. You will tell me it is not your fault that
you are a rascal. Nor is it mine that I am a gentleman.
Zounds ! one is a malefactor without knowing it. It
comes from the air one breathes ; in times like these of
ours one is not responsible for what one does ; the Revo-
lution is guilty for the whole world, and all your great
criminals are great innocents. What blockheads ! To
begin with yourself. Permit me to admire you. Yes, I
admire a youth like you, who, a man of quality, well
placed in the State, having noble blood to shed in a noble
THE ANCESTOR.
353
cjxuse, viscount of tins Tower Gauvain, prince of Brit-
tan^-, able to bo duko by riglit and peer of Franco by
heritage, wliich is about all a man of good sense could
desire here below, amuses himself, being what he is, to
be what you are ; playing his part so well that he seems
to his enemies a villain and to his friends an idiot.
By tho way, give niy compliments to the Abbe Ci-
mourdain."
The marquis spoke perfectly at his ease, quietly,
emphasising nothing, in his high-society voice, his eyes
clear and tranquil, his hand in his waistcoat-pocket.
He broke oif, drew a long breath, and resumed :
" I do not conceal from you that I have done what I
could to kill you. Such as you see me, I have myself,
in person, three times aimed a cannon at you. A dis-
ccurteous proceeding — I admit it, but it would be giving
rise to a bad example to suppose that in war your enemy
tries to make himself agreeable to you. For we are in
war, monsieur my nephew. Everything is put to lire
and sword. It is true that they have killed the king into
the bargain. A pretty century ! "
He checked himself again, and again resumed :
" When one thinks that none of these things would
have happened if Voltaire had been hanged and Eousseau
sent to the galleys ! Ah, those men of mind — what
scourges ! But there, what is it you reproach that
monarchy with ? It is true that the Abbe Pucelle was
sent to his abbey of Portigny with as much time as he
pleased for tho journey, and as for your Monsieur Titon,
who had been, begging your pardon, a terrible debauchee,
and had gone the rounds of the loose women before
hunting after the miracles of the Deacon Paris, he was
transferred from the castle of Vincennes to the castle of
Ham in Picardy, which is, I confess, a sufficiently ugly
place. There are wrongs for you ! I recollect — I cried
out also in my day. I was as stupid as you."
The marquis felt in his pocket as if seeking his snuff-
box, then continued :
" But not so wicked. We talked just for talk's sake.
There was also the mutiny of demands and petitions, and
2 A
l:i|i^
|!|..
. ^ ■..« 11
364
NINETY-THREE.
then up came those gentlemen the philosophers, and thei"
writings were burned instead of the authors ; tlie court
cabals mixed themselves up in the matter; there were
all those stupid fellows, Turgot, Quesney, Maleslierbes,
the physiocratists, and so forth, and the quarrel began.
The whole came from the scribblers and the rhyinstors.
The Encyclopedia ! Diderot ! Alembert ! Ali, tlie wicked
scoundrels ! To think of a well-born man like the King
of Prussia joining them. I would have suppressed all
those paper scratchers. Ali, we were justiciaries, our
family ! You may see there on the wall tlie marks of
the quartering-wheel. AVe did lot jest. No, no ; no
scribblers ! While there are Arouets, there will be
Marats. As long as there are fellows who scribble,
there will be scoundrels who assassinate; as long as
there is ink, there will be black stains ; as long as men's
claws hold a goose's feather, frivolous fooleries will
engender atrocious ones. Books cause crim^es. The
word ch. nera has two meanings ; it signifies dream, and
it signifies monster. Hov^ dearly one pays for idle trash!
What is that you sing to us about your rights ? The
Rights of Man ! Eights of the people ! Is that empty
enough, stupid enough, visionary enough, sufficiently void
of sen?e ! When I say : Havoise, the sister of Conan II.,
brought the county of Brittany to Hoel, Count of Nantes
and Cornwall, who left the throne to Alain Fergant, the
uncle of Bertha, w^ho espoused Alain-le-Noir, Lord of
Eoche-sur-Yon, and bore him Conan the Little, grand-
father of Guy or Gauvain de Thenars, our ancestor, I
state a thing that is clear, and there is a right. But
your scoandrels, youi' rascals, your wretches — what do
they call their riglits ? Deicide and regicide. Is it not
hideous ? Oh what clowns ! I am sorry for you, sir, but
you belong to this pi'oud Brittany blood, you and I had
Gauvain de Thouars for our grandfather; we liad for
another grandfather that great Duke of Montbazon who
w^as peer of France and hcno\ired with the Grand Collar,
who attacked the suburb of Tours and was w^ounded at
the battle of Argues, and died master of the hounds of
France, in his house of Couzieres in Touraiue, aged
THE ANCESTOR.
355
incl thc">
he court
ere were
esherbes,
si began,
lymstors.
le wicked
the Kinp;
•essed all
iries, our
marks of
, no ; no
I will be
scribble,
long as
as men's
iries will
les. The
ream, and
[lie trash !
ts? The
lat empty
ently void
onan 11.,
3f Nantes
[•gant, the
Lord of
e, grand-
ncestor, I
ht. But
-what do
Is it not
1, sir, but
md T had
had for
azon who
id Collar,
unded at
lounda of
aie, aged
eighty-six. I could tell you still further of the Duke de
Lauduuois, son of the Lady of Garnache, of Claude de
Lorraine, Duke de Chevreuse, and of Henri de Lenou-
court and of Fran(;oise de Laval-Boisdauphin. But to
what purpose ? Monsieur has the honour of being au
idiot, and tries to make himscU" on a level with my groom.
Learn this; I was an v. .d man while you wer(3 stil) a
brat; I remain as much your superior as I was then
As you grew up, you found moans to degrade yourself.
Since we ceased to see one another, each has gone his
own way — I followed honesty, you went in the opposite
direction. Ah, I. do not know how all that will finish —
those gentlemen, your friends, are full-blown wretches !
Verily, it is Hue I grniit you — a marvellous step gained
in the cause of progress ! To have suppressed in the
army the punishment of the pint of Mater inflicted on
the drunken soldier f < -^ three consecutive days ! To have
the Maximum — the Convention — the Bishop Gobel and
Monsieur Hebert— to have exterminated the Past in one
mass, from the Bastille to the peerage. They replace the
saints by vegetables ! So be it, citizens ; you are
jnasters ; reign ; take your ease ; do what you like ; stop
at nothing. All this does not hinder the fact that reli-
gion is religion, that royalty fills fifteen hundred years of
our history, and that the old French nobility are loftier
than you, even with their heads off. As for your cavilling
over the historic rights of royal races, we shrug our
shoulders at that. Chilperic, in reality, was only a monk
named Daniel ; it was Kjiinfroy who invented Chilperic
in order to annoy Charles Martel ; we know those things
just as well as you do. The question does not lie there.
The question is this : to be a great kingdom, to be the
ancient France, to be a country in perfect order,
wherein were considered iirst the sacred person of
its monarchs, absolute lords of the state ; then the
princes ; then tliQ officers of the crown for the armies
on laud and sea, for the artillery, for the direction and
superintendence of the finances. After that came the
officers of justice, great and small; those for the manage-
ment of taxes and general receipts; and, lastly, the
2 A 2
356
NINETY-THREE.
.11
i
police of the kingdom in its three orders. All this was
fine and nobly regulated ; you have destroyed it. You
have destroyed the provinces, like the lamentably ignorant
creatures you are, without even suspecting what the pro-
vinces really were. The genius of France is made up of
t he genius of the entire continent ; each province of France
represented a virtue of Europe. The freedom of Germany
Avas in Picardy ; the generosity of Sweden in Champagne ;
tlie industry of Holland in Burgundy ; the activity of
Poland in Languedoc ; the gravity of Spain in Gascony ;
the wisdom of Italy in Provence ; the subtlety of Greece
in Normandy ; the fidelity of Switzerland in Dauphiny.
You knew nothing of all that ; you have broken, shattered,
ruined, demolished; you have shown yourselves simply
idiotic brutes. Ah, you will no longer have nobles?
Well, you shall have none. Make up your mourning.
You shall have no more paladins, no more heroes. Say
good night to the ancient grandeurs. Find me a d'Assas
at ^jresent ! You are all of you afraid for your skins.
You will have no more Chevaliers de Fontenoy, who
saluted before opening the battle ; you will liave no
more combatants like those in silk stockings at the siege
of Lerida ; you will have no more plumes floating past
like meteors ; you are a people finished, come to an end ;
you will suffer the outrage of invasion. If Alaric II.
could return, he would no longer find himself confronted
by Clovis ; if Abderame could come back, he would not
longer find himself face to face with Charles Martel ; if
the Saxons, they would no longer find Pepin before
them. You will have no more Agnadel, Ilocroy, Lens,
Staffarde, Nerwinde, Steinkerque, La Marsaille, Kancoux,
Lawfeld, Mahon ; you will have no Marignan with Francis
I. ; you will have no Bouviues v * .li Philip Augustus
taking ^^risoner with one hand Eenaud, Count of Bou-
logne, and, with the other, Ferrand, Count of Flanders.
You will have Agincourt, but you will have no more the
Sieur de Bacqueville, grand bearer of the oriflamme,
enveloping himself in his baiiner to die. Go on — go
on — do
little ! "
your work ! Ee the new men ! Grow
v^^
THE ANOESTOE.
357
The ipi.rquis was silent for an instant, then began
again.
" But leave us great. Kill the kings ; kill the nobles ;
kill the priests. Tear down ; ruin ; massacrf. ; trample
all under foot ; crush ancient laws beneath your heels ;
overthrow tlie throne ; stamp upon the altar of God —
dash it in pieces — dance above it ! On with you to the
end. You are traitors and cowards — incapable of de-
votion or sacrifice. I have spoken. Now have me guillo-
tined, monsieur viscount. I have the honour to be your
very humble servant."
Then he added :
"Ah, I do not hesitate to set the truth plainly before
you. What difference can it make to me ? I am dead."
" You are free," said Gauvain.
He unfastened his commandant's cloak, advanced
toward the marquis, threw it about his shoulders, and
drew the hood close down over his eyes. The two men
were of the same height.
*' "Well, what are you doing ? " the marquis asked.
Gauvain raised his voice, and cried :
" Lieutenant, open to me."
The door opened.
Gauvain exclaimed, " Close the door carefullv behind
me ! "
And he pushed the stupified marquis across the
threshold. The hall, turned into a guard-room, was
lighted, it will be remembered, by a horn-lantern, whose
faint rays only broke the sliadows here and there. Such
of the soldiers as were not asleep 'Ifew dimly a man of
lofty stature, wrapped in the mantle and hood of the
commander-in-chief, pass through their midst and move
towards the entrance. They made a military salute, and
the man passed on.
The marquis slowly traversed the guard-room, then the
breacli — not without hitting his head more than once —
and went out. The sentinel, bebeving that he saw
Gauvain, presented arms. "When he was outside, having
the grass of the fields under his feet, within two hundred
paces of the forest, and before him space, night, liberty,
IPP
353
NINETY-THREE.
life, he paused, and stood motionless for an instant like
a man who has allowed himself to be pushed on, who has
yielded to surprise, and who, liaving taken advanta^^e of
an open door, asks himself if he Jias done well or ill;
hesitates to go farther, and gives audience to a last
reflection. After a few seconds' deep reverie he raised his
riglit hand, snapped his tlumib and middle fiuger, and
said, " My faith ! " And he hurried on.
The door of the dungeon had closed again. Gauvain
was witliin.
0]
' V
II. — The Court-martial.
At that period all courts-martial were very nearly dis-
cretionary. Dumas had sketched out in the Assembly a
rough plan of military legislation, improved later by Talot
in the Council of the Five Hundred, but the definitive code
of war-councils was only drawn np under the Empire.
Let us add in parenthesis that frou the Empire dates
the law imposed on military tribunals to commence
receiving the votes by the lowest grade. Under the
Eevolution this law did not exist.
In 1793 the president of a military tribunal was almost
the tribunal in himself. He chose the members, classed
the order of grades, regulated the manner of voting ; w^as
at once master and judge.
Cimourdaiu had selected for the hall of the court-
martial that very Wfbm on the ground-floor w^here the
retirade had been erected, and where the guard was now
established. He wished to shorten everything ; the road
from tie prison to the tribunal, and the passage froiTi the
tribunal to the scaflbld.
In conformity with his orders the court began its
sitting at midday with no other show of state than this —
three atraw-bottomed chairs, a pine table, tw^o lighted
candles, a stool in front of the table.
The chairs were for the judges, and the stool'for the
accused. At either end of the table also stood a stoOi,
WWI?
THE COURT-MAllTIAL.
359
itant like
who has
intnge of
11 or ill;
a last
•aised his
ger, and
Gauvain
'arly dis-
sembly a
by Talot
tive code
Empire,
ire dates
)inmence
ider the
;S almost
5, classed
lug ; was
e court-
here the
vas now
the road
froiTi the
3gan its
n this —
lighted
*for the
a stooi,
oi.ie for the commissioner-auditor, who was a quarter-
master ; the otiier for the registrar, who was a corporal.
On the table were a stick of red sealing-wax, a brass
seal of the E-epublic, two inkstands, some sheets of white
paper, and two printed placards spread open, the first
containing the declaration of outlawry, the second the
decree of tlie Convention.
The centre chair was backed up by a cluster of tri-
coloured flags ; in that period of rude simplicity de-
corations were quickly arranged, and it iieeded little time
to change a guard-room into a court of justice.
The middle chair, iutended for the president, stood
facing the jjrison door.
The soldiers made up the audience.
Two gendarmes stood on guard by the stool.
.Cimourdain was sented in the centre chair, having, at
his right, Captain Guuehamp, first judge, and, at his left,
Sergeant Hadoub, si'cond ju'dge.
Cimourdain wore a hat with a tri-coloured cockade,
his sabre at his side, and his two pistols in his belt.
His scar, of a vivid red, added to his savage appearance.
Eadoub's wound had been only partially staunched.
He had a handkerchief knotted about his headj upon
which a blood-stain slowly widened.
At midday the court had not yet opened its pro-
ceedings. A messenger, whose horse could be heard
stamping outside, stood near the table of the tribunal.
Cimourdain was writing — writing these lines :
" Citizen members of the Committee of Public Safety —
Lantenac is taken. He w'^1 be exec|||d to-morrow."
He dated and signed the despatch ^"olded, sealed, and
handed it to the messenger, who departed.
This done, Cimourdain called in a loud voice, " Open
the dungeon."
The two gendarmes drew back the bolts, opened the
door of the dungeon, and entered.
Cimourdain lifted his head, folded his arms, fixed his
eyes on the door, and cried, " Bring out the prisoner."
A man appeared between the two gendarmes, standing
beneath the arch of the doorway.
3G0
NINETY-THREE.
It was Gauvain.
Ciraourdain started. " Gauvain ! " be exclaimed.
Then lie added, " I demand the prisoner."
" It is I," said Gauvain.
"Thou?"
u I »
" And Lantenac ? "
" He is free."
" Free ! "
" Yes."
" Escaped ? "
" Escaped."
Cimourdain trembled as be stammered, " Truly, the
castle belongs to him — be knows all its outlets. The
dungeon may communicate witli some secret opening — 1
ought to have remembered that he w'ould lind means to
escape. He would not need any person's aid for that."
" He was aided," said Gauvain. .
♦' To escane ? "
" To escape."
" AV ho aided bim?"
" J "
"Thou?"
" J "
" Thou art dreaming ! "
*' I w^ent into the dungeon ; I was alone with the
prisoner ; I took off my cloak ; I put it about bis
shoulders ; I drew the hood down over bis face ; he
went out in my stead, and I remained in bis. Here
I am." ^^
" Thou didst nofdo it ! "
"I did it."
"It 18 impossible ! "
" It is true."
" Bring me Lantenac ! "
" He is no longer here. Tlie soldiers, seeing the com-
n.; idant's cloak, took him for me, and allowed him to
pass. It was still night."
" Thou art mad ! "
" I tell you what was done."
-^rm:}
THE VOTES.
361
A silence followed. Cimourdaiu stammered, " Then
thou hast merited "
"Death," said Gau vain.
Cimourdain was pale as a corpse. He sat motionless
as a man who had just been struck by lightning. He no
longer seemed to breathe. A great drop of sweat stood
out on his forehead.
He forced his voice into firmness, and said, " Gen-
darmes, seat the accused."
Gauvain placed liimself on the stool.
Cimourdain added : " Gendarmes, draw your sabres."
Cimourdain's voice had got back its ordinary tone.
"Accused;" said he, "you will stand up."
He no longer said " thee " and " thou " to Gauvain.
III. — The Votes.
Gauvain rose.
" What is your name ? " demanded Cimourdain.
The answer came unhesitatingly — " Gauvain."
Cimourdain continued the interrogatory : " AVho are
" I am commander-in-chief of the expeditionary column
oftheC6tes-du-Nord."
" Are you a relative or a connection of the man who
has escaped ? "
" I am his grand-nephew."
" You are acquainted with the decree of the Con-
vention ? " ^ . '
" I see the placard lying on your table."
" "What have you to say in regard to this decree ? "
" That I countersigned it, that I ordered its carrying
out, that it was I who had this placard written, at the
bottom of which is my name."
" Make choice of a pleader."
" I will defend myself."
" You can speak."
Cimourdain had become again impassible. But his
3G2
KINETY-THUEE.
impassibility resembled the sternness of a rock rather
than the ealmness of a man.
Gauvain remained silent for a moment, as if collecting
his thoughts.
Cimourdain spoke again. " What have you to say in
your defence ? "
Gauvain slowly raised his head, but without fixing his
eyes upon either of the judges, and replied :
"This: one thing prevented my seeing another. A
good action seen too near hid from me a hundred criminal
deeds; on one side, an old man; on the otner, three
children — all these put themselves between me and duty.
I forgot the burned villages, the ravaged fields, the
butchered prisoners, the slaughtered wounded, the women
sliot ; I forgot France betrayed to England ; I set at
liberty the murderer of our country. I am guilty. In
speaking thus, I seem to speak against myself; it is a
mistake. 1 speak in my own behalf. When the guilty
acknowledges his fault, he saves the only thing worth the
trouble of being saved — honour."
"Is that," returned Cimourdain, " all you have to say
in your own defence ? "
" I add that, being the chief, I owed an example; and
that you in your turn, being judges, owe one."
" What example do you demand ? "
" My death."
" You find that just ? "
" And necessary."
" E.? seated."
The quartermaster, who was auditor-connnissioner,
rose and read, iirst, the decree of outlawry against the
ci-devant Marquis de Lantenac ; secondly, the decree of
the Convention ordaining capital punishment against
whosoever should aid the escape of a rebel prisoner.
He closed with the lines printed at the bottom of the
placard, forbidding " to give aid or succour to the rebel
named below, under penalty of death ; " signed : " Com-
mander-in-Chief of the Expeditionary Column — Gauvain."
These notices read, the auditor-commissioner sat down
agani.
•m*
THE 70TE8.
363
iissioner.
Cimoiirdain folded his arms, and said, '* Accused, pay
attention. Public, listen, look, and be silent. You li>ive
before you the law. The votes will now be taken. The
sentence will be given according to the inajority. Each
judge will announce his decision aloud, in presence of the
accused, justice having nothing to conceal.'"
Cimourdain continued : " Tiie first judge 111 give his
vote. Speak, Captain Guechamp."
Captain Guechamp seemed to see neither Cimourdain
nor Gauvaiu. His downcast lids concealed his eyes, which
remained fixed upon the placard of the decree as if they
were staring at a gulf. He said :
" The law is immutable. A judge is more and less
than a man ; he is l^ss than a man because he has no
heart ; he is more tiian a man because he holds the sword
of justice. In the 414th year of Eome, Manlius put his
son to death for the crime of having conquered without
his orders. Violated discipline demanded an example.
Here it is the law which has been violated, and the law
is still higher than discipline. Through an emotion
of pity, the country is again endangered. Pity may
amount to crime. Commandant Gauvain has helped the
rebel Lanteuac to escape. Gauvain is guilty. I vote —
Death."
" AVrite^ registrar," said Cimourdain.
The clerk wrote, " Captain Guechamp : death."
Gauvain's voice rang out, clear and firm.
" Guechamp," said he, " you have voted well, and I
thank you."
Cimourdain resumed :
" It is the turn of the second judge. Speak, Sergeant
Radoub."
liaioub rose, turned towards Gauvain, and made the
accused a military salute. Then he exclaimed :
" If that is the way it goes, then guillotine me, for I
give here, befoie God, my most sacred word of honour
that I would like to h *ve done, first, what the old man
did, and, after that, what my commandant did. When
I saw thai old fellov, eighty years of age, jump into the
fire to pull three baitlings out of it, I said, ' Old fellow,
3G4
NINETY-TilREK
\1
F>£
you are a bravo man ! ' And when T lioar that my com-
mandant has Haved that old man from your boast of a
guillotino, athouHand tluindors! I say, 'My commandant,
you ought to bo my general, and you are a true man, and,
as forme, 1 would give you the Cross of St. Louis if there
were still crosses, or samta, or Louises. there ! Are we
going to turn idiots at present ? If it was for these sort
of things that we gained tne battle of Jemappes, the
battle of Valmy, the battle of EJeurua, and the battle
of Wattignies, then you had better say so. AVhat !
Here is Connnandant Gauvain, who, for these four
months past, has been driving tliose asses of royalists
by beat of the drum and saving the llepublic by his
sword, who did a thing at Dol which needed a world of
brains to do ; and when you have a man like that, you try
to ge j rid of him ! Instead of electing him your general,
you want to cut off his head ! I say it is enough to
make a fellow throw himself off the Pont Neuf head
foremost I You yourself. Citizen Grauvain, my com-
mandant, if you were my corporal instead of being my
superior, I would tell you that you talked a heap of
infernal nonsense just now. The old man did a fine
thing in saving the children ; you did a line thing in
saving the old man ; and if we are going to guillotine
people for good actions, why then get away with you all
to the Devil, for I don't know any longer what the ques-
tion is about. There's nothing to hold fast to. It is
not true, is it, all this ? I pinch myself to see if I am
awake ! I can't understand. So the old man ought to
have let the babies burn alive, and my commandant
ought to have the old man's head cut off! See here
— guillotine me. I would us lief have it done as not.
Let us suppose ! If the children had been killed, the
battalion of the Eonnet Rouge would have been dis-
honoured. Is that what was wished for ? Why, then,
let us eat each other up and be done. I understand
politics as well as any of you — I belonged to the Club of
the Section of Pikes. Zounds, we are coming to the
end ! I sum up the matter according to my way of
looking at it. I don't like things to be done which are
TnE VOTES.
305
t my coiii-
beast of a
ninaiidaut,
man, and,
lis iftliero
e! Are we
tlieno !><ort
ip|H.'8, the
the battle
). Wliat !
heso four
f royalists
>lic by his
- world of
at, you try
ir general,
3nougli to
^euf head
my corn-
being my
I heap of
lid a fine
! thing in
guillotine
;h you all
the ques-
to. It is
ee if I am
ought to
nmandant
See here
e as not.
illed, the
been dis-
''hy, then,
aderstand
e Club of
ig to the
y way of
vhich are
so puzzling you don't know any longer where you stand.
What the devil is it we get ourselves killed' for? In
order that somebody may kill our chief! None of that,
Lisette ! I want my chief. I will have my chief. I
love him better to-day than I did yesterday. Send him
to the guillotine ? Why you make me laugh ! Now we
are not going to have anything of that sort. I have
listened. People may say what they please. In the
first place it is not possible ! "
And liadoub sat down again. His wound had re-
opened. A thin stream of blood exuded from under the
kerchief and ran along his neck from the place where hife
ear had been. «
Oimourdain turned towards the sergeant.
" You vote for the acquittal of the accused ? "
" I vote," said liadoub, " that he be made general."
"I ask if you vote for his acquittal."
" I vote for his being made head of the Republic."
"Sergeant Eadoub, do you vote that Commandant
Gauvain be acquitted — yes or no ? "
" I vote that my head be cut off in place of his."
" Acquittal," said Cimourdain. " AVrite it, registrar."
The clerk wrote, " Sergeant Eadoub : acquittal."
Then the clerk said, " One voice for death. One
voice for acquittal. A tie."
It was Cimourdain's turn to vote.
He rose. He took off his hat and laid it on the table.
He was no longer pale or livid. His face was the
colour of clay.
Had all the spectators been corpses lying there in
their winding-sheets, the silence could not have been
more profound.
Cimourdain said in a solemn, slow, firm voice :
*' Accused, the case has been heard. In the name of
the Republic, the court-martial, by a majority of two
voices agj-inst one
He broke off; there was an instant of terrible suspense.
Did he hesitate before pronouncing the sentence of death ?
Did he hesitate before granting life ? Every listener held
his breath.
Tn fB ir rii r i ■ •■j'»'— »«r -..-
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
1.0
I.I
;; ;!lliM
12.0
12.2
.8
1.25
1.4
1.6
■*> 6"
►
.r«
°m"
<^,
^^
A
% ^>
m
/A
Photographic
Sciences
Corporation
23 WEST MAIN STREET
WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580
(716) 872-450?
k^
w.
366
NINETY-THREE.
Cimourdain continued :
" Condemns you to death."
His face expressed the torture of an. awful triumph.
Jacob, when he forced the angel whom he had over-
thrown in the darkness, to bless him, must have worn
that fearful smile.
It was only a gletiin — it passed. Cimourdain was
marble again. He seated himself, put on his hat, and
added, " Gauvain, you will be executed to-morrow at
sunrise."
Gauvain rose, saluiied, and said, " I thank the court."
" Lead away the condemned," said Cimourdain.
He made a sign ; the door of the dimgeon reopei. ed ;
Gauvain entered ; the door closed. The two gendarmes
stood sentinel — one on either side of the arch, sabre
in hand.
Sergeant Eadoub fell senseless to the ground, and was
carried away.
IV. — After Cimourdain the Judge comes Cimourdain
THE Master.
A CAMP is a w^asps' nest. In revolutionary times above
all. The civic sting which is in the soldier moves
quickly, and does not hesitate to prick the chief after
having chased away the enemy. The valiant troop which
had taken La Tourgue was filled with diverse com-
motions ; at first against Commandant Gauvain when it
learned that Lantenac had escaped. As Gauvain issued
from the dungeon which had been believed to hold the
marquis, tlie news spread as if by electricity, and in an
instant the whole army was informed. A murmur burst
forth ; it was — " They are trying Gauvain. But it is a
sham. Trust ci-devants and priests ! We have just seen
a viscount save a marquis, and now we are going to see a
priest absolve a noble ! "
When the news of Gauvain 's condemnation came, there
was a second murmur :
AFTEll ClMOUllDAIN — JUDGE, CIMOUllDAIN — MASTER. 367
!lMOUEDAIN
"It is horrible ! Our chief, our brave chief, our young
comiiiander — a hero ! He may be a viscount — very well ;
so much the more merit in his being a republican.
What, he, the liberator of Pontorson, of Villedieu, of
Pont-au-Beau ! The conqueror of Dol and La Tourgue !
He who makes us invincible. He, the sword of the
Republic in Vendee ! The man who, for five months,
has held the Cliouans at bay aud repaired all tlie blunders
of Lechelle and the others ! This Cimourdain to dare
condemn him to death ! For what ? Because he saved
an old man who had saved three children ! A priest kill
a soldier ! "
Thus muttered the victorious and discontented camp.
A stern rage enveloped Cimourdain. Four thousand
men againsc one — that should seem a power ; it is not.
These four thousand men were a crowd ; Cimourdain
was a AVill. It was known that Cimourdain's frown came
easily, and nothing more was needed to hold the army in
respect. In tiiose stern days it was suiBcieut for a man
to have behind him the shadow of the Committee of
Public Safety to make that man formidable, to make
imprecation die into a whisper and the wdiisper into
silence.
Before as after the murmurs, Cimourdain remained
the arbiter of Gauvain's fate as he did of the fate of all.
They knew there was nothing to ask of him, that he
would only obey his conscience — a superhuman voice
audible to his ear alone. Everything depended upon
him. That which he had done as martial judge, he
could undo as civil delegate. He only could show mercy.
He possessed unlimited power : by a sign he could set
Gauvain at liberty ; he was master of life and death ; he
commanded the guillotine. In this tragic moment he
was the man supreme.
They could only wait. Night came.
t
3G8
NINETY-THREE.
T. — The Dungeon.
The hall of justice had become again a guard-room ; the
guard was doubled as upon the previous evening ; two
sentinels stood on. daty before the closed door of the
prison.
Towards midnight, a man' who held a lantern in his
hand, traversed the hall, made himself known to the
sentries, and ordered the dungeon to be opened. It was
Cimourdain.
He entered, and the door remained ajar behind him.
Tlie dungeon was dark and silent. Cimourdain moved
a step forward in the gloom, put the lantern on the
ground, and stood still. He could hear amid the shadows
the measured breath of a L-leeping man. Cimourdain
listened thoughtfully to thi.s peaceful sound.
Gauvain lay on a bundle of straw at the farther end of
the dungeon. It was his breathing which caught the
new comer's ear. Fc was sleeping profoundly.
Cimourdain advanced as noiselessly as possible, moved
closer, and looked down upon Gauvain ; the glance of a
mother watching her nursling's slumber could not have
been more tender or fuller of love. Even Cimourdain's
will could not control that glance. He pressed his
clenched hands against his eyes with the gesture one
sometimes sees in children, and remained for a moment
motionless. Then he knelt, softly raised Gauvain's hand,
and pressed his lips upon it.
Gauvain stirred. He opened his eyes full of the
wonder of sudden waking. He recognised Cimourdain in
the dim light which the lantern cast around the cave.
" Ah," said he, " it is jou, my master."
And, lie added, " I dreamt that Death was kissing my
hand."
Cimourdain started as one does sometimes under the
sudden rush of a flood of thoughts. Sometimes the tide
is so high and so stormy that it seems as if it would
drown the soul.
Not an echo from the overcharged depths of Cimour-
THE DUNGEON.
369
dain's heart found vent in words. He could only say,
"Gauvain!"
And the two gazed at one another ; Cimourdain with
his eyes full of those flames which burn up tears ; Gauvain
with his sweetest smile.
Gauvain raised himself on his elbow, and said :
" That scar I see on your face is the sabre-cut you
received for me. Testerda}^ too, you were in the thick
of that melee, at my side, and for my sake. If Provi-
dence had not placed you near my cradle, where should
I be to-day ? In outer darkness. If I have my con-
ception of duty, it is from you that it comes to me.
I was born with my hands bound. Prejudices are liga-
tures — you loosened those bonds ; you gave my growth
liberty, and of that which was already only a mummy,
you made anew a child. Into what would have been an
abortion you put a conscience. Without you I should
have grown up a dwarf. I exisi by you. I was only a
lord, you made me a citizen ; T was only a citizen, you
have given me a mind ; you have made me, as a man, fit
for this earthly life ; you have educated my soul for the
celestial exit^tence. Tou have given me human reality,
the key of truth, and, to go beyond that, the key of
light. O my master ! I thank you. It is you who have
created me."
Cimourdain seated himself on the straw beside Gauvain
and said, " I have come to sup with thee."
Gauvain broke tlie black bread and handed it to him.
Cimourdain took a morsel ; then Gauvain oflfered the jug
of water.
" Drink first," said Cimourdain.
Gauvain drank, and passed the jug to his companion,
who drank after him. Gauvain had only swallowed a
mouthful. Cimourdain drank great draughts.
During this supper, Gauvain ate, and Cimourdain
drank ; a sign of the calmness of the one and of the fever
which consumed the other.
A quietness so strange that it was terrible reigned in
this dungeon. The two men were talking.
Gauvain said, " Grand events are developing themselves.
2 B
370
NINETY-THREE.
fMi
What the Re-volution does at this moment is mysterious.
Behind the visible work stands the invisible. One cou-
ceals the other. The visible work is ferocious, the invisible
sublime. In this instant I perceive all very clearly. It
is strange and beautiful. It has been necessary to make
use of the materials of the Past. Hence this marvellous
*93. Beneath a scaffolding of barbarism a temple of
civilisation is building.
" Yes," replied Cimourdain. "From this provisional
will rise the definitive. The definitive — that is to say,
right and duty — are parallel; taxes proportional and
progressive ; military service obligatory ; a levelling
without deviation ; and above the whole, making part of
all, that straight line, the law. The Republic is the
absolute."
" I prefer," said Gauvain, "the ideal republic."
He paused for an instant, then continued : " my
master ! in all which you have just said, where do you
place devotion, sacrifice, self-denial, the sweet inter-
lacing of kindnesses, love ? To set all in equilibrium
is well ; to put all in harmony is better. Above the
scales is the lyre. Tour republic weighs, measures,
regulates man ; mine lifts him into the open sky ; it is
the difference between a theorem and an eagle."
" You lose yourself in the clouds."
" And you in calculation."
" Harmony is full of dreams."
" There are such, too, in algebra."
" I would have man made by the rules of Euclid."
"And I," said Gauvain, "would like him better as
pictured by Homer."
Cimourdain's severe smile remained fixed upon Gauvain,
as if to arrest and steady that soul.
" Poesy ! Mistrust poets."
" Yes, I know that saying. Mistrust the breezes,
mistrust the sunshine, mistrust the perfume of the
spring, mistrust the flowers, mistrust the stars ! "
" None of these things can feed man."
" How do you know ? Thought is nourishment. To
think is to eat."
THE DUNGEON.
371
'£i
" No abstractions ! The Republic is as plain as two
and two make four. When 1 have given to each the
share which belongs to him "
" It still remains to give the share which does not
belont]^ to him."
*' What do you mean by that ? "
" I understand the immense reciprocal concessions
which each owes to all, and which all owe to each, and
which is the whole of social life."
" Beyond the strict Law there is nothing."
*' There is everythin*:."
" I only see Justice."
" And I— I look higher."
" What can there be above Justice ? "
" Equity."
At intervals they paused as if glimmering forms passed
by them.
Cimourdain resumed : " Particularise ; I defy you."
*' So be it. Tou wish military service made obligatory.
Against whom ? Against other men. I — I would have
no military service. I want peace. You wish the wretched
succoured ; I wish an end put to suffering. You want
proportional taxes ; I wish no tax whatever. I wish the
general expense reduced to its most simple expression,
and paid by the social surplus."
" What do you understand by that ? "
" This : first suppose parasitisms — tlie parasitisms of
the priest, the judge, the soldier. After that turn your
riches to account. You fling manure into the sewer ;
cast it into the furrow. Three parts of the soil are
waste land ; clear up France ; suppress useless pasture-
grounds ; divide the communal lands. Let each man
have a farm, and each farm a man. You will increase a
hundredfold the social product. At this moment France
only gives her peasants meat four days in the year ; well
cultivated, she would nourish three hundred millions of
n.en — all Europe. Utilise nature, that wondrous and un-
appreciated ally. Make every wind toil for you, every
waterftill, every magnetic flash. The globe has a subter-
ranean network of veins ; there is in this network a pro-
2 B 2
I>.'^
372
NINETY-THREE.
.■i '
■ f .
digious circulation of water, oil, fire. Pierce those veins ;
make this water feed your fountains, this oil your lamps,
this fire your hearths. Reflect upon the movements of
the waves, their flux and reflux, the ebb aud flow of the
tides. What is the ocean ? An enormous power allowed
to waste. How stupid is earth not to make use of the
iea
» "
" Man a
only one
" There you are in the full tide of dreams."
" That is to say of full reality."
Gauvain added, "And woman? wOiat will you do with
her?"
Cimourdain replied, " Leave her where she is ; the ser-
vant of man."
" Yes. On one condition."
"What?"
" That man shall be the servant of woman."
*' Can you think of it?" cried Cimourdain.
servant? Never! Man is master. I admit
royalty — that of the fireside. Man in his house is king ! "
" Yes. On one condition."
" What ? "
" That woman shall be queen there."
" That is to say, you wish man and woman "
" Equality."
" Equality ! Can you dream of it ? The two creatures
are different."
" I said equality ; I did not say identity."
There was another pause, like a sort of truce between
two spirits exchanging rays of light. Cimourdain broke
the silence : " And the offspring ? To whom do you con-
sign them ? "
" Eirst to the father who begets, then to the mother
who gives birth, then to the master who rears, then to
the city that civilises, then to the country, which
is the mother supreme, then to humanity, which is the
great ancestor."
" You do not speak of Grod ? "
*' Each of those degrees — father, mother, master, city,
country, humanity — is one of the rungs iu the ladder
which leads to God."
THK DUNGEON.
373
ose veins ;
)ur lamps,
ements of
ow of the
ir allowed
use of tlie
u do with
; the ser-
" Man a
only one
is king ! "
creatures
} between
ain broke
you con-
le mother
1, then to
, which
ich is the
3ter, city,
le ladder
Cimourdain was silent.
Gauvain continued : " When one is at the top of the
ladder, one has reached God. Heaven opens — one has
only to enter."
Cimourdain made a pjesture like a man calling anotlicr
back. " Gauvain, return to earth. We wish to realise
the possible."
" Do not commence by rendering it impossible."
*' The possible always realises itself."
'^ Not always. If one treats Utopia harshly, one slays
it. Nothing is more defenceless than the egg."
"Still it is necessary to seize Utopia, to put the
yoke of the real upon it, to frame it in the actual. The
abstract idea must transform itself into the concrete ;
what it loses in beauty, it will gain in usefulness ; it is
lessened, but made better. Eight must enter into law,
and when right makes itself law, it becomes absolute.
That is what I call the possible."
" The possible is more than that."
" Ah ! there you are in dreamland again ! "
"The possible is a mysterious bird, always soaring
above man's head."
" it must be caught."
" Living."
Gauvain continued : " This is my thought : Constant
progression. If God had meant man to go backwards, He
would have placed an eye in the back of his head. Let us
look always towards the dawn, tiie blossoming, the birth ;
that which falls encourages tliat which mounts. The
cracking of the old tree is an appeal to the new tree. Each
century must do its work ; to-day civic, to-morrow human.
To-day, the question of right ; to-morrow, the question
of pay. Pay and right — the same word at bottom.
Man does not live to be paid nothing. In giving life,
God contracts a debt, liight is the inborn payment;
payment is right acquired."
Gauvain spoke with the earnestness of a prophet.
Cimourdain listened. Their roles were changed ; now it
seemed the pupil who was master.
Cimourdain murmured, " You go rapidly."
i
1
874
NINETY-THREE.
'* Perhaps because I am a little pressed for time,"
said Gauvain, smiling. And he added, "O my master!
behold the difference between our two Utopias. You
wish tlie garrison obligatory, I the school. Yoti dream
of man the soldier ; 1 dream of man the citizen. Yoii
want him terrible ; I want him a tliinker. You found
a republic upon swords ; I found "
He interrupted himself, "I "vsv^uld found a republic
upon minds."
Cimourdain bent his eyes on the pavement of the dun-
geon, and said, " And while waiting for it, what would
you have ? "
" That which is."
" Then you absolve the present moment ? "
" Yes."
" Wherefore ? "
" Because it is a tempest. A tempest knows always
what it does. For one oak uprooted, how many forests
made healthy ! Civilisation had the plague, this great
wind cures it. Perhaps it is not so careful as it ought
to be. But could it do otherwise than it does '? It is
charged with a difficult task. Before the horror of
miasma, I understand the fury of the blast."
Gauvain continued :
" Moreover, why should I fear the tempest if I have
my compass ? How can events affect me if I have my
conscience ? "
And he added in a low, solemn voice :
" There is a power that must always be allowed to
guide."
" What ? " demanded Cimourdain.
Gauvain raised his finger above his head. Cimourdain's
eyes followed the direction of that uplifted finger, and it
seemed to him that through the dungeon vault he beheld
the starlit sky.
Both were silent again.
Cimourdain spoke first,
" Society is greater than Nature. I tell you, this is
no longer possibility, it is a dream."
" It is the goal. Otherwise of what use is Society ?
TUE DUNGEON.
375
Eemaiu in Nature. Be savaj^es. Otaheite is a paradise.
Only tlie iiiliabitaiits of that paradise do not think. An
ijitelllgent liell would be preferable to an imbruted heaven.
But no — no hell. Let us be a human society. Greater
than Nature? Yes. If you add nothinpf to Nature, why
go beyond lier? Content yourself with work like the
ant ; with honey like the bee. lleniain the working
drudge instead of the queen intelligence. If you add to
Nature, you necessarily become greater than slie ; to add
is to augment ; to augment is to grow. Society is Nature
sublimated. I want all that is lacking to beehives, all
that is lacking to ant-liills — monuments, arts, poesy,
heroes, genius. To bear eternal burthens is not tlie
destiny of man. No, no, no ; no more pariahs, no more
slaves, no more convicts, no more damned ! I desire
that each of the attributes of man sliould be a symbol of
civilisation and a patron of progress ; I would place
liberty before the spirit, equality before the heart, fra-
ternity before the soul. No more yokes I Man was
made not to drag chains, but to soar on wings. No
more of man reptile. I wish the transfiguration of the
larva into the winged creature ; I wish the worm of the
earth to turn into a living flower and fly away. I
wish "
He broke off. His eyes blazed. His lips moved. He
ceased to speak.
The door had remained open. Sounds from without
penetrated into the dungeon. The distant peal of trum-
pets could be heard, probably the reveille; then the
butt-end of muskets striking the ground as the sentinels
were relieved ; then, quite near the tower as well as one
could judge, a noise like the moving of planks and
beams ; followed by muffled, intermittent echoes like
the strokes of a hammer.
Cimourdain grew pale as he listened. Gauvain heard
nothing. His reverie became more and more profound.
He seemed no longer to breathe, so lost was be in the
vision that shone upon his soul. Now and then he
started slightly. The morning light which lay in the
pupils of his eyes grew brighter.
876
NINETY-THUEK.
Some time passed tims. Then Ciniourdain usked, " Ot
what are you tliiiiking ? "
" Of the Future," replied Gauvain.
He sank back into hia meditation. Cimonrdain rose
from the bed of straw where the two were sitting.
Gauvain did not perceive it. Keeping his eyes fixed
uj)on tlie dreamer, Ciinourdain moved slowly backward
towards the door and went out.
The dungeon closed
agani.
-•o«-
'I
VI. — When the Sun rose.
Day broke along the horizon. And with the day, an
object, strange, motioidess, mysterious, which the birds
of heaven did not recognise, appeared upon the plateau
of La Tourgue and towered above the forest of Foug^res.
It had been placed there in the night. It seemed to
have sprung up rather than to have been built. It lifted
high against the horizon a profile of straight, hard lines,
looking like a Hebrew letter or one of those Egyntian
hieroglyphics which made part of the alphabet of the
ancient riddle.
At the first glance the idea which this object ^'oused
was its lack of keeping with tlie surroundings. It stood
amid the blossoming heath. One asked oneself for what
purpose it could be used? Then the beholder felt a
chill creep over him as he gazed. It was a sort of
trestle having four posts for feet. At one end of the
trestle two tall joists, upriglit and straight, and fastened
together at the top by a cross-beam, raised and held
suspended some triangular .object which showed black
against the blue sky of morning. At the other end of
the staging was a ladder. Between the joists, and
directly beneath the triangle, could be seen a wort of
panel composed of two movable sections which, fitting
into each other, left a round hole about the size of a
man's neck. The upper section of this panel slid in
a groove, so that it could be hoisted or lowered at will.
WHEN THE SUN ROSE.
377
am rose
For tlie time, the two crescents, which formed the circle
wlien clos(3d, were drawn apart. At tlie foot of tlie two
posts supportiiijjf the triangle was a plank turning on
hinges, looking like a see-saw.
By the side of this plank was a long basket, and
between the two beams, in front and at the extremity of'
the trestle, a square basket. The monster was painted
red. The whole was made of wood except the triangle
— that was of iron. One would have known the thing
must have been constructed by man, it was so ugly and
evil-looking ; at the same time it was so formidable that
it might have been reared there by evil genii.
This shapeless thing was the guillotine.
In front of it, a few paces off, another monster rose
out of the ravine — La Tourgue. A monster of stone
rising up to hold companionship with the monster of
wood. For when man has touched wood or stone, they
no longer remain inanimate matter ; something of man's
spirit seems to enter into them. An edifice is a dogma ;
a nuicliine an idea. La Tourgue was that terrible
offspring of the Past, called the Bastille in Paris, the
Tower of London in England, the Spielberg in Germany,
the Escurial in Spain, the Kremlin in Moscow, the Castle
of Saint Angelo in Rome.
In La Tourgue w^ere condensed fifteen hundred years
— the midflie ages — vassalage, servitude, feudality; in
the guillotine, one year — '93, and these twelve months
made a counterpoise to those fifteen centuries.
La Tourgue was Monarchy ; the guillotine was Kevo-
lution. A tragic confronting !
On one side the debtor, on the other the creditor.
On one side the inextricable Gothic complication of
serf, lord, slave, master, plebeian, nobility, the complex
code ramifying into customs ; judge and priest in coali-
tion, shackles innumerable, fiscal impositions, excise laws,
mortmain, taxes, exemptions, prerogatives, prejudices,
fanaticisms, the royal privilege of bankruptcy, the
sceptre, the throne, the regal will, the divine right ; —
the other, a unit — the knife.
On one side the knot ; on the other the axe.
il
Wm
m
378
NINETY-THREE.
La Tourgue had long stood alone in the midst of this
wilderness. There she had frowned with her machieo-
lated casements, whence had streamed boiling oil, blazing
pitch, and melted lead ; her oubliettes paved with human
skeletons ; her torture - chamber ; the whole hideous
'tragedy with which she was filled, ^tearing her fune-
real front above the forest, she had passed fifteen cen-
turies of savage tranquillity amid its shadows ; she had
been the one power in this land, the one object of respect
and fear ; she had reigned supreme ; she had been the
realisation of barbarism, and suddenly she saw rise
before her and against her something (more than a
thing — a being) as terrible as herself — the guillotine.
Inanimate objects sometimes appear to be endowed
with strange eyes. A statue observes, a tower watches,
the fa9ade of a building contemplates. La Tourgue
seemed to be studying the guillotine. It seemed to
be asking itself about it. What was that object ?
It looked as if it had sprung out of the earth. It was
from there, in truth, that it had risen.
The evil tree had budded in the fatal ground. Out
of the soil watered by so much of human sweal;, so
many tears, so much blood — out of the earth in which
had been dug so many trenches, so many graves, so many
caverns, so many ambuscades — out of this earth wherein
had rolled the countless victims of countless tyrannies —
out of this earth spread above 30 many abysses wherein
had been buried so many crimes — terrible seeds — had
sprung on a destined day this unknown, this avenger,
this ferocious sword-bearer, and '93 had said to the old
world : " Behold me ! "
And the guillotine had the right to say to the donjon,
" I am thy daughter."
And, at the same time, the tower — for those fatal
objects possess a low vitality — felt itself slain by this
newly risen force.
Before this formidable apparition La Tourgue seemed
to shudder. One might have said that it was afraid.
The monstrous mass of granite was majestic, but in-
famous ; that plank with its black triangle was worse.
f
c;
i
WHEN THE SUN ROSE.
379
The all-powerful fallen trembled before the all-powerful
risen. Criminal history was studying judicial history.
Tiie violence of bygone days was comparing itself with
the violence of the present ; the ancient fortress, the
ancient prison, the ancient seigniory where tortured
victims had shrieked out their lives ; that construction of
war and murder, now useless, defenceless, violated, dis-
mantled, uncrowned, a heap of stones with no more than
a heap of ashes, hideous yet magnificent, dying, dizzy
with the awful memories of all those bygone centuries,
watched the terrible living Present sw^eep up. Yesterday
trembled before to-day ; antique cruelty acknowledged
and bowed its head before this fresh horror. The power
which was sinking into nothingness opened eyes of fright
upon this new-born terror. Expiring despotism stared
at this spectral avenger.
Nature is pitiless ; she never withdraws her flowers,
her music, her joyousness, and her sunlight from before
human cruelty or suffering. She overwhelms man by the
contrast between divine beauty and social hidcousness.
She spares him notliing of her loveliness, neither butterfly
nor bird. In the midst of murder, vengeance, barbarism,
he must feel himself watched by holy things ; he cannot
escape the awful reproacjh of universal nature and the
implacable serenity of the sky. The deformity of human
laws is forced to exhibit itself naked amid the dazzling
rays of eternal beautj . Man breaks and destroys ; man
lays waste; man kills; but the summer remains summer;
the lily remains the lily ; the star remains a star.
Never had a morniug dawned fresher and more glorious
than this. A soft breeze stirred tlie heath, a warm haze
rose amid the branches ; the forest of Pougeres, per-
meated by the breath of hidden brooks, smoked in the
dawn like a vast censer filled with perfumes ; the blue of
the firmament, the whiteness of the clouds, the trans-
parency of the streams, the verdure, that harmonious
gradation of colour from aquamarine to emerald, the
groups of friendly trees, the mats of grass, the peaceful
fields, all breathed that purity which is Nature's eternal
counsel to man.
380
NINETY-THREE,
"l
In the midst of all this rose the horrible front of
human shamelessness ; in the midst of all this appeared
the fortress and the scaffold, war and punishment ; the
incarnations of the bloody age and the bloody moment ;
the owl of the night of the Past and the bat of the cloud-
darkened dawn of the Future. And the flowering and
scent-giving creation, loving and charming, and the grand
sky golden with morning spread about La Tourgue and
the guillotine, and seemed to say to man, "Look at what
I do, and what you are doing." Such a searching use
does the sun make of his light.
This spectacle had its spectators.
The four thousand men of the little expeditionary
army were drawn up in battle order upon the plateau.
They enclosed the guillotine on three sides in such a
manner as to form about it the shape of a letter E ; the
battery placed in the centre of the longest side made the
notch of the E. The red monster was enclosed by these
three battle fronts ; a sort of wall of soldiers spread out
on two sides to the edge of the plateau ; the fourth side,
left open, was the ravine, which seemed to frown at La
Tourgue.
These arrangements made a long square, in the centre
of which stood tlie scaff'old. Gradually, as the sun
mounted higher, the shadow of the guillotine grew
shorter on the turf.
The gunners were at their guns ; the matches
lighted.
A faint blue smoke rose from the ravine — the last
breath of the expiring conflagration.
This cloud encircled without veiling La Tourgue,
W'hose lofty phitibrm overlooked the whole horizon.
There was onlv the width of the ra^.ane between the
platform and the guillotine. The one could have parleyed
with the other. The table of the tribunal and the chair
shadowed by the tri-coloured flags had been set upon the
platform. The sun rose higher behind La Tourgue,
bringing out the black mass of the fortress clear and
defined, and revealing upon its summit the figure of a
man in the chair beneath the banners, sitting motionless,
WHEN THE SUN ROSE.
381
bis arms crossed upon his breast. It was Cimourdain.
He wore, as on tbe previous day, bis civil delegate's
dress ; on bis bead was tbe bat witb the tri-coloured
cockade ; bis sabre at bis side ; bis pistols in liis belt.
He sat silent. Tbe v.bole crowd was unite. The soldiers
stood witb downcast eyes, musket in band — stood so
close that their shoulders touched, but no one spoke.
They were meditating confusedly upon this war ; tbe
numberless combats, the hedge-fusillades so bravely con-
fronted; the hosts of peasants driven back by their
might ; the citadels taken, the battles won, tbe victories
gained, and it seemed to them as if all that glory bad
turned now to shame. A sombre expectation contracteJl
every heart. They could see the executioner come and
go upon the platform of tlie guillotine. Tbe increasing
splendour of tlie morning filled tbe sky witb its majesty.
Suddenlv the sound of mufiled drums broke the still-
nesa. The funereal tones swept nearer. Tbe ranks
opened — a cortege entered tbe square and moved toward
the scaffold.
First, tbe drummers witb their crape-wreathed drums ;
then a company of grenadiers with lowered muskets ;
then a platoon of gendarmes with drawn sabres ; then
the condemned — Gauvain. He walked forward witb a
free, firm step. He bad no fetters on bands or feet.
He was in an undress uniform and wore his sword.
Behind him marched another platoon of gendarmes.
Gauvain's face was still lighted by that pensive joy
which bad illuminated it at the moment when he said to
Cimourdain, " I am thinking of tbe Future." Nothing
could be more touching and sublime than that smile.
When be reached the fatal square, bis first glance was
directed towards tbe summit of tbe tower. He disdained
tbe guillotine. He knew that Cimourdain would make
it an imperative duty to assist at tbe execution. His
eyes sought tbe platform. He saw him there.
Cimourdain was ghastly and cold. Those standing
near him could not catch even tbe sound of bis breathing.
Not a tremor shook bis frame when he saw Gauvain.
Gauvain moved towards tbe scaffold. As he walked on,
382
NINETY-THREE.
'I ■■
lie looked at Cimourdain and Cimourdain looked at him.
It seemed as if Cimourdain leant for sup^.ort upon that
clear lock.
Gauvain reached tlie foot of the scaffold. He ascended
it. The officer who commanded the grenadiers followed
him. He unfastened his sword and handed it to the
officer; he undid his cravat and gave it to the execu-
tioner.
He looked like a vision. Never had he seemed so hand-
some. His brown curls floated in the wind ; at that time
it was not the custom to cut oft' the hair of those about
to be executed. His white neck reminded one of a
woman ; his heroic and sovereign glance made one think
of an archangel. He stood there on the scaffold lost in
thought. That place of punishment w^as a height too.
Gauvain stood upon it, erect, proud, tranquil. The
sunlight streamed about him till he seemed to stand in
the midst of a halo.
But he must be bound. The executioner advanced,
cord in hand.
At this moment, when the soldiers saw their young
leader so close to the knife, they could restrain themselves
no longer ; the hearts of those stern warriors gave way.
A mighty sound swelled up — the united sob of a whole
army. A clamour rose : ' Mercy ! mercy ! "
Some fell upon their knees ; others flung away their
guns and stretched their arms towards the platform where
Cimourdain was seated. One grenadier pointed to the
guillotine, and cried, " If a substitute will be taken, here
am I ! "
All repeated frantically,, " Mercy ! mercy ! " Had a
troop of lions heard it, they must have been softened or
terrified ; the tears of soidiers are terrible.
The executioner hesitated, no longer knowing what
to do.
Then a voice, quick and low% but so stern that it was
audible to every ear, spoke from the top of the tower —
" Fulfil the law ! "
All recognised that inexorable tone. Cimourdain had
spoken. The army shuddered.
WHEN THE SUN ROSE.
383
'd at him.
upon that
i ascended
s followed
it to the
the execu-
d so hand-
that time
ose about
one of a
one think
'Id lost in
eight too.
uil. The
> stand in
advanced,
eir young
ihemselves
ave way.
^f a whole
way their
)rm where
ed to the
ken, here
Had a
ftened or
ing wliat
at it was
;ower —
The executioner hesitated no longer. He approached,
holding out the cord.
" Wait," said Gauvain.
He turned towards Cimourdain, made a gesture of
farewell with his right hand, which was still free, then
allowed himself to be bound.
When he was tied, he said to the executioner —
" Pardon ; one instant more."
And he cried, " Long live tlie Republic ! "
He was laid upon the plank. That noble head was
held by the infamous yoke. The executioner gently
parted his hair aside, then touched the spring. The
triangle began to move — slowly at first — then rapidly — a
terrible blow was heard
At the same instant another report sounded. A pistol
shot had answered the blow of the axe. Cimourdain had
seized one of the pistols from his belt, and, as Gauvain'a
head rolled into the basket, Cimourdain pierced his own
heart by a bullet. A stream of blood burst from his
mouth ; he fell dead.
And those two souls, Tragic Sisters ! soared away
together, the shadow of the one mingled with the radiance
of the other.
THE END.
dain had