aBUBtttKIIiifHilHIHIHHiiififiUHiillUiill r^iïLT^^o I It i i i 822 01191 4686 111! Ill iiiliiâi i! rUffiljl ii ; ^'!!'j'M;'-ii:; \\i\ :Y-\;i)t' : - r i i' ' ' i !i'': ! ;!'!! ! '^^'; ; vi;i^ b B iilll llliffil LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO 3 1822 01191 4686 ■Le ELS' /2 9in became, to the stupefaction of all the country round one of the small proprietors of the canton. THE TAVE11N OF AUBIN COURTE- JOIE 161 But, alas! his joy was of short duration. His wife died within a year, She had taken the precaution to make a will, leaving him all hei property; but her natural heirs attacked it for some error of form, and the court at Nantes having decided in their favor, Hie poor ex-recruit was no better off than before his luck happened to him. It was in reference to the short duration of his opulence thai the inhabitants of Montaigu, who were not, as will lie imag- ined, without envy at his rise or rejoicing at his fall, bestowed upon him tin; significant addition of Courte-Joie (Short-Joy) to his proper name. Now, the heirs who had managed to set aside the will belonged to the liberal party. Aubin could not, therefore, do less than vent upon that party in general the anger that the loss of his propert} excited in him. lb' did so, and he did it conscientiously. Soured by his infirmities, embit- tered by what seemed to him a horrible injustice, Aubin Courte-Joie felt to all those whom he blamed for- his fortunes — -judges, patriots, and adversaries — a si hatred. Public events had encouraged this hatred, and it was now awaiting a favorable moment to convert itself info deeds which the sullen and vindictive nature of the man would undoubtedly render terrible. With his twofold infirmity it was impossible l'or Aubin to go back to his old life and become a. farmer and tiller of the ground like his lather ami grandfather before him. lie was compelled, therefore, much against his will, to live in a town. Gathering up the fragments of his lost opii li-nce he came to live in the midst of those he hated most, at Montaigu itself, where he kept the tavern in which we find him eighteen years after the events we have just recorded. In 1832 there was not in all La Vendée a more enthusi- astic adherent to royalist opinions than Aubin Courte-Joie. In serving that cause was he not fulfilling a personal geance? Aubin Courte-Joie wa i pite of his two wooden legs, the mi :d intelligent agent in vol. i. — ll 162 THE LAST VENDÉE. the uprising which was now being organized. Standing sentinel in the midst of the enemy's camp, he kept the Vendéan leaders informed of all the government prepara- tions for defence, not only in the canton of Montaigu, but also throughout the adjoining districts. The tramps who roamed the country — those customers of a day, whom other tavern-keepers considered of no profit and paid no heed to — were in his hands marvellous auxiliaries, whom he kept employed in a circuit of thirty miles. He used them as spies, and also as messengers to and from the inhabitants of the country districts. His tavern was the rendezvous of all those who were distinc- tively called Chouans. It was the only one, as we have said, where they were not obliged to repress their royalist sentiments. On the day of the fair at Montaigu Aubin Courte-Joie's drinking- shop did not at first sight seem so full of custom- ers as might have been expected from the great influx of country people. In the first of the two rooms, a dark and gloomy apartment, furnished with an unpolished wooden counter and a few benches and stools, not more than a dozen peasants were assembled. By the cleanliness, we might say the nicety of their clothes, it was plain that these peasants belonged to the upper class of farmers. This first room was separated from the second by a glass partition, behind which was a cotton curtain with Large red and white squares. The second room served as kitchen, dining-room, bedroom, and office, becoming also, on great occasions an annex to the common hall; it was where Aubin Courte-Joie received his special friends. The furniture of this room showed its quintuple service. At the farther end was a very low bed, with a tester and curtains of green serge; this was evidently the couch of the legless proprietor. It was flanked by two huge hogs- heads, from which brandy and cider were drawn on demand of customers. To right, on entering, was the fireplace, with a wide, high chimney-piece like those of cottages. THE TAVERN OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE. 1G3 In the middle of the room was an oak table with wooden benches on each side of it. Opposite to the fireplace stood a dresser with crockery and tin utensils. A crucifix sur- mounted by a branch of consecrated holly, a few wax figurines of a devotional character coarsely colored, consti- tuted the decoration of the apartment. On this occasion Aubin Courte-Joie had admitted to this sanctuary a number of his numerous friends. In the outer room there were, as we have said, not more than a dozen ; but at least a score were in the second. Most of these were sitting round the table drinking and talking with great animation. Three or four were emptying great bags piled up in one corner of the room and containing large, round sea-biscuits ; these they counted and put in baskets, giving the baskets to tramps or women who stood by an outer door in the corner of the room behind the cider cask. This door opened upon a little courtyard, which itself opened into the alley- way leading to the river, which we have already mentioned. Aubin Courte-Joie was seated in a sort of arm-chair under the mantel-shelf of the chimney. Beside him was a man wearing a goatskin garment and a black woollen cap, in whom we may recognize our old friend Jean Oullier, with his dog lying at his feet between his legs. Behind them Courte-Joie's niece, a young and handsome peasant girl, Avhom the tavern-keeper had taken to do the serving of his business, was stirring the fire and watching some dozen brown cups in which was gently simmering in the heat from the hearth what the peasants call "a roast of cider. " Aubin Courte-Joie was talking eagerly in a low voice to Jean Oullier, when a slight whistle, like the frightened cry of a partridge, came from the outer room. "Who came in?" said Courte-Joie, looking through a peephole he had made in the curtain. "The man from La Logerie. Attention!" Even before this order was given to those whom it con- / 164 THE LAST VENDÉE. cerned, all was still and orderly in Courte-Joie's sanctum. The outer door was gently closed; the women and the tramps disappeared; the men who were counting the bis- cuits had closed and turned over their sacks, and were sit- ting on them, and smoking their pipes in an easy attitude. As for the men drinking at the table, three or four had suddenly gone to sleep as if by enchantment. Jean Oullier turned round toward the hearth, thus conceal- ing his face from the first glance of any one entering the apartment. THE MAN FKUM LA LOGERIE. 16i XVIII. THE MAN FROM LA LOGERIE. Courtiôst, — for it was lie whom Courte-Joie designated as the man from La Logerie, — Courtin had entered the outer room. Except for the little cry of warning, so well imi- tated that it was really like the cry of a frightened par- tridge, no one appeared to take any notice of his presence. The men who were drinking continued their talk, although, serious as their manner was when Courtin entered, it now became suddenly very gay and noisy. The farmer looked about him, but evidently did not find in the first room the person he wanted, for he resolutely opened the door of the glass partition and showed his sneaking face on the threshold of the inner room. There again, no one seemed to notice him. Mariette alone, Aubin Courte-Joie's niece, who was waiting on the cus- tomers, withdrew her attention from the cider cups, and looking at Courtin said, as she would have done to any of her uncle's guests : — "What shall I bring you, Monsieur Courtin? " "Coffee," replied Courtin, inspecting the faces that were round the table and in the corners of the room. "Very good; sit down," said Mariette. "I'll bring it to your seat presently." "That 's not worth while," replied Courtin, good- humoredly; "pour it out now. I '11 drink it here in the chimney-corner with the friends." No one seemed to object to this qualification; but neither did any one stir to make room for him. Courtin was therefore obliged to make further advances. 166 THE LAST VENDÉE. "Are you well, gars Aubin?" he asked, addressing the tavern-keeper. "As you see," replied the latter, without turning his head. It was obvious to Courtin that he was not received with much good-will ; but he was not a man to disconcert him- self for a trifle like that. "Here, Mariette," said he, "give me a stool, that I may sit down near your uncle." "There are no stools left, Maître Courtin," replied the girl. " I should think your eyes were good enough to see that." "Well, then, your uncle will give me his," continued Courtin, with audacious familiarity, though at heart he felt little encouraged by the behavior of the landlord and his customers. " If you will have it," grumbled Aubin Courte- Joie, "you must, being as how I am master of the house, and it shall never be said that any man was refused a seat at the Holly Branch when he wanted to sit down." "Then give me your stool, as you say, smooth-tongue, for there 's the very man I 'm after, right next to you." "Who's that?" said Aubin, rising; and instantly a dozen other stools were offered. "Jean Oullier," replied Courtin; "and it's my belief that here he is." Hearing his name, Jean Oullier rose and said, in a tone that was almost menacing : — "What do you want with me?" " Well, well ! you need n't eat me up because I want to see you," replied the mayor of la Logerie. "What I have to say is of more importance to you than it is to me." "Maître Courtin," said Jean Oullier, in a grave tone, " whatever you may choose to pretend, we are not friends ; and what 's more, you know it so well that you have not Gotoe here with any good intentions." "'Well, you are mistaken, gars Oullier." THE MAN FROM LA LOGERIE. 167 "Maître Courtin," continued Jean Chillier, paying no attention to the signs which Aubin Courte-Joie made, exhorting him to prudence, "Maître Courtin, ever since we have known each other you have been a Blue, and you bought bad property." "Bad property!" exclaimed Courtin, with his jeering smile. "Oh ! I know what I mean, and so do you. I mean ill- gotten property. You 've been hand and glove with the curs of the towns; you have persecuted the peasantry and the villagers, — those who have kept their faith in God and the king. What is there in common between you, who have done all that, and me, who have done just the reverse? " "True," replied Courtin, "true, gars Oullier, I have not navigated in your waters; but, for all that, I say that neighbors ought not to wish the death of each other. I have come in search of you to do you a service; I '11 swear to that." "I don't want your services, Maître Courtin," replied Jean Oullier. "Why not? " persisted the farmer. "Because I am certain they hide some treachery." "So you refuse to listen to me? " "I refuse," replied the huntsman, roughly. "You are wrong," said Aubin Courte- Joie, in a low voice ; for he thought the frank, outspoken rudeness of his friend a mistaken manœuvre. "Very good," said Courtin; "then remember this. If harm comes to the inhabitants of the château de Souday, you have nobody to thank but yourself, gars Oullier." There was evidently some special meaning in Courtin's manner of saying the word " inhabitants ; " " inhabitants " of course included guests. Jean Oullier could not mistake this meaning, and in spite of his habitual self-command he turned pale. He regretted he had been so decided, but it was dangerous now to retrace his steps. If Courtin had suspicions, such a retreat would confirm them. He there- 168 THE LAST VENDÉE. fore did his best to master his emotion, and sat down again, turning his back on Courtin with an indifferent air; in fact, his manner was so careless that Courtin, sly dog as he was, was taken in by it. He did not leave the tavern as hastily as might have been expected after delivering his warning threat; on the contrary, he searched his pockets a long time to find enough change to pay for his coffee. Aubin Courte-Joie understood the meaning of this by-play, and profited by Courtin's lingering to put in a word himself. " My good Jean, " he said, addressing Jean Oullier in a hearty way, "we have long been friends, and have fol- lowed the same road for many years, I hope — here are two wooden legs that prove it. Well, I am not afraid to say to you, before Monsieur Courtin, that you are wrong, don't you see, wrong ! So long as a hand is closed none but a fool will say, 'I know what is in it.' It is true that Mon- sieur Courtin " (Aubin Courte-Joie punctiliously gave that title to the mayor of la Logerie) " has never been one of us ; but neither has he been against us. He has been for himself, and that is all the blame we can put upon him. But nowadays, when quarrels are over and there are neither Blues nor Chouans any more, to-day when, thank God, there 's peace in the land, what does the color of his cock- ade signify to you? Faith! if Monsieur Courtin has, as he says, something useful to tell you it seems to me a pity not to hear it." Jean Oullier shrugged his shoulders impatiently. " Old fox ! " thought Courtin, who was far too well informed as to the real state of things to be taken in by the pacific flowers of rhetoric with which Aubin Courte- Joie thought proper to wreathe his remarks. But aloud he said, " All the more because what I have to say has nothing to do with politics." "There! you see," said Courte- Joie, "there is no reason why you should not talk with the mayor. Come, come, sit down here and have a talk with him at your ease." THE MAN FROM LA LOGEKIE. 169 All tins made no difference in Jean Oullier, who was neither mollified toward Courtin, nor did he even turn his head; only, when the mayor sat down beside him he did not get up and walk away, as might have been expected. "Gars Oullier," said Courtin, byway of preamble, "I think talks are all the better for being moistened. 'Wine is the honey of words,' as our vicar says, — not in his ser- mons, but that don't make it less true. If we drink a bottle together perhaps that will sweeten our ideas." "As you please," replied Jean Oullier, who, while feel- ing the strongest repugnance to hob-nob with Courtin, regarded the sacrifice as necessary to the cause he had at heart. "Have you any wine? " said Courtin to Mariette. " What a question ! " she exclaimed. " Have we any wine, indeed! I should think so!" "Good wine, I mean; sealed bottles." "Sealed bottles, yes," said Mariette, proudly; "but they cost forty sous each." "Pooh!" said Aubin, who had seated himself in the other chimney-corner to catch, if he could, some scraps of the promised communication, "the mayor is a man who has got the wherewithal, my girl, and forty sous won't prevent his paying his rent to Madame la Baronne Michel." Courtin regretted his show of liberality; if the days of the old war were really coming back it might be dangerous to pass for rich. "Wherewithal!" he exclaimed; "how you talk, gars Aubin! Yes, certainly, I have enough to pay my rent, but that paid I consider myself a lucky man if I can make both ends meet; that 's my wealth! " "Whether you are rich or poor is none of our business," remarked Jean Oullier. " Come, what have you to say to me? Make haste." Courtin took the bottle which Mariette now brought him, wiped the neck of it carefully with his sleeve, 170 THE LAST VENDEE. poured a few drops into his own glass, filled that of Jean Oullier, then his own, touched glasses, and slowly emptied his. "No one is to be pitied," he said, smacking his lips, "if they can drink such wine as that every day." "Especially if they drink it with a clear conscience," added Jean Oullier. "In my opinion that 's what makes wine taste good." " Jean Oullier, " said Courtin, without noticing the philo- sophical reflection of his companion, "you bear me ill-will, and you are wrong. On my word of honor, you are wrong." "Prove it, and I'll believe you. That's all the confi- dence I have in you." "I don't wish you harm; I wish good for myself, as Aubin Courte-Joie, who is a man of judgment, said just now; but you don't call that a crime, I hope. I mind my own little matters without meddling much in other peo- ple's business, because, as I say to myself, 'My good fel- low, if at Easter or Christmas you have n't got your money ready in your pouch the king, be he Henri V. or Louis Philippe, will send the Treasury after you, and you '11 get a ] taper in his name, which may be an honor, but it will cost you dear.' You reason differently ; that 's your affair. I don't blame you, — at the most I only pity you." "Keep your pity for others, Maître Courtin," replied Jean Oullier, haughtily; "I don't want it any more than I want your confidences." "When I say I pity you, gars Oullier, I mean your master as well as yourself. Monsieur le marquis is a man I respect. He fought through the great war. Well, what did he gain by it? " "Maître Courtin, you said you were not going to talk politics, and you are breaking your word." "Yes, I did say so, that 's true; but it is not my fault if in this devilish country politics are so twisted in with everybody's business that the one can't be separated from THE MAN FEOM LA LOGERIK. 171 the other. As I was saying, gars Oullier, Monsieur le marquis is a man I respect, and I am very sorry, very sorry indeed, to see him ridden over by a lot of common rich folks, — he who used to be the first in the province." "If he is satisfied with his lot why need you care?" replied Jean Oullier. "You never heard him complain; he has never borrowed money of you. " " What would you say to a man who offered to restore to the château de Souday all the wealth and consideration it has lost? Come," continued Courtin, not hindered by the coldness of the Chouan, " do you think that a man who is ready to do that can be your enemy? Don't you think, on the contrary, that Monsieur le marquis would owe him a debt of gratitude? There, now, answer that question squarely and honestly, as I have spoken to you." " Of course he would, if the man you speak of did what you say by honest means; but I doubt it." "Honest means! Would any one dare propose to you any that were not honest? " See here, my gars! I '11 out with it at once, and not take all day and many words to say it. I . can, — yes, I, who speak to you, — I can make the money flow into the château de Souday, as it has n't done of late years ; only — " "Only — yes, that's it; only what? Ha! that ' s where the collar galls." " Only, 1 was going to say, T must get my profit out of it." "If the matter is an honest one, that's only fair; you will certainly get your part." " That 's all I want to know to set the wheel in motion, — and it 's little enough, too." "Yes; but what is it you are after? What is it you ask?" returned Jean Oullier, now very curious to know what was in Courtin's head. "Oh! it is just as simple as nothing. In the first pla.ce, I want it so arranged that I need n't renew my lease or have any rent to pay for twelve years to come on the farm I occupy." 172 THE LAST VENDEE. "In other words, you want a present?" " If Monsieur de iSouday offers it I shall not refuse, you understand. Of course I should n't be such a fool as to stand in my own light." "But how can it be arranged? Your farm belongs to young Michel or his mother. I have not heard that they want to sell it. How can any man give you that which he doesn't possess?" "Oh!" said Courtin, "if I interfere in the matter I speak of perhaps that farm may soon belong to some of you, and then it would be easy enough. What do you say? " " I say I don't understand what you are talking about, Maître Courtin." "Nonsense! Ha, ha! but it isn't a bad match for our young man. Don't you know that besides La Logerie he o^ns the estate of la Coudraie, the mills at La Ferron- nerie, the woods of Gervaise, all of which bring in, one year with another, a pretty sum of money? And I can tell you this, the old baroness has laid by as much more, which he will get at her death." " What has that Michel youth to do with the Marquis de Souday? they have nothing in common," said Jean Oullier. "And why should the property of your master be of any interest to mine? " "Come, come, let's play above-board, gars Oullier. Damn it! you must have seen that our young man is sweet upon one of your young ladies, very sweet, indeed ! Which of them it is, I can't tell you; but let Monsieur le marquis just say the word and sign me a paper about that farm, and the minute the girl, whichever it is, is married, — they are as smart as flies, those two, — she can manage her husband as she likes and get all she wants. He '11 never refuse her a few acres of ground, especially when she wants to give them to a man to whom he '11 be grate- ful, too. In this way I kill two birds with one stone, do your business and my own too. There is but one obsta- THE MAN FROM LA LOGERIE. 173 cle, and that 's the mother. Well," added Courtin, leaning close to Oullier's ear, ''I '11 undertake to get rid of that." Jean Oullier made no answer; but he looked fixedly at his companion. "Yes," continued the latter, "if everybody wishes it, Madame la baronne won't be able to refuse it. I '11 tell you this, Oullier," added Courtin, striking the other familiarly on the knee, "1 know the whole story of Monsieur Michel." " Why should you want our help, then? What hinders you from getting all you want out of her without delay?" "What hinders me is this: I want to add to the word of a youth who, while keeping his sheep, heard a treacher- ous bargain made, — I want to add to his word the testi- mony of the man who was in the woods of La Chabotière some forty years ago, and saw the price of that bloody and treacherous bargain paid. You know best who saw that sight and Who can give that testimony, gars Oullier. If you and I make common cause, the baroness will be as supple as a handful of flax. She is miserly, but she is also proud; the fear of public dishonor and the gossip of the neighborhood will make her docile enough. She '11 see that, after all, Mademoiselle de Souday, poor and illegitimate as she is, is more than a match for the son of Baron Michel, whose grandfather was a peasant like our- selves, and whose father the baron was — ■ you know what. Enough! Your young lady will be rich, our young man will be happy, and I shall be very glad. What objection can be offered to all that? — not to speak of our becoming friends, gars Oullier; and I think my friendship is worth something to you, I must say." "Your friendship? " replied Jean Oullier, who had repressed with great difficulty the indignation he felt at the singular proposal that Courtin had just made to him. "Yes, my friendship," returned the latter. "You need n't shake your head like that. I have told you that I know more than any man about the life of Baron Michel; 174 THE LAST VENDÉE. I will add that I know more than any man but one about his death. I was one of the beaters of the drive at which he was killed, and my post placed me just opposite to him. I was young, and even then I had a habit (which God preserve to me) of not gabbling unless it were my interest to do so. Now, then, do you think my services to your party of no account if my interests take me over to your side? " "Maître Courtin," replied Jean Oullier, frowning, "I have no influence on the plans and determinations of the Marquis de Souday, but if I had any at all, even the small- est, never should that farm of yours come into the family; and if it did come in, never should it serve as the price of treachery." "Fine words, all that! " exclaimed Courtin. " No ; poor as the Demoiselles de Souday may be, never do I want either of them to marry the young man you speak of. Rich as he may be, and even if he bore another name than he does, no Demoiselle de Souday could buy her marriage by a base act." "You call that a base act, do you? I call it a good stroke of business." " It may be so for you; but for those I serve, a marriage with Monsieur Michel, bought through you, would be more than a base act; it would be an infamy." "Take care, Jean Oullier. I want to act a kind part, and I won't let myself quarrel with the label you choose to stick upon my acts. I came here with good intentions; it is for you not to let me leave this place with bad ones." "I care as little for your threats as I do for } r our pro- posals, Courtin; remember that. But if you force me to repeat it I shall say it to the end of time." " Once more, Jean Oullier, listen to me. I will admit to you that I want to be rich. That is my whim, just as it is yours to be faithful as a dog to folks who don't care more for you than you do for your terrier. I thought I could be useful to your master, and I hoped he would not THE MAN FROM LA LOGEME. 175 let my services go without reward. You say it is impossi- ble. Then we '11 say no more about it. But if the nobl< a whom you serve wished to show their gratitude to me in the way I ask I would rather do a service to them than to others; and I desire to tell you so once more." " Because you think that nobles would pay more for it than others. Is n't that it? " "Undoubtedly, gars Oullier. I don't conceal anything from you, and I '11 repeat that, as you say, to the end of time." "I shall not make myself the go-between in any such bargain, Maître Courtin. Besides, I have no power in the matter, and anything I could do for you is so small it isn't worth talking about." "Hey, how do you know that? You didn't know, my gars, that I knew all about what happened in the wood at Chabotière. Perhaps I could astonish you if I told you all I know." Jean Oullier was afraid of appearing afraid. "Come," said he, "enough of this. If you want to sell yourself apply to others. Such bargains are hateful to me, even if I had any means of making them. They don't concern me, God be thanked." "Is that your last word, Jean Oullier?" "My first and my last. Go your ways, Maître Courtin, and leave me to mine." "So much the worse for you,*' said Courtin, rising; "but, on my word, I would gladly have gone your way." So saying, he nodded to Jean Oullier and went out. He had hardly crossed the threshold before Aubin Courte- Joie, stumping along on his wooden legs, came close to Jean Oullier. "You have done a foolish thing," he whispered. "What ought I to have done? " "Taken him to Louis Renaud or to Gaspard; they would have bought him." "Him, — that wicked traitor?" 176 THE LAST VENDÉE. " My good Jean, in 1815, when I was mayor, I went to Nantes, and there I saw a man named , who was, or had been, a minister; and I heard him say two things I have always remembered. One was that traitors make and unmake empires; the other was that treachery is the only thing in this world that is not to be measured by the size of him who makes it." " What do you advise me to do now ? " "Follow and watch him." Jean Oullier reflected a moment. Then he rose. "I think you are right," he said. And he went out anxiously. THE FAIK AT MONTAIUU. 177 XIX. THE FAIR Aï MONTAIGU. The effervescent state of minds in the west of France did not take the government unawares. Political faith had grown too lukewarm to allow a probable uprising, cover- ing so large an extent of territory and involving so many conspirators, to remain long a secret. Some time before Madame 's arrival off the coast of Provence the authorities in Paris knew of the projected scheme, and repressive measures both prompt and vigorous had been arranged. No sooner was it evident that the princess was making her way to the western provinces than it was only a question of carrying out those measures and of putting the execution of them into safe and able hands. The departments whose uprising was expected were divided into as many military districts as there were sub- prefectures. Each of these arrondissements, commanded by a chief of battalion, was the centre of several secondary cantonments commanded by captains, around which sev- eral minor detachments were encamped under command of lieutenants and sub-lieutenants, serving as guards and out- posts into the interior districts as far as the safety of communications would permit. Montaigu, in the arrondissement of Clisson, had its gar- rison, which consisted of a company of the 32d regiment of the line. The day on which the events we have now related occurred this garrison had been reinforced by two brigades of gendarmerie, which had reached Nantes that morning, and about a score of mounted chasseurs. The VOL. I. — 12 178 THE LAST VENDÉE. chasseurs were serving as escort to a general officer from the garrison at Nantes, who was on a tour of inspection of the various detachments. This was General Dermon- court. The inspection of the Montaigu garrison was over. Dermoncourt, a veteran as intelligent as he was energetic, thought it would not be out of place to inspect those whom he called his old Vendéan friends, now swarming into the streets and market-place of the town. He accordingly book off his uniform, put on citizen's clothes, and mingled with the crowds, accompanied by a member of the civil administration who happened to be at Montaigu at that moment. The general bearing of the population though lowering was calm. The crowd opened to allow passage to the two gentlemen, and, although the martial carriage of the gên- er;'], his heavy moustache, black, in spite of his sixty , his scarred face, and the self-sufficient air of his companion, excited the inquisitive curiosity of the multi- tude, no hostile demonstration was made to them. "Well, well," said the general, "my old friends the Vendéans are not much changed. I find them as uncom- municative as I left them thirty -eight years ago." "Tome such indifference seems a favorable sign," said the civil administrator, in a pompous tone. "The two months I have just passed in Paris, where there was a riot every day, gave me an experience in such matters, and I think I may safely assert that these people here show no signs of insurrection. Remark, general, that there are no knots of talkers, no orators in full blast, no animation, no mutterings ; all is perfectly quiet. Come, come ! these people are here for their business only, and have no thought of anything else, I '11 answer for it." "You are quite right, my dear sir; I am wholly of your mind. These worthy people, as you say, are thinking of absolutely nothing but their business ; but that business is to distribute to the best advantage the leaden balls and THE FAIR AT MONTAIGU. 179 the sabre-blades they keep hidden away out of sight, which they intend to bestow upon us as soon as possible." "Do you really think so? " "I don't think so, I am sure of it. If the religious element were not, fortunately for us, absent from this new uprising, a fact which makes me think it may not be gen- eral, I should confidently assure you that there is not one of those fellows you see over there in serge jackets and linen breeches and wooden shoes but lias his post and rank and number in battalions raised by Messieurs the nobles.'" "What! those tramps and beggars too? " "Yes, those tramps and beggars especially. What characterizes this warfare, my good sir, is the fact that we have to do with an enemy who is everywhere and nowhere. You know he is there ; you seek for him, and you find only a peasant like those about us, who bows to you, a beggar who holds out his hand, a pedler who offers his merchandise, a musician who rasps your ears with his hurdy-gurdy, a quack who vaunts his medicine, a little shepherd who smiles at you, a woman suckling her child on the threshold of her cottage, a harmless furze-bush growing beside the road. You pass them all without the slightest feeling of distrust, and yet, peasant, shepherd, beggar, musician, pedler, quack, and woman are the enemy. Even the furze-bush is in league with them. Some, creeping through the gorse, will follow you like your shadow, — indefatigable spies that they are! — and at the first alarming manœuvre on your part, those you are tracking are warned long before you are able to surprise them. Others will have picked up from the hedges and ditches and furrows their rusty guns conce ded among the reeds or the long grass, and if you are worth the trouble, they will follow you, as the others did, from bush to bush and cover to cover, till they find some favorable oppor- tunity for a sure aim. They are saving with their powder. 'The furze-bush will send you a shot, and if by chance it misses you, and you are able to examine the covert, you '11 180 THE LAST VENDÉE. find nothing there but a tangle of branches, thorns, and leaves. That 's what it is to be inoffensive in these regions, my good sir." "Are not you exaggerating, general?" said the civil officer, with a doubting air. "Heavens and earth, Monsieur le sous-préfet! perhaps you '11 come to know it by experience. Here we are in the midst of an apparently pacific crowd. We have, you say. nothing but friends about us, Frenchmen, compatriots; well, just arrest one of those fellows — " " What would happen if 1 arrested him? " " It would happen that some one of the rest, — perhaps that young gars in a white smock, perhaps this beggar who is eating with such an appetite on the sill of that doorway, who may be, for all we know, Diot Jambe-d' Argent, or Bras-de-fer, or any other leader of the band, — will rise and make a sign. At that sign a dozen or more sticks, now peacefully carried about, will be down on our heads, and before my escort could get to our assistance we should be as flat as wheat beneath the sickle. You are not con- vinced? Then suppose you make the attempt." "No, no; I believe you, general," cried the sub-prefect, eagerly. "The devil! all this is no joke. Ever since you have been enlightening me I fancy I see the scowls on their faces; they look like scoundrels." " Not a bit of it ! They are worthy people, very worthy fellows; only, you must know how to take them; and, unluckily, that is not always the case with those who are sent to manage them," said the general, with a sarcastic smile. "Do you want a specimen of their conversation? You are, or you have been, or you ought to have been a lawyer; but I '11 bet you never met in all your experience of the profession fellows as clever at talking without say- ing anything as these Vendéan peasants. Hey, gars ! " con- tinued the general, addressing a peasant between thirty-five and forty years old, who was hovering about them, and examining, apparently with curiosity, a biscuit which he THE FAIR AT MONTAIGU. 181 held in his hand, — " Hey, gars, show me where those good biscuits are sold; they look to me very tempting." "They are not sold, monsieur; they are given away." "Bless me! Well, I want one." "It is curious," said the peasant, "very curious that good white wheat biscuits should be given away, when they might so easily be sold." "Yes, very singular; but what is still more singular is that the first individual I happen to address not only answers my question, but anticipates those I might ask him. Show me that biscuit, my good man." The general examined the article which the peasant handed to him. It was a plain biscuit made of flour and milk, on which, before it was baked, a cross and four parallel bars had been marked with a knife. "The devil! Well! a present that is amusing as well as useful is good to get. There must be a riddle of some kind in those marks. Who gave you that biscuit, my good friend? " "No one; they don't trust me." "Ah! then you are a patriot? " " I am mayor of my district, and I hold by the govern- ment. I saw a woman giving a lot of these biscuit to men from Machecoul, without their asking for them and without their giving her anything in return. So then I offered to buy one, and she dared not refuse. I bought two. I ate one before her, and the other, this one, I slipped into my pocket." " Will you let me have it? I am making a collection of rebuses, and this one seems interesting." "I will give it or sell it, as you please." " Ah, ha ! " exclaimed Dermoncourt, looking at the man with more attention than he had paid to him hitherto, "I think I understand you. You can explain these hieroglyphics? " " Perhaps ; at any rate, I can give you other information that is not to be despised." 182 THE LAST VENDÉE. "And you wish to be paid for it? " "Of course I do," replied the peasant, boldly. " That is how you serve the government which made you mayor? " "The devil! Has the government put a tiled roof on my house? No! Has it changed the mud walls to stone? No ! My house is thatched with straw and built of wood and mud. The Chouans could set fire to it in a minute, and it would burn to ashes. Whoso risks much ought to earn much; for, as you see, I might lose my all in a single night." "You are right. Come, Monsieur le sous-préfet, this belongs to your department. Thank God, I 'm only a soldier, and my supplies are paid for before delivery. Pay this man and hand his information over to me." "And do it quickly," said the farmer, "for we are watched on all sides." The peasants had, in fact, drawn nearer and nearer to the little group. Without, apparently, any other motive than the curiosity which all strangers in a country place naturally excite, they had formed a tolerably compact circle round the three speakers. The general took notice of it. "My dear fellow," he said aloud, addressing the sub- prefect, " I would n't rely on that man's word, if I were you. He offers to sell you two hundred sacks of oats at nineteen francs the sack, but it remains to be seen when he will deliver them. Give him a small sum down and make him sign a promise of delivery." "But I have neither paper nor pencil," said the sub- prefect, understanding the general's meaning. "Go to the hotel, hang it! Come," said the general, looking about him, "are there any others here who have oats to sell? We have horses to feed." One peasant answered in the affirmative, and while the general was discussing the price with him the sub-prefect and the man with the biscuit slipped away, almost un- THE FAIR AT MONTAIGU. 183 noticed. The man, as our readers are of course aware, was no other than Courtin. Let us now try to explain the manœuvres which Courtin had executed since morning. After his interview with Michel, Courtin had reflected long. It seemed to him that a plain and simple denuncia- tion of the visitors at the chateau de Sunday was not the course most profitable to his interests. Jt might very well be that the government would leave its subordinate agents without reward, in which case the act was dangerous and without profit; for, of course, Courtin would draw down upon him the enmity of the royalists, who were the major- ity of the canton. It was then that he thought of the little scheme we heard him propound to Jean Oullier. He hoped by assisting the loves of the young baron to draw a pretty penny to himself, to win the good will of the marquis, whose ambition must be, as he thought, to obtain such a marriage for his daughter, and, finally, to sell at a great price his silence as to the presence of a personage whose safety, if he were not mistaken, was of the utmost conse- quence to the royalist party. We have, seen how Jean Oullier received his advances. It was then that Courtin, considering himself to have failed in what he regarded as an excellent scheme, decided on contenting himself with a lesser, and made the move we have now related toward the government. 184 THE LAST VENDÉE. XX. THE OUTBREAK. Half an hour after the conference of the sub-prefect and Courtin a gendarme was making his way among the groups, looking for the general, whom he found talking very ami- cably with a respectable old beggar in rags. The gen- darme said a word in the general's ear, and the latter at once made his way to the little inn of the Cheval Blanc. The sub-prefect stood in the doorway. "Well?" asked the general, noticing the highly satis- fied look on the face of the public functionary. "Ah, general! great news and good news! " replied the sub-prefect. "Let's hear it." "The man I 've had to deal with is really very clever." "Fine news, indeed! they are all very clever. The greatest fool among them could give points to Monsieur de Talleyrand. What has he told you, this clever man?" " He saw the Comte de Bonneville, disguised as a peas- ant, enter the château de Souday last night, and with the count was another little peasant, whom he thinks was a woman — " " What next? " "Next! why there 's no doubt, general." "Go on, monsieur; I am all impatience," said the gen- eral, in the calmest tone. "I mean to say that in my opinion the woman is no other than the one we have been told to look out for, — ■ namely, the princess." THE OUTBREAK. 185 "There may be no doubt for you; there are a dozen doubts for me." "Why. so, general?" "Because I, too, have had some confidences." "Voluntary or involuntary?" "Who knows, with these people?" " Pooh ! But what did they tell you? " "They told me nothing." "Well, what then?" "Then, after you left me I went on bargaining for oats." "Yes. What next?" " Next, the peasant who spoke to me asked for earnest- money; that was fair. I asked him for a receipt; that was fair, too. He wanted to go to a shop and write it. 'jSTo,' I said. 'Here's a pencil; haven't you a scrap of paper about you? My hat will do fora table.' He tore off the back of a letter and gave me a receipt. There it is. Bead it." The sub-prefect took the paper, and read; — " Received, of M. Jean-Louis Robier, the sum of fifty francs, on account, for thirty sacks of flour, which I engage to deliver to him May 28. F. Terrien. May 14, 1832. " Well," said the sub-prefect, " I don't see any information there." "Turn over the paper." "Ah, ha!" exclaimed the functionary. The paper which he held was one half of a page of letter paper torn through the middle. On the other side from that on which the receipt was written were these words : — > arquis ceived this instant the news her whom we are expecting. Beanfays, evening of 26th send officers of your division presented to Madame. 186 THE LAST VENDÉE. your people in. hand. respectfully, oux. "The devil!" cried the sub-prefect; "that is nothing more nor less than a call to arms. It is easy enough to make out the rest." "Nothing easier," said the general. Then he added, in a low voice, "Too easy, perhaps." " Ah, ça ! did n't you tell me these people were sly and cautious? I call this, on the contrary, a bit of innocent carelessness which is amazing." "Wait," said Derinoncourt; "that 's not all." "Ah, ha!" " After parting with my seller of oats I met a beggar, half an idiot. I talked to him about the good God and the saints and the Virgin, about the buckwheat and the apple year (you observe that the apple-trees are in bloom), and I ended by asking him if he could not act as guide for us to Loroux, where, as you know, I am to make an inspec- tion. 'I can't,' said my idiot, with a mischievous look. ' Why not? ' I asked in the stupidest way I could. 'Because I am ordered to guide a lady and two gentlemen from Puy- Laurens to La Flocelière.' " "The devil! here 's a complication." "On the contrary, enlightenment." "Explain." "Confidences which are given when not extorted, in a region where it is so difficult to get them, seem to me such clumsy traps that an old fox like myself ought to be ashamed to be caught by them. The Duchesse de Berry, if she is really in La Vendée, cannot be at Souday and Beaufays and Puy-Laurens at the same time. What do you think, my dear sub-prefect? " "Confound it all! " replied the public functionary, scratching his head, " I think she may have been, or still may be, in all those places, one after another; but if I were you, instead of chasing her round from place to place, THE OUTBREAK. 187 where she may or may not have been, I should go straight to La Flocelière, where your idiot is to take her to-day." "Then you would make a very poor bloodhound, my dear fellow. The only reliable information we have so far received is that given by the scamp who had the bis- cuit, and whom you examined here — " "But the others?" "I '11 bet my general's epaulets against those of a sub- lieutenant that the others were put in my way by some shrewd fellows who saw and suspected our talk with the man about his biscuit. Let us begin the hunt, my dear sub- prefect, and confine our attention to Souday, if we don't want to make an utter failure of it." "Bravo! " cried the sub-prefect. "I feared I had com- mitted a blunder ; but what you say reassures me." "What have you done? " " Well, I have got the name of this mayor. He is called Courtin, and is mayor of the village of la Logerie." " I know that. It is close by the spot where we came near capturing Charette thirty-seven years ago." "Well, this man has pointed out to me an individual who could serve us as guide, and whom it would be well to arrest so that he may not go back to the château and give the alarm." "Who is the man?" "The marquis's steward. Here is a description of him." The general took the paper and read : — "Short gray hair, low forehead, keen black eyes, bushy eye* brows, wart on his nose, hair in the nostrils, whiskers round the face, round hat, velveteen jacket, waistcoat and breeches the same, leathern belt and gaiters. Special points : a brown, retriever, and the second incisor on the left side broken." "Good!" said the general; "that's my oat-seller to a tee. Terrien ! His name is no more Terrien than mine 's Barabbas." "Well, general, you can soon make sure of that." 188 THE LAST VENDÉE. "How so?" "He '11 be here in a minute." "Here?" "Yes." "Is lie coming here?" "He is coming here." "Of his own will?" "His own will, or by force." "Force?" " Yes ; I have just given the order to arrest him. It is done by this time." " Ten thousand thunders ! " cried the general, letting his fist fall upon the table with such a thud that the public functionary bounded in his chair. "Ten thousand thun- ders! " he cried again; "what have you done? " " He seems to me, general, a dangerous man from all I hear of him, and there was but one thing to do, — namely, arrest him." "Dangerous! dangerous! He is much more dangerous now than he was ten minutes ago." "But if he is in custody he can't do harm." " No matter how quick your men are they won't prevent his giving warning. The princess will be warned before we have gone a couple of miles. It will be lucky for us if you have n't roused the whole population so that 1 cannot take a single man from the garrison." "Perhaps there 's yet time," said the sub-prefect, rushing to the door. "Yes, make haste. Ah! thunder! it 's too late! " A dull roar was heard without, deepening every second until it reached the volume of that dreadful concert of sounds made by a multitude as the prelude to a battle. The general opened the window. He saw, at a short distance from the inn, Jean Oullier, bound and in the grasp of gendarmes who were bringing him along. The crowd surrounded them, howling and threatening. The gendarmes came on slowly and with difficulty. They had THE OUTBREAK. 189 not as yet made use of their arms. There was not a moment to lose. "Well, the wine is drawn; we have got to drink it," said the general, pulling off his civilian clothes, and hastily getting into his regimentals. Then he called to his secretary. " Rusconi, my horse ! my horse ! " he shouted. " As for you, Monsieur le sous-préfet, call out your militia, if you have any; but not a gun is to be fired without my orders." A captain, sent by the secretary, entered the room. "Captain," said the general, "bring your men into the courtyard. Order my chasseurs to mount; two days' rations, and twenty-five cartridges to each man ; and hold yourself ready to follow me at the first signal 1 give you." The old general, recovering all the fire of his youth, went down into the courtyard, where, sending the civilians to the right-about, he ordered the gates into the street to be opened. "What! " cried the sub-prefect, "you are surely not going to present yourself to that furious crowd all alone?" "That's precisely what I am going to do. Damn it! your men must be supported. This is no time for senti- ment. Open that gate." The two sides of the gate were no sooner opened than the general, setting spurs to his horse, was instantly in the middle of the street and the thick of the mêlée. This sudden apparition of an old soldier, with a determined face and martial bearing, in full uniform, and glittering with decorations, together with the bold promptitude of his action, produced an electric effect upon the crowd. The clamoring ceased as if by magic. Cudgels were lowered; the peasants who were nearest to the general actually touched their hats; the crowd made way, and the soldier of Rivoli and the Pyramids rode on some twenty paces in the direction of the gendarmes. 190 THE LAST VENDÉE. "Why, what's the matter with you, my gars?" he cried, in so stentorian a voice that he was heard even to the neighboring streets. "They've arrested Jean Oullier; that's what's the matter with us," replied a voice. "And Jean Oullier is a good man," shouted another. "They ought to arrest bad men, and not good ones," said a third. " And that 's why we are not going to let them take Jean Oullier," cried a fourth. " Silence ! " said the general, in so imperious a tone that every voice was hushed. " If Jean Oullier is a good man, a worthy man, — which I do not doubt, — Jean Oullier will be released. If he is one who is trying to deceive you and take advantage of your good and loyal feelings, Jean Oullier will be punished. Do you think it unjust to punish those who try to plunge the country back into those horrors of civil war of which the old now tell the young with tears? " " Jean Oullier is a peaceable man, and does n't do harm to any one," said a voice. "What are you wanting now?" continued the general, without noticing the interruption. "Your priests are respected; your religion is ours. Have we killed the king, as in 1793? Have we abolished God, as in 1794? Is your property in danger? No; you and your property are safe under the common law. Never were your trades and your commerce so flourishing." " That is true, " said a young peasant. "Don't listen to bad Frenchmen who, to satisfy their selfish passions, do not shrink from calling down upon their country all the horrors of civil Avar. Can't you remember what those horrors were ? Must I remind you of them? Must I bring to mind your old men, your mothers, your wives, your children massacred before your eyes, your harvests trampled under foot, your cottages in flames, death and ruin at every hearth ! " THE OUTBREAK. 191 "It was the Blues who did it all," cried a voice. "No, it was not the Blues," continued the general. "It was those who drove you to that senseless struggle, sense- less then, but wicked now, — a struggle which had at least a pretext then, but has none whatever in these days." While speaking the general pushed his horse in the direction of the gendarmes, who, on their side, made eveiy effort to reach the general. This was all the more possible because his address, soldierly as it was, made an evident impression on some of the peasants. Many lowered their heads and were silent; others made remarks tu their neighbors, which seemed from their manner to imply approval. Nevertheless, the farther the general advanced into the crowd, the less favorable grew the expression of the faces. In fact, the nearest to him were altogether menacing; and the owners of these faces were evidently the promoters and the leaders of the uproar, — probably the chiefs of the various bands and what were called the captains of parishes. For such men as these it was useless to be eloquent; their determination was fixed not to listen and not to let others listen. They did not shout nor cry; they roared and howled. The general understood the situation. He resolved to impress the minds of these men by one of those acts of personal vigor which have such enormous influence on the multitude. Aubin Courte-Joie was in the front rank of the rioters. This may seem strange in view of his crippled condition. But Aubin Courte- Joie had, for the time being, added to his useless wooden legs two good and powerful legs of flesh and blood. In other words, he was mounted on the shoulders of a colossal tramp; and the said tramp, by means of straps attached to the wooden legs of his rider, was able to hold the cripple as firmly in his seat as the general was in his saddle. Thus perched, Aubin Courte- Joie's head was on the 192 THE LAST VENDÉE. level of the general's epaulet, where he kept up a series of frantic vociferations and threatening gestures. The gen- eral stretched out his hand, took the tavern-keeper by the collar of his jacket, and then, by sheer force of wrist, raised hirn,held him a moment suspended above the crowd, and then handed him over to a gendarme, saying: — "Lock up that mountebank; he is enough to give one a headache." The tramp, relieved of his rider, raised his head, and the general recognized the idiot he had talked with an hour earlier ; only , by this time the idiot looked as shrewd and clever as any of them. The general's action had raised a laugh from the crowd, but this hilarity did not last long. Aubin Courte-Joie happened to be held by the gendarme who was placed to the left of Jean Oullier. He gently drew from his pocket an open knife, and plunged it to the hilt in the breast of the gendarme, crying out: — " Vive Henri V. ! Fly, gars Oullier! " At the same instant the tramp, inspired perhaps by a legitimate sentiment of emulation, and wishing to make a worthy rejoinder to the athletic action of the general, glided under his horse, caught the general by the boot,, and with a sudden and vigorous movement, pitched him over on the other side. The general and the gendarme fell at the same instant, and they might have been thought dead; but the general was up immediately and into his saddle with as much strength as adroitness. As he sprang to his seat he gave such a powerful blow with his fist on the bare head of the late idiot that the latter, without uttering a cry, fell to the ground as if his skull were broken. Neither tramp nor gendarme rose again. The tramp had fainted; the gen- darme was dead. Jean Oullier, on his part, though his hands were bound, gave such a vigorous blow with his shoulder to the gen- darme on his right that the latter staggered. Jean Oullier THE OUTBREAK. 193 jumped over the dead body of the gendarme on the left, and darted into the crowd. But the general's eye was everywhere, even behind him. Instantly he turned his horse. The animal bounded into the centre of the living whirlpool, and the old soldier caught Jean Oullier as he had caught Aubin Courte-Joie, and threw him acruss the pommel of his own saddle. Then the stones began to rain, and the cudgels rose. The gendarmes held firm, presenting their bayonets to the crowd, which dared not attack them at close quarters and was forced to content itself by flinging projectiles. They advanced in this way to about sixty feet from the inn. Here the position of the general and his men became critical. The peasants, who seemed determined that Jean Oullier should not be left in the enemy's power, grew more and more aggressive. Already the bayonets were stained with blood, and the fury of the rioters was evi- dently increasing. Fortunately the general was now near enough to the courtyard of the inn for his voice to reach it. " Here ! grenadiers of the 32d ! " he shouted. At the same instant the gates opened, and the soldiers poured forth with fixed bayonets and drove back the crowd. The general and the gendarmes entered the yard. Here the general encountered the sub-prefect, who was awaitiug him. "There's your man," he said, flinging Jean Oullier to him, as if the Chouan were a bale of goods; "and trouble enough he has cost us! God grant he is worth his price." Just then a brisk firing was heard from the farther end of the market-place. "What 's that? " cried the general, listening with all his ears, and his nostrils open. "The National Guard, no doubt," replied the sub-prefect. "I ordered them out, and they must have met the rioters." " Who ordered them to fire? " "I did, general. I was bound to go to your rescue." "Ten thousand thunders! Can't you see that I rescued VOL. I. — 13 194 THE LAST VENDÉE. myself? " said the old soldier. Then, shaking his head, he added, "Monsieur, remember this: to shed blood in civil war is worse than a crime; it is a blunder." An officer galloped into the courtyard. "General," he said, "the rioters are flying in all direc- tions. The chasseurs are here. Shall we pursue them?" "Not a man is to stir," said the general. "Leave the National Guard to manage the affair. They are friends; they '11 settle it." A second discharge of musketry proved that the militia and the peasantry were indeed settling it. This was the firing heard at La Logerie by Baron Michel. "Ah! " said the general, "now we must see what profit we can get out of this melancholy business." Pointing to Jean Oullier, he added, "We have but one chance, and that is that no one but this man is in the secret. Did he have any communication with any one after you arrested him, gendarmes ? " "No, general, not even by signs, for his hands were bound." " Did n't he make any gestures with his head, or say a word to anybody? You know very well that a nod or a single word is enough with these fellows." "No, general, not one." "Well then, we may as well run the chance. Let your men eat their rations, captain; in half an hour we start. The gendarmes and the National Guard are enough to guard the town. I shall take my escort of chasseurs to clear the way." So saying, the general retired into the inn. The soldiers made their preparations for departure. During this time Jean Oullier sat stolidly on a stone in the middle of the courtyard, kept in sight by the two gen- darmes who were guarding him. His face retained its habitual impassibility. With his two bound hands he stroked his dog, which had followed him, and was now resting its head on his knees and licking his hand, as if to THE OUTBREAK. 195 remind the prisoner in his misfortune that a friend was near him. Jean Oullier was gently stroking the faithful creature's head with the feather of a wild duck he might have picked up in the courtyard. Suddenly, profiting by a moment when his two guards were speaking to each other and not observing him, he slipped the feather between the teeth of the animal, made it a sign of intelligence, and rose, saying, in a low voice : — "Go, Pataud!" The dog gently moved away, looking back at his master from time to time. Then, when he reached the gate, he bounded out, unobserved by any one, and disappeared. "Good!" said Jean Oullier to himself. "He'll get there before we do." Unfortunately, the gendarmes were not the only ones who were watching the prisoner. 196 THE LAST VENDÉE. XXI. JEAN OULLIER'S RESOURCES. Even in these days there are few good roads in La Vendée, and those few have been made since 1832, that is, since the period of which we are now writing. This lack of roads was the principal strength of the insurgents in the great war. Let us say a word on those that then existed, concern- ing ourselves only with those on the left bank of the Loire. They were two in number. The first went from Nantes to Rochelle, through Montai gu ; the second from Nantes to Paimboeuf by the Pèlerin, following almost continuously the banks of the river. Besides these two main highways, there were other secondary or cross roads ; these went from Nantes to Beau- préau through Vallet, from Nantes to Mortagne, Chollet, and Bressuire by Clisson, from Nantes to Sables-d'Olonne by Légé, and from Nantes to Challans by Machecoul. To reach Machecoul by either of these roads it was necessary to make a long detour, in fact, as far round as Légé ; thence along the road from Nantes to Sables-d'Olonne, following that until it was crossed by the road to Challans, by which the traveller retraced his way to Machecoul. The general knew too well that the whole success of his expedition depended on the rapidity with which it was con- ducted to be willing to resign himself to so long a march. Besides, none of these roads were favorable for military operations. They were bordered by deep ditches, gorse, bushes of all kinds, and trees ; in many places they were sunken between high banks with hedges at the top. Such roads, under any of these conditions, were favorable for ambuscades; the little advantage they offered in no way JEAN OULLlER's RESOURCES. 197 counterbalanced their risks. The general therefore deter- mined to follow a cross-country road which led to Machecoul by Vieille-Vigne and shortened the way by over four miles. The system of encampments the general had adopted since coming to La Vendée had familiarized his soldiers with the nature of the land and given them a good eye for dangerous places. The captain in command of the infantry knew the way as far as the Boulogne river ; but from that point it was necessary to have a guide. It was plain that Jean Oullier would not be willing to show the way, and an- other man was therefore obtained on whose fidelity they could rely. The general in deciding on the cross-road took every pre- caution against a surprise. Two chasseurs, pistol in hand, went first to reconnoitre the way for the column ; while a dozen men on each side of the road examined the gorse and the bushes which lined it everywhere and sometimes over- topped it. The general marched at the head of his little troop, in the midst of which he had placed Jean Oullier. The old Vendéan, with his wrists bound, was mounted behind a chasseur ; for greater security a girth had been passed around his body and buckled across the breast of the soldier before him ; so that Jeau Oullier if he could even have freed his hands could not escape his bonds to the rider before him. Two other chasseurs rode to the left and right with special orders to watch him carefully. It was about six in the evening when the detachment left Montaigu; they had fifteen miles to do, and, supposing that those fifteen miles took five hours, they ought to be at the château de Souday by eleven. The hour seemed favor- able to the general for his plans. If Courtin's report was correct, if he had not been misled in his conclusions, the leaders of the last Vendéan movement were now assembled at Souday to confer with the princess, and it was likely that they would not have left the château before his arrival. If this were so, nothing could prevent him from capturing them all by one throw of the net. 198 THE LAST VENDÉE. After marching for half an hour, that is, to a distance of about a mile and a half from Montaigu, just as the little column was passing the crossway of Saint-Corentin they came upon an old woman in rags, who was praying on her knees before a wayside crucifix. At the noise the column made she turned her head, and then, as if impelled by curi- osity, she rose and stood beside the road to see it pass. The gold-laced coat of the general seemed to give her the idea of begging, and she muttered the sort of prayer with which beggars ask for alms. Officers and soldiers, preoccupied with other matters, and growing surly as the twilight deepened, passed on without attending to her. " Your general took no notice of that poor woman who asked for bread," said Jean Oullier to the chasseur who was on his right. " Why do you think so ? " said the soldier. " Because he did not give her anything. Let him beware. Whoso repulses the open palm must fear the closed fist, says the proverb. Harm will happen to us." " If you take that prediction to yourself, my good man, you are not mistaken, inasmuch as you are already in peril." " Yes, and that is why I would like to conjure it away." " How can you ? " "Feel in my pocket for me and take out a piece of money." "What for?" " To give to that old woman, and then she '11 share her prayers between me who give the alms and you who enable her to get them." The chasseur shrugged his shoulders ; but superstitions are singularly contagious, and those attached to ideas of charity are more so than others. The soldier, while pre- tending to be above such nonsense, thought he ought not to refuse to do the kindness Jean Oullier asked of him, which might, moreover, bring down the blessing of Heaven on both of them. jean oulliek's kesoukces. 199 The troop was at this moment wheeling to the right into the sunken road which leads to Vieille- Vigne. The general stopped his horse to watch the men file past him, and see with his own eyes that all the arrangements he had ordered were carried out ; it thus happened that he saw Jean Oullier speaking to the chasseur, and he also saw the soldier's action. " What do you mean by letting the prisoner speak to strangers on the road ? " he said sharply. The chasseur related what had happened. " Halt ! " cried the general ; " arrest that woman, and search her." The order was instantly obeyed, but nothing was found on the old beggar-woman but a few pieces of copper money, which the general examined with the utmost care. In vain did he turn and re-turn the coins ; nothing could he find in the least suspicious about them. He put the coins in his pocket, however, giving to the old woman a five-franc piece in exchange. Jean Oullier watched the general's actions with a sarcastic smile. " Well, you see," he said in a low voice but loud enough for the beggar-woman to hear him without losing a single word, "you see the poor alms of a. prisoner" (he emphasized the word) " have brought you luck, old mother ; and that 's another reason still why you should remember me in your prayers. A dozen Ave Marias said for him will greatly help the salvation of a poor devil." Jean Oullier raised his voice as he said the last words. " My good man," said the general to Jean Oullier when the column had resumed its march, " in future you must address yourself to me when you have any charity to do ; I '11 recommend you to the prayers of those you want to succor; my mediation won't do you any harm up above, and it may spare j^ou many an annoyance here below. As for you, men," continued the general, speaking gruffly to his cavalry, " don't forget my orders in future ; for the harm will fall upon yourselves, and I tell you so ! " 200 THE LAST VENDÉE. At Vieille- Vigne they halted fifteen minutes to rest the infantry. The Chouan was placed in the centre of the square, so as to isolate him completely from the population which flocked inquisitively about the troop. The horse on which Jean Oullier was mounted had cast a shoe, and was, moreover, tired with its double burden. The general picked out the strongest animal in the squadron to take its place. This horse belonged to one of the troopers in the front rank, who, in spite of the greater exposure to danger where he was, seemed very reluctant to change places with his comrade. The man was short, stocky, vigorous, with a gentle but intelligent face ; and was quite devoid of the cavalier man- ner which characterized his comrades. During the prepara- tions for this change, which was made by the light of a lantern (by that time the night was very dark) Jean Oullier caught sight of the face of the man behind whom he was to continue his way ; his eyes met those of the soldier, and he noticed that the latter lowered his. Again the column started, taking every precaution; for the farther they advanced, the thicker grew the bushes and the coverts beside the road ; consequently the easier it be- came to attack them. The prospect of danger to be met and weariness to be endured, on roads which were little bet- ter in many places than beds of water-courses strewn with rocks and stones, did not lessen the gayety of the soldiers, who now began, after recovering from their first surliness at nightfall, to find amusement in the idea of danger, and to talk among themselves with that liveliness which seldom deserts a French soldier for any length of time. The chas- seur behind whom Jean Oullier was mounted alone took no part in the talk, but was thoughtful and gloomy. " Confound you, Thomas," said the trooper on the right, addressing him, "you never have much to say for yourself, but to-day, I will declare, one would think you were burying the devil." "At any rate," said the one to the left, "he has got him JEAN OULLIER'S RESOURCES. 201 on his back. You ought to like that, Thomas, for you are half a Chouan yourself." " He 's a whole Chouan, I 'm thinking ; does n't he go to mass every Sunday ? " The chasseur named Thomas had no time to answer these twittings, for the general's voice now ordered the men to break ranks and advance single file, the way having become so narrow and the bank on each side so steep that it was impossible for two horsemen to ride abreast. During the momentary confusion caused by this manoeuvre Jean Oullier began to whistle in a low key the Breton air "The Chouans are men of heart." At the first note the rider quivered. Then, as the other troopers were now before and behind them, Jean Oullier, safe from observation, put his mouth close to the ear of the one behind whom he was mounted. " Ha ! you may be as silent as you like, Thomas Tinguy," he whispered; " I knew 3 r ou at once, and you knew me." The soldier sighed and made a motion with his shoulders which seem to mean that he was acting against his will. But he made no answer. " Thomas Tinguy," said Jean Oullier, " do you know where you are going ? Do you know where you are taking your father's old friend ? To the pillage and destruction of the château de Souday, whose masters have been for years and years the benefactors of your family." Thomas Tinguy sighed again. " Your father is dead," continued Jean Oullier. Thomas made no reply, but he shuddered in his saddle ; a single word escaped his lips and reached the ears of Jean Oullier : — " Dead ! " " Yes, dead," replied the Chouan ; " and who watched be- side his dying bed with your sister Rosine and received his last sigh ? The two young ladies from Souday whom you know well, Mademoiselle Bertha and Mademoiselle Mary ; and that at the risk of their lives, for your father died of a 202 THE LAST VENDÉE. malignant fever. Not being able to save his life, angels that they are they stayed beside him to ease his death. Where is your sister now, having no home ? At the château de Souday. Ah ! Thomas Tinguy, I 'd rather be poor Jean Oullier, whom they '11 shoot against a wall, than he who takes him bound to execution." " Hush ! Jean, hush ! " said Thomas Tinguy, with a sob in his voice ; " we are not there yet — wait and see." While this little colloquy was passing between Jean Oullier and the son of the older Tinguy, the ravine through which the little column was moving began to slope down- ward rapidly. They were nearing one of the fords of the Boulogne river. It was a dark night without a star in the sky ; and such a night, while it might favor the ultimate success of the expedition, might also, on the other hand, hinder its march and even imperil it in this wild and unknown country. When they reached the ford they found the two chasseurs who had been sent in advance, awaiting them, pistol in hand. They were evidently uneasy. The ford, instead of being a clear, shallow stream rippling over pebbles, was a dark and stagnant body of water, washing softly against a rocky bank. They looked on all sides for the guide whom Courtin had agreed should meet them at this point. The general gave a loud call. A voice answered on the opposite shore, — " Qui vive ? " " Souday ! " replied the general. "Then you are the ones I am waiting for," said the guide. " Is this the ford of the Boulogne ? " asked the general. " Yes." " Why is the water so high ? " " There 's a flood since the last rains." " Is the crossing possible in spite of it ? " " Damn it ! I don't know. I have never seen the river as high as this. I think it would be more prudent — " JEAN OULLIER'S RESOURCES. 203 The guide's voice suddenly stopped, or rather seemed to turn into a moan. Then the sound of a struggle was plainly heard, as if the feet of several men were tussling on the pebbles. " A thousand thunders ! " cried the general, " our guide is being murdered ! " A cry of agony replied to the general's exclamation and confirmed it. " A grenadier up behind every trooper ! " cried the gen- eral. " The captain behind me ! The two lieutenants stay here with the rest of the troop, the prisoner, and his three guards. Come on, and quickly too ! " In a moment the seventeen chasseurs had each a grena- dier behind him. Eighty grenadiers, the two lieutenants, the prisoner and his three guards, including Tinguy, re- mained on the right bank of the river. The order was executed with the rapidity of thought, and the general, fol- lowed by his chasseurs and the seventeen grenadiers behind them, plunged into the bed of the river. Twenty feet from the shore the horses lost foothold, but they swam for a few moments and reached, without accident, the opposite bank. They had hardly landed when the grenadiers dismounted. " Can you see anything ? " said the general, trying him- self to pierce the darkness that surrounded the little troop. " No, general," said the men with one voice. " Yet it was certainly from here," said the general, as if speaking to himself, "that the man answered me. Look behind the bushes, but without scattering ; you may find his body." The soldiers obeyed, searching round a radius of some hundred and fifty feet. But they returned in about fifteen minutes and reported that they could see nothing, and had found no traces of the body. " You saw absolutely nothing ? " asked the general. One grenadier alone came forward, holding in his hand a cotton cap. 204 THE LAST VENDÉE. " I found this," he said. "Where?" " Hooked to a bush." " That 's our guide's cap," said the general. " How do you know ? " asked the captain. " Because the men who attacked him would have worn hats," replied the general, without the slightest hesitation. The captain was silent, not daring to ask further ; but it was evident that the general's explanation had explained nothing to his mind. Dernioncourt understood the captain's silence. " It is very simple," he said ; " the men who have just murdered our guide have followed us ever since we left Montaigu for the purpose of rescuing the prisoner. The arrest must be a more important matter than I thought it was. These men who have followed us were at the fair, and wore hats, as they always do when they go to the towns ; whereas our guide was called from his bed suddenly by the man who sent him to us, and he would of course put on the cap he was in the habit of wearing ; it may even have been on his head as he slept." " Do you really think, general," said the captain, " that those Chouans would dare to come so near our line of march ? " " They have come step by step with us from Montaigu ; they have not let us out of their sight one single instant. Heavens and earth ! people complain of our inhumanity in this war, and yet at every step we are made to feel, to our cost, that we have not been inhuman enough. Fool and simpleton that I have been ! " "I understand you less and less, general," said the cap- tain, laughing. "Do you remember that beggar-woman who spoke to us just after we left Montaigu?" "Yes, general." " Well, it was that old hag who put up this attack. I wanted to send her back into the town ; I did wrong not to JEAN OULLIER'S RESOURCES. 205 follow my own instinct ; I should have saved the life of this poor devil. Ah ! I see now how it was done. The Ave Marias for which the prisoner asked have been answered here." " Do you think they will dare to attack us ? " " If they were in force it would have been done before now. But there are only six or eight of them at the most." "Shall I bring over the men on the other bank, general ? " "No, wait; the horses lost foothold and the infantry would drown. There must be some better ford near by." " You think so, general ? " " Damn it ! I 'in sure." " Then you know the river ? " " Never saw it before." " Then why — ? " " Ah ! captain, it is easy to see that you did n't go through the great war, as I did, — that war of savages, in which we had to go by inductiou. These Vendéan fellows were not posted here on this side of the river in ambuscade at the moment when we came up on the other : that is clear." " For you, general." "Hey ! bless my soul, — clear to anybody ! If they had been posted there, they would have heard the guide and killed him or captured him before we came; consequently the band were on our flank as we came along." " That is probably so, general." " And they must have reached the bank of the river just before us. Now the interval between the time we arrived and halted and the moment our guide was attacked was too short to allow of their making a long detour to another ford — no, they must have forded close by." " Why could n't they have crossed here ? " "Because a peasant, especially in these interior regions, hardly ever knows how to swim. The ford is close at hand, that is certain. Send four men up the river and four men 206 THE LAST VENDÉE. down. Quick! We don't want to die here, especially in wet clothes." At the end of ten minutes the officer returned. " You are right, general," he said ; " three hundred yards from here there 's a small island ; the trunk of a tree joins it with the other bank, and another trunk with this side." " Good ! " said the general ; " then they can get across without wetting a cartridge." Calling to the officer on the opposite bank, — " Ohé ! lieutenant," he said, " go up the river till you come to a tree^ cross there, and be sure you watch the prisoner." fetch! pataud, fetch! 207 XXII. FETCH ! PATAUD, FETCH ! For the next five minutes the two troops advanced slowly up the river, one on each bank. When they reached the place discovered by the captain the general called a halt. " One lieutenant and forty men across ! " he cried. Forty men and one lieutenant came over with the water up to their shoulders, though they were able to lift their guns and their cartridge-boxes above the surface. On land- ing, they ranged in line of battle. "Now," said the general, " bring over the prisoner." Thomas Tinguy entered the water with a chasseur on each side of him. "Thomas," said Jean Oullier, in a low but penetrating voice, "If I were in your place I should be afraid of one thing ; I should expect to see the ghost of my father rising before me and asking why I shed the blood of his best friend rather than just unbuckle a miserable girth." The chasseur passed his hand over his forehead, which was bathed in sweat, and made the sign of the cross. At this moment the three riders were in the middle of the river, but the current had slightly separated them. Suddenly, a loud sound accompanied by the splashing of water proved that Jean Oullier had not in vain evoked before the poor superstitious Breton soldier the revered image of his father. The general knew at once what the sound meant. "The prisoner is escaping ! " he cried in a voice of thun- der. " Light torches, spread yourselves along the bank, fire upon him if he shows himself. As for you," he added 208 THE LAST VENDÉE. addressing Thomas Tinguy, who came ashore close to him without attempting to escape, — " as for you, you go no farther." Taking a pistol from his belt he fired. " Thus die all traitors ! " he cried. And Thomas Tingny, shot through the breast, fell dead. The soldiers, obeying orders with a rapidity which showed they felt the gravity of their situation, rushed along the river in the direction of the current. A dozen torches lighted on each bank threw their ruddy glare upon the water. Jean Oullier, released from his chief bond when Thomas Tinguy unbuckled the girth, slid from the horse and plunged into the river, passing between the legs of the horse on the right. We may now inquire how it is possible for a man to swim with his hands bound in front of him. Jean Oullier had relied so confidently on his appeal to the son of his old friend that as soon as the darkness fell he began to gnaw the rope that bound his wrists with his teeth. He had good teeth, so that by the time they reached the river the rope held only by a single strand ; once in the water a vigorous jerk parted it altogether. At the end of a few seconds the Chouan was forced to come to the surface and breathe ; instantly a dozen shots were fired at him, and as many balls set the water foaming about him. By a miracle none touched him ; but he felt the wind of their passage across his face. It was not prudent to tempt such luck a second time, for then it would be tempting God, not luck. He plunged again, and finding foothold turned to go up the river instead of keeping down with the current ; in short, he made what is called in the hunting-field a double ; it often succeeds with a hare, why not with a man ? thought he. Jean Oullier therefore doubled, went up the river under water, holding his breath till his chest came near to burst- ing, and not reappearing on the surface till he was beyond the line of light thrown by the torches on the river. FETCH ! PATAUD, FETCH ! 20'.") This manœuvre deceived his enemies. Little supposing that he would voluntarily add another danger to his flight, the soldiers continued to look for him down instead of up the river, holding their guns like hunters watching for game, and ready to tire the instant that he showed himself. Their interest in the sport was all the greater because the game was a man. Half a dozen grenadiers alone beat up the river, and they carried but one torch among them. Stifling as best he could the heavy sound of his breathing, Jean Oullier managed to reach a willow the branches of which stretched over the river, their tips even touching the water. The swimmer seized a branch, put it between his teeth, and held himself thus with his head thrown back so that his mouth and nostrils were out of water and able to breathe the air. He had hardly recovered his breath before he heard a plaintive howl from the spot where the column had halted and where he himself had dropped into the river. He knew the sound. "Pataud!" he murmured; "Pataud here, when I sent trim to Souday ! Something has happened to him ! Oh, my God ! my God ! " he cried with inexpressible fervor •ind deep faith, " now, now it is all-important to save me from being recaptured." The soldiers had seen Jean Oullier's dog in the court- yard and they recognized him. " There 's his dog ! there 's his dog ! " they cried. " Bravo ! " cried a sergeant ; " he '11 help us to catch his master." And he tried to lay a hand on him. But although the poor animal seemed stiff aud tired, he eluded the man's grasp, and sniffing the air in the direction of the current he jumped into the river. " This way, comrades, this way ! " cried the sergeant, stretching his arm in the direction taken by the dog " He 's after his master." VOL. I. — 14 210 THE LAST VENDÉE. The moment Jean Oullier heard Pataud's cry he put his head out of water, regardless of the consequences to himself. He saw the dog cutting diagonally across the river, swim- ming directly for him ; he knew he was lost if he did not make some mighty effort. To sacrifice his dog was to Jean Oullier a supreme effort. If his own life alone had been in the balance Jean Oullier would have taken his risks and been lost or saved with Pataud ; at any rate he would have hesitated before he saved himself at the cost of the dog's life. He quickly took off the goatskin cape he wore over his jacket and let it float on the surface of the water, giving it a strong push into the middle of the current. Pataud was then not twenty feet from him. " Seek ! fetch ! " he said in a low voice showing the direction to the dog, Then, as the poor animal, feeling no doubt that his strength Avas leaving him, hesitated to obey, " Fetch, Pataud, fetch ! " cried Jean Oullier, imperatively. Pataud turned and swam in the direction of the goatskin, which was now about fifty feet away from him. Jean Oullier, seeing that his trick had succeeded, dived again at the moment when the soldiers on the bank were alongside the willow. One of them carrying the torch scrambled quickly up the tree and lit the whole bed of the river. The goatskin was plainly seen floating rapidly down the current, and Pataud was swimming after it, moaning and whining as if distressed that his failing strength prevented him from accomplishing his master's order. The soldiers, following the dog's lead, redescended the river, going farther and farther away from Jean Oullier. As soon as one of them caught sight of the goatskin he shouted to his comrades : — " Here, friends ! here he is ! here he is, the brigand ! " and he fired at the goatskin. Grenadiers and chasseurs ran pell-mell along both banks, getting farther and farther from Jean Oullier, and riddling the goatskin, after which Pataud was still swimming, with fetch! pataud, fetch! 211 their balls. For some minutes the firing was so continuous that there was no need of torches; the flashes of burning sulphur from the muskets lit up the wild ravine through which the Boulogne flows, while the rocks, echoing back the volleys, redoubled the noise. The general was the first to discover the blunder of his men. " Stop the firing ! " he said to the captain who was still beside him ; " those fools have dropped the prey for the shadow." Just then a brilliant light shone from the crest of the rocky ridge overhanging the river ; a sharp hiss sounded above the heads of the two officers, and a ball buried itself in the trunk of a tree beyond them. " Ah ha ! " exclaimed the general, coolly ; " that rascal only asked for a dozen Ave Marias, but his friends are inclined to be liberal ! " Three or four more shots were now fired, and the balls ricochetted along the shore. One man cried out. Then, in a voice that overpowered the tumult, the general shouted : " Bugles, sound the recall ! and you, there, put out the torches ! " Then in a low voice to the captain, — " Bring the other forty over at once ; we shall need every man here in a minute." The soldiers, startled by this night attack, clustered round their general. Five or six flashes, at rather long distances apart, shone from the crest of the ravine, and lit up momentarily the dark dome of the sky. A grenadier fell dead ; the horse of a chasseur reared and fell over on his rider with a ball through his chest. " Forward ! a thousand thunders ! forward ! " cried the general, "and let's see if those night-hawks will dare to wait for us." Putting himself at the head of his men he began to climb the slope of the ravine with such vigor that, in spite of the darkness which made the ascension difficult, and in spite of 212 THE LAST VENDÉE. tin: balls which met them and brought down two more of his men, the little troop soon scaled the height. The enemy's lire stopped instantly, and though a few shak- ing furze-bushes still showed the recent presence of Chouans, it might be thought that the earth had opened and swallowed them up. " Sad war ! sad war ! " muttered the general. " And now, of course, our whole expedition is a failure. No mat- ter ! better attempt it. Besides, Souday is on the road to Machecoul, and we can't rest our men short of Machecoul." " But we want a guide, general," said the captain. "Guide! Don't you see that light, a thousand feet off, over there? " "Alight?" " Damn it, yes ! — a light." "No, I don't, general." "Well, I see it. That light means a hut; a hut means a peasant ; and whether that peasant be man, woman, or child, he or she shall be made to guide us through the forest." Then , in a tone which augured ill for the inhabitant of the hut, the general gave orders to resume the march, after carefully extending his line of scouts and guards as far as he dared expose the individual safety of his men. The general, followed by his little column, had hardly passed out of sight beyond the ridge before a man came out of the water, stopped an instant behind a willow to listen attentively, and then glided from bush to bush along the shore, with the evident intention of following the path the troop had taken. As he grasped a tuft of heather to begin the ascent he heard a feeble moan at a little distance. Jean Oullier — for of course it was he — turned instantly in the direction of the moans. The nearer he approached them, the more distressing they became. The man stooped down with his hands stretched out and felt them licked with a warm, soft tongue. FETCH ! PATAUD, FETCH ! 213 "Pataud! my poor Pataud! " murmured the Vendéan. It was, indeed, poor Pataud, who had spent the last of his strength in dragging ashore the goatskin his master had sent him for, on which he had now lain down to die. Jean Oullier took the garment from under him, and called him by name. Pataud gave one long moan, but did not move. Jean Oullier lifted him in his arms to carry him; but the dog no longer stirred. The Vendéan felt the hand with which he held him wet with a warm and viscous fluid. He raised it to his face and smelt the fetid odor of blood. He tried to open the jaws of the poor creature, but they were clenched. Pataud had died in saving his master, whom chance had brought back to him for a last caress. Had the dog been wounded by a ball aimed by the sol- diers at the goatskin, or was he already wounded when he jumped into the water to follow Jean Oullier? The Vendéan leaned to the last opinion. Pataud's halt beside the river, the feebleness with which he swam, — all induced Jean Oullier to think that the poor animal had been previously wounded. "Well," he said sadly, "to-morrow I '11 clear it up, and sorrow to him who killed you, my poor dog! " So saying, he laid Pataud's body beneath a shrubby bush, and springing up the hillside was lost to sight among the gorse. 214 THE LAST VENDÉE. XXIII. TO WHOM THE COTTAGE BELONGED. The cottage, where the general had seen the light his cap- tain could not see, was occupied by two families. The heads of these families were brothers. The elder was named Joseph, the younger Pascal Picaut. The father of these Picauts had taken part, in 1792, in the first uprising of the Retz district, and followed the fortunes of the san- guinary Souchu, as the pilot-fish follows the shark, as the jackal follows the lion ; and he had taken part in the horri- ble massacres which signalized the outbreak of the insur- rection on the left bank of the Loire. When Charette did justice on that Carrier of the white cockade Souchn, Picaut, whose sanguinary appetites were developed, sulked at the new leader, who, to his mind, made the serious mistake of not desiring blood except upon the battlefield. He therefore left the division under Charette, and joined that commanded by the terrible Jolly, an old surgeon of Machecoul. He, at least, was on a level with Picaut's enthusiasm. But Jolly, recognizing the need of unity, and instinctively foreseeing the military genius of the leader of the Lower Vendée, placed himself under Charette's banner; and Picaut, who had not been consulted, dispensed with consulting his commander, and once more abandoned his comrades. Tired out with these perpetual changes, profoundly convinced that time would never lessen the savage hatred he felt for the murderers of Souchu, he sought a general who was not likely to be seduced by the splendor of Charette's exploits, and found TO WHOM THE COTTAGE BELONGED. 215 him in Stofflet, whose antagonism against the hero of the Retz region was already revealed in numberless instances. On the 25th of February, 1796, Stofflet was made pris- oner at the farm of Poitevinière, with two aides-de-camp and two chasseurs who accompanied him. The Vendéan leader and his aides were shot, and the peasants were sent back to their cottages. Picaut was one of them. It was then two years since he had seen his home. Arriving there, he found two fine young men, vigorous and well-grown, who threw themselves upon his neck and embraced him. They were his sons. The eldest was seventeen years old, the youngest sixteen. Picaut accepted their caresses with a good grace and looked them well over. He examined their structure, their athletic frames, and felt their muscles with evident satisfaction. He had left two children behind him; he found two soldiers. Only, like himself, these soldiers were unarmed. The Republic had, in fact, taken from Picaut the carbine and sabre he had obtained through English gold. But Picaut resolved that the Republic should be generous enough to return them and to arm his two sons in com- pensation for the harm she had done him. It is true that he did not intend to consult the Republic on this point. The next day he ordered his sons to take their cudgels of wild apple-wood and set out with him for Torfou. At Torfou there was a demi-brigade of infantry. When Picaut, who marched by night and scorned all regular roads, saw, as he crossed the fields, an agglomeration of lights before him, which revealed the town and showed him he had almost reached the end of his journey, he ordered his sons to continue to follow him, but to imitate all his movements and to stop short, motionless, the instant they heard the cry made by a blackbird when suddenly awakened. There is no hunter but knows that the black- bird, suddenly roused, utters three or four rapid notes which are quite peculiar and unmistakable. Then, instead of walking forward as before, Picaut began 216 THE LAST VENDÉE. to crawl around the outskirts of the town, in the shadow of the hedges, listening every twenty steps or so, with the utmost attention. At last he heard a step, — the slow, measured, monoto- nous step of one man. Picaut went flat on his stomach, and continued to crawl toward the sound on his knees and elbows. His sons imitated him. When he came to the end of the field he was in, Picaut made an opening in the hedge and looked through it. Being satisfied with what he saw he enlarged the hole, and, without much regard to the thorns he encountered, he slipped like an adder through the branches. When he reached the other side he gave the cry of the blackbird. His sons stopped at the given signal ; but they stood up, and looking over the top of the hedge they watched their father's proceedings. The field into which Picaut had now passed was one of tall and very thick grass, which was swaying in the wind. At the farther end of this field, about fifty yards off, was the high-road. On this road a sentry was pacing up and down, about three hundred feet from a building which was used as barracks, before the door of which another sentry was placed. The two young men took all this in with a single glance, and then their eyes returned to their father, who continued to crawl through the grass in the direction of the sentinel. When Picaut was not more than six feet from the road he stopped behind a bush. The sentinel was pacing up and down, and each time that he turned his back toward the town, as he paced along, his clothes or his musket touched the bush behind which Picaut was crouching. The lads trembled for their father every time that this happened. Suddenly, and at a moment when the wind seemed to rise, a stifled cry came to them on the breeze. Then, with that acuteness of vision which men accustomed to use their faculties at night soon acquire, they saw on the white line of road a struggling black mass. It was Picaut and the TO WHOM THE COTTAGE BELONGED. 217 sentinel. After stabbing the sentinel with a knife, Picaut was strangling him. A moment later the Vendéan was on his way back to his sons; and presently, like the she-wolf after slaughter dividing her booty among her cubs,, he bestowed the mus- ket, sabre, and cartridges on the youths. With this first equipment for service it was very much easier to obtain a second. But weapons were not all that Picaut wanted; his object was to obtain the occasion to use them. He looked about him. In Messieurs d'Autichamp, de Scepeaux, de Puisaye, and de Bourmont, who still kept the field, he found only what he called rose-water royalists, who did not make war in a way to suit him, none of them resembling Souchu, the type of all that Picaut wanted in a leader. It resulted that Picaut, rather than be, as he thought, ill-commanded, resolved to make himself an independent leader and command others. He recruited a few malcon- tents like himself, and became the leader of a band which, though numerically small, never wearied in giving proofs of its hatred to the Republic. Picaut's tactics were of the simplest. He lived in the forests. During the .day he and his men rested. At night he left the sheltering woods, and ambushed his little troop behind the hedges. If a government convoy or a diligence came along, he attacked and robbed it. When convoys were rare and diligences too strongly escorted, Picaut found his compensation with the pickets whom he shot, and the farmhouses and buildings of the patriots, which he burned. After one or two expeditions his followers gave him the name of "Sans-Quartier." and Picaut, who resolved, conscientious^, to deserve that title, never failed, after its bestowal, to hang, shoot, or disembowel all republicans — male and female, citizens or soldiers, old men and children — who fell into his hands. He continued his operations till 1800. At that period, Europe, leaving the First Consul some respite (or the First 218 THE LAST VENDÉE. Consul leaving Europe a respite), Bonaparte, who had no doubt heard of the fame of Picaut Sans-Quartier's exploits, resolved to consecrate his leisure to that warrior, and sent against him, not a corps d'armée, but two Chouans, recruited in the rue de Jérusalem, and two brigades of gendarmerie. Picaut, not distrustful, admitted his two false com- patriots into his band. A few days later he fell into a snare. He was caught, together with most of his men, and he paid with his head for the bloody renown he had acquired. It was as a highwayman and a robber of dili- gences, and not as a soldier, that he was condemned to the guillotine instead of being sbot. He went boldly to the scaffold, asking no more quarter for himself than he had given to others. Joseph, his eldest son, was sent to the galleys with those of the band who were captured. Pascal, the younger, escaped the trap laid for his father, and took to the forests, where he continued to " Chouanize " with the remnants of the band. But this savage life soon became intolerable to him, and one fine day he went to Beaupréau, gave his sabre and musket to the first soldier he met, and asked to be taken to the commandant of the town, to whom he related his history. This commandant, a major of dragoons, took an interest in the poor devil, and, in consideration of his youth and the singular confidence with which he had come to him, he offered young Picaut to enlist him in his regiment. In case of refusal, he should, he said, be obliged to hand him over to the legal authorities. Before such an alternative Pascal Picaut (who had now heard of the fate of his father and brother, and had no desire to return to his own neigh- borhood) did not hesitate. He donned the Republican uniform. Fourteen years later the two sons of Sans-Quartier met again and returned to their former home, to claim posses- sion of their father's little property. The return of the TO WHOM THE COTTAGE BELONGED. 219 Bourbons had opened the gates of the galleys for Joseph and released Pascal, who, from being a brigand of La Vendée, was then a brigand of the Loire. Joseph, issuing from the galleys, returned to the family cottage more violent in feeling than ever his father had been. He burned to avenge in the blood of patriots the death of his father, and his own tortures. Pascal, on the contrary, returned home with ideas quite changed from his earlier ones, changed by the different world he had seen, and changed, above all, by contact with men to whom hatred of the Bourbons was a duty, the fall of Napoleon a sorrow, the entrance of the Allies a dis- grace, — feelings which were kept alive in his heart by the cross that he wore on his breast. Nevertheless, in spite of these differences of opinion, which led, of course, to frequent discussion, and in spite of the chronic misunderstanding between them, the two brothers did not separate, but continued to live on in the house their father had left them, and to cultivate on shares the fields belonging to it. Both were married, — Joseph, to the daughter of a poor peasant; Pascal, to whom his cross and his little pension gave a certain consideration in the neighborhood, to the daughter of a bourgeois of Saint- Philbert, a patriot like himself. The presence of two wives in one house, each of whom — one from envy, the other from rancor — exaggerated the sentiments of their husbands, added not a little to the household discord. Nevertheless, the two brothers and their families continued to live together till 1830. The revolution of July, which Pascal approved, roused all the fanatical wrath of Joseph. Pascal's father-in-law became mayor of Saint-Philbert, and then the Chouan and his wife launched forth into such invectives and insults against "those clumsy villains " that Madame Pascal told her hus- band she would not live any longer with galley-slaves, for she did not feel her life was safe among them. The old soldier had no children, and he was singularly 220 THE LAST VENDÉE. attached to those of his brother. In particular there was a little fair-haired boy, with cheeks as round and as rosy as a pigeon-apple, whom he felt he could not part with, his chief pleasure in life being to dandle the fellow on his knee for hours together. Pascal felt his heart wrung at the very thought of losing his adopted son. In spite of the wrongs done him by his elder brother, he was strongly attached to him. He knew he was impoverished by the costs of his large fainilj* ; he feared that the separation might cast him into utter poverty, and he therefore refused his wile's request. But he so far regarded it that the two families ceased to take their meals together. The house had three rooms, and Pascal retired into one, leaving two for his brother's family and walling up the door of communication. The evening of the day on which Jean Oullier was made prisoner, the wife of Pascal Picaut was very uneasy. Her husband had left home at four in the afternoon, — about the time when General Dermoncourt and his detachment started from Montaigu. Pascal had to go, he said, and settle some accounts with Courtin at la Logerie ; and now, although it was nearly eight o'clock, he had not returned. The poor woman's uneasiness became agony when she heard the shots in the direction of the river. From time to time she left her wheel, on which she was spinning beside the fire, and went to listen at the door. After the firing ceased she heard nothing except the wind in the tree- tops and the plaintive whine of a dog in the distance. Little Louis, the child whom Pascal loved so much, came to ask if his uncle had returned; but hardly had he put his rosy little face into the room before his mother, calling him harshly back, obliged him to disappear. For several days Joseph Picaut had shown himself more surly, more threatening than ever; and that very morning, before starting for the fair at Montaigu, he had had a scene with his brother, which if Pascal's patience had not held good, might have ended in a scuffle. The latter's wife TO WHOM THE COTTAGE BELONGED. 221 dared not say a word to her sister-in-law about her uneasiness. Suddenly she heard voices muttering in mysterious, low tones in the orchard before the cottage. She rose so hastily that she knocked over her spinning-wheel. At the same instant the door opened, and Joseph Picaut appeared on the threshold. 222 THE LAST VENDÉE. XXIV. HOW MARIANNE PICAUT MOURNED HER HUSBAND. The presence of her brother-in-law, whom Marianne Picaut did not expect at that time, and a vague presenti- ment of misfortune which came over her at the sight of him, produced such a painful impression on the poor woman that she fell back into her chair, half dead with terror. Joseph advanced slowly, without uttering a word to his brother's wife, who stared at him as though she saw a ghost. When he reached the fireplace Joseph Picaut, still silent, took a chair, sat down, and began to stir the embers on the hearth with a stick which he carried in his hand. In the circle of light thrown by the fire Marianne could see that he was very pale. "In the name of the good God, Joseph," she said, "tell me what is the matter? " "Who were those villains who came here to-night, Marianne? " asked the Chouan, answering one question by asking another. "No one came here," she replied, shaking her head to give force to her denial. Then she added, " Joseph, have you seen your brother? " "Who persuaded him away from home? " continued the Chouan, still questioning, and making no reply. "No one, I tell you. He left home about four o'clock to go to La Logerie and pay the mayor for that buckwheat he bought for you last week." "The mayor of La Logerie?" said Joseph Picaut, frown- ing. "Yes, yes! Maître Courtin. A bold villain, he! HOW MARIANNE PICAUT MOURNED HER HUSBAND. 223 Many 's the time I 've told Pascal, — and this very morn- ing I repeated it, — 'Don't tempt the God you deny, or some harm will happen to you. ' " " Joseph ! Joseph ! " cried Marianne ; " how dare you mingle the name of God with words of hatred against your brother who loves you so, you and yours, that he 'd take the bread out of his own mouth to give it to your children ! If an evil fate brings civil war into the land that 's no rea- son why you should bring it into our home. Good God ! Keep your own opinions and let Pascal keep his. His are inoffensive, but yours are not. His gun stays hooked over the fireplace, he meddles with no intrigues, and threatens no party; whereas, for the last six months there has not been a day you have n't gone out armed to the teeth, and sworn evil to the townspeople, of whom my father is one, and even to my family itself." "Better go out with a musket and face the villains than betray those among whom you live, like a coward, and guide another army of Blues into the midst of us, that they may pillage the château of those who have kept the faith." "Who has guided the Blues? " "Pascal." "When? where?" "To-night; at the ford of Pont-Parcy." " Good God ! It was from there the shots came ! " cried Marianne. Suddenly the eyes of the poor woman became fixed and haggard. They lighted on Joseph's hands. "You have blood on your hands!" she cried. "Whose blood is it? Joseph, tell me that! Whose blood is it? " The Chouan's first movement was to hide his hands, but he thought better of it, and brazened the matter out. "That blood," he answered, his face, which had been pale, becoming purple, is the blood of a traitor to his God, his country, and his king. It is the blood of a man who forgot that the Blues had sent his father to the scaffold 224 THE LAST VENDÉE. and his brother to the galleys, — a man who did not shrink from taking service with the Blues." " You have killed my husband ! you have murdered your brother ! " cried Marianne, facing Joseph with savage violence. "No, I did not." "You lie." "I swear I did not." " Then if you swear you did not, swear also that you will help me to avenge him." "Help you to avenge him ! I, Joseph Picaut? Never ! " said the Chouau, in a determined voice. "For though I did not kill him, I approved of those who did; and if I had been in their place, though he were my brother, I swear by our Lord that I would have done as they did. " "Kepeat that," said Marianne; "for I hope I did not hear you right." The Chouan repeated his speech, word for word. "Then I curse you, as I curse them ! " cried Marianne, raising her hand with a terrible gesture above her brother- in-law's head. " That vengeance which you refuse to take. in which I now include you, — you, your brother's mur- derer in heart, if not in deed, — God and I will accomplish together; and if God fails me, then I alone ! And now," she added, with an energy which completely subdued the Chouan, " where is he? What have they done with his body? Speak ! You intend to return me his body, don't you? " "When I got to the place, after hearing the guns," said Joseph, "he was still alive. I took him in my arms to bring him here, but he died on the way." " And then you threw him into the ditch like a dog, you Cain ! Oh ! I would n't believe that story when I read it in the Bible ! " " No, I did not, " said Joseph ; " I have laid him in the orchard." " My God ! my God ! " cried the poor woman, whose whole body was shaken with a convulsive movement. " Perhaps you are mistaken, Joseph; perhaps he still HOW MARIANNE PICAUT MOURNED HEK HUSBAN 225 breathes, and we may save him. Come, Joseph, come ! If we find him living I '11 forgive you for being friends with your brother's murderers." She unhooked the lamp, and sprang toward the door. But instead of following her, Joseph Picaut, who for the last few moments had been listening to a noise without, hearing that the sounds — evidently those of a body of marching men — were approaching the cottage, darted from the door, ran round the buildings, jumped the hedge between them and the fields, and took the direction of the forest of Machecoul, the black masses of which loomed up in the distance. Poor Marianne, left alone, ran hither and thither in the orchard. Bewildered and almost maddened, she swung her lamp about her, forgetting to look in the circle of light it threw, and fancying that her eyes must pierce the dark- ness to find her husband. Suddenly, passing a spot she had passed already once or twice, she stumbled and nearly fell. Her hand, stretched out to save herself from the ground, came in contact with a human body. She gave a great cry and threw herself on the corpse, clasping it tightly. Then, lifting it in her arms, as she might, under other circumstances, have lifted a child, she carried her husband's body into the cottage and laid it on the bed. In spite of the jarring relations of the two families, Joseph's wife came into Pascal's room. Seeing the body of her brother-in-law, she fell upon her knees beside the bed and sobbed. Marianne took the light her sister-in-law brought with her — for hers was left in the orchard — and turned it full upon her husband's face. His mouth and eyes were open, as though he still lived. His wife put her hand eagerly upon his heart, but it did not beat. Then, turning to her sister-in-law, who was weeping and praying beside lier, the widow of Pascal Picaut, with blood-shot eyes flaming like firebrands, cried out : — VOL. I. — 15 226 THE LAST VENDÉE. " Behold what the Chouans have done to my husband, — what Joseph has done to his brother ! Well, here upon this body, I swear to have no peace nor rest until those murderers have paid the price of blood." "You shall not wait long, poor woman, or I '11 lose my name," said a man's voice behind her. Both women turned round and saw an officer wrapped in a cloak, who had entered without their hearing him. Bayonets were glittering in the darkness outside the door, and they now heard the snorting of horses who snuffed the blood. " Who are you? " asked Marianne. "An old soldier, like your husband, — one who has seen battlefields enough to have the right to tell you not to lament the death of one who dies for his country, but to avenge him." "I do not lament, monsieur," replied the widow, raising her head, and shaking back her fallen hair. " What brings you to this cottage at the same time as death? " " Your husband was to serve as guide to an expedition that is important for the peace and safety of your unhappy country. This expedition may prevent the flow of blood and the destruction of many lives for a lost cause. Can you give me another guide to replace him? " " Shall you meet the Chouans on your expedition? " asked Marianne. " Probably we shall, " replied the officer. "Then I will guide you," said the widow, unhooking her husband's gun, which was hanging above the mantel. "Where do you wish to go? I will take you. You can pay me in cartridges." "We wish to go to the château de Souday." "Very good; I can guide you. I know the way." Casting a last look at her husband's body, the widow of Pascal Picaut left the house, followed by the general. The wife of Joseph Picaut remained on her knees, praying, beside the corpse of her brother-in-law. LOVE LENDS OPINIONS. 227 XXV. IN WHICH LOVE LENDS POLITICAL OPINIONS TO THOSE WHO HAVE NONE. We left the young Baron Michel on the verge of coming to a great resolution. Only, just as he was about to act upon it, he heard steps outside his room. Instantly he throw himself on his bed and closed his eyes, keepiug his ears open. The steps passed; then a few moments later they repassed his door, but without pausing. They were not those of his mother, nor were they in quest of him. He opened his eyes, sat up on the bed, and began to think. His reflec- tions were serious. Either he must break away from his mother, whose slightest word was law to him, renounce all the ambitions ideas she centred on him, — ideas which had hitherto been most attractive to his vacillating mind, — he must bid farewell to the honors the dynasty of July was pledged to bestow on the millionnaire youth, and plunge into a struggle which would undoubtedly be a bloody one, leading to con- fiscation, exile, and death, while his own good sense and judgment told him it was futile; or else he must resign himself and give up Mary. Let us say at once that Michel, although he reflected, did not hesitate. Obstinacy is the first outcome of weak- ness, which is capable of being obstinate even to ferocity. Besides, too many other good reasons spurred the young baron to allow him to succumb. In the first place, duty and honor both recpiired him to warn the Comte de Bonneville of the dangers that might 228 THE LAST VENDÉE. threaten hiui and the person who was with him. Michel already reproached himself for his delay in doing so. Accordingly, after a few moments' careful reflection, Michel decided on his course. In spite of his mother's watchfulness, he had read novels enough to know that if occasion came, a simple pair of sheets could make an all- sufficient ladder. Naturally enough, this was the first thought that came into his mind. Unfortunately, the windows of his bedroom were directly over those of the kitchen, where he would infallibly be seen when he flut- tered down through mid-air, although, as we have said, darkness was just beginning. Moreover, the height was really so great from his windows to the ground that in spite of his resolution to concpier, at the cost of a thousand dangers, the heart of her whom he loved, he felt cold chills running down his back at the mere idea of being suspended by such a fragile hold above an abyss. In front of his windows was a tall Canadian poplar, the branches of which were about six feet from his balcony. To climb down that poplar, inexperienced though he was in all athletic exercises, seemed to him easy enough, but how to reach its branches was a problem; for the young man dared not trust to the elasticity of his limbs and take a spring. Necessity made him ingenious. He had in his room a quantity of fishing-tackle, which he had lately been using against the carp and roach in the lake of Grand-Lieu, — an innocent pleasure, which maternal solicitude had author- ized. He selected a rod, fastened a hook at the end of the line, and put the whole beside the window. Then he went to his bed and took a sheet. At one end of the sheet he tied a candlestick, — he wanted an article with some weight; a candlestick came in his way, and he took a can- dlestick. He flung this candlestick in such a way that it fell on the other side of the stoutest limb of the poplar. Then with his hook and line he fished in the end of the sheet, and brought it back to him. LOVE LENDS OPINIONS. 229 After this he tied both ends firmly to the railing of his balcony, and he thus had a sort of suspension-bridge, solid beyond all misadventure, between his window and the pop- lar. The young man got astride of it, like a sailor on a yard-arm, and gently propelling himself along, he was soon in the tree, and next on the ground. Then, without caring whether he was seen or not, he crossed the lawn at a run and went toward Souday, the road to which he now knew better than any other. When he reached the heights of Servière he heard mus- ketry, which seemed to come from somewhere between Montaigu and the lake of Grand-Lieu. His emotion was great. The echo of every volley that came to him on the breeze produced a painful commotion in his mind, which reacted on his heart. The sounds evidently indicated dan- ger, perhaps even death to her he loved, and this thought paralyzed him with terror. Then when he reflected that Mary might blame him for the troubles he had not averted from her head and from those of her father and sister and friends, the tears filled his eyes. Consequently, instead of slackening speed when he heard the firing, he only thought of quickening it. From a rapid walk he broke into a run, and soon reached the first trees of the forest of Machecoul. There, instead of following the road, which would have delayed him several minutes, he flung himself into a wood-path that he had taken more than once for the very purpose of shortening the way. Hurrying beneath the dark, overhanging dome of trees, falling sometimes into ditches, stumbling over stones, catching on thorny briers, — so dense was the darkness, so narrow the way, — he presently reached what was called the Devil's Yale. There he was in the act of jumping a brook which runs in the depths of it, when a man, springing abruptly from a clump of gorse, seized him so roughly that he knocked him down into the slimy bed of the brook, pressing the cold muzzle of a pistol to his forehead. 230 THE LAST VENDÉE. " Not a cry, not a word, or you are a dead man ! " said the assailant. The position was a frightful one for the young baron. The man put a knee on his chest, and held him down, remaining motionless himself, as though he were expecting some one. At last, finding that no one came, he gave the cry of the screch-owl, which was instantly answered from the interior of the wood, and the rapid steps of a man were heard approaching. "Is that you, Picaut? " said the man whose knee was on Michel's breast. " No, not Picaut ; it is I, " said the new-comer. "Who is