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Illustrated Sterling edition
THE LAST VENDEE
OR, THE
SHE-WOLVES OF MACHECOUL
TWO VOLUMES IN ONE
BY
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
ILLUSTRATED
BOSTON
DANA ESTES & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, i8ç4,
By Estes and Lauriat.
CONTENTS.
Paob
I. Charette's Aide-de-camp 9
IL The Gratitude of Kings 18
III. The Twins 26
IV. How Jean Oullier, coming to see the Mar-
quis for an Hour, would be there still
if they had not both been in their Grave
these ten years 34
V. A Litter of Wolves 42
VI. The Wounded Hare 50
VII. Monsieur Michel 58
VIII. The Baronne de la Logerie 66
IX. Galon-d'or and Allégro 76
X. In which Things do not Happen precisely as
Baron Michel Dreamed they would . . 86
XL The Foster-father 95
XII. Noblesse Oblige 104
Xin. A Distant Cousin 114
XIV. Petit-Pierre 124
XV. An Unseasonable Hour 137
XVI. Courtin's Diplomacy 148
XVII. The Tavern of Aubin Courte-Joie . . . . 156
XVIII. The Man from La Logekie 165
XIX. The Fair at Mont aigu 177
XX. The Outbreak 184
VI
CONTENTS.
Paqb
XXI. Jean Oullier's Resources 19G
XXII. Fetch! Pataud, fetch! 207
XXIII. To whom the Cottage belonged .... 214
XXIV. How Marianne Picaut mourned her Hus-
band 222
XXV. In which Love lends Political Opinions
to those who have none 227
XXVI. The Springs op Baugé 235
XXVH. The Guests at Souday 247
XXVIII. In which the Marquis de Souday bitterly
regrets that petit-pierre is not a
Gentleman 256
XXIX. The Vendéans of 1832 263
XXX. The Warning 269
XXXI. My Old Crony Loriot 276
XXXII. The General eats a Supper which had
not been Prepared for him .... 285
XXXIII. In which Maître Loriot's Curiosity is not
EXACTLY SATISFIED 291
XXXIV. The Tower Chamber 298
XXXV. Which ends quite otherwise than as
Mary expected 306
XXXVI. Blue and White 316
XXXVII. Which shows that it is not for Flies only
that Spiders' Webs are dangerous . 327
XXXVIII. In which the Daintiest Foot of France
and of Navarre finds that Cinder-
ella's Slipper does not fit it as well
as Seven-league Boots 839
XXXIX. Petit-Pierre makes the best Meal he
ever made in his Life 347
XL. Equality in Death 362
XLI. The Search 374
CONTENTS.
Vil
Pagb
XLII. In which Jean Oullier speaks his mind
ABOUT YOUNG BARON MlCHEL .... 385
XLIII. Baron Michel becomes Bertha's Aide-de-
camp 398
XLIV. Maître Jacques and his Rabbits . . . 405
XLV. The Danger of Meeting bad Company in
the Woods 420
XLVI. Maître Jacques proceeds to keep the
Oath he made to Aubin Courte-Joie . 431
CONTENTS.
Paob
I. In which it appears that all Jews are not
from Jerusalem, nor all Turks prom Tunis !»
IL Maître Marc 22
III. How Persons travelled in the Department
of the Lower Loire in May, 1832 . . . 27
IV. A little History does no Harm 36
V. Petit-Pierre resolves on keeping a Brave
Heart against Misfortune 48
VI. How Jean Oullier proved that when the
Wine is drawn it is best to drink it . . 55
VII. Herein is explained how and why Baron
Michel decided to go to Nantes .... 65
VIII. The Sheep, returning to the Fold, tumbles
into a Pit-fall 74
IX. Trigaud proves that if he had been Her-
cules HE WOULD PROBABLY HAVE ACCOM-
PLISHED TWENTY-FOUR LABORS INSTEAD OF
TWELVE 84
X. Giving the Slip 99
XI. Mary is victorious after the Manner of
Pyrrhus 115
XII. Baron Michel finds an Oak instead of a
Reed on which to lean 121
XIII. The Last Knights of Royalty 132
VI
CONTENTS.
Paob
XIV. Jean Oullier lies for the Good of the
Cause 142
XV. Jailer and Prisoner escape together . 148
XVI. The Battlefield 157
XVII. After the Fight 164
XVIII. The Chateau de la Pénissière .... 169
XIX. The Moor of Bouaimé 179
XX. The Firm of Aubin Courte-Joie & Co.
does Honor to its Partnership . . . 190
XXI. In which Succor comes from an Unex-
pected Quarter 200
XXII. On the Highway 210
XXIII. What became of Jean Oullier .... 225
XXIV. Maître Courtin's Batteries 238
XXV. Madame la Baronne de la Logerie,
THINKING TO SERVE HER Son's INTERESTS,
SERVES THOSE OF PETIT-PIERRE .... 245
XXVI. Marches and Counter-marches .... 255
XXVII. Michel's Love Affairs seem to be taking
a Happier Turn 265
XXVIII. Showing how there may be Fishermen
and Fishermen 277
XXIX. Interrogatories and Confrontings . . 284
XXX. We again meet the General, and find
HE IS NOT CHANGED 294
XXXI. COURTIN MEETS WITH ANOTHER DISAPPOINT-
MENT 303
XXXII. The Marquis de Souday drags for
Oysters and brings up Picaut .... 313
XXXIII. That which happened in Two Dwellings 325
XXXIV. Courtin fingers at last his Fifty Thou-
sand Francs 337
XXXV. The Tavern of the Grand Saint-Jacques 347
CONTENTS. vii
Page
XXXVI. Judas and Judas 355
XXXVII. An Eye for an Eye, and a Tooth for
a Tooth 365
XXXVIII. The Red-Breeches 377
XXXIX. A Wounded Soul 384
XL. The Chimney-back 393
XLI. Three Broken Hearts 400
XLII. God's Executioner 407
XLIIL Shows that a Man with Fifty Thousand
Francs about him may be much Embar-
rassed 418
EPILOGUE 429
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
VOL. I.
Page
Portrait op Dumas Frontispiece
Portrait of Charette 16
Castle Souday 134
Portrait of Louis XVIII 259
Portrait op Dermoncourt 270
VOL. II.
Portrait of Louis Philippe 38
Cathedral op Nantes 256
Château of Nantes 404
THE LAST VENDEE;
OR,
THE SHE-WOLVES OF MACHECOUL,
VOLUME L
THE LAST VENDEE;
OR,
THE SHE- WOLVES OF MACHECOUL.
I.
charette's aide-de-camp.
If you ever chanced, dear reader, to go from Nantes to
Bourgneuf you must, before reaching Saint-Philbert, have
skirted the southern corner of the lake of Grand-Lieu, and
then, continuing your way, you arrived, at the end of one
hour or two hours, according to whether you were on
foot or in. a carriage, at the first trees of the forest of
Machecoul.
There, to left of the road, among a fine clump of trees
belonging, apparently, to the forest from which it is sepa-
rated only by the main road, you must have seen the sharp
points of two slender turrets and the gray roof of a little
castle hidden among the foliage.
The cracked walls of this manor-house, its broken win-
dows, and its damp roofs covered with wild iris and para-
site mosses, gave it, in spite of its feudal pretensions and
flanking turrets, so forlorn an appearance that no one at a
passing glance would envy its possessor, were it not for its
exquisite situation opposite to the noble trees of the forest
of Machecoul, the verdant billows of which rose on the
horizon as far as the eye could reach.
10 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Tn 1831, tliis little castle was the property of an old
nobleman named the Marquis de Souday, and was called,
after its owner, the château of Souday.
Let us now make known the owner, having described the
château.
The Marquis de Souday was the sole representative and
last descendant of an old and illustrious Breton family; for
the lake of Grand-Lieu, the forest of Machecoul, the town
of Bourgneuf, situated in that part of France now called
the department of the Loire-Interieure, was then part of
the province of Brittany, before the division of France into
departments. The family of the Marquis de Souday had
been, in former times, one of those feudal trees with endless
branches which extended themselves over the whole depart-
ment; but the ancestors of the marquis, in consequence of
spending all their substance to appear with splendor in the
coaches of the king, had, little by little, become so reduced
and shorn of their branches that the convulsions of 1789
happened just in time to prevent the rotten trunk from
falling into the hands of the sheriff; in fact, they pre-
served it for an end more in keeping with its former glory.
When the doom of the Bastille sounded, and the demoli-
tion of the old house of the kings foreshadowed the over-
throw of royalty, the Marquis de Souday, having inherited,
not great wealth, — for nothing of that was left, as we have
said, except the old manor-house, — but the name and title
of his father, was page to his Boyal Highness, Monsieur le
Comte de Provence. At sixteen — that was then his time
of life — events are only accidental circumstances ; besides,
it would have been extremely difficult for any youth to
keep from being heedless and volatile at the epicurean,
voltairean, and constitutional court of the Luxembourg,
where egotism elbowed its way undisguisedly.
It was M. de Souday who was sent to the place de Grève
to watch for the moment when the hangman tightened the
rope round Favras's neck, and the latter, by drawing his
last breath, restored his Royal Highness to his normal
CHARETTE'S AIDE-DE-CAMr. 11
peace of mind, which had been for the time being dis-
turbed. The page had returned at full speed to the
Luxembourg.
"Monseigneur, it is done," he said.
And monseigneur, in his clear, fluty voice, cried : —
"Come, gentlemen, to supper! to supper! "
And they supped as if a brave and honorable gentleman,
who had given his life a sacrifice, to his Royal Highness,
had not just been hanged as a murderer and a vagabond.
Then came the first dark, threatening days of the Revo-
lution, the publication of the Red Book, Necker's retire-
ment, and the death of Mirabeau.
One day — it was the 22d of February, 1791 — a great
crowd surrounded the palace of the Luxembourg. Rumors
were spread. Monsieur, it was said, meant to escape and
join the emigres on the Rhine. But Monsieur appeared on
the balcony, and took a solemn oath never to leave the king.
He did, in fact, start with the king on the 21st of June,
possibly to keep his word never to leave him. But he
did leave him, to secure his own safety, and reached the
frontier tranquilly with his companion, the Marquis
d'Avaray, while Louis XVI. and his family were arrested
at Varennes.
Our young page, de Souday, thought too much of his
reputation as a man of fashion to stay in France, although
it was precisely there that the monarchy needed its most
zealous supporters. He therefore emigrated, and as no
one paid any heed to a page only eighteen years old, he
reached Coblentz safely and took part in filling up the
ranks of the musketeers who were then being remodelled
on the other side of the Rhine under the orders of the
Marquis de Montmorin. During the first royalist strug-
gles he fought bravely under the three Condés, was wounded
before Thionville, and then, after many disappointments
and deceptions, met with the worst of all; namely, the
disbanding of the various corps of émigrés, — a measure
which took the bread out of the mouths of so many poor
12 THE LAST VENDEE.
devils. It is true that these soldiers were serving against
France, and their bread was baked by foreign nations.
The Marquis de Souday then turned his eyes toward
Brittany and La Vendée, where fighting had been going
on for the last two years. The state of things in La
Vendee was as follows : —
All the first leaders of the great insurrection were dead.
Cathélineau was killed at Vannes, Lescure at Tremblay,
Bonchamps at Chollet; d'Elbée had been, or was to be,
shot at Noirmoutiers ; and, finally, what was called the
Grand Army had just been annihilated in Le Mans.
This Grand Army had been defeated at Fontenay-le-
Comte, at Saumur, Torfou, Laval, and Dol. Nevertheless,
it had gained the advantage in sixty fights; it had held its
own against all the forces of the Republic, commanded suc-
cessively by Biron, Rossignol, Kléber, and Westermann.
It had seen its homes burned, its children massacred, its
old men strangled. Its leaders were Cathélineau, Henri
de la Rochejaquelein, Stofflet, Bonchamps, Forestier,
d'Elbée, Lescure, Marigny, and Talmont. In spite of all
vicissitudes it continued faithful to its king when the rest
of "France abandoned him; it worshipped its God when
Paris proclaimed that there was no God. Thanks to the
loyalty and valor of this army, La Vendée won the right
to be proclaimed in history throughout all time "the land
of giants."
Charette and la Rochejaquelein alone were left. Charette
had a few soldiers; la Rochejaquelein had none.
It was while the Grand Army was being slowly destroyed
in Le Mans that Charette, appointed commander-in-chief
of Lower Poitou and seconded by the Chevalier de Couëtu
and Jolly, had collected his little army. Charette, at the
head of this army, and la Rochejaquelein, followed by ten
men only, met near Maulevrier. Charette instantly per-
ceived that la Rochejaquelein came as a general, not as a
soldier; he had a strong sense of his own position, and
did not choose to share his command with any one. He
chakette's aide-de-camp. 13
was therefore cold and haughty in manner, and went to his
own breakfast without even asking Rochejaquelein to share
it with him.
The same day eight hundred men left Charette's army
and placed themselves under the orders of la Rochejaque-
lein. The next day Charette said to his 3 r oung rival : —
"I start for Mortagne; you will follow me."
"I am accustomed," replied la Rochejaquelein, "not to
follow, but to be followed."
He parted from Charette, and left him to operate his
army as he pleased. It is the latter whom we shall now
follow, because he is the only Vendéan leader whose last
efforts and death are connected with our history.
Louis XVII. was dead, and on the 26th of June, 1795,
Louis XVIII. was proclaimed king of France at the head-
quarters at Belleville. On the 15th of August, 1795, —
that is to say, two months after the date of this proclama-
tion, — a young man brought Charette a letter from the
new king. This letter, written from Verona, and dated
July 8, 1795, conferred on Charette the command of the
royalist army.
Charette wished to reply by the same young messenger
and thank the king for the honor he had done him ; but
the young man informed the general that he had re-entered
Prance to stay there and fight there, and asked that the
despatch he had brought might serve as a recommendation
to the commander-in-chief. Charette immediately attached
him to his person.
This young messenger was no other than Monsieur's
former page, the Marquis de Souday.
As he withdrew to seek some rest, after doing his last
sixty miles on horseback, the marquis came upon a young
guard, who was five or six years older than himself, and
was now standing, hat in hand, and looking at him with
affectionate respect. Souday recognized the son of one of
his father's farmers, with whom he had hunted as a lad
with huge satisfaction ; for no one could head off a boar as
14 THE LAST VENDEE.
well or urge on the hounds after the animal was turned
with sueh vigor.
"Hey! Jean Oullier," he cried; "is that you?"
"Myself in person, and at your service, monsieur le
marquis," answered the young peasant.
"Good faith! my friend, and glad enough, too. Are
you still as keen a huntsman? "
"Oh, yes, monsieur le marquis; only, just now it is
other game than hoars we are after."
"Never mind that. If you are willing, we '11 hunt this
game together as we did the other."
"That's not to be refused, but much the contrary, mon-
sieur le marquis," returned Jean Oullier.
From that moment Jean Oullier was attached to the
Marquis de Souday, just as the marquis was attached to
Charette, — that is to say, that Jean Oullier was the aide-
de-camp of the aide-de-camp of the commander-in-chief.
Besides his talents as a huntsman he was a valuable man in
other respects. In camping he was good for everything.
The marquis never had to think of bed or victuals ; in the
worst of times he never went without a bit of bread, a
glass of water, and a shake-down of straw, which in La
Vendée was a luxury the commander-in-chief himself did
not always enjoy.
We should be greatly tempted to follow Charette, and
consequently our young hero, on one of the many adventu-
rous expeditions undertaken by the royalist general, which
won him the reputation of being the greatest partisan
leader the world has seen ; but history is a seductive siren,
and if you imprudently obey the sign she makes you to
follow her, there is no knowing where you will be led.
We must simplify our tale as much as possible, and there-
fore we leave to others the opportunity of relating the
expedition of the Comte d'Artois to IToivmoutiers and the
île Dieu, the strange conduct of the prince, who remained
three weeks within sight of the French coast without land-
ing, and the discouragement of the royalist army when it
chakette's aide-de-camp. 15
saw itself abandoned by those for whom it had fought so
gallantly for more than two years.
In spite of which discouragement, however, Charette not
long after won his terrible victory at Les Quatre Chemins.
It was his last; for treachery from that time forth took
part in the struggle. De Couëtu, Charette's right arm, his
other self after the death of Jolly, was enticed into an
ambush, captured, and shot. In the last months of his
life Charette could not take a single step without his adver-
sary, whoever he was, Hoche or Travot, being instantly
informed of it.
Surrounded by the republican troops, hemmed in on all
sides, pursued day and night, tracked from bush to bush,
springing from ditch to ditch, knowing that sooner or later
he was certain to be killed in some encounter, or, if taken,
to be shot on the spot, — without shelter, burnt up with
fever, dying of thirst, half famished, not daring to ask at
the farmhouses he saw for a little water, a little bread, or
a little straw, ■ — he had only thirty -two men remaining with
him, among whom were the Marquis de Souday and Jean
Oullier, when, on the 25th of March, 1796, the news came
that four republican columns were marching simultaneously
against him.
" Very good," said he; "then it is here, on this spot, that
we must fight to the death and sell our lives dearly."
The spot was La Prélinière, in the parish of Saint-Sul-
pice. But with thirty -two men Charette did not choose to
await the enemy; he went to meet them. At La Guyon-
nières he met General Valentin with two hundred grena-
diers and chasseurs. Charette's position was a good one,
and he intrenched it. There, for three hours, he sustained
the charges and fire of two hundred republicans. Twelve
of his men fell around him. The Army of the Chouan-
nerie, which was twenty-four thousand strong when M. le
Comte d'Artois lay off the île Dieu without landing, was
now reduced to twenty men.
These twenty men stood firmly around their general;
16 THE LAST VENDÉE.
not one even thought of escape. To make an end of the
business, General Valentin took a musket himself, and at
the head of the hundred and eighty men remaining to him,
he charged at the point of the bayonet.
Charette was wounded by a ball in his head, and three
fingers were taken off by a sabre-cut. He was about to be
captured when an Alsatian, named Pfeffer, who felt more
than mere devotion to Charette, whom he worshipped, took
the general's plumed hat, gave him his, and saying, "Go
to the right; they'll follow me," sprang to the left him-
self. He was right; the republicans rushed after him
savagely, while Charette sprang in the opposite direction
with his fifteen remaining men.
He had almost reached the wood of La Chabotière when
General Travot's column appeared. Another and more
desperate fight took place, in which Charette's sole object
was to get himself killed. Losing blood from three
wounds, he staggered and fell. A Vendéan, named Bos-
sard, took him on his shoulders and carried him toward
the wood; but before reaching it, Bossard himself was shot
down. Then another man, Laroche-Davo, succeeded him,
made fifty steps, and he too fell in the ditch that separates
the wood from the plain.
Then the Marquis de Souday lifted Charette in his arms,
and while Jean Oullier with two shots killed two republi-
can soldiers who were close at their heels, he carried the
general into the wood, followed by the seven men still liv-
ing. Once fairly within the woods, Charette recovered his
senses.
"Souday," he said, "listen to my last orders."
The young man stopped.
"Put me down at the foot of that oak."
Souday hesitated to obey.
"I am still your general," said Charette, imperiously.
"Obey me."
The young man, overawed, did as he was told and put
down the general at the foot of the oak.
Portrait of Charette.
charette's aide-de-camp. 17
"There! now," said Charette, "listen to me. The king
who made me general-in-chief must be told how his general
died. Return to his Majesty Louis XVIII., and tell him
all that you have seen; 1 demand it."
Charette spoke with such solemnity that the marquis
did not dream of disobeying him.
" Go ! " said Charette, " you have not a minute to spare ;
here come the Blues. Fly!"
As he spoke the republicans had reached the edge of the
woods. Souday took the hand which Charette held out to
him.
"Kiss me," said the latter.
The young man kissed him.
"That will do," said the general; "now go."
Souday cast a look at Jean Oullier.
"Are you coming? " he said.
But his follower shook his head gloomily.
"What have I to do over there, monsieur le marquis?"
he said. " Whereas here — "
"Here, what?"
"I '11 tell you that if we ever meet again, monsieur le
marquis."
So saying, he fired two balls at the nearest republicans.
They fell. One of them was an officer of rank ; his men
pressed round him. Jean Oullier and the marquis profited
by that instant to bury themselves in the depths of the
woods.
But at the end of some fifty paces Jean Oullier, finding
a thick bush at hand, slipped into it like a snake, with a
gesture of farewell to the Marquis de Souday.
The marquis continued his way alone.
VOL. I. — 2
18 THE LAST VENDÉE.
II.
THE GRATITUDE OF KINGS.
The Marquis de Souday gained the banks of the Loire and
found a fisherman who was willing to take him to Saint -
Gildas. A frigate hove in sight, — • an English frigate.
For a few more louis the fisherman consented to put the
marquis aboard of her. Once there, he was safe.
Two or three days later the frigate hailed a three-masted
merchantman, which was heading for the Channel. She
was Dutch. The marquis asked to be put aboard of her;
the English captain consented. The Dutchman landed
him at Rotterdam. Erom Rotterdam he went to Blanken-
bourg, a little town in the duchy of Brunswick, which
Louis XVIII. had chosen for his residence.
The marquis now prepared to execute Charette's last
instructions. When he reached the château Louis XVIII.
was dining; this was always a sacred hour to him. The
ex-page was told to wait. When dinner was over he was
introduced into the king's presence.
He related the events he had seen with his own eyes,
and, above all, the last catastrophe, with such eloquence
that his Majesty, who was not impressionable, was enough
impressed to cry out: —
"Enough, enough, marquis! Yes, the Chevalier de
Charette was a brave servant; we are grateful to him."
He made the messenger a sign to retire. The marquis
obeyed; but as he withdrew he heard the king say, in a
sulky tone : —
" That fool of a Souday coming here and telling me such
things after dinner ! It is enough to upset my digestion! "
THE GRATITUDE OF KINGS. 19
The marquis was touchy; he thought that after exposing
his life for six months it was a poor reward to be called a
fool by him for whom he had exposed it. One hundred
louis were still in his pocket, and he left Blankenbourg
that evening, saying to himself: —
"If I had known that I should be received in that way I
would n't have taken such pains to come."
He returned to Holland, and from Holland he went to
England. There began a new phase in the existence of
the Marquis de Souday. He was one of those men who
are moulded by circumstances, — men who are strong or
weak, brave or pusillanimous, according to the surround-
ings among which fortune casts them. For six months he
had been at the apex of that terrible Vendéan epic; his
blood had stained the gorse and the moors of upper and
lower Poitou; he had borne with stoical fortitude not only
the ill-fortune of battle, but also the privations of that
guerilla warfare, bivouacking in snow, wandering without
food, without clothes, without shelter, in the boggy forests
of La Vendée. Not once had he felt a regret; not a single
complaint had passed his lips.
And yet, with all these antecedents, when isolated in
the midst of that great city of London, where he wandered
sadly regretting the excitements of war, he felt himself
without courage in presence of enforced idleness, without
resistance under ennui, without energy to overcome the
wretchedness of exile. This man, who had bravely borne
the attacks and pursuits of the infernal columns of the
Blues, could not bear up against the evil suggestions which
came of idleness. He sought pleasure everywhere to fill
the void in his existence caused by the absence of stirring
vicissitudes and the excitements of a deadly struggle.
Now such pleasures as a penniless exile could command
were not of a high order; and thus it happened that, little
by little, he lost his former elegance and the look and
manner of gentleman as his tastes deteriorated. He drank
ale and porter instead of champagne, and contented him-
20 THE LAST VENDÉE.
self with the bedizened women of the Haymarket and
Regent Street, — he who had chosen his first loves among
the duchesses.
Soon the looseness of his principles and the pressure of
his needs drove him into connections from which his repu-
tation suffered. He accepted pleasures when he could not
pay for them ; his companions in debauchery were of a
lower class than himself. After a time his own class of
émigrés turned away from him, and by the natural drift of
things, the more the marquis found himself neglected by
his rightful friends, the deeper he plunged into the evil
ways he had now entered.
He had been leading this existence for about two years,
when by chance he encountered, in an evil resort which he
frequented, a young working-girl, whom one of those
infamous women who infest London had enticed from her
poor home and produced for the first time. In spite of the
changes which ill-luck and a reckless life had produced in
the marquis, the poor girl perceived the remains of a gen-
tleman still in him. She flung herself at his feet, and
implored him to save her from an infamous life, for which
she was not meant, having always been good and virtuous
till then.
The young girl was pretty, and the marquis offered to
take her with him. She threw herself on his neck and
promised him all her love and the utmost devotion. With-
out any thought of doing a good action the marquis defeated
the speculation on Eva's beauty, — the girl was named
Eva. She kept her word, poor, faithful creature that she
was; the marquis was her first and last and only love.
The matter was a fortunate thing for both of them.
The marquis was getting very tired of cock-fights and the
acrid fumes of beer, not to speak of frays with constables
and loves at street-corners. The tenderness of the young
girl rested him; the possession of the pure child, white
as the swans which are the emblem of Brittany, his own
land, satisfied his vanity. Little by little, he changed his
THE GKATITUDE OF KINGS. 21
course of life, and though he never returned to the habits
of his own class, he did adopt a life which was that of a
decent man.
He went to live with Eva on the upper floor of a house
in Piccadilly. She was a good workwoman, and soon
found employment with a milliner. The marquis gave
fencing-lessons. From that time they lived on the humble
proceeds of their employments, finding great happiness in
a love which had now become powerful enough to gild
their poverty. ^Nevertheless, this love, like all things
mortal, wore out in the end, though not for a long time.
Happily for Eva, the emotions of the Vendéan war and the
frantic excitements of London hells had used up her lover's
superabundant sap; he was really an old man before his
time. The day on which the marquis first perceived that
his love for Eva was waning, the day when her kisses were
powerless, not to satisfy him but to rouse him, habit had
acquired such an influence over him that even had he
sought distractions outside his home he no longer had the
force or the courage to break a connection in which his
selfishness still found the monotonous comforts of daily
life.
The former viveur, whose ancestors had possessed for
three centuries the power of life and death in their prov-
ince, the ex-brigand, the aide-de-camp to the brigand
Charette, led for a dozen years the dull, precarious, drudg-
ing life of a humble clerk, or a mechanic more humble
still.
Heaven had long refrained from blessing this illegiti-
mate marriage; but at last the prayers which Eva had
never ceased to offer for twelve years were granted. The
poor woman became pregnant, and gave birth to twin
daughters. But alas ! a few hours of the maternal joys
she had so longed for were all that were granted to her.
She died of puerperal fever.
Eva's tenderness for the Marquis de Souday was as deep
and warm at the end of twelve years' devotion as it was in
22 THE LAST VENDÉE.
the beginning of their intercourse; yet her love, great as
it was, did not prevent her from recognizing that frivolity
and selfishness were at the bottom of her lover's character.
Therefore she suffered in dying not only the anguish of
bidding an eternal farewell to the man she had loved so
deeply, but the terror of leaving the future of her children
in his hands.
This loss produced impressions upon the marquis which
we shall endeavor to reproduce minutely, because they
seem to us to give a distinct idea of the nature of the man
who is destined to play an important part in the narrative
we are now undertaking.
He began by mourning his companion seriously and sin-
cerely. He could not help doing homage to her good
qualities and recognizing the happiness which he owed to
her affection. Then, after his first grief had passed away,
he felt something of the joy of a schoolboy when he gets
out of bounds. Sooner or later his name, rank, and birth
must have made it necessary for him to break the tie.
The marquis felt grateful to Providence for relieving him
of a duty which would certainly have distressed him.
This satisfaction, however, was short-lived. Eva's ten-
derness, the continuity, if we may say so, of the care and
attention she had given him, had spoilt the marquis; and
those cares and attentions, now that he had suddenly lost
them, seemed to him more essential to his happiness than
ever. The humble chambers in which they had lived
became, now that the Englishwoman's fresh, pure voice no
longer enlivened them, what they were in reality, — miser-
able lodging-rooms; and, in like manner, when his eyes
sought involuntarily the silky hair of his companion lying
in golden waves upon the pillow, his bed was nothing
more than a wretched pallet. Where could he now look
for the soft petting, the tender attention to all his wants,
with which, for twelve good years, Eva had surrounded
him. When he reached this stage of his desolation the
marquis admitted to himself that he could never replace
THE GRATITUDE OF KINGS. 23
them. Consequently, he began to mourn poor Eva more
than ever, and when the time came for him to part with
his little girls, whom he sent into Yorkshire to be nursed,
he put such a rush of tenderness into his grief that the
good country-woman, their foster-mother, was sincerely
affected.
After thus separating from all that united him with the
past, the Marquis de Souday succumbed under the burden
of his solitude; he became morose and taciturn. As his
religious faith was none too solid, he would probably have
ended, under the deep disgust of life which now took pos-
session of him, by jumping into the Thames, if the catas-
trophe of 1814 had not happened just in time to distract
him from his melancholy thoughts. Re-entering France,
which he had never hoped to see again, the Marquis de
Souday very naturally applied to Louis XVIII. , of whom
he had asked nothing during his exile in return for the
blood he had shed for him. But princes often seek pre-
texts for ingratitude, and Louis XVIII. was furnished
with three against his former page: first, the tempestu-
ous manner in which he had announced to his Majesty
Charette's death, — an announcement which had in fact
troubled the royal digestion; secondly, his disrespectful
departure from Blankenbourg, accompanied by language
even more disrespectful than the departure itself; and
thirdly (this was the gravest pretext), the irregularity of
his life and conduct during the emigration.
Much praise was bestowed upon the bravery and devo-
tion of the former page; but he was, ver} r gently, made to
understand that with such scandals attaching to his name
he could not expect to fulfil any public functions. The
king was no longer an autocrat, they told him; he was
now compelled to consider public opinion; after the late
period of public immorality it was necessary to introduce
a new and more rigid era of morals. How fine a thing it
would be if the marquis were willing to sacrifice his own
personal ambitions to the necessities of the State.
24 THE LAST VENDÉE.
In short, they persuaded him to be satisfied with the
cross of Saint-Louis, the rank and pension of a major of
cavalry, and to take himself off to eat the king's bread on
his estate at Souday, — the sole fragment recovered by the
poor emigre from the wreck of the enormous fortune of his
ancestors.
What was really fine about all this was that these excuses
and hypocrisies did not hinder the Marquis de Souday
from doing his duty, — that is, from leaving his poor cas-
tle to defend the white flag when Napoleon made his
marvellous return from Elba. Napoleon fell again, and
for the second time the marquis re-entered Paris with
the legitimate princes. But this time, wiser than he
was in 1814, he merely asked of the restored monarchy
for the place of Master of Wolves to the arrondissement
of Machecoul, — an office in the royal gift which, being
without salary or emolument, was willingly accorded to
him.
Deprived during his youth of a pleasure which in his
family was an hereditary passion, the marquis now devoted
himself ardently to hunting. Always unhappy in a soli-
tary life, for which he was totally unfitted, yet growing
more and more misanthropic as the result of his political
disappointments, he found in this active exercise a momen-
tary forgetfulness of his bitter memories. Thus the posi-
tion of Master of Wolves, which gave him the right to
roam the State forests at will, afforded him far more satis-
faction than his ribbon of Saint-Louis or his commission
as major of cavalry.
So the Marquis de Souday had been living for two years
in the mouldy little castle we lately described, beating the
woods day and night with his six dogs (the only establish-
ment his slender means permitted), seeing his neighbors
just enough to prevent them from considering him an
absolute bear, and thinking as little as he could of his past
wealth and his past fame, when one morning, as he was
starting to explore the north end of the forest of Machecoul,
THE GRATITUDE OF KINGS. 25
he met on the road a peasant woman carrying a child three
or four years old on each arm.
The marquis instantly recognized the woman and blushed
as he did so. It was the nurse from Yorkshire, to whom
he had regularly for the last thirty-six months neglected
to pay the board of her two nurslings. The worthy
woman had gone to London, and there made inquiries at
the French legation. She had now reached Machecoul
with the assistance of the French minister, who of course
did not doubt that the Marquis de Souday would be most
happy to recover his two children.
The singular part of it is that the ambassador was not
entirely mistaken. The little girls reminded the marquis
so vividly of his poor Eva that he was seized with genuine
emotion; he kissed them with a tenderness that was not
assumed, gave his gun to the Englishwoman, took his
children in his arms, and returned to the castle with this
unlooked-for game, to the utter stupefaction of the cook,
who constituted his whole household, and who now over-
whelmed him with questions as to the singular accession
thus made to the family.
These questions alarmed the marquis. He was only
thirty-nine years of age, and vague ideas of marriage still
floated in his head ; he regarded it as a duty not to let a
name and house so illustrious as that of Souday come to an
end in his person. Moreover, he would not have been
sorry to turn over to a wife the management of his house-
hold affairs, which was odious to him. But the realization
of that idea would, of course, be impossible if he kept the
little girls in his house.
He saw this plainly, paid the Englishwoman hand-
somely, and the next day despatched her back to her
own country.
During the night he had come to a resolution which, he
thought, would solve all difficulties. What was that
resolution? We shall now see.
26 THE LAST VENDÉE.
III.
THE TWINS.
The Marquis de Souday went to bed repeating to himself
the old proverb, "Xight brings counsel." With that hope
he fell asleep. When asleep, he dreamed.
He dreamed of his old wars in La Vendee with Charette,
— of the days when he was aide-de-camp ; and, more
especially, he dreamed of Jean Oullier, his attendant, of
whom he had never thought since the day when they left
Charette dying, and parted in the wood of Chabotière.
As well as he could remember, Jean Oullier before
joining Charette's army had lived in the village of La
Chevrolière, near the lake of Grand-Lieu. The next
morning the Marquis de Souday sent a man of Machecoul.
who did his errands, on horseback with a letter, ordering
him to go to La Chevrolière and ascertain if a man named
Jean Oullier was still living and whether he was in the
place. If he was, the messenger was to give him the
letter and, if possible, bring him back with him. If he
lived at a short distance the messenger was to go there.
If the distance was too great he was to obtain every infor-
mation as to the locality of his abode. If lie was dead the
messenger was to return at once and say so.
Jean Oullier was not dead; Jean Oullier was not in dis-
tant parts; Jean Oullier was in the neighborhood of La
Chevrolière; in fact, Jean Oullier was in La Chevrolière
itself.
Here is what had happened to him after parting with
the marquis on the day of Charette's last defeat. He
stayed hidden in the bush, from which he could see all
THE TWINS. 27
and not be seen himself. He saw General Travot take
Charette prisoner and treat hiin with all the consideration
a man like General Travot would show to a man like
Charette. But, apparently, that was not all that Jean
Chillier expected to see, for after seeing the republicans
lay Charette on a litter and carry him away, Jean Oullier
still remained hidden in his bush.
It is true that an officer with a picket of twelve men
remained in the wood. What were they there for?
About an hour later a Vend eau peasant passed within
ten paces of Jean Oullier, having answered the challenge
of the sentinel with the word "Friend," — an odd answer
in the mouth of a royalist peasant to a republican soldier.
The peasant next exchanged the countersign with the sen-
try and passed on. Then he approached the officer, who,
with an expression of disgust which it is quite impossible
to represent, gave him a bag that was evidently full of
gold. After which the peasant disappeared, and the officer
with his picket guard also departed, showing that in all
probability- they had only been stationed there to await the
coming of the peasant.
In all probabilit} 7 , too, Jean Oullier had seen what he
wanted to see, for he came out of his bush as he went into
it, — that is to say, crawling; and getting on his feet, he
tore the white cockade from his hat, and, with the careless
indifference of a man who for the last three years had
staked his life every day on a turn of the dice, he buried
himself still deeper in the forest.
The same night he reached La Chevrolière. He went
straight to his own home. On the spot where his house
had stood was a blackened ruin, blackened by fire. He
sat down upon a stone and wept.
In that house he had left a wife and two children.
Soon he heard a step and raised his head. A peasant
passed. Jean Oullier recognized him in the darkness and
called : —
"Tinguy!"
28 THE LAST VENDÉE.
The man approached.
" Who is it calls me ? " he said.
"I am Jean Oullier," replied the Chouan.
"God help you," replied Tinguy, attempting to pass on;
but Jean Oullier stopped him.
" You must answer me, " he said.
" Are you a man ? "
"Yes."
"Then question me and I will answer."
"My father?"
"Dead."
"My wife?"
"Dead."
"My two children?"
"Dead."
"Thank you."
Jean Oullier sat down again, but he no longer wept.
After a few moments he fell on his knees and prayed. It
was time he did, for he was about to blaspheme. He
prayed for those who were dead.
Then, restored by that deep faith that gave him hope to
meet them in a better world, he bivouacked on those sad
ruins.
The next day, at dawn, he began to rebuild his house,
as calm and resolute as though his father were still at the
plough, his wife before the fire, his children at the door.
Alone, and asking no help from any one, he rebuilt his
cottage.
There he lived, doing the humble work of a day laborer.
If any one had counselled Jean Oullier to ask a reward
from the Bourbons for doing what he, rightly or wrongly,
considered his duty, that adviser ran some risk of insulting
the grand simplicity of the poor peasant.
It will be readily understood that with such a nature
Jean Oullier, on receiving the letter in which the marquis
called him his old comrade and begged him to come to
him, he did not delay his going. On the contrary, he
THE TWINS. 29
locked the door of his house, put the key in his pocket,
and then, as he lived alone and had no one to notify, he
started instantly. The messenger offered him his horse,
or, at any rate, to take him up behind him ; but Jean Oullier
shook his head.
"Thank God," he said, "my legs are good."
Then resting his hand on the horse's neck, he set the
pace for the animal to take, — a gentle trot of six miles an
hour. That evening Jean Oullier was at the castle. The
marquis received him with visible delight. He had wor-
ried all day over the idea that Jean Oullier might be
absent, or dead. It is not necessary to say that the idea
of that death worried him not for Jean Oullier's sake but
for his own. We have already informed our readers that
the Marquis de Souday was slightly selfish.
The first thing the marquis did was to take Jean Oullier
apart and confide to him the arrival of his children and his
consequent embarrassment.
Jean Oullier, who had had his own two children massa-
cred, could not understand that a father should voluntarily
wish to part with his children. He nevertheless accepted
the proposal made to him by the marquis to bring up the
little girls till such a time as they were of age to go to
school. He said he would find some good woman at La
Chevrolière who would be a mother to them, — if, indeed,
any one could take the place of a mother to orphaned
children.
Had the twins been sickly, ugly, or disagreeable, Jean
Oullier would have taken them all the same; but they
were, on the contrary, so prepossessing, so pretty, so
graceful, and their smiles so engaging, that the good man
instantly loved them as such men do love. He declared
that their fair and rosy faces and curling hair were so like
those of the cherubs that surrounded the Madonna over the
high altar at Grand-Lieu before it was destroyed, that he
felt like kneeling to them when he saw them.
It was therefore decided that on the morrow Jean
30 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Oullier should take the children back with him to La
Chevrolière.
Now it so happened that, during the time which had
elapsed between the departure of the nurse and the arrival
of Jean Oullier, the weather had been rainy. The mar-
quis, confined to the castle, felt terribly bored. Feeling
bored, he sent for his daughters and began to play with
them. Putting one astride his neck, and perching the
other on his back, he was soon galloping on all fours round
the room, like Henri of Navarre. Only, he improved on
the amusement which his Majesty afforded his progeny by
imitating with his mouth not only the horn of the hunter,
but the barking and yelping of the whole pack of hounds.
This domestic sport diverted the Marquis de Souday im-
mensely, and it is safe to say that the little girls had
never laughed so much in their lives.
Besides, the little things had been won by the tender-
ness and the petting their father had lavished upon them
during these few hours, to appease, no doubt, the reproaches
of his conscience at sending them away from him after so
long a separation. The children, on their side, showed
him a frantic attachment and a lively gratitude, which
were not a little dangerous to the fulfilment of his plan.
In fact, when the carriole came, at eight o'clock in the
morning, to the steps of the portico, and the twins per-
ceived that they were about to be taken away, they set up
cries of anguish. Bertha flung herself on her father,
clasped his knees, clung to the garters of the gentleman
who gave her sugar-plums and made himself such a capital
horse, and twisted her little hands into them in such a
manner that the poor marquis feared to bruise her wrists
by trying to unclasp them.
As for Mary, she sat down on the steps and cried; but
she cried with such an expression of real sorrow that Jean
Oullier felt more touched by her silent grief than by the
noisy despair of her sister. The marquis employer 1 all his
eloquence to persuade the little girls that by getting into
THE TWINS. 31
the carriage . they would have more pleasure and more
dainties than by staying with him; but the more he talked,
the more Mary cried and the more Bertha quivered and
passionately clung to him.
The marquis began to get impatient. Seeing that per-
suasion could do nothing, he was about to employ force
when, happening to turn his eyes, he caught sight of the
look on Jean Oullier's face. Two big tears were rolling
down the bronzed cheeks of the peasant into the thick red
whiskers which framed his face. Those tears acted both
as a prayer to the marquis and as a reproach to the father.
Monsieur de Souday made a sign to Jean Oullier to unhar-
ness the horse; and while Bertha, understanding the sign,
danced with joy on the portico, he whispered in the
farmer's ear : —
"You can start to-morrow."
As the day was very fine, the marquis desired to utilize
the presence of Jean Oullier by taking him on a hunt;
with which intent he carried him off to his own bedroom
to help him on with his sporting-clothes. The peasant
was much struck by the frightful disorder of the little
room; and the marquis continued his confidences with
bitter complaints of his female servitor, who, he said,
might be good enough among her pots and pans, but was
odiously careless as to all other household comforts, par-
ticularly those that concerned his clothes. On this occa-
sion it was ten minutes before he could find a waistcoat
that was not widowed of its buttons, or a pair of breeches
not afflicted with a rent that made them more or less
indecent. However, he was dressed at last.
Wolf-master though he was, the marqiiis, as we have
said, was too poor to allow himself the luxury of a hunts-
man, and he led his little pack himself. Therefore, hav-
ing the double duty of keeping the hounds from getting at
fault, and firing at the game, it was seldom that the poor
marquis, passionate sportsman that he was, did not come
home at night tired out.
32 THE LAST VENDÉE.
With Jean Oullier it was quite another thing. The
vigorous peasant, in the flower of his age, sprang through
the forest with the agility of a squirrel ; he bounded over
bushes when it took too long to go round them, and, thanks
to his muscles of steel, he never was behind the dogs by a
length. On two or three occasions he supported them with
such vigor that the boar they were pursuing, recognizing
the fact that flight would not shake off his enemies, ended
by turning and standing at bay in a thicket, where the
marquis had the happiness of killing him at one blow, — ■
a thing that had never yet happened to him.
The marquis went home light-hearted and joyful, thank'
ing Jean Oullier for the delightful day he owed to him.
During dinner he was in fine good-humor, and invented
new games to keep the little girls as gay as himself.
At night, when he went to his room, the marquis found
Jean Oullier sitting cross-legged in a corner, like a Turk
or a tailor. Before him was a mound of garments, and in
his hand he held a pair of old velvet breeches which he
was darning vigorously.
" What the devil are you doing there ? " demanded the
marquis.
"The winter is cold in this level country, especially
when the wind is from the sea; and after I get home my
legs will be cold at the very thought of a norther blowing
on yours through these rents," replied Jean Oullier, show-
ing his master a tear which went from knee to belt in the
breeches he was mending.
" Ha ! so you 're a tailor, too, are you ? " cried the
marquis.
" Alas ! " said Jean Oullier, " one has to be a little of
everything when one lives alone as I have done these
twenty years. Besides, an old soldier is never at a loss."
"I like that!" said the marquis; "pray, am not I a
soldier, too?"
" No ; you were an officer, and that 's not the same
thing."
THE TWINS. 33
The Marquis de Souday looked at Jean Oullier admir-
ingly. Then he went to bed and to sleep, and snored
away, without in the least interrupting the work of his old
Chouan. In the middle of the night he woke up. Jean
Oullier was still at work. The mound of garments had
not perceptibly diminished.
"But you can never finish them, even if you work till
daylight, my poor Jean," said the marquis.
"I 'm afraid not."
"Then go to bed now, old comrade; you needn't start
till you have mended up all my old rags, and we can have
another hunt to-morrow."
VOL. I. — S
34 THE LAST VENDÉE.
IV.
HOW JEAN OULLIER, COMING TO SEE THE MARQUIS FOR AN
HOUR, WOULD BE THERE STILL IF THEY HAD NOT BOTH
BEEN IN THEIR GRAVE THESE TEN YEARS.
The next morning, before starting for the hunt, it occurred
to the marquis to kiss his children. He therefore went up
to their room, and was not a little astonished to find that
the indefatigable Jean Oullier had preceded him, and was
wasbing and brushing the little girls with the conscientious
determination of a good governess. The poor fellow, to
whom the occupation recalled his own lost young ones,
seemed to be taking deep satisfaction in the work. The
marquis changed his admiration into respect.
For eight days the hunts continued without interruption,
each finer and more fruitful than the last. During those
eight days Jean Oullier, huntsman by day, steward by
night, not only revived and restored his master's wardrobe,
but he actually found time to put the house in order from
top to bottom.
The marquis, far from urging his departure, now thought
with horror of parting from so valuable a servitor. From
morning till night, and sometimes from night till morning,
he turned over in bis mind which of the Chouan's qualities
was most serviceable to him. Jean Oullier had the scent
of a hound to follow game, and the eye of an Indian to dis-
cover its trail by the bend of the reeds or the dew on the
grass. He could even tell, on the dry and stony roads
about Machecoul, Bourgneuf, and Aigrefeuille, the age and
sex of a boar, when the trail was imperceptible to other
eyes. No huntsman on horseback had ever followed up
JEAN OULLIER. 35
the hounds like Jean Oullier on his long and vigorous legs.
Moreover, on the days when rest was actually necessary
for the little pack of hounds, he was unequalled for dis-
covering the places where snipe abounded, and taking his
master to the spot.
" Damn marriage ! " cried the marquis to himself, occa-
sionally, when he seemed to be thinking of quite other
things. "Why do I want to row in that boat when I have
seen so many good fellows come to grief in it? Heavens
and earth! I'm not so young a man — almost forty; I
have n't any illusions; I don't expect to captivate a woman
by my personal attractions. I can't expect to do more
than tempt some old dowager with my three thousand
francs a year, — half of which dies with me. I should
probably get a scolding, fussy, nagging wife, who might
interfere with my hunting, which that good Jean manages
so well; and I am sure she will never keep the house in
such order as he does. Still," he added, straightening
himself up, and swaying the upper part of his body, "is
this a time to let the old races, the supporters of monarchy,
die out? Would n't it be very pleasant to see my son
restore the glory of my house? Besides, what would be
thought of me, — who am known to have had no wife, no
legitimate wife, — what will my neighbors say if I take
the two little girls to live with me? "
When these reflections came, which they ordinarily did
on rainy days, when he could not be off on his favorite
pastime, they cast the Marquis de Souday into painful per-
plexity, from which he wriggled, as do all undecided tem-
peraments and weak natures, — men, in short, who never
know how to adopt a course, — by making a provisional
arrangement.
At the time when our story opens, in 1831, Mary and
Bertha were seventeen, and the provisional arrangement
still lasted; although, strange as it may seem, the Marquis
de Souday had not yet positively decided to keep his
daughters with him.
36 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Jean Oullier, who had hung the key of his house at
La Chevrolière to a nail, had never, in fourteen years,
had the least idea of taking it down. He had waited
patiently till his master gave him the order to go home.
But as, ever since his arrival, the château had been neat
and clean; as the marquis had never once missed a but-
ton; as the hunting-boots were always properly greased;
as the guns were kept with all the care of the best
armory at Nantes; as Jean Oullier, by means of cer-
tain coercive proceedings, of which he learned the secret
from a former comrade of the " brigand army, " had, little
by little, brought the cook not to vent her ill-humor on
her master; as the hounds were always in good condition,
shiny of coat, neither fat nor thin, and able to bear a long
chase of eight or ten hours, ending mostly in a kill; as
the chatter and the pretty ways of his children and their
expansive affection varied the monotony of his existence;
as his talks and gossip with Jean Oullier on the stirring
incidents of the old war, now passed into a tradition (it
was thirty-six years distant), enlivened his dull hours and
the long evenings and the rainy days, — the marquis, find-
ing once more the good care, the quiet ease, the tranquil
happiness he had formerly enjoyed with Eva, with the
additional and intoxicating joys of hunting, — the mar-
quis, we say, put off from day to day, from month to
month, from year to year, deciding on the separation.
As for Jean Oullier, he had his own reasons for not pro-
voking a decision. He was not only a brave man, but he
was a good one. As we have said, he at once took a lik-
ing to Bertha and Mary; this liking, in that poor heart
deprived of its own children, soon became tender affection,
and the tenderness fanaticism. He did not at first per-
ceive very clearly the distinction the marquis seemed to
make between their position and that of other children
whom he might have by a legitimate marriage to perpetu-
ate his name. In Poitou, when a man gets a worthy girl
into trouble he knows of no other reparation than to marry
JEAN OULLIER. 37
her. Jean Oullier thought it natural, inasmuch as his
master could not legitimatize the connection with the
mother, that he should at least not conceal the paternity
which Eva in dying had bequeathed to him. Therefore,
after two months' sojourn at the castle, having made these
reflections, weighed them in his mind, and ratified them in
his heart, the Chouan would have received an order to take
the children away with very ill grace; and his respect for
Monsieur de Souday would not have prevented him from
expressing himself bluffly on the subject.
Fortunately, the marquis did not betray to his dependant
the tergiversations of his mind ; so that Jean Oullier did
really regard the provisional arrangement as definitive,
and he believed that the marquis considered the presence
of his daughters at the castle as their right and also as his
own bounden duty.
At the moment when we issue from these preliminaries,
Bertha and Mary were, as we have said, between seventeen
and eighteen years of age. The purity of race in their
paternal ancestors had done marvels when strengthened
with the vigorous Saxon blood of the plebeian mother.
Eva's children were now two splendid young women, with
refined and delicate features, slender and elegant shapes,
and with great distinction and nobility in their air and
manner. They were as much alike as twins are apt to be;
only Bertha was dark, like her father, and Mary was fair,
like her mother.
Unfortunately, the education of these beautiful young
creatures, while developing to the utmost their physical
advantages, did not sufficiently concern itself with the
needs of their sex. It was impossible that it should be
otherwise, living from day to day beside their father, with
his natural carelessness and his determination to enjoy
the present and let the future take care of itself.
Jean Oullier was the only tutor of Eva's children, as he
was formerly their only nurse. The worthy Chouan taught
them all he knew himself, — namely, to read, write,
38 THE LAST VENDÉE.
cipher, and pray with tender and devont fervor to God and
the Virgin ; also to roam the woods, scale the rocks, thread
the tangle of holly, reeds, and briers without fatigue, with-
out fear or weakness of any kind; to hit a bird on the
wing, a squirrel on the leap, and to ride bareback those
intractable horses of Mellerault, almost as wild on their
plains and moors as the horses of the gauchos on the
pampas.
The Marquis de Souday had seen all this without
attempting to give any other direction to the education of
his daughters, and without having even the idea of coun-
teracting the taste they were forming for these manly exer-
cises. The worthy man was only too delighted to have
such valiant comrades in his favorite amusement, uniting,
as they did, with their respectful tenderness toward him
a gayety, dash, and ardor for the chase, which doubled
his own pleasure from the time they were old enough to
share it.
And yet, in strict justice, we must say that the marquis
added one ingredient of his own to Jean Oullier 's instruc-
tions. When Bertha and Mary were fourteen years old,
which was the period when they first followed their father
into the forest, their childish games, which had hitherto
made the old castle so lively in the evenings, began to lose
attraction. So, to fill the void he was beginning to feel,
the Marquis de Souday taught Bertha and Mary how to
play whist.
On the other hand, the two children had themselves
completed mentally, as far as they could, the education
Jean Oullier had so vigorously developed physically.
Playing hide-and-seek through the castle, they came upon
a room which, in all probability, had not been opened for
thirty years. It was the library. There they found a
thousand volumes, or something near that number.
Each followed her own bent in the choice of books.
Mary, the gentle, sentimental Mary, preferred novels ; the
turbulent and determined Bertha, history. Then they
JEAN OULLIER. 39
mingled their reading in a common fund; Mary told Paul
and Virginia and Amadis to Bertha, and Bertha told
Mèzeray and Velly to Mary. The result of such desultory
reading was, of course, that the two young girls grew up
with many false notions about real life and the habits and
requirements of a world they had never seen, and had, in
truth, never heard of.
At the time they made their first communion the vicar
of Machecoul, who loved them for their piety and the
goodness of their heart, did risk a few remarks to their
father on the peculiar existence such a bringing-up must
produce; but his friendly remarks made no impression on
the selfish indifference of the Marquis de Souday. The
education we have described was continued, and ijuch
habits and ways were the result that, thanks to their
already false position, poor Bertha and her sister acqu ired
a very bad reputation throughout the neighborhood.
The fact was, the Marquis de Souday was surroundei by
little newly made nobles, who envied him his truly illus-
trious name, and asked nothing better than to fling back
upon him the contempt with which his ancestors had prob-
ably treated theirs. So when they saw him keep in his
own house, and call his daughters, the children of an ille-
gitimate union, they began to trumpet forth the evils of
his life in London ; they exaggerated his wrong-doing and
made poor Eva (saved by a miracle from a life of degrada-
tion) a common woman of the town. Consequently, little
by little, the country squires of Beauvoir, Saint-Leger,
Bourgneuf, Saint-Philbert, and Grand-Lieu, avoided the
marquis, under pretence that he degraded the nobility, —
a matter about which, taking into account the mushroom
character of their own rank, they were very good to concern
themselves.
But soon it was not the men only who disapproved of
the Marquis de Souday's conduct. The beauty of the twin
sisters roused the enmity of the mothers and daughters in
a circuit of thirty miles, and that was infinitely more
40 THE LAST VENDÉE.
alarming. If Bertha and Mary had been ugly the hearts
of these charitable ladies and young ladies, naturally
inclined to Christian mercy, would perhaps have forgiven
the poor devil of a father for his improper paternity ; but
it was impossible not to be shocked at the sight of two
such spurious creatures, crushing by their distinction,
their nobility, and their personal charm, the well-born
young ladies of the neighborhood. Such insolent supe-
riority deserved neither mercy nor compassion.
The indignation against the poor girls was so general
that even if they had never given any cause for gossip or
calumny, gossip and calumny would have swept their
wings over them. Imagine, therefore, what was likely to
happen, and did actually happen, when the masculine and
eccentric habits of the sisters were fully known! One
universal hue-and-cry of reprobation arose from the depart-
ment of the Loire-Inférieure and echoed through those of
La Vendée and the Maine-et-Loire ; and if it had not been
for the sea, which bounds the coast of the Loire-Inférieure,
that reprobation would, undoubtedly, have spread as far to
the west as it did to the south and east. All classes,
bourgeois and nobles, city-folk and country-folk, had their
say about it. Young men, who had hardly seen Mary and
Bertha, and did not know them, spoke of the daughters of
the Marquis de Souday with meaning smiles, expressive of
hopes, if not of memories. Dowagers crossed themselves
on pronouncing their names, and nurses threatened little
children when they were naughty with goblin tales of
them.
The most indulgent confined themselves to attributing to
the twins the three virtues of Harlequin, usually regarded
as the attributes of the disciples of Saint-Hubert, — namely,
love, gambling, and wine. Others, however, declared that
the little castle of Souday was every night the scene of
orgies such as chronicles of the regency alone could show.
A few imaginative persons went further, and declared that
one of its ruined towers — abandoned to the innocent loves
JEAN OULLIER. 41
of a flock of pigeons — was a repetition of the famous Tour
de Nesle, of licentious and homicidal memory.
In short, so much was said about Bertha and Mary that,
no matter what had been and then was the purity of their
lives and the innocence of their actions, they became an
object of horror to the society of the whole region. Through
the servants of private houses, through the workmen
employed by the bourgeoisie, this hatred and horror of
society filtered down among the peasantry, so that the
whole population in smocks and wooden shoes (if we
except a few old blind men and helpless women to whom
the twins had been kind) echoed far and wide the absurd
stories invented by the big-wigs. There was not a wood-
man, not a laborer in Machecoul, not a farmer in Saint-
Philbert and Aigrefeuille that did not feel himself degraded
in raising his hat to them.
The peasantry at last gave Bertha and Mary a nickname ;
and this nickname, starting from the lower classes, was
adopted by acclamation among the upper, as a just charac-
terization of the lawless habits and appetites attributed to
the young girls. They were called the she- wolves (a term,
as we all know, equivalent to sluts), — the she- wolves of
Machecoul.
42 THE LAST VENDÉE.
V.
A LITTER OF WOLVES.
The Marquis de Souday was utterly indifferent to all these
signs of public animadversion; in fact, he seemed to ignore
their existence. When he observed that his neighbors no
longer returned the few visits that from time to time he
felt obliged to pay to them, he rubbed his hands with sat-
isfaction at being released from social duties, which he
hated and only performed when constrained and forced to
do so either by his daughters or by Jean Oullier.
Every now and then some whisper of the calumnies that
were circulating about Bertha and Mary reached him ; but
he was so happy with his factotum, his daughters, and his
hounds, that he felt he should be compromising the tran-
quillity he enjoyed if he took the slightest notice of such
absurd reports. Accordingly, he continued to course the
hares daily and hunt the boar on grand occasions, and play
whist nightly with the two poor calumniated ones.
Jean Oullier was far from being as philosophical as his
master; but then it must be said that in his position he
heard much more than the marquis did. His affection for
the two young girls had now become fanaticism ; he spent
his life in watching them, whether they sat, softly smiling,
in the salon of the château, or whether, bending forward
on their horses' necks, with sparkling eyes and animated
faces, they galloped at his side, with their long locks
floating in the wind from beneath the broad brims of their
felt hats and undulating feathers. Seeing them so brave
and capable, and at the same time so good and tender to
A LITTER OF WOLVES. 43
their father and himself, his heart swelled with pride
and happiness; he felt himself as having a share in the
development of these two admirable creatures, and he won-
dered why all the world should not be willing to kneel
down to them.
Consequently, the first persons who risked telling him
of the rumors current in the neighborhood were so sharply
rebuked for it that they were frightened and warned others ;
but Bertha and Mary's true father needed no words to
inform him what was secretly believed of the two dear
objects of his love. From a smile, a glance, a gesture, a
sign, he guessed the malicious thoughts of all with a
sagacity that made him miserable. The contempt that
poor and rich made no effort to disguise affected him
deeply. If he had allowed himself to follow his impulses
he would have picked a quarrel with every contemptuous
face, and corrected some by knocking them down, and
others by a pitched battle. But his good sense told him
that Bertha and Mary needed another sort of support, and
that blows given or received would prove absolutely noth-
ing in their defence. Besides, he dreaded — and this was,
in fact, his greatest fear — that the result of some quarrel,
if he provoked it, might be that the young girls would be
made aware of the public feeling against them.
Poor Jean Oullier therefore bowed his head before this
cruelly unjust condemnation, and tears and fervent prayers
to God, the supreme redressor of the cruelties and injus-
tices of men, alone bore testimony to his grief; but in his
heart he fell into a state of profound misanthropy. See-
ing none about him but the enemies of his two dear chil-
dren, how could he help hating mankind? And he pre-
pared himself for the day when some future revolution
might enable him to return evil for evil.
The revolution of 1830 had just occurred, but it had not
given Jean Oullier the opportunity he craved to put these
evil designs into execution. Nevertheless, as rioting and
disturbances were not yet altogther quelled in the streets
44 THE LAST VENDÉE.
of Paris, and might still be communicated to the provinces,
he watched and waited.
On a fine morning in September, 1831, the Marquis de
Souday, his daughters, Jean Oullier, and the pack —
which, though frequently renewed since we made its
acquaintance, had not increased in numbers — were hunt-
ing in the forest of Machecoul.
It was an occasion impatiently awaited by the marquis,
who for the last three months had been expecting grand
sport from it, — the object being to capture a litter of
young wolves, which Jean Oullier had discovered before
their eyes were opened, and which he had, being a faithful
and knowing huntsman to a Master of Wolves, watched
over and cared for for several months. This last state-
ment may demand some explanations to those of our
readers who are not familiar with the noble art of venery.
When the Duc de Biron (beheaded, in 1602, by order of
Henri IV.) was a youth, he said to his father at one of
the sieges of the religious wars, "Give me fifty cavalry;
there 's a detachment of two hundred men, sallying out to
forage. I can kill every one of them, and the town must
surrender." "Suppose it does, what then?" "What
then? Why, I say the town will surrender." "Yes; and
the king will have no further need of us. We must con-
tinue necessary, you ninny ! " The two hundred foragers
were not killed. The town was not taken, and Biron and
his son continued "necessary; " that is to say, being neces-
sary they retained the favor and the wages of the king.
Well, it is with wolves as it was with those foragers
spared by the Duc de Biron. If there were no longer any
wolves how could there be a Wolf -master? Therefore we
must forgive Jean Oullier, who was, as we may say, a
corporal of wolves, for showing some tender care for the
nurslings and not slaying them, them and their mother,
with the stern rigor he would have shown to an elderly
wolf of the masculine sex.
But that is not all. Hunting an old wolf in the open is
A LITTER OF WOLVES. 45
impracticable, and in a battue it is monotonous and tire-
some; but to hunt a young wolf six or seven months old
is easy, agreeable, and amusing. So, in order to procure
this charming sport for his master, Jean Oullier, on find-
ing the litter, had taken good care not to disturb or
frighten the mother; he concerned himself not at all for
the loss of sundry of the neighbors' sheep, which she
would of course inevitably provide for her little ones. He
had paid the latter several visits, with touching solicitude,
during their infancy, to make sure that no one had laid a
disrespectful hand upon them, and he rejoiced with great
joy when he one day found the den depopulated and knew
that the mother-wolf had taken off her cubs on some
excursion.
The day had now come when, as Jean Oullier judged,
they were in fit condition for what was wanted of them.
He therefore, on this grand occasion, hedged them in to
an open part of the forest, and loosed the six dogs upon
one of them.
The poor devil of a cub, not knowing what all this trum-
peting and barking meant, lost his head and instantly
quitted the covert, where he left his mother and brothers
and where he still had a chance to save his skin. He took
unadvisedly to another open, and there, after running for
half an hour in a circuit like a hare, he became very tired
from an exertion to which he was not accustomed, and
feeling his big paws swelling and stiffening he sat down
artlessly on his tail and waited.
He did not have to wait long before he found out what
was wanted of him, for Domino, the leading hound, a
Vendéan, with a rough gray coat, came up almost immedi-
ately and broke his back with one crunch of his jaw.
Jean Oullier called in his dogs, took them back to the
starting-point, and ten minutes later a brother of the
deceased was afoot, with the hounds at his heels. This
one however, with more sense than the other, did not
leave the covert, and various sorties and charges, made
46 THE LAST VENDÉE.
sometimes by the other cubs and sometimes by the mother-
wolf, who offered herself voluntarily to the dogs, delayed
for a time his killing. But Jean Oullier knew his busi-
ness too well to let such actions compromise success. As
soon as the cub began to head in a straight line with the
gait of an old wolf, he called off his dogs, took them to
where the cub had broken, and put them on the scent.
Pressed too closely by his pursuers, the poor wolfiing
tried to double. He returned upon his steps, and left the
wood with such innocent ignorance that he came plump
upon the marquis and his daughters. Surprised, and los-
ing his head, he tried to slip between the legs of the
horses; but M. de Souday, leaning from his saddle, caught
him by the tail, and flung him to the dogs, who had fol-
lowed his doubling.
These successful kills immensely delighted the marquis,
who did not choose to end the matter here. He discussed
with Jean Oullier whether it was best to call in the dogs
and attack at the same place, or whether, as the rest of
the cubs were evidently afoot, it would not be best to let
the hounds into the wood pell-mell to find as they pleased.
But the mother- wolf, knowing probably that they would
soon be after the rest of her progeny, crossed the road not
ten steps distant from the dogs, while the marquis and
Jean Oullier were arguing. The moment the little pack,
who had not been re-coupled, saw the animal, they gave
one cry, and, wild with excitement, rushed upon her
traces. Calls, shouts, whips, nothing could hold them,
nothing stop them. Jean Oullier made play with his legs,
and the marquis and his daughters put their horses to a
gallop for the same purpose; but the hounds had some-
thing else than a timid, ignorant cub to deal with. Before
them was a bold, vigorous, enterprising animal, running
confidently, as if sure of her haven, in a straight line,
indifferent to valleys, rocks, mountains, or water -courses,
without fear, without haste, trotting along at an even pace,
sometimes surrounded by the dogs, whom she mastered by
A LITTER OF WOLVES. 47
the power of an oblique look and the snapping of her
formidable jaws.
The wolf, after crossing three fourths of the forest,
broke out to the plain as though she were making for the
forest of Grand'Lande. Jean Oullier had kept up, thanks
to the elasticity of his legs, and was now only three or
four hundred steps behind the dogs. The marquis and his
daughters, forced by the ditches to follow the curve of the
paths, were left behind. But when they reached the edge
of the woods and had ridden up the slope which overlooks
the little village of Marne, they saw, over a mile ahead of
them, between Machecoul and La BrilTardière, in the midst
of the gorse which covers the ground near those villages
and La Jacquelerie, Jean Oullier, his dogs, and his wolf,
still in the same relative positions, and following a straight
line at the same gait.
The success of the first two chases and the rapidity of
the ride stirred the blood of the Marquis de Souday.
"Morbleu! " he cried; "I 'd give six years of life to be
at this moment between Saint-Etienne de Mermorte and
La Guimarière and send a ball into that vixen of a wolf."
"She is making for the forest of Grand'Lande," said
Mary.
"Yes," said Bertha; "but she will certainly come back
to the den, so long as the cubs have not left it. She won't
forsake her own wood long."
" I think it would be better to go back to the den, " said
Mary. " Don't you remember, papa, that last year we fol-
lowed a wolf which led us a chase of ten hours, and all for
nothing; and we had to go home with our horses blown,
the dogs lame, and all the mortification of a dead failure?"
"Ta, ta, ta!" cried the marquis; "that wolf wasn't a
she-wolf. You can go back, if you like, mademoiselle; as
for me, I shall follow the hounds. Corbleu! it shall
never be said I wasn't in at the death."
" We shall go where you go, papa, " cried both girls
together.
48 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Very good; forward, then!" cried the marquis, vigor-
ously spurring his horse, and galloping down the slope.
The way he took was stony and furrowed with the deep
ruts of which Lower Poitou keeps up the tradition to this
day. The horses stumbled repeatedly, and would soon
have been down if they had not been held up firmly; it
was evidently impossible to reach the forest of Grand'
Lande before the game.
Monsieur de Souday, better mounted than his daughters,
and able to spur his beast more vigorously, had gained
some rods upon them. Annoyed by the roughness of the
road, he turned his horse suddenly into an open field
beside it, and made off across the plain, without giving
notice to his daughters. Bertha and Mary, thinking that
they were still following their father, continued their way
along the dangerous road.
In about fifteen minutes from the time they lost sight
of their father they came to a place where the road was
deeply sunken between two slopes, at the top of which
were rows of trees, the branches meeting and interlacing
above their heads. There they stopped suddenly, think-
ing that they heard at a little distance the well-known
barking of their dogs. Almost at the same moment a gun
went off close beside them, and a large hare, with bloody
hanging ears, ran from the hedge and along the road before
them, while loud cries of "Follow! follow! tally-ho! tally-
ho! " came from the field above the narrow roadway. 1
The sisters thought they had met the hunt of some of
their neighbors, and were about to discreetly disappear,
when from the hole in the hedge through which the hare
had forced her way, came Eustaud, one of their father's
dogs, yelping loudly, and after Eustaud, Faraud, Bellaude,
Domino, and Fanfare, one after another, all in pursuit
of the wretched hare, as if they had chased that day no
higher game.
1 The English cry " tally-ho " comes from the French cry taillis au, —
" to the copse," or " covert."
A LITTER OF WOLVES. 49
The tail of the last clog was scarcely through the opening
before a human face appeared there. This face belonged
to a pale, frightened-looking young man, with touzled
head and haggard eyes, who made desperate efforts to
bring his body after his head through the narrow passage,
calling out, as he struggled with the thorns and briars,
"Tally-ho! tally-ho! " in the same voice Bertha and Mary
had heard about five minutes earlier.
VOL. I. — A.
50 THE LAST VENDÉE.
VI.
THE WOUNDED HARE.
Among the hedges of Lower Poitou (constructed, like the
Breton hedges, with bent and twisted branches interlacing
each other) it is no reason, because a hare and six hounds
have passed through, that the opening they make should
be considered in the light of a porte-cochere ; on the con-
trary, the luckless young man was held fast as though his
neck were in the collar of the guillotine. In vain he
pushed and struggled violently, and tore his hands and
face till both were bloody; it was impossible for him to
advance one inch.
And yet he did not lose courage; he fought on with
might and main, until suddenly two peals of girlish laugh-
ter arrested his struggles. He looked round, and saw the
two riders bending over the pommels of their saddles, and
making no effort either to restrain their amusement or
conceal the cause of it.
Ashamed of being laughed at by two such pretty girls
(he was only twenty), and perceiving how really grotesque
his appearance must be, the young man tried to withdraw
his head from the hole ; but it was written above that that
unlucky hedge should be fatal to him either way. The
thorns hooked themselves into his clothing and the branches
into his game-bag, so that it was literally impossible for
him to get back. There he was, caught in the hedge as if
in a trap; and this second misfortune only increased the
convulsive hilarity of the two spectators.
The luckless youth no longer used mere vigorous energy
to free himself from the thicket. His struggles became
THE WOUNDED HARE. 51
furious, almost frenzied, and in this last and desperate
attempt his face assumed an expression of such pitiable
despair that Mary, the gentle one, felt touched.
"We ought not to laugh, Bertha," she said; "don't you
see it hurts him? "
"Yes, I see," replied Bertha; "but how can we help it?
I can't stop myself."
Then, still laughing, she jumped off her horse and ran
to the poor fellow to help him.
"Monsieur," she said, "I think a little assistance may
be useful in getting you out of that hedge. Pray accept
the help my sister and I are most ready to offer."
But the girl's laughter had pricked the vanity of the
youth even more than the thorns had pricked his body ; so
that no matter how courteously Bertha worded her pro-
posal, it did not make the unfortunate captive forget the
hilarity of which he had been the object. So he kept
silence; and, with the air of a man resolved to get out of
his troubles without the help of any one, he made a last
and still more strenuous effort.
He lifted himself by his wrists and endeavored to propel
himself forward by the sort of diagonal motion with the
lower part of his body that all animals of the snake genus
employ. Unluckily, in making this movement his fore-
head came in contact with the branch of a wild apple-tree,
which the shears of the farmer who made the hedge had
sharpened like the end of a pike. This branch cut and
scraped the skin like a well-tempered razor; and the young
man, feeling himself seriously wounded, gave a cry as the
blood, spurting freely, covered his whole face.
When the sisters saw the accident, of which they were
involuntarily the cause, they ran to the young man, seized
him by the shoulders, and uniting their efforts, with a
vigor and strength not to be met with among ordinary
women, they managed to drag him through the hedge and
seat him on the bank. Mary, who could not know that
the wound was really a slight one, and only judged by
52 THE LAST VENDÉE.
appearances, became very pale and trembling, as for
Bertha, less impressionable than her sister, she did not
lose her head for a single moment.
"Kun to that brook," she said to Mary, "and wet your
handkerchief, so that I may wash off the blood that is
blinding the poor fellow."
When Mary had done as she was told and had returned
with the moistened handkerchief, she asked the young man
in her gentle way : —
"Do you suffer much, monsieur? "
"Excuse me, mademoiselle," replied the young man,
"but I have so much on my mind at this moment that I do
not know whether I suffer most on the inside or the out-
side of my head." Then suddenly bursting into sobs, with
difficulty restrained till then, he cried out, " Ah ! the good
God has punished me for disobeying mamma! "
Although the youth who spoke was certainly young, —
for, as we have said, he was only twenty, — there was
something so infantine in his accent and so ludicrously
out of keeping with his height and his huntsman's dress
in his words, that the sisters, in spite of their compas-
sion for his wound, could not restrain another peal of
laughter.
The poor lad cast a look of entreaty and reproach, upon
them, while two big tears rolled down his cheeks ; then he
tore from his head, impatiently, the handkerchief wet
with water from the brook, which Mary had laid upon his
forehead.
"Don't do that ! " said Bertha.
"Let me alone!" he cried. "I don't choose to receive
attentions I have to pay for in ridicule. I am sorry now
I did not follow my first idea and run away, at the risk of
getting a worse wound."
"Yes; but as you had the sense not to do so," said
Mary, "have sense enough now to let me put that bandage
back upon your head."
Picking up the handkerchief she went to him with such
THE WOUNDED HARE. 63
a kindly expression of interest that he. shaking his head,
not in sign of refusal but of utter depression, said : —
"Do as you please, mademoiselle."
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Bertha, who had not lost a sin-
gle expression on the countenance of the young man; "for
a hunter you seem to me rather easily upset, monsieur."
"In the first place, mademoiselle, I am not a hunter,
and after what has just happened to me I don't wish ever
to become one."
"I beg your pardon," said Bertha, in the same laughing
tone which had already provoked the youth, " but judging
by the fury with which you assaulted the briers and
thorns, and especially by the eagerness with which you
urged on our dogs, I think I had every right to at least
imagine you a hunter."
" Oh, no, mademoiselle ; I am not a hunter. I was car-
ried away by a momentary excitement, which I cannot
now at all understand. At present I am perfectly cool,
and I know how right my mother was to call the amuse-
ment of hunting, which consists in finding pleasure and
gratified vanity in the agony and death of a poor, defence-
less, dumb animal, ridiculous and degrading."
"Take care, monsieur! " cried Bertha. "To us, who are
ridiculous and degraded enough to like that amusement,
you seem a good deal like the fox in the fable."
Just then Mary, who had gone a second time to the
brook to wet her handkerchief, was about to re-bandage
the young man's forehead. But he pushed her away from
him angrily.
"In Heaven's name, mademoiselle," he cried, "spare
me your attentions ! Don't you hear how your sister con-
tinues to laugh at me? "
"No, let me tie this on, I beg of you," said Mary.
But he, not allowing himself to be persuaded by the
sweetness of her voice, rose to his knees, with the evident
intention of escaping altogether. Such obstinacy, which
was more that of a child than of a man, exasperated the
54 THE LAST VENDÉE.
irascible Bertha ; and her irritation, though inspired by the
purest feelings of humanity, was none the less expressed in
rather too energetic a way for one of her sex.
" Confound it ! " she cried, as her father might have
done under similar circumstances, "the provoking little
fellow won't hear reason! Put on the bandage, Mary;
I'll hold his hands, and we'll see if he stirs then."
And Bertha, seizing the young man's wrists with a mus-
cular strength which paralyzed all his efforts to get away,
managed to facilitate Mary's task so that she was able to
bind the wound and tie the handkerchief, which she did
with a nicety that might have done honor to a pupil of
Dupuytren or Jobert.
"Now, monsieur," said Bertha, "you are in a fit state
to go home, and get away from us, as you are longing to
do, without so much as thank you. You can go."
But in spite of this permission and his restored liberty,
the youth did not budge. He seemed surprised and also
deeply humiliated at having fallen into the hands of two
such strong women; his eyes turned from Bertha'to Mary
and from Mary to Bertha, and still he was unable to find
a word to say. At last, seeing no other way out of his
embarrassment, he hid his face in his hands.
"Oh! " said Mary, kindly; "do you feel ill? "
The youth made no answer. Bertha gently moved his
hands from his face, and finding that he was really
weeping, she became as compassionate and gentle as her
sister.
"You are more hurt than you seemed to be; is it the
pain that makes you cry? " she said. "If so, get on my
horse or my sister's, and we will take you home."
But to this the young man eagerly made a sign in the
negative.
"Come," said Bertha, "enough of this childish nonsense!
We have affronted you; but how could we know that the
skin of a girl was under your hunting-jacket. Neverthe-
less, we were wrong; we admit it, and we beg your pardon.
THE WOUNDED HARE. 55
You may not think we do so in a proper manm-r; but
remember the situation, and say to yourself that aim :é] il y
is all you can expect from two girls so neglected by Heaven
as to spend their time in the ridiculous amusement which
your mother unfortunately disapproves. Now, do you mean
to be unforgiving? "
"No, mademoiselle," replied the youth; "it is only with
myself that I am annoyed."
"Why so?"
" I can hardly tell you. Perhaps it is that I am ashamed
to be weaker than you, — I, a man; perhaps, too, I am all
upset at the thought of going home. What can I say to
my mother to explain this wound? "
The two girls looked at each other. Women as they
were, they would have cared little for such a trifle; but
they refrained from laughing, strong as the temptation
was, seeing by this time the extreme nervous susceptibility
of the young man.
"Well, then," said Bertha, "if you are no longer angry
with us, let us shake hands and part friends."
And she held out her hand as a man might have done.
The youth was about to reply with a like gesture, when
Mary made a sign to call their attention, by lifting her
finger in the air.
" Hush ! " said Bertha, listening as her sister did, one
hand half extended toward that of the young man.
In the distance, but coming rapidly nearer, they heard
the sharp, eager, prolonged yelping of hounds, — of hounds
that were scenting game. It was the Marquis de Souday's
pack, still in pursuit of the wounded hare, which had now
doubled on them. Bertha pounced on the young man's
gun, the right barrel of which was still loaded. He made
a gesture as if to stop a dangerous imprudence, but the
young girl only smiled at him. She ran the ramrod hastily
down the loaded barrel, as all prudent hunters do when
about to use a gun they have not loaded themselves, and
finding that the weapon was in proper condition, she
56 THE LAST VENDÉE.
advanced a few steps, handling the gun with an ease which
showed she was perfectly familiar with the use of it.
Almost at the same moment the hare darted from the
hedge, evidently with the intention of returning the way
it came; then, perceiving the three persons who stood
there, it made a rapid somersault and doubled back. Quick
as the movement was Bertha had time to aim; she fired,
and the animal, shot dead, rolled down the bank into the
middle of the road.
Mary had, meantime, advanced like her sister to shake
hands with the young man, and the two stood looking on
at what was happening with their hands clasped. Bertha
picked up the hare, and returning to the unknown young
man who still held Mary's hand, she said, giving him the
game: —
"There, monsieur, there 's an excuse for you."
"How so? " he asked.
" You can tell your mother that the hare ran between
you?' legs and your gun went off without your knowledge ;
and you can swear, as you did just now, that it shall
never happen again. The hare will plead extenuating
circumstances."
The young man shook his head in a hopeless way.
"No," he said, "I should never dare tell my mother I
have disobeyed her."
" Has she positively forbidden you to hunt? "
" Oh, dear, yes ! "
"Then you are poaching!" said Bertha; "you begin
where others finish. Well, you must admit you have a
vocation for it."
"Don't joke, mademoiselle. You have been so good to
me I don't want to get angry with you; I should only be
twice as unhappy then."
"You have but one alternative, monsieur," said Mary;
" either tell a lie — which you will not do, neither do we
advise it — or acknowledge the whole truth. Believe me,
whatever your mother may think of your amusing yourself
THE WOUNDED HARE. 57
in defiance of her wishes, your frankness will disarm her.
Besides, it is not such a great crime to kill a hare."
"All the same I should never dare to tell her."
"Is she so terrible as all that? " inquired Bertha.
" No, mademoiselle ; she is very kind and tender. She
indulges all my wishes and foresees my fancies; but on
this one matter of guns she is resolute. It is natural she
should be," added the young man, sighing ; "my father was
killed in hunting."
"Then, monsieur," said Bertha, gravely, "our levity has
been all the more misplaced, and we regret it extremely.
I hope you will forget it and remember only our regrets."
"I shall only remember, mademoiselle, the kind care
you have bestowed upon me ; and I, in turn, hope you will
forget my silly fears and foolish susceptibility."
"No, no, we shall remember them," said Mary, "to pre-
vent ourselves from ever hurting the feelings of others as
we hurt yours; for see what the consequences have
been ! "
While Mary was speaking Bertha had mounted her
horse. Again the youth held out his hand, though timidly,
to Mary. She touched it with the points of her fingers
and sprang into her own saddle. Then, calling in the
dogs, who came at the sound of their voices, the sisters
gave rein to their horses and rode rapidly away.
The youth stood looking after them, silent and motion-
less, until they had disappeared round a curve of the road.
Then he dropped his head on his breast and continued
thoughtful. We will remain a while with this new per-
sonage, for we ought to become fully acquainted with him.
58 THE LAST VENDÉE.
VIL
MONSIEUR MICHEL.
What had just happened produced such a powerful im-
pression on the young man's mind that after the girls
had disappeared he fancied it must have been a dream.
He was, in fact, at that period of life when even those
who are destined to become later the most practical of men
pay tribute to the romantic; and this meeting with two
young girls, so different from those he was in the habit of
seeing, transported him at once into the fantastic world of
youth's first dreams, where the imagination wanders as it
pleases among the castles built by fairy hands, which topple
over beside the path of life as we advance along it.
We do not mean to say, however, that our young man
had got as far as falling in love with either of the two
amazons, but he felt himself spurred to the keenest curi-
osity; for this strange mixture of distinction, beauty,
elegance of manner, and cavalier virility struck him as
extraordinary. He determined to see these girls again,
or, at any rate, to find out who they were.
Heaven seemed disposed to satisfy his curiosity at once.
He had hardly started on his way home, and was not more
than a few hundred steps from the spot where the young
girls had left him, when he met an individual in leather
gaiters, with a gun and a hunting-horn slung over his
blouse and across his shoulders, and a whip in his hand.
The man walked fast and seemed much out of temper. He
was evidently the huntsman who belonged to the young
women. Accordingly the youth, assuming his most gra-
cious and smiling manner, accosted him.
MONSIEUR MICHEL. 59
"Friend," he said, "you are searching for two young
ladies, I think, — one on a brown-bay horse, the other on
a roan mare."
"In the first place, I am not your friend, for I don't
know you," said the man, gruffly. "I am looking for my
dogs, which some fool turned off the scent of a wolf they
were after and put on that of a hare, which he missed
killing, like the blunderer that he. is."
The young man bit his lips. The man in the blouse,
whom our readers no doubt recognize as Jean Oullier, went
on to say : —
"Yes, I saw it all from the heights of Benaste, which
I was coming down when our game doubled, and I 'd
willingly have given the premium which the Marquis
de Souday allows me on the hunt if I could have had
that lubber within reach of my whip."
The youth to whom he spoke thought it advisable to
make no sign that he was concerned in the affair; he lis-
tened, therefore, to Jean Oullier's allocution as if it were
absolutely of no interest to him, and said merely : —
"Oh! do you belong to the Marquis de Souday? "
Jean Oullier looked askance at his blundering questioner.
"I belong to myself," said the old Chouan. "I lead
the hounds of the Marquis de Souday, as much for my
pleasure as for his."
"Dear me! " said the young man, as if speaking to him-
self, "Mamma never told me the marquis was married."
"Well then," interrupted Oullier, "I tell it you now,
my good sir; and if you have anything to say against it,
I '11 tell you something else, too. Do you hear me? "
Having said these words in a threatening tone, which
his hearer seemed not to understand, Jean Oullier, without
further concerning himself as to what the other might be
thinking, turned on his heel and walked off rapidly in the
direction of Machecoul.
Left to himself the young man took a few more steps in
the path he had taken when the young girls left him;
60 THE LAST VENDÉE.
then turning to the left he went into a field. In that field
was a peasant ploughing. The peasant was a man about
forty years of age, who was distinguishable from the peas-
ants of Poitou by a shrewd and sly expression of counte-
nance peculiarly Norman. He was ruddy in complexion,
his eyes were keen and piercing; but his constant effort
seemed to be to diminish, or rather to conceal, their keen-
ness by perpetually blinking them. He probably thought
that proceeding gave a look of stupidity, or at least of
good humor, which checked the distrust of others ; but his
artful mouth, with its corners sharply defined, and curling
up like those of an antique Pan, betrayed, in spite of him,
that he was one of those wonderful products that usually
follow the crossing of Mans and Norman blood.
Although the young man made directly for him, he did
not stop his work; he knew the cost of the effort to his
horses to start the plough when its motion was arrested in
that tough and clayey soil. He therefore continued his
way as though he were alone, and it was only at the end
of the furrow, when he had turned his team and adjusted
his instrument to continue the work, that he showed a
willingness to enter into conversation while his horses
recovered their wind.
"Well," he said, in a tone that was almost familiar,
"have you had good sport, Monsieur Michel? "
The youth, without replying, took the game bag from
his shoulder, and dropped it at the peasant's feet. The
latter, seeing through the thick netting the yellowish,
silky fur of a hare, exclaimed: —
"Ho, ho! pretty good for your first attempt, Monsieur
Michel."
So saying, he took the animal from the bag, and exam-
ined it knowingly, pressing its belly as if he were not very
sure of the precautions so inexperienced a sportsman as
Monsieur Michel might have taken.
"Ha! sapredienne ! " he cried; "the fellow is worth
three francs and a half, if he is a farthing. You made a
MONSIEUE MICHEL. Cl
fine shot there, Monsieur Michel; do you know it? You
must have found out by this time that it is more amusing
to be out with a gun than reading a book, as you are
always doing."
"~No, upon my word, Courtin, I prefer my books to your
gun," said the youth.
"Well, perhaps you are right," replied Courtin, whose
face expressed some slight disappointment. " If your late
father had thought as you do it might have been better for
him, too. But all the same, if I had means and were not
a poor devil obliged to work for a living twelve hours out
of the twenty-four, I would spend more than my nights in
hunting. "
"Do you still hunt at night, Courtin? "
"Yes, Monsieur Michel, now and then, for amusement."
"The gendarmes will catch you some night."
"Pooh! they 're do-nothings, those fellows; they don't
get up early enough in the morning to catch me." Then,
allowing his face to express all its natural cunning, he
added, "I know a thing more than they, Monsieur Michel;
there are not two Courtins in this part of the country.
The only way to prevent me from poaching is to make me
a game-keeper like Jean Oullier."
Monsieur Michel made no reply to this indirect proposal,
and as he was totally ignorant of who Jean Oullier might
be, he did not notice the last part of the sentence any more
than the beginning of it.
"Here is your gun, Courtin," he said, holding out the
weapon. " Thank you for your idea of lending it to me ;
you meant well, and it is n't your fault if I don't find as
much amusement in hunting as other people do."
"You must try again, Monsieur Michel, and get a lik-
ing for it ; the best dogs are those that show points last.
I 've heard men who will eat thirty dozen oysters at a sit-
ting say they could n't even bear to look at them till they
were past twenty. Leave the château with a book, as you
did this morning; Madame la baronne won't suspect any-
62 THE LAST VENDÉE.
tiling. You '11 find me at work about here, and my gun is
always at your service. Besides, if I am not too busy, I '11
beat the bushes for you. Meantime I '11 put the tool in
the rack."
Courtin's "rack" was merely the hedge which divided
his field from his neighbors. He slipped the gun into it
and drew the twigs and briers together, so as to hide the
place from a passing eye, and also to keep his piece from
rain and moisture, — two things, however, to which a true
poacher pays little attention, so long as he still has candle-
ends and a bit of linen.
"Courtin," said Monsieur Michel, endeavoring to assume
a tone of indifference, " did you know that the Marquis de
Souday was married? "
"No, that I did n't," said the peasant.
"And has two daughters? " continued Michel.
Courtin, who was still finishing his work of concealment
by twisting a few rebellious branches, raised his head
quickly and looked at the young man with such fixedness
that although the latter had only asked his question out of
vague curiosity he blushed to the very whites of his eyes.
"Have you met the she-wolves?" asked Courtin. "I
thought I heard that old Chouan's horn."
"Whom do you call the she-wolves? " said Michel.
"I call those bastard girls of the Marquis de Souday the
she-wolves," replied Courtin.
"Do you mean to say you call those two young girls by
such a name? "
"Damn it! that 's what they 're called in all the country
round. But you 've just come from Paris, and so you don't
know. Where did you meet the sluts? "
The coarseness with which Courtin spoke of the young
ladies frightened the timid youth so much that, without
exactly knowing why, he lied.
"I have not met them," he said.
By the tone of his answer Courtin doubted his words.
"More's the pity for you," he answered. "They are
MONSIEUR MICHEL. 63
pretty slips of girls, good to see and pleasant to hug."
Then, looking at Michel and blinking as usual, he added,
"They say those girls are a little too fond of fun; but
that 's the kind a jolly fellow wants, does n't he, Monsieur
Michel?"
Without understanding the cause of the sensation,
Michel felt his heart more and more oppressed as the
brutal peasant spoke with insulting approval of the two
charming amazons he had just left under a strong impres-
sion of gratitude and admiration. His annoyance was
reflected in his face.
Courtin no longer doubted that Michel had met the she-
wolves, as he called them, and the youth's denial made the
man's suspicions as to what the truth might be go far
beyond reality. He was certain that the marquis had
been within an hour or two close to La Logerie, and it
seemed quite probable that Monsieur Michel should have
seen Bertha and Mary, who almost always accompanied
their father when he hunted. Perhaps the young man
might have clone more than see them, perhaps he had
spoken with them ; and, thanks to the estimation in which
the sisters were held, a conversation with the Demoiselles
de Souday would only mean the beginning of an intrigue.
Going from one deduction to another, Courtin, who was
logical in mind, concluded that his young master had
reached that point. We say "his young master," because
Courtin tilled a farm which belonged to Monsieur Michel.
The work of a farmer, however, did not please him; what
he coveted was the place of keeper or bailiff to the mother
and son. For this reason it was that the artful peasant
tried by every possible means to establish a strong relation
of some kind between himself and the young man.
He had evidently just failed of his object in persuading
Michel to disobey his mother in the matter of hunting.
To share the secrets of a love affair now struck him as a
part very likely to serve his interests and his low ambi-
tions. The moment he saw the cloud on Monsieur Michel's
64 THE LAST VENDÉE.
brow he felt he had made a mistake in echoing the current
calumnies, and he looked about him to recover his ground.
"However," he said, with well-assumed kindliness,
"there are always plenty of people to find more fault,
especially in the matter of girls, than there is any occasion
for. Mademoiselle Bertha and Mademoiselle Mary — "
"Mary and Berth a! Are those their names?" asked
the young man, eagerly.
"Mary and Bertha, yes. Mademoiselle Bertha is the
dark one, and Mademoiselle Mary the fair one."
He looked at Monsieur Michel with all the acuteness of
which his eyes were capable, and he thought the young
man slightly blushed as he named the fair one.
"Well, as I was saying," resumed the persistent peasant,
"Mademoiselle Mary and Mademoiselle Bertha are both
fond of hunting and hounds and horses ; but that does n't
prevent them from being very good girls. Why, the late
vicar of Benaste, who was a fine sportsman, did n't say
mass any the worse because his dog was in the vestry and
his gun behind the altar."
"The fact is," said Monsieur Michel, forgetting that he
gave the lie to his own words, — "the fact is, they both
look sweet and good, particularly Mademoiselle Mary."
"They are sweet and good, Monsieur Michel. Last
year, during that damp, hot weather, when the fever came
up from the marshes and so many poor devils died of it,
who do you think nursed the sick without shirking, when
even some of the doctors and the veterinaries deserted
their posts? Why, the she-wolves, as they call them.
They did n't do their charity in church, no ! They went
to the sick people's houses; they sowed alms and reaped
blessings. Though the rich hate them, and the nobles are
jealous of them, I make bold to say that the poor folk are
on their side."
" Why should any one think ill of them? " asked Michel.
"Who knows? Nobody gives any real reason. Men,
don't you see, Monsieur Michel, are like birds. When one
MONSIEUR MICHEL. 65
is sick and in the clumps all the others come about him and
pluck out his feathers. "What is really true in all this is
that people of their own rank fling mud and stones at those
poor youug ladies. For instance, there 's your mamma,
who is so good and kind, — isn't she, Monsieur Michel'/
Well, if you were to ask her she would tell you, like all the
rest of the world, ' They are bad girls.' "
But, in spite of this change of front on Courtin's part,
Monsieur Michel did not seem disposed to enter into the
subject farther. As for Courtin himself, he thought enough
had been said to pave the way for future confidences. As
Monsieur Michel seemed ready to leave him, he started
his horses and accompanied him to the end of the field.
He noticed, as they went along, that the young man's eyes
were often turned on the sombre masses of the Machecoul
forest.
VOL. I. — 5
66 THE LAST VENDÉE,
VIII.
THE BARONNE DE LA LOGERIE.
Courtin was respectfully lowering for his young master
the bars which divided his field from the road when a
woman's voice, calling Michel, was heard beyond the
hedge. The young man stopped short and trembled at the
sound.
At the same moment the owner of the voice appeared on
the other side of the hedge fence which separated Courtin's
field from that of his neighbor. This person, this lady,
may have been forty to forty-five years of age. We must
try to explain her to the reader.
Her face was insignificant, and without other character
than an air of haughtiness which contrasted with her
otherwise common appearance. She was short and stout;
she wore a silk dress much too handsome for the fields,
and a gray cambric hat, the floating ends of which fell
upon her forehead and neck. The rest of her apparel was
so choice that she might have been paying a visit in the
Chaussée-d'Àntin or the faubourg Saint-Honore. This
was, apparently, the person of whose reproaches the young
man stood so much in awe.
"What!" she exclaimed, "you here, Michel? Eeally,
my son, you are very inconsiderate, and you show very
little regard for your mother. The bell has been ringing
more than an hour to call you in to dinner. You know
how I dislike to be kept waiting, and how particular I am
that our meals should be regular; and here I find you tran-
quilly talking to a peasant."
THE BARONNE DE LA LOGEKIE. 67
Michel began to stammer an excuse ; but, almost at the
same instant his mother's eye beheld what Gourtin had
either not noticed or had not chosen to remark upon, —
namely, that the young man's head was bound up with a
handkerchief, and that the handkerchief had blood-stains
upon it, which his straw hat, although its brim was wide,
did not effectually conceal.
"Good God!" she cried, raising a voice, which in its
ordinary key was much too high. "You are wounded!
What has happened to you? Speak, unfortunate boy!
don't you see that I am dying of anxiety?"
Climbing the fence with an impatience, and, above all,
an agility which could scarcely have been expected of one
of her age and corpulence, the mother of the youth came
up to him, and before he could prevent her, took the hat
and the handkerchief from his head.
The wound, thus disturbed by the tearing away of the
bandage, began to bleed again. Monsieur Michel, as
Courtin called him, unprepared for the explanation he so
much dreaded, and which was now forced upon him sud-
denly, stood silent and confused, unable to reply. Courtin
came to his aid. The wily peasant saw at once that the
youth, fearing to tell his mother that he had disobeyed her,
was also unwilling to tell a lie. As he himself had no
scruples on that point, he resolutely burdened his con-
science with the sin that, in his innocence, Michel dared
not commit.
"Oh! Madame la baronne need not be anxious ; it is
nothing, absolutely nothing."
" But I wish to know how it happened. Answer for him
yourself, Courtin, if monsieur is determined to keep
silence."
The young man was still dumb.
"It is easily told, Madame la baronne," replied Courtin.
"I had a bundle of branches I took off last autumn; it was
so heavy I could n't lift it on to my shoulders alone, and
Monsieur Michel had the kindness to help me. One branch
68 THE LAST VENDÉE.
of the cursed thing got loose and scratched him on the
forehead, as you see."
"Scratch! that's more than a scratch! you came near
putting his eye out. Another time, Maître Courtin, get
your equals to load your fagots; do you hear me? It was a
very improper proceeding in itself, besides nearly maiming
my son."
Courtin humbly bowed his head, as if recognizing the
enormity of his offence ; but that did not prevent him from
giving the hare, which lay near the game-bag, a vigorous
kick, which threw it out of sight under the hedge.
"Come, Monsieur Michel," said the baroness, who seemed
appeased by the peasant's submissiveness, "you must go
and see the doctor about that wound." Then turning back,
after she had taken a few steps, she added, "By the bye,
Courtin, you have not paid your mid-summer rent, and yet
your lease expires at Easter. Remember that. I am
determined not to keep tenants who are not regular in
their payments."
Courtin's expression of countenance was more humble
than ever; but it changed when the mother, getting over
the fence with less agility than before, left the son free to
whisper to Courtin : —
"I'll be here to-morrow."
In spite of the threat just made to him, Courtin seized
the handle of his plough with more gayety than usually
belonged to his disposition, and started upon a new furrow,
while his betters returned to the château. For the rest
of the day's work he enlivened his horses by singing to
them "La Parisienne," a patriotic song then much in
vogue.
While Courtin sings the above-mentioned hymn, much
to the satisfaction of his steeds, let us say a few words as
to the Michel family. You have seen the son, my dear
readers, and you have seen the mother. The mother was
the widow of one of those government purveyors who had
made, at the cost of the State, rapid and considerable
THE BARONNE DE LA LOGERIE. 69
fortunes out of the Imperial armies; the soldiers nick-
named them "Rice-bread-salt."
The family name of this purveyor was Michel. He
came originally from the department of Mayenne, and
was the son of a peasant and the nephew of a village
schoolmaster. The latter, by adding a few notions of
arithmetic to the reading and writing he imparted to him
gratuitously, did actually decide his nephew's future
career.
Taken by the first draft, in 1794, Michel the peasant
joined the 22d brigade with very little enthusiasm. This
man, who later became a distinguished accountant, had
already calculated his chances of being killed and of
becoming a general. The result of his calculation did not
altogether satisfy him, and he therefore, with much adroit-
ness, made the most of his fine handwriting (also due to
his uncle, the schoolmaster) to get a place as clerk in the
quartermaster's department. He felt as much satisfaction
in obtaining that position as another man would have felt
at promotion.
It was there, at the base of supplies, that Michel, the
father, went through the campaigns of 1792 and 1793.
Toward the middle of the latter year General Rossignol,
who was sent to either pacify or exterminate La Vendée,
having accidentally come across Michel, the clerk, in one
of the offices, and hearing from him that he was a native
of those regions and that all his friends were in the Ven-
déan ranks, bethought himself of utilizing this providential
circumstance. He gave Michel an indefinite furlough, and
sent him home with no other instructions than to take ser-
vice among the Chouans and do for him, from time to
time, what Monsieur de Maurepas did for His Majesty
Louis XV., — that is to say, give him the news of the,
day. Michel, who found great pecuniary advantages in
this commission, fulfilled it with scrupulous fidelity, not
only for General Rossignol but for all his successors.
This anecdotical correspondence was at its height, when
70 THE LAST VENDÉE.
General Travot was sent to La Vendee. We all know the
result of liis operations; they were the subject of the
opening chapters of this book. Here is a recapitulation of
them: the Vendéan army defeated, Jolly killed, Couëtu
enticed into an ambush and taken by a traitor whose name
has never been known, Charette made prisoner in the
woods of La Chabotière and shot in the market-place of
Nantes.
What part did Michel play in the successive vicissitudes
of that terrible drama? We may find an answer to that
question later; it is certain that soon after the last bloody
episodes Michel, still recommended for his beautiful hand-
writing and his infallible arithmetic, entered, as clerk, the
office of a very celebrated army contractor.
There he made rapid progress, for in 1805 we find him
contracting on his own account to supply forage to the
army of Germany. In 1806 his shoes and gaiters took an
active part in the heroic campaign of Prussia. In 1809
he obtained the entire victualling of the army that entered
Spain. In 1810 he married the only daughter of another
contractor and doubled his fortune with her dowry.
Besides all this, he changed his name, — or rather
lengthened it, — which was, for those whose names were
too short, the great ambition of that period. This is how
the coveted addition was managed.
The father of Monsieur Michel's wife was named
Baptiste Durand. He came from the little village of La
Logerie, and to distinguish him from another Durand who
often crossed his path, he called himself Durand de la
Logerie. At any rate, that was the pretext he gave. His
daughter was educated at one of the best schools in Paris,
where she was registered on her arrival as Stéphanie
Durand de la Logerie. Once married to this daughter of
his brother contractor, Monsieur Michel thought that his
name would look better if his wife's name were added to
it. He accordingly became Monsieur Michel de la Logerie.
Finally, at the Restoration, a title of the Holy Roman
THF BARONNE DE LA LOGERIE. 71
Empire, bought for cash, enabled hiin to call himself the
Baron Michel de la Logerie, and to take his place, once
for all, in the financial and territorial aristocracy of the
day.
A few years after the return of the Bourbons, — that is
to say, about 1819 or 1820, — Baron Michel de la Li
lost his father-in-law, Monsieur Durand de la Logerie.
The latter left to his daughter, and consequently to her
husband, his estate at La Logerie, standing, as the details
given in preceding chapters will Lave told the reader,
about fifteen miles from the forest of Machecoul. The
Baron Michel de la Logerie, like the good landlord and
seigneur that he was, went to take possession of his estate
and show himself to his vassals. He was a man of sense;
he wanted to get into the Chamber. He could do that only
by election, and his election depended on the popularity he
might gain in the department of the Lower Loire.
He was born a peasant; he had lived twenty -five years
of his life among peasants (barring the two or three years
he was in the quartermaster's office), and he knew exactly
how to deal with peasants. In the first place, he had to
make them forgive his prosperity. He made himself what
is called "the good prince," found a few old comrades of
the Vendéan days, shook hands with them, spoke with
tears in his eyes of the deaths of poor Monsieur Jolly and
dear Monsieur Couetu and the worthy Monsieur Charette.
He informed himself about the needs of the village, which
he had never before visited, had a bridge built to open
important communication between the department of the
Lower Loire and that of La Vendée, repaired three county
roads and rebuilt a church, endowed an orphan asylum and
a home for old men, received so many benedictions, and
found such pleasure in playing this patriarchal part that
he expressed the intention of living only six months of
the year in Paris and the other six at his Château de la
Logerie.
Yielding, however, to the entreaties of his wife, who,
72 THE LAST VENDÉE.
being unable to understand the violent passion for country
life which seemed to have come over him, wrote letter
after letter from Paris to hasten his return, he yielded, we
say, to her so far as to promise to return on the following
Monday. Sunday was to be devoted to a grand battue of
wolves in the woods of La Pauvrière and the forest of
Grand'Lande, which were infested by those beasts. It
was, in fact, another philanthropic effort on the part of
Baron Michel de la Logerie.
At the battue Baron Michel still continued to play his
part of a rich, good fellow. He provided refreshments for
all, ordered two barrels of wine to be taken on handcarts
after the trail, that every one might drink who would; he
ordered a positive banquet for the whole party to be ready
at an inn on their return, refused the post of honor at the
battue, expressed the wish to be treated as the humblest
huntsman, and his ill-luck in drawing lots having bestowed
upon him the worst place of all, bore his misfortune with
a good-humor that delighted everybody.
The battue was splendid. From every covert the beasts
came; on all sides guns resounded with such rapidity that
the scene resembled a little war. Bodies of wolves and
boars were piled up beside the handcarts bearing the wine-
barrels, not to speak of contraband game, such as hares
and squirrels, which were killed in this battue, as at other
battues, under the head of vermin, and carefully hidden
away, to be fetched during the night.
The intoxication of success was such that the hero of
the day was forgotten. It was not until after the last
beating-up was over that Baron Michel was missed.
Inquiries were made. No one had seen him since the
morning; in fact, not since he had drawn the lot which
gave him the worst place at the extreme end of the hunt.
On making this discovery, it was supposed that finding his
chance of amusement very slight, and being solicitous for
the entertainment of his guests, he had gone back to the
little town of Lege, where the feast was to be given.
THE BARONNE DE LA LOGEUIE. 73
But when the huntsmen arrived at Lege they found that
the baron was not there. Most of them being tired and
hungry sat down to the supper table without him; but a
few — five or six — others, feeling uneasy, returned to the
woods of La Pauvrière with torches and lanterns and began
to search for him.
At the end of two hours' fruitless effort, he was found
dead in the ditch of the second covert they had drawn.
He was shot through the heart.
This death caused great excitement and many rumors.
The police of Nantes investigated it. The huntsman
whose place was directly below that of the baron was
arrested. He declared that, although he was distant only
one hundred and fifty steps from the baron, a corner of
the wood concealed them from each other, and he had seen
and heard nothing. It was also proved that this man's
gun had not been fired that day; moreover, from the place
where he stood he could only have hit Baron Michel on the
right, whereas the latter had, as a matter of fact, been
shot on the left.
The inquiry, therefore, went no farther. The death of
the ex-contractor was attributed to accident; it was sup-
posed that a stray ball had struck him (as sometimes hap-
pens when game is driven), without evil intention on the
part of whoever fired it. And yet, in spite of this explan-
ation, a vague rumor got about of some accomplished
revenge. It was said — but said in the lowest whisper, as
if each tuft of gorse still concealed the gun of a Chouan
— it was said that a former soldier of Jolly or Couètu or
Charette had made the unfortunate purveyor expiate the
betrayal and death of those illustrious leaders; but there
were too many persons interested in the secret to let it
ever be openly asserted.
The Baronne Michel de la Logerie was left a widow,
with one son. She was one of those women of negative
virtues of which the world is full. Of vices she did not
possess a spark; of passions she was so far ignorant of
74 THE LAST VENDÉE.
their very name. Harnessed at seventeen to tlie marriage
plough, she had plodded along in the conjugal furrow
without swerving to the right nor yet to the left, and never
so much as asking herself if there were any other road.
The idea had never crossed her mind that a woman could
revolt against the goad. Relieved of the yoke, she was
frightened by her liberty, and instinctively looked about
her for new chains. These chains religion gave her; and
then, like all narrow minds, she took to vegetating in
false, exaggerated, and, at the same time, conscientious
devotion.
Madame la Baronne Michel sincerely believed herself a
saint; she went regularly to church, kept all the fasts,
and was faithful to all the injunctions of the Church.
Had any one told her that she sinned seven times a day
she would have been greatly astonished. Yet nothing was
more true. It is certain that if the humility of Madame
la Baronne de la Logerie had been dissected she would
have been found at every hour of the day to disobey the
precepts of the Saviour of men ; for (little ground as she
had for it) her pride of rank amounted to mania. We
have seen how the sly peasant Courtin, who called the son
Monsieur Michel, never failed to give the mother her title
of baroness.
Naturally, Madame de la Logerie held the world and the
epoch in holy horror; she never read a police report in
her newspaper without accusing both (the world and the
epoch) of the blackest immorality. To hear her, one
would suppose the Iron age dated from 1800. Her utmost
care was therefore directed to save her son from the con-
tagion of the ideas of the day by bringing him up at a
distance from the world and all its dangers. Never would
she listen to the idea of his entering any sort of public
school; even those of the Jesuits were dangerous in her
eyes, from the readiness of the good fathers to accommo-
date themselves to the social obligations of the young men
confided to their care. Though the heir of all the Michels
THE BAEONNE DE LA LOGERIE. 75
received some lessons from masters, which, so far as arts
and sciences go, were indispensable to the education of a
young main it was always in presence of the mother and
on a plan approved by her; for she alone directed the
course of ideas and instruction, especially on the moral
side, which were given to her son.
A strong infusion of intelligence, which by great good
luck nature had placed in the youth's brain, was needed to
bring him safe and sound out of the torture to which she
had subjected him for over ten years. He did come
through it, as we have seen, though feeble and undecided,
and with nothing of the strength and resolution which
should characterize a man, — the representative of vigor,
decision, and intellect.
76 THE LAST VENDÉE.
IX.
GAL0N-D OR AND ALLEGRO.
As Michel had foreseen and feared, his mother scolded him
vigorously. She was not duped by Courtin's tale ; the
wound on her son's forehead was by no means a scratch
made by a thorn. Ignorant of what interest her son could
have in concealing the matter from her, and quite convinced
that even if she questioned him she should not get at the
truth, she contented herself by fixing lier eyes steadily from
time to time on the mysterious wound, and shaking her
head with a sigh and a scowl of the maternal forehead.
During the whole dinner Michel was ill at ease, lowering
his eyes and scarcely eating; but it must be said that his
mother's incessant examination was not the only thing that
troubled him. Hovering between his lowered eyelids and
his mother's suspecting eyes were two forms, two visions.
These visions were the twin shadows of Bertha and of
Mary.
Michel thought of Bertha with some slight irritation.
Who was this Amazon who handled a gun like a trained
huntsman, who bandaged wounds like a surgeon, and who,
when she found her patient refractory, twisted his wrists
with her white and womanly hands as Jean Oullier might
have done with his hard and calloused ones ?
But on the other hand, how charming was Mary, with
her fine blond hair and her beautiful blue eyes ! how sweet
her voice, how persuasive its accents ! With what gentleness
she had touched his wound, washed off the blood, and bound
the bandage ! Michel scarcely regretted the wound, for
without it there vv'as no reason why the young ladies should
galon-d'or and allégro. 77
have spoken to him or, indeed, have taken any notice of
him.
It was true that his mother's displeasure and the doubts
he had raised in her mind were really the more serious mat-
ter; but he persuaded himself that her anger would soon
pass off, whereas the thing that would not pass was the im-
pression left on his heart during the few seconds when he
held Mary's hand clasped closely in his own. All hearts
when they begin to love and yet are not aware of it crave
solitude ; and for this reason no sooner was dinner over
than, profiting by a moment when his mother was discours-
ing with a servant, he left the room, not hearing or not
heeding the words with which she called after him.
And yet those words were important. Madame de la
Logerie forbade her son to go near the village of Saint-
Christophe-du-Ligneron, where, as she had learned from a
servant, a bad fever was raging. She at once put the
château under quarantine, and forbade that any one from
the infected village should approach it. The order was
enforced immediately in the case of a young girl who
came to ask assistance of the baroness for her father, just
attacked by the fever.
If Michel's mind had not been so pre-occupied he would
undoubtedly have paid attention to his mother's words, for
the sick man was his foster-father, a farmer named Tinguy,
and the girl who had come to ask help was his foster-sister,
Kosine, for whom he had the greatest affection. But at
this moment his thoughts were all rushing toward Souday,
and more especially to that charming creature who bore the
name of Mary.
He buried himself in the remotest woodland of the park,
taking with him a book as an excuse ; but though he read
the book attentively till he reached the edge of the forest
he would have been puzzled to tell you the name of it had
you asked him. Once hidden from his mother's eyes he sat
down on a bench and reflected.
What was he reflecting about ? Easy to answer. He
78 THE LAST VENDEE.
was thinking how he could contrive to see Mary and her
sister again. Chance had thrown them together once, but
chance had taken her time about it, for he had been over
six months in the neighborhood. If it pleased chance to
be another six months without giving the young baron a
second meeting with his new friends the time would be too
long for the present state of his heart.
On the other hand, to open communications with the
château de Souday himself was hardly feasible. There had
never been any sympathy between the Marquis de Souday,
an émigré of 1790, and the Baron de la Logerie, a noble of
the Empire. Besides, Jean Oullier, in the few words he
had exchanged with him, had shown plainly there was no
disposition to make his acquaintance.
But the young girls, they who had shown him such inter-
est, masterful in Bertha, gentle in Mary, how could he
reach the young girls ? This indeed was difficult, for
though they hunted two or three times a week, they were
always in company of their father and Jean Oullier.
Michel resolved to read all the novels in the library of
the château, hoping to discover from them some ingenious
method which, as he began to fear, his own mind, limited to
its own inspirations, could never furnish. At this stage of
his reflections a touch was laid upon his shoulder ; looking
round with a quiver he saw Courtin ; the farmer's face ex-
pressed a satisfaction he did not take any pains to conceal.
"Beg pardon, excuse me, Monsieur Michel," said the man ;
" seeing you as still as a milestone, I thought it was your
statue instead of yourself."
" Well, you see it is I, Courtin."
" And I 'm glad of it, Monsieur Michel ; I was anxious to
hear what passed between you and Madame la baronne."
" She scolded me a little."
" Oh ! I was sure of that. Did you tell her anything
about the hare ? "
" I took good care not to."
" Or the wolves ? "
galon-d'or and allégro. 79
" What wolves ? " asked the young man not ill-pleased
to bring the conversation to this point.
" The she-wolves of Machecoul ; I told you that was the
nickname for the young ladies at Souday."
" Of course I did not tell her ; you know that, Courtin. I
don't think the Souday hounds and those of La Logerie can
hunt together."
"In any case," replied Courtin, in the sneering tone
which, in spite of his best efforts, he was sometimes unable
to conceal, " if your hounds won't hunt with the Souday
pack you, as it seems, can hunt with theirs."
" What do you mean by that ? "
" Look ! " pulling toward him and, as it were, bringing
on the stage two coupled hounds which he held in a leash.
" What are they ? " asked the young baron.
" They ? Why, Galon-d'Or and Allegro, to be sure."
" I don't know who Galon-d'Or and Allégro are."
" The dogs of that brigand Jean Oullier."
" Why did you take his dogs ? "
" I did n't take them ; I simply put them in the pound,"
" By what right ? "
"By two rights : land-owner's rights, and mayor's rights."
Courtin was mayor of the village of La Logerie, which
contained about a score of houses, and he was very proud of
the title.
" Please explain those rights, Courtin."
" Well, in the first place, Monsieur Michel, I confiscate
them as mayor because they hunt at an illegal season."
" I did not know there was an illegal season for hunting
wolves ; besides as Monsieur de Souday is Master of
wolves — "
" That 's very true ; as Master of wolves he can hunt
wolves in the forest of Machecoul, but not on the plain.
Besides, as you know yourself," continued Courtin, with a
sneering smile, " as you saw yourself, he was not hunting a
wolf at all, but a hare — and moreover, that hare was shot
by one of his own cubs."
80 THE LAST VEKDÉE.
The young man was on the point of telling Courtin that
the word cub applied to the Demoiselles de Souday was
offensive to him, and of requesting him not to use it again,
but he dared not make so firm a remonstrance.
" It was Mademoiselle Bertha who killed it, Courtin," he
said, " but I had previously wounded it ; so I am the guilty
person."
" Pshaw ! what do you mean by that ? Would you have
fired on the hare if the hounds were not already coursing
it ? No, of course not. It is the fault of the dogs that you
fired, and that Mademoiselle Bertha killed the game ; and it
is therefore the dogs that I punish as mayor for pursuing
hares under pretence of hunting wolves. But that 's not
all ; after punishing them as mayor I punish them as — pro-
prietor. Do you suppose I gave Monsieur le marquis' dogs
the right to hunt over my land ? "
" Your land, Courtin ! " said Michel, laughing ; " you are a
trifle mistaken ; it was over my land, or rather my mother's,
that they were trespassing."
"That's no matter, Monsieur le baron, inasmuch as I
farm it. You must remember that we are no longer in 1789,
when the great lords had a right to ride with their hounds
over the harvests of the poor peasants and trample every-
thing down without paying for it ; no, no, no, indeed ! this
is the year 1832, Monsieur Michel ; every man is master of
the soil he lives on, and game belongs to him who supports
it. The hare coursed by the dogs of the marquis is my hare,
for it has fed on the wheat in the fields I hire from Madame
la baronne, and it is I alone who have the right to eat that
hare which you wounded and the she-wolf killed."
Michel made an impatient movement which Courtin de-
tected out of the corner of his eye ; but the youth did not
dare to further express his displeasure.
" There is one thing that surprises me," he said, " and
that is why those dogs that are straining so at the leash
ever allowed you to catch them."
" Oh ! " said Courtin, '•' that did not give me any trouble.
galon-d'or and allégro. 81
After I left you and Madame la baronne at the bars, I came
back and found these gentlemen at dinner."
" At dinner ? "
" Yes, in the hedge, where I left the hare ; they found
it and they were dining. It seems they are not properly
fed at the château de Souday. Just see the state my hare
is in."
So saying, Courtin took from the huge pocket of his
jacket the hindquarters of the hare, which formed the in-
criminating proof of the misdemeanor ; the head and shoul-
ders were eaten off.
"And to think," said Courtin, "that they did it in just
that minute of time while I was with you and madame \
Ah ! you scamps, you '11 have to help me kill a good many
to make me forget that."
"Courtin, let me tell you something," said the young
baron.
" Tell away, don't be backward, Monsieur Michel."
" It is that as you are a mayor you ought to respect the
laws."
" Laws ! I wear them on my heart. Liberty ! Public
order ! Don't you know those words are posted over the
door of the mayor's office, Monsieur Michel ? "
" Well, so much the more reason why I should tell you
that what you are doing is not legal, and threatens liberty
and public order."
" What ! " exclaimed Courtin. " Shall the hounds of
those she-wolves hunt over my land at a prohibited season,
and I not be allowed to put them in the pound ? "
" They were not disturbing public order, Courtin ; they
were simply injuring private interests ; you have the right
to lodge a complaint against them, but not to put them
in the pound."
" Oh ! that 's too round-about a way ; if hounds are to be
allowed to run where they like and we can only lodge com-
plaints against them, then it is n't men who have liberty,
but dogs."
VOL. I. — 6
82 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Courtin," said the youth, with, a touch of the assump-
tion observable in men who get a smattering of the Code,
" you make the mistake that a great many persons make ;
you confound liberty with independence ; independence is
the liberty of men who are not free, my friend."
" Then what is liberty, Monsieur Michel ? "
"Liberty, my dear Courtin, is the sacrifice that each
man makes of his personal independence for the good of
all. It is from the general fund of independence that
each man draws his liberty ; we are free, Courtin, but not
independent."
" Oh, as for me," said Courtin, " I don't know anything
about all that. I am a mayor and the holder of land ; and
I have captured the best hounds of the Marquis de Souday's
pack, Galon-d'Or and Allégro, and I shall not give them up.
Let him come after them, and when he does I shall ask him
what he has been doing in certain meetings at Torfou and
Montaigu."
" What do you mean ? "
" Oh, I know what I mean."
"Yes, but I don't."
" There is no reason why you should know ; you are not
a mayor."
"No, but I am an inhabitant of the place and I have an
interest in knowing what happens."
" As for that, it is easy to see what is happening ; these
people are conspiring again."
"What people ? "
" Why, the nobles ! the — but I 'd better hold my tongue,
though you are not exactly their style of nobility, you."
Michel reddened to the whites of his eyes.
" You say the nobles are conspiring, Courtin ? "
" If not, why do they have these secret meetings at night.
If they meet in the day-time, the lazy fellows, to eat and
drink, that 's all well enough ; the law allows it and there 's
nothing to be said. But when they meet at night it is
for no good end, you may be sure. In any case they had
galon-d'or and allégko. 83
better look out ; I've got my eye upon them, and I 'm the
mayor ; I may not have the right to put the dogs in the
pound, but I have the right to put the men in prison; I
know the Code plain enough as to that."
"And you say Monsieur de Souday frequents those
meetings ? "
" Goodness ! do you suppose he does n't ? — an old Chouan
and a former aide-de-camp of Charette like him ! Let him
come and claim his dogs ; yes, let him come ! and I '11 send
him to Nantes, him and his cubs ; they shall be made to
explain what they are about, roaming the woods as they
do at night."
" But," exclaimed Michel, with an eagerness there was no
mistaking, "you told me yourself, Courtin, that if they
went about at night it was to help the poor sick people."
Courtin stepped back a pace and pointing his finger at
his young master he said with his sneering laugh : —
" Ha ! ha ! I 've caught you."
" Me ! " said the young man, coloring, " how have you
caught me ? "
" Well, they 've caught you."
" Caught me ! "
"Yes, yes, yes ! And I don't blame you either; whatever
else these young ladies may be, I must say they are pretty.
Come, you need n't blush that way ; you are not just out
of a seminary ; you are neither a priest, nor a deacon, nor
a vicar; you are a handsome lad of twenty. Go ahead,
Monsieur Michel ; they '11 have very poor taste if they don't
like you when you like them."
"But, my dear Courtin," said Michel, "even supposing
what you say were true, which it is not, I don't know these
young ladies ; I don't know the marquis. I can't go and
call there just because I have happened to meet those young
girls once on horseback."
" Oh, yes, I understand," said Courtin, in his jeering way ;
" they have n't a penny, but they 've fine manners. You
want a pretext, an excuse for going there, don't you ?
84 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Well, look about and find one ; you, who talk Greek and
Latin and have studied the Code, you ought to be able to
find one."
Michel shook his head.
" Oh ! " said Courtin, " then you have been looking for
one ? "
" I did not say so," said the young baron, hastily.
" No, but I say so ; a man is n't so old at forty that he
can't remember what he was at twenty."
Michel was silent and kept his head lowered ; the peas-
ant's eye weighed heavily upon him.
" So you could n't find a way ? Well, I 've found one
for you."
" You ! " cried the youth eagerly, looking up. Then,
recognizing that he had let his secret thoughts escape him,
he added, shrugging his shoulders : " How the devil do you
know that I want to go to the castle ? "
" Well, the way to do it," said Courtin, seeing that his
master made no attempt to deny his wish, " the way is
this — "
Michel affected indifference, but he was listening with all
his ears.
" You say to me, ' Père Courtin, you are mistaken as to
your rights ; you cannot, either as mayor or the holder of
property put the Marquis de Souday's dogs in the pound ;
you have a right to an indemnity, but this indemnity must
be amicably agreed upon.' To which I, Père Courtin, reply :
' If you are concerned in it, Monsieur Michel, I agree ; I
know your generosity.' On which you say : ' Courtin, you
must give me those dogs ; the rest is my affair.' And I
reply : ' There are the dogs, Monsieur Michel ; as for the
indemnity, hang it ! a gold piece or two will play the
game, and I don't want the death of the sinner.' Then,
don't you see ? you write a bit of a note to the marquis ; you
have found the dogs, and you send them back by Rousseau
or La Belette, for fear he should be anxious. He can't help
thanking you and inviting you to call and see him. Per-
galon-d'oe and allégko. 85
haps, however, to make quite sure, you had better take the
dogs back yourself."
" That will do, Courtin," said the young baron. " Leave
the dogs with me ; I '11 send them to the marquis, not to
make him invite me to the castle, for there 's not a word of
truth in all you have been supposing, but because, between
neighbors, it is a courteous thing to do."
" Very good, — so be it ; but, all the same, they are two
pretty slips, those girls. As for the indemnity — "
" Ah, yes," said the young baron, laughing, " that 's fair ;
you want the indemnity for the injury the hounds did you by
passing over my land and eating up half the hare which
Bertha killed."
And he gave the farmer what he happened to have in his
pocket, which was three or four louis. It was lucky for
him there was no more, for he was so delighted at finding a
way to present himself at the château de Souday that he
would willingly have given the farmer ten times that sum
if by chance it had been in his purse.
Courtin cast an appreciative eye on the golden louis he
had just received under the head of " indemnity," and put-
ting the leash in the hand of the young man he went his
way.
But after going a few steps he turned round and came
back to his master.
" Don't mix yourself up too much with those people,
Monsieur Michel," he said. " You know what I told you
just now about those messieurs at Torfou and Montaigu ; it
is all true, and mark my words, in less than fifteen days
there '11 be a fine row."
This time he departed for good, singing "La Parisienne,"
for the words and tune of which he had a great predilection.
The young man was left alone with the two dogs.
86 THE LAST VENDÉE.
X.
IN WHICH THINGS DO NOT HAPPEN PRECISELY Agi BARON
MICHEL DREAMED THEY WOULD.
Our lover's first idea was to follow Courtin's original
advice and send the dogs back to the Marquis de Souday by
Rousseau and La Belette, two serving-men belonging partly
to the château and partly to the farm, who owed the nick-
names by which Courtin has presented them to the reader,
one to the ruddy color of his hair, the other to the resem-
blance of his face to that of a weasel whose obesity La
Fontaine has celebrated in one of his prettiest fables.
But after due reflection the young man feared that the
Marquis de Souday might content himself with sending a
simple letter of thanks and no invitation. If, unfortunately,
the marquis should act thus, the occasion was lost ; he
would have to wait for another; and one so excellent as
this could not be expected to happen every day. If, on the
contrary, he took the dogs back himself he must infallibly
be received ; a neighbor would never be allowed to bring
back valuable strayed dogs in person, over a distance of ten
or a dozen miles, without being invited in to rest, and possi-
bly, if it was late, to pass the night at the castle.
Michel pulled out his watch; it was a little after six.
We think we mentioned that Madame la Baronne Michel
had preserved, or rather had taken a habit of dining at
four o'clock. In her father's house Madame la baronne had
dined at mid-day. The young baron had therefore ample
time to go to the castle.
But it was a great resolution to take ; and decision of
character was not, as we have already informed the reader,
BARON MICHEL'S EXPECTATIONS. 87
the predominating feature in Monsieur Michel's character.
He lost a quarter of an hour in hesitation. Fortunately, in
these May days the sun did not set till eight o'clock.
Besides, he could properly present himself as late as
nine.
But then — perhaps the young ladies after a hunting-day
would go to bed early ? It was not, of course, the marquis
whom the baron wanted to see. He would n't have gone a
mile for that purpose ; whereas to see Mary he felt he could
march a hundred. So at last he decided to start at once.
Only, and this was indeed a hindrance, he suddenly per-
ceived that he had no hat. To get it he must return to the
château, at the risk of encountering his mother and all her
cross-questioning, — whose dogs were those ? where was he
going ? etc.
But did he really want a hat ? The hat, that is, the lack of
it, would be set down to neighborly eagerness ; or else the
wind had taken it ; or else a branch bad knocked it down a
ravine, and he could not follow it on account of the dogs.
At any rate, it was worse to encounter his mother than to
go without his hat; accordingly he started, hatless, leading
the dogs in the leash.
He had hardly made a dozen steps before he discovered
that it would not take him the seventy-five minutes he had
calculated to get to Souday. No sooner were the hounds
aware of the direction in which their new leader was taking
them than it was all he could do to hold them back. They
smelt their kennel, and dragged at the leash with all their
might ; if harnessed to a light carriage they would have
made the distance in half an hour. The young man, forced
to keep up with them at a trot, would certainly do it in
three-quarters.
After twenty minutes of this lively gait Michel reached
the forest of Machecoul, intending to make a short cut
through it. It was necessary to mount a rather steep slope
before entering the wood, and when he reached the top he
halted to get his breath. Not so with the dogs, who got
88 THE LAST VENDÉE.
their breath while running and wanted to keep on their
way. The baron opposed this desire by planting himself
firmly on his feet and leaning back while they dragged him
forward. Two equal forces neutralize each other, — that is
one of the first principles of mechanics. The young baron
was the stronger, therefore he neutralized the force of the
two dogs.
This done, and quiet resulting, he took out his handker-
chief to mop his forehead. While he did so, enjoying the
cool freshness of the breeze as it breathed on his face from
the invisible lips of evening, he fancied he heard a cry
wafted upon that breeze. The dogs heard it too, and they
answered it with that long, mournful cry of a lost animal.
Then they began to pull at their chain with fresh energy.
The baron was now rested and his forehead was mopped ;
he was therefore quite as ready as Galon-d'Or and Allégro
to continue the way ; instead of leaning back he leaned for-
ward, and his little jog-trot was resumed.
He had scarcely gone a few hundred steps before the
same cry, or rather call, was repeated, but very much nearer
and therefore more distinct than the first. The dogs
answered by a long howl and a more determined drag on
their collars. The young man now felt certain that the cry
proceeded from some one in search of the dogs, and he
bawled to them (hauler). We beg pardon of our readers for
using so unacademic a word, but it is the one our peasants
use to represent the peculiar shout of a huntsman calling in
his dogs. It has the advantage of being expressive ; and
besides (for a last and better reason), I know no other.
About six hundred paces farther on the same cry was re-
peated for the third time by the seeking man and the miss-
ing hounds. This time Galon-d'Or and Allégro tore along
with such vigor that their conductor was almost carried off
his feet, and was forced to make his jog-trot a quick trot
and his quick trot a gallop.
He had scarcely kept along at that pace for three minutes
before a man appeared among the trees, jumped the ditch
BARON MICHEL'S EXPECTATIONS. 89
beside the road, and barred the baron's way. The man was
Jean Oullier.
" Ah, ha ! " he cried ; " so it 's you, my pretty man, who
not only turn my dogs off the trail of the wolf I am hunting
to that of a hare you 're after, but actually couple them,
and lead 'em in a leash ! "
" Monsieur," said the young man, all out of breath, " if
I have coupled them and led them it is to have the honor
of returning them to Monsieur le Marquis de Souday
myself."
" Ho ! yes, that 's a likely story, — with no hat on your
head ! You need n't trouble yourself any further, my good
sir. Now you 've met me I '11 take them back myself."
So saying, and before Monsieur Michel had time to
oppose or even guess his intention, Jean Oullier wrenched
the chain from his hand and threw it on the necks of the
hounds, very much as we throw a bridle on the neck of a
horse. Finding themselves at liberty the dogs darted at
full speed in the direction of the castle, followed by Jean
Oullier, whose pace was equal to theirs as he cracked his
whip and shouted: —
" Kennel ! kennel, scamps ! "
The whole scene was so rapid that dogs and man were
nearly out of sight before the young baron recovered him-
self. He stopped short helplessly in the roadway, and
must have been there ten minutes, gazing, with his mouth
open, in the direction Jean Oullier and the dogs had taken,
when the soft and caressing voice of a young girl said close
beside him : —
" Gracious goodness ! Monsieur le baron, what are you
doing here at this hour, bare-headed ? "
What he was doing, the young man would have been
rather puzzled to say ; in point of fact he was following his
hopes, which had flown away in the direction of the castle,
whither he dared not follow them. He turned round to see
who spoke to him, and recognized his foster-sister, the
daughter of the farmer Tinguy.
90 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Oh, it is you, Rosine, is it ? " he said ; " what are you
doing here yourself?"
" Monsieur le baron," said the girl, in a tearful voice, " I
have just oome from the château de la Logerie, where
Madame la baronne treated me very unkindly."
" Why so, Rosine ? You know my mother loves you and
takes care of you."
" Yes, as a general thing ; but not to-day."
"Why not to-day ?"
" She has just had me turned out of the house."
" Why did n't you ask for me ? "
" I did ask for you, Monsieur le baron, but they said yon
were not at home."
" I was at home ; I have only just come out, my dear ;
for fast as you may have come, I'll answer for it I came
faster!"
" Maybe ; it is likely enough, Monsieur le baron ; for
when Madame was so cruel to me I thought I would come
and ask the wolves to help me, but could n't decide at once
to do so."
" What help can the wolves give you ? "
Michel forced himself to utter the word.
" The help I wanted Madame la baronne to give me, for
my poor father who is very ill."
" What is the matter with him ? "
" A fever he caught in the marshes."
" A fever ? " repeated Michel ; " is it a malignant fever,
— intermittent or typhoid ? "
" I don't know, Monsieur le baron."
" What does the doctor say ? "
" Oh, goodness ! the doctor lives at Palluau ; he won't
trouble himself to come here under five francs, and we are
not rich enough to pay five francs for a doctor's visit."
" And did n't my mother give you any money ? "
" Why, I told you she would n't even see me ! ' A
fever ! ' she said ; ' and Rosine dares to come to the chateau
when her father has a fever ? Send her away.' "
BARON MICHEL'S EXPECTATIONS. 91
" Oh, impossible ! "
" I heard her, Monsieur le baron, she spoke so loud ; be-
sides, the proof is that they turned ine out of the house."
"Wait, wait!" cried the young man eagerly, "I'll give
you the money." He felt in his pockets. Then he remem-
bered that he had given Courtin all he had with him.
" Confound it ! I have n't a penny on me," he said. " Conic
back with me to the château, Rosine, and I '11 give you all
you want."
" No, no ! " said the young girl ; " I would n't go back for
all the gold in the world ! No, my resolution is taken : I
shall go to the wolves ; they are charitable ; they won't turn
away a poor girl who wants help for a dying father."
" But — but," said the young man, hesitating, " I am told
they are not rich."
" Who are not rich ? "
" The Demoiselles de Souday."
" Oh ! it is n't money people ask of them, — it is n't
alms they give ; it is something better than that, and God
knows it."
" What is it, then ? "
" They go themselves when people are sick ; and if they
can't cure them, they comfort them in dying, and mourn
with those who are left."
" Yes," said the young man, " that may be for ordinary
illness, but when it is a dangerous fever — "
" They would n't mind that, — not they ! There 's nothing
dangerous to kind hearts. I shall go to them, and you '11
see they'll come. If you stay here ten minutes more
you '11 see me coming back with one or other of the sisters,
who will help me nurse my father. Good-bye, Monsieur
Michel. I never would have thought Madame la baronne
could be so cruel ! To drive away like a thief the daughter
of the woman who nursed you ! "
The girl walked on and the young man made no answer ;
there was nothing he could say. But Rosine had dropped a
word which remained in his mind : " If you stay here ten
92 THE LAST VENDÉE.
minutes you will see me coming back with one or other of
the sisters." He resolved to stay. The opportunity he had
lost in one direction came back to him from another. Oh !
if only Mary should be the one to come out with Rosine !
But how could he suppose that a young girl of eighteen,
the daughter of the Marquis de Souday, would leave her
home at eight o'clock at night and go five miles to nurse a
poor peasant ill of a dangerous fever? It was not only
improbable, but it was actually impossible. Rosine must
have made 'the sisters better than they were, just as others
made them worse.
Besides, was it believable that his mother, noted for her
piety and claiming all the virtues, could have acted in
this affair just the reverse of two young girls of whom so
much evil was said in the neighborhood? But if things
should happen as Bosine said, would n't that prove that
these young girls had souls after God's own heart? Of
course, however, it was quite certain that neither of them
would come.
The young man was repeating this for the tenth time in
as many minutes when he saw, at the angle of the road
round which Bosine had disappeared, the shadows of two
women. In spite of the coming darkness he saw that one
was Bosine ; but as for the person with her, it was impos-
sible to recognize her identity, for she was wrapped in a
large mantle.
Baron Michel was so perplexed in mind, and his heart
above all was so agitated, that his legs failed him, and he
stood stock-still till the girls came up to him.
"Well, Monsieur le baron," said Bosine, with much
pride, "what did I tell you?"
"What did you tell him? " said the girl in the mantle.
Michel sighed. By the firm and decided tone of voice
he knew she was Bertha.
" I told him that I should n't be turned away from your
house as I was from the château de la Logerie," answered
Bosine.
BARON MICHEL'S EXPECTATIONS. 93
"But," said Michel, "perhaps you have not told Made-
moiselle de Souday what is the matter with your father."
"From the symptoms," said Bertha, "I suppose it is
typhoid fever. That is why we have not a minute to lose;
it is an illness that requires to be taken in time. Are you
coming with us, Monsieur Michel?"
"But, mademoiselle," said the young man, "typhoid
fever is contagious."
"Some say it is, and others say it is not," replied Bertha,
carelessly.
"But," insisted Michel, "it is deadly."
"Yes, in many cases; though it is often cured."
The young man went close up to Bertha.
" Are you really going to expose yourself to such a dan-
ger? " he said.
"Of course I am."
"For an unknown man, a stranger to you?"
"Those who are strangers to us," said Bertha, with
infinite gentleness, "are fathers, brothers, husbands, to
other human beings. There is no such thing as a stranger
in this world, Monsieur Michel; even to you this man may
be something."
"He was the husband of my nurse," stammered Michel.
"There! you see," said Bertha, "you can't regard him
as a stranger."
" I did offer to go back to the château with Rosine and
give her the money to get a doctor."
"And she refused, preferring to come to us? Thank
you, Rosine," said Bertha.
The young man was dumfounded. He had heard of
charity, but he had never seen it; and here it was embodied
in the form of Bertha. He followed the young girls
thoughtfully, with his head down.
"If you are coming with us, Monsieur Michel," said
Bertha, "be so kind as to carry this little box, which
contains the medicines."
"No," said Rosine, "Monsieur le baron can't come with
94 THE LAST VENDÉE.
us, for he knows what a dread madame has of contagious
diseases."
"You are mistaken, Kosine," said the young man; "I
am going with you."
And he took the box from Bertha's hands. An hour
later they all three reached the cottage of the sick man.
THE FOSTER-FATHER. 95
XI.
THE FOSTER-FATHER.
The cottage stood, not in the village but on the outskirts
of it, a gunshot distant or thereabouts. It was close to a
little wood, into which the back-door opened.
The goodman Tinguy — that was the term usually
applied to Rosine's father — was a Chouan of the old type.
While still a lad, he fought through the first war in La
Vendée under Jolly, Couëtu, Charette, La Rochejaquelein,
and others. He was afterwards married and had two
children. The eldest, a boy, had been drafted, and was
now in the army; the youngest was Rosine.
At the birth of each child the mother, like other poor
peasant-women, had taken a nursling. The foster-brother
of the boy was the last scion of a noble family of Maine,
Henri de Bonneville, who will presently appear in this
history. The foster-brother of Rosine was, as we have
already said, Michel de la Logerie, one of the chief actors
in our drama.
Henri de Bonneville was two years older than Michel;
the two boys had often played together on the threshold of
the door that Michel was about to cross, following Bertha
and Rosine. Later on they met in Paris ; and Madame de-
là Logerie had encouraged the intimacy of her son with a
young man of large fortune and high rank in the Western
provinces.
These foster-children had greatly eased the circum-
stances of the Tinguy family ; but the Vendéan peasant is
so constituted that he never admits that he is comfortably
96 THE LAST VENDÉE.
off. Tinguy was now making himself out poor at the
expense of his life. Ill as he was, nothing would have
induced, him to send to Palluau for a doctor, whose visit
would have cost him five francs. Besides, no peasant,
and the Vendéan peasant least of all, believes in a doctor
or in medicine. This was why Rosine, when they wanted
help, applied first at the château de la Logerie, as foster-
sister of the young baron, and then, being driven thence,
to the Demoiselles de Souday.
At the noise the young people made on entering the sick
man rose on his elbow, with difficulty, but immediately
fell back on the bed with a piteous moan. A candle was
burning, which lighted the bed only; the rest of the room
was in darkness. The light showed, on a species of cot
or pallet, a man over fifty years of age, struggling in the
grasp of the demon of fever. He was pale to lividness;
his eyes were glassy and sunken, and from time to time
his body shook from head to foot, as if it had come in
contact with a galvanic battery.
Michel shuddered at the sight. He understood at once
why his mother, fearing contagion, and knowing that
Rosine must come from that bedside impregnated with
the miasmas of the disease, which were floating almost
visibly in the circle of light around that dying bed, was
unwilling to let Rosine enter the château. He wished
for camphor, or chloride of lime, or some disinfectant to
isolate the sick man from the well man, but having
nothing of the kind he stood as near the door as he could
to breathe the fresh air.
As for Bertha, she seemed to pay no attention to all
that; she went straight to the patient and took his hand.
Michel made a motion as if to stop her, and opened his
lips to utter a cry; but he was, in a measure, petrified by
the boldness of her charity, and he kept his place silently,
in admiring terror.
Bertha questioned the sick man. He replied that in the
morning, when he rose he had felt so weary that his legs
THE FOSTER-FATHER. 97
gave way under him when he attempted to walk. This
was a warning given by Nature; but the peasantry seldom
pay heed to such advice. Instead of getting back into bed
and sending for a doctor, Tinguy dressed himself, went
down into the cellar for a pot of cider, and cut himself a
slice of bread, — to "strengthen him up," as he said. His
pot of cider tasted good, but he could not eat the bread.
Then he went to his work in the fields.
As he went along, he had terrible pains in his head and
a bleeding at the nose ; his weariness was excessive, and
he was forced to sit down ouce or twice. When he came
to a brook he drank of it; but this did not slake his thirst,
which was so great that he even drank the water out of a
puddle. When at last he reached his field he had not the
strength to put a spade into the furrow he had begun the
night before, and he stood for some moments leaning on his
tool. Then his head turned, and he lay down, or rather
fell down on the ground in a state of utter prostration.
There he remained till seven in the evening, and might
have stayed all night if a peasant from the little town of
Lege had not happened to come along. Seeing a man
lying in the field, he called to him. Tinguy did not
answer, but he made a movement. The peasant went
nearer and recognized him. With great difficulty he got
the sick man home ; Tinguy was so feeble that it took him
over an hour to go half a mile.
Rosine was watching for him anxiously. When she saw
him she was frightened, and wished to go to Palluau and
fetch the doctor; but her father positively forbade it, and
went to bed, declaring it would be nothing and the next
day he should be well. But as his thirst, instead of les-
sening, continued to increase, he told Rosine to put a
pitcher of water by his bedside for the night. He spent
the night thus, devoured by thirst, and drinking inces-
santly without allaying the fever that burned within him.
The next morning he tried to rise; but he no sooner sat
up in bed than his head, in which he complained of violent
VOL. I. — 7
98 THE LAST VENDÉE.
shooting pains, became dizzy, and he was seized with a
violent pain in the right side.
Rosine insisted on going for M. Roger (that was the
name of the doctor at Palluau) ; but again her father for-
bade her. The girl then stayed quietly by his bed, ready
to obey his wishes and serve his needs. His greatest need
was for drink; every ten minutes he asked for water.
Matters went on thus till four in the afternoon. Then
the sick man shook his head and said, " I see I have got a
bad fever; you must go and get me some help from the
good ladies at the castle." We know the results of
Rosine's expedition.
After feeling the sick man's piilse and listening to this
account of his illness, given with great difficulty, Bertha,
who counted above a hundred pulsations, was sure that
Tinguy was in a dangerous state. What the exact nature
of the fever was she was too ignorant of the science of
medicine to decide. But as the sick man was constantly
crying for "Drink! drink!" she cut a lemon in slices,
boiled it in a potful of water, sweetened it slightly, and
let the sick man drink it in place of pure water.
It is to be remarked that when she wanted to sweeten
the infusion Rosine told her there was no sugar in the
house; sugar, to a Vendéan peasant, is the supreme of
luxury. Fortunately, the provident Bertha had put a few
lumps into the little box which contained her medicines.
She cast her eyes about her in search of the box, and saw
it under the arm of the young man, who was still standing
near the door.
She made him a sign to come to her; but before he could
obey she made him another sign to stay where he was.
Then she went up to him herself, laying a finger on her
lips, and said in a low voice, so that the patient might not
hear her : —
"The man's condition is very serious. I dare not take
much upon myself. It is absolutely necessary to have a
doctor, and even so, I fear it will be too late. Will you
THE FOSTER-FATHER. 99
go to Palluau, dear Monsieur Michel, and fetch Doctor
Roger? Meantime I will give Tinguy something to quiet
him."
"But you — you? " said the young baron, anxiously.
"I shall stay here; you will find me when you get back.
I have some important things to say to the patient."
"Important things?" said Michel, astonished.
"Yes."
"But — " insisted the young man.
" I assure you, " interrupted the young girl, " that every
minute's delay is of consequence. Taken in time these
fevers are often fatal; neglected, as this has been, there
is little hope. Go at once, — at once, and bring back the
doctor."
"But," persisted the young man, "suppose the fever is
contagious? "
"What then?"
"Won't you run great risk of taking it? "
"My dear monsieur," said Bertha, "if we stopped to
think about such things half the sick peasants would die.
Come, go; and trust to God to take care of me."
She held out her hand to him ; the young man took it.
Carried away by the admiration he felt at seeing in a
woman a grand and simple courage of which he, a man,
was incapable, he pressed his lips with a sort of passion
upon it.
The movement was so rapid and unexpected that Bertha
quivered, turned very pale, and sighed as she said : —
"Go, friend; go!"
She did not need, this time, to reiterate her order.
Michel sprang from the cottage. A mysterious fire seemed
to run through his veins and doubled his vital power; he
felt a strange, new force within him. He fancied he was
capable of accomplishing miracles; it seemed to him that
like the antique Mercury, wings had grown upon his head
and heels. If a wall had barred the way he would have
scaled it; if a river were flowing across his path, without
100 THE LAST VENDÉE.
bridge or ford, he would have swum it, not stopping to
fling off his clothes. He only regretted that Bertha had
asked him to do so easy a thing; he would fain have had
obstacles, some difficult — nay, impossible — quest! How
could Bertha be grateful to him for only going a few miles
to fetch a doctor? A few miles! when he longed to go to
the end of the world for her! Why could n't he give some
proof of heroism which might match his courage with
Bertha's own?
Of course, in such a state of exaltation the young
baron never dreamed of fatigue. The three and a half
miles to Palluau were done in less than half an hour.
Doctor Boger was a familiar visitor at the château of La
Loger ie, which is hardly an hour's distance from Palluau.
Michel had only to send up his name before the doctor,
who had gone to bed called out that he would be ready in
five minutes.
At the end of that time he appeared in the salon, and
asked the young man what could possibly bring him there
at that unusual time of night. In two words Michel told
the doctor the state of the case; and as M. Boger seemed
a good deal surprised at his taking so lively an interest in
a peasant as to come on foot, at night, with an agitated
manner and bathed in perspiration, the young baron has-
tened to explain his interest by the ties of affection which
naturally bound him to his foster-father.
Questioned by the doctor as to the symptoms of the ill-
ness, Michel repeated faithfully all he had heard, and
begged M. Boger to take with him the necessary remedies,
— the village of Lege not yet having attained to the civili-
zation of possessing an apothecary. Noticing that the
young baron was reeking with perspiration, and finding
that he had come on foot, the doctor, who had already
ordered his horse to be saddled, changed the order and had
him harnessed to his carriole.
Michel was most anxious to prevent this arrangement;
he declared that he could go on foot much faster than the
THE FOSTER-FATHER. 101
doctor could go on horseback. He was, in fact, so power-
ful, with that valiant vigor of youth and heart, that he
probably could have done so as fast, or even faster, than
the doctor on his horse. The doctor insisted, Michel
refused; and the discussion ended by his darting out of
the house and calling back to Monsieur Roger: —
"Come as fast as you can. I '11 announce your coming! "
The doctor began to think that Madame de la Logerie's
son was mad. He said to himself that he should soon
overtake him, and did not change the order for the
carriole.
It was the thought of appearing before the eyes of the
young girl in a carriole which so exasperated the lover.
He fancied Bertha would feel more grateful to him if she
saw him arrive all out of breath and open the cottage door,
crying out, " Here I am ! the doctor is following me ! "
than if she saw him driving up in a carriole, accompanying
the doctor. On horseback, on a fine courser, mane and
tail flying in the wind, his arrival announced by snorts
and neighs, it would have been another thing; but in a
carriole! — ten thousand times better go on foot! A first
love teems with poesy, and it feels a bitter hatred to the
prosaic. What would Mary think when her sister told her
she had sent the young baron to Palluau for Doctor Roger,
and that the young baron had returned in the doctor's
carriole !
No, no; better a thousand times, as we have said, arrive
on foot. The young fellow understood very well that this
first appearance on the stage of love with heaving breast
and ardent eyes, dust on his clothes, hair streaming in the
wind, was good, good, and well done. As for the patient,
heavens! he was well-nigh forgotten, we must admit,
in the midst of this excitement; at any rate, it was not
of him that Michel thought, but of the two sisters. His
poor foster-father would not have driven him across the
country at the rate of seven miles an hour; it was Bertha,)
it was Mary. The exciting cause in this grand physiologi-
102 THE LAST VENDÉE.
cal cataclysm now taking place in onr hero had become a
mere accessory. Michel, under the name of Hippomenes,
struggling for the prize with Atalanta, had no need to
drop the golden apples on his way. He laughed to scorn
the idea that the doctor and his horse could overtake him;
and he felt a sensation of physical delight as the cold
night-wind chilled the moisture on his brow. Overtaken
by the doctor! Sooner death than that!
It had taken him half an hour to go ; it took him twenty-
five minutes to return.
As though Bertha had expected or divined this impossi-
ble celerity, she had gone to the threshold of the door to
await her messenger. She knew that in all probability he
could not be back till half an hour later, and yet she went
out to listen for him. She thought she heard steps in the
far distance. Impossible! it could not be he already; and
yet she never doubted that it was he.
In fact, a moment later she saw him looming, appearing,
then clearly defined upon the darkness, while at the same
time he, with his eyes fixed on the door, all the while
doubting them, saw her standing there motionless, her
hand on her heart, which, for the first time in her life,
was beating violently.
When he reached her the youth, like the Greek of
Marathon, was voiceless, breathless, and came near drop-
ping, if not as dead as the Greek, at least in a faint. He
had only strength to say : —
"The doctor is following me."
Then, in order not to fall, he leaned with his hand
against the wall. If he could have said more he might
have cried : —
"You will tell Mademoiselle Mary, won't you? that it
was for love of her and of you that I have done seven miles
in fifty minutes."
But he could not speak; so that Bertha believed, and
had ground for believing, that it was for love of her, and
her alone, that the young messenger had performed his
THE FOSTER-FATHER. 103
feat. She smiled with pleasure. Drawing her handker-
chief from her pocket, she said, softly wiping the young
man's forehead, and taking great care not to touch his
wound : —
"Good heavens! how sorry I am that you took my
request to hasten so much to heart! What a state you are
in! " Then scolding him like a mother, she added in a
tender tone, "What a child you are!"
That word " child " was said in a tone of such indescrib-
able tenderness that it made Michel quiver. He seized
Bertha's hand; it was moist and trembling. Just then
the sound of wheels was heard on the high-road.
" Ah ! here is the doctor, " she cried, pushing away the
young man's hand.
Michel looked at her in amazement. Why did she push
away his hand? He was, of course, unable to give a (dear
account to himself of what was passing in a girl's mind;
but he felt, instinctively, that although she repulsed him
it was not from dislike or anger.
Bertha went back into the cottage, no doubt to prepare
for the doctor's arrival. Michel stayed at the door to
receive him. When he saw him coming along in his
wicker vehicle, which shook him grotesquely, the young
fellow congratulated himself more than ever for having
come on foot. It was true that if Bertha had gone in, as
she had just done, when she heard the wheels she would
not have seen him in that vulgar trap. But if he had not
already returned would she, or would she not, have waited
till he came?
Michel told himself that it was more than probable she
would have waited, and he felt in his heart, if not the
warm satisfactions of love, at any rate the soft ticklings
of vanity.
104 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XII.
NOBLESSE OBLIGE.
When the doctor entered the room Bertha was beside the
patient. The first thing that met M. Roger's eyes was
her graceful form, like those of the angels in German
legends bending forward to receive the souls of the dying.
He knew her at once, for he was rarely called to the cot-
tages of the poor that he did not find either her or her
sister between death and the dying.
"Oh, doctor," she said, "come quick! poor Tinguy is
delirious."
The patient was under much excitement. The doctor
went to him.
"Come, friend," said he, "be calm."
"Let me alone! let me alone! " cried Tinguy. "I must
get up; they want me at Montaigu."
"No, dear Tinguy," said Bertha, "no; they are not
expecting you just yet."
"Yes, mademoiselle; yes, they are! It was for to-night.
Who will go from house to house and carry the news if
I 'm not there? "
"Hush, Tinguy, hush!" said Bertha; "remember you
are ill, and Doctor Roger is here."
"Doctor Roger, is one of us, mademoiselle; we can talk
before him. He knows they are waiting for me; he knows
I must get up at once. I must go to Montaigu."
Doctor Roger and the young girl looked at each other.
"Massa," said the doctor.
"Marseille," replied Bertha.
NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 105
And then, with a spontaneous movement, they shook
hands.
Bertha returned to the patient.
"Yes," she said, bending to his ear, "you are right.
The doctor is one of us ; but there is some one else here
who is not." She lowered her voice so that only Tinguy
could hear. "And that," she added, "is the young Baron
Michel."
"Ah, true," said the goodman. "Don't let him hear
anything. Courtin is a traitor. But if I don't go to
Montaigu, who will? "
" Jean Oullier. Don't worry, Tinguy."
"Oh! if Jean Oullier will go," said the sick man, — " if
Jean Oullier will go I need not. His foot 's good, and his
eye true ; he can fire straight, he can ! "
And he burst out laughing; but in that laugh he seemed
to expend his last vital strength and fell backward on the
bed.
The young baron had listened to this dialogue (of which
he could only hear portions) without in the least under-
standing it. All he distinctly made out was, " Courtin is
a traitor," and from the direction of the young girl's eye
as she spoke with the peasant he was certain that they
were talking of him. His heart contracted; they had
some secret in which they would not let him share. He
went up to Bertha.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "if I am in your way, or if
you have no further need of me, say the word and I
retire."
He spoke in a tone of so much pain that Bertha was
touched.
"No," she said, "stay. We need you still; you must
help Rosine to prepare M. Roger's prescriptions while I
talk with him about the case." Then to the doctor she
said, in a low voice, "Keep them busy, and you can tell
me what you know, and I will tell you what I know."
Turning again to Michel she added, in her sweetest voice,
106 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" I know, my dear friend, that you will be willing to help
Rosine."
"As long as you wish, mademoiselle; give your orders
and I will obey them," said the young man.
"You see, doctor," said Bertha, smiling, "you have two
willing helpers."
The doctor went out to his vehicle and returned with a
bottle of Sedlitz water and a package of mustard.
"Here," he said to Michel, giving him the bottle,
"uncork that and make him drink half a glassful every
ten minutes. And you, Rosine," giving her the mustard,
"mix that into a paste with hot water; it is to be put on
the soles of your father's feet."
The sick man had dropped back into the state of apa-
thetic indifference which preceded the excitement Bertha
had calmed by assuring him that Jean Oullier would take
his place. The doctor cast a look at him, and seeing that
in his present state of quiescence he could safely be left to
the care of the young baron, he went eagerly up to Bertha.
"Mademoiselle de Souday," he said, "since it seems that
we hold the same opinions, what news have you? "
" Madame left Massa on the 21st of last April, and she
ought to have landed at Marseille on the 29th or 30th.
This is now the 6th of May. Madame must have disem-
barked, and the whole South ought by this time to have
risen."
"Is that all you know? " asked the doctor.
"Yes, all," replied Bertha.
"You have not read the evening papers of the 3d?"
" We do not get any papers at the château de Souday, "
she said.
"Well," said the doctor, "the whole thing failed."
"Is it possible! Failed?"
"Yes, Madame was utterly misled."
"Good God! what are you telling me? "
" The exact truth. Madame, after a prosperous voyage
in the 'Carlo Alberto,' landed on the coast at some little
NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 1U7
distance from Marseille. A guide awaited her and took
her to a lonely house in the woods. Madame had only six
persons with her — ■ "
" Oh ! go on ; go on ! "
"She sent one of those persons to Marseille to inform
the leader of the movement that she had landed and was
awaiting the result of the promises which had brought
her to France — "
"Well?"
"That evening the messenger came back with a note,
congratulating the princess on her safe arrival, and saying
that Marseille would rise on the following day — "
"Yes; what then?"
"The next day an attempt was made, but Marseille
would not rise at all. The people would take no part in
the affair, which failed utterly."
"And Madame?"
"It is not known where she is; but they hope she re-
embarked on the 'Carlo Alberto.' "
" Cowards ! " muttered Bertha. " I am nothing but a
woman; but oh! I swear to God that if Madame comes
into La Vendée I will set an example to some men. Good-
bye, doctor, and thank you."
"Must you go?"
"Yes; it is important that my father should know this
news. He is at a meeting to-night at the château de
Montai gu. I must get back to Souday. I commit my
poor patient to you. Leave exact directions, and I or my
sister, unless something unforeseen prevents, will be here
to-morrow and watch at night."
"Will you take my carriage? I can get back on foot,
and you can return it by Jean Oullier, or any one,
to-morrow."
"Thank you, no; I don't know where Jean Oullier may
be to-morrow. Besides, I prefer walking; the air will do
me good."
Bertha held out her hand to the doctor, pressed his with
108 THE LAST VENDÉE.
almost masculine strength, threw her mantle over hei
shoulders, and left the cottage. At the door she found
Michel, who, although he could not hear the conversation,
had kept his eye on the young girl, and, seeing that she
was about to depart, got to the door before her.
"Ah! mademoiselle," he exclaimed, "what has hap-
pened? What have you just heard? "
"Nothing," said Bertha.
"Nothing! If you had heard nothing you would not be
starting off in such a hurry, without a word to me, — with-
out so much as signing to me, or saying good-bye."
" Why should I say good-bye, inasmuch as you are going
with me? When we reach the gate of Souday will be
time enough to bid you good-bye."
" What! will you allow me?"
"To accompany me? Certainly. After all you have
done for me this evening, it is your right, my dear Mon-
sieur Michel, — that is, unless you are too fatigued."
"I, mademoiselle, too fatigued, when it is a matter of
accompanying you! With you, or with Mademoiselle
Mary, I would go to the end of the world. Fatigued?
Heavens, no ! "
Bertha smiled, murmuring to herself, " What a pity he
is not one of us ! " Then she added under her breath,
"One could do as one pleased with a nature like his."
"Are you speaking?" said Michel. "I did not quite
catch what you say."
"I spoke very low."
"Why do you speak low? "
" Because what I was saying cannot be said out loud, —
not yet, at least."
"But later?"
" Ah ! later, perhaps — "
The young man in turn moved his lips, and made no sound.
"What does that pantomime mean? " asked Bertha.
"It means that I can speak below my breath as you do,
with this difference, that what I say low I am ready to
NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 109
say out loud and instantly, — at this very moment if I
dared — "
"I am not a woman like other women," said Bertha,
with an almost disdainful smile; "and what is said to me
in a low voice may equally well be said aloud."
"Well then, what I was saying below my breath was
this; I grieve to see you flinging yourself into danger, —
danger as certain as it is useless."
"What danger are you talking about, my dear neigh-
bor? " said the girl, in a slightly mocking tone.
"That about which you were speaking to Doctor Eoger
just now. An uprising is to take place in La Vendée."
"Really?"
"You will not deny that, I think."
"I? — why should I deny it? "
"Your father and you are taking part in it."
"You forget my sister," said Bertha, laughing.
"No, I forget no one," said Michel, with a sigh.
"Goon."
" Let me tell you — as a tender friend, a devoted friend
— that you are wrong."
"And why am I wrong, my tender, my devoted friend,"
asked Bertha, with the tinge of satire she could never quite
eliminate from her nature.
"Because La Vendée is not in 1832 what she was in
1793; or rather, because there is no longer a Vendée."
"So much the worse for La Vendée! But, happily,
there is always the Noblesse, — you don't yet know, Mon-
sieur Michel, but your children's children in the sixth
generation will know the meaning of the words Noblesse
OBLIGE."
The young man made a hasty movement.
"Now," said Bertha, "let 's talk of something else; for
on this topic I will not say another word, inasmuch as you
are not — as poor Tinguy says — one of us."
"But," said the young man, hurt by Bertha's tone
toward him, "what shall we talk about?"
110 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Why, anything, — everything. The night is magnifi-
cent, talk to me of the night; the moon is brilliant, talk
of the moon; the stars are dazzling, tell me about the
stars; the heavens are pure, let us talk of the heavens."
She raised her head and let her eyes rest on the clear
and starry firmament. Michel sighed; he said nothing,
and walked on beside her. What could he say — that man
of books and city walls — about the nature that seemed her
fitting kingdom? Had he, like Bertha, been in contact
from his infancy with the wonders of creation? Had he
watched, like her, the gradations through which the dawn
ascends and the sun sinks down? Did his ear know, like
hers, the mysterious sounds of night? When the lark
rang out its reveille did he know what the lark was say-
ing? When the gurgle of the nightingale filled the dark-
ness with harmony could he tell what that throat was
uttering? No, no. He knew the things of science, which
Bertha did not know; but Bertha knew the things of
nature, and of all such things he was ignorant. Oh! if
the young girl had only spoken then, how religiously his
heart would have listened to her.
But, unfortunately, she was silent. Her heart was full
of thoughts which escaped in looks and sighs, and not in
sounds and words.
He, too, was dreaming. He walked beside the gentle
Mary, not the harsh, firm Bertha; instead of the self-
reliant Bertha, he felt the weaker Mary leaning on his
arm. Ah! if she were only there words would come; all
the thousand things of the night — the moon, the stars,
the sky — would have rushed to his lips. With Mary he
would have been the teacher and the master; with Bertha
he was the scholar and the slave.
The two young people walked silently side by side for
more than a quarter of an hour, when suddenly Bertha
stopped and made a sign to Michel to scop also. The young
man obeyed; with Bertha his place Avas to obey.
"Do you hear? " said Bertha.
NOBLESSE OBLIGE. Ill
"No," said Michel, shaking his head.
"Well, I hear," she said, her eyes gleaming and her ears
alert, as she strained them eagerly.
"What do you hear? "
"My horse's step and that of my sister Mary's horse.
They are coming tor me. Something must have hap-
pened." She listened again. "Mary has come herself."
"How can you tell that? " asked the young man.
"By the way the horses gallop. Let us walk faster,
please."
The sounds came nearer, and in less than five minutes
a dark group showed in the distance. Soon it was seen to
be two horses, — a woman riding one and leading the
other.
"I told you it was my sister," said Bertha.
The young man had already recognized her, less by her
person, scarcely distinguishable in the darkness, than by
the beating of his heart.
Mary, too, had recognized him, and this was plain from
the gesture of amazement which escaped her. It was evi-
dent that she expected to find her sister alone or with
Rosine, — certainly not with the young baron. Michel
saw the impression his presence had produced, and he
advanced.
"Mademoiselle," he said to Mary, "I met your sister on
her way to carry assistance to poor Tinguy, and in order
that she might not be alone I have accompanied her."
"You did perfectly right, monsieur," replied Mary.
"You don't understand," said Bertha, laughing. "He
thinks he must excuse me or excuse himself. Do forgive
him for something; his mamma is going to scold him."
Then leaning on Mary's saddle, and speaking close to her
ear, "What is it, darling?" she asked.
"The attempt at Marseille has failed."
"I know that; and Madame has re-embarked."
"That's a mistake."
"A mistake?"
112 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Yes. Madame declares that as she is in France she
will stay."
"Can it be true?"
" Yes ; and she is now on her way to La Vendée, — in
fact, she may actually be here now."
"How did you hear all this?"
" Through a message received from her to-night at the
château de Montaigu, just as the meeting was about to
break up disheartened."
" Gallant soul ! " cried Bertha, enthusiastically.
"Papa returned home at full gallop, and finding where
you were, he told me to take the horses and fetch you."
" Well, here I am ! " said Bertha, putting her foot into
the stirrup.
"Are not you going to bid good-bye to your poor
knight?"
"Oh, yes," said Bertha, holding out her hand to the
young man, who advanced to take it slowly and sadly.
"Ah! Mademoiselle Bertha," he murmured, taking her
hand, "I am very unhappy."
"Why?" she asked.
"Not to be, as you said just now, one of you."
"What prevents it?" said Mary, holding out her hand
to him.
The young man darted on that hand and kissed it in a
passion of love and gratitude.
"Oh! yes, yes, yes," he murmured, so low that Mary
alone could hear him; "for you, mademoiselle, and with
you."
Mary's hand was roughly torn from his grasp by a sud-
den movement of her horse. Bertha, in touching hers,
had struck that of her sister on the flank. Horses and
riders, starting at a gallop, were soon lost like shadows
in the darkness.
The young man stood motionless in the roadway.
"Adieu!" cried Bertha.
"Au revoir! " cried Mary.
NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 113
"Yes, yes, yes," he said, stretching his arms toward
their vanishing figures; "yes, au revoir! au revoir! "
The two girls continued their way without uttering a
word, until they reached the castle gate, and there Bertha
said, abruptly : —
"Mary, I know you will laugh at me! "
"Why?" asked Mary, trembling.
"1 love him! " replied Bertha.
A cry of pain had almost escaped from Mary's lips, but
she smothered it.
"And I called to him 'au revoir!'" she whispered to
herself. "God grant I may never, never see him again."
VOL. I. — 8
114 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XIII.
A DISTANT COUSIN.
The day after the events we have just related, — that is to
say, on the 7th of May, 1832, — a great dinner-party was
given at the château de Vouillé, to celebrate the birthday
of Madame la Comtesse de Vouillé, who had on that day
completed her twenty-fourth year.
The company had just sat down to table, and at this
table, among twenty-five other guests, was the prefect of
Vienne and the mayor of Châtellerault, relations more or
less distant of Madame de Vouillé.
The soup was just removed when a servant entered the
dining-room, and said a few words in Monsieur de Vouillé's
ear. Monsieur de Vouillé made the man repeat them
twice. Then addressing his guests, he said: —
" I beg you to excuse me for a few moments. A lady
has arrived at the gate in a post-chaise, and she insists on
speaking to me personally. Will you allow me to see
what this lady wants?"
Permission was, of course, unanimously granted, though
Madame de Vouillé's eyes followed her husband to the door
with some uneasiness.
Monsieur de Vouillé hastened to the gate. There, sure
enough, was a post-chaise, containing two persons, a man
and a woman. A servant in sky-blue livery with silver
lace, was on the box. When he saw Monsieur de Vouillé,
whom he seemed to be expecting impatiently, he jumped
lightly down.
" Come, come, slow coach ! " he said, as soon as the count
was near enoucrh to hear him.
A DISTANT COUSIN. 115
Monsieur de Vouillé stopped short, amazed, — more than
amazed, stupefied. What manner of servant was this,
who dared to apostrophize him in that style? He went
nearer to let the fellow know his mind. Then he stopped,
and burst out laughing.
"What! is it you, de Lussac?" he said.
"Yes; undoubtedly, it is I."
"What is all this masquerading about? "
The counterfeit servant opened the carriage door and
offered his arm to enable the lady to get out of the chaise.
Then he said : —
"My dear count, I have the honor to present you to
Madame la Duchesse de Berry." Bowing to the duchess,
he continued, "Madame la duchesse, Monsieur le Comte
de Vouillé is one of my best friends and one of your most
devoted servants."
The count retreated a few steps.
" Madame la Duchesse de Berry ! " he exclaimed,
stupefied.
"In person, monsieur," said the duchess.
"Are you not proud and happy to receive her Royal
Highness?" said de Lussac.
"As proud and happy as an ardent royalist can be;
but — "
"What! is there a but?" asked the duchess.
"This is my wife's birthday, and we have twenty-five
guests now dining with us."
" Well, monsieur, there is a French proverb which says,
'Enough for two is enough for three.' I am sure you will
extend the maxim to mean 'Enough for twenty-five is
enough for twenty-eight; ' for I warn you that Monsieur de
Lussac, servant as he is, must dine at table, and he is
dying of hunger."
"Yes; but don't be uneasy," said the Baron de Lussac.
"I '11 take off my livery."
Monsieur de Vouillé seized his head with both hands,
as if he meant to tear out his hair.
116 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"What shall I do? what can I do? " he cried.
"Come, ' ; said the duchess, "let us talk sense."
"Talk sense! " said the count; "how can I? I am half
crazy."
"Evidently not with joy," said the duchess.
"No, with terror, madame."
"Oh! you exaggerate the situation."
"But, madame, you are entering the lion's den. I have
the prefect of Vienne and the mayor of Châtellerault at
my table."
"Very good; then you will present them to me."
"Good God! and under what title? "
"That of a cousin. You surely have some distant
cousin, whose name will answer the purpose."
"What an idea, madame! "
"Come, put it to use."
" I certainly have a cousin in Toulouse, — Madame de
la My re."
"The very thing! I am Madame de la Myre."
Then turning round in the carriage she offered her hand
to an old man about sixty-live years of age, who seemed
waiting till the discussion ended before he showed himself.
"Come, Monsieur de la Myre," said the duchess, "this
is a surprise we are giving our cousin, and we arrive just
in time to keep his wife's birthday. Come, cousin! "
So saying she jumped lightly out of the carriage and
gayly slipped her arm into that of the Comte de Vouillé.
"Yes, come! " said Monsieur de Vouillé, his mind made
up to risk the adventure into which the duchess was so
joyously rushing. Come! "
"Wait for me," cried the Baron de Lussac, jumping into
the carriage, which he transformed into a dressing-room,
and changing his sky-blue livery for a black surtout coat;
"don't leave me behind."
"But who the devil are you to be? " asked M. de Vouillé.
"Oh! I'll be the Baron de Lussac, and — if Madame
will permit me — the cousin of your cousin."
A DISTANT COUSIN. 117
"Stop! stop! monsieur le baron," said the old gentle-
man, who had not yet spoken ; " it seems to me that you
are taking a great liberty."
"Pooh! we are on a campaign," said the duchess; "I
permit it."
Monsieur de Vouillé now bravely led the way into the
dining-room. The curiosity of the guests and the uneasi-
ness of the mistress of the house were all the more excited
by this prolonged absence. So, when the door of the
dining-room opened all eyes turned to the new arrivals.
Whatever difficulties there may have been in playing
the parts they had thus unexpectedly assumed, none of the
actors were at all disconcerted.
"Dear, "said the count to his wife, "I have often spoken
to you of my cousin in Toulouse — "
"Madame de la My re? " interrupted the countess,
eagerly.
"Yes, — Madame de la Myre. She is on her way to
Nantes, and would not pass the château without making
your acquaintance. How fortunate that she comes on your
birthday! I hope it will bring luck to both."
" Dear cousin ! " said the duchess, opening her arms to
Madame de Vouillé.
The two women kissed each other. As for the two
men M. de Vouillé contented himself with saying aloud,
"Monsieur de la Myre," "Monsieur de Lussac."
The company bowed.
"Now," said M. de Vouillé, "we must find seats for
these newcomers, who warn me that they are dying of
hunger."
Every one moved a little. The table was large, and all
the guests had plenty of elbow-room; it was not difficult
therefore to place three additional persons.
"Did you not tell me, my dear cousin," said the duchess,
"that the prefect of Vienne was dining with you? "
"Yes, madame; and that is he whom you see on the
countess's right, with spectacles, a white cravat, and the
118 THE LAST VENDÉE.
rosette of an officer of the Legion of honor in his but-
tonhole."
"Oh! pray present us."
Monsieur de Vouillé boldly carried on the comedy. He
felt there was nothing to be done but to play it out.
Accordingly, he approached the prefect, who was majesti-
cally leaning back in his chair.
"Monsieur le préfet," he said, "this is my cousin, who,
with her traditional respect for authority, thinks that a
general presentation is not enough, and therefore wishes
to be presented to you particularly."
"Generally, particularly, and officially," replied the gal-
lant functionary, "madame is and ever will be welcome."
"I accept the pledge, monsieur," said the duchess.
" Madame is going to Nantes ? " asked the prefect, by
way of making a remark.
"Yes, monsieur; and thence to Paris, — at least, I hope
so."
" It is not, I presume, the first time that Madame visits
the capital? "
"No, monsieur; I lived there twelve years."
" And Madame left it — "
"Oh! very unwillingly, I assure you."
"Recently?"
"Two years ago last July."
"I can well understand that having once lived in
Paris — "
" I should wish to return there. I am glad you under-
stand that."
" Oh, Paris ! Paris ! " said the functionary.
" The paradise of the world ! " said the duchess.
"Come, take your seats," said Monsieur de Vouillé.
"Oh, my dear cousin," said the duchess, with a glance
at the place he intended for her, " leave me beside Mon-
sieur le préfet, I entreat you. He has just expressed him-
self with so much feeling about the thing I have most at
heart that I place him, at once, on my list of friends."
A DISTANT COUSIN. 119
The prefect, delighted with the compliment, drew aside
his chair, and Madame was installed in the seat to his
left, to the detriment of the person to whom that place of
honor had been assigned. The two men accepted without
objection the seats given to them, and were soon busy —
M. de Lussac especially — in doing justice to the repast.
The other guests followed their example, and for a time
nothing broke the solemn silence which attends the begin-
ning of a long-delayed and impatiently awaited dinner.
Madame was the first to break that silence. Her ad-
venturous spirit, like the petrel, was more at ease in a
gale.
"Well," she remarked, "I think our arrival must have
interrupted the conversation. Nothing is so depressing as
a silent dinner. I detest such dinners, my dear count;
they are like those state functions at the Tuileries, where,
they tell me,, no one was allowed to speak unless the king
had spoken. What were you all talking about before we
came in? "
"Dear cousin," said M. de Vouillé, "the prefect was
kindly giving us the official details of that blundering
affair at Marseille."
"Blundering affair?" said the duchess.
"That's what he called it."
"And the words exactly describe the thing," said the
functionary. " Can you conceive of an expedition of that
character for which the arrangements were so carelessly
made that it only required a sub-lieutenant of the 13th
regiment to arrest one of the leaders of the outbreak and
knock the whole affair in the head at once? "
"But don't you know, Monsieur le préfet," said the
duchess, in a melancholy tone, " in all great events there
is a moment, a supreme moment, when the destinies of
princes and empires are shaken like leaves in the wind?
For example, when Napoleon at La Mure advanced to meet
the soldiers who were sent against him, if a sub-lieutenant
of any kind had taken him by the collar the return from
120 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Elba would have been nothing more than a blundering
affair:'
There was silence after that, Madame having said the
words in a grieved tone. She herself re-opened the
matter.
"And the Duchesse de Berry?" she said; "is it known
what became of her? "
"She returned on board of the 'Carlo Alberto.' '
"Ah!"
" It was the only sensible thing she could do, it seems
to me," said the prefect.
"You are quite right, monsieur," said the old gentle-
man, who had accompanied Madame, and who had not
before spoken; "and if I had had the honor to be near her
Highness and she had granted me some authority, I should
have given her that advice."
"No one was addressing you, my good husband," said
the duchess. "I am speaking to the prefect, and I want to
know if he is quite sure her Royal Highness has re-
embarked? "
"Madame," said the prefect, with one of those admin-
istrative gestures which admit of no contradiction, "the
government is officially informed of it."
" Ah ! " exclaimed the duchess, " if the government is offi-
cially informed of it, of course there is nothing to be said;
but," she added, venturing on still more slippery ground,
"I did hear differently."
" Madame ! " said the old gentleman, in a tone of slight
reproach.
"What did you hear, cousin?" asked M. de Veuille, who
was beginning to take the interest of a gambler in the
game that was being played before him.
"Yes, what have you heard, madame?" said the prefect.
"Oh, you understand, Monsieur le préfet, that it is not
for me to give you official news," said the duchess. "I
am only telling you of rumors, which may be mere
nonsense."
A DISTANT COUSIN. 121
" Madame de la Myre ! " said the old man.
"Well, Monsieur de la Myre? " said the duchess.
"Do you know, madame," said the prefect, "that 1 think
your husband is very interfering. I will wager it is he
who does not want you to go to Paris? "
" That is precisely true. But I hope to go there in spite
of him. 'AVhat woman wills, God wills.' "
" Oh, women ! women ! " cried the public functionary.
" What now? " asked the duchess.
"Nothing," said the prefect. "I am waiting, Madame,
to hear the rumors you mentioned just now about the
Duchesse de Berry."
"Oh! they are simple enough. I heard, — but pray
remember I give them on no authority but common report,
— I have heard that the Duchesse de Berry rejected the
advice of all her friends, and obstinately refused to re-
embark on the 'Carlo Alberto.'"
"Then where is she now? " asked the prefect.
"In France."
"In France! What can she do in France? "
"Why, you know very well, Monsieur le préfet," said
the duchess, "that her Royal Highness's chief object is
La Vendée."
"No doubt; but having failed so signally at the
South — "
"All the more reason why she should try for success at
the West."
The prefect smiled disdainfully.
"Then you really think she has re-embarked?" asked
the duchess.
"I can positively assure you," said the prefect, "that
she is at this moment in the dominions of the king of
Sardinia, from whom France is about to ask an explana-
tion."
"Poor king of Sardinia! He will give a very simple
one."
"What?"
122 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"He will say, 'I always knew Madame was a crazy
creature ; but I never thought her craziness would lead her
quite as far as this — ' "
" Madame ! madame ! " said the old man.
"Ah, ça! Monsieur de la Myre," said the duchess, "I
do hope that although you interfere with my wishes, you
will have the grace to respect my opinions, — all the more
because I am sure they are those of Monsieur le préfet.
Are they not, monsieur? "
"The truth is," said that functionary, laughing, "that
her Royal Highness has behaved in this whole affair with
the utmost folly."
"There! you see," said the duchess. "What would hap-
pen, Monsieur le préfet, if these rumors were true and
Madame should really come to La Vendée ? "
"How can she get here? " asked the prefect.
" Why, through the neighboring departments, or through
yours. They tell me she was seen at Toulouse in an open
carriage while changing horses."
" Good heavens ! " cried the prefect ; " that would be a
little too bold."
" So bold that Monsieur le préfet does n't believe it? "
"Not one word of it," said the official emphasizing each
monosyllable as he uttered it.
At that moment the door opened, and one of the count's
footmen announced that a clerk from the prefecture asked
permission to deliver a telegraphic despatch just received
from Paris for the prefect.
"Will you permit him to enter?" said the prefect to the
count.
"Why, of course," said the latter.
The clerk entered and gave a sealed package to the pre-
fect, who bowed his excuses to the company for opening
it.
Absolute silence reigned. All eyes were fixed on the
despatch. Madame exchanged signs with M. de Vouillé,
who laughed under his breath, with M. de Lussac, who
A DISTANT COUSIN. 123
laughed aloud, and with her so-called husband who main-
tained his iniperturbably grave manner.
" Whew ! " cried the public functionary suddenly, while
his features were indiscreet enough to betray the utmost
surprise.
"What is the news? " asked M. de Vouillé.
"The news is," exclaimed the prefect, "that Madame de
la Myre was right in what she said about her Royal High-
ness. Her Royal Highness has not left France; her
Royal Highness is on her way to La Vendée, through
Toulouse, Libourne, and Poitiers."
So saying, the prefect rose.
" Where are you going, Monsieur le préfet? " asked the
duchess.
"To do my duty, madame, painful as it is, and give
orders that her Royal Highness be arrested if, as this
despatch warns me, she is imprudent enough to pass
through my department."
"Do so, Monsieur le préfet; do so," said the duchess.
" I can only applaud your zeal and assure you that I shall
remember it when occasion offers."
She held out her hand to the prefect, who kissed it gal-
lantly, after having, with a look, asked Monsieur de la
Myre' s permission to do so.
124 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XIV.
. PETIT-PIERRE.
Let us now return to the cottage of the goodman Tin guy,
which we left for a time to make that excursion to the
château de Vouillé.
Forty-eight hours have gone by. Bertha and Michel are
again at the sick man's bedside. Though the regular
visits which Doctor Roger now paid rendered the young
girl's presence in that fever-stricken place unnecessary,
Bertha, in spite of Mary's remonstrances, persisted in her
care of the Vendéan peasant. Nevertheless, it is probable
that Christian charity was not the only motive which drew
her to his cottage.
However that may be, it is certain that, by natural coin-
cidence, Michel, who had got over his terrors, was already
installed in the cottage when Bertha got there. Was it
Bertha for whom Michel was looking? We dare not
answer. Perhaps he thought that Mary, too, might take
her turn in these charitable functions. Perhaps, too, he
may have hoped that the fair-haired sister would not lose
this occasion of meeting him, after the warmth of their
last parting. His heart therefore beat violently when he
saw the shadow of a woman's form, which he knew by its
elegance could belong only to a Demoiselle de Souday,
projecting itself upon the cottage door.
When he recognized Bertha the young man felt a meas-
ure of disappointed hope; but as. by virtue of his love, he
was full of tenderness for the Marquis de Souday, of sym-
pathy for the crabbed Jean Oullier, and of benevolence for
even their dogs, how could he fail to love Mary's sister?
PETIT-PIERRE. 125
The affection shown to one would certainly bring him
nearer to the other; besides, what happiness to hear this
sister mention the absent sister. Consequently, he was
full of attentions and solicitude for Bertha, who accepted
all with a satisfaction she took no pains to conceal.
It was difficult, however, to think of other matters than
the condition of the sick man, which was hourly growing
worse and worse. He had fallen into that state of torpor
and insensibility which physicians call coma, and whieh,
in inflammatory diseases, usually characterizes the period
preceding death. He no longer noticed what was passing
around him, and answered only when distinctly spoken to.
The pupils of his eyes, which were frightfully dilated,
were fixed and staring. He was almost rigid, though from
time to time his hands endeavored to pull the coverlet over
his face, or draw to him something that he seemed to see
beside his bed.
Bertha, who, in spite of her youth, had more than once
been present at such a scene, no longer felt any hope for
the poor man's life. She wished to spare Rosine the
anguish of witnessing her father's death-struggle, which
she knew was beginning, and she told her to go at once
and fetch Doctor Roger.
"But I can go, mademoiselle, if you like," said Michel.
" I have better legs than Rosine. Besides, it is n't safe
for her to go through those roads at night."
"No, Monsieur Michel, there is no danger for Rosine,
and I have my own reasons for keeping you here. I hope
it is not disagreeable to you to remain? "
"Oh, mademoiselle, how can you think it? Only I am
so happy in being able to serve you that I try to let no
occasion pass."
"Don't be anxious about that," said Bertha, smiling;
"perhaps, before long, I shall have more than one occasion
to put your devotion to the proof."
Rosine had hardly been gone ten minutes before the
sick man seemed suddenly and extraordinarily better.
126 THE LAST VENDÉE.
His eyes lost their fixed stave, Lis breathing became easier,
his rigid fingers relaxed, and he passed them over his fore-
head to wipe away the sweat which began to pour from it.
"How do you feel, dear Tinguy? " said the girl.
"Better," he answered, in a feeble voice. "The good
God doesn't mean me to desert before the battle," he
added, trying to smile.
"Perhaps not; because it is for him you are going to
fight."
The peasant shook his head sadly and sighed.
"Monsieur Michel," said Bertha to the young man,
drawing him into a corner of the room, so that her voice
should not reach the patient, " go and fetch the vicar and
rouse the neighbors."
" Is n't he better? He said so just now."
" Child that you are! Did you never see a lamp go out?
The last flame is brightest, and so it is with our miserable
bodies. Go at once. There will be no death-struggle.
The fever has exhausted him; the soul is going without a
struggle, shock, or effort."
"And are you to be left alone with him? "
"Go at once, and don't think about me."
Michel went out, and Bertha returned to Tinguy, who
held out his hand.
"Thank you, my brave young lady," said the peasant.
"Thank me for what, père Tinguy? "
" For your care, and also for thinking of sending for the
vicar. "
"You heard me? "
This time Tinguy smiled outright.
"Yes," he said, "low as you spoke."
"But you must n't think that the presence of the priest
means that you are going to die, my good Tinguy. Don't
be frightened."
"Frightened! " cried the peasant, trying to sit up in his
bed. "Frightened! why? I have respected the old and
cared for the young; I have suffered without a murmur; I
PETIT-PIERKE. 127
have toiled without complaining, praising God when the
hail beat down ni3 r wheat and the harvest failed; never
have I turned away the beggar whom Sainte-Anne has sent
to my fireside; I have kept the commandments of God and
of the Church; when the priests said, 'Rise and take your
guns,' I fought the enemies of my faith and my king; I
have been humble in victory and hopeful in defeat; I was
still ready to give my life for the sacred cause, and shall
I be frightened now? Oh, no! mademoiselle; this is the
day of days to us poor Christians, — the glorious day of
death. Ignorant as I am, I know that this day makes us
equals with the great and prosperous of the earth. It has
come for me; God calls me to him. I am ready; I go
before his judgment-seat in full assurance of his mercy."
Tinguy's face was illuminated as he said the words; but
this last religious enthusiasm exhausted the poor man's
strength. He fell heavily back upon his pillow, muttering
a few unintelligible words, among which could be distin-
guished "blues," "parish," and the names of God and the
Virgin.
The vicar entered at this moment. Bertha showed him
the sick man, and the priest, understanding what she
wanted of him, began at once the prayer for the dying.
Michel begged Bertha to leave the room, and the young
girl consenting, they both went out after saying a last
prayer at Tinguy's bedside.
One after the other, the neighbors came in; each knelt
down and repeated after the priest the litanies of death.
Two slender candles of yellow wax, placed on either side
of a brass crucifix, lighted the gloomy scene.
Suddenly, at the moment when the priest and the assis-
tants were reciting mentally the "Ave Maria!" an owl's
cry, sounding not far distant from the cottage, rose above
the dull hum of their mutterings. The peasants trembled.
At the sound the dying man, whose eyes were already
glazing and his breath hissing, raised his head.
"I'm here! " he cried; "I 'm ready! I am the guide."
128 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Then he tried to imitate the owl's cry in reply to the
one he had heard, but he could not. The lingering breath
gave a sob, his head fell back, his eyes opened widely.
He was dead.
A stranger stood on the threshold of the door. He was
a young Breton peasant, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, a
red waistcoat and silver buttons, a blue jacket embroidered
Nvith red, and high leather gaiters. He carried in his
hand one of those sticks with iron points, which the coun-
try people use when they make a journey.
He seemed surprised at the scene before his eyes ; but
he asked no question of any one. He quietly knelt down
and prayed; then he approached the bed, looked earnestly
at the pale, discolored face of the poor peasant. Two
heavy tears rolled down his cheeks ; he wiped them away,
and went out as he had come, silently.
The peasants, used to the religious custom which expects
all those who pass the house of death to enter and say a
prayer for the soul of the dying and a blessing on the body,
were not surprised at the presence of a stranger, and paid
no heed to his departure. The latter, on leaving the cot-
tage, met another peasant, younger and smaller than him-
self, who seemed to be his brother; this one was riding a
horse saddled and In-idled in peasant fashion.
"Well, Rameau-d'or," said the younger, "what is it?"
"This," replied lac other: "there is no place for us in
that house. A guest is there whose presence fills it."
" Who is he? "
"Death."
"Who is dead?"
"He whose hospitality we came to ask. I would sug-
gest to you to make a shield of his death and stay here;
but I heard some one say that Tinguy died of typhoid
lever, and though doctors deny the contagion, I cannot
consent to expose you to it."
" You are not afraid that you were seen and recognized?"
"No, impossible. There were eight or ten persons, men
PETIT- PI ERRE.
and women, praying round the bed. 1 went in and km It
down and prayed with them. That is what all lîreton and
Vendéan peasants do in such cases."
" Well, what can we do now? " asked the younger of the
two.
" I have already told you. We had to decide' between
the château of my former comrade or the cottage of the
poor fellow who was to have been our guide, — between
luxury and a princely house with poor security, and a nar-
row cottage, bad beds, buckwheat bread, and absoli
safety. God himself has decided the matter. We have
no choice; we must take the insecure comfort."
" But you think the chateau is not safe? "
" The château belongs to a friend of my childhood, whose
father was made a baron by the Restoration. The father
is dead, and the widow and son are now living in the
château. If the son were alone, I should have no anxiety.
He is rather weak, but his heart is sound. It is his
mother I fear; she is selfish and ambitious, and I could
not trust her."
" Oh, pooh ! just for one night ! You are not adventu-
rous, Rameau-d'or."
" Yes I am, on my own account ; but I am answerable to
France, or at any rate, to my party for the life of Ma — "
" For Petit-Pierre. Ah, Rameau-d'or, that is the tenth
forfeit you owe me since we started."
"It shall be the last, Ma — Petit-Pierre, I should say.
In future I will think of you by no other name, and in no
other relation than that of my brother."
" Come, then; let us go to the château. I am so weary
that I would ask shelter of an ogress, — if there were
any."
" We '11 take a crossroad, which will carry us there in
ten minutes," said the young man. "Seat yourself more
comfortably in the saddle; I will walk before yon, and
you must follow me ; otherwise we might miss the path,
which is very faint."
VOL. I. — 9
130 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Wait a moment, " said Petit-Pierre, slipping from his
horse.
" Where are you going?" asked Rameau-d'or, anxiously.
" You said your prayer beside that j»oor peasant, and I
want to say mine."
"Don't think of it!"
" Yes, yes; he was a brave and honest man," persisted
Petit-Pierre. "He would have risked his life for us; I
may well offer a little prayer beside his body."
Rameau-d'or raised his hat and stood aside to let his
young companion pass.
The lad, like Rameau-d'or, entered the cottage, took a
branch of holly, dipped it in holy water, and sprinkled the
body with it. Then he knelt down and prayed at the foot
of the bed, after which he left the cottage, without excit-
ing more attention than his companion had done.
The elder helped Petit-Pierre to mount, and together,
one in the saddle, the other on foot, they took their way
silently across the fields and along an almost invisible
path which led, as we have said, in a straight line to the
château de la Logerie. They had hardly gone a hundred
steps into the grounds when Rameau-d'or stopped short
and laid his hand on the bridle of the horse.
" W T hat is it now? " asked Petit-Pierre.
" I hear steps," said the young man. " Draw in behind
those bushes ; I will stand against this tree. They '11
probably pass without seeing us."
The manœuvre was made with the rapidity of a military
evolution, and none too soon; for the new-comer was seen
to emerge from the darkness as the pair reached their
prats. Rameau-d'or, whose eyes were by this time accus-
tomed to the dim light, saw at once that he was a young
man about twenty years of age, running, rather than walk-
ing, in the same direction as themselves. He had his hat
in his hand, which made him the more easily recognized,
and his hair, blown back by the wind, left his face entirely
exposed.
PETIT-PIERRE. 131
An exclamation of surprise burst from Rameau-d'or, as
the young man came close to him; then he hesitated a
minute, still in doubt, and allowed the other to pass him
by three or four steps, before he cried out : —
"Michel!"
The new-comer, who did not expect to hear his name
called in that lonely place, jumped to one side, and said in
a voice that quivered with emotion : —
"Who called me?"
"I," said Bameau-d'or, taking off his hat and a wig he
had been wearing, and advancing to his friend with no
other disguise than his Breton clothes.
" Henri de Bonneville ! " exclaimed Baron Michel, in
amazement.
" Myself. But don't say my name so loud. We are in
a land where every bush and ditch and tree shares with the
walls the privilege of having ears."
"True!" said Michel, alarmed; " and besides — "
" Besides what? " asked M. de Bonneville.
" You must have come for the uprising they talk of? "
" Precisely. And now, in two words, on which side are
you? "
" I? "
" Yes, you."
"My good friend," said the young baron, "I have no
fixed opinions; though I will admit in a whisper — "
" Whisper as much as you like; admit what? Make
haste."
" Well, I will admit that I incline toward Henri V."
"My dear Michel. "' cried the count, gayly, "if you
incline toward Henri Y. that *s enough for me."
" Stop; I don't say that 1 am positively decided."
"So much the better. I shall finish your conversion;
and, in order that I may do so at once, I shall ask you to
take me in for the night at your chateau, and also a friend
who accompanies me."
" Where is your friend? " asked Michel.
132 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Here lie is," said Petit-Pierre, riding forward, and
bowing to the young baron, with an ease and grace that con-
trasted curiously with the dress he wore. Michel looked
at the little peasant for a moment, and then approaching
Bonneville, he said : —
" Henri, what is your friend's name?/'
" Michel, you are lacking in all the traditions of hos-
pitality. You forget the 'Odyssey,' my dear fellow, and
I am distressed at you. Why do you want to know my
friend's name? Is n't it enough if I tell you he is a man
of good birth? "
" Are you sure he is a man at all? "
The count and Petit-Pierre burst out laughing.
" So you insist on knowing the names of those you receive
in your house? "
" Not for my sake, my dear Henri, — not for mine, I
swear to you ; but in the château de la Logerie — "
" Well? — in the château de la Logerie? "
" I am not master."
"Oh! then the Baronne Michel is mistress. I had
already told my little friend Petit-Pierre that she might
be. But it is only for one night. You could take us to
your own room, and I can forage in the cellar and larder.
I know the way. My young friend could get a night's rest
on your bed, and early in the morning I '11 find a better
place and relieve you of our presence."
" Impossible, Henri. Do not think that it is for myself,
I fear; but it will compromise your safety to let you even
enter the château."
"How so?"
"My mother is still awake; I am sure of it. She is
watching forme; she would see us enter. Your disguise
we might find some reason for; but that of your compan-
ion, which has not escaped me, how could we explain it to
lier? "
" He is right," said Petit-Pierre.
" But what else can we do? "
PETIT-PIERKE. 1.».,
"And," continued Michel, "it is not only my mother
that I fear, but — "
" What else? "
"Wait!" said the baron, looking uneasily about him;
" let us get away from these bushes."
"The devil!"
" I mean Courtin."
"Courtin? Who is he? "
"Don't you remember Courtin the farmer? "
" Oh ! yes, to be sure, — a good sort of fellow, who was
always on your side, even against your mother."
"Yes. Well, Courtin is now mayor of the village and
a violent Philippist. If he found you wandering about, at
night in disguise he would arrest you without a warrant."
"This is serious," said Henri de Bonneville, gravely.
"What does Petit-Pierre think of it?"
"I think nothing, my dear Bameau-d'or; I leave you to
think for me."
"The result is that you close your doors to us?" said
Bonneville.
"That won't signify to you," said Baron Michel, whose
eyes suddenly lighted up with a personal hope, — " it won't
signify, for I will get you admitted to another house,
where you will be in far greater safety than at La
Logerie."
"Not signify! but it does signify. What says my
companion? "
"I say that provided some door opens, I don't care where
it is. I am ready to drop with fatigue, I am so tired."
" Then follow me, " said the baron.
"Is it far?"
"An hour's walk, — about three miles."
"Has Petit-Pierre the strength for it? " asked Henri.
"Petit-Pierre will find strength for it," said the little
peasant, laughing.
"Then let us follow Baron Michel," said Bonneville.
" Forward, baron ! "
134 THE LAST VENDÉE.
And the little group, which had been at a standstill for
the last ten minutes, moved away. But they had hardly
gone a few hundred steps before Bonneville laid a hand on
Michel's shoulder.
"Where are you taking us? " he said.
"Don't be uneasy."
"I will follow you, provided you can promise me a good
bed and a good supper for Petit-Pierre, who, as you see, is
rather delicate."
" He shall have all and more than I could give him at
La Logerie, — the best food in the larder, the best wine in
the cellar, the best bed in the castle."
On they went. At the end of some little time Michel
said suddenly : —
"I'll go forward now, so that you may not have to
wait."
"One moment," said Henri. "Where are we going?"
"To the château de Souday."
" The château de Souday ! "
"Yes; you know it very well, with its pointed towers
roofed with slate, on the left of the road opposite to the
forest of Machecoul."
"The wolves' castle?"
"Yes, the wolves' castle, if you choose to call it so."
"Is that where we are to stay? "
"Yes."
"Have you sufficiently reflected, Michel?"
"Yes, yes; I will answer for everything."
The baron waited to say no more, but set off instantly
for the castle, with that velocity of which he had given
such unmistakable proof on the night when he went to
fetch the doctor to the dying Tinguy.
"Well," asked Petit-Pierre, "what shall we do?"
"There is no choice now but to follow him."
"To the wolves' castle? "
"Yes, to the wolves' castle."
"So be it; but to enliven the way," said the little
«
D
O
CO
O
fc^^Liifci
PETIT-PIERRE. 135
peasant, "will you be good enough to tell me, my dear
Rameau-d'or, who the wolves are?"
"1 will tell you what I have heard of them."
"I can't expect more."
Resting his hand on the pommel of the saddle, the
Comte de Bonneville related to Petit-Pierre the sort of
legend attaching, throughout the department of the Lower
Loire, to the daughters of the Marquis de Souday. But
presently, stopping short in his tale, he announced to his
companion that they had reached their destination.
Petit-Pierre, convinced that he was about to see beings
analogous to the witches in " Macbeth, " was calling up all
his courage to enter the dreaded castle, when, at a turn of
the road, he saw before him an open gate, and before the
gate two white figures, who seemed to be waiting there,
lighted by a torch carried behind them by a man of rugged
features and rustic clothes. Mary and Bertha — for it was
they — informed by Baron Michel, had come to meet their
uninvited guests. Petit-Pierre eyed them curiously. He
saw two charming young girls, — one fair, with blue eyes
and an almost angelic face ; the other, with black hair and
eyes, a proud and resolute bearing, a frank and loyal coun-
tenance. Both were smiiing.
Bameau-d'or's young companion slid from his horse, and
the two advanced together toward the ladies.
" My friend Baron Michel encouraged me to hope, mes-
demoiselles, that your father, the Marquis de Souday,
would grant us hospitality," said the Comte de Bonneville,
bowing to the two girls.
" My father is absent, monsieur, " replied Bertha. " He
will regret having lost this occasion to exercise a virtue
which in these days we cannot often practise."
" I do not know if Michel told you, mademoiselle, that this
hospitality may possibly involve some danger. My young
companion and I are almost proscribed persons. Persecu-
tion may be the cost of your granting us an asylum."
" You come here in the name of a cause which is ours,
136 THE LAST VENDÉE.
monsieur. Were you merely strangers, you would be hos-
pitably received. Being, as you are, royalists and pro-
scribed, you are heartily welcome, even if death and ruin
enter this poor household with you. If my father were
here he would say the same."
" Monsieur le Baron Michel has, no doubt, told you my
name; it remains for me to tell you that of my young
companion."
"We do not ask to know it, monsieur; your situation is
more to us than your names, whatever they may be. You
are royalists, proscribed for a cause to which, women as we
are, we would gladly give every drop of our blood. Enter
this house; it is neither rich nor sumptuous, but at least
you will find it faithful and discreet."
With a gesture of great dignity, Bertha pointed to the
gate, and signed to the two young men to enter it.
"May Saint- Julien be ever blessed!" said Petit-Pierre
in Bonneville's ear. "Here is the château and the cottage
between which you wanted me to choose, united in this
night's lodging. They please me through and through,
your wolves."
So saying, he entered the postern, with a graceful
inclination of the head to the two young girls. The Comte
de Bonneville followed. Mary and Bertha made an amica-
ble gesture of farewell to Michel, and the latter held out her
hand to him. But Jean Oullier closed the gate so roughly
that the luckless young man had no time to grasp it.
He looked for a few moments at the towers of the castle,
which stood out blackly against the dark background of
the sky. He watched the lights appearing, one by one, in
the windows; and then, at last, he turned and went away.
When he had fairly disappeared the bushes moved, and
gave passage to an individual who had witnessed this
scene, with a purpose very different from that of the actors
in it. That individual was Courtin, who, after satisfying
himself that no one was near, took the same path his young
master had taken to return to La Logerie.
AN UNSEASONABLE HOUR. 137
XV.
AN UNSEASONABLE HOUR.
It was about two in the morning, perhaps, when the young
Baron Michel again reached the end of the avenue, which
leads to the château de la Logerie. The atmosphere was
calm; the majestic silence of the night, which was broken
only by the rustling of the leaves, led him into reverie.
It is not necessary to say that the two sisters were the
objects of his thought, and that the one whose image the
baron followed with as much respect and love as Tobit fol-
lowed the angel in the Bible, was Mary.
But when he saw before him, at the farther end of the
dark arcade of trees beneath which he was walking, the
windows of the chateau, which were sparkling in the moon-
light, all his charming visions vanished, and his ideas
took a far more practical direction. In place of the ravish-
ing figures of girlhood so lately beside him, he saw the
stern and threatening outline of his mother.
We know the terror with which she inspired him. lie
stopped short. If in all the neighborhood there were any
shelter, even a tavern, in which he could spend the night,
he would not have returned to the house till the next day,
so great were his apprehensions. It was the first time he
had ever been late in getting home, and he felt instinctively
that his mother was on the watch for him. What should
he answer to the dreadful inquiry, " Where have you
been? "
Courtin could give him a night's lodging; but if he went
to Courtin he should have to tell him all, and the young
baron fully understood the danger there was in taking a
138 THE LAST VENDÉE.
man like Courtin into Lis confidence. He decided, there-
fore, to brave the maternal wrath, — very much as the
criminal decides to brave the scaffold, simply because he
cannot do otherwise, — and continued his way home.
Nevertheless, the nearer he got to the château the more
his resolution faltered. When he reached the end of the
avenue where he had to cross the lawn, and when he saw
his mother's window, the only lighted window in the
building, his heart failed him. No, his forebodings had
not misled him ; his mother was on the watch. His reso-
lution vanished entirely, and fear, developing the resources
of his imagination, put into his head the idea of a trick
which, if it did not avert his mother's anger, would at any
rate delay the explosion of it.
He turned to the right, glided along in the shadow of a
buckthorn hedge, reached the wall of the kitchen garden,
over which he climbed, and passed through the gate leading
from the kitchen-garden to the park.
Up to this moment all was well ; but now came the most
difficult, or rather the most hazardous part of his enter-
prise. He had to find some window left unfastened by a
careless servant, by which he could enter the house and
slip back to his own apartment unperceived.
The château de la Logerie consists of a large, square
building, flanked at the corners with four towers of the
same shape. The kitchens and offices were underground,
the reception-rooms on the ground-floor, those of the
baroness on the next floor, those of her son above her.
Michel examined the house on three sides, trying gently
but persistently every door and window, keeping close to
the walls, stepping with precaution, and even holding his
breath. Neither doors nor windows yielded.
There was still the front of the house to be examined.
This was much the most dangerous side, for the windows
uf the baroness commanded it, and there were no shrubs to
cast a protecting shadow. Here he found a window open.
True, it was that of his mother's bedroom; but Michel,
AN UNSEASONABLE HOUR. L39
now desperate, reflected that if he had to be scolded be
would rather it were without than within the house, and
he resolved on making the attempt.
He was cautiously advancing round the corner tower
when he saw a shadow moving on the lawn. A shadow of
course meant a body. Michel stopped and gave all his
attention to the new arrival. He saw it was a man, and
the man was following the path he himself would have
taken had he gone, in the first instance, straight to thé
house. The young baron now made a few steps backward
and crouched in the heavy shadow projected by the tower.
The man came nearer. He was not more than fifty
yards from the house when Michel heard the harsh voice
of his mother speaking from her window. He congratu-
lated himself on not having crossed the lawn and taken
the path the man was on.
"Is that you, Michel? " asked the baroness.
"No, madame, no," replied a voice, which the young
baron recognized, with amazement not unmingled with fear,
as that of Courtin, " you do me too much honor in taking
me for Monsieur le baron."
" Good heavens ! " cried the baroness, " what brings you
here at this hour? "
"Ah! you may well suppose it is something important,
Madame la baronne."
" Has any harm happened to my son? "
The tone of agony in which his mother said these words
touched the young man so deeply that he was about to
rush out and reassure her when Courtin's answer, which
came immediately, paralyzed this good intention.
"Oh! no, no, madame; I have just seen the young gars,
if I may so call Monsieur le baron, and he is quite well, —
up to the present moment at least."
" Present moment ! " said the baroness. " Is he in any
danger? "
"Well, yes," said Courtin; "he may get into trouble if
he persists in running after those female Satans, — and
140 THE LAST VENDÉE.
may hell clutch them! It is to prevent such a misfortune
that I 've taken the liberty to come to you at this time of
night, feeling sure that as Monsieur Michel is so late in
getting home you would surely be sitting up for him."
" You did right, Courtin. Where is he now, — do you
know?"
Courtin looked about him.
"I am surprised he has not come in. I took the county
road so as to leave him the wood-path clear, and that 's a
good half-mile shorter than the road."
"But tell me at once, where has he been; where is he
coming from; what has he done; why is he roaming the
country at two in the morning, without considering my
anxiety or reflecting that he is injuring my health as well
as his own? "
"Madame la baronne, I cannot answer those questions
in the open air." Then, lowering his voice, he added,
" What I have to tell madame is so important that she had
better hear it in her own room. Besides, as the young
master is not yet in, he may be here at any moment," said
the farmer, looking uneasily about him, " and I would n't
for all the world have him suspect that I keep a watch
upon him, though it is for his own good, and to do you a
service. "
"Come in, then; you are right," said the baroness.
" Come in, at once."
"Beg pardon, madame, but how, if you please?"
"True," said the baroness, "the door is locked."
"If madame will throw me the key — "
"It is inside the door."
"Oh, bother it!"
" I sent the servants to bed, not wishing them to know
of my son's misconduct. Wait; I will ring for my maid."
" Oh, madame, no ! " exclaimed Courtin, " it is better not
to let any one into our secrets; it seems to me the matter
is so important that madame might disregard appearances.
I know madame was not born to open the door to a poor
AN UNSEASONABLE HOUR. 141
farmer like me; but once in a way il wouldn't signify.
If everybody is asleep in the chateau, so much the better;
we shall be safe from curiosity."
"Beally, Courtin, you alarm me," said the baroness,
who was in fact prevented from opening the door by a
petty pride, which had not escaped the farmer's observa-
tion. "I will hesitate no longer."
The baroness withdrew from the window, and a moment
later Michel heard the grinding of the key and the bolts of
the front door. He listened at first in an agony of appre-
hension; then he became aware that the door, which opened
with difficulty, had not been relocked or bolted, — no doubt
because his mother and Courtin were so pre-occupied in
mind. He waited a few seconds till he was sure the} 1- had
reached the upper floor. Then, gliding along the wall, he
mounted the portico, pushed open the door, which turned
noiselessly on its hinges, and entered the vestibule.
His original intention had been, of course, to regain his
room and await events, while pretending to be asleep. In
that case the exact hour of his return home would not be
known, and he might still have a chance to get out of the
scrape by a fib. But matters were much changed since he
formed that intention. Courtin had followed him; Courtin
had seen him. Courtin must know that the Comte de
Bonneville and his companion had taken refuge in the
château de Souclay. For a moment Michel forgot himself
to think of his friend, whom the farmer, with his violent
political opinions, might greatly injure.
Instead of going up to his own floor, he slipped, like a
wolf, along his mother's corridor. Just as he reached her
door he heard her say : —
"So you really think, Courtin, that my son has been
enticed by one of those miserable women? "
"Yes, madame, I am sure of it;, and they 've got him so
fast that I am afraid you '11 have a deal of trouble to get
him away from them."
"Girls without a penny! "
142 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" As for that, they come of the oldest blood in the coun-
try, madame," said Courtin, wishing to sound his way;
"and for nobles like you that 's something, at any rate."
"Faugh! " exclaimed the baroness; "bastards! "
"But pretty; one is like an angel, the other like a
demon."
"Michel may amuse himself with them, as so many
others, they say, have done ; that 's possible ; but you
can't suppose that he ever dreamed of marrying one of
them? Nonsense! he knows me too well to think that I
would ever consent to such a marriage."
"Barring the respect I owe to him, Madame la baronne,
my opinion is that Monsieur Michel has never reflected at
all about it, and does n't yet know what he feels for the
wolves; but one thing I 'm sure of, and that is he is getting
himself into another kind of trouble, which may compro-
mise him seriously."
"What do you mean, Courtin? "
"Well, confound it! " exclaimed the farmer, seeming to
hesitate, "do you know, madame, that it would be very
painful to me, who love and respect you, if my duty com-
pelled me to arrest my young master? "
Michel trembled where he stood; and yet it was the
baroness to whom the shock was most severe.
"Arrest Michel!" she exclaimed, drawing herself up;
"I think you forget yourself, Courtin."
"No, madame, I do not."
"But — "
"I am your farmer, it is true," continued Courtin, mak-
ing the baroness a sign with his hand to control herself.
" I am bound to give you an exact account of the harvests,
on which you have half the profits, and to pay you promptly
on the day and hour what is due, — which I do to the best
of my ability, in spite of the hard times: but before being
your farmer I am a citizen, and I am, moreover, mayor,
and in those capacities I have duties, Madame la baronne,
which I must fulfil, whether my poor heart suffers or not."
AN UNSEASONABLE HOUR. 1 ' '■'•
"What nonsense are you talking to me, Maître Courtin?
Pray, what has my son to do with your duties as a citizen
and your station as mayor? "
"He has this to do with it, Madame la baronne: your
son has intimate acquaintance with the enemies of the
State."
"I know very well," said the baroness, "that Mon-
sieur le Marquis de Souday holds exaggerated opinions;
but any love-affairs that Michel may have with one of
his daughters cannot, it seems to me, be turned into a politi-
cal misdemeanor."
"That love-affair is carrying Monsieur Michel much
farther than you think for, Madame la baronne, and I tell
you so now. I dare say he has so far only poked the end
of his nose into the troubled waters about him; but that 's
enough for a beginning."
"Come, enough of such metaphors! Explain what you
mean, Courtin."
"Well, Madame la baronne, here's the truth. This
evening, after being present at the death-bed of that old
Chouan Tin guy, and running the risk of bringing a malig-
nant fever home with him, and after accompanying one of
the wolves to the château de Souday, Monsieur le baron
served as guide to two peasants who were no more peasants
than l 'm a gentleman; and he took them to the chateau
de Souday."
" Who told you so, Courtin? "
" My own two eyes, Madame la baronne ; they are good,
and I trust them."
"Did you get an idea who those peasants were? "
"The two false peasants? "
"Yes, of course."
" One, I 'd take my oath of it, was the Comte de Bonne-
ville, — a violent Chouan, he! No one can fool me about
him; he has been long in the country, and I know him.
As for the other — "
Courtin paused.
144 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Go on," said the baroness, impatiently.
"As for the other, if I 'in not mistaken, that 's a better
discovery still — "
"But who is it? Come, Courtin, tell me at once."
" No, Madame la baronne. I shall tell the name — I
shall probably be obliged to do so — tu the authorities."
"The authorities! Do you mean to tell me you are
going to denounce my son? " cried the baroness, amazed
and stupefied at the tone her farmer, hitherto so humble,
was assuming.
"Assuredly I do, Madame la baronne," said Courtin,
composedly.
"Nonsense! you would not think of it."
" I do think it, Madame la baronne, and I should be now
on the road to Montaigu or even to Nantes, if I had not
wished to warn you, so that you may put Monsieur Michel
out of harm's way."
"But, supposing that Michel is concerned in this affair,"
said the baroness, vehemently; "you will compromise me
with all my neighbors, and — who knows? — you may
draw down horrible reprisals on La Logerie."
"Then we must defend the château, that 's all, Madame
la baronne."
"Courtin!"
" I saw the great war, Madame la baronne. I was a lit-
tle fellow then, but I remember it, and on my word of
honor I don't want to see the like again. I don't want to
see my twenty acres of land a battlefield for both parties,
my harvests eaten by one or burned by the other ; still less
do I want to see the Whites lay hands on the National
domain, which they will do if they get the chance. Out
of my twenty acres, five belonged to émigrés. I bought
'em and paid for 'em ; that 's one quarter of all I own.
Besides, here 's another thing: the government relies
upon me, and I wish to justify the confidence of the
government."
"But, Courtin," said the baroness, almost ready to conn
AN UNSEASONABLE HOUE. 145
down to entreaty, "matters can't be as serious as you imag-
ine, I am sure."
"Beg pardon, Madame la baronne, they are very serious
indeed. I am only a peasant, but that does n't prevent mo
from knowing as much as others know, being blessed with
a good ear and a gift for listening. The lletz district is
all but at the boiling-point; another fagot and the pot will
boil over."
"Courtin, you must be mistaken."
"No, Madame la baronne, I am not mistaken. I know
what I know. God bless me ! the nobles have met three
times, — once at the Marquis de Souday's, once at the
house of the man they call Louis Eenaud, and once at the
Comte de Saint-Amand's. All those meetings smelt of
powder, Madame la baronne. À proxys of powder, there 's
two hundred weight of it and sacks of cartridges in Ww.
Vicar of Montbert's house. Moreover, — and this is the
most serious thing of all, — they are expecting Madame la
Duchesse de Berry, and from something I have just seen,
it is my opinion they won't have long to wait for her."
"Why so?"
"I think she is here already."
"Good God! where?"
"Well, at the château de Souday, where Monsieur
Michel took her this evening."
"Michel! oh, the unfortunate boy! But you won't say
a word about it, will you, Courtin? Besides, the govern-
ment must have made its plans. If the duchess attempts
to return to La Vendee, she will be arrested before she can
get here."
"Nevertheless, she is here," persisted Courtin.
"All the more reason why you should hold your tongue."
"I like that! And what becomes of the profits and the
glory of such a prize, not counting that before the capture
is made by somebody else the whole country will be in
blood and arms? No. Madame la baronne; no, I cannot
hold my tongue."
VOL. I. 10
146 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Then what is to be doue? Good God! what can I do? "
"I '11 tell you, Madame la baronne; listen to me — "
"Goon."
"Well, as I want to remain your zealous and faithful
servant, all the while being a good citizen, — and because I
hope that in gratitude for what I am doing for you, you
will let me keep my farm on terms that I am able to pay, —
I will agree to say nothing about Monsieur Michel. But
you must try to keep him out of this wasps' nest in future.
He is in it now, that 's true; but there 's still time to get
him out."
"You need not trouble yourself about that, Courtin."
"But if I might say a word, Madame la baronne — "
"Well, what?"
"I don't quite dare to give advice to Madame la
baronne; it is not my place, but — "
"Go on, Courtin; go on."
" Well, in order to get Monsieur Michel completely out
of this hornets' nest, I think you '11 have — by some means
or other, prayers or threats — to make him leave la
Logerie and go to Paris."
"Yes, you are right, Courtin."
"Only, I am afraid he won't consent."
"If I decide it, Courtin, he must consent."
"He will be twenty-one in eleven months; he is very
nearly his own master."
" I tell you he shall go, Courtin. What are you listening
for?"
Courtin had turned his head to the door, as if he heard
something.
"I thought some one was in the corridor," he said.
"Look and see."
Courtin took a light and rushed into the passage.
" There was no one, " he said, " though I certainly thought
I heard a step."
" Where do you suppose he can be, the wretched boy, at
this time of nierht? " said the baroness.
AN UNSEASONABLE HOUR. 147
"Perhaps he has gone to my house," said Courtin. "He
has confidence in nie, and it would n't be the first time he
has come to tell me of his little troubles."
"Possibly. You had better go home now; and remember
your promise."
"And do you remember yours, Madame la baronne. If
he comes in lock him up. Don't let him communicate
with the wolves, for if he sees them — "
"What then?"
" I should n't be surprised to hear some day that he was
firing behind the gorse."
"God forbid! Oh! he'll kill me with anxiety. What
a luckless idea it was of my husband ever to come to this
cursed place! "
"Luckless, indeed, madame, — especially for him."
The baroness bowed her head sadly under the recollec-
tions thus evoked. Courtin now left her, looking about
him carefully to see that no one was stirring in the château
de la Loger ie.
148 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XVI.
COURTIN S DIPLOMACY.
Courtin had hardly taken a hundred steps on the path
that led to his farmhouse before he heard a rustling- in the
bushes near which he passed.
"Who 's there? " he said, standing in the middle of the
path, and putting himself on guard with the heavy stick
he carried.
"Friend," replied a youthful voice.
And the owner of the voice came through the bushes.
"Why, it is Monsieur le baron! " cried the farmer.
"I, myself, Courtin," replied Michel.
"Where are you going at this time of night? Good
God ! if Madame la baronne knew you were roaming about
in the darkness, what do you suppose she would say?"
said the farmer, pretending surprise.
"That's just it, Courtin."
"Hang it! I suppose Monsieur le baron has his rea-
sons," said the farmer, in his jeering tone.
" Yes ; and you shall hear them as soon as we get to your
house."
"My house! Are you going to my house? " said
Courtin, surprised.
"You don't refuse to take me in, do you? " asked
Michel.
"Good heavens, no! Eefuse to take you into a house
which, after all, is yours? "
"Then don't let us lose time, it is so late. You walk
first, I '11 follow."
courtin's diplomacy. 149
Courtin, rather uneasy at the imperative tone of his
young master, obeyed. A few steps farther on he climbed
a bank, crossed an orchard, and reached the door of his
farmhouse. As soon as he entered the lower room, which
served him as kitchen and living-room, he drew a few
scattered brands together on the hearth and blew up a
blaze; then he lighted a candle of yellow wax and stuck it
on the chimney-piece. By the light of this candle he saw
what he could not see by the light of the moon, — namely,
that Michel was as pale as death.
"My God! what's the matter with you, Monsieur le
baron?" he exclaimed.
"Courtin," said the young man, frowning, "I heard
every word of your conversation with my mother."
"Confound it! were you listening?" said the farmer, a
good deal surprised. But, recovering instantly, he added,
"Well, what of it?"
" You want your lease renewed next year? "
"I, Monsieur le baron? "
"You, Courtin; and you want it much more than you
choose to own."
"Of course I shouldn't be sorry to have it renewed,
Monsieur le baron ; but if there 's any objection it would n't
be the death of me."
"Courtin, I am the person who will renew your lease,
because I shall be of age by that time."
"Yes, that 's so, Monsieur le baron."
"But you will understand," continued the young man,
to whom the desire of saving the Comte de Bonneville and
staying near Mary gave a firmness and resolution quite
foreign to his character, "you understand, don't you, that
if you do as you said to-night, — that is, if you denounce
my friends, — I shall most certainly not renew the lease
of an informer?"
"Oh! oh!" exclaimed Courtin.
"That is certain. Once out of this farm you may say
good-bye to it, Courtin; you shall never return to it."
150 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"But my duty to the government and Madame la
baronne? "
"All that is nothing to me. I am Baron Michel de la
Logerie; the estate and château de la Logerie belong to
me; my mother resigns them when I come of age; I shall
be of age in eleven months, and your lease falls in eight
weeks later."
"But suppose T renounce my intention, Monsieur le
baron? "
"If you renounce your intention, your lease shall be
renewed."
"On the same conditions as before? "
"On the same conditions as before."
"Oh, Monsieur le baron, if I were not afraid of com-
promising you," said Courtin, fetching pen, ink, and paper
from the drawer of a desk.
"What does all this mean?" demanded Michel.
"Oh, hang it! if Monsieur le baron would only have the
kindness to write down what he has just said, — who
knows which of us will die first? For my part, I am ready
to swear, — here 's a crucifix, — well, I swear by Christ — "
"I don't want your oaths, Courtin, for I shall go from
here to Souday and warn Jean Oullier to be on his guard,
and Bonneville to get another resting-place."
"So much the more reason," said Courtin, offering a
pen to his young master.
Michel took the pen and wrote as follows on the paper
which the farmer laid before him : —
"I, the undersigned, Auguste-François Michel, Baron
de la Logerie, agree to renew the lease of farmer Courtin
on the same conditions as the present lease."
Then, as he was about to date it, Courtin stopped him.
"Don't put the date, if you please, my young master," he
said. "We will date it the day after you come of age."
"So be it," said Michel.
He then merely signed it, and left, between the pledge
and the signature, a line to receive the future date.
COURTIN'S DirLOMACY. 151
" If Monsieur le baron would like to be more comfortable
for the night than on that stool," said Courtin, "I will
take the liberty to mention that there is, at his service
upstairs, a bed that is not so bad."
"No," replied Michel; "did you not hear me say I was
going to Souday?"
" What for? Monsieur le baron has my promise, I pledge
him my word to say nothing. He has time enough."
" What you saw, Courtin, another may have seen. You
may keep silence because you have promised it; but the
other, who did not promise, will speak. Good-bye to you."
"Monsieur le baron will do as he likes," said Courtin;
"but he makes a mistake, yes, a great mistake, in going
back into that mouse-trap."
"Pooh! I thank you for your advice; but I am not
sorry to let you know I am of an age now to do as I
choose."
Rising as he said the words, with a firmness of which
the farmer had supposed him incapable, he went to the
door and left the house. Courtin followed him with his
eyes till the door was closed; after which, snatching up the
written promise, he read it over, folded it carefully in
four, and put it away in his pocket-book. Then, fancying
he heard voices at a little distance, he went to the window
and, drawing back the curtain, saw the young baron face
to face with his mother.
"Ha, ha, my young cockerel!" he said; "you crowed
pretty loud with me, but there 's an old hen who '11 make
you lower your comb."
The baroness, finding that her son did not return,
thought that Courtin might be right when he suggested
that Michel was possibly at the farmhouse. She hesitated
a moment, partly from pride, partly from fear of going
out alone at night; but, finally, her maternal uneasiness
got the better of her reluctance, and wrapping herself in
a large shawl, she set out for the farmhouse. As she
approached the door her son came out of it. Then,
152 THE LAST VENDÉE.
relieved of her fears for liis safety, and seeing him sound
and well, her imperious nature reasserted itself.
Michel, for his part, on catching sight of his mother,
made a step backward in terror.
"Follow me, sir," said the baroness. "It is not too
early, I think, to return home."
The poor lad never once thought of arguing or resisting;
he followed his mother passively and obediently as a child.
Not a word was exchanged between mother and son the
whole way. For that matter, Michel much preferred this
silence to a discussion in which his filial obedience, or
rather, let us say, his weak nature, would have had the
worst of it.
When they reached the château day was breaking. The
baroness, still silent, conducted the young man to his room.
There he found a table prepared with food.
"You must be hungry and very tired," said the baroness.
"There you have food, and here you can rest," she added,
waving her hand to the table and the bed, after which she
retired, closing the door after her.
The young man trembled as he heard the key turned
twice in the lock. He was a prisoner! He fell helplessly
into an arm-chair. Events wore rushing on like an ava-
lanche, and a more vigorous organization than that of Baron
Michel might have given way under them. As it was, he
had only a certain small amount of energy, and that was
all expended in his interview with Courtin.
Perhaps he had presumed too much upon his strength
when he told Courtin he should go to the château de
Souday; at any rate, he was, as his mother said, tired out
and very hungry. At Michel's age Nature is a mother,
too, who will have her rights. Besides, a certain ease of
mind had stolen over him. His mother's words, as she
pointed to the table and the bed, seemed to imply that
she did not mean to return until he had eaten and slept.
It gave him some hours of calm before the storm of
explanation.
courtin's diplomacy. 153
Michel ate hastily, and then, after trying the door to
make sure that he was really a prisoner, he went to bed
and to sleep.
At ten o'clock he awoke. The beams of a splendid
May sun were coming joyously through his windows. He
opened the windows. The birds were singing in the
branches, which were just then covered with their young
and tender leafage. The roses were budding ; the Brst
butterflies were circling in the air. On such a day it
seemed as though misfortune were imprisoned and could
not come to any one. The young man found a sort of
strength in this revival of Nature, and awaited the dreaded
interview with his mother with more composure.
But the hours went by. Mid-day struck, and still the
baroness did not appear. Michel then noticed, with a cer-
tain uneasiness, that the table had been amply supplied, not
only for his supper of the night before, but also for the
breakfast and dinner of the following day. He began to
fear that his captivity might last much longer than he
expected. This fear grew deeper as two and then three
o'clock struck. He listened for every sound, and after a
time he fancied he heard shots in the direction of Mon-
taigu. These sounds had all the regularity of platoon
firing, and yet it was impossible to say whether they came
actually from a fusillade. Montaigu was six miles from
La Logerie, and a distant thunder-storm might produce
somewhat the same sounds.
But no! the sky was cloudless; there was no storm.
The sounds lasted over an hour; then all was silent. The
baron's uneasiness now became so great that he forgot to
eat the food prepared for him. He resolved on one thing,
— namely, as soon as night came and the people of the
house were in bed he would cut out the lock of the door
with his knife and leave the château, not by the front
entrance, but by some window on the lower fluor.
This possibility of flight restored the prisoner's appetite.
He dined like a man who thinks he has a toilsome night
154 THE LAST VENDÉE.
before him, and who gathers strength to make head
against it.
He finished his dinner about seven in the evening. It
would be dusk in another hour. He flung himself on his
bed and waited. He would fain have slept, for sleep
would have shortened the time of waiting, but his mind
was too uneasy. He closed his eyes, to be sure, but his
ears, constantly alert, heard every sound. One thing sur-
prised him much ; he had seen nothing of his mother. She
would certainly, he thought, expect him to do what he
could to escape as soon as it was dark. No doubt she was
planning something; but what could it be?
Suddenly Michel thought he heard the tinkling of bells
which are usually fastened to the collars of post-horses.
He ran to the window. He seemed to see, coming along
the road from Montaigu, an indistinct group moving
rapidly in the gathering darkness toward the château de
la Logerie. The sound of horses' hoofs now mingled with
the tinkling of the bells. Presently the postilion cracked
his whip, probably to announce his coming. No doubt
remained ; it certainly was a postilion with post-horses on
his way to the château.
Instinctively the young man looked toward the stables,
and there he saw the servants dragging his mother's
travelling-carriage from the coach-house. A flash of light
came into his mind. These post-horses from Montaigu,
the postilion cracking his whip, the travelling-carriage
making ready for use, — no doubt, no doubt at all remained ;
his mother meant to leave La Logerie and take him with
her. That was why she had locked him up and kept him a
prisoner. She meant to come for him at the last moment,
force him to get into the carriage with her, and away,
away from everything he would be forced to go. She
knew her ascendency over her son sufficiently well to be
certain he would not venture to resist her.
The consciousness that his mother had this conviction
exasperated the young man all the more because he knew
courtin's diplomacy. 155
it was a true one. It was evident to his own mind that if
the baroness once came face to face with him he would not
dare to oppose her.
But to leave Mary, renounce that life of emotion to
which the sisters had introduced him, to take no part in
the drama which the Comte de Bonneville and his mysteri-
ous companion had come into La Vendee to play, seemed
to him impossible and dishonoring. What would those
young girls think of him?
Michel resolved to run all risks rather than endure the
humiliation of their contempt.
He went to the window and measured with his eye the
height from the ground; it was thirty feet. The young
baron stood in thought for a moment. Evidently some
great struggle was going on within him. At last it was
decided. He went to his desk and took out a large sum of
money in gold, with which he filled his pockets. Just then
he thought he heard steps in the corridor. He hastily
closed his desk and threw himself on his bed, expectant.
An observer would have seen by the unusual firmness of
the muscles of his face that his resolution was taken.
What was that resolution? In all probability we shall
sooner or later discover what it was.
156 THE LAST VENDEE.
XVII.
THE TAVEltN OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE.
It was plain, — even to the authorities, who are usually
the last to be informed as to the state of public opinion in
the countries they are called upon to govern, — it was
plain, we say, that an uprising was contemplated in Brit-
tany and in La Vendée.
We have heard Courtin tell Madame de la Logerie of the
meetings of the legitimist leaders. Those meetings were
a secret to no one. The names of the new Bonchamps and
Elbées, who were to put themselves- at the head of this last
Vendéan struggle, were well-known and noted ; the organi-
zations of the former period into "parishes," "captaincies,"
and "divisions," were renewed; the priests refused to
chant the Domine salvum fac regem PMlippum, commend-
ing to the prayers of their people Henri V., king of France,
and Marie-Caroline, regent. In short, in all the depart-
ments bordering on the Loire, particularly those of the
Lower Loire and of the Maine-et-Loire, the air was filled
with that smell of powder which precedes, as a general
thing, all great political convulsions.
In spite of this wide-spread fermentation, — perhaps in
consequence of it, — the fair at Montaigu promised to be
very brilliant. Although it was usually of small impor-
tance, the influx of peasants on this occasion was consider-
able. The men from the high lands of Mauges and Retz
rubbed shoulders with those from the Bocage and the
plain; and the warlike inclination of all these country-folk
was manifested by the prevalence of broad-brimmed hats
and long-haired heads, and the absence of caps. In fact,
THE TAVERN OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE. 157
the women, who were usually the majority in these com-
mercial assemblies, did not come, on this occasion, to the
Montaigu fair.
Moreover, — and this alone would have sufficed to show
the incipient state of things to the least observing person,
— though customers were plentiful at the fair of Montaigu,
horses, cows, sheep, butter, and corn, which constituted
the ordinary traffic, were conspicuously absent. The peas-
ants, whether they came from Beaupréau, Mortagne,
Bressuire, Saint-Fulgent, or Machecoul, carried in place
of their usual marketable produce nothing but stout cud-
gels of dogwood tipped with iron, and by the way they
grasped them it was plain enough that they meant to do
business of that kind.
The market-place and the main (and only) street in
Montaigu, which were used as the fair-ground, had a
serious, almost threatening, and certainly solemn aspect,
which is not usual in such assemblages. A few jugglers,
a few vendors of quack medicines, a few teeth-pullers
tapped their boxes, blew their bugles, clanged their gongs,
and vaunted their trades facetiously to no purpose ; frowns
continued on the anxious faces that passed them by without
deigning to listen to their music or their chatter.
The people of La Vendée, like their neighbors of the
North, the Bretons, talk but little. On this occasion they
talked less than ever. Most of them stood with their
backs against the houses or the garden walls or the
wooden bars that inclosed the market-place, and there
they stood, motionless, their legs crossed, their heads
under their broad hats inclining forward, and their hands
leaning on their sticks, like so many statues. Some were
gathered in little groups, and these groups, which seemed
to be awaiting something, were, strange to say, as silent
as the solitary individuals.
The crowds were great in the drinking-shops. Cider,
brandy, and coffee were dispensed there in vast quantities;
but the constitution of the Vende'an peasant is so robust
158 THE LAST VENDÉE.
that the enormous quantities of liquor absorbed had no
visible influence ou the faces and conduct of any of them.
Their color might be a little higher, their eyes more bril-
liant, but the men were masters of themselves, and all the
more so because they distrusted those who kept the wine-
shops, and the village folk whom they met there. In the
towns and villages along the great high-roads of La Vendée
and Brittany the minds of the inhabitants were, as a gen-
eral thing, awakened to ideas of progress and liberty ; but
these sentiments, which cooled at a little distance, disap-
peared altogether when the interior country districts were
reached.
Consequently, all the inhabitants of the chief centres of
population, unless they had given unequivocal proofs of
devotion to the royal cause, were classed as " patriots " by
the peasantry ; and patriots were to the peasants enemies,
to whom they attributed all the evils resulting from the
great insurrection, hating them with that deep, undying
hatred which characterizes civil and religious warfare.
In coming to the fair at Montaigu — a centre of popu-
lation, and occupied at this time by a company of some
hundred or so of Mobile guards — the inhabitants of the
country districts had penetrated to the very centre of their
enemies. They understood this thoroughly, and that is
why they maintained under a pacific demeanor the reserve
and vigilance of soldiers under arms.
Only one of the numerous drinking-shops of Montaigu
was kept by a man on whom the Vendéans could rely, and
before whom, consequently, they discarded all constraint.
His tavern was in the centre of the town, on the fair-
ground itself, at the corner of the market-place and a side
alley leading, not to another street nor to the fields, but to
the river Maine, which skirts the town to the southeast.
The tavern had no sign. A branch of dry holly, stuck
horizontally into a crack of the wall, and a few apples,
seen through window-panes so covered with dust that no
curtain was needed, informed all strangers of the nature
THE TAVERN OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE. 159
of the establishment. As for its regular customers, they
needed no indications.
The proprietor of this tavern was named Aubin Courte-
Joie. Aubin was his family name; Courte-Joie was a
nickname, which he owed to the jeering propensities of his
friends. He came by it in this way. The part, insignifi-
cant as it is, which Aubin Courte-Joie plays in this his-
tory obliges us to say a word on his antecedents.
At twenty years of age Aubin was so frail, debilitated,
and sickly, that even the conscription, which did not look
very closely into such matters, rejected him as unfit for
the favors which his Imperial and Royal Majesty bestowed
upon his conscripts. But in 1814 this same conscription,
having then aged by two years, was less fastidious, and
came to the conclusion that what it had so far considered
an abortion was at any rate a numerical figure, somewhere
between a one. and a nought, and could, if only on paper,
contribute to the terrifying of the kings of Europe. Con-
sequently, the conscription laid hands on Aubin.
But Aubin, whom the original disdain manifested by the
authorities toward his person had alienated from all desire
for military glory, resolved to desert the government, and
taking to flight he connected himself with one of those
bands of refractories (as recalcitrant conscripts were then
called) who roamed the interior of the country. The less
plentiful recruits became, the more pitiless grew the agents
of imperial authority.
Aubin, whom Nature had not endowed with excessive
conceit, would never have thought himself so necessary to
the government if he had not seen with his own eyes the
trouble that the government took to hunt for him through
the forests of Brittany and the bogs of La Vendee. The
gendarmes were active in their pursuit of refractories.
In one of the encounters that resulted from this pursuit,
Aubin had used his gun with a courage and tenacity which
proved that the conscription of 1814 was not altogether
wrong in wishing to lay hands on him as one of its elect,
1G0 THE LAST VENDÉE.
— in one of these encounters, we were about to say, Aubin
ball and left for dead in the roadway.
On that day a bourgeoise of Ancenis took the road by
the river bank, which leads from Ancenis to Nantes. She
was in her carriole, and it might be about eight or nine
o'clock at night ; at any rate, it was dusk. When she
came to the body the horse shuddered in the shafts and
refused to go on. She whipped him, he reared. On
further whipping, the animal tried to turn short round
and go back to Ancenis. His mistress, who had never
known him to behave in that way before, got out of her
carriole. All was then explained. Aubin's body lay
across the road.
Such encounters were not infrequent in those daj^s.
The bourgeoise was only slightly alarmed. She fastened
her horse to a tree, and began to drag Aubin's body into
the ditch, to make room for her vehicle and others that
might pass that way. But she had no sooner touched the
body than she found it warm. The motion she gave to it,
perh ips the pain of the motion, brought Aubin to his
senses; he gave a sigh and moved his arms.
The end of it was that, instead of putting him into the
ditch, the bourgeoise put him into her carriole; and instead
of continuing her way to Nantes she returned to Ancenis.
The good dame was pious and a royalist. The cause for
which Aubin was wounded, the scapulary she found on his
breast, interested her deeply. She sent for a surgeon.
The luckless Aubin had both legs fractured by one shot;
it was necessary to amputate them. The worthy woman
nursed him and took care of him with all the devotion of
a sister of charity. Her good deed, as often happens,
attached her to the object of it, and when Aubin was once
more well in health it was with the utmost astonishment
that he received an offer of her heart and hand. Needless
to say that Aubin accepted.
Thenceforth N n'>in 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 <I'?"
"Jean Chillier."
"Jean Oullier ! " cried the other, with such joy that he
raised himself partially, and thus relieved, to some extent,
his prisoner. "Really and truly you? Did you actually
get away from the red-breeches? "
"Yes, thanks to all of you, my friends. But we have
not a minute to lose if we want to escape a great disaster."'
"What 's to be done? Now that you are free and her:'
with us, all will go well."
"How many men have you?"
"Eight on leaving Montaigu; but the gars of Yieill' •
Vigne joined us. We must be sixteen or eighteen by this
time."
"How many guns? "
"Each man has one."
"Good. Where are they stationed? "
" Along the edge of the forest. "
"Bring them together."
"Yes."
"You know the crossway at the Ragots? "
"Like my pocket."
" Wait for the soldiers there, not in ambush but openly.
Order fire when they are within twenty paces. Kill all
you can, — so much vermin the less."
LOVE LENDS OPINIONS. 231
"Yes. And then?"
"As soon as your guns are discharged separate in two
bodies, — one to escape by the path to La Cloutière, the
other by the road to Bourgnieux. Fire as you run, and
coax them to follow you.*'
"To get them off their track, hey? "
"Precisely, Guérin; that's it."
"Yes; but — you?"
"I must get to Souday. I ought to be there now."
"Oh, oh, Jean Oullier ! " exclaimed the peasant,
doubtfully.
"Well, what?" asked Jean Oullier. "Does any one
dare to distrust me? "
"No one says they distrust you; they only say they
don't trust any one else."
"I tell you I must be at Souday in ten minutes, and
when Jean Oullier says 'I must,' it is because it must be
done. If you can delay the soldiers half an hour that 's
all I want."
" Jean Oullier ! Jean Oullier ! "
"What?"
" Suppose I can't make the gars wait for the soldiers in
the open? "
"Order them in the name of the good God."
" If it were you who ordered them they would obey ; but
me — Besides, there's Joseph Picaut among them, and
you know Joseph Picaut will only do as he chooses."
"But if I don't go to Souday I have no one to send."
"Let me go, Monsieur Jean Oullier," said a voice from
the earth.
"Who spoke? " said the wolf -keeper.
"A prisoner I have just made," said Guérin.
"What's his name?"
"I did not ask his name."
"I am the Baron de la Logerie," said the young man,
managing to sit up; for the Chouan's grip was loosened
and he had more freedom to move and breathe.
232 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Ah! Michel's son ! You here ! " muttered Jean Oullier,
in a savage voice.
"Yes. When Monsieur Guérin stopped me I was on my
way to Souday to warn my friend Bonneville and Petit-
Pierre that their presence in the château was known."
"How came you to know that? "
"I heard it last evening. I overheard a conversation
between my mother and Courtin."
"Then why, as you had such fine intentions, didn't you
go sooner to warn your friend? " retorted Jean Oullier, in
a tone of doubt and also of sarcasm.
"Because the baroness locked me into my room, and that
room is on the second floor, and I could not get out till
to-night through the window, and then at the risk of my
life."
Jean Oullier reflected a moment. His prejudice against
all that came from la Logerie was so intense, his hatred
against all that bore the name of Michel so deep, that he
could not endure to accept a service from the young man.
In fact, in spite of the latter's ingenuous frankness, the
distrustful Vendéan suspected that such a show of good-
will meant treachery. He knew, however, that Guérin was
right, and that he alone in a crucial moment could give the
Chouans confidence enough in themselves to let the enemy
come openly up to them, and therefore that he alone could
delay their march to Souday. On the other hand, he felt
that Michel could explain to the Comte de Bonneville
better than any peasant the danger that threatened him,
and so he resigned himself, though sulkily, to be under an
obligation to one of the Michel family.
"Ah, wolf-cub!" he muttered, "I can't help myself."
Then aloud, "Very well, so be it. Go!" lie said; "but
have you the legs to do it? "
"Steel legs."
"Hum ! " grunted Jean Oullier.
"If Mademoiselle Bertha were here she would certify to
them."
LOVE LENDS OPINIONS. 233
"Mademoiselle Bertha!" exclaimed Jean Oullier,
frowning.
"Yes; I fetched the doctor for old Tingny, and I took
only fifty minutes to go seven miles and a half there and
back."
Jean Oullier shook his head like a man who is far from
being satisfied.
"Do you look after your enemies," said Michel, "and
rely on me. If it takes you ten minutes to get to Souday
it will take me five, I '11 answer for that."
And the young man shook from his clothes the mud and
slime with which he was covered, and prepared to depart.
"Do you know the way? " asked Jean Oullier.
"Know the way! As well as I do the paths at la
Logerie." And darting off in the direction of Souday, he
called back, " Good luck to you, Monsieur Jean Oullier ! "
Jean Oullier stood thoughtful a moment. The knowl
edge the young baron declared he possessed of the neigh-
borhood of the château greatly annoyed him.
"Well, well," he growled at last, "we'll put that in
order when we get time." Then addressing Gue'rin,
"Come," said he, "call up the gars."
The Chouan took off one of his wooden shoes and put-
ting it to his mouth he blew into it in a way that exactly
represented the howling of wolves.
"Do you think they '11 hear that?" asked Jean Oullier.
"Of course they will. I chose the farthest place to
windward to make sure of it."
"Then we had better not wait for them here. Let us
get to the Ragot cross ways. Keep on calling as you go
along; we shall gain time that way."
"How much time have we in advance of the soldiers?"
asked Guérin, following Jean Oullier rapidly through the
brake.
"A good half -hour and more. They have halted at the
farm of Pichardière."
"Pichardière ! " exclaimed Guèrin.
234 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Yes. They have probably waked up Pascal Picaut,
who will guide them. He is a man to do that is u't he? "
"Pascal Picaut won't serve as guide to any one. He '11
never wake up again," said Guérin, gloomily.
"Ah!" exclaimed Jean Oullier; ''then it was he just
now, was it? "
"Yes, it was he."
"Did you kill him?"
"He struggled and called for help. The soldiers were
within gunshot of us; we had to kill him."
" Poor Pascal ! " said Jean Oullier.
"Yes," said Guérin, "though he belonged to the scoun-
drels, he was a fine man."
"And his brother? " asked Jean Oullier.
"His brother?"
"Yes, Joseph."
"He stood looking on."
Jean Oullier shook himself like a wolf who receives a
charge of buckshot in the flank. That powerful nature
accepted all the consequences of the terrible struggle which
is the natural outcome of civil wars, but he had not fore-
seen this horror, and he shuddered at the thought of it.
To conceal his emotion from Guérin he hurried his steps
and bounded through the undergrowth as rapidly as though
following his hounds.
Guérin, who stopped from time to time to howl in his
shoe, had some trouble in following. Suddenly he heard
Jean Oullier give a low whistle warning him to halt.
They were then at a part of the forest called the springs
of Baugé, only a short distance from the crossways.
THE SPRINGS OF BAUGÉ. 235
XXVI.
THE SPRINGS OF BAUGÉ.
The springs of Baugé are realty marshes, or rather a marsh,
above which the road leading to Souday rises steeply. It
is one of the most abrupt ascents of this mountain forest.
The column of the ''red-breeches," as Guérin called the
soldiers, was obliged to first cross the marsh and then
ascend the steep incline. Jean Oullier had reached the
part of the road where it crosses this bog on piles before
the ascent begins. From there he had whistled to Guerin,
who found him apparently reflecting.
" What are you thinking of? " asked Guérin.
" I am thinking that perhaps this is a better place than
the crossways," replied Jean Oullier.
"Yes," said Guérin; "for here 's a wagon behind which
we can ambush."
Jean Oullier, who had not before noticed it, now exam-
ined the object his companion pointed out to him. It was
a heavy cart loaded with wood, which the driver had left
for the night beside the marsh, fearing, no doubt, to cross
the narrow causeway after dusk.
"I have an idea," said Jean Oullier, looking alternately
at the cart and at the hill, which rose like a dark rampart
on the other side of the bog. " Only , they must — "
He looked all about him.
"Who must? What?"
"The gars must be here."
"They are here," said Guerin. "See, here's Patry,
the two Gambier brothers, and there are the Vieille- Vigne
men and Joseph Picaut."
236 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Jean Oullier turned his back so as not to see tne
latter.
It was true enough; the Chouans were flocking up on
all sides. First one and then another came from behind
each bush and hedge. Soon they were all collected.
"Gars/" said Jean Oullier, addressing them, "Ever
since La Vendée was La Vendée, — that is, ever since she
has fought for her principles, — her children have never
been called upon to show their courage and their faith
more than they are to-day. If we cannot now stop the
march of Louis Philippe's soldiers great misfortunes will
happen; I tell you, my sons, that all the glory which
covers the name of La Vendée will be wiped out. As for
me, I am resolved to leave my bones in the bog of Baugé
sooner than allow that infernal column of troops to go
beyond it."
" So are we, Jean Oullier ! " cried many voices.
"Good!" that is what I expected from men who fol-
lowed us from Montaigu to deliver me, and who succeeded.
Come, to begin with, help me to drag this cart to the top
of the hill."
"We '11 try," said the Vendéans.
Jean Oullier put himself at their head, and the heavy
vehicle, pushed from behind or by the wheels by some,
while eight or ten pulled it by the shafts, crossed the
narrow causeway, and was hoisted rather than dragged to
the summit of the steep embankment. There Jean Oullier
wedged the wheels with stones to prevent it from running
backward by its own weight down the steep rise it had
gone up with so much difficulty.
"Now," he said, "put yourselves in ambush each side of
the marsh, half to the right, half to the left, and when the
time comes, — that 's to say, when I shout 'Fire ! ' — fire
instantly. If the soldiers turn to pursue you, as I hope
they may, retreat toward Grand-Lieu, striving to lead
them on as best you can away from Souday, which they
are aiming for. If, on the contrary, they continue their
THE SPRINGS OF BAUGÉ. 237
way we will all wait for them at the Ragot crossways.
There we must stand firm, and die at our posts."
The Chouans instantly disappeared into their hiding-
places on either side the marsh, and Jean Oullier was left
alone with Guérin. Thereupon, he flung himself flat on
his stomach with his ear to the ground and listened.
"They are coming," he said. "They are following the
road to Souday as if they knew it. Who the devil can be
guiding them, now that Pascal Picaut is dead? "
"They must have found some peasant and compelled
him."
"Then that's another we shall have to get rid of. If
they once get into the depths of the forest of Machecoul
without a guide, not one of them will ever return to
Montaigu."
"Ah, ça, Jean Oullier!" exclaimed Guérin, suddenly.
"You haven't any weapon!"
"I ! " said the old Vendéan, laughing between his teeth.
"I 've a weapon that can bring down more men than your
carbine; and in ten minutes, if everything goes as I hope
it will, there '11 be plenty of guns to pick up beside the
marsh."
So saying, Jean Oullier again went up the ascent, which
he had partly descended to explain to the men his plan of
battle, and reached the cart. It was high time. As he
gained the summit he heard on the opposite hillside, which
led down to the marsh, the sound of stones rolling from
the feet of horses, and he saw two or three flashes of light
from their iron shoes. The air was quivering, as it does
in the night-time, with the approach of a body of armed
men.
"Come, go down and join the rest," he said to Guérin.
"I stay here."
"What are you going to do? "
"You '11 see presently."
Guérin obeyed. Jean Oullier crept under the cart and
waited. Guérin had hardly taken his place among his
238 THE LAST VENDÉE.
comrades when the two leading chasseurs of the advanced-
guard came upon the edge of the marsh. Seeing the diffi-
culties before them, they stopped and hesitated.
"Straight on!" cried a firm voice, although it had a
feminine ring. " Straight on ! "
The two chasseurs advanced, and seeing the narrow
causeway built on piles they crossed it and began the
ascent, coming nearer and nearer to the cart, and, conse-
quently, to Jean Oullier.
When they were twenty steps away from him, Jean
Oullier, still beneath the cart, hung himself by his hands
to the axletree, and resting his feet on the front bars of
the wagon, remained quite motionless. The chasseurs
were presently beside the cart. They examined it care-
fully from their saddles, and seeing, of coui-se, nothing of
the man beneath it or anything else to excite distrust, they
continued their way.
The main column was by this time at the edge of the
marsh. The widow Picaut passed first, then the general,
then the chasseurs. The marsh was crossed in that order.
But just as they reached the foot of the slope a thunder-
ing sound was heard from the summit of the rise they were
about to ascend; the ground shook under their feet, and
a sort of avalanche came tearing down the hill with the
rapidity of a thunder-bolt.
" Stand aside ! " cried Dermoncourt, in a voice which
rose above that horrible uproar.
Seizing the widow by the arm, he spurred his horse into
the bushes. The general's first thought was for his guide,
who was, for the moment, the most precious thing he had.
The guide and he were safe.
But the soldiers for the most part did not have time to
obey their leader. Paralyzed by the strange noise they
heard and not knowing what enemy to look for, blinded by
the darkness, and feeling danger everywhere about them,
they held to the road, where the cart (for of course it was
the cart, violently impelled by Jean Oullier from the top
THE SPRINGS OF BAUGÉ. 239
of tlie steep embankment) cut its way through them like a
monstrous cannon-ball, killing those the wheels ran over,
and wounding others with its logs and splinters.
A moment of stupefaction followed this catastrophe, but
it could not check Dermoncourt.
"Forward, men!" he cried, "and let's get out of this
cut-throat place ! "
At the same moment a voice, not less powerful than his
own, called out: —
"Fire, my gars / "
A flash issued from every bush on either side of the
marsh and a rain of balls came pelting down among the
little troop. The voice that ordered the volley resounded
from its front, but the shots came from its rear. The
general, an old war- wolf, as sly and wary as Jean Oullier
himself, saw through the manoeuvre.
"Forward!" he cried; "don't lose time answering them.
Forward ! forward ! "
The column continued to advance, and in spite of the
volleys which followed it, reached the top of the hill.
While the general and his men were making the ascent
Jean Oullier, hiding among the underbrush, went rapidly
down the hill and joined his companions.
"Bravo ! " said Guérin. "Ah ! if we had only ten arms
like yours and a few such wood-carts as that we could get
rid of this cursed army in a very short time."
"Hum ! " growled Jean Oullier, "I 'm not as satisfied as
you. I hoped to turn them back, but we have not done it.
It looks to me as if they were keeping on their way. To
the crossroads, now, and as fast as our legs will take us ! "
"Who says the red-breeches are keeping on their way? "
asked a voice.
Jean Oullier went to the boggy path whence the voice
had come, and recognized Joseph Picaut. The Vendé'an,
kneeling on the ground, with his gun beside him, was con-
scientiously emptying the pockets of three soldiers whom
Jean Oullier 's mighty projectile had knocked over and
240 THE LAST VENDÉE.
crushed to death. The wolf-keeper turned away with an
expression of disgust.
" Listen to Joseph," said Guérin, in a low voice to Jean
Chillier. "You had better listen to him, for he sees by
night like the cats, and his advice is not to be despised."
"Well, I say," said Joseph Picaut, putting his plunder
into a canvas bag he always carried with him, — "I say
that since the Blues reached the top of the embankment
they haven't budged. You haven't any ears, you fellows,
or you would hear them stamping up there like sheep in a
fold. If you don't hear them, I do."
"Let us make sure of that," said Jean Oullier to Guérin,
thus avoiding a reply to Joseph.
"You are right, Jean Oullier, and I '11 go myself,"
replied Guérin.
The Vendéan crossed the marsh, crept through the reeds,
and went half way up the ascent, crawling on his stomach
like a snake among the rocks, and gliding so gently under
the bushes that they scarcely stirred as he passed. When
he was only about thirty paces from the summit he stood
up, put his hat on the end of a long stick, and waved it
above his head. Instantly a shot from the summit sent it
spinning a hundred feet below its owner.
"He was right," said Jean Oullier, who heard the
shot. "But what is hindering them? Is their guide
killed? "
"Their guide is not killed," said Joseph Picaut, in a
savage voice.
"Did you see him?" asked another voice, for Jean
Oullier seemed determined not to speak to Joseph Picaut.
"Yes," replied the Chouan.
"Did you recognize him? "
"Yes."
"Then it must be," said Jean Oullier, as if speaking to
himself, "that they wanted to get away from the marsh
and bivouac behind those rocks, where they are safe from
our guns. No doubt they will stay there till morning."
THE SPRINGS OF BAUGÉ. 2 ! I
Presently a few lights were seen flickering on the height.
Little by little they increased in number and in size, until
four or five camp fires lit up with a ruddy glow the sparse
vegetation which grew among the rocks.
"This is very strange if their guide is still with them,"
said Jean Oullier. "However, as they are certain to go
by the Ragot crossways in any case, take your men there,
Guérin," he said to the Chouan, who by this time had
returned to his side.
" Very good, " said the latter.
"If they continue their way, you know what you have
to do; if, on the contrary, they have really bivouacked up
there, you can let them take their ease beside their fires.
It is useless to attack them.'"
"Why so?" asked Joseph Picaut.
Thus directly questioned as to his own order, Jean
Oullier was forced to reply.
"Because," he said, "it is a crime to uselessly expose
the lives of brave men."
" Say rather — "
''What? " demanded the old keeper, violently.
'Say 'Because my masters, the nobles whose servant I
am, no longer want the lives of those brave men.' Say
that, and you '11 tell the truth, Jean Oullier."
"Who dares to say that Jean Oullier lies?" asked the
wolf-keeper, frowning.
" I ! " said Joseph Picaut.
Jean Oullier set his teeth, but contained himself. He
seemed resolved to have neither friendship nor quarrel
with the man.
"I ! " repeated Picaut, — "I say that it is not out of love
for our bodies that you want to prevent us from profiting by
our victory, but because all you have made us fight for is to
keep the red-breeches from pillaging the castle of Souday."
"Joseph Picaut," replied Jean Oullier, calmly, "though
we both wear the white cockade we do not follow the same
paths nor work for the same ends. I have always thought
VOL. I. — 16
242 THE LAST VENDÉE.
that no matter how their opinions may differ, brothers
are brothers, and it grieves me to see the blood of my
brethren uselessly shed. As for my relation to my masters
I have always regarded humility as the first duty of a
Christian, above all when that Christian is a poor peasant,
as I am, and as you are. Also I consider obedience the
most imperative duty of a soldier. I know that you don't
think as I do, — so much the worse for you ! Under other
circumstances I might have made you repent for what you
have just said; but at this moment I do not belong to
myself. You may thank God for that."
"Well," said Joseph Picaut, sneering, "when you return
into possession of yourself you '11 know where to find me,
Jean Oullier; you won't have far to look." Then, turning
to the little troop of men, he went on: "Now, if there are
any among you who think it is folly to course the hare
when you can take it in its form, follow me."
He started as if to go. No one stirred; no one even
answered him. Joseph Picaut, seeing that total silence
followed his proposal, made an angry gesture and disap-
peared into the thicket.
Jean Oullier, taking Picaut's words for mere boastful -
ness, shrugged his shoulders.
"Come, you fellows," he said to the Chouans, "be off to
the Eagot crossways, and quickly, too. Follow the bed of
the brook to the clearing at Quatre-Veuts ; from there it
will take you fifteen minutes to get to the crossways."
"Where are you going, Jean Oullier? " said Guérin.
"To Souday," said the wolf-keeper. "I must make sure
that Michel did his errand."
The little band departed obediently, following, as Jean
Oullier told them, the course of the rivulet. The old
keeper was left alone. He listened for a few moments to
the sound of the water which the Chouans splashed as they
marched; but that noise soon mingled with the rippling
and dash of the little rapids, and Jean Oullier turned bis
head in the direction of the soldiers.
THF, SPRINGS OF BAT7GÊ 243
The rocks on which the column had halted formed a
chain, running from east to west in the direction of Sunday.
On the east this chain ended in a gentle slope, which came,
down to the rivulet up which the Chouans had just passed
in order to turn the encampment of the troops. On the
west it stretched for a mile and a half or more, and the
nearer it came to Souday the higher and more jagged grew
the rocks, the steeper and more denuded of vegetation were
the slopes. On this side the miniature mountain ended in
an actual precipice formed by enormous perpendicular rocks,
which overhung the rivulet that washed their base. Once
or twice in his life Jean Oullier had risked the descent of
this precipice to gain upon a boar his dogs were pursuing.
It was done by a path scarcely a foot wide, hidden among
the gorse and called the Viette des Biques, meaning "the
goat-path." The way was known to a few hunters only.
Jean Oullier himself had been exposed to such danger in
descending it that he considered it impossible that the
troops should attempt it in the darkness.
If the enemy's column intended to continue its aggres-
sive movement on Souday it must either take this goat-
path, or meet the Chouans at the Ragot crossways, or
return upon its steps and follow the brook up which the
Chouans had just gone. All this seemed to throw the
enemy into his hands, and yet Jean Oullier, by a sort of
presentiment, was uneasy.
It seemed to him extraordinary that Dermoncourt had
yielded to the first attack and resigned so quickly and
readily his evident intention of advancing to Souday.
Instead of continuing his own way to Souday, as he had
told Guérin he should, he remained where he was, watching
the heights, when suddenly he observed that the fires were
going down and the light they threw upon the rocks was
growing fainter and fainter.
Jean Oullier's decision was made in a moment. He
darted along the same path Guérin had taken to observe
the enemy, and used the same tactics; only, he did not stop,
244 THE LAST VENDÉE.
as Guérin had stopped, half-way up the ascent. He con-
tinued to crawl up until he was at the foot of the blocks of
stone which surrounded the flat summit.
There he listened; he heard no noise. Then, rising
cautiously to his feet in a space between two large rocks,
he looked before him and saw nothing. The place was
solitary. The fires were deserted; the furze with which
they were built was crackling and going out. Jean Oullier
climbed the rocks and dropped into the space where he had
supposed the soldiers were. Not a man was there.
He gave a terrible cry of rage and disappointment, and
shouted to his companions below to return and follow him.
Then, with the swiftness of a hunted deer, straining his
iron muscles to the utmost, he rushed along the summit of
the rocks in the direction of Souday. No doubt remained
in his mind. Some unknown guide, unknown except to
Joseph Picaut, had led the soldiers to the Viette des
Biques.
Notwithstanding the difficulties of the way, Jean Oullier,
slipping on the flat rocks covered with mosses, striking
against the granite blocks which rose in his path like sen-
tinels, catching his feet in the briers which tore his flesh
as he rushed through them, — Jean Oullier, we say, was
not ten minutes in getting over the whole length of the
little chain. When he reached its extremity he climbed
the last line of rocks which overlooked the valley, and saw
the soldiers.
They were just descending the slope of the hill, having
risked the path of the Viette des Biques. The line of
their torches could be seen filing cautiously along by the
edge of the abyss. Jean Oullier clung to the enormous
stone on which he stood and shook it, hoping to detach it
and send it rolling on their heads. But all such efforts
of mad anger were powerless, and only a mocking laugh
replied to his imprecations. He turned round and looked
behind him, thinking that Satan himself could alone laugh
thus. The laugher was Joseph Picaut.
TUE SPRINGS OF BAUGÉ. 245
"Well, Jean Oullier," lie said, coming out of a clump
of gorse, "my scent was better than yours; you ought to
have followed me. As it was, you made me lose my time.
I got here too late; and your friends will be cooked in
spite of me."
" My God ! my God ! " cried Jean Oullier, grasping his
hair with both hands. "Who could have guided them
down that path?"
"Whoever did guide them down shall never come up
again, either by this path or any other," said Joseph
Picaut. "Look at that guide now, Jean Oullier, if you
want to see her living."
Jean Oullier leaned forward once more. The soldiers
had crossed the rivulet and were gathered round the gen-
eral. In the midst of them, not a hundred paces from the
two men, though separated from them by the precipice,
they saw a woman with dishevelled hair, who was pointing
out to the general with her finger the path he must now
take.
" Marianne Picaut ! " exclaimed Jean Oullier.
The Chouan made no answer, but he raised his gun to
his shoulder and slowly aimed it. Jean Oullier turned
round when he heard the click of the trigger, and as the
Chouan fired he threw up the muzzle of the gun.
" Wretch ! " he cried ; " give her time to bury your
brother ! "
The ball was fired into space.
"Damn you!" cried Joseph Picaut, furiously, seizing
his gun by the barrel, and giving a terrible blow with the
stock on Jean Oullier's head. "I treat Whites like you
as I would Blues ! "
In spite of his Herculean strength the blow was so vio-
lent that it brought the old Vendéan to his knees; then,
not able to maintain himself in that position, he rolled
over the edge of the precipice. As he fell he caught
instinctively at a tuft of gorze; but he soon felt it yield-
ing under the weight of his body.
246 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Bewildered as he was, he did not altogether lose con-
sciousness, and, expecting every moment to feel the slender
shoots which alone supported him above the abyss give
way, he commended his soul to God. At that instant he
heard shots from the gorse and saw through his half -closed
eyelids the flash of arms. Hoping that the Chouans had
returned, led by Guérin, he tried to call out, but his voice
felt imprisoned in his chest, and he could not raise the
leaden hand which seemed to hold the breath from his lips.
He was like a man in a frightful nightmare ; and the pain
the effort cost him was so violent that he fancied — for-
getting the blow he had received — that his forehead was
sweating blood.
Little by little his strength abandoned him. His fingers
weakened, his muscles relaxed, and the agony he endured
became so terrible that he believed he must voluntarily let
go the branches which alone held him above the void.
Soon he felt himself attracted to the abyss below him by
an irresistible impulse. His fingers loosened their last
hold; but at the very moment when he imagined he should
hear the air whistling and whirling as he fell through it,
and feel the jagged points of rocks tearing his body as he
passed, a pair of vigorous arms caught him and bore him
to a narrow platform which overhung the precipice at a
little distance.
He was saved ! But he knew at once that the arms that
were brutally handling him were not those of friends.
THE GUESTS AT SOUDAY. 247
XXVII.
THE GUESTS AT SOUDAY.
The day after the arrival of the Comte de Bonneville and
his companion at the château de Souday, the marquis
returned from his expedition, or rather, his conference.
As he got off his horse it was quite evident that the worthy
gentleman was in a savage ill-humor.
He growled at his daughters, who had not come even so
far as the door to meet him ; he swore at Jean Chillier, who
had taken the liberty to go off to the fair at Montaigu
without his permission; he quarrelled with the cook, who,
in the absence of the major-domo, came forward to hold
his stirrup,, and instead of grasping the one to the right,
pulled with all her strength on the one to the left, thus
obliging the marquis to get off on the wrong side of his
horse and away from the portico.
"When he reached the salon M. de Souday's wrath was
still exhaling itself in monosyllables of such vehemence
that Bertha and Mary, accustomed as their ears were to
the freedom of language the old emigre allowed himself,
did not, on this occasion, know which way to look.
In vain they attempted to coax him and smooth his
angry brow. Nothing did any good; and the marquis, as
he warmed his feet before the fire and switched his top-
boots with his riding-whip, seemed to regret bitterly that
Messieurs Blank and Blank were not the top-boots them-
selves, to whom he addressed, as he flourished his whip,
some very offensive epithets indeed.
The fact is, the marquis was furious. For some time
past he had been sadly conscious that the pleasures of the
248 THE LAST VENDÉE.
chase were beginning to pall upon him; also he had found
himself yawning over the whist which regularly concluded
his evenings. The joys of trumps and odd tricks were
beginning to be insipid, and life at Souday threatened to
become distasteful to him. Besides, for the last ten years
his legs had never felt as elastic as they did now. Never
had his lungs breathed freer, or his brain been so active
and enterprising. He was just entering that Saint-Martin's
summer for old men, — the period when their faculties
sparkle with a brighter gleam before paling, and their
bodies gather strength as if to prepare for the final strug-
gle. The marquis, feeling himself more lively, more fit
than he had been for many a year, growing restless in the
little circle of his daily avocations, now insufficient to
occupy him, and conscious, alas ! that ennui was creep-
ing over him, took it into his head that a new Vendée
would be admirably suited to his renewed youth, and did
not doubt that he should find in the adventurous life of a
partisan those earlier enjoyments the very memory of
which was the charm of his old age.
He had therefore hailed with enthusiasm the prospect
of a new uprising and call to arms. A political commo-
tion of that kind, coming as it did, proved to him once
more what he had often in his placid and naïve egotism
believed, — that the world was created and managed for
the satisfaction and benefit of so worthy a gentleman as
M. le Marquis de Souday.
But he had found among his co-royalists a lukewarm-
ness and a disposition to procrastinate which fairly exas-
perated him. Some declared that the public mind was not
yet ripe for any movement; others that it was imprudent
to attempt anything unless assured that the army would
side with legitimacy; others, again, insisted that relig-
ious and political enthusiasm was dying out among the
peasantry, and that it would be difficult to rouse them to
a new war. The heroic marquis, who could not compre-
hend why all France should not be ready when a small
THE GUESTS AT SOUDAY. 24!)
campaign would be so very agreeable to him, — when Jean
Oullier had burnished up his best carbine, and his daugh-
ters had embroidered for him a scarf and a bloody heart,
— the marquis, we say, had just quarrelled vehemently
with his friends the Vendéan leaders, and leaving the
meeting abruptly, had returned to the château without
listening to reason.
Mary, who knew to what excess her father respected the
duty of hospitality, profited by a lull in his ill humor to
tell him gently of the arrival of the Comte de Bonneville
at the château, hoping in this way to create a diversion
for his mind.
"Bonneville! Bonneville! And who may that be?"
growled the irascible old fellow. "Bonneville? Some
cabbage-planter or lawyer or civilian who has jumped into
epaulets, some talker who can't fire anything but words,
a dilettante who '11 tell me we ought to wait and let
Philippe waste his popularity! Popularity, indeed! As
if the thing to do were not to turn that popularity on our
own king ! "
"I see that Monsieur le marquis is for taking arms
immediately," said a soft and flute-like voice beside him.
The marquis turned round hastily and beheld a very
young man, dressed as a peasant, who was leaning, like
himself, against the chimney-piece, and warming his feet
before the fire. The stranger had entered the room by a
side door, and the marquis, whose back was toward him
as he entered, being carried away by the heat of his wrath
and his imprecations, paid no heed to the signs his daugh-
ters made to warn him of the presence of a gue fc.
Petit-Pierre, for it was he, seemed to be about sixteen
or eighteen years old; but he was very slender and frail
for his years. His face was pale, and the long black hair
which framed it made it seem whiter still; his large blue
eyes beamed with courage and intellect; his mouth, which
was delicate and curled slightly upward at the corners,
was now smiling with a mischievous expression; the chin,
250 THE LAST VENDÉE.
strongly defined and prominent, indicated unusual strength
of will; while a slightly aquiline nose completed a cast of
countenance, the distinction of which contrasted strangely
with the clothes he wore.
"Monsieur Petit-Pierre," said Bertha, taking the hand
of the new-comer, and presenting him to her father.
The marquis made a profound bow, to which the young
man replied with a graceful salutation. The old émigré
was not very much deceived by the dress and name of
Petit-Pierre. The great war had long accustomed him to
the use of nicknames and aliases by which men of high
birth concealed their rank, and the disguises under which
they hid their natural bearing; but what did puzzle him
was the extreme youth of his unexpected guest.
"I am happy, monsieur," he said, "if my daughters have
been able to be of service to you and Monsieur de Bonne-
ville; but all the same I regret that I was absent from
home at the time of your arrival. If it were not for an
extremely unpleasant interview with some gentlemen of my
political opinions, I should have had the honor to put
my poor castle at your service myself. However, I hope
my little chatterers have been good substitutes, and that
nothing our limited means can procure has been spared to
make your stay as comfortable as it can be."
"Your hospitality, Monsieur le marquis, can only gain
in the hands of such charming substitutes," said Petit-
Pierre, gallantly.
" Humph ! " said the marquis, pushing out his lower lip ;
" in other times than these we are in, my daughters ought
to be able to procure for their guests some amusement.
Bertha, here, knows how to follow a trail, and can turn a
boar as well as any one. Mary, on the other hand, has n't
her equal for knowing the corner of the marsh where the
snipe are. But except for a sound knowledge of whist,
which they get from me, I regard them as altogether unfit
to do the honors of a salon; and here we are, for the pres-
ent, shut up with nothing to do but poke the fire." So
THE GUESTS AT SOUDAY. 251
saying, Monsieur de Souday gave a vigorous kick to the
logs on the hearth, proving that his anger was not yet
over.
"I think few women at court possess more grace and
distinction than these young ladies; and I assure you that
none unite with those qualities such nobility of heart and
feeling as your daughters, Monsieur le marquis, have
shown to us."
"Court? " said the marquis, interrogatively, looking
with some surprise at Petit-Pierre.
Petit-Pierre colored and smiled deprecatingly, like an
actor who blunders before a friendly audience.
"I spoke, of course, on presumption, Monsieur le mar-
quis," he said, with an embarrassment that was obviously
factitious. "I said the court, because that is the sphere
where your daughters' name would naturally place them,
and also, because it is there I should like. to see them."
The marquis colored because he had made his guest
color. He had just involuntarily meddled with the incog-
nito the latter seemed anxious to preserve, and the exquis-
ite politeness of the old gentleman reproached him bitterly
for such a fault.
Petit-Pierre hastened to add: —
"I was saying to you, Monsieur le marquis, when these
young ladies did me the honor to introduce us, that you
seem to be one of those who desire an immediate call to
arms."
"I should think so! parbleu! and I am willing to say
so to you, monsieur, who, as I see, are one of us — "
Petit-Pierre nodded in affirmation.
"Yes, that is my desire," continued the marquis; "but
no matter what I say and do, I can't get any one to believe
an old man who scorched his skin in the terrible fire which
laid waste the country from 179.3 to 1797. ISTo ! they listen
to a pack of gabblers, lawyers without a brief, fine dandies
who dare not sleep in the open air for fear of spoiling
their clothes, milk-sops, fellows," added the marquis,
252 THE LAST VENDÉE.
kicking at the logs, which revenged themselves by shower-
ing his boots with sparks, — "fellows who — "
" Papa ! " said Mary, gently, observing a furtive smile
on Petit-Pierre's face. " Papa, do be calm ! "
"No, I shall not be calm," continued the fiery old gen-
tleman. "Everything was ready. Jean Oullier assured
me that my division was boiling over with enthusiasm;
and now the affair is adjourned over from the 14th of May
to the Greek Calends ! "
"Patience, Monsieur le marquis," said Petit-Pierre,
"the time will soon be here."
"Patience! patience! that's easy for you to say,"
replied the marquis, sighing. "You are young, and you
have time enough to wait ; but I — Who knows if God
will grant me days enough to unfurl the good old flag I
fought under so gayly once upon a time?"
Petit-Pierre was touched by the old man's regret.
"But have you not heard, Monsieur le marquis, for I
have, " he said, " that the call to arms was only postponed
because of the uncertainty that exists as to the arrival of
the princess?"
This speech seemed to increase the marquis's ill-humor.
"Let me alone, young man," he said, in an angry tone.
"Don't I know the meaning of that old joke? During the
five years that I fought to the death in La Vendée were
not they always telling us that a royal personage would
draw his sword and rally all ambitions round him?
Did n't I myself, with many others, wait for the Comte
d'Artois to land on the shores of the île Dieu on the 2d of
October? We shall no more see the Duchesse de Berry in
1832 than we saw the Comte d'Artois in 1796. That,
however, will not prevent me from getting myself killed
on their behalf, as becomes a loyal gentleman."
"Monsieur le Marquis de Souday," said Petit-Pierre,
in a voice of strange emotion, "I swear to you, myself,
that if the Duchesse de Berry had nothing more than a
nutshell at her command she would cross the seas and
THE GUESTS AT SOUDAY. 253
place herself under Charette's banner, borne by a hand so
valiant and so noble. I swear to you that she will come
now, if not to conquer, at least to die with those who have
risen to defend the rights of her son."
There was such energy and determination in the tone
with which he spoke, and it seemed so extraordinary that
such words should issue from the lips of a little lad of six-
teen, that the marquis looked him in the face with extreme
surprise.
" Who are you? " he said, giving way to his astonish-
ment. "By what right do you speak thus of the intentions
of her Eoyal Highness, and pledge your word for her,
young man — or rather, child? "
" I think, Monsieur le marquis, that Mademoiselle de
Souday did me the honor to mention my name when she
presented me to you."
"True, Monsieur Petit-Pierre," replied the marquis,
confused at his outburst. "I beg your pardon. But," he
added conjecturing the youth to be the son of some great
personage, " is it indiscreet to ask your opinion as to the
present likelihood of a call to arms? Young as you are,
you speak with such excellent sense that I do not conceal
from you my desire for your opinion."
" My opinion, Monsieur le marquis, can be all the more
readily given because I see plainly that it is much the
same as yours."
"Really?"
" My opinion — if I may permit myself to give one — "
" Heavens ! after the pitiful creatures I heard talk to-
night you seem to me as wise as the seven sages of
Greece."
"You are too kind. It is my opinion, Monsieur le
marquis, that it was most unfortunate we could not
rise, as agreed upon, on the night of the 13th and 14th
of May."
" That 's just what I told them. May I ask your reasons,
monsieur? "
254 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" My reasons are these : The soldiers were at that time
quartered in the villages, among the inhabitants, scattered
here and there, without object and without a flag. Noth-
ing was easier than to surprise and disarm them in a
sudden attack."
" Most true ; whereas now — "
"Now the order has been given to break up the small
encampments and draw into a focus all the scattered mili-
tary forces and bodies, — not of mere companies and
detachments, but of battalions and regiments. We shall
now need a pitched battle to reach the results we might
have gained by the cost of that one night's sleep."
"That's conclusive!" cried the marquis, enthusiasti-
cally, "and I am dreadfully distressed that out of the forty
and one reasons I gave my opponents to-night I never
thought of that. But, " he continued, " that order which
you say has been sent to the troops, are you quite sure it
has been actually issued? "
"Quite sure," said Petit-Pierre, with the most modest
and deferential look he could put upon his face.
The marquis looked at him in stupefaction.
" It is a pity, " he went on, " a great pity ! However, as
you say, my young friend, — you will permit me to give
you that title, — it is better to have patience and wait till
our new Maria Theresa comes into the midst of her new
Hungarians, and meantime to drink to the health of her
royal son and his spotless banner. That reminds me
that these young ladies must deign to get our breakfast
ready, for Jean Oullier has gone off, as some one," he
added, with a half -angry look at his daughters, "has taken
upon herself to allow him to go to Montaigu without my
orders."
"That some one was I, Monsieur le marquis," said
Petit-Pierre, whose courteous tone was not quite free from
command. " I beg your pardon for having thus employed
one of your men; but you were absent, and it was most
urgent that we should judge exactly what we had to expect
THE GUESTS AT SOUDAY. 255
from the temper of the peasantry assembled at Montaigu
for the fair."
There was a tone of such easy and natural assurance in
that soft, sweet voice, such a consciousness of authority in
the person who spoke, that the marquis was speechless.
He ran over in his mind the various great personages he
could think of who might have a son of this age, and all
he managed to say in reply were a few stammered words
of acquiescence.
The Comte de Bonneville entered the room at this
moment. Petit-Pierre, as the older acquaintance of the
two, presented him to the marquis.
The open countenance and frank, joyous manner of the
count immediately won upon the old gentleman, already
delighted with Petit-Pierre. He dismissed his ill-humor,
and vowed not to think any more of the cold hearts and
backwardness of his late companions; and he inwardly
resolved, as he led his guests to the dining-room, to use
all his wit to extract from the Comte de Bonneville the
real name of the youth who now chose to pass under the
incognito of Petit-Pierre.
256 THE LAST VENDER.
XXVIII.
IN WHICH THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY BITTERL5T REGRETS
THAT PETIT-PIERRE IS NOT A GENTLEMAN.
The two young men, whom the Marquis de Souday pushed
before him, stopped on the threshold of the dining-room
door. The aspect of the table was literally formidable.
In the centre rose, like an ancient citadel commanding
a town, an enormous pasty of boar's meat and venison. A
pike weighing fifteeD pounds, three or four chickens in a
stew, and a regular tower of Babel in cutlets flanked this
citadel to the north, south, east, and west; and for out-
posts or picket-guards M. de Souday's cook had surrounded
these heavy works with a cordon of dishes, all touching
one another, and containing aliments of many kinds, —
hors-d'œuvres, entrées, entremets, vegetables, salads, fruits,
and marmalades, — all huddled together and heaped in a
confusion that was certainly not picturesque, though full
of charm for appetites sharpened by the cutting air of the
forests of the Mauge region.
" Heavens ! " cried Petit-Pierre, drawing back, as we
have said, at the sight of such victualling. "You treat
poor peasants too royally, Monsieur de Souday."
" Oh, as for that, I have nothing to do with it, my young
friend, and you must neither blame me nor thank me. I
leave all that to these young ladies. But it is, I hope,
unnecessary to say how happy I am that you honor the
board of a poor country gentleman."
So saying, the marquis gently impelled Petit-Pierre, who
still seemed to hesitate, to approach the table. He yielded
to the pressure with some reserve.
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY'S KEGRE I S. 257
" I know I cannot worthily respond to what you expect
of me, Monsieur le marquis," he said; "for I must humbly
admit to you that I am a very poor eater."
"I understand," said the marquis; "you are accustomed
to delicate dishes. As for me, I am a regular peasant,
and I prefer good, solid, succulent food, which repairs
the waste of the system, to all the dainties of a tine
table."
"That 's a point I have often heard King Louis XVIII.
and the Marquis d'Avaray discuss," said Petit-Pierre.
The Comte de Bonneville touched the youth's arm.
"Then you knew King Louis XVIII. and the Marquis
d'Avaray?" said the old gentleman, in much amazement,
looking at Petit-Pierre, as if to make sure that the youth
was not laughing at him.
"Yes, I knew them well, in my youth," replied Petit-
Pierre, simply.
" Hum ! " said the marquis, shortly.
They had now taken their places round the table, Mary
and Bertha with them, and the formidable breakfast began.
But in vain did the marquis offer dish after dish to his
younger guest. Petit-Pierre refused all, and said if his
host were willing he would like a cup of tea and two fresh
eggs from the fowls he heard clucking so cheerfully in the
poultry-yard.
"As for fresh eggs," said the marquis, "that's an easy
matter. Mary shall get you some warm from the nest;
but as for tea, the devil ! I doubt if there is such a thing
in the house."
Mary did not wait to be sent on this errand. She was
already leaving the room when her father's remark about
the tea stopped her, and she seemed as embarrassed as he.
Evidently tea was lacking. Petit-Pierre noticed the
quandary of his hosts.
"Oh!" he said, "don't give yourself any uneasiness.
Monsieur de Bonneville will have the kindness to take a
few spoonfuls from my dressing-case."
VOL. I. — 17
258 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Your dressing-case ! "
"Yes," said Petit-Pierre. "As I have contracted the
bad habit of drinking tea, I always carry it with me in
travelling."
And he gave the Comte de Bonneville a little key, select-
ing it from a bunch that was hanging to a gold chain.
The Comte de Bonneville hastened away by one door as
Mary went out by the other.
" Upon my soul ! " cried the marquis, engulfing an
enormous mouthful of venison, "you are something of
a girl, my young friend; and if it were not for the
opinions I heard you express just now, which I consider
too profound for the female mind, I should almost doubt
your sex."
Petit-Pierre smiled.
"Wait till you see me at work, Monsieur le marquis,
when we meet Philippe's troops. You '11 soon resign the
poor opinion you are forming of me now."
"What? Do you mean to belong to any of our bands? "
cried the marquis, more and more puzzled.
" 1 hope so," said the youth.
"And I'll answer for it," said Bonneville, returning
and giving Petit-Pierre the little key he had received
from him, " I '11 answer for it you '11 always find him in
the front rank."
" I am glad of it, my young friend, " said the marquis ;
"but I am not surprised. God has not measured courage
by the bodies to which he gives it, and I saw in the old
war one of the ladies who followed M. de Charette fire her
pistols valiantly."
Just then Mary returned, bringing in one hand a teapot,
and in the other a plate with two boiled eggs on it.
"Thank you, my beautiful child," said Petit-Pierre, in
a tone of gallant protection, which reminded M. de Souday
of the seigneurs of the old court. "A thousand excuses
for the trouble I have given you."
"You spoke just now of his Majesty Louis XVIII.," said
Portrait of Louis XVIII.
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY'S REGRETS. 259
the Marquis de Souday, "and his culinary opinions. I
have heard it said that he was extremely fastidious about
his meals and his way of eating them."
"That is true," said Petit-Pierre; "he had a fashion of
eating ortolans and cutlets which was his alone."
"And yet," said the Marquis de Souday, setting his
handsome teeth into a cutlet and gnawing off the whole
lean of it with one bite, " it seems to me there is only one
way of eating a cutlet."
"Your way, I suppose, Monsieur le marquis," said
Bonneville, laughing.
" Yes, faith ! and as for ortolans, when by chance Mary
and Bertha condescend to gunning, and bring home, not
ortolans, but larks and fig-peckers, I take them by the
beak, salt and pepper them nicely, put them whole into
my mouth, and crunch them off at the neck. They are
excellent eaten that way; only, it requires two or three
dozen for each person."
Petit-Pierre laughed. It reminded him of the story of
the Swiss guard who wagered he would eat a calf in six
weeks for his dinner.
" I was wrong in saying that Louis XVIII. had a pecu-
liar way of eating ortolans and cutlets ; I should have said
a peculiar way of having them cooked."
" Bless me ! " exclaimed the marquis ; " it seems to me
there are no two ways for that either. You roast ortolans
on a spit, and you broil cutlets on a gridiron."
"True," said Petit-Pierre, who evident^ took pleasure
in all these recollections; "but his Majesty Louis XVIII.
refined upon the process. As for cutlets, the chef at the
Tuileries was careful to cook the ones which 'had the
honor,' as he said, to be eaten by the king between two
other cutlets, so that the middle cutlet got the juices of
the other two. He did something the same thing with
the ortolans. Those that were eaten by the king were
put inside a thrush, and the thrush inside a woodcock, so
that by the time the ortolan was cooked the woodcock
260 THE LAST VENDÉE.
was uneatable, but the thrush was excellent, and the
ortolan superlative."
"But really, young man," said the marquis, throwing
himself back in his chair, and looking at Petit-Pierre with
extreme astonishment, "one would think you had seen the
good King Louis XVIII. performing all these gastronomic
feats."
"I have seen him," replied Petit-Pierre.
"Did you have a place at court?" asked the marquis,
laughing.
"I was page," replied Petit-Pierre.
"Ah! that explains it all," said the marquis. "Upon
my soul ! you have seen a good deal for one of your age."
"Yes," replied Petit-Pierre, with a sigh. "Too much,
in fact."
The two young girls glanced sympathetically at the
young man. The face which looked so youthful at first
sight showed, on closer examination, that a certain number
of years had passed over it, and that troubles had left their
mark there.
The marquis made two or three attempts to continue the
conversation; but Petit-Pierre, buried in thought, seemed
to have said all he meant to say, and whether he did not
hear the various theories the marquis advanced on dark
meats and white meats, and on the difference of flavor
between the wild game of the forest and the domesticated
game of the poultry-yard, or whether he did not think it
worth while to approve or to confute, he maintained an
absolute silence.
Nevertheless, in spite of this non-responsiveness, the
marquis, now in high good-humor after the generous satis-
faction of his appetite, was enchanted with his young
friend. They returned to the salon; but there, Petit-
Pierre, instead of remaining with the two young girls and
the count and marquis near the fireplace, — where a fire
which testified to an abundance of wood from the neigh-
boring forest was blazing, — Petit-Pierre, thoughtful or
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY'S REGRETS. 261
dreamy as the reader chooses, went straight to the window
and rested his forehead against the glass.
An instant later, as the marquis was making sundry
compliments to the count on his young companion, the
latter's name, pronounced in a curt, imperious tone, made
him start with astonishment.
Petit-Pierre called to Bonneville, who turned hastily
and ran rather than walked in the direction of the young
peasant. The latter spoke for some moments and seemed
to be giving orders. At each sentence uttered by the
youth Bonneville bowed in token of assent, and as soon as
Petit-Pierre had ended what he had to say the count took
his hat, saluted every one present, and left the room.
Petit-Pierre then approached the marquis.
"Monsieur de Souday," he said, "I have just assured
the Comte de Bonneville that you will not object to his
taking one of your horses to make a trip to all the
châteaus in the neighborhood and call a meeting here at
Souday, this evening, of those very men whom you quar-
relled with this morning. They are no doubt still assem-
bled at Saint-Philbert. I have therefore enjoined him to
make haste."
"But," said the marquis, "some of those gentlemen
must be affronted with me for the manner in which I spoke
to them this morning; they will probably refuse to come
to my house."
"An order shall be given to those who resist an invi-
tation."
"An order ! from whom? " asked the marquis, in
surprise.
"Why, from Madame la Duchesse de Berry, from whom
M. de Bonneville has full powers. But," said Petit-
Pierre, with a certain hesitation, "perhaps you fear that
such a meeting at the château de Souday may have some
fatal result for you or for your family. In that case, mar-
quis, say so at once. The Comte de Bonneville has not
yet started."
262 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" God bless me ! " cried the marquis, " let him go, and
take my best horse, and founder him if he chooses ! "
The words had scarcely left his lips before the Comte de
Bonneville, as though he had heard them and meant to
profit by the permission, rode at full speed past the win-
dows and through the great gates to the main-road, which
led to Saint-Philbert.
The marquis went to the window to follow the rider
with his eyes, and did not leave it until he was lost to
sight. Then be turned to speak to Petit-Pierre; but
Petit-Pierre had disappeared, and when the marquis asked
his daughters where he was they answered that the young
man had gone to bis room, remarking that he had letters
to write.
" Queer little fellow ! " muttered the marquis to himself.
THE VENDÉANS OF 1832. 263
XXIX.
THE VENDÉANS OF 1832.
The same day, about five in the afternoon the Comte de
Bonneville returned. He had seen five of the principal
leaders and they agreed to be at Souday that night between
eight and nine o'clock.
The marquis, always hospitable, ordered his cook to
tax the poultry-yard and the larder to the utmost, and to
get ready the most plentiful supper she could possibly
manage.
The five leaders who agreed to assemble that evening
were Louis Renaud, Pascal, Cœur-de-Lion, Gaspard, and
Achille. Those of our readers who are somewhat familiar
with the events of 1832 will easily recognize the person-
ages who concealed their identity under these noms de
guerre for the purpose of throwing the authorities off the
scent in case of intercepted despatches.
By eight o'clock Jean Oullier, to the marquis's deep
regret, had not returned. Consequently, the care of the
entrance gates was intrusted to Mary, who was not to
open them unless in reply to a knock given in a peculiar
manner.
The salon, with shutters closed and curtains drawn, was
the place selected for the conference. By seven o'clock
four persons were ready and waiting in this room, —
namely, the Marquis de Souday, the Comte de Bonneville,
Petit-Pierre, and Bertha. Mary, as we have said, was
stationed at the gates, in a sort of little lodge, which had
an iron-barred window toward the road, through which
264 THE LAST VENDÉE.
it was possible to see whoever rapped, and so admit none
until assured of the visitor's identity.
Of all those in the salon the most impatient was Petit-
Pierre, whose dominant characteristic did not seem to be
calmness. Though the clock said barely half-past seven,
and the meeting was fixed for eight, he went restlessly to
the door again and again to hear if any sounds along the
road announced the expected gentlemen. At last, pre-
cisely at eight o'clock, a knock was heard at the gate, or
rather three knocks separated in a certain manner, which
indicated the arrival of a leader.
"Ah!" exclaimed Petit -Pierre, going eagerly to the
door.
But the Comte de Bonneville stopped him with a respect-
ful smile and gesture.
"You are right," said the young man, and he went back
and seated himself in the darkest corner of the salon.
Almost at the same moment one of the expected leaders
appeared in the doorway.
"M. Louis Renaud," said the Comte de Bonneville, loud
enough for Petit-Pierre to hear him, and to recognize the
man under the disguise of the assumed name.
The Marquis de Souday went forward to meet the new-
comer, with all the more eagerness because this young man
was one of the few at the conference of the morning who
had favored an immediate call to arms.
"Ah, my dear count," said the marquis, "come in.
You are the first to arrive, and that 's a good omen."
"If I am the first, my dear marquis," replied Louis
Renaud, "I assure you it is not that others are less eager;
but my home being nearer to the château I have not so far
to come, you know."
So saying, the personage who called himself Louis
Renaud, and who was dressed in the ordinary simple
clothes of a Breton peasant, advanced into the room with
such perfect juvenile grace and bowed to Bertha with an
ease so essentially aristocratic, that it was quite evident he
THE VENDÉANS OF 1832. 265
would have found it difficult to assume, even momentarily,
the manners and language of the social caste whose clothes
he borrowed.
These social duties duly paid to the marquis and
Bertha, the new-comer turned his attention to the Comte de
Bonneville; but the latter, knowing the impatience of
Petit-Pierre, who, though he remained in his corner, was
making his presence known by movements the count alone
could interpret, at once proceeded to open the question.
"My dear count," he said to the so-called Louis Penaud,
"you know the extent of my powers, you have read the
letter of her Royal Highness Madame, and you know that,
momentarily at least, I am her intermediary to you. What
is your opinion on the situation? "
"My opinion, my dear count, I may not give precisely
as I gave it this morning. Here, where I know I am
among the ardent supporters of Madame, I shall risk tell-
ing the plain truth."
"Yes, the plain truth," said Bonneville; "that is what
Madame desires to know. And whatever you tell me, my
dear count, she will know exactly as if she heard it."
" Well, my opinion is that nothing ought to be done
until the arrival of the maréchal."
" The maréchal ! " exclaimed Petit-Pierre. " Is he not
at Nantes?"
Louis Renaud, who had not before noticed the young
man in his corner, turned his eyes to him on hearing this
question. Then he bowed, and replied : —
"On reaching home this morning I heard for the first
time that the maréchal had left Nantes as soon as he heard
of the failure at Marseille, and no one knows either the
road he has taken or the purpose that carried him away."
Petit-Pierre stamped his foot with impatience.
"But," he cried, "the maréchal is the soul of the enter-
prise. His absence will check the uprising and diminish
the confidence of our men. Unless he commands, all the
leaders will be of equal rank, and we shall see the same
266 THE LAST VENDÉE.
rivalries among them that were so fatal to the royalist
party in the old wars of La Vendée."
Seeing that Petit -Pierre assumed the conversation, Bon-
neville stepped backward, giving place to the youth, who
now advanced into the circle of light cast by the lamps
and candles. Louis Renaud looked with amazement at a
young man, apparently almost a child, who spoke with
such assurance and decision.
"It is a delay, monsieur," he said; "that is all. You
may be sure that as soon as the maréchal knows of the
arrival of Madame in La Vendée, he will instantly return
to his post."
"Did not M. de Bonneville tell you that Madame was on
the way and would be speedily among her friends? "
" Yes, he did tell me so ; and the news has given me the
keenest satisfaction."
"Delay! delay!" murmured Petit-Pierre. "I have
always heard it said that any uprising in your part of the
country ought to take place during the first two weeks in
May. After that the inhabitants are busy with their
agriculture and are not so easily aroused. Here it is the
14th, and we are already late. As for the leaders, they
are convoked, are they not? "
"Yes, monsieur," said Louis Renaud, with a certain sad
gravity, "they are; and I ought to add that you can hardly
count on any but the leaders." Then he added, with a
sigh, "And not all of them either, as M. le Marquis de
Souday discovered this morning."
" You surely do not mean to say that, monsieur ! " cried
Petit -Pierre. " Lukewarmness in La Vendée ! and that
too, when our friends in Marseille — and I can speak
confidently, for I have just arrived from there — are
so furious at their failure that they are longing to take
revenge ! "
A pale smile crossed the lips of the young leader.
"You are from the South, monsieur," he said, "though
you have not the accent of it. "
THE VENDÉANS OF 1S32. 26 <
"You are right; I am," answered Petit-Pierre. "What
of it? "
"You must uot confound the South with the West, the
Marseillais with the Vendéans. A proclamation may rouse
the South, and a check rebuff it. Not so in La Vendée.
When you have been here some time you will appreciate
the truth of what I say. La Vendée is grave, cold, silent.
All projects are discussed slowly, deliberately ; the chances
of success and defeat are each considered. Then, if La
Vendée sees a prospect of success she holds out her hand,
says yes, and dies, if need be, to fuliil her promise. Put
as she knows that yes and no are words of life and death to
her, she is slow in uttering them."
"You forget enthusiasm, monsieur,''' said Petit -Pierre.
" Ah, enthusiasm ! " he replied ; " I heard that talked of
in my boyhood. It is a divinity of a past age which has
stepped from its pedestal since the days when so many
pledges were made to our fathers only to be furgotten. Do
you know what passed this morning at Saint-Philbert? "
"In part, yes; the marquis told me."
"But after the marquis left?"
"No; I know nothing."
" Well, out of the twelve leaders present who were
appointed to command the twelve divisions, seven pro-
tested in the name of their men, and they have by this
time sent those men back to their homes, all the while
declaring, every one of them, that personally and under
all circumstances, they would shed their blood for Madame;
only they would not, they added, take before God the ter-
rible responsibility of dragging their peasantry into an
enterprise which promised to be nothing more, so it seemed
to them, than a bloody skirmish."
"Then it comes to this," said Petit-Pierre. "Must we
renounce all hope, all effort? "
The same sad smile crossed the lips of the young leader.
"All hope, yes, perhaps; all effort, no. Madame has
written that she is urged forward by the committee in
268 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Paris; Madame assures us that she has ramifications in
the army. Let us therefore make the attempt ! Possibly
a riot in Paris, combined with a defection in the army,
may prove her judgment to have been better than ours. If
we make no attempt on her behalf, Madame will always be
convinced that had it been made it would have been suc-
cessful; and no doubt ought to be left in Madame's mind."
"But if the attempt fails? " cried Petit-Perre.
"Five or six hundred men will have been uselessly
killed, that is all. It is well that from time to time a
party, even if it fails, should give such examples, not only
to its own country but to neighboring nations."
" You are not of those who have sent back their men,
then?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"No, monsieur; but I am of those who have sworn to
die for her Royal Highness. Besides," he added, "per-
haps the affair has already begun, and there may be no
choice but to follow the movement."
"How so?" asked Petit-Pierre, Bonneville, and the
marquis, in one breath.
" Shots were fired to-day at the fair at Montaigu — "
" And firing is going on now at the fords of the Boulogne, "
said an unknown voice from the doorway, on the threshold
of which a new personage now appeared.
THE WARNING. 2G9
XXX.
THE WARNING.
The person we now introduce, or rather the person who
now introduced himself into the salon of the Marquis de
Souday, was the commissary-general of the future Vendéan
army, who had changed his name, well-known at the bar
of Nantes, for that of Pascal.
He had gone several times into foreign lands to confer
with Madame, and knew her personally. It was scarcely
two months since he had last seen her, on which occasion
after delivering to her Royal Highness the news from
France, he had received her last instructions in return.
It was he who had come into La Vendée to tell the adher-
ents to hold themselves in readiness.
" Aha ! " exclaimed the Marquis de Souday, with a
motion of the lips which meant that he did not hold law-
yers in cherished admiration, "M. le Commissaire-général
Pascal.''
"Who brings news, apparently," said Petit-Pierre, with
the evident intention of drawing upon himself the atten-
tion of the new-comer. The latter, when he heard the
voice, turned immediately to the young man, who made
him an almost imperceptible sign with lips and eyes, which,
however, sufficed to let him know what was expected of
him.
"News? Yes," he said.
"Good or bad? " asked Louis Renaud.
"Mixed. But we '11 begin with the good."
"Go on."
270 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Her Royal Highness has crossed the South success-
fully, and is now safe and sound in La Vendée."
"Are you sure of that?" asked the Marquis de Souday
and Louis Renaud in one breath.
"As sure as that I see you all five here in good health,"
replied Pascal. "Now let us go to the other news."
"Have you heard anything from Montaigu? " asked
Louis Renaud.
"They fought there yesterday," said Pascal; "that is,
a few shots were fired by the National Guard and some
peasants were killed and wounded."
"What occasioned it?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"A dispute at the fair, which became a riot."
"Who commands at Montaigu?" again asked Petit-
Pierre.
"A mere captain usually," replied Pascal; "but yester-
day, in consequence of the fair, the sub-prefect and the
general commanding the military sub-division were both
there."
"Do you know the general's name? "
"Dermoncourt."
"And pray, who is General Dermoncourt?"
" Under what head do you desire to know of him, mon-
sieur, — man, opinions, or character? "
"All three heads."
" As a man, he is from sixty to sixty -two years old, and
he belongs to that iron race which fought the wars of the
Revolution and the Empire. He will be night and day in
the saddle, and not leave us an instant's rest."
" Very good, " said Louis Renaud, laughing. " Then we '11
try to tire him out; and as we are, none of us, half his age
we shall be very unlucky or very stupid if we fail."
"His opinions? " asked Petit-Pierre.
"At heart I believe him to be a republican."
"In spite of twelve years' service under the Empire!
He must have been dyed in the wool."
"There are many like him. You remember what Henri
Portrait ok Dermoncourt
THE WARNING. 271
IV. said of the Leaguers, — 'The barrel smells of the
herring. ' "
"His character? "
" Oh, as for that, loyalty itself ! He is neither an
Amadis nor a Galahad. He 's a Ferragus, and if ever
Madame had the misfortune to fall into his hands — "
"What are you talking about, Monsieur Pascal? "
exclaimed Petit-Pierre.
"I am a lawyer, monsieur," replied the civil commis-
sary, "and in that capacity I foresee all the chances of a
case. I repeat, therefore, that if Madame were unfortu-
nately to fall into the hands of General Dermoncourt she
would have full opportunity to recognize his courtesy."
"Then," said Petit-Pierre, "that is the sort of enemy
Madame would choose for herself, — brave, vigorous, and
loyal. Monsieur, we are fortunate — But you spoke of
shots at the fords of the river? "
"I presume that those I heard on my way came from
there."
"Perhaps," said the marquis, "Bertha had better go
and reconnoitre. She will soon let us know what is
happening."
Bertha rose.
" What ! " exclaimed Petit-Pierre, " do you send made-
moiselle?"
" Why not? " asked the marquis.
"I think it is a man's duty, not a woman's."
"My young friend," said the old gentleman, "in such
matters I rely first upon myself, next upon Jean Oullier,
and after Jean Oullier on Bertha and on Mary. I desire
the honor of staying here with you; my fellow, Jean
Oullier, is off amusing himself. Consequently, Bertha
must go."
Bertha went toward the door; but on the threshold she
met her sister and exchanged a few words with her in a
low voice.
"Here is Mary," she said, turning back.
272 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Ah ! " exclaimed the marquis ; " did you hear the
firing, my girl?"
"Yes, father," said Mary; "they are fighting."
"Where?"
"At the springs of Baugé."
"You are sure?"
"Yes; the shots came from the marsh."
"You see," said the marquis; "the news is precise.
Who keeps the gate in your absence?"
"Rose Tinguy."
" Listen ! " said Petit-Pierre.
Loud raps were heard upon the gate.
" The devil ! " cried the marquis ; " that 's not one of us."
They all listened attentively.
" Open ! open ! " cried a voice. " There 's not an instant
to lose ! "
" It is his voice ! " exclaimed Mary, eagerly.
"His voice? — whose voice? " said the marquis.
"Yes, I recognize it," said Bertha, — "the voice of young
Baron Michel."
"What does that cabbage-grower want here?" said the
marquis, making a step toward the door as if to prevent
his entrance.
" Let him come, let him come, marquis ! " cried Bonne-
ville. "I '11 answer for him; there 's nothing to fear."
He had hardly said the words before the sound of a
rapid step was heard, and the young baron rushed into the
salon, pale, breathless, covered with mud, dripping with
perspiration, and with scarcely breath enough to say: —
" Not a moment to lose ! Fly ! Escape ! They are
coming ! "
He dropped on one knee, resting one hand on the ground,
for his breath failed him, his strength was exhausted.
He had done, as he promised Jean Oullier, nearly a mile
and a half in six minutes.
There was a moment of trouble and confusion in the
salon.
THE WARNING. 273
"To arms! " cried the marquis. Springing to his own
gun, he pointed to a rack at the corner of the room, where
three or four carbines and fowling-pieces were hanging.
The Comte de Bonneville and Pascal, with one and the
same movement, threw themselves before Petit-Pierre as
if to defend him.
Mary sprang to the young baron to raise him and give
him what help he needed, while Bertha ran to a window
looking toward the forest and opened it.
Shots were then heard, evidently coming nearer, though
still at some distance.
"They are on the Viette des Biques," said Bertha.
"Nonsense!" said the marquis; "impossible they should
attempt such a dangerous path ! "
"They are there, father," said Bertha.
"Yes, yes," gasped Michel. "I saw them there; they
have torches. A woman is guiding them, marching at
their head; the general is second."
"Oh, that cursed Jean Oullier ! Why isn't he here?"
said the marquis.
"He is fighting, Monsieur le marquis," said Michel.
"He sent me; he couldn't come himself."
" He ! " exclaimed the marquis.
"But I was coming, mademoiselle; I was coming myself.
I knew yesterday the château was to be attacked, but I was
a prisoner; I got down from a second-story window."
" Good God ! " cried Mary, turning pale.
"Bravo ! " exclaimed Bertha.
"Gentlemen," said Petit-Pierre, tranquilly, "I think
we must decide on a course. Shall we fight? If we do,
we must arm ourselves at once, bar the gates, and take
our posts. Shall we escape? If so, there is even less
time to lose."
" Let us fight ! " said the marquis.
"No, escape!" cried Bonneville. "When Petit-Pierre
is safe we will fight."
"What is that you say, count? " exclaimed Petit-Pierre.
VOL. I. — 18
274 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"I say that nothing is ready; we are not prepared to
fight. Are we, gentlemen?"
" Oh, yes, we can always fight, " said the youthful, light-
hearted voice of a new-comer, addressing himself partly to
those in the salon, and partly to two other young men who
were following him, and whom, no doubt, he had met at
the gate.
" Ah, Gaspard ! Gaspard ! " cried Bonneville.
Springing to meet the new arrival, he whispered some-
thing in his ear.
" Gentlemen," said Gaspard, turning to the others, "the
Comte de Bonneville is perfectly right; we must retreat."
Then addressing the marquis, he added, " Have n't you
some secret door or issue to the castle, marquis? We
have no time to lose ; the last shots we heard at the gate
— Achille, Cœur-de-Lion, and I — were not half a mile
distant."
"Gentlemen," said the Marquis de Souday, "you are in
my house, and it is for me to assume the responsibility.
Silence ! listen to me and obey me to-night; 1 will obey
you to-morrow."
All were silent.
"Mary," said the marquis, "close the gates, but do not
barricade them; leave them so that they can be opened at
the first rap. Bertha, to the underground passage instantly,
and don't lose a moment. My daughters and I will receive
the general and do the honors of the château to him. To-
morrow, wherever you are, we will join you; only, let us
know where that will be."
Mary sprang from the room to execute her father's
order, while Bertha, signing to Petit-Pierre to follow her,
went out by the opposite door, crossed the inner courtyard,
entered the chapel, took two wax tapers from the altar,
lighted them, gave one to Bonneville, one to Pascal, and
then, pushing a spring which made the front of the altar
turn of itself, she pointed to a stairway, leading to the
vaults in which the lords of Souday were formerly buried.
THE WARNING. 275
"You can't lose your way," she said; "you will find a
door at the farther end, and the key is in it. That door
leads into the open country. These gentlemen all know
how to find their way there."
Petit-Pierre took Bertha's hand and pressed it warmly.
Then he sprang down the steps to the vault behind Bonne-
ville and Pascal, who lighted the way.
Louis Kenaucl, Achille, Cœur-de-Lion, and Gaspard
followed Petit-Pierre.
Bertha closed the aperture behind them. She noticed
that Michel was not among the fugitives.
276 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXXI.
MY OLD CKONT LORIOT.
The Marquis de Souday, after watching the fugitives with
his eyes until they entered the chapel, gave one of those
deep exclamations which mean that the breast is relieved
of a heavy weight ; then he returned to the vestibule. But
instead of proceeding from the vestibule to the salon, he
went from the vestibule to the kitchen.
Contrary to all his habits and to the great astonishment
of his cook, he walked to the fire, raised the covers of the
saucepans anxiously, made sure that no ragout was sticking
to the bottom of them, and put back the spits a trifle so
that no unexpected flame should dishonor the roasts ;
having done this he returned to the vestibule, thence to the
dining-room, where he inspected the bottles, doubled their
number, looked to see if the table was properly set, and
then, satisfied with the inspection, returned to the salon.
There he found his daughters, the castle gate being
intrusted to Rosine, whose only duty was to open it on the
first rap.
The girls were seated beside the fire when their father
entered. Mary was anxious, Bertha dreamy. Both were
thinking of Michel. Bertha was intoxicated with that
pungent joy which follows the revelation of love in the
heart of the one we love ; she fancied she read in the
glances of the young baron the assurance that it was for her
the poor lad, so timid, so hesitating, had conquered his
weakness and braved real perils. She measured the great-
ness of the love she supposed him to feel by the revolution
MY OLD CRONY LORIOT. 277
that love had evidently made in his nature. She built her
castles in the air, and blamed herself bitterly for not having
urged him to return to the château when she noticed that
he did not follow those whom his devotion had saved.
Then she smiled ; for suddenly a thought crossed her
mind : if he had remained behind he must be hidden in
some corner of the château, and was it not for the pleasure
of meeting her privately ? Perhaps if she went into the
shrubbery of the park he would start up beside her and
say : " See what I have done to obtain a word with you ! "
The marquis had scarcely seated himself in his accus-
tomed easy-chair, and had not had time to notice the pre-
occupation of his daughters, which he would, of course,
attribute to another cause than the true one, when a single
rap was heard on the gate. The marquis started, — not be-
cause he did not expect the rap, but because this rap was not
the one he expected. It was timid, almost obsequious, and,
consequently, there was nothing military about it.
" Oh ! oh ! " exclaimed the marquis ; " whom have we
here, I 'd like to know."
" Some one knocked," said Bertha, coming out of her
re very.
" One rap," said Mary.
The marquis shook his head as if to say, " That 's not
the point," and then, deciding to see for himself what the
matter was, he left the salon, crossed the vestibule, and
advanced as far as the top step of the portico.
There, instead of the bayonets and sabres he was expect-
ing to see glitter in the darkness, instead of the soldierly
figures and moustaches with which he proposed to make
acquaintance, the Marquis de Souday saw nothing but the
enormous dome of a blue cotton umbrella, which approached
him, point forward, up the steps of the portico.
As this umbrella, steadily advancing like a turtle's cara-
pace, threatened to put out his eye with its point, which
stuck forth like the central spot of an ancient shield, the
marquis raised the orb of this buckler and came face to face
278 THE LAST VENDÉE.
with a weasel's muzzle, surmounted by two little, glittering
eyes, like carbuncles, and topped with a very tall hat,
extremely narrow in the brim and so much brushed and
rebrushed that it shone in the dusky light as though it
were varnished.
" By all the devils of hell ! " cried the marquis, " if it
is n't my old crony Loriot ! "
" Ready to offer you his little services if you think him
worthy," replied a falsetto voice which its owner endeav-
ored to make ingratiating.
" You are very welcome indeed to Souday, Maître Loriot,"
said the marquis, in a tone of good-humor and as if he ex-
pected some genuine pleasure from the presence of the per-
son he welcomed so cordially. " I expect quite a numerous
party this evening, and you shall help me do the honors.
Come in, and see the young ladies."
Thereupon the old gentleman, with an easy air that
showed how convinced he was of the distance between a
Marquis de Souday and a village notary, preceded his guest
into the salon. It is true that Maître Loriot took so much
time to wipe his boots on the mat which lay at the door of
that sanctuary that the politeness of the marquis, had he
exercised it in remaining behind his visitor, would have been
sorely tried and lessened.
Let us profit by the moment when the legal functionary
shuts his umbrella and dries his feet to sketch his portrait,
if indeed the undertaking is not beyond our powers.
Maître Loriot, the notary of Machecoul, was a little old
fellow, thin and slim and seeming smaller than he really
was from his habit of never speaking except half double in
an attitude of the profoundest respect. A long, sharp nose
was the whole of his face ; nature, in developing beyond all
reason that feature of his countenance, had economized on the
rest with such extraordinary parsimony that it was neces-
sary to look at him for some time before perceiving that
Maître Loriot had a mouth and chin and eyes like other
men ; but when that knowledge was once attained it was
MY OLD CRONY LORIOT. 279
observable that the eyes were vivacious and the mouth not
by any means devoid of shrewdness.
Maître Loriot fulfilled the promises of his physiognomi-
cal prospectus ; and he was clever enough to wring some
thirty thousand francs out of a country practice in which
his predecessors had hardly managed to make both ends
meet. To attain this result, supposed until he came to be
impossible, M. Loriot had studied, not the Code, but men ;
he had learned from that study that vanity and pride
were the dominant instincts of mankind; and he had, in
consequence, endeavored to make himself agreeable to
those two vices, in which effort he succeeded so well that
he soon became absolutely necessary to those who possessed
them.
By reason of this system of behavior, politeness in
Maître Loriot had become servility ; he did not bow, he
prostrated himself ; and, like the fakirs of India, he had so
trained his body to certain submissive motions that this
attitude was now habitual with him. Never would he
have addressed a titled person, were that person only a
baron or even a chevalier, in any other than the third per-
son. He showed a gratitude both humble and overflowing
for all affability bestowed upon him ; and as, at the same
time, he manifested an exaggerated devotion to the inter-
ests confided to him, he had finally, little by little, obtained
a very considerable clientele among the nobility of the
neighborhood.
But the thing above all others which contributed to the
success of Maître Loriot in the department of the Loire-
Inférieure and even in the adjoining departments, was the
ardor of his political opinions. He was one of those who
might well be called " more royalist than the king himself."
His little gray eye flamed when he heard the name of a
Jacobin, and to his mind all who had ever belonged to the
liberal side, from M. de Chateaubriand to M. de la Fayette
were Jacobins. Never would he have recognized the mon-
archy of July, and he always called the King Louis-Philippe
280 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Monsieur le Duc d'Orléans," not even allowing hiui the
title of Royal Highness which Charles X. did grant him.
Maître Loriot was a frequent visitor to the Marquis de
Souday. It was part of his policy to parade an extreme
respect for this illustrious relic of the former social order, —
a social order he deeply regretted; and his respect had gone
so far that he had made various loans to the marquis, who,
being very careless, as we have said, in the matter of money,
neglected as a matter of course to pay the interest on them.
The Marquis de Souday always welcomed Maître Loriot,
partly on account of the said loans; also because the old
gentleman's fibre was not less sensitive than that of others
to agreeable flattery ; and, lastly, because the coolness
which existed between the owner of Souday and the other
proprietors of the neighborhood made him rather lonely,
and he was glad of any distraction to the monotony of his
life.
When the little notary thought his boots were cleaned
of every vestige of mud he entered the salon. There he
again bowed to the marquis, who had returned to his usual
easy chair, and then he began to compliment the two young
girls. But the marquis did not leave him time to do much
of that.
" Loriot," he said, " I am always glad to see you."
The notary bowed to the ground.
"Only," continued the marquis, "you will permit me to
ask, won't you ? what brings you here into our desert at
half-past nine o'clock of a rainy night. I know that when
a man has such an umbrella as yours the sky above him is
always blue, but — "
The notary judged it proper not to allow such a joke to
be made by a marquis without laughing, and murmuring
" Ah, good ! very good ! " Then, making a direct answer,
he said : —
"I was at the château de la Logerie very late, having
been there to carry some money to Madame la baronne on
an order I did not receive till two in the afternoon. I was
MY OLD CRONY LORIOT. 281
coming back on foot, as I usually do, when I heard noises
of evil portent in the forest, which confirmed what I already
knew of a riot at Montaigu. I feared, if I went any farther,
that I might meet the soldiers of the Duc d'Orléans ; and to
avoid that unpleasantness I thought that M. le marquis
would deign to let me lodge here for the night."
At the mention of la Logerie Mary and Bertha raised
their heads like two horses who hear from afar and sud-
denly the sound of the bugle.
" Oh ! you have come from la Logerie, have you ? " said
the marquis.
* Yes, as I have just had the honor of mentioning to
Monsieur le marquis," replied Maître Loriot.
" Well ! well ! well ! We have had another visitor from
la Logerie this evening."
"The young baron, perhaps ? " suggested the notary.
"Yes."
"I am looking for him."
" Loriot," said the marquis, " I am astonished to hear
you — a man whose principles I have always considered
sound — to hear you prostituting a title which you habit-
ually respect by attaching it to the name of those Michels."
As the marquis uttered this remark with an air of superb
disdain Bertha turned crimson and Mary turned pale. The
impression produced by his words was lost upon the old
gentleman, but it did not escape the little gray eye of the
notary. He was about to speak when Monsieur de Souday
made a sign with his hand that he had not finished his
remarks.
"And I wish to know why you, my old crony," he con-
tinued, " whom we have always treated well and kindly, why
you think it necessary to put forward a subterfuge in order
to enter my house."
" Monsieur le marquis ! " stammered Loriot.
"You came here to look for young Michel, didn't you?
That 's all very well, but why lie about it ? "
"I beg Monsieur le marquis to accept my most humble
282 THE LAST VENDÉE.
excuses. The mother of the young man, whom I have been
obliged to accept as a client, being a legacy with the practice
of my predecessor, is very anxious. Her son got out of a
window on the second story at the risk of breaking his neck,
and in defiance of her maternal wishes he has run away ;
consequently Madame Michel requests me — "
" Ha ! ha ! " cried the marquis, " did he really do that ? "
" Literally, Monsieur le marquis."
" Well, that reconciles me to him, — not perhaps alto-
gether, but somewhat."
" If Monsieur le marquis would indicate to me where I am
likely to find the young man," said Loriot, " I could take
him back to his mother."
" As for that, the devil knows where he has taken him-
self, I don't ! Do you know, girls ? " asked the marquis,
turning to his daughters.
Bertha and Mary both made signs in the negative.
" You see, my dear crony, that we can't be of the least
use to you," said the marquis. "But do tell me why
mother Michel locked up her son."
" It seems," replied the notary, " that young Michel,
hitherto so gentle, and docile, and obedient, has fallen sud-
denly in love."
" Ah, ha ! taken the bit in his teeth ? I know what that
is ! Well, Maître Loriot, if you are called in counsel, do
you tell mother Michel to give him his head and keep a
light rein on him ; that 's better than a martingale. He
strikes me as a pretty good little devil, what I have seen
of him."
"An excellent heart, Monsieur le marquis; and then, an
only son ! — more than a hundred thousand francs a year ! "
said the notary.
" Hum ! " exclaimed the marquis, " if that 's all he has, it
is little enough to cover the villanies of the name he
bears."
" Father ! " said Bertha, while Mary only sighed, " You
foraret the service he did us to-night."
MY OLD CRONY LORIOT. 283
"Hey! hey!" thought Loriot, looking at Bertha, "can
the baroness be right after all ? It would be a fine contract
to draw."
And he began to add up the fees he might expect from a
marriage contract between Baron Michel de la Logerie and
the daughter of the Marquis de Souday.
"You are right, my child," said the marquis; "we'll
leave Loriot to hunt up mother Michel's lost lamb, and say
no more about them." Then, turning to Loriot, he added :
"Are you going any further on your quest, Mr. Notary ? "
"If Monsieur le marquis will deign to permit, I would
prefer — "
"Just now, you gave me, as a pretext for staying here,
your dread of encountering the soldiers," interrupted the
marquis. "Are you really afraid of them ? Heavens and
earth, what 's the meaning of that ? You, one of us, afraid
of soldiers ! "
" I am not afraid," replied Loriot ; " Monsieur le marquis
may believe me. But those cursed Blues turn my stomach ;
I feel such an aversion for them that after I have seen even
one of their uniforms I can't eat anything for twenty -four
hours."
" That explains your leanness ; but the saddest part of it
is that this aversion of yours obliges me to turn you out of
my house."
"Monsieur le marquis is making fun of his humble
servant."
" Indeed I am not ; I don't wish your death, that 's all."
" My death ? "
" Yes, if the sight of 'one soldier gives you twenty -four
hours of inanition, you '11 certainly die of starvation out-
right if you pass a whole night under the same roof as a
regiment."
" A regiment ? "
" Yes, a regiment. I have invited a regiment to sup at
Souday to-night ; and the regard I have for you obliges me
to send you off, hot foot, at once. Only, be careful which
284 THE LAST VENDEE.
way you go because those scamps the soldiers if they catch
you in the fields, or rather in the woods, at this time of
night may take you for what you are not — I mean to say,
for what you are."
" What then ? "
" What then ! why, they 'd honor you with a shot or two,
and the muskets of M. le Duc d'Orléans are loaded with
ball, you know."
The notary turned pale and stammered a few unintelli-
gible words.
" Decide ; you have the choice, — death by hunger, or by
guns. You 've no time to lose ; I hear the tramp of men —
and there ! precisely ! — that 's the general knocking at the
gate."
Sure enough, the knocker resounded ; this time it was
vigorously handled, as became the guest whose arrival it
announced.
" In company with Monsieur le marquis," said Loriot, "I
will conquer my aversion, invincible as it is."
" Good ! then take that torch and go with me to meet my
guests."
" Your guests ? Why, really, Monsieur le marquis, I can't
believe — "
" Come, come, Thomas Loriot, you shall see first, and be-
lieve afterwards."
And the Marquis de Souday, taking a torch himself,
advanced to the portico. Bertha and Mary followed him ;
Mary thoughtful, Bertha anxious, — both looking earnestly
into the shadows of the courtyard to see if they could dis-
cover any sign of the presence of him they were both
thinking of.
THE GENERAL EATS SUPPER. 285
XXXII.
THE GENERAL EATS A SUPPER WHICH HAD NOT BEEN
PREPARED FOR HIM.
According to the instructions of the marquis transmitted
by Mary to Rosine, the gate was opened to the soldiers at
the first rap. No sooner was this done than they filed into
the courtyard and hastened to surround the house.
Just as the old general was about to dismount he saw the
two torchbearers on the portico, and beside them, partly in
shadow, partly in the light, the two young girls. They all
came toward him with a gracious, hospitable manner which
greatly amazed him.
" Faith ! general," said the marquis, coming down the
last step, as if to go as far as possible to meet the general.
" I began to despair of seeing you, this evening at least."
" You despaired of seeing me, Monsieur le marquis ! "
exclaimed the general, astonished at this exordium.
" Yes, I despaired of seeing you. At what hour did you
leave Montaigu, — at seven ? "
" At seven precisely ? "
" Well, that 's just it ! I calculated that it would take
you about two hours to march here, and I expected you at
nine or half-past, and here it is half-past ten. I was just
wondering if some accident could have happened to deprive
me of the honor of receiving so brave and gallant a
soldier."
" Then you expected me, monsieur ? "
" Why, of course, I did. I '11 bet it was that cursed ford
at Pont-Farcy which detained you. What an abominable
286 THE LAST VENDÉE.
country it is, general ! — brooks that become impassible tor-
rents from the slightest rain ; roads — call them roads
indeed ! I call them bogs ! How did you get over those
dreadful springs of Baugé ? — a sea of mud in which you are
sure to flounder to the waist, and are lucky enough if it
does n't come over your head. But even that is nothing to
the Viette des Biques. When I was a young fellow and
a frantic hunter I used to think twice before risking my-
self over it. Really, general, I feel very grateful for this
visit when I think what trouble and fatigue it has caused
you."
The general saw that, for the moment, he had to do with
as shrewd a player as himself ; and he resolved to eat with
a good grace the dish that the marquis served to him.
" I beg you to believe, Monsieur le marquis," he replied,
" that I regret having kept you waiting, and that the fault
of the delay is none of mine. In any case, I will try to
profit by the lesson you give me, and the next time I come
I will set out in time to defy fords, bogs, and precipices
from hindering my arrival politely in season."
At this moment an officer came up to the general to take
his orders about the search to be made of the château.
" It is useless, my dear captain," replied the general ;
" the marquis tells me we have come too late ; in other
words, we have nothing to do here, — the château is all iu
order."
" But, my dear general ! " said the marquis, " in order or
not, my house is at your disposal ; pray do exactly as you
like with it."
" You offer it with such good grace I cannot refuse."
" Well, young ladies, what are you about," exclaimed the
marquis, "that you let me keep these gentlemen talking
here in the rain ? Pray come in, general, come in, gentle-
men ; there 's an excellent fire in the salon which will dry
your clothes — which that cursed ford must have soaked
thoroughly."
" How shall I thank you for all your considerateness ? "
THE GENERAL EATS SUPPER. 287
said the general, biting his moustache and secretly his
lips.
"Oh ! you are a man I am glad to serve, general," replied
the marquis, preceding the officers whom he was lighting,
the little notary modestly bringing up the rear with the
other torch. " But permit me," he added, " to present to you
my daughters. Mesdemoiselles Bertha and Mary de Souday."
"Faith, marquis," said the general, gallantly, "the sight
of two such charming faces is worth the risks of taking
cold at the fords, or getting muddy in the bog, or even
breaking one's neck on the Viette des Biques."
" Well, young ladies," said the marquis, " make use. of
your pretty eyes to see if supper, which has long been wait-
ing for these gentlemen, intends to keep us waiting now."
"Really, marquis," said Dermoncourt, turning to his
officers, " we are quite confounded by such kindness ; and
our gratitude — "
" Is amply relieved by the pleasure your visit affords us.
You can easily believe, general, that having grown accus-
tomed to the two pretty faces you compliment so charm-
ingly, and being moreover their father, I should sometimes
find life in my little castle a trifle insipid and monotonous.
You can understand, therefore, that when an imp of my
acquaintance came and whispered in my ear, ' General Der-
moncourt started from Montaigu -at seven o'clock, with his
staff, to pay you a visit,' I was delighted."
" Ah ! it was an imp who told you ? "
" Yes ; there is always such a being in every cottage and
every castle in this region of country. So the prospect of
the pleasant evening I should owe to your coming, general,
gave me something of my old elasticity, which, alas ! I am
losing. I hurried my people and put my hen-house and
larder under contribution, set my daughters in motion, and
kept my old crony Loriot, the Machecoul notary, to do you
honor ; and I have even, God damn me ! put my own hand
in the pie, and we have managed, among us, to prepare a
supper which is ready for you, and also for your soldiers —
for I don't forget I was once a soldier myself."
288 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Ah ! you have served in the army, Monsieur le mar-
quis ? " said Dermoncourt.
" Perhaps in the same wars as yourself ; though, instead
of saying that I served, I ought only say that I fought."
"In this region ? "
" Yes, under the orders of Charette."
"Ah ha!"
" I was his aide-de-camp."
" Then this is not the first time we have met, marquis."
" Is that really so ? "
"Yes, I made the campaigns of 1795 and 1796 in La
Vendée."
" Ah ! bravo ! that delights me," cried the marquis ;
" then we can talk at dessert of our youthful prowess —
Ah, general," said the old gentleman, with a certain melan-
choly, " it is getting to be a rare thing on either side to find
those who can talk of the old campaigns. But here come
the young ladies to tell us that supper is ready. General,
will you give your arm to one of them ? the captain will
take the other." Then, addressing the rest of the officers,
he said, " Gentlemen, will you follow the general into the
dining-room ? "
They sat down to table, — the general between Mary and
Bertha, the marquis between two officers. Maître Loriot
took the seat next to Bertha, intending, in the course of the
meal, to get in a word about Michel. He had made up his
mind that, so far as he was concerned, the marriage contract
should be drawn in his office.
For some minutes nothing was heard but the clatter of
plates and glasses ; all present were silent. The officers,
following the example of their general, accepted compla-
cently this unexpected termination of their intended attack.
The marquis, who usually dined at five o'clock, and was
therefore nearly six hours late in getting anything to eat,
was making up to his stomach for its lost time. Mary and
Bertha, both of them pensive, were not sorry to have an
excuse for their silent reflections in the aversion they felt
to the tricolor cockade.
THE GENERAL EATS SUPPER. 289
The general was evidently reflecting on some means of
getting even with the marquis. He understood perfectly
well that Monsieur de Souday had received warning of his
approach. Practised in Vendéan warfare, he well knew the
facility and rapidity with which news is communicated
from one village to another. Surprised at first by the
heartiness of the Marquis de Souday's welcome, he had
gradually recovered his coolness and returned to his habits
of minute observation. All he saw, whether it was his
host's extreme attentions, or the profusion of the repast, far
too sumptuous to have been prepared for enemies, only con-
firmed his suspicions ; but, patient as all good hunters of
men and game should be, and certain that if his illustrious
prey had taken flight (as he believed she had) it would be
useless to pursue her in the darkness, he resolved to post-
pone his more serious investigations and to let no indication
of what was below the surface escape him.
It was the general who first broke silence.
"Monsieur le marquis," he said, raising his glass, "the
choice of a toast may be as difficult for you as for us ; but
there is one that cannot be embarrassing, and has, indeed, the
right to precede all others. Permit me to drink to the
health of the Demoiselles de Souday, thanking them for
their share in the courteous reception with which you have
honored us."
" My sister and I thank you, monsieur," said Bertha; " and
we are very glad to have pleased you in accordance with
our father's wishes."
" Which means," said the general, smiling, " that you are
only gracious to us under orders, and that our gratitude for
your attentions is really due to Monsieur le marquis™ Well,
that 's all right ; I like such military frankness, which
would induce me to leave the camp of your admirers and
enter that of your friends, if I thought I could be received
there wearing, as I do, the tricolor cockade."
" The praises you give to my frankness, monsieur," re-
plied Bertha, " induce me to say honestly that the colors you
VOL. I. — 19
290 THE LAST VENDÉE.
wear are not those I like to see upon my friends ; but, if
you really wish for that title I will grant it, hoping that the
day may come when you will wear mine."
" General," said the marquis, scratching his ear, " your
remark is perfectly true ; what toast can I give in return
for your graceful compliment to my daughters without com-
promising either of us ? Have you a wife ? "
The general was determined to nonplus the marquis.
" No," he said.
"A sister?"
" No."
"A mother, perhaps ? "
"Yes," said the general, issuing from the ambush in
which he seemed to have been awaiting the marquis,
" France, our common mother."
" Ah, bravo ! then I drink to France ! and may the glory
and the grandeur that her kings have given her for the last
eight centuries long continue."
" And, permit me to add, the half-century of liberty
which she owes to her sons."
" That is not only an addition, but a modification," said
the marquis. Then, after an instant's silence, he added,
" Faith ! I '11 accept that toast ! White or tricolor, France
is always France ! "
All the guests touched glasses, and Loriot himself, car-
ried off his balance by the enthusiasm of the marquis,
emptied his glass.
Once launched in this direction, and moistened abund-
antly, the conversation became so lively and even vagabond
that after the supper was two thirds through, Mary and
Bertha, thinking they had better not wait till the end of it,
rose from table and passed without remark into the salon.
Maître Loriot, who seemed to have come there as much
for the daughters as for their father, rose a few moments
later and followed them.
MAÎTRE LORIOT'S OtJBIOSITY IS NOT SATISFIED. 291
XXXTII.
IN WHICH MAÎTRE LORIOt's CURIOSITY IS NOT EXACTLY
SATISFIED.
Maître Loriot profited, as we have said, by the example
of the young ladies, and left the marquis and his guests
to evoke at ease their memories of the "war of giants."
He rose from table and followed the Demoiselles de Souday
into the salon. There he advanced toward them, bending
almost double, and rubbing his hands.
"Ah !" said Bertha; "you seem to be pleased about
something, Monsieur le notaire."
"Mesdemoiselles," replied Maître Loriot, in a low voice,
"I have done my best to second your father's trick. I
hope that if need be you will not refuse to certify to the
coolness and self-possession I have shown under the
circumstances."
"What trick do you mean, dear Monsieur Loriot," said
Mary, laughing. "Neither Bertha nor I know what you
mean."
" Good heavens ! " said the notary ; " I don't know any
more than you know, but it seems tc me that Monsieur le
marquis must have some serious and powerful reasons to
treat as old friends, and even better than some old friends
are treated, those hateful bullies whom he has admitted to
his table. The attentions he is paying to those hirelings
of the usurper strike me as very strange, and I fancy they
have a purpose."
"What purpose? " asked Bertha.
"Well, that of filling those fellows' minds with such a
sense of security that they will neglect to look after their
292 THE LAST VENDÉE.
own safety, and then — taking advantage of their careless-
ness, to make them share the fate — "
"The fate?"
"The fate of — " repeated the notary.
"The fate of whom?"
The notary passed his hand across his throat.
"Holof ernes, perhaps?" cried Bertha, laughing.
"Exactly," said Maître Loriot.
Mary joined her sister in the peals of laughter this
assurance called forth. The little notary's supposition
delighted the sisters beyond measure.
" So you assign us the part of Judith ! " cried Bertha,
endeavoring to check her laughter.
"But, mesdemoiselles — "
"If my father were here, Monsieur Loriot, he might be
angry that you suppose him capable of such proceedings,
which would be in my opinion, a little too Biblical. But
don't be uneasy; we will tell neither papa nor the general,
who certainly would not be flattered at the meaning you
put upon our attentions."
"Young ladies," entreated Loriot, "forgive me if my
political fervor, my horror for all the partisans of the
present unfortunate doctrines, carried me rather too far."
"I forgive you, Monsieur Loriot," replied Bertha, who,
having been, in conseqiience of her frank, decided nature,
the most suspicious, felt that she had the most to pardon,
— "I forgive you ; and in order that you may not make
such mistakes in future I shall give you the key-note of
the situation. You must know that General Dermoncourt,
whom you regard as Antichrist, has merely come to Souday
to make exactly the same search that is made in all the
neighboring chûteaus."
"If that's the case," said the little notary, who was
getting himself deeper and deeper into trouble, " why treat
him with, — yes, I will say the word, — with such luxury
and splendor? The law is precise."
"The law! How so?"
MAÎTRE LORIOT'S CURIOSITY IS NOT SATISFIED. 293
"Yes; it forbids all magistrates and civil and military
officers charged with the execution of judicial authority to
seize, carry away, or appropriate auy articles other than
those named in the warrant. What are these men now
doing with the viands and wines of all sorts which are on
the table of the Marquis de Souday? They are ap-pro-pri-
ating them ! "
"It seems to me, my dear Monsieur Loriot,'' said Mary,
" that my father has the right to invite whom he chooses
to his table."
" Even those who come to execute — to bring into his
home — an odious and tyrannical power? Certainly he
has the right, mademoiselle; but you will allow me to
regard it as a most unnatural thing, and to suppose it has
some secret cause or object."
"In other words, Monsieur Loriot, you see a secret
which you want to penetrate."
" Oh, mademoiselle — "
" Well, I '11 confide it to you, as well as I can, my dear
Monsieur Loriot. I am willing to trust you, if you, on
your side, will tell me how it happened that having to
look for Monsieur Michel de la Logerie, you came straight
to the château de Souday."
Bertha said the words in a firm, incisive way, and the
notary, to whom they were addressed, heard them with more
embarrassment than was felt by the lady who uttered them.
As for Mary, she came up to her sister, slipped her arm
within Bertha's, and resting her head upon the hitter's
shoulder, awaited, with a curiosity she did not seek to
disguise, the answer of Maître Loriot.
" Well, if you really wish to know why, young ladies — "
The notary made a pause, as though expecting to be
encouraged; and Bertha did encourage him with a nod.
"I came," continued Maître Loriot, "because Madame
la Baronne de la Logerie informed me that the château de
Souday was probably the place to which her son went on
taking flight from his home "
294 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"And on what did Madame la Baronne de la Logerie
base that supposition? " asked Bertha, with the same
questioning look and the same firm, incisive voice.
"Mademoiselle," replied the notary, more and more
embarrassed, " after what I said to your father, really I do
not know whether, in spite of the reward you promise to
my frankness, I have the courage to say more."
"Why not?" said Bertha, with the same coolness.
"Shall I help you? It is because she thinks, I believe
you said, that the object of Monsieur Michel's love is at
Souday."
"Yes, mademoiselle, that is just it."
"Very good; but what I desire to know, and what I
shall insist on knowing, is Madame de la Logerie 's opinion
of that love."
"Her opinion is not exactly favorable, mademoiselle,"
returned the notary; "that I must admit."
"That's a point on which my father and the baroness
will agree," said Bertha, laughing.
"But," continued the notary, pointedly, "Monsieur Mi-
chel will be of age in a few months, — consequently, free as
to his actions, and the master of an immense fortune."
"As to his actions," said Bertha, "so much the better
for him."
"In what way, mademoiselle?" asked the notary,
maliciously.
"Why to rehabilitate the name he bears and efface the
evil memories his father left behind him. As to the for-
tune, if I were the woman Monsieur Michel honored with
his affection, I should advise him to make such use of it
that there would soon be no name in the whole province
more honored than his."
"What use would you advise him to make of it?"
exclaimed the notary, much astonished.
"To return that money to those from whom they say his
father got it, and to make restitution to the former pro-
prietors of the national domain which M. Michel bought."
MAÎTRE LORIOT'S CURIOSITY IS NOT SATISFIED. 295
"But in that case, mademoiselle, you would ruin the
man who had the honor to be in love with you," said the
little notary, quite bewildered,
" What would that matter if he obtained the respect of
all, and the regard of her who advised the sacrifice? "
Just then Rosine appeared at the door of the salon.
"Mademoiselle," she said, not addressing herself par-
ticularly to either Mary or Bertha, "will you please come
here? "
Bertha wanted to continue her conversation with the
notary. She was eager for information as to the feelings
Madame de la Logerie had against her; and, moreover, she
enjoyed talking, however vaguely, of projects which for
some time past had been the theme of her meditations.
So she told Mary to go and see what was wanted.
But Mary, on her side, was rather unwilling to leave
the salon. She was frightened to see to what lengths
Bertha's love had developed within the last few days;
every word her sister said echoed painfully in her soul.
She felt sure that Michel's love was wholly her own, and
she thought with actual terror of Bertha's despair when
she should discover how strangely she had deceived her-
self. Besides, in spite of Mary's immense affection for
her sister, love had already poured into her heart the little
dose of selfishness which always accompanies that emotion,
and she was quite joyful, from another point of view, at
what she was now hearing. The part which Bertha was
tracing out for the wife of Michel she felt should be her
own. So it happened that Bertha was obliged to ask her
for the second time to see what Rosine wanted.
"Go, dearest," she said, kissing Mary's forehead, "go;
and while you are there please give orders about preparing
Monsieur Loriot's room; for I fear, in all this turmoil, it
has been forgotten."
Mary was accustomed to obey, and she obeyed. Of the
two sisters, she was by far the most docile and gentle.
She found Rosine at the door.
1^96 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"What do you want of us? " she asked.
Rosine did not reply. Then, as if she feared to be over-
heard from the dining-room, where the marquis was nar-
rating the last day of Charette's life, she took Mary by
the arm and drew her under the staircase at the farther
end of the vestibule.
"Mademoiselle," she said, "he is hungry."
" He is hungry? " repeated Mary.
"Yes; he has just told me so."
"Who is it you are talking of? Who is hungry? "
"He, the poor lad."
"Who is he?"
"Why, Monsieur Michel."
"Monsieur Michel here ! "
"Did n't you know it?"
"No."
"Two hours ago — after Mademoiselle Bertha returned
from the chapel, just before the soldiers arrived — he came
to the kitchen."
"Did n't he go away with Petit-Pierre? "
"No."
"And you say he went to the kitchen? "
"Yes; and he was so tired, it was quite pitiful. ' Mon-
sieur Michel,' I said like that, 'why don't you go into the
salon?' ' My dear Rosine,' said he, in his gentle way,
' they did n't ask me.' Then he wanted to go and sleep at
Machecoul, for he said he wouldn't go back to La Logerie
for all the world. It seems his mother meant to take
him to Paris. So I would n't let him leave the house."
"You did quite right, Rosine. Where is he now?"
"I put him in the tower chamber; but as the soldiers
have taken the ground-floor, we can't get in there now
except through the passage at the end of the hay-loft, and
I came to ask you for the key."
Mary's first thought (it was her good thought) was to
tell her sister; but a second thought succeeded the first,
and that, it must be owned, was less generous. It was no
MAÎTRE LORIOT'S CURIOSITY IS NOT SATISFIED. 297
other than to see Michel first and alone, liosine gave her
the opportunity.
"I '11 tell you where the key is," said Mary.
"Oh, mademoiselle," replied liosine, "do come with
me. There are so many men about that I don't like to be
alone, and I should die of fright to go up there by myself;
whereas if you, the marquis's daughter, were with me they
would all respect us."
"But the provisions? "
"Here they are."
"Where?"
"In this basket."
"Oh, very good; then come."
And Mary sprang up the stairs with the agility of the
kids she sometimes hunted among the rocks in the forest
of Machecoul.
298 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXXIV.
THE TOWER CHAMBER.
When Mary reached the second floor she stopped before
the room occupied by Jean Oullier. The key she wanted
was kept in that room.
Then she opened a door which gave entrance from this
floor on a winding stairway which led to the upper portion
of the tower, where, preceding Rosine whose basket hin-
dered her, she continued her ascension, which was some-
what dangerous, for the stairs of the half-abandoned tower
had fallen into a state of dilapidation and decay. It was
at the top of this tower, in a little chamber under the roof,
that Rosine and the cook, forming themselves into a com-
mittee of deliberation, had shut up the young Baron Michel
de la Logerie.
The intention of these honest girls was excellent; the
result was in no sense equal to their good-will. It would
be impossible to imagine a more miserable refuge, or one
where it would be less possible to obtain even a slight
repose. The room was, in fact, used by Jean Oullier to
store the seeds, tools, and other necessary articles for his
various avocations as Jack-at-all-trades. The walls were
literally palisaded with branches of beans, cabbages, let-
tuce, onions, of diverse varieties, all gone to seed and
exposed to the air for the purpose of ripening and drying
them. Unfortunately, these botanic specimens had ac-
quired such a coating of dust, while awaiting the period
of their return to earth, that the least movement made in
the narrow chamber sent up a cloud of leguminous atoms
which affected the atmosphere disagreeably.
THE TOWER CHAMBER. 299
The sole furniture of this room was a wooden bench,
which was not a very comfortable seat, certainly; and
Michel, unable to endure it, had betaken himself to a pile
of oats of a rare species, which obtained, on account of
their rarity, a place in this collection of precious germs.
He seated himself in the midst of the mound, and there,
in spite of some inconveniencies, he found enough elasti-
city to rest his limbs, which were cramped with fatigue.
But after a time Michel grew weary of lying on this
movable and prickly sofa. When Guerin threw him down
into the brook a goodly quantity of mud became attached
to his garments, and the dampness soon penetrated to his
skin. His sta} r before the kitchen fire had been short, so
short that the dampness now returned, more penetrating
than ever. He began, therefore, to walk up and down in
the turret-room, cursing the foolish timidity to which he
owed not only the cold, stiffness, and hunger he began to
feel, but also — more dismal still — the loss of Mary's
presence. He scolded himself for not securing his own
profit out of the valiant enterprise he had undertaken, and
for losing courage to end successfully an affair he had so
well begun.
Let us hasten to say here, in order that we may not mis-
represent our hero's character, that the consciousness of
his mistake did not make him a whit more courageous,
and it never for an instant occurred to him to go frankly
to the marquis and ask for hospitality, — a desire for
which had been one of the determining motives of his
flight.
Meantime the soldiers had arrived, and Michel, attracted
by the noise to the narrow casement of his turret-chamber,
saw the Demoiselles de Souday, their father, the general,
and his ofheers, passing and repassing before the bril-
liantly lighted windows of the main building. It was
then that, seeing Rosine in the courtyard beneath, he
asked, with all the modesty of his character, for a bit of
bread, and declared himself hungry.
300 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Hearing, soon after, a light step apparently approaching
his room, he began to feel a lively satisfaction under two
heads: first, he was likely to get something to eat; and
next, he should probably hear news of Mary.
"Is that you, Rosine? " he asked, when he heard a hand
endeavoring to open the door.
"No, it is not Eosine; it is I, Monsieur Michel," said a
voice.
Michel recognized it as Mary's voice; but he could not
believe his ears. The voice continued : —
"Yes, I, — I, who am very angry with you! "
As the tone of the voice was not in keeping with the
words, Michel was less alarmed than he might have been.
"Mademoiselle Mary! " he cried; "Mademoiselle Mary!
Good heavens ! "
He leaned against the wall to keep himself from falling.
Meanwhile the young girl had opened the door.
"You!" cried Michel, — "you, Mademoiselle Mary!
Oh, how happy I am ! "
"Not so happy as you say."
" Why not? "
"Because, as you must admit, in the midst of your hap-
piness you are dying of hunger."
"Ah, mademoiselle! who told you that?" stammered
Michel, coloring to the whites of his eyes.
"Rosine. Come, Rosine, quick! " continued Mary.
" Here, put your lantern on this bench, and open the basket
at once; don't you see that Monsieur Michel is devouring
it with his eyes? "
These laughing words made the young baron rather
ashamed of the vulgar need of food he had expressed to
his foster-sister. It came into his head that to seize the
basket, fling it out of the window, at the risk of brain-
ing a soldier, fall upon his knees, and say to the young
girl pathetically, with both hands pressed to his heart,
"Can I think of my stomach when my heart is satisfied?"
would be a rather gallant declaration to make. But Michel
THE TOWER CHAMBER. 301
might have had such ideas in his head for a number of
consecutive years without ever bringing himself to act in
so cavalier a manner. He therefore allowed Mary to treat
him exactly like a foster-brother. At her invitation he
went back to his seat on the oats, and found it a ver}'
enjoyable thing to eat the food cut for him by the delicate
hand of the young girl.
"Oh, what a child you are!" said Mary. "Why, after
doing so gallant an act and rendering us a service of such
importance, at the risk, too, of breaking your neck, — why
did n't you come to my father, and say to him, as it was
so natural to do, 'Monsieur, I cannot go home to my mother
to-night; will you keep me till to-morrow morning? ' "
"Oh, I never should have dared! " cried Michel, letting
his arms drop on each side of him, like a man to whom an
impossible proposal was made.
"Why not? " asked Mary.
"Because your father awes me."
"My father! Why, he is the kindest man in the world.
Besides, are you not our friend? "
"Oh, how good of you, mademoiselle, to give me that
title." Then, venturing to go a step farther, he added.
"Have I really won it?"
Mary colored slightly. A few days earlier she would
not have hesitated to reply that Michel was indeed her
friend, and that she was constantly thinking of him. But
during those few days Love had strangely modified her
feelings and produced an instinctive reticence which she
was far from comprehending. The more she was revealed
to herself as a woman, by sensations hitherto unknown to
her, the more she perceived that the manners, habits, and
language resulting from the education she had received
were unusual; and with that faculty of intuition peculiar
to women she saw what she lacked on the score of reserve,
and she resolved to acquire it for the sake of the emotion
that filled her soul and made her feel the necessity of
dignity.
302 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Consequently, Mary, who up to this time had never con-
cealed a single thought, began to see that a young girl
must sometimes, if not lie, at' least evade the truth; and
she now put in practice this new discovery in her answer
to Michel's question.
"I think," she replied, "that you have done quite
enough to earn the name of friend." Then without giving
him time to return to a subject on hazardous ground, she
continued, " Come, give me proof of the appetite you were
boasting of just now by eating this other wing of the
chicken."
" Oh, mademoiselle, no ! " said Michel, artlessly, " I am
choking as it is."
"Then you must be a very poor eater. Come, obey; if
not, as I am only here to serve you, I shall go."
"Mademoiselle," said Michel, stretching out both his
hands, in one of which was a fork, in the other a piece of
bread, — " mademoiselle, you cannot be so cruel. Oh ! if
you only knew how sad and dismal I have been here for
the last two hours in this utter solitude — "
"You were hungry; that explains it," said Mary,
laughing.
"No, no, no; that was not it! I could see you from
here, going and coming with all those officers."
"That was your own fault. Instead of taking refuge
like an owl in this old turret, you ought to have come into
the salon and gone with us to the dining-room and eaten
your supper sitting, like a Christian, on a proper chair.
You would have heard my father and General Dermoncourt
relating adventures to make your flesh creep, and you
would have seen the old weasel Loriot — as my father
calls him — eating his supper, which was scarcely less
alarming."
"Good God! " cried Michel.
"What?" asked Mary, surprised by the sudden ex-
clamation.
"Maître Loriot, of Machecoul?"
THE TOWER CHAMBER. 303
" Maître Loriot, of Machecoul, " repeated Mary.
"My mother's notary? "
"Ah, yes, that 's true; so he is! " said Mary.
"Is he here? " asked Michel.
"Yes, of course he is here; and what do you think he
came for? " continued Mary, laughing.
"What?"
"To look for you."
"Forme?"
"Exactly; sent by the baroness."
"But, mademoiselle," cried Michel, much alarmed, "I
don't wish to go back to La Logerie."
"Why not?"
"Because, — well, because they lock me up, they detain
me; they want to keep me at a distance from — from my
friends."
"Nonsense! La Logerie is not so very far from Souday."
"No; but Paris is far from Souday, and the baroness
Avants to take me to Paris. Did you tell that notary I «ras
here? "
"No, indeed."
"Oh! I thank you, mademoiselle."
" You need not thank me, for I did not know it myself. "
" But now that you do know it — "
Michel hesitated.
"Well, what?"
"You must not tell him, Mademoiselle Mary," said
Michel, ashamed of his weakness.
"Upon my word, Monsieur Michel," replied Mary, "you
must allow me to say one thing."
" Say it, mademoiselle ; say it ! "
"Well, it seems to me if I were a man Maître Loriot
should not disturb me under any circumstances."
Michel seemed to gather all his strength in order to take
a resolution.
"You are right," he said; "and T will go and tell him
that I will not return to La Logerie,"
304 THE LAST VENDÉE.
At this moment they were startled by loud cries from
the cook, calling to Rosine.
" Good heavens ! " they both cried, one as frightened as
the other.
"Do you hear that, mademoiselle? " said Eosine.
"Yes."
"They want me."
" Oh ! " said Mary, rising, and all ready to flee away,
"can they know we are here?"
" Suppose they do," said Rosine; " what does it matter? "
" Nothing, " said Mary ; " but — "
"Listen!" exclaimed Rosine.
They were silent, and the cook was heard to go away.
Presently her voice was heard in the garden.
"Dear me! " said Rosine; "there she is, calling me
outside."
And Rosine was for running down at once.
"Heavens! " cried Mary; "don't leave me here alone."
"Why, you are not alone," said Rosine, naively.
"Monsieur Michel is here."
" Yes, but to get back to the house, " stammered Mary.
"Why, mademoiselle," cried Rosine, astonished, "have
you suddenly turned coward, — you so brave, who are in
the woods by night as much as by day ! It is n't a bit like
you."
"Nevermind; stay, Rosine."
" Well, for all the help I have been to you for the last
half-hour I might as well go."
"Very true; but that 's not what I want of you."
"What do you want?"
"Well, don't you see? "
"What?"
"Why, that this unfortunate boy can't pass the night
here, in this room."
" Then where can he pass it? " asked Rosine.
"I don't know; but we must find him another room."
"Without telling the marquis? "
THE TOWER CHAMBER. 305
"Oh, true! my father doesn't know he is here. Good
heavens! what's to be done? Ah, Monsieur Michel, it is
all your fault! "
"Mademoiselle, I am ready to leave the house if you
demand it."
"What makes you say that?" cried Mary, quickly.
"No; on the contrary, stay."
" Mademoiselle Mary, an idea ! " interrupted Rosine.
" What is it? "
"Suppose I go and ask Mademoiselle Bertha what we
had better do? "
"No," replied Mary, with an eagerness which surprised
herself; "no, that's useless! I will ask her myself pres-
ently when I go down, after Monsieur Michel has finished
his wretched little supper."
"Very good; then I '11 go now," said Rosine.
Mary dared not keep her longer. Rosine disappeared,
leaving the two young people entirely alone.
20
306 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXXV.
WHICH ENDS QUITE OTHERWISE THAN AS MARY EXPECTED.
The little room was lighted only by tlie lantern, the rays
of which were concentrated on the door, leaving in dark-
ness, or at any rate in obscurity, the rest of the room, —
if, indeed, the word " room " can be applied to the sort of
pigeon-loft in which the two young people were now
alone.
Michel was still sitting on the heap of oats. Mary was
kneeling on the ground, looking into the basket with more
embarrassment than interest, ostensibly in search of some
dainty which might still be forthcoming to conclude the
repast.
But so many things had now happened that Michel was
no longer hungry. His head was resting on his hand and
his elbow on his knee. He was watching with a lover's
eye the soft, sweet face before him, now foreshortened by
the girl's attitude in a way to double the charm of her
delicate features. He breathed in with delight the waves
of perfumed air that came to him from the long fair curls,
which the breeze entering through the window gently
raised and wafted to his lips. At that contact, that per-
fume, that sight, his blood circulated more rapidly in his
veins. He heard the arteries of his temples beating; he
felt a quiver running through every limb until it reached
his brain. Under the influence of sensations so new to
him the young man felt his soul animated by unknown
aspirations; he learned to will.
What he willed he felt to the depths of his soul; he
willed to find some way of telling Mary that he loved her.
WHICH ENDS OTHERWISE THAN MARY EXPECTED. 307
He sought the best; but with all his seeking lie found no
better way than the simple means of taking her hand and
carrying it to his lips. Suddenly he did it, without really
knowing what he did.
"Monsieur Michel! Monsieur Michel! " cried Mary,
more astonished than angry; "what are you doing?"
The young girl rose quickly. Michel saw that he had
gone too far and must now go farther still and say all. It
was he who now took Mary's posture; that is, he fell upon
his knees and again took the hand which had escaped him.
It is true that hand made no effort to avoid his clasp.
"Oh! can I have offended you?" he cried. "If that
were so I should be most unhappy, and ask pardon of you
on my knees."
"Monsieur Michel! " began the young girl, without
knowing what she meant to say.
But the baron, afraid that the little hand might be
snatched away from him, folded it in both his own; and
as, on his side, he did not very well know what he was
saying, he continued : —
" If I have abused your goodness, mademoiselle, tell me,
— I implore you, — tell me that you are not angry with me."
"I will say so, monsieur, when you rise," said Mary,
making a feeble effort to withdraw her hand. But the
effort was so feeble it had no other result than to show
Michel its captivity was not altogether forced upon her.
"No," said the young baron, under the influence of a
growing ardor caused by the change from hope into some-
thing that was almost certainty, — " no, leave me at your
feet. Oh ! if you only knew how man}'' times, since I have
known you, I have dreamed of the moment when I should
kneel thus at your feet; if you knew how that dream,
mere dream as it was, gave me the sweetest sensations,
the most delightful agony, you would let me enjoy the
happiness which is at this moment a reality."
"But, Monsieur Michel," replied Mary, in a voice of
increasing emotion as she spoke, for she felt she had
308 THE LAST VENDÉE.
reached the moment when she could have no further doubt
as to the nature of his affection for her, — "Monsieur
Michel, we should not kneel except to God and to the
saints."
"I know not to whom we ought to kneel, nor why I
kneel to you," said the young man. "What I feel is far
beyond all that I ever felt before, — greater than my affec-
tion for my mother, so great that I do not know where to
place or what to call the sentiment that leads me to adore
you. It is something which belongs to the reverence you
speak of, which we offer to God and to the saints. For
me you are the whole creation ; in adoring you it seems to
me that I adore the universe itself."
"Oh, monsieur, cease to say such things! Michel! my
friend!"
"No, no, leave me as I am; suffer me to consecrate
myself to you with an absolute devotion. Alas! I feel,
— believe me, I am not mistaken, — I feel, since I have
seen men who are truly men, that the devotion of a timid ,
feeble child, which, alas! I am, is but a paltry thing at
best; and yet it seems to me that the joy of suffering, of
shedding my blood, of dying, if need be, for you, must be
so infinite that the hope of winning it would give me the
strength and courage that I lack."
"Why talk of suffering and of death?" said Mary, in
her gentle voice. "Do you think death and suffering
absolutely necessary to prove an affection true?"
"Why do I speak of them, Mademoiselle Mary? Why
do I call them to my aid? Because I dare not hope for
another happiness; because to live happy, calm, and peace-
ful beside you, to enjoy your tenderness, in short, to make
you my wife, seems to me a dream beyond all human hope.
I cannot picture to my mind that such a dream should ever
be reality for me."
" Poor child ! " said Mary, in a voice of at least as much
compassion as tenderness; "then you do indeed love me
truly? "
WHICH ENDS OTHERWISE THAN MARY EXPECTED. 309
"Oh, Mademoiselle Mary, why must I tell you? Why
should I repeat it? Do you not see it with your eyes and
with your heart? Pass your hand across my forehead
bathed in sweat, place it on my heart that is beating
wildly; see how my body trembles, and can you doubt 1
love you? "
The feverish excitement, which suddenly transformed
the young man into another being, was communicated to
Mary; she was no less agitated, no less trembling than
himself. She forgot all, — the hatred of her father for all
that bore the name of Michel, the repugnance of Madame
de la Logerie toward her family, even the delusions
Bertha cherished of Michel's love to herself, delusions
which Mary had so many limes determined to respect.
The native warmth and ardor of her vigorous and primi-
tive nature gained an ascendency over the reserve she had
for some time thought it proper to assume. She was on
the point of yielding wholly to the tenderness of her
heart and of replying to that passionate love by a love
even, perhaps, more passionate, when a slight noise at the
door caused her to turn her head.
There stood Bertha, erect and motionless, on the thresh-
old. The eye of the lantern, as we have said, was turned
toward the door, so that the light was concentrated on
Bertha's face. Mary could therefore see plainly how
white her sister was, and also how pain and anger were
gathering upon that frowning brow and -behind those lips
so violently contracted. She was so terrified by the unex-
pected and almost menacing apparition that she pushed
away the young man, whose hand had not left hers, and
went up to her sister.
But Bertha, who had now entered the turret, did not stop
to meet Mary. Pushing her aside with her hand as though
she were an inert object, she went straight to Michel.
"Monsieur," she said, in a ringing voice, "has my sister
not told you that Monsieur Loriot, your mother's notary,
is in the salon and wishes to speak to you? "
310 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Michel muttered a few words.
"You will find him in the salon," continued Bertha,
in the tone of voice she would have used in giving an
order.
Michel, cast suddenly back into his usual timidity and
all his terrors, stood up in a confused and vacillating man-
ner without saying a word, and turned to leave the room,
like a child detected in a fault who obeys without having
the courage to excuse himself.
Mary took the lantern to light him down, but Bertha
snatched it from her hand and put it into that of the young
man, making him a sign to go.
"But you, mademoiselle? " he ventured to say.
"We know the house," replied Bertha. Then stamping
her foot impatiently, as she noticed that Michel's eyes
were seeking those of Mary, "Go, go! I tell you; go!"
she exclaimed.
The young man disappeared, leaving the two young
girls without other light than the pale gleam of a half-
veiled moon, which entered the turret through the narrow
casement.
Left alone with her sister, Mary expected to be severely
blamed for the impropriety of her conduct in permitting
such a tête-à-tête, — an impropriety of which she herself
was now fully aware. In this she was mistaken. As
soon as Michel had disappeared down the spiral stairway,
and Bertha, with her ears strained to the door, had heard
him leave the tower, she seized her sister's hand, and
pressing it with a force which proved the violence of her
feelings, asked in a choking voice: —
"What was he saying to you on his knees? "
For all answer Mary threw herself on her sister's neck,
and in spite of Bertha's efforts to repulse her she wound
her arms about her and kissed her, moistening Bertha's
face with the tears that flowed from her own eyes.
"Why are you angry with me, dear sister? " she said.
"It is not being angry with you, Mary, to ask what a
WHICH ENDS OTHERWISE THAN MARY EXPECTED. 311
young man whom I find kneeling at your feet was saying
to you."
"But this is not the way you usually speak to me."
"What matters it how I usually speak to you? What I
wish and what I exact is that you answer my question."
"Bertha! Bertha!"
"Come, answer me; speak! What was he saying? I
ask you what he said?" cried the girl, harshly, shaking
her sister so violently by the arm that Mary gave a cry
and sank to the floor as if about to faint.
The cry recalled Bertha to her natural feeling. This
impetuous and violent nature, fundamentally kind, softened
at the expression of the pain and distress she had wrung
from her sister. She did not let her fall to the ground,
but took her in her arms, raised her as though she were a
child, and laid her on the bench, holding her all the while
tightly embraced. Then she covered her with kisses,
and a few tears, gushing from her eyes like sparks from
a brazier, dropped upon Mary's cheek. Bertha wept as
Maria Theresa wept, — her tears, instead of flowing, burst
forth like lightning.
( -Poor little thing ! poor little thing ! " she said, speak-
ing to her sister as if to a child she had chanced to injure;
"forgive me! I have hurt yon, and, worse still, I have
grieved you; oh, forgive me!" Then, gathering herself
together, she repeated, " Forgive me ! It is my fault. I
ought to have opened my heart to you before letting you
see that the strange love I feel for that man — that child,"
she added with a touch of scorn — " has such power over
me that it makes me jealous of one whom I love better
than all the world, better than life itself, better than I
love him, — jealous of you! Ah! if you only knew, my
poor Mary, the misery this senseless love, which I know
to be beneath me, has already brought upon me ! If
you knew the struggles I have gone through to subdue it !
how bitterly I deplore my weakness ! There is nothing
in him of all I respect, nothing of what I love, — neither
312 THE LAST VENDÉE.
distinction of race, nor religious faith, nor ardor, noi
vigor, nor strength, nor courage; and yet, in spite of all,
I love him! I loved him the first moment that I saw him.
I love him so much that sometimes, breathless, frantic,
bathed in perspiration, and suffering almost unspeakable
anguish, I have cried aloud like one possessed, 'My God !
make me die, but let him love me ! ' For the last few
months — ever since, to my misfortune, we met him — the
whought of this man has never left me for an instant. I
feel for him some strange emotion, which must be that a
woman feels to a lover, biit which is really far more like
the affection of a mother for her child. Each clay that
passes, my life is more bound up in him; I put not only
my thoughts, but all my dreams, my hopes on him. Ah,
Mary! Mary ! just now I was asking you to pardon me;
but now I say to you, pity me, sister ! Oh, my sister,
have pity upon me ! "
And Bertha,, quite beside herself, clasped her sister
frantically in her arms.
Poor Mary had listened, trembling, to this explosion of
an almost savage passion, such as the powerful and self-
willed nature of Bertha alone could feel. Each cry, each
word, each sentence tore to shreds the rosy vapors which
a few moments earlier she had seen on the horizon. Her
sister's impetuous voice swept those fragments from her
sight, as the gust of a rising tempest sweeps the light,
fleecy clouds before it. Her grief and bewilderment was
such during Bertha's last words that the latter's silence
alone warned her she was expected to reply. She made a
great effort over herself, striving to check her sobs.
"Oh, sister," she said, "my heart is breaking; my grief
is all the greater because what has happened to-night is
partly my fault."
"No, no ! " cried Bertha, with her accustomed violence.
" It was I who ought to have looked to see what became of
him when we left the chapel. But," she continued, with
that pertinacity of ideas which characterizes persons who
WHICH ENDS OTHERWISE THAN MARY EXPECTED. 313
are violently in love, "what was lie saying to you? Why
was he kneeling at your feet? "
Mary felt that Bertha shuddered as she asked the ques-
tion; she herself trembled violently at the thought of what
she had to answer. It seemed to her that each word by
which she was forced to explain the truth to Bertha would
scorch her lips as they left her heart.
"Come, come!" said Bertha, weeping, her tears having
more effect on Mary than her anger, — "Come, tell me,
dear sister; have pity on me! The suspeuse is worse a
hundred-fold than any pain. Tell me, tell me; did he
speak to you of love? "
Mary could not lie; or rather, self-devotion had not yet
taught her to do so.
"Yes," she said.
" Oh, my God ! my God ! " cried Bertha, tearing herself
from her sister's breast and falling, with outstretched
arms, her face against the wall.
There was such a tone of absolute despair in the cry
that Mary was terrified. She forgot Michel, she forgot
her love; she forgot all except her sister. The sacrifice
before which her heart had quailed at the moment when
she first heard that Bertha loved Michel, she now made
valiantly, with sublime self-abnegation; for she smiled,
with a breaking heart.
"Foolish girl that you are!" she cried, springing to
Bertha's neck; "let me finish what I have to say."
"Did you not tell me that he spoke of love?" replied
the suffering creature.
"Yes; but I did not tell you whom he loves."
" Mary ! Mary ! have pity on my heart ! "
"Bertha! dear Bertha!"
"Was it of me he spoke? "
Mary had not the strength to reply in words ; she made
a sign of acquiescence with her head.
Bertha breathed heavily, passed her hand several times
over her burning forehead. The shock had been too
314 THE LAST VENDÉE.
violent to allow her to recover instantly her normal
condition.
"Mary," she said, "what you have just told me seems so
unlikely, so impossible, that you must swear it. Swear to
me — " She hesitated.
"I will swear what you will, sister," said Mary, who was
eager herself to put some insurmountable barrier between
her heart and her love.
"Swear to me that Michel does not love you, and that
you do not love him." She laid her hand on her sister's
shoulder. "Swear it by our mother's grave."
"I swear, by the grave of our mother," said Mary, reso-
lutely, "that I will never marry Michel."
She threw herself into her sister's arms, seeking compen-
sation for her sacrifice in the caresses the latter gave her.
If the room had been less dark Bertha might have seen on
Mary's features the anguish that oath had cost her. As it
was, it restored all Bertha's calmness. She sighed gently,
as though her heart were lightened of a heavy weight.
"Thank you!" she said; "oh, thank you! thank you!
Now let us return to the salon."
But, half-way down, Mary made an excuse to go to her
room. There she locked herself in to pray and weep.
The company had not yet left the supper-table. As
Bertha crossed the vestibule to reach the salon she heard
bursts of laughter from the guests.
When she entered the salon Monsieur Loriot was argu-
ing with the young baron, endeavoring to persuade him
that it was his interest as well as his duty to return to La
Logerie. But the negative silence of the young man was
so eloquent that the notary presently found himself at the
end of his arguments. It is true, however, that he had
been talking for half an hour.
Michel was probably not less embarrassed than the
notary himself, and he welcomed Bertha as a battalion
formed in a hollow square and attacked on all sides wel-
comes an auxiliary who will strengthen its defence. He
WHICH ENDS OTHERWISE THAN MARY EXPECTED. 315
sprang to meet her with an eagerness which owed as much
to his present difficulty as to the closing scene of his
interview with Mary.
To his great surprise, Bertha, incapable of concealing
for a moment what she was feeling, stretched out her hand
and pressed his with effusion. She mistook the meaning
of the young man's eager advance, and from being content
she became radiant.
Michel, who expected quite another reception, did not
feel at his ease. However, he immediately recovered
himself so far as to say to Loriot : —
"You will tell my mother, monsieur, that a man of prin-
ciple finds actual duties in his political opinions, and that
I decide to die, if need be, in accomplishing mine."
Poor boy ! he was confounding love with duty.
316 THE LAST VENDÉE
XXXVI.
BLUE AND WHITE.
(t was almost two in the morning when the Marquis de
Bouday proposed to his guests to return to the salon.
They left the table in that satisfied condition which always
follows a plenteous repast if the master of the house is in
good-humor, the guests hungry, and the topics of conver-
sation interesting enough to fill the spare moments of the
chief occupation.
In proposing to adjourn to the salon the marquis had
probably no other idea than change of atmosphere ; for as
he rose he ordered Rosine and the cook to follow him with
ihe liqueurs, and to array the bottles with a sufficient num-
ber of glasses on a table in the salon.
Then, humming the great air in " Richard, Cœur-dè-
Lion," and paying no heed to the fact that the general
replied by a verse from the "Marseillaise," which the
noble panels of the castle of Souday heard, no doubt, for
the first time, the old gentleman, having filled all glasses,
was preparing to resume a very interesting controversy as
to the treaty of Jaunaye, which the general insisted had
only sixteen articles, when the latter, pointing to the
clock, called his attention to the time of night.
Dermoncourt said, laughing, that he suspected the mar-
quis of intending to paralyze his enemies by the delights
of a new Capua; and the marquis, accepting the joke with
infinite tact and good-will, hastened to yield to his guests'
wishes and took them at onee to the bedrooms assigned to
them, after which he betook himself to his own.
BLUE AND WHITE. 317
The Marquis de Souday, excited by the warlike inclina-
tions of his mind and by the conversation which enlivened
the evening, dreamed of combats. He was fighting a
battle, compared to which those of Torfou, Laval, and
Sanmur were child's play; he was in the act of advancing
under a shower of shot and shell, leading his division to
the assault of a redoubt, and planting the white iiag in the
midst of the enemy's intrenchments, when a rapping at
his door interrupted his exploits.
In the dozing condition which preceded his full awaken-
ing, the dream continued, and the noise at his door was
the roar of cannon. Then, little by little, the clouds
rolled away from his brain, the worthy old gentleman
opened his eyes, and, instead of a battlefield covered with
broken gun-carriages, gasping horses, and dead bodies,
over which he thought he was leaping, he found himself
lying on his narrow camp bed of painted wood draped with
modest white curtains edged with red.
The knocking was renewed.
" Come in ! " cried the marquis, rubbing his eyes. " Ha !
bless me, general, you've come just in time," he cried;
"two minutes more, and you were dead."
"How so?"
"Yes, by a sword-thrust I was just putting through
you."
"By way of retaliation, my good friend," said the
general, holding out his hand.
"That's how I take it. But I see you are looking
rather puzzled by my poor room ; its shabbiness surprises
you. Yes, there is some difference between this bare, for-
lorn place, with its horsehair chairs and carpetless floor,
and the fine apartments of your Parisian lords. But I
can't help it. I spent one third of my life in camps and
another third in penury, and this little cot with its thin
mattress seems to me luxury enough for my old age. But
what in the world brings you here at this early hour,
general? It is hardly light yet."
318 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"I came to bid you good-bye, my kind host," replied the
general.
"Already? Ah, see what life is ! I must tell you now
that only yesterday I had all sorts of prejudices against
you before your arrival."
" Had you? And yet you welcomed me most cordially."
"Bah!" said the marquis, laughing; "you've been in
Egypt. Did you never receive a few shots from the midst
of a cool and pleasant oasis? "
" Bless me, yes ! The Arabs regard an oasis as the best
of ambuscades."
"Well, I was something of an Arab last night; and I
say my mea, culpa, regretting it all the more because I am
really and truly sorry you leave me so soon."
" Is it because there is still an unexplored corner of your
oasis you want me to see?"
" No ; it is because your frankness, loyalty, and the com-
munity of dangers we have shared (in opposite camps)
inspired me — ■ I scarcely know why, but instantly — with
a sincere and deep regard for you."
"On your word as a gentleman? "
"On my word as a gentleman and a soldier."
"Well,' then, I offer you my friendship in return, my
dear enemy," replied Dermoncourt. "I expected to find
an old émigré, powdered like a white frost, stiff and
haughty, and larded with antediluvian prejudices — "
"And you 've found out that a man may wear powder
and have no prejudices, — is that it, general? "
" I found a frank and loyal heart and an amiable, —
bah! let 's say the word openly, — jovial nature, and this
with exquisite manners, which might seem to exclude all
that ; in short, you 've seduced an old veteran, who is
heartily yours."
"Well, it gives me a great deal of pleasure to hear you
say so. Come, stay one more day with me ! "
" Impossible ! "
"Well, I have nothing to say against that decisive word;
BLUE AND WHITE. 319
but make me a promise that you will pay me a visit after
the peace, if we are both of us still living."
"After the peace ! " cried the general, laughing. " Axe
we at war? "
"We are between peace and war."
"Yes, the happy medium."
"Well, let us say after the happy medium. Promise
you will come and see me then?"
"Yes, I give you my word."
"And I shall hold you to it."
"But come, let us talk seriously," said the general, taking
a chair and sitting down at the foot of the old emigre's bed.
"I am willing," replied the latter, "for once in a way."
" You love hunting? "
"Passionately."
"What kind?"
"All kinds."
"But there must be one kind you prefer?"
" Yes, boar-hunting. That reminds me most of hunting
the Blues."
"Thanks."
"Boars and Blues, — they both charge alike."
"What do you say to fox-hunting? "
"Peuh! " exclaimed the marquis, sticking out his under-
lip like a prince of the House of Austria.
"Well, it is a fine sport," said the general.
"I leave that to Jean Oullier, who has wonderful tact
and patience in watching a covert."
"He is good at watching other game than foxes, your
Jean Oullier," remarked the general.
"Yes, yes; he 's clever at all game, no doubt."
"Marquis, I wish you would take a fancy to fox-
hunting."
"Why?"
"Because England is the land for it; and I have a fancy
that the air of England would be very good just now for
you and your young ladies."
320 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Goodness! " said the marquis, sitting up in bed.
"Yes, I have the honor to tell you so, my dear host."
"Which means that you are advising me to emigrate?
No, thank you."
"Do you call an agreeable little trip emigration? "
" My dear general, those little trips, I know what they
are, — worse than a journey round the world ; you know
when they begin, but nobody knows when they '11 end.
And, besides, there is one thing — you will hardly, perhaps,
believe it — "
"What is that?"
"You saw yesterday, I may say this morning, that in
spite of my age I have a very tolerable appetite ; and I can
certify that I never had an indigestion in my life. I can
eat anything without being made uncomfortable."
"Well?"
"Well, that devilish London fog, I never could digest
it. Is n't that curious? "
"Very good; then go to Italy, Spain, Switzerland,
wherever you please, but don't stay at Souday. Leave
Machecoul; leave La Vendée."
"Ha! ha! ha!"
"Yes, yes."
"Can it be that I am compromised?" said the marquis,
half to himself, and rubbing his hands cheerfully.
"If you are not now, you will be soon."
" At last ! " cried the old gentleman, joyously.
"No joking," said the general, becoming serious. " If I
listened to my duty only, my dear marquis, you would find
two sentries at your door and a sub-lieutenant in the chair
where I am now sitting."
" Hey ! " cried the marquis, a shade more serious.
"Yes, upon my word, that's the state of things. But
I can understand how a man of your age, accustomed as
you are to an active life in the free air of the forests,
would suifer cooped up in a prison where the civil authori-
ties would probably put you; and I give you a proof of my
BLI r F, AND WHITE. 32 I
sympathetic friendship in what T said just new. though in
doing so I am, in a measure, compromising with my strict
duty."
"But suppose you are blamed for it, general? "
"Pooh ! do yon suppose I can't find excuses enough? \
senile old man, worn-out, half-imbecile, who tried to stop
the column on its march — "
"Of whom arc you speaking, pray? "
"Why, you, of course."
"la senile old man, worn-out, half-imbecile!" cried
the marquis, sticking one muscular leg out of bed. "I 'm
sure I don't know, general, why I don't unhook those
swords on the wall and stake onr breakfast on the first
blood, as we did when I was a lad and a page forty-five
3'ears ago."
"Come, come, old child! " cried Dermoncourt; "you are
so bent on proving I have made a mistake that I shall have,
to call in the soldiers after all."
And the general pretended to rise.
"No, no," said the marquis; "no, damn it! I am senile,
worn-out, half -imbecile, wholly imbecile, — anything you
like, in short."
"Very good; that 's all right."
"But will you tell me how and by whom I am, or shall
be, compromised? "
" In the first place, your servant, Jean Oullier > — "
"Yes."
" The fox man — "
"I understand."
"Your servant, Jean Oullier, — a thing I neglected to
tell you last night, supposing that you knew as much about
it as I did, — your man, Jean Oullier, at the head of a lot
of seditious rioters, attempted to stop the column which
was ordered to surround the château de Souday. In
attempting this he brought about several fights, in which
we lost three men killed, not counting one whom 1 myself
did justice on. and who belongs, I think, in these parts."
VOL- I.— *■
322 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"What was his name?"
"François Tinguy."
"Hush! general, don't mention it here, for pity's sake.
His sister lives in this house, — the young girl who waited
on you at table last night, — and her father is only just
buried."
" Ah, these civil wars ! the devil take them ! " said the
general.
"And yet they are the only logical wars."
"Maybe. However, I captured your Jean Oullier, and
he got away."
" He did well, — you must own that ? "
"Yes; but if he falls into my grip again — "
"Oh, there's no danger of that; once warned, I'll
answer for him."
"So much the better, for I shouldn't be indulgent to
him. I have n't talked of the great war with him, as I
have with you."
"But he fought through it, though, and bravely, too."
"Reason the more; second offence."
"But, general," said the marquis, "I can't see, so far,
how the conduct of my keeper can be twisted into a crime
of mine."
"Wait, and you will see. You said last night that imps
came and told you all I did between seven and ten o'clock
that evening."
"Yes."
"Well, I have imps, too, and they are every bit as good
as yours."
"I doubt it."
"They have told me all that happened in your castle
yesterday."
"Go on," said the marquis, incredulously; "I 'm
listening."
"On the previous evening two persons came to stay at
the château de Souday."
" Good ! you are better than your word. You promised
BLUE AND WHITE. 323
to tell me what happened yesterday, and now you begin
with the day before yesterday."
"These two persons were a man and a woman."
The marquis shook his head, negatively.
"So be it; call them two men, though one of them had
nothing but the clothes of our sex."'
The marquis said nothing, and the general continued:
"Of these two personages, one, the smaller, spent the
whole day at the castle; the other rode about the neighbor-
hood, and gave rendezvous that evening at Souday to a
number of gentlemen. If I were indiscreet I would tell
you their names ; but I will only mention that of the gen-
tleman who summoned them, — namely, the Comte de
Bonneville."
The marquis made no reply. He must either acknowl-
edge or lie.
"What next?" he said.
" These gentlemen arrived at Souday, one after the other.
They discussed various matters, the most calming of which
was certainly not the glory, prosperity, and duration of
the government of July."
" My dear general, admit that you are not one whit more
in love than I with your government of July, though you
serve it."
" What 's that you are saying? "
"Eh ? good God ! I 'm saying that you are a republican,
blue, dark-blue; and a true dark-blue is a fast color."
"That 's not the question."
" What is it then? "
"I am talking of the strangers who assembled in this
house last night between eight and nine o'clock."
"Well, suppose I did receive a few neighbors, suppose
I even welcomed two strangers, where \s the crime, gen-
eral? I've got the Code at my fingers' ends, — unless,
indeed, the old revolutionary law against suspected persons
is revived."
"There is no crime in neighbors visiting you; but there
324 THE LAST VENDÉE.
is crime when those neighbors assemble for a conference
in which an uprising and resort to arms is discussed."
"How can that be proved? "
"By the presence of the two strangers."
" Pooh ! "
"Most certainly; for the smaller and fairer of the
strangers, the one who, being fair, wore a black wig to dis-
guise herself, was no less a person than the Princess
Marie-Caroline, whom you call regent of the kingdom, —
her Royal Highness Madame la Duchesse de Berry, who
is now pleased to call herself Petit-Pierre."
The marquis bounded in his bed. The general was
better informed than he, and what he was now told entered
his mind like a flash of light. He could hardly contain
himself for joy at the thought that he had received Madame
la Duchesse de Berry under his roof; but, unhappily, as
joy is never perfect in this world, he was forced to repress
his satisfaction.
"Go on," he said; "what next ?"
"Well, the next is that just as you had reached the
most interesting part of the discussion, a young man,
whom one would scarcely expect to find in your camp,
came and warned you that I and my troops were on our
way to the château. And then you, Monsieur le marquis
(you won't deny this, I am sure), you proposed to resist;
but the contrary was decided on. Mademoiselle, your
daughter, the dark one — "
"Bertha."
" Mademoiselle Bertha took a light. She left the room,
and every one present, except you, Monsieur le marquis,
who probably set about preparing for the new guests
whom Heaven was sending you, — every one present fol-
lowed her. She crossed the courtyard and went to the
chapel; there she opened the door, passed in first, and
went straight to the altar. Pushing a spring hidden in
the left forepaw of the lamb carved on the front of the
altar, she tried to open a trap-door. The spring, which
BLUE AND WHITE. 325
had probably not been used for some time, resisted. Then
she took the bell used for the mass, the handle of which
is of wood, and pressed it on the button. The panel
instantly yielded, and opened the way to a staircase lead-
ing to the vaults. Mademoiselle Bertha then took two
wax-tapers from the altar, lighted them, and gave them to
two of the persons who accompanied her. Then, your
guests having gone down into the vault, she closed the
panel behind them, and returned, as did another person,
who did not immediately enter the house, but, on the con-
trary, wandered about the park for some time. As for the
fugitives, when they reached the farther end of the sub-
terranean passage, which opens, you know, among the
ruins of the old château that I see from here, they had
some difficulty in forcing their way through the piles of
stones that cover the ground. One of them actually fell.
However, they managed to reach the covered way which
skirts the park wall; there they stopped to deliberate.
Three took the road from Nantes to Machecoul, two fol-
lowed the crossroad which leads to Lege, and the sixth
and seventh doubled themselves, — I should rather say,
made themselves into one — "
"Look here! is this a fairy tale you are telling me,
general? "
"Wait, wait! You interrupt me at the most interesting
part of all. I was telling you that the sixth and seventh
doubled up; that is, the larger took the smaller on his
back and went to the little brook that runs into the great
rivulet flowing round the base of the Viette des Biques.
Now as they are the ones I prefer among your company, I
shall set my dogs of war on them."
"But, my dear general," cried the Marquis de Souday,
"I do assure you all this exists only in your imagination."
"Come, come, my old enemy! You are Master of
Wolves, are not you? "
"Yes."
"Well, when you see the print of a young boar's paw
326 THE LAST VENDÉE.
sharply defined in soft earth, — a clear trail as you call it,
— would you let any one persuade you into thinking it was
only the ghost of a tusker? Well, marquis, that trail, I
have seen it, or rather, I should say, I have read it."
"The devil ! " cried the marquis, turning in his bed with
the admiring curiosity of an amateur ; "then I wish you 'd
just tell me how you did it."
"Willingly," replied the general. "But we have still a
good half-hour before us. Order up a pâté and a bottle of
wine, and I '11 tell you the rest between two mouthfuls."
"On one condition."
"And that is?"
" That I may share the meal."
"At this early hour? "
"Real appetites don't carry a watch."
The marquis jumped out of bed, put on his flannel
trousers, slipped his feet into his slippers, rang, ordered
up a breakfast, covered a table, and sat down before the
general with an interrogating air."
The general, put to the test of proving his words, began,
as he said, between two mouthfuls. He was a good talker,
and a better eater than even the marquis.
HOW spiders' webs are dangerous. 32 Y
XXXVII.
WHICH SHOWS THAT IT IS NOT FOR FI.TTCS ONLY THAT
spiders' WEBS ARE DANGEROUS.
"You know, my dear marquis," began the general, by way
of exordium, "that I don't inquire into any of your secrets.
I am so perfectly sure, so profoundly convinced that every-
thing happened precisely as I tell you, that I '11 excuse
you from telling me that I am mistaken or not mistaken.
All I want to do is to prove to you, as a matter of self-
respect, that we have as good a nose for a scent in our
camp as you have in your forest, — a small satisfaction of
vanity which I am bent on getting, that 's all."
"Go. on, go on ! " cried the marquis, as impatient as if
Jean Oullier had come to tell him on a fine snowy day
that he had roused a wolf.
"We'll begin with the beginning. I knew that M. le
Comte de Bonneville had arrived at your house the night
before last, accompanied by a little peasant, who had all
the appearance of being a woman in disguise, and whom
we suspect to be Madame. But this is only a report of
spies; it doesn't figure in my own inventory," added the
general.
"I should hope not; pah !" said the marquis.
"But when I arrived here in person, as we military
fellows say in our bulletin French, without being, I must
assure you, at all misled by the extreme politeness which
you lavished upon us, I at once remarked two things.''
"What were they?"
"First, that out of ten places laid at the supper-table,
five had napkins rolled up, evidently belonging to certain
328 THE LAST VENDÉE.
regular guests; which fact, in case of a trial, my dear
marquis — don't forget this — would be an eminently
extenuating circumstance."
"Why so?"
"Because if you had known the rank and quality of
your guests you would hardly have allowed them to roll
their napkins like ordinary country neighbors, would you?
The linen closets of Souday can't be so short of napkins
that Madame la Duchesse de Berry could n't have a clean
oue for every meal. I am therefore inclined to believe
that the blonde lady disguised in the black wig was noth-
ing more to your mind than a dark young lad."
" Go on, go on ! " cried the marquis, biting his lips at
this revelation of a perspicacity so far exceediug his own.
"I intend to go on," said the general. "So, as I say,
I noticed five rolled napkins, which proved that the supper,
or dinner, was not so entirely prepared for us as you tried
to make me believe, and that you simply gave us the
places of Monsieur de Bonneville and his companion and
others, who had judged it best not to wait for our arrival."
"Now for your second observation? " said the marquis.
"Mademoiselle Bertha, whom I suppose and believe to
be a very neat young lady, was, when you did me the
honor to present me to her, singularly covered with cob-
webs ; they were even in her beautiful hair. "
"Well?"
"Well, certain as I was that she had not chosen that
style of adornment out of coquetry, I looked about this
morning for a part of the château that was well supplied
with the toil of those interesting insects, the spiders,"
" And you discovered — ?"
" Faith ! what I discovered does n't redound to the honor
of your religious sentiments, my dear marquis, or, at any
rate, to your practice of them; for it was precisely across
the doorway of your chapel that I found a dozen spiders
working with unimaginable zeal to repair the damage done
last night to their webs, — a zeal no doubt inspired by the
HOW spiders' webs are dangerous. 329
belief that the opening of the door where they had fixed
their homes was only an accident not likely to occur
again."
" You must allow, my dear general, that all these indica-
tions are somewhat vague."
"Yes, but when your hounds turn their noses to the
wind and strain at the leash, that is nothing more than
a vague indication, is it? And yet on that indication yon
beat the woods with care, and very great care, too. "
"Certainly," said the marquis.
"Well, that's my way also. Then, on your paths
(where, by the bye, gravel is essentially lacking), I have
discovered some very significant tracks."
"Steps of men and women?" exclaimed the marquis.
"Pooh! they are everywhere."
"No, there are not everywhere steps crowded together
and going in one direction, according to what I suppose to
be the number of actors on the scene, . — steps , too, of
persons who were not walking, but running together."
" But how in the world could you tell that those persons
were running? "
"Why, marquis, that 's the A B C of the business."
"Tell me, quick !"
"Because their footmarks are more from the toes than
the heels, and the earth is pushed backward. Is n't that
the way to tell, my dear Master of Wolves? "
"Right," said the marquis, with the air of a connoisseur;
"quite right. What next? "
"Next?"
"Yes."
"I examined the footprints; there were men's steps of
various sizes and shapes, boots, shoes, and hob-nail soles.
Then in the midst of all these masculine feet what did 1
see but the print of a woman's foot, slender and arched,
Cinderella's foot, — afoot to put all the Andalusian women
to shame from Cordova to Cadiz; and that, too, in spite of
the heavy nailed shoes which contained it."
330 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Well, well! skip that."
"Skip it! why?"
"Because, if you say another word you'll be in love
with that delicate foot in a hobnailed shoe."
"The truth is, I would give anything to hold it. Per-
haps I shall. It was on the steps of the chapel and on the
pavement within it that these traces were most observable ;
mud had left its own marks on the polished floor. I also
found, near the altar, droppings from wax-tapers close
to a long, thin footprint, which I would swear to be
Mademoiselle Bertha's ; and as other droppings were close
to the outside of the trap-door, I concluded that your
daughter held the light in her left hand, while she put the
key with her right into the lock. However, without this
last proof, the cobwebs — in fragments at the door, and
tangled in her hair — proved to me conclusively that it was
she who aided the escape."
"Very well; continue."
"The rest is hardly worth telling. The lamb's paw was
broken, and left exposed a small steel button which worked
a spring; therefore I had no merit in that discovery. It
resisted my efforts as it did those of Mademoiselle Bertha,
who, by the bye, scratched her finger and drew blood,
leaving a little fresh trace of it on the carved wood. Like
her, I looked for some hard thing to push in the little
button, and like her again, I spied the wooden handle of
the bell, which retained not only the marks of the pres-
sure of the night before but also a little trace of blood."
"Bravo ! " cried the marquis, evidently beginning to
take a double interest in the narration.
"So, as you will readily believe," continued Dermon-
court, " I went down into the vault. The footprints of the
fugitives were perfectly distinct on the damp, sandy soil.
One of the party fell as they went through the ruins; I
know this because I saw a thick tuft of nettles bruised
and beaten down, which we may be sure, considering the
unamiable nature of that plant, was not done intentionally.
HOW spiders' webs are dangerous. 331
In a corner of the ruins, opposite to the door, stones had
been moved, as if to facilitate the passage of some delicate
person. Among the nettles growing beside the wall I
found the two tapers, thrown away as soon as the party
reached the open air. Finally, and in conclusion, I found
footsteps in the road, and then, as they separated there, I
was able to class them in the manner I have already
described to you."
"No, no; that 's not the conclusion."
"Not the conclusion? yes, it is."
"No; who told you that one of these persons took another
on his back? "
"Ah, marquis, you want to catch me tripping in discern-
ment. The pretty little foot in the hobnailed shoe, — that
charming foot that captivates me so much that I have
neither peace nor rest till I have overtaken it, that deli-
cate little foot, no longer than a child's nor wider than
my two fingers, — well, I saw it in the vaults, also in the
covered way behind the ruins, and at the place where they
all stopped and deliberated before they parted. Then,
suddenly, close to a huge stone, which the rain must
usually keep clean, but which, on the contrary, I now
found covered with mud, those dainty footsteps disap-
peared. From that moment, like the hippogriffs who no
longer exist in our days, Monsieur de Bonneville, I pre-
sume, took his companion on his back. The footprints of
the said Monsieur de Bonneville became suddenly heavier;
they were no longer those of a lively, active youth, such
as you and I were at his age, marquis. Don't you remem-
ber how the wild-sows when with young make heavier
tracks, and their hoof-marks, instead of just pricking the
earth, are placed flat with the two points separate? Well,
from the stone I spoke of, M. de Bonneville's footsteps
grew heavier in the same way."
"But you have forgotten something, general."
"I think not."
"Oh ! I sha'n't let you off yet. What makes you think
OÔ2 THE LAST VENDÉE.
that Monsieur de Bonneville spent the day riding about to
summon my neighbors to council? "
"You told me yourself you had not gone out."
"Well?"
" Well, your horse, the one you always ride, — as that
pretty little wench who took my bridle told me, — your
favorite horse, which I saw in the stable when I went to
make sure that my own Bucephalus had his provender,
was covered with mud to the withers. Now, some one
had ridden that horse, and you would never have lent
him to any one for whom you did not feel some special
consideration."
" Good ! Now another question."
"Certainly; I am here to answer questions."
" What makes you think that Monsieur de Bonneville's
companion is the august personage you named just now?"
"Partly because she is evidently made to pass first,
before others, and the stones are moved out of her way."
" Can you tell by a mere footprint whether the person
who made it is fair or dark? "
"No; but I can find it out in another way."
"How? This shall be my last question; and if you
answer it — "
"If I answer it, what? "
"Nothing. Goon."
"Well, my dear marquis, you were so good as to give
me the bedroom occupied the night before by Monsieur de
Bonneville's companion."
"Yes, I did so; what of it? "
"Well, here is a pretty little tortoise-shell comb, which
I found at the foot of the bed. You must admit, my dear
marquis, that it is too dainty and coquettish to belong to a
peasant lad. Besides, it contained, and still contains, as
you may see, some long meshes of light brown hair, not at
all of the golden shade that adorns your younger daugh-
ter's head, — the only blond head in your house."
" General ! " cried the marquis, bounding from his chair,
HOW SHDERS' WEBS ARE DANGEROUS. 333
and flinging his knife and fork across the room, "arrest
me if you like, but I tell you, ouee for all, 1 won't go to
England; no, I won't, I won't, I won't! "
" Well, well, marquis, what 's the matter with you, hey? "
"The devil! You've stimulated my ambition, you've
spurred my pride and my self-love. Though I know, if
you come to Souday — as you 've promised, mind you, after
the campaign is over — I shall have nothing to tell you
equal to your own performances."
"Listen to me, my old and excellent enemy," said the
general. "I have given you my word not to arrest you,
this time at least, and whatever you may do, or rather,
whatever you may have done, I shall keep my word; but
I do entreat you, in the name of the interest you have
inspired in me, in the name of your charming daughters,
do not commit the folly on which you are bent, and if you
will not leave France, at least stay quietly at home."
"And why?"
"Because the memories of those heroic times, which are
making your heart beat now are but memories ; because the
emotions of the great and glorious actions you would like
to see renewed are gone forever; because the day of great
deeds of arms, of devotion without conditions, of deaths
sublime in constancy, are passed without recall. Oh ! I
knew her, I knew her well, that unconquerable Vendée.
I can say so, — I who bear the scars of her steel upon my
breast. Well, I have been for the last month in the midst
of her, in the midst of the places of the past, and I tell
you I look for her old self in vain; I cannot find it, and no
one can find it. My poor marquis, count up the few young
gallant fellows, whose brave hearts dare to face the strug-
gle, count up the veteran heroes who, like you, think that
the duty of 1793 is still a duty in 1832, and see for your-
self that a struggle so unequal is sheer madness."
"It will not be less glorious for that, my dear general,"
cried the marquis, forgetting in his enthusiasm the politi-
cal position of his companion.
334 THE LAST VENDEE.
"No, no; it will not be glorious in any sense. All that
happens, — you '11 see, and when you do, remember that I
foretold it to you, — all that is now about to happen will
be colorless, barren, puny, stunted; and on both sides, too.
Yes, my God ! with us as well as with you: with us, petty
motives, base betrayals; with you, self-seeking compro-
mises, contemptible meannesses, which will cut you to the
heart, my poor marquis, which will kill you, — you, whom
the balls of the Blues have left untouched."
"You see things as a partisan of the established govern-
ment, general; you forget that we have many friends even
in your own ranks, and that when we say the word this
whole region will rise as one man."
The general shook his shoulders.
"In my time, old comrade, — allow me to call you so,"
he said, — "all that was Blue was Blue; all that was
White was White. There was, to be sure, something
red, — the executioner and his guillotine: but don't let us
speak of that. You had no friends in our ranks, we had
none in yours; and it was that which made us equally
strong, equally great, equally terrible. At a word from
you La Vendée will rise, you say? You are mistaken.
La Vendée, which went to its death in 1795, relying on
the coming of a prince whose word she trusted, and who
failed her, will not rise now; no, not even when she sees
the Duchesse de Berry within her borders. Your peasants
have lost that political faith which moves human moun-
tains, which drives them one against another, clashing
together until they sink in a sea of blood, — that faith
which begets and perpetuates martyrs. We ourselves,
marquis, — I am forced to acknowledge it, — no longer
possess that passion for liberty, progress, glory, which
shook the old worlds to their centres, and gave birth to
heroes. The civil war which is about to break out — if.
indeed, there must be a civil war, and if it must break out
— will be just such a war as Barème describes : a war in
which victory is certain to be on the side of the big bat-
HOW spiders' webs are dangerous. 335
talions, the best exchequer. And that is why I say to
you, count the cost, count it twice over, before you fling
yourself into this mad folly."
"You are mistaken; I tell you, general, you are mis-
taken. We are not without an army, without soldiers ;
and, more fortunate than in former times, we have a leader
whose sex will electrify the cautious, rally all devotions,
and silence contending ambitions."
" Poor, valorous young woman ! poor, noble, poetic
spirit ! " said the old soldier, in a tone of the deepest pity,
dropping his scarred brow upon his breast. "Presently
she will have no more relentless enemy than myself; but
while I am still in this room, on neutral ground, I will
tell you how I admire her resolution, her courage, her per-
sistent tenacity, and how truly I deplore that she was born
in an epoch that is no longer of the measure of her soul.
The times have changed, marquis, since Jeanne de Moi it -
fort had but to strike the soil of Brittany with her
mailed heel for warriors to spring up fully armed from it.
Marquis, remember what I predict to you this day, and
repeat it to that poor woman, if you see her, — namely, that
her noble heart, more valiant even than that of Comtesse
Jeanne, will receive, as the reward of her abnegation, her
energy, her devotion, her sublime elevation of soul as prin-
cess and mother, only indifference, ingratitude, baseness,
cowardice, treachery of all kinds. And now, my dear mar-
quis, make your decision, say your last word."
"My last word, general, is like my first."
"Repeat it, then."
"I will not go to England," said the old man, firmly.
"Listen," continued Dermoncourt, laying a hand on the
marquis's shoulder, and looking him in the eyes. "You
are as proud as a Gascon, Vendéan though you be. Your
revenues are small, I know that, — oh, don't begin to frown
in that way ; let me finish what I have to say, — damn it,
you know I would n't offer you anything I would n't accept
myself."
336 THE LAST VENDÉE.
The marquis's face returned to its first expression.
"I was saying," continued the general, "that your
revenues are slender; and in this cursed region of country
it is not enough to possess revenues, great or small, — you
must also collect them. Well, that 's difficult; and if you
can't get the money to cross the straits and hire a little
cottage somewhere in England, — well, I 'm not rich, I
have only my pay, but I have managed to lay by a few
hundred louis (a comrade accepts such things, you know) ;
won't you take them? After the peace, as you say, you
can pay them back."
" Stop ! stop ! " said the marquis ; " you know me only
since yesterday, and you treat me like a friend of twenty
years' standing." The old Vendéan scratched his ear, and
added, as if speaking to himself, " How could I ever show
my gratitude for such an act? "
"Then you accept it? "
"No, no; I refuse it."
"But you will go?"
"I stay."
" God keep you then in health and safety ! " said the
old general, his patience exhausted. "Only, it is likely
that chance, the devil take it ! will bring us face to face
together once more, as we were formerly ; and now that I
know you, if there is a hand-to-hand fight, such as there
used to be in the old days, at Laval, hey? I swear I'll
seek you out."
"And I '11 seek you," cried the marquis; "I '11 shout for
you with all my lungs. I 'd be thankful and proud to
show these greenhorns what the men of the old war were."
"Well, there 's the bugle sounding; I must go. Adieu,
marquis, and thank you for your hospitality."
"Au revoir, general, and thanks for a friendship which
I must prove to you I share."
The two old men shook hands, and Dermoncourt went
away. The marquis, as he dressed himself, watched the
little column disappearing up the avenue in the direction
HOW spiders' webs are dangerous. 337
of the forest. At a couple of hundred paces from tin-
chateau the general ordered a half-turn to the right; then,
stopping his horse, he gave a last look at the little pointed
turrets of his new friend's abode. Seeing the marquis at
a window, he waved him a last adieu, and then, turning
rein, he rejoined his men.
After following with his eyes, as long as they were
visible, the detachment and the man who commanded it,
the marquis turned from the window, and as he did so he
heard a slight scratching on a little door behind his bed,
which communicated, through a dressing-room, with the
backstairs.
"Who the devil is coming this way?" he thought,
drawing the bolt.
The door opened immediately, and gave entrance to
Jean Oullier.
" Jean Oullier ! " cried the marquis, in a tone of actual
joy. "Is it you? are you really here, my good Jean
Oullier? Ha ! faith ! the day has begun under good
auspices."
He held out his hand to his keeper, who pressed it with
a lively expression of respect and gratitude. Then, dis-
engaging his hand, Jean Oullier produced from his pocket
and gave to the marquis a piece of coarse paper folded into
the shape of a letter. M. de Souday opened and read it.
As he read his face beamed with joy unspeakable.
"Jean Oullier," he said, "call the young ladies; assem-
ble all my people ! No, no ; stop ! don't assemble any of
them yet. Polish up my sword, my pistols, my carbine,
all my war accoutrements; give Tristan oats. The cam-
paign opens ! My dear Jean Oullier, the campaign is
opening ! Bertha ! Mary ! Bertha ! "
"Monsieur le marquis," said Jean Oullier, calmly, "the
campaign has been opened for me since yesterday at three
o'clock."
The sisters now rushed in, hearing their father's call,
Mary's eyes were red and swollen. Bertha was radiant.
vol. i. — 22
338 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Young ladies ! girls ! " cried the marquis; "you are in
it ! You are to come with me ! Here, read this."
And he held out to Bertha the letter Jean Oullier had
just given him. The letter was thus worded: —
Monsieur le Marquis de Souday, — It is desirable for the
cause of King Henri V. that you hasten by several days the call
to arms. Have the goodness, therefore, to assemble all the most
devoted men that you have in the district which you command,
and hold yourself and them, especially yourself, at my immediate
orders.
I think that two more amazons in our little army will help to
spur on the love and the self-love of our friends, and I ask you,
my dear marquis, to be so very kind as to grant me your beautiful
and charming huntresses as my aides-de-camp.
Your affectionate
Petit-Pierre.
"Well," said Bertha, "are we to go?"
" Of course ! " exclaimed the marquis.
"Then allow me, papa," said Bertha, "to present to you
a recruit."
"As many as you like."
Mary was silent and motionless. Bertha left the room,
and returned in a few moments, leading Michel by the
hand.
"Baron Michel de la Logerie," said the girl, dwell-
ing on the title, "wishes to prove to you papa, that his
Majesty Louis XVIII. was not mistaken in granting his
family a patent of nobility."
The marquis, who had frowned at the name of Michel,
softened his aspect.
" I shall follow with interest any efforts Monsieur Michel
may make with that object in view," he said, at last,
uttering those dignified words in a tone the Emperor
Napoleon might have used on the eve of the battle of
Marengo.
cindekklla's blippeb does not fit. 339
XXXVIII.
IN WHICH THE DAINTIEST FOOT OF FRANCE AND OF NAVARRE
FINDS THAT CINDERELLA'S SLIPPER DOES NOT FIT IT AS
WELL AS SEVEN-LEAGUE BOOTS.
Here we are obliged to double in our tracks, as Jean
Oullier would say in hunting parlance, and ask our reader's
permission to retrograde a few hours, and follow the Courte
de Bonneville and Petit-Pierre, who, as we have probably
made it clear, are not the least important personages of
our history.
The general's suppositions were perfectly correct. When
the fleeing party left the subterranean passage, the Ven-
déan gentlemen crossed the ruins, entered the covered
way, and. there deliberated for a few moments on the
proper course to pursue. The one whose identity was con-
cealed under the name of Gaspard * thought it advisable to
move cautiously. Bonneville's excitement when Michel
announced the approach of the column had not escaped
him; he heard an exclamation the count could not restrain,
— "We must put Petit-Pierre in safety ! " Consequently,
he watched during their flight (as well as the feeble gleam
of the torches would allow) the features of the little peas-
ant, the result being that his manners became not only
reserved but profoundly respectful.
"You said, monsieur," he now exclaimed, addressing the
Comte de Bonneville, " that the safety of the person who
accompanies you was to be considered before our own,
being of the utmost importance to the cause we are resolved
to sustain. Ought we not therefore to remain as a body-
1 I refer those of my readers who would like to have a key to the real
names of these men to the careful and interesting book of General
Dermoncourt entitled " La Vende'e and Madame."
340 THE LAST VENDÉE.
guard to that person, so that if any danger threatens him,
— and we are likely now to meet danger everywhere, — we
may be at hand to make a rampart of our bodies for him."
" You would be right no doubt, monsieur, if the question
were one of fighting," said the Comte de Bonneville.
"But just now our object is flight, and for that the fewer
we are in number, the easier and more certain our escape."
"Remember, count," said Gaspard, frowning, "that you
take upon yourself at twenty-two years of age the respon-
sibility of a very precious treasure."
"My devotion has already been judged, monsieur,"
replied the count, haughtily. "I shall endeavor to be
worthy of the confidence with which I am honored."
Petit-Pierre, who had hitherto held his place silently in
the midst of the little group, now thought the time had
come to interfere.
"Come, come," he said; "the safety of a poor little peas-
ant must not be made an apple of discord between the
noblest champions of the cause you mention. I see it is
necessary that I should say a word; we have no time to
lose in useless discussion. But I wish, in the first place,
my friends, " said Petit-Pierre, in a tone of grateful affec-
tion, " to ask your pardon for the disguise I have thought
best to keep up, even with you, for one purpose only, that
of hearing your real thoughts, your frank opinions, un-
affected by your desire to comply with what is known to
be my most ardent desire. Now that Petit-Pierre has
gained the information he sought, the regent will take
part in your discussions. Meantime, let us separate here ;
the poorest place is all I need to pass the rest of the night,
and Monsieur de Bonneville, who knows the country well,
can easily find it for me."
"When may we be admitted to confer with her Boyal
Highness? " asked Pascal, bowing low before Petit-Pierre.
"As soon as her Royal Highness can find a suitable
abode for her wandering majesty, Petit-Pierre will sum-
mon you; it will not be long. Remember that Petit-Pierre
is firmly resolved never to abandon his friends."
CINDERELLA'S SLIPPER DOES NOT PIT. 341
•'Petit-Pierre is a gallant lad !" cried Gaspard, gayly,
'and his friends will prove, I hope, that they are worthy
of him."
"Farewell, then," said Petit-Pierre. "Now that the
mask is off, I thank you heartily, my gallant Gaspard, for
not being deceived by it. Come, it is time to shake hands
and part."
Each gentleman, in turn, took the hand that Petit-
Pierre held out to him and kissed it respectfully. Then
they all separated on their different ways, some to the
right, others to the left, and soon disappeared from sight.
Bonneville and Petit-Pierre were left alone.
"Well, what shall we do? " said the latter.
"Follow a direction diametrically opposed to those
gentlemen."
"Forward, then, without losing another minute," cried
Petit-Pierre, running toward the road.
" Oh ! wait, wait a moment ! " cried Bonneville. " Not
in that way, if you please. Your Highness must — "
"Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "don't forget our
agreement."
" True ; Madame must please excuse — "
" Again ! why, you are incorrigible ! "
" I was about to say that Petit-Pierre must allow me to
take him on my back."
"Very good; here 's a great stone that seems planted here
for the very purpose. Come nearer, count; come nearer."
Petit-Pierre was already on the stone as he spoke. The
young count approached, and Petit-Pierre mounted astride
his shoulders.
"You take to it famously," said Bonneville, starting.
" Parbleu ! " exclaimed Petit-Pierre. " Saddle-my-nag
was a fashionable game when I was young; I have often
played at it."
"A good education, you see, is never wasted," said
Bonneville, laughing.
"Count," said Petit-Pierre, "it isn't forbidden to speak,
is it? "
342 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"On the contrary."
" Well, then, as you are an old Chouan, and I am only
beginning my apprenticeship at Chouannerie, do tell me
why I am perched on your shoulders."
" What an inquisitive little person is Petit-Pierre ! " said
Bonneville.
"No; for I did as you requested, instantly, without dis-
cussion, though the position is a rather questionable one,
you must admit, for a princess of the House of Bourbon."
" A princess of the House of Bourbon ! Is there any
such person here? "
" Ah ! true. Well then, please to tell me why Petit-
Pierre, who can walk and run and jump ditches, is perched
on the shoulders of his friend Bonneville, who can't do
any of those things with Petit-Pierre on his back."
"Well, I '11 tell you; it is because Petit-Pierre has such
a tiny foot."
" Tiny, yes ; but firm, too ! " exclaimed Petit-Pierre, as
if his vanity was ruffled.
"Yes, but firm as it may be, it is too small not to be
recognized."
"By whom?"
"By those who are on our traces."
" Good heavens ! " exclaimed Petit-Pierre, with comic
sadness ; " who would ever have told me that some day, or
some night, I should regret that my foot was not as large
as that of Madame la Duchesse de "
"Poor Marquis de Souday, who was so fluttered by what
you told him of your court acquaintances," said Bonneville,
laughing, " what would he think now if he heard you talk-
ing with such assurance and experience of the feet of
duchesses? "
"He would set it down to my rôle of page." Then after
a moment's silence, "I understand very well that you
should want them to lose my tracks; but you know we
3an't travel long in this way. Saint Christopher himself
would get tired; and, sooner or later, that wretched little
foot will leave its imprint on a patch of mud."
CINDERELLA'S SLIPPER DOES NOT FIT. 343
" We '11 baffle the hounds for a short time, at any rate."
The young man bore to the left, attracted by the sound
of a brook.
"What are you about? " asked Petit-Pierre. "You will
lose the path; you are knee-deep in water now."
"Of course I am," said Bonneville, hoisting Petit-Pierre
a little higher on his shoulders; ''and now L-t thou look
for our traces ! " he cried, hurrying up the bed of the
brook.
"Ha, ha! that is clever of you!" cried Petit-Pierre.
"You have missed your vocation, Bonneville; you ought
to have been born in a primeval forest, or on the pampas
of South America. The fact is that, to follow us, a trail
is needed, and here there is none."
" Don't laugh. The man who is after us is an old hand
at such pursuits; he fought in La Vendée in the clays when
Charette, almost single-handed, gave the Blues a terrible
piece of work to do."
"Well, so much the better," cried Petit-Pierre, gayly;
"better far to fight with those who are worth the trouble."
But in spite of the confidence he thus expressed, Petit-
Pierre, after uttering the words, grew thoughtful, while
Bonneville struggled bravely against the rolling stones and
fallen branches which impeded him greatly, for he still
followed the course of the brook.
After another quarter of an hour of such advance the
brook fell into a second and a wider stream, which was
really the one that circles at the base of the Viette des
Biques. Here the water came to Bonneville's waist, and
presently, to his great regret, he was forced to land and
continue his way along one or the other bank of the little
stream.
But the fugitives had only gone from Scylla to Charybdis,
for the shores of the mountain-torrent, bristling with
thorns, interlaced with trunks and roots of fallen trees,
soon became impassable.
Bonneville placed Petit-Pierre on the ground, finding it
344 THE LAST VENDÉE.
impossible to carry him further, and struck boldly into
the thicket, requesting Petit-Pierre to follow closely
through the opening made by his body; and thus, in spite
of all obstacles, in spite too of the darkness of the night
and the deeper darkness of the woods, he advanced in a
straight line, as none but those who have constant ex-
perience in forests can succeed in doing.
The plan succeeded well, for after going some fifty yards
they struck one of those paths called "lines," which are
cut parallel to each other through forests, partly to mark
the limits of felling, and partly to facilitate the transpor-
tation of the wood.
" Oh, what a good find ! " said Petit-Pierre, who found it
hard to walk through the tangle of underbrush and briers
which rose at times above his head. " Here, at least, we
can stretch our legs."
"Yes, and without leaving tracks," replied Bonneville,
striking the ground, which was hard and rocky.
"Now all we want to know is which way to go," said
Petit-Pierre.
"As we have, I believe, thrown those who are after us
off the scent, we can now go whichever way you think
best," replied Bonneville.
"You know that to-morrow night I have a rendezvous at
La Cloutière with our friends from Paris."
" We can get to La Cloutière from here almost without
leaving the woods, where we are safer than we should be
in the open. We can take a path I know of to the forest
of Touvois and the Grandes-Landes, to the west of which
is La Cloutière; only, it is impossible for us to get there
to-day."
" Why not? "
" Because we should have to make a number of detours,
which would take us at least six hours; and that is very
much more than you have strength for."
Petit-Pierre stamped his foot impatiently.
"I know a farm-house," continued Bonneville, "about
CINDERELLA'S SLIPPER DOES NOT FIT. 345
three miles this side of La Benaste, where we should be
welcome, and where you could rest awhile before doing
the remainder of the way."
"Very good," said Petit-Pierre; "then let us start at
once. Which way? "
"Let me precede you," said Bonneville. "We must go
to the right."
Bonneville took the direction he named, and stalked
on with the persistency he had shown on leaving the banks
of the stream. Petit-Pierre followed him.
From time to time the Comte de Bonneville stopped to
reconnoitre the way and give his companion time to breathe.
He warned him of the various obstacles in the path before
they came to them, with a minuteness which showed how
thoroughly familiar he was with the forest of Machecoul.
"You see I am avoiding the paths," he said to his com-
panion, during one of their halts.
"Yes; and why do you do so? "
" Because they will be certain to look for us in the paths
where the ground is soft; whereas here, where there has
not been so much trampling, our steps are less likely to be
observed."
"But perhaps this way is the longer."
"Yes, but safer."
They walked on for ten minutes in silence, when Bonne-
ville stopped and caught his companion by the arm. The
latter asked what the trouble was.
"Hush ! or speak very low," said Bonneville.
"Why?"
"Don't you hear anything? "
"No."
"I hear voices."
"Where?"
"There, about five hundred yards in that direction. I
fancy I can distinguish through the branches a ruddy gleam
of light."
"Yes, and so can I."
346 THE LAST VENDÉE.
' ; What do you suppose it is? "
"I ask you that."
" The devil ! "
"Can it be charcoal-burners? "
"No; this is not the time of year when they start their
kilns. And if they were charcoal-burners, I should not
like to trust thein ; I have no right, being your guide, to
run any risks."
"Is there any other road we could take? "
"Yes."
"Then suppose we try it."
"I don't want to take it till reduced to the last
extremity."
"Why not?"
"Because it crosses a marsh."
" Pooh ! you who can walk on the water like Saint Peter !
Don't you know the marsh? "
"I know it very well. I have often shot snipe there;
but — "
"But?"
"It was by daylight."
" And this marsh — "
" Is a bog where, even in the daytime, I have come near
sinking."
" Then let us risk an encounter with these worthy peo-
ple. I should not be sorry to warm myself at their fire."
"Stay here; and let me go and reconnoitre."
"But — "
"Don't be afraid."
So saying, Bonneville disappeared noiselessly in the
darkness.
PETIT-PIERKE MAKES A GOOD MEAL. 347
XXXIX.
PETIT-PIERRE MAKES THE BEST MEAL HE EVER MADE IN
HIS LIFE.
Petit-Pierre, left alone, leaned against a tree, and there,
silent, motionless, with fixed eyes and straining ears, he
waited, striving to catch every sound as it passed him.
For five minutes he heard nothing except a sort of hum
which came from the direction of the lights.
Suddenly the neighing of a horse echoed through the
forest. Petit-Pierre trembled. Almost at the same
moment a light sound came from the bushes, and a shadow
rose before him; it was Bonneville.
Bonneville, who did not see Petit-Pierre leaning against
the trunk of a tree, called him twice gently. Petit-Pierre
bounded toward him.
" Quick ! quick ! " said Bonneville, dragging Petit-Pierre
away.
"What is it?"
" Not an instant to lose ! Gome ! come ! "
Then, as he ran, he said : —
" A camp of soldiers. If there were men only I might
have warmed myself at their fire without their seeing or
hearing me; but a horse smelt me out and neighed."
"I heard it."
"Then you understand; not a word. We must take to
our legs, that 's all."
As he spoke they were running along a wood-road, which
fortunately came in their way. After a time Bonneville
drew Petit-Pierre into the bushes.
"Get your breath," he said.
348 THE LAST VENDÉE.
While Petit-Pierre rested, Bonneville tried to make out
where they were.
"Are we lost?" asked Petit-Pierre, uneasily.
" Oh, no danger of that ! " said Bonneville. " I 'in only
looking for a way to avoid that horrid marsh."
" If it leads us straight to our object we had better take
it," said Petit-Pierre.
"We must," replied Bonneville; "I don't see any other
way. "
"Forward, then!" cried Petit-Pierre; "only, you must
guide me."
Bonneville made no answer; but in proof of urgency, he
started at once, and instead of following the " line " path
on which they were, he turned to the right and plunged
into the thicket. At the end of ten minutes' march the
underbrush lessened. They were nearing the edge of the
forest, and they could hear before them the swishing of
the reeds in the wind.
" Aha ! " cried Petit-Pierre, recognizing the sound ; " we
are close to the marsh now."
"Yes," said Bonneville; "and I ought not to conceal
from you that this is the most critical moment of our
flight."
So saying, the young man took from his pocket a knife,
which might, if necessary, be used as a dagger, and cut
down a sapling, removing all the branches, but taking care
to hide each one as he lopped it off.
"Now," he said, "my poor Petit-Pierre, you must
resign yourself and go back to your former place on my
shoulders."
Petit-Pierre instantly did as he was told, and Bonne-
ville went forward toward the marsh. His advance under
the weight he carried, hindered by the long sapling which
he used to test the condition of the ground at every step,
was horribly difficult. Often he sank into the slough
almost to his knees, and the earth, which seemed soft
enough as it gave way under him, offered a positive resist-
PETIT-PIERRE MAKES A GOOD MEAL. 349
ance when he sought to extricate himself. It was, in fact,
with the utmost difficulty that he could get his legs out of
it; it seemed as though the gulf that opened at their feet
was unwilling to relinquish its prey.
"Let me give you some advice, my dear count," said
Petit-Pierre.
Bonneville stopped and wiped his brow.
"If, instead of paddling in this mire, you stepped from
tuft to tuft of those reeds which are growing here, I think
you would find a better foothold."
"Yes," said Bonneville, "I should; but we should leave
more visible traces." Then, a moment later, he added,
"No matter. You are right; it is best."
And changing his direction a little, Bonneville took to
the reeds. The matted roots of the water-plants had, in
fact, made little islets of a foot or more in circumference,
which gave a fairly good foothold over the boggy ground.
The young man felt them, one after the other, with the
end of his stick and stepped from each to each.
Nevertheless, he slipped constantly. Burdened with
Petit-Pierre's weight, he had great difficulty in recovering
himself; and before long this toilsome struggle so com-
pletely exhausted him he was forced to ask Petit-Pierre to
get down and let him rest awhile.
"You are worn out, my poor Bonneville," said Petit-
Pierre. "Is it very much farther, this marsh of yours?"
"Two or three hundred yards more, and then we re-enter
the forest as far as the line-path to Benaste, which will
take us direct to the farm."
" Can you go as far as that? "
"I hope so."
" Good God ! how I wish I could carry you myself, or at
any rate, walk beside you."
These words restored the count's courage. Giving up
his second method of advancing from tuft to tuft, he
plunged resolutely into the mire. But the more he
advanced, the more the slough appeared to move and
350 THE LAST VENDÉE.
deepen. Suddenly Bonneville, who had made a mistake
and placed his foot on a spot he had not had time to sound,
felt himself sinking rapidly and likely to disappear.
"If I sink altogether," he said, "fling yourself either
to right or left. These dangerous places are never very
wide."
Petit-Pierre sprang off at once, not to save himself, but
to lighten Bonneville of the additional weight.
" Oh, my friend ! " he cried, with an aching heart and
eyes wet with tears as he listened to that generous cry of
devotion and self-forgetfulness, "think only of yourself,
I command you."
The young count had already sunk to the waist. Fortu-
nately, he had time to put his sapling across the bog before
him; and as each end rested on a tuft of reeds sufficiently
strong to bear a weight, he was able, thanks to the sup-
port they gave, and aided by Petit-Pierre, who held him
by the collar of his coat, to extricate himself from the
dangerous place.
Soon the ground became more solid; the black line of
the woods which had all along marked the horizon came
nearer and increased in height. The fugitives were evi-
dently approaching the end of the bog.
"At last ! " cried Bonneville.
"Ouf !" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, slipping off Bonneville's
shoulders as soon as he felt that the earth was solid beneath
their feet. "Ouf! you must be worn out, my dear count."
"Out of breath, that 's all," replied Bonneville.
" Good heavens ! " cried Petit-Pierre ; " to think that I
should have nothing to give you, — not even the flask of a
soldier or pilgrim, or the crust of a beggar's loaf ! "
"Pooh!" said the count; "my strength doesn't come
from my stomach."
" Tell me where it does come from, my dear count, and I
will try to be as strong as you."
" Are you hungry? "
"I '11 admit that I could eat something."
PETIT-PIERRE MARKS A GOOD MEAL. 351
"Alas!" said the count; "you make me regret now
what I cared little for a moment ago."
Petit-Pierre laughed; and then, for the purpose of keep-
ing up his companion's heart, he cried out gayly : —
" Bonneville, call the usher and let him notify the cham-
berlain on duty to order the stewards to bring my lunch-
basket. I would like one of those snipe I hear whistling
about us."
"Her Royal Highness is served," said the count, kneel-
ing on one knee, and offering on the top of his hat an
object which Petit-Pierre seized eagerly.
"Bread ! " he cried.
"Black bread," said Bonneville.
"Oh, no matter ! I can't see the color at night."
" Dry bread ! doubly dry ! "
"But it is bread, at any rate."
And Petit-Pierre set his handsome teeth into the crust,
which had been drying in the count's pocket for the last
two days.
"And when I think," said Petit-Pierre, "that General
Dermoncourt is probably at this moment eating my supper
at Souday, is n't it aggravating? " Then, suddenly, " Oh !
forgive me, my dear guide," he went on, "but my stomach
got the better of my heart; I forgot to offer you half my
supper."
"Thanks," replied Bonneville; "but my appetite isn't
strong enough yet to munch stones. In return for your
gracious offer, I '11 show you how to make your poor
supper less husky."
Bonneville took the bread, broke it, not without diffi-
culty, into little bits, soaked it in a brook that was flowing
quite near them, called Petit-Pierre, sat down himself on
one side the brook, while Petit-Pierre sat on the other,
and taking out one by one the softened crusts, presented
them to his famished companion.
" Upon my honor ! " said the latter, when he came to
the last crumb, " I have n't eaten such a good supper for
352 THE LAST VENDÉE.
twenty years. Bonneville, I appoint you steward of my
household."
"Meantime," said the count, "I am your guide. Come,
luxury enough; we must continue our way."
"I'm ready," said Petit-Pierre, springing gayly to his
feet."
Again they started through the woods, and half an hour's
walking brought them to a river which they were forced to
cross. Bonneville tried his usual method; but at the first
step, the water came to his waist, at the second to his
shoulders. Feeling himself dragged by the current he
caught at the branch of a tree and returned to the bank.
It was necessary to find a way to cross. At a distance
of about three hundred yards Bonneville thought he had
found one; but it was nothing more than the trunk of a
tree lately blown down by the wiud, and still bearing all
its branches.
" Do you think you can walk over that? " he asked
Petit-Pierre.
"If you can, I can," replied the latter.
"Hold on to the branches, and don't have any conceit
about your powers; don't raise one foot till you are quite
sure the other is firm," said Bonneville, climbing first on
to the trunk of the tree.
"I 'm to follow, I suppose?"
"Wait till I can give you a hand."
" Here I am ! Goodness ! what a number of things one
ought to know in order to roam the wilds; I never should
have thought it."
" Don't talk, for God's sake ! pay attention to your feet.
One moment ! Stop where you are; don't move. Here 's
a branch you can't get by; I '11 cut it."
Just as he stooped to do as he said, the count heard a
smothered cry behind him and the fall of a body into the
water. He looked back. Petit-Pierre had disappeared.
Without losing a second, Bonneville dropped into the
same place ; and his luck served him well, for going to the
PETIT-PIERRE MAKES A GOOD MEAL. 353
bottom of the river, which was not more than eight feet
deep at this place, his hand came in contact with Petit-
Pierre's leg.
He seized it, trembling with emotion, and paying no
heed to the uncomfortable position in which he held the
body he struck out for the bank of the stream, which
was, happily, as narrow as it was deep. Petit-Pierre
made no movement. Bonneville took him in his arms
and laid him on the dry leaves, calling, entreating, even
shaking him.
Petit-Pierre continued silent and motionless. The count
tore his hair in his anguish.
" Oh, it is my fault ! my fault ! " he cried. " O God,
you have punished my pride ! I counted too much on
myself; I thought I could save her. Oh, my life, — take
my life, God ! for one sigh, one breath — "
The cool night air did more to bring Petit-Pierre to life
than all Bonneville's lamentations; at the end of a few
minutes he opened his eyes and sneezed.
Bonneville, who, in his paroxysm of grief, swore not to
survive the being whose death he thought he had caused,
gave a cry of joy and fell on his knees by Petit-Pierre,
who was now sufficiently recovered to understand his last
words.
"Bonneville," said Petit-Pierre, "you didn't say ' God
bless you ! ' when I sneezed, and now I shall have a cold
in my head."
" Living ! living ! living ! " cried Bonneville, as exuberant
in his joy as he was in his grief.
"Yes, living enough, thanks to you. If you were any
other than you are, I would swear to you never to forget
it."
" You are soaked ! "
"Yes, my shoes especially, Bonneville. The water
keeps running down, running down in a most disagreeable
manner."
" And no fire ! no means to make one ! "
vol. I. — 23
354 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Pooh ! we shall get warm in walking. I speak in the
plural, for you must be as wet as I am; in fact, it 's your
third bath, — one was of mud."
" Oh, don't think of me ! Can you walk? "
"I believe so, as soon as I empty my shoes."
Bonneville helped Petit-Pierre to get rid of the water
which filled her shoes. Then he took off his own thick
jacket, and having wrung the water from it, he put it over
her shoulders, saying : —
" Now for Benaste, and fast, too ! "
"Ha! Bonneville," exclaimed Petit-Pierre; "a fine gain
we have made by trying to avoid that camp-fire which
would be everything to us just now ! "
"We can't go back and deliver ourselves up," said
Bonneville, with a look of despair.
" Nonsense ! don't take my little joke as a reproach.
What an ill-regulated mind you have ! Come, let us
march, march ! Now that I use my legs I feel I am drying
up; in ten minutes I shall begin to perspire."
There was no need to hasten Bonneville. He advanced
so rapidly that Petit-Pierre could barely keep up with
him ; and from time to time she was forced to remind him
that her legs were not as long as his.
But Bonneville could not recover from the shock of
emotion caused by the accident to his young companion,
and he now completely lost his head on discovering that,
among these bushes he once knew so well, he had missed his
way. A dozen times he had stopped as he entered a " line "
path and looked about him, and each time, after shaking
his head, he plunged onward in a sort of frenzy.
At last Petit-Pierre, who could scarcely keep up with
him, except by running, said, as she noticed his increasing
agitation : —
"Tell me what is the matter, dear count."
"The matter is that I am a wretched man," said Bonne-
ville. "I relied too much on my knowledge of these
localities, and — and — "
PETIT-PIERRE MAKES A GOOD MEAL. 355
"We have lost our way? "
"I fear so."
"And I am sure of it. See, here is a branch I remem-
ber breaking when we passed here just now ; we are turn-
ing in a circle. You see how I profit by your lessons,
Bonneville," added Petit-Pierre, triumphantly.
"Ah!" said Bonneville; "I see what set me wrong."
"What was it?"
" When we left the water I landed on the side we had
just left, and in my agitation at your accident, I did not
notice the mistake."
" So that our plunge bath was absolutely useless ! " cried
Petit-Pierre, laughing heartily.
"Oh! for God's sake, Madame, don't laugh like that;
your gayety cuts me to the heart."
"Well, it warms me."
"Then you are cold? "
"A little; but that 's not the worst."
" What is worse? "
" Why, for half an hour you have not dared to tell me
we are lost, and for half an hour I 've not dared to tell
you that my legs seem to be giving way and refusing to do
their duty."
"Then what is to become of us? "
" Well, well ! am I to play your part as man and give
you courage? So be it. The council is open; what is
your opinion? "
"That we cannot reach Benaste to-night."
"Next?"
"That we must try to get to the nearest farm-house
before daylight."
"Very good," said Petit-Pierre. "Have you any idea
of where we are? "
" No stars in the sky, no moon — "
"And no compass," added Petit-Pierre, laughing, and
trying by a joke to revive her companion's nerve.
"Wait."
356 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Ah ! you have an idea, I 'm sure ! "
"I happened to notice the vane on the castle just at
dusk; the wind was east."
Bonneville wet his finger in his mouth and held it up.
"What's that for?"
" A weathercock. There's the north," he said, unhesi-
tatingly; "if we walk in the teeth of the wind we shall
come out on the plain near Saint-Philbert."
"Yes, by walking; but that's the difficulty."
" Will you let me carry you in my arms? "
"You have enough to carry in yourself, my poor
Bonneville."
The duchess rose with an effort, for during the last few
moments she had seated herself, or rather let herself drop,
at the foot of a tree.
"There !" she said; "now I am on my feet, and I mean
that these rebellious legs shall carry me. I will conquer
them as I would all rebels; that 'a what I 'm here for."
And the brave woman made four or five steps; but her
fatigue was so great, her limbs so stiffened by the icy
bath she had taken, that she staggered and came near
falling. Bonneville sprang to support her.
"Heart of God!" she cried; "let me alone, Monsieur
de Bonneville. I will put this miserable body that God
has made so frail and delicate on the level of the soul it
covers. Don't give it any help, count; don't support it.
Ha ! you stagger, do you? ha ! you are giving way? Well,
if you won't march at the common step you shall be made to
charge, and we '11 see if in a week you are not as submis-
sive to my will as a beast of burden."
So saying, and joining the action to the word, Petit-
Pierre started forward at such a pace that her guide had
some difficulty in overtaking her. But the last effort
exhausted her; and when Bonneville did rejoin her, she
was once more seated, with her face hidden in her two
hands. Petit-Pierre was weeping, — weeping with anger
rather than pain.
PETIT-PIERRE MAKES A GOOD MEAL. 357
"0 God ! " she muttered; "you have set me the task of
a giant, but you have given me only the strength of a
woman."
Willing or not, Bonneville took Petit-Pierre in his arms
and hurried along. The words that Gaspard had said to
him as they left the vaults rang in his ears. He felt that
so delicate a body could not bear up any longer under
these violent shocks, and he resolved to spend his last
strength in putting the treasure confided to him in a place
of safety. He kuew now that a few moments wasted
might mean death to his companion.
For over fifteen minutes the brave man kept on rapidly.
His hat fell off, but no longer caring for the trail he left
behind him, the count did not stop to pick it up. He felt
the body of the duchess shuddering with cold in his arms,
he heard her teeth chattering; and the sound spurred him
as the applause of a crowd spurs a race-horse, and gave
him superhuman energy.
But, little by little, this fictitious strength gave way.
Bonneville's legs would only obey him mechanically; the
blood seemed to settle on his chest and choked him. He
felt his heart swell; he could not breathe; his breath
rattled; a cold sweat poured from his brow; his arteries
throbbed as if his head must burst. From time to time a
thick cloud covered his eyes, marbled with flame. Soon
he staggered at every slope, stumbled at every stone; his
failing knees, powerless to straighten themselves, could
only go forward by a mighty effort.
"Stop ! stop ! Monsieur de Bonneville," cried Petit-
Pierre ; " stop, I command you ! "
"No, I will not stop," replied Bonneville. "I have still
some strength, thank God ! and I shall use it to the end.
Stop? stop? when we are almost into port? when at the
cost of a little further effort I shall put you in safety?
There ! see that ; look there ! "
And as he spoke they saw at the end of the path they
were following a broad band of ruddy li&ht which rose
358 THE LAST VENDÉE.
above the horizon; and on that glow a black and angular
shape stood out distinctly, indicating a house. Day was
dawning. They had now reached the end of the wood and
were at the edge of fields.
But just as Bonneville gave that cry of joy, his legs
bent under him; he fell to his knees. Then, with a last
supreme effort, he cast himself gently backward as if at
the moment when his consciousness left him he meant to
spare his precious burden from the dangers of a fall.
Petit-Pierre released herself from his grasp and stood at
his feet, but so feebly that she seemed scarcely stronger
than her companion. She tried to raise the count, but
could not do it. Bonneville, for his part, put his hands
to his mouth, — no doubt to give the owl's cry of the
Chouans; but his breath failed him, and he scarcely
uttered the words, "Don't forget — " before he fainted
entirely.
The house they had seen was not more than seven or
eight hundred steps from the place where Bonneville had
fallen. Petit-Pierre determined to go there and ask at all
risks for assistance to her friend. Making a supreme effort
she started in that direction. Just as she passed a cross-
way Petit-Pierre saw a man on one of the paths that led
to it. She called to him, but he did not turn his head.
Then Petit-Pierre, either by a sudden inspiration or
because she gave that meaning to Bonneville's last words,
utilized a lesson the count had taught her. Putting her
hands to her mouth she uttered, as best she could, the cry
of the screech-owl.
The man stopped instantly, turned back, and came to
Petit-Pierre.
"My friend," she cried, as soon as he came within reach
of her voice, "if you need gold, I will give it to you; but,
for God's sake, come and help me save an unfortunate man
who is dying."
Then, with all her remaining strength, and seeing that
the man was following her, Petit-Pierre hurried back to
PETIT-PIERRE MAKES A GOOD MEAL. 359
Bonneville and raised his head by an effort. The count
was still unconscious.
As soon as the new-comer reached them and glanced at
the prostrate man, he said : —
" You need not offer me gold to induce me to help Mon-
sieur le Comte de Bonneville."
Petit-Pierre looked at the man attentively.
"Jean Oullier ! " she cried, recognizing the Marquis de
Souday's keeper in the dawning light, — • " Jean Oullier,
can you find a safe refuge for my friend and for me close
by?"
"There is no house but this within a mile or two," he
said.
He spoke of it with repugnance, but Petit-Pierre either
did not or would not notice the tone.
"You must guide me and carry him."
" Down there ? " cried Jean Oullier.
"Yes; are not they royalists? — the persons who live in
that house, I mean."
"I don't know yet," said Jean Oullier.
"Go on; I put our lives in your hands, Jean Oullier,
and I know that you deserve my utmost confidence."
Jean Oullier took Bonneville, still unconscious, on his
shoulders, and led Petit-Pierre by the hand. He walked
toward the house, which was that belonging to Joseph
Picaut and his sister-in-law, the widow of Pascal.
Jean Oullier mounted the hedge-bank as easily as though
he were only carrying a game-bag, instead of the body of
a man. Once in the orchard, however, he advanced cau-
tiously. Every one was still sleeping in Joseph's part of
the house; but it was not so in the widow's room. In the
gleam from the windows a shadow could be seen passing
to and fro behind the curtains.
Jean Oullier seemed now to decide between two courses.
"Faith ! weighing one against the other," he muttered
to himself, "I like it as well this way."
And he walked resolutely to that part of the house which
360 THE LAST VENDÉE.
belonged to Pascal. When he reached the door he opened
it. Pascal's body lay on the bed. The widow had lighted
two candles, and was praying beside the dead. Hearing
the door open, she rose and turned round.
"Widow Pascal," said Jean Oullier, without releasing
his burden or the hand of Petit-Pierre, " I saved your life
to-night at the Viette des Biques."
Marianne looked at him in astonishment, as if trying to
recall her recollections.
" Don't you believe me? "
"Yes, Jean Oullier, I believe you; I know you are not a
man to tell a lie, were it even to save your life. Besides, I
heard the shot and I suspected whose hand fired it."
"Widow Pascal, will you avenge your husband and
make your fortune at one stroke? I bring you the means."
"How?"
" Here," continued Jean Oullier, " are Madame la Duchesse
de Berry and Monsieur le Comte de Bonneville, who might
have died, perhaps, of hunger and fatigue, if I had not
come, as I have, to ask you to shelter them; here they
are."
The widow looked at all three in stupefaction, yet with
a visible interest.
"This head, which you see here," continued Jean Oullier r
" is worth its weight in gold. You can deliver it up if you
so please, and, as I told you, avenge your husband and
make your fortune by that act."
"Jean Oullier," replied the widow, in a grave voice*-
" God commands us to do charity to all, whether great or
small. Two unfortunate persons have come to my door;
I shall not repulse them. Two exiles ask me to shelter
them, and my house shall crumble about my ears before I
betray them." Then, with a simple gesture, to which her
action gave a splendid grandeur, she added : —
"Enter, Jean Oullier; enter fearlessly, — you, and those
who are with you."
They entered. While Petit Pierre was helping Jean
PETIT-PIERRE MAKES A GOOD MEAL. 361
Oullier to place the count in a chair, the old keeper said to
her in a low voice : —
"Madame, put back your own fair hair behind your wig;
it made me guess the truth I have told this woman, but
others ought not to see it."
362 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XL.
EQUALITY IN DEATH.
The same day, about two in the afternoon, Courtin left La
Logerie to go to Machecoul under pretence of buying a
draught-ox, but in reality to get news of the events of the
night, — events in which the municipal functionary had a
special interest, as our readers will fully understand.
When he reached the ford at Pont-Farcy, he found some
men lifting the body of Tinguy's son, and around them
several women and children, who were gazing at the dead
body with the curiosity natural to their sex and years.
When the mayor of La Logerie, stimulating his pony by a
stick with a leathern thong, which he carried in his hand,
made it enter the river, all eyes were turned upon him,
and the conversation ceased as if by magic, though up to
that moment it had been very eager and animated.
"Well, what's going on, gars?" asked Courtin, making
his animal cross the river diagonally so as to reach land
precisely opposite to the group.
"A death," replied one of the men, with the laconic
brevity of a Vendéan peasant.
Courtin looked at the corpse and saw that it wore a
uniform.
"Luckily," he said, "it isn't any one who belongs about
here."
"You're mistaken. Monsieur Courtin," replied the
gloomy voice of a man in a brown jacket.
The title of monsieur thus given to him, and given, too,
with a certain emphasis, was in no wise flattering to the
farmer of La Logerie. Under the circumstances and in the
EQUALITY IN DEATH. 363
phase of public feeling La Vendée had just entered, he
knew that this title of monsieur, in the- mouth of a peas-
ant, when it was not given as a testimony of respect, meant
either an insult or a threat, — two things which affected
Courtin quite differently.
In short, the mayor of La Logerie did himself the justice
not to take the title thus bestowed upon him as a mark of
consideration, and he therefore resolved to be prudent.
"And yet I think," he said, in a mild and gentle voice,
"that he wears a chasseur's uniform."
" Pooh ! uniform ! " retorted the same peasant ; " as if
you did n't know that the man-hunt" (this was the name
the Vendéan peasantry gave to the conscription) "doesn't
respect our sons and brothers more than it does those of
others. It seems to me you ought to know that, mayor as
you are."
Again there was silence, — a silence so oppressive to
Courtin that he once more interrupted it. "Does any one
know the name of the poor gars who has perished so unfor-
tunately? " he asked, making immense but fruitless efforts
to force à tear to his eye.
No one answered. The silence became more and more
significant.
"Does any one know if there were other victims? Was
any one killed among our own gars ? I hear a number of
shots were fired."
"As for other victims," said the same peasant, "I know
as yet of only one, — this one here; though perhaps it is a
sin to talk of such victims beside a Christian corpse."
As he spoke the peasant turned aside and, fixing his eyes
on Courtin, he pointed with his finger to the body of Jean
Oullier's dog, lying on the bank, partly in the water which
flowed over it. Maître Courtin turned pale ; he coughed,
as if an invisible hand had clutched his throat.
" What 's that ? " he said ; " a dog ? Ha ! if we had only
to mourn for that kind of victim our tears would be few."
"Nay, nay," said the man in the brown jacket; "the
364 THE LAST VENDÉE.
blood of a dog must be paid for, Maître Courtin, like
everything else. I 'm certain that the master of poor
Pataud won't forget the man who shot his dog, coming out
of Montaigu, with leaden wolf-balls, three of which entered
his body."
As he finished speaking the man, apparently thinking
he had exchanged words enough with Courtin, did not wait
for any answer, but turned on his heel, passed up a bank,
and disappeared behind its hedge. As for the other men,
they resumed their march with the body. The women and
children followed behind tumultuously, praying aloud.
Courtin was left alone.
" Bah ! " he said to himself, jabbing his pony with his
one spur ; " before I pay for what Jean Oullier lays to my
account, he '11 have to escape the clutches which, thanks
to me, are on him at this moment, — it won't be easy,
though, of course, it is possible."
Maître Courtin continued his way; but his curiosity
was greater than ever, and he felt he could not wait
till the amble of his steed took him to Machecoul before
satisfying it.
He happened at this moment to be passing the cross of
La Bertaudière, near which the road leading to the house
of the Picauts joined the main road. He thought of
Pascal, who could tell him the news better than any one,
as he had sent him to guide the troops the night before.
" What a jackass I am ! " he cried, speaking to himself.
" It will only take me half an hour out of my way, and I
can hear the truth from a mouth that won't lie to me.
I '11 go to Pascal; he '11 tell me the result of the trick."
Maître Courtin turned, therefore, to the right; and five
minutes later he crossed the little orchard and made his
entrance over a heap of manure into the courtyard of
Pascal's dwelling.
Joseph, sitting on a horse-collar, was smoking his pipe
before the door of his half of the house. Seeing who his
visitor was he did not think it worth while to disturb him-
EQUALITY IN DEATH. 365
self. Courtin, who had an admirably keen faculty for
seeing all without appearing to notice anything, fastened
his pony to one of the iron rings that were screwed into
the wall. Then, turning to Joseph, he said : —
" Is your brother at home ? "
"Yes, he is still there," replied Picaut, dwelling on the
word still in a manner that seemed a little strange to the
mayor of La Logerie ; " do you want him again to-day to
guide the red-breeches to Souday?"
Courtin bit his lips and made no reply to Joseph, while
to himself he said, as he knocked at the door of the
other Picaut : —
"How came that fool of a Pascal to tell his rascally
brother it was I who sent him on that errand ? Upon my
soul, one can't do anything in these parts without every-
body gabbling about it within twenty- four hours ! "
Courtin's monologue hindered him from noticing that
his knock was not immediately answered, and that the
door, contrary to the trustful habits of the peasantry, was
bolted.
At last, however, the door opened, and when Courtin's
eyes fell upon the scene before him he was so unpre-
pared for what he saw that he actually recoiled from the
threshold.
" Who is dead here ? " he asked.
" Look ! " replied the widow, without leaving her seat in
the ehimney-corner, which she had resumed after opening
the door.
Courtin turned his eyes again to the bed, and though he
could see beneath the sheet only the outline of a man's
form, he guessed the truth.
"Pascal ! " he cried; " is it Pascal ?"
"I thought you knew it," said the widow.
"I ?"
"Yes, you, —you, who are the chief cause of his death."
"I ? — T ? " replied Courtin, remembering what Joseph
had just said to him, and feeling it all-important for his
366 THE LAST VENDÉE.
own safety to deny his share in the matter. "I swear to
you, on the word of an honest man, that I have not seen
your husband for over a week."
"Don't swear," replied the widow. "Pascal never
swore; neither did he lie."
" But who told you that I had seen him ? " persisted
Courtin. " It is too bad to blame me for nothing ! "
"Don't lie in presence of the dead, Monsieur Courtin,"
said Marianne; "it will bring down evil upon you."
"I am not lying," stammered the man.
"Pascal left this house to meet you; you engaged him
as guide for the soldiers."
Courtin made a movement of denial.
"Oh ! I don't blame you for that," continued the widow,
looking at a peasant-girl, about twenty-five to thirty years
of age, who was winding her distaff in the opposite corner
of the fireplace ; " it was his duty to give assistance to
those who want to prevent our country from being torn by
civil war."
"That's my object, my sole object," replied Courtin,
lowering his voice, so that the young peasant-woman hardly
heard him. " I wish the government would rid us once for
all of these fomenters of trouble, — these nobles who crush
us with their wealth in peace, and massacre us when it
comes to war. I am doing my best for this end, Mistress
Picaut; but I daren't boast of it, you see, because you
never know what the people about here may do to you."
"Why should you complain if they strike you from
behind, when you hide yourself in striking them ? " said
Marianne, with a look of the deepest contempt.
"Damn it ! one does as one dares, Mistress Picaut,"
replied Courtin, with some embarrassment. "It is not
given to all the world to be brave and bold like your poor
husband. But we '11 revenge him, that good Pascal ! we '11
revenge him. I swear it to you ! "
"Thank you; but I don't want you to meddle in that,
Monsieur Courtin," said the widow, in a voice that seemed
EQUALITY IN DEATH. 3Ô7
almost threatening, so hard and bitter was it. "Yon have
meddled too much already in the affairs of this poor house-
hold. Spend your good offices on others in future."
"As you please, Mistress Picaut. Alas ! T loved your
good husband so truly that 1 '11 do anything I can to please
you." Then, suddenly turning toward the young peasant-
woman, whom he had seemed not to notice up to that time,
"Who is this young woman ?" he said.
"A cousin of mine, who came this morning from Port-
Saint-Père, to help me in paying the last duties to my poor
Pascal, and to keep me company."
"From Port-Saint-Père this morning! Ha, ha ! Mistress
Picaut, she must be a good walker, if she did that distance
so quickly."
The poor widow, unused to lying, having never in her
life had occasion to lie, lied badly. She bit her lips, and
gave Courtin an angry look, which, happily, he did not
see, being occupied at the moment in a close examination
of a peasant's costume which was drying before the fire.
The two articles which seemed to attract him most were a
pair of shoes and a shirt. The shoes, though iron-nailed
and made of common leather, were of a shape not common
among cottagers, and the shirt was of the finest linen
cambric.
" Soft stuff ! soft stuff ! " he muttered, rubbing the deli-
cate tissue between his fingers; "it 's my opinion it won't
scratch the skin of whoever wears it."
The young peasant-woman now thought it time to come
to the help of the widow, who seemed on thorns and whose
forehead was clouding over in a visibly threatening way.
"Yes," she said; "those are some old clothes I bought
of a dealer in Nantes, to make over for my little nephew."
"And you washed them before sewing them? Faith,
you're right, my girl ! for," added Courtin, looking fixedly
at her, " no one knows who has worn the garments of those
old-clothes dealers, — it may have been a prince, or it may
have been a leper."
368 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Maître Courtin," interrupted Marianne, who seemed
annoyed by the conversation, "your pony is getting
restless."
Courtin listened.
"If I didn't hear your brother-in-law walking in the
garret overhead I should think he was teasing it, the ill-
natured fellow ! "
At this new proof of the essentially detective nature of
the mayor of La Logerie, the young peasant-woman turned
pale; and her paleness increased when she heard Courtin,
who rose to look after his pony through the casement,
mutter, as if to himself: —
" Why, no ; there he is, that fellow ! He is tickling my
horse with the end of his whip." Then, returning to the
widow, he said, "Who have you got up in your garret,
mistress ?"
The young woman was about to answer that Joseph had a
wife and children, and that the garret was common to all;
but the widow did not give her time to begin the sentence.
"Maître Courtin," she said, standing up, "are not your
questions coming to an end soon ? I hate spies, I warn
you, whether they are white or red."
"Since when is a friendly talk among friends called
spying? Whew ! you have grown very suspicious, all of
a sudden."
The eyes of the younger woman entreated the widow to
be more cautious; but her impetuous hostess could no
longer contain herself.
" Among friends ! friends, indeed ! " she said. " Find
your friends among your fellows, — I mean among cowards
and traitors; and know, once for all, that the widow of
Pascal Picaut is not among them. Go, and leave me to
my grief, which you have disturbed too long."
"Yes, yes," said Courtin, with an admirably played
good-humor; "my presence must be unpleasant to you. I
ought to have thought of that before, and I beg your par-
don for not having done so. You are determined to see in
EQUALITY IN DEATH. 369
me the cause of your husband's death, and that grieves
me; oh! it grieves me, Mistress Picaut, for I loved him
heartily and wouldn't have harmed him for the world.
But, since you feel as you do, and drive me out of your
house, I'll go, I'll go; don't take on like that."
Just then the widow, who seemed more and more dis-
turbed, glanced rapidly at the younger woman and showed
her by that glance the bread-box, which stood beside the
door. On that box was a pocket-inkstand, which had, no
doubt, been used to write the order Jean Oullier had taken
in the morning to the Marquis de Souday. This inkstand
was of green morocco, and with it lay a sort of tube, con-
taining all that was necessary for writing a letter. As
Courtin went to the door he could not fail to see the ink-
stand and a few scattered papers that lay beside it.
The young woman understood the sign and saw the dan-
ger; and before the mayor of La Logerie turned round she
had passed, light as a fawn, behind him, and seated her-
self on the bread-box, so as to hide the unlucky implement
completely. Courtin seemed to pay no attention to this
manoeuvre.
"Well, good-bye to you, Mistress Picaut," he said. "I
have lost a comrade in your husband whom I greatly
valued; you doubt that, but time will prove it to you."
The widow did not answer; she had said to Courtin all
she had to say, and she now seemed to take no notice of
him. Motionless, with crossed arms, she was gazing at
the corpse, whose rigid form was defined under the sheet
that covered it.
"Ho! so you are there, my pretty girl," said Courtin,
stopping before the younger woman.
"It was too hot near the fire."
"Take good care of your cousin, my girl," continued
Courtin; "this death has made her a wild beast. She is
almost as savage as the she-wolves of Machecoul ! Well,
spin away, my dear; though you may twist your spindle
or turn your wheel as best you can, and you '11 never weave
vol i. — 24
370 THE LAST VENDÉE.
such fine linen as you've got there in that shirt." Then
he left the room and shut the door, muttering, "Fine
linen, very fine ! "
" Quick ! quick ! hide all those things ! " cried the widow.
"He has gone out only to come back."
Quick as thought the young woman pushed the inkstand
between the box and the wall; but rapid as the movement
was, it was still too late. The upper half of the door was
suddenly opened, and Courtin's head appeared above the
lower.
"I 've startled you; beg pardon," said Courtin. "I did
it from a good motive ; I want to know when the funeral
takes place."
" To-morrow, I think, " said the young woman.
" Will you go away, you villanous rascal ! " cried the
widow, springing toward him, and brandishing the heavy
tongs with which she moved the logs in her great fireplace.
Courtin, thoroughly frightened, withdrew. Mistress
Picaut, as Courtin called her, closed the upper shutter
violently.
The mayor of La Logerie unfastened his pony, picked
up a handful of straw, and cleaned off the saddle, which
Joseph, maliciously and out of hatred, — a hatred which
he inculcated to his children against the "curs," — had
smeared with cows' dung from pommel to crupper. Then,
without complaining or retaliating, as if the accident he
had just remedied was a perfectly natural one, he mounted
his steed with an indifferent air, and even stopped on his
way through the orchard to see if the apples were properly
setting, with the eye of a connoisseur. But no sooner had
he reached the cross of La Bertaudière and turned his
horse into the high-road toward Machecoul than he seized
his stick by the thick end, and using the leather thong on
one flank, and digging his single spur persistently and
furiously into the other flank of his beast, he contrived to
make that animal take a gait of which it looked utterly
incapable.
EQUALITY IN DEATH. 371
" There, he 's gone at last ! " said the younger peasant-
woman, who had watched his movements from the window.
" Yes; but that may be none the better for you, Madame,"
said the widow.
" What do you mean ? "
"Oh ! I know what I mean."
" Do you think he has gone to denounce us ? "
"He is thought to be capable of it. I know nothing
personally, for I don't concern myself in such gossip; but
his evil face has always led me to think that even the
Whites didn't do him injustice."
"You are right," said the young woman, who began to
be uneasy; "his face is one that could never inspire
confidence."
" Ah ! Madame, why did you not keep Jean Oullier near
you?" said the widow. "There's an honest man, and a
faithful one."
"I had orders to send to the château de Souday. He is
to come back this evening with horses so that we may
leave your house as soon as possible, for I know we increase
your sorrow and add to your cares."
The widow did not answer. With her face hidden in
her hands, she was weeping.
" Poor woman ! " murmured the duchess ; " your tears fall
drop by drop upon my heart, where each leaves a painful
furrow. Alas ! this is the terrible, the inevitable result of
revolutions. It is on the head of those who make them that
the curse of all this blood and all these tears must fall."
" May it not rather fall, if God is just, on the heads of
those who cause them ? " said the widow, in a deep and
muffled voice, which made her hearer quiver.
" Do you hate us so bitterly ? " asked the latter, sadly.
"Yes, I hate you," said the widow. "How can you
expect me to love you ? "
"Alas ! I understand; yes, your husband's death — "
"No, you do not understand," said Marianne, shaking
her head.
372 THE LAST VENDÉE.
The younger woman made a sign as if to say, " Explain
yourself. "
"No," said the widow, "it is not because the man who
for fifteen years has been my all in life will be to-morrow
in his bed of earth; it is not because when I was a child I
witnessed the massacres of Lege, and saw my dear ones
killed beneath your banner, and felt their blood spattering
my face; it is not because for ten whole years those who
fought for your ancestors persecuted mine, burned their
houses, ravaged their fields, — no, I repeat, it is not for
that, nor all that, that I hate you."
" Then why is it ? "
"Because it seems to me an impious thing that a family,
a race, should claim the place of God, our only master here
below, — the master of us all, such as we are, great and
small ; impious to declare that we are born the slaves of
that family, to suppose that a people it has tortured have
not the right to turn upon their bed of suffering unless
they first obtain permission ! You belong to that selfish
family; you have come of that tyrant race. It is for that
I hate you."
''And yet you have given me shelter; you have laid
aside your grief to lavish care not only upon me, but also
upon him who accompanies me. You have taken your
own clothes to cover me; you have given him the clothes
of your poor dead husband, for whom I pray here below,
and who, I hope, will pray for me in heaven."
"All that will not hinder me, after you have once left
my house, after I have fulfilled my duty of hospitality, —
all that will not prevent me from praying ardently that
those who are pursuing you may capture you."
" Then why not deliver me up to them, if such are really
your feelings ? "
"Because those feelings are less powerful than my
respect for misfortune, my reverence for an oath, my wor-
ship of hospitality; because I have sworn that you shall
be saved this day ; and also because, perhaps, I hope that
EQUALITY IN DEATH. 373
what you have seen here may be a lesson not wholly lost
upon you, — a lesson that may disgust you with your pro-
jects. For you are humane; you are good. I see it ! "
"What should make me renounce projects for which I
have lived these eighteen months?"
"This ! " said the widow.
And with a rapid, sudden movement, like all she made,
she pulled away the sheet that covered the dead, disclosing
the livid face and the ghastly wound surrounded by purple
blotches.
The younger woman turned aside. In spite of her firm-
ness, of which she had given so many proofs, she could
not bear that dreadful sight.
"Reflect, Madame," continued the widow; "reflect that
before what you are attempting can be accomplished, many
and many a poor man, whose only crime is to have loved
you well, — many fathers, many sons, many brothers, —
will be, like this one, lying dead. Reflect that many
widows, many sisters, many orphans will be weeping and
mourning, as I do, for him who was all their love and all
their stay ! "
" My God ! my God ! " exclaimed the princess, bursting
into tears, as she fell on her knees and raised her arms to
heaven ; " if we are mistaken, — if we must render an
account to thee for all these hearts we are about to
break — "
Her voice, drowned in tears, died away in a moan.
374 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XLI.
THE SEARCH.
A knock was heard on the trap-door leading to the garret.
"What is the matter ?" cried Bonneville's voice.
He had heard a few words of what had passed, and
became uneasy.
"Nothing, nothing," said the young woman, pressing
the hand of her hostess with an affectionate strength that
showed the impression the poor widow's words had made
upon her. Then, giving another tone to her voice, she
cried out cheerfully, going a few steps up the ladder to
speak more easily, " And you — ?"
The trap-door opened, and the smiling face of Bonneville
looked down.
" How are you getting on ? " said the peasant- woman,
ending her sentence.
"All ready to do it over again, if your service requires
it," he replied.
She thanked him by a smile.
" Who was it came here just now ? " asked Bonneville.
" A peasant named Courtin, who did n't seem to be one
of our friends."
" Ah, ha ! the mayor of La Logerie ? "
"That's the man."
"I know him," continued Bonneville; "Michel told me
about him. He is a dangerous man. You ought to have
had him followed."
"By whom ? There is no one here."
"By Joseph Picaut."
THE SEARCH. 375
"You know our brave Jean Oullier's repugnance to
him."
''And yet he 's a White," cried the widow, — "a White,
who stood by and let them kill his brother."
The duchess and Bonneville both gave a start of horror.
"Then it is far better we should not mix him in our
affairs," said Bonneville. " He would bring a curse with
him. But have you no one we could put as sentry near
the house, Madame Picaut ? "
"Jean Oullier has provided some one, and I have sent
my nephew on to the moor of Saint-Pierre; he can see
over the whole country from there."
"But he is only a child," said the pretended peasant-
woman.
"Safer than certain men," said the widow.
"After all," remarked Bonneville, "we haven't long to
wait; it will be dark in three hours, and then our friends
will be here with horses."
" Three hours ! " said the young woman, whose mind
had been painfully pre-occupied ever since her talk with
the widow. "Many things may happen in three hours,
my poor Bonneville."
"Some one is running in," cried Marianne Picaut, rush-
ing from the window to the door, which she opened quickly.
" Is it you, nephew ? "
"Yes, aunt; yes ! " cried the boy, out of breath.
"What is it?"
" Oh, aunt ! aunt ! the soldiers ! They are coming up ;
they surprised and killed the man who was on the watch."
" The soldiers ? " cried Joseph Picaut, who from his
own door heard the cry of his boy.
" What can we do ? " asked Bonneville.
"Wait for them," said the young peasant-woman.
" Why not attempt to escape ? "
"If Courtin, the man who was here just now, sends
them or brings them, they have surrounded the house."
"Who talks of escaping?" asked the Widow Picaut.
376 THE LAST VENDÉE.
''Did I not say that this house was safe? Have I not
sworn that so long as you are within it no harm should
happen to you ? "
Here the scene was complicated by the entrance of
another person. Thinking, probably, that the soldiers
were coming after him, Joseph Picaut appeared on the
threshold of the widow's door. The house of his sister-
in-law, who was known to be a Blue, may have seemed to
him a safe asylum. Perceiving the widow's guests, he
started back in surprise.
"Ha ! so you have White gentlefolk here, have you?
I see now why the soldiers are coming; you have sold
your guests."
"Wretch!" cried Marianne, seizing her husband's sabre,
which hung over the fireplace, and springing at Joseph,
who raised his gun and aimed at her.
Bonneville sprang down the ladder; but the young peas-
ant-woman had already flung herself between the brother
and sister, covering the widow with her body.
" Lower your gun ! " she cried to the Vendéan, in a tone
that seemed not to come from that frail and delicate body,
so male and energetic was it. " Lower your gun ! in the
king's name I command it ! "
" Who are you who speak thus to me ? " asked Joseph
Picaut, always ready to rebel against authority.
"I am she who is expected here, — who commands here."
At these words, said with supreme majesty, Joseph
Picaut, speechless, and as if bewildered, dropped his
weapon to the ground.
"Now," continued the young woman, "go up in the loft
with monsieur."
" But you ? " said Bonneville.
"I stay here."
"But — "
" There 's no time to argue. Go; go at once ! "
The two men mounted the ladder, and the trap-door
closed behind them.
THE SEARCH. 377
"What are you doing?" the young woman asked with
surprise, as the widow began to disarrange the bed on
which the body of her husband lay and to drag it from
the wall.
" I am preparing a hiding-place where no one will seek
you."
"But I don't mean to hide myself. No one will recog-
nize me in these clothes. I choose to await them as I am."
"And I choose that you shall not await them," said the
Widow Picaut, in so firm a tone that she silenced her
visitor. "You heard what that man said; if you are dis-
covered while in my house it will be thought that I sold
you, and I do not choose to run the risk of your being
discovered."
" You, my enemy ? "
"Yes, your enemy, who would lie down on this bed and
die if she saw you made prisoner."
There was no reply to make. The widow of Pascal
Picaut raised the mattress on which the body lay, and hid
the clothes and shirt and shoes, which had so awakened
Courtin's curiosity, beneath it. Then she pointed to a
place between the mattress and the straw bed, on the side
toward the wall, wide enough for a small person to lie,
and the young woman glided into it without resistance,
making for herself a breathing-space at the edge. Then
the widow pushed the bedstead back into its place.
Mistress Picaut had barely time to look carefully into
every corner of the room to make sure that nothing com-
promising to her guests was left about, when she heard
the click of arms, and the figure of an officer passed before
the casement.
"This must be the place," she heard him say, addressing
a companion who walked behind him.
" What do you want ? " asked the widow, opening the
door.
"You have strangers here; we wish to see them," replied
the officer.
378 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Ah, ça ! don't you recognize me? " interrupted Marianne
Picaut, avoiding a direct reply.
"Yes; of course, I recognize you. You are the woman
who served us as guide last night."
"Well, if I guided you in search of the enemies of the
government, it is n't likely I should be hiding them here
now, is it ? "
"That's logical enough, isn't it, captain?" said the
second officer.
"Bah ! one can't trust any of these people; they are
brigands from the breast," replied the lieutenant. " Did n't
you notice that boy, a little scamp not ten years old, who
in spite of our shouts and threats ran across the moor at
full speed? He was their sentinel; they have been warned.
Happily, they have not had time to escape ; they must be
hidden somewhere here."
"Possibly."
"Certainly." Then, turning to the widow, he said,
" We shall not do you any harm, but we must search the
house."
"As you please," she said, with perfect composure.
Seating herself quietly in the corner of the fireplace, she
took her shuttle and distaff, which she had left upon a
chair, and began to spin.
The lieutenant made a sign with his hand to five or six
soldiers, who now entered the room. Looking carefully
about him, he went up to the bed.
The widow grew paler than the flax on her shuttle. Her
eyes flamed; the distaff slipped from her fingers. The
officer looked under the bed, then along the sides of it,
and, finally, put out his hand to raise the sheet that
covered the body. Pascal's widow could contain herself
no longer. She rose, bounded to the corner of the room
where her husband's gun was leaning, resolutely cocked it,
and threatening the officer, exclaimed : —
"If you lay a hand on that body, so sure as I am an
honest woman, I will shoot you like a dog."
THE SEARCH. 379
The second lieutenant pulled away his comrade by the
arm. The Widow Picaut, without laying down the
weapon, approached the bed, and for the second time she
raised the sheet that covered the dead.
" See there ! " she said. " That man, who was my hus-
band, was killed yesterday in your service."
"Ah ! true; our first guide, — the one that was killed
at the ford of the river," said the lieutenant.
"Poor woman ! " said his companion; "let us leave her
in peace. It is a pity to torment her at such a time."
"And yet," replied the first officer, "the information of
the man we met was precise and circumstantial."
"We did wrong not to oblige him to come back with us."
"Have you any other room than this?" said the chief
officer to the widow.
"I have the loft above, and that stable over the way."
"Search the loft and the stable; but first, open all the
chests and closets, and look carefully in the oven."
The soldiers spread themselves through the house to
execute these orders. From her terrible hiding-place the
young woman heard every word of the conversation. She
also heard the steps of the soldiers as they mounted the
ladder to the loft, and she trembled with greater fear at
that sound than when the officer had attempted to remove
the death-sheet that concealed her, for she thought, with
terror, that Bonneville's hiding-place was far less safe
than her own.
When, therefore, she heard those who had gone to
search the loft coming down, without any sound of a strug-
gle or cry to show that the men were discovered, her heart
was lightened of a heavy load.
The first lieutenant was waiting in the lower room, and
was seated on the bread-box. The second officer was
directing the search of eight or ten of the soldiers in the
stable.
"Well," asked the first lieutenant, "have you found
anything ? "
380 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" No," said a corporal.
" Did you shake the straw, the hay, and everything ? "
"We prodded everywhere with our bayonets. If there
was a man hidden anywhere it is impossible he should have
escaped being stabbed."
"Very good; then we will go to the adjoining house.
These persons must be somewhere."
The men left the room, and the officer followed them.
While the soldiers continued their exploration the lieu-
tenant stood leaniug against the outer wall of the house,
looking suspiciously at a little pent-house he resolved to
search carefully. Suddenly a bit of plaster, no bigger
than a man's finger, fell at his feet. He raised his head
and fancied he saw a hand disappearing under the roof.
" Here ! " he cried to his men, in a voice of thunder.
The soldiers surrounded him.
" You are a pretty set of fellows ! " he said ; " you do
your business finely ! "
" What 's happened, lieutenant ? " asked the men.
" It has happened that the men are up there in the very
loft you pretend to have searched. Go up again, quick !
and don't leave a spear of straw unturned."
The soldiers re-entered the widow's house. They went
straight to the trap-door and tried to raise it; but this time
it resisted. It was fastened from above.
" Good ! now the matter is plain enough," said the
officer, putting his own foot upon the ladder. " Come,"
he cried, raising his voice to be heard in the loft, " out of
your lair, or we '11 fetch you."
The sound of a sharp discussion was heard ; it was evi-
dent that the besieged were not agreed as to their line of
action. This is what had happened with them : —
Bonneville and his companion, instead of hiding under
the thick hay, where the soldiers would, of course, chiefly
look for them, had slipped under a light pile of it, not
more than two feet deep, which lay close to the trap-door.
What they hoped for had happened; the soldiers almost
THE SEARCH. 381
walked over them, prodding the places where the hay lay
thicker, but neglecting to examine that part of the loft
where it seemed tu be only a carpet. The searching party
retired, as we have seen, without rinding those they were
looking for.
From their hiding-place, with their ears to the floor,
which was thin, Bonneville and the Vendean could hear
distinctly all that was said in the room below. Hearing
the officer give the order to search his house, Joseph Picaut
grew uneasy, for in it was a quantity of gunpowder, the
possession of which might get him into trouble. In spite
of his companion's remonstrances, he left his hiding-place
to watch the soldiers through the chinks left between the
wall and the roof of the loft. It was then that he knocked
off the fragment of plaster which fell near the officer and
re-awakened his attention; and it was Joseph's hand the
lieutenant had noticed, which he had rested against a
rafter, while leaning forward to look into the yard.
When Bonneville heard the officer's shout and knew that
he and his companion were discovered, he sprang to the
trap-door and fastened it, bitterly reproaching the Vendean
for the folly of his conduct. But reproaches were useless
now that they were discovered ; it was necessary to decide
on a course.
" You saw them, at any rate," said Bonneville.
"Yes," replied Joseph Picaut.
" How many are there ? "
" About thirty, I should say."
" Then resistance would be folly. Besides, they have
not discovered Madame, and our arrest would take them
away from here, and make her safety with your brave
sister-in-law more secure."
" Then your advice is ? " questioned Picaut.
"To surrender."
" Surrender ! " cried the Vendéan. " Never ! "
" Why not ? "
" Oh, I know what you are thinking of ! You are a gen-
382 THE LAST VENDÉE.
tlernan; you are rich. They '11 put you in a fine prison,
where you '11 have all your comforts. But me ! — they '11
send me to the galleys, where I 've already spent fourteen
years. No, no; I 'd rather lie in a bed of earth than a
convict's bed, — a grave rather than a cell."
"If a struggle compromised ourselves only," said Bonne-
ville, " I swear I would share your fate, and, like you,
they should not take me living; but it is the mother of our
king that we must save, and this is no moment to consult
our own likings."
"On the contrary, let us kill all we can; the fewer
enemies of Henri V. we leave alive, the better. Never will I
surrender, I tell you that ! " cried the Vendéan, putting his
foot on the trap-door, which Bonneville was about to raise.
"Oh," said the count, frowning, "you will obey me,
and without replying, I presume ! "
Picaut burst out laughing.
But in the midst of his threatening mirth, a blow from
Bonneville's fist sent him sprawling to the other end of
the loft. As he fell he dropped his gun; but in falling
he came against the loft window, which was closed by a
wooden shutter. A sudden idea struck him, — to let the
young man surrender, and profit by the diversion to escape
himself.
While, therefore, Bonneville opened the trap-door, he
himself undid the shutter, picked up his gun, and as the
count called down from the top of the ladder, " Don't fire;
we surrender ! " the Vendéan leaned forward, discharged
his gun into the group of soldiers, turned again, and
sprang with a prodigious bound from the loft to a heap of
manure in the garden; and after drawing the fire of one or
two soldiers stationed as sentinels, he reached the forest
and disappeared.
The shot from the loft brought down one man, danger-
ously wounded. But ten muskets were instantly pointed
on Bonneville; and before the mistress of the house could
fling herself forward and make a rampart with her body for
THE SEARCH. 383
him, as she tried to do, the unfortunate young man, pierced
by seven or eight balls, rolled down the ladder to the
widow's feet, crying out with his last breath: —
" Vive Henri V ! "
To this last cry from Bonneville came an echoing cry of
grief and of despair. The tumult that followed the explo-
sion and Bonneville's fall hindered the soldiers from
noticing this second cry, which came from Pascal Picaut's
bed, and seemed to issue from the breast of the corpse, as
it lay there, majestically calm and impassible amid the
horrors of this terrible scene.
The lieutenant saw, through the smoke, that the widow
was on her knees, with Bonneville's head, which she had
raised, pressed to her breast.
" Is he dead ? " he asked.
" Yes," said Marianne, in a voice choking with emotion.
"But you yourself, — you are wounded."
Great drops of blood were falling thick, and fast from
the widow's forehead upon Bonneville's breast.
"I?" she said.
"Yes; your blood is flowing."
" What matters my blood, if not a drop remains in him
for whom I could not die as I had sworn ? " she cried.
At this moment a soldier looked down through the trap-
door.
"Lieutenant," he said, "the other has escaped through
the loft; we fired at him and missed him."
" The other ! " cried the lieutenant ; " it is the other we
want ! " — supposing, very naturally, that the one who had
escaped was Petit-Pierre. " But unless he finds another
guide we are sure of him. After him, instantly ! " Then
reflecting, "But first, my good woman, get up," he con-
tinued. "You men, search that body."
The order was executed; but nothing was found in Bon-
neville's pocket, for the good reason that he was wearing
Pascal Picaut's clothes, which the widow had given him
while she dried his own.
384 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Xow," said Marianne Picaut, when the order was
obeyed, " he is really mine, is he not ? " and she stretched
her arm over the body of the young man.
" Yes ; do what you please with him. But thank God
that you were useful to us last night, or I should have sent
you to Nantes to be taught there what it costs to give aid
and comfort to rebels."
With these words, the lieutenant assembled his men and
marched quickly away in the direction the fugitive had
taken. As soon as they were well out of sight the widow
ran to the bed, and lifting the side of the mattress, she
drew out the body of the princess, who had swooned.
Ten minutes later Bonneville's body was laid beside
that of Pascal Picaut; and the two women, —the presump-
tive regent and the humble peasant, — kneeling beside the
bed, prayed together for these, the first two victims of the
last insurrection of La Vendée.
JEAN OULLIEE'S IDEAS OF BARON MICHEL. 385
XLII.
IN WHICH JEAN OULLIER, SPEAKS HIS MIND ABOUT YOUNG
BARON MICHEL.
While the melancholy events we have just related were
taking place in the house where Jean Oullier had left poor
Bonneville and his companion, all was excitement, move-
ment, joy, and tumult in the household of the Marquis de
Souday.
The old gentleman could hardly contain himself for joy.
He had reached the moment he had coveted so long ! He
now chose for his war-apparel the least shabby hunting-
clothes he could find in his wardrobe. Girt, in his quality
as corps-commander, with a white scarf (which his daugh-
ters had long since embroidered for him in anticipation of
this call to arms), with the bloody heart upon his breast,
and a rosary in his button-hole, — in short, the full-dress
insignia of a royalist chief on grand occasions, — he tried
the temper of his sabre on all the articles of furniture that
came in his way.
Also, from time to time, he exercised his voice to a
tone of command, by drilling Michel, and even the notary,
whom he insisted on enrolling into the number of his
recruits, but who, notwithstanding the violence of his
legitimist opinions, thought it judicious not to manifest,
them in a manner that was ultra-loyal.
Bertha, like her father, had put on a costume which she
intended to wear on such expeditions. This was com-
posed of a little overcoat of green velvet, open in front,
and showing a shirt-frill of dazzling whiteness; the coat
was trimmed with frogs and loops of black gimp, and it
vol. i. — 25
386 THE LAST VENDÉE.
fitted the figure closely. The dress was completed by
enormously wide trousers of gray cloth, which came down
to a pair of high huzzar boots reaching to the knee. The
young girl wore no scarf about her waist, the scarf being
considered among Vendéans as a sign of command; but she
was careful to wear the white emblem on her arm, held
there by a red ribbon.
This costume brought out the grace and suppleness of
Bertha's figure; and her gray felt hat, with its white
feathers, lent itself marvellously well to the manly char-
acter of her face. Seen thus, she was enchanting.
Although, by reason of her masculine ways, Bertha was
certainly not coquettish, she could not prevent herself, in
her present condition of mind or rather of heart, from
noticing with satisfaction the advantages her physical
gifts derived from this equipment. Perceiving, too, that
it produced a great impression upon Michel, she became as
exuberantly joyful as the marquis himself.
The truth is that Michel, whose mind had by this time
reached a certain enthusiasm for his new cause, did not
see without an admiration he gave himself no trouble to
conceal the proud carriage and chivalric bearing of Bertha
de Soiv.lay in her present dress. But this admiration, let
us hasten to remark, came chiefly from the thought of
what his beloved Mary's grace would be in such a cos-
tume, — for he did not doubt the sisters would make the
campaign together in the same uniform.
His eyes had, therefore, gently questioned Mary, as if
to ask her why she did not adorn herself like Bertha. But
Mary had shown such coldness, such reserve, since the
double scene in the turret chamber, she avoided so
obviously saying a word to him, that the natural timidity
of the young man increased, and he dared not risk more
than the appealing look we have referred to.
It was Bertha, therefore, and not Michel, who urged
Mary to make haste and put on her riding-dress. Mary
did not answer; her sad looks made a painful contrast to
JEAN OULLIEli's IDEAS OF BARON MICHEL. 387
the general gayety. She nevertheless obeyed Bertha's
behest and went up to her chamber. The costume she
intended to wear lay all ready on a chair; but instead of
putting out her hand to take it, she merely looked at the
garments with a pallid smile and seated herself on her
little bed, while the big tears rolled from her eyes and
down her cheeks.
Mary, who was religious and artless, had been thor-
oughly sincere and true in the impulse which led her to
her present rôle of sacrifice and self-abnegation through
devotion and tenderness to her sister; but it is none the
less true that she had counted too much on her strength to
sustain it. From the beginning of the struggle against
herself which she saw before her, she felt, not that her
resolution would fail, — her resolution would be ever the
same, — but that her confidence in the result of her efforts
was diminishing.
All the morning she kept saying to herself, " You ought
not, you must not love him ; " but the echo still came back,
" I love him, love him ! " At every step she made under
the empire of these feelings, Mary felt herself more and
more estranged from all that had hitherto made her joy
and life. The stir, the movement, the virile excitements,
which had hitherto amused her girlhood, now seemed to
her intolerable; political interests themselves were effaced
in presence of this deeper personal preoccupation which
superseded all others. All that could distract her heart
from the thoughts she longed to drive from her mind
escaped her like a covey of birds when she came near it.
She saw, distinctly, at every turn, how in this fatal
struggle she would be worsted, isolated, abandoned, with
no support except her own will, with no consolation other
than that which ought to come from her devotion itself;
and she wept bitter tears of grief as well as fear, of regret
as much as of apprehension. By her present suffering she
measured the anguish yet to come.
For about half an hour she sat there, sad, thoughtful,
388 THE LAST VENDEE.
and self-absorbed, tossing, with no power of escape, in the
maelstrom of her grief, and then she heard on the outside
of her door, which was partly open, the voice of Jean
Oullier, saying, in the peculiar tone he kept for the two
young girls, to whom he had made himself, as we have
seen, a second father : —
" What is the matter, my dear Mademoiselle Mary ? "
Mary shuddered, as though she were waking from a
dream; and she answered the honest peasant with a smile,
but also with embarrassment: —
" Matter, — with me ? Why, nothing, my dear Jean, I
assure you."
But Jean Oullier meanwhile had considered her atten-
tively. Coming nearer by several steps, and shaking his
head as he looked at her fixedly, he said, in a tone of
gentle and respectful scolding: —
"Why do you say that, little Mary ? Do you doubt my
friendship ? "
"I?_ I?» cried Mary.
"Yes; you must doubt it, since you try to deceive me."
Mary held out her hand. Jean Oullier took that slender
and delicate little hand between his two great ones, and
looked at the young girl sadly.
"Ah ! my sweet little Mary," he said, as if she were
still ten years old, " there is no rain without clouds, there
are no tears without grief. Do you remember when you
were a little child how you cried because Bertha threw your
shells into the well ? Well, that night, you know, Jean
Oullier tramped forty miles, and your pretty sea-baubles
were replaced the next day, and your pretty blue eyes were
all dry and shining."
"Yes, my kind Jean Oullier; yes, indeed, I remem-
ber it," said Mary, who just now felt a special need of
expression.
"Well," said Jean Oullier, "since then I've grown
old, but my tenderness for you has only deepened. Tell
me your trouble, Mary. If there is a remedy, I shall
JEAN OULLIER'S IDEAS OF BARON MICHEL. 389
find it j if there is none, my withered old eyes will weep
with yours."
Mary knew how difficult it would be to mislead the
clear-sighted solicitude of her old servant. She hesitated,
blushed, and then, without deciding to tell the cause of
her tears, she began to explain them.
"I am crying, my poor Jean," she replied, "because I
fear this war will cost me, perhaps, the lives of all I love.''
Mary, alas ! had learned to lie since the previous even-
ing. But Jean Oublier was not to be taken in with any
such answer, and shaking his head gently, he said : —
"No, little Mary; that's not the cause of your tears.
When old fellows like the marquis and I are caught by
the glamor and see nothing in the coming struggle but
victory, a young heart like yours does n't go out of its way
to predict reverses."
Mary would not admit herself beaten. "And yet, Jean,"
she said, taking one of the coaxing attitudes which she
knew by long practice were all-powerful over the will of
the worthy man, "I assure you it is so."
"No, no; it is not so, I tell you," persisted Jean
Oullier, still grave, and growing more and more anxious.
" What is it, then ? " demanded Mary.
"Ah !" said the old keeper; "do you want me to tell
you the cause of your tears ? Do you really want me to
tell you that ? "
"Yes, if you can."
"Well, your tears, —it is hard to say it, but I think it,
I do, — they are caused by that miserable little Monsieur
Michel; there !"
Mary turned as white as the curtains of her bed; all her
blood flowed back to her heart.
" What do you mean, Jean ? " she stammered.
"I mean to say that you have seen as well as I what is
going on, and that you don't like it any more than I do.
Only, I 'm a man, and I get in a rage; you are a girl, and
you cry."
390 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Mary could not repress a sob as she felt Jean Oullier's
finger in her wound.
"It is not astonishing," continued the keeper, mutter-
ing to himself; "ivolfas they call you, — those curs, — you
are still a woman, and a woman kneaded of the best flour
that ever fell from the sifter of the good God. "
"Really, Jean, I don't understand you."
" Oh, yes ; you do understand me very well, little Mary.
Yes; you have seen what is happening the same as I have.
Who would n't see it ? — good God ! One must be blind
not to, for she takes no pains to hide it. "
"But whom are you speaking of, Jean ? Tell me; don't
you see that you are killing me with anxiety ? "
"Whom should I be speaking of but Mademoiselle
Bertha ? "
" My sister ? "
" Yes, your sister, who parades herself about with that
greenhorn; who means to drag him in her train to our
camp; and, meantime, having tied him to her apron-
strings for fear he should get away, is exhibiting him to
everybody all round as a conquest, without considering
what the people in the house and the friends of the mar-
quis will say, — not to speak of that mischievous notary,
who is watching it all with his little eyes, and mending his
pen already to draw the contract."
" But supposing all that is so," said Mary, whose pale-
ness was now succeeded by a high color, aud whose heart
was beating as though it would break, — " supposing all
that is so, where is the harm?"
" Harm ! Do you ask where 's the harm ? Why, just
now my blood was boiling to see a Demoiselle de Sou-
day — Oh, there ! there ! don't let 's talk of it ! "
"Yes, yes; on the contrary, I wish to talk of it," insisted
Mary. "What was Bertha doing just now, my good Jean
Oullier ? "
And the girl looked persuasively at the keeper.
" Well, Mademoiselle Bertha de Souday tied the white
JEAN OULLIER'S IDEAS OF BARON MICHEL. 391
scarf to Monsieur Michel's arm, — the colors borne by
Charette on the arm of the son of him who — Ah ! stop,
stop, little Mary; you'll make me say things I mustn't
say ! Little she cares — Mademoiselle Bertha — that your
father is out of temper with me to-day, all about that
young fellow, too."
" My father ! Have you been speaking to him — "
Mary stopped.
"Of course I have," replied Jean, taking the question in
its literal sense, — "of course I have spoken to him."
"When?"
"This morning: first, when I brought him Petit-Pierre's
letter; and then when I gave him the list of the men who
are in his division, and who will march with us. I know
they are not as numerous as they should be ; but he who
does what he can does what he ought. What do you think
he answered me when I asked him if that young Monsieur
Michel was really going to be one of us ?"
"I don't know," said Mary.
"'God's death !' he cried; 'you recruit so badly that I
am obliged to get some one to help your work. Yes,
Monsieur Michel is one of us; and if you don't like it go
and find fault with Mademoiselle Bertha. ' "
" He said that to you, my poor Jean ? "
"Yes; and I mean to have a talk with Mademoiselle
Bertha, that I do."
"Jean, my friend, take care ! "
"Take care of what?"
"Take care not to grieve her, not to make her angry.
She loves him, Jean," said Mary, in a voice that was
scarcely audible.
"Ah! then you do admit she loves him?" cried Jean
Oullier.
"I am forced to do so," said Mary.
"Love a little puppet that a breath can tip over ! "
sneered Jean Chillier, — "she, Mademoiselle Bertha,
change her name, one of the oldest in the land, one of the
o92 THE LAST VENDÉE.
names that make our glory, the peasants' glory, as they
do that of the men who bear them, — change a name like
that for the name of a coward and a traitor ! "
Mary's heart was wrung in her bosom.
"Jean, my friend," she said; "you go too far, Jean.
Don't say such things, I entreat you."
"It shall not be," continued Jean Oullier, paying no
heed to Mary's interruption, and walking up and down
the room; "no, it shall not be. If all the rest are in-
different to the family honor I will watch over it, and
rather than see it tarnished I, — well, I will — "
And Jean Oullier made a threatening gesture, the mean-
ing of which was unmistakable.
"No, Jean; no, you would never do that," cried Mary, in
a heart-rending voice. " I implore you with clasped hands."
And she almost fell forward on her knees. The Ven-
déan stepped back, horrified.
"You, — you, too, little Mary?" he cried; "you love — "
But she did not give him time to end his sentence.
"Think, Jean, only think of the grief you would cause
to my dear Bertha."
Jean Oullier was looking at her in stupefaction, only
half-relieved of the suspicion he had just conceived, when
Bertha's- voice was heard ordering Michel to wait for her
in the garden and on no account to go away. Almost at
the same moment she opened the door of her sister's room.
"Well ! " she exclaimed; "is this how you get ready ?"
Then, looking closer at Mary and noticing the trouble in
her face, she continued, " What is the matter ? You have
been crying ! And you, Jean Oullier, — you look as cross
as a bear. What 's going on here ? "
"I '11 tell you what's going on, Mademoiselle Bertha,"
replied the Vendéan.
"No, no !" exclaimed Mary; "I entreat you not, Jean.
Hold your tongue ; oh, do be silent ! "
"You scare me with such preambles," cried Bertha;
" and Jean is looking at me with an inquisitorial air as if
JEAN OULLIER'S IDEAS OF BARON MICHEL. 393
I had committed some great crime. Come, speak out,
Jean; I am fully disposed to be kind and indulgent on
this happy day, when all my most ardent dreams are real-
ized, and I can share with men their noblest privilege of
war ! "
"Be frank, Demoiselle Bertha," said the Vendean; "is
that the true reason why you are so joyful ? "
" Ha ! now I see what the matter is, " said Bertha, boldly
facing the question. "Major-General Oullier wants to
scold me for trenching on his functions." Turning to her
sister, she added, " I '11 bet, Mary, that it is all about my
poor Michel."
"Exactly, mademoiselle," said Jean Oullier, not leaving
Mary time to answer.
" Well, what have you to say about him, Jean ? My
father is delighted to get another adherent, and I can't see
anything in that to make you frown."
"Your father may like it," replied the old keeper, "but
it does n't suit the rest of us; we have other ideas."
" May I be allowed to know them ? "
"We think each side should stay in its own camp."
"Well ?"
"Well what?"
"Go on; finish what you mean to say."
"I mean to say that Monsieur Michel's place is not
with us."
"Why not? Monsieur Michel is royalist, is n't he? I
think he has given proof enough during the last two days
of his devotion to the cause."
"That may be; but all the same, Demoiselle Bertha, we
peasants have a way of saying, 'Like father, like son,'
and therefore we don't believe in Monsieur Michel's
royalism."
"He will force you to believe in it."
" Possibly ; meanwhile — "
The Vendéan frowned.
"Meanwhile, what?" said Bertha
394 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Well, I tell you, it will be painful to old soldiers
like me to march cheek by jowl with a man we don't
respect."
" What possible blame can you put on him ? " asked
Bertha, beginning to show some bitterness.
"Much."
"Much means nothing unless you specify it."
" Well, his father, his birth — "
"His father ! his birth !" interrupted Bertha; "always
the same nonsense ! Let me tell you, Jean Oullier," she
cried, frowning darkly, " that it is precisely on account of
his father and his birth that he interests me, that young
man."
"Why so?"
"Because my heart revolts against the unjust reproaches
which he is made to endure from all our party. I am tired
of hearing him blamed for a birth he did not choose, for a
father he never knew, for faults he never committed, and
which, perhaps, his father never committed. All that
makes me indignant, Jean Oullier; it disgusts me. And
I think it a noble and generous action to encourage that
young man and help him to repair the past, — if there is
anything to repair, — and to show himself so brave and so
devoted that calumny will not dare to meddle with him
in future."
"I don't care," retorted Jean Oullier; "he will have a
good deal to do before I, for one, respect the name he
bears."
"You must respect it, Jean Oullier," said Bertha, in a
stern voice, "when I bear it, as I hope to do."
"Oh, yes ! so you say," cried Jean Oullier; "but I
don't yet believe you mean it."
"Ask Mary," said Bertha, turning to her sister, who
was listening, pale and palpitating, to the discussion, as
though her life depended on it; "ask my sister, to whom
I have opened my heart, and who knows my hopes and
fears. Yes, Jean, all concealments, all constraints are
JEAN OULLIER'S IDEAS OF BABON MICHEL. 395
nateful to me; and I am glad, especially with you, to have
thrown off mine and to speak openly. Well, I tell you
boldly, Jean Oullier, — as boldly as I say everything, — I
love him ! "
"No, no; don't say that, I implore you, Demoiselle
Bertha. I am but a poor peasant, but in former days —
it is true you were but a little thing — you gave me the
right to call you my child; and I have loved you, and I do
love you both as no father ever loved his own daughters :
well, the old man who watched over you in childhood, who
held you on his knee, and rocked you to sleep, night after
night, that old man, whose only happiness you are in this
low world, flings himself on his knees to say, Don't love
that man, I implore you, Bertha ! "
" Why not ? " she said, impatiently.
" Because, — and I say this from the bottom of my heart,
on my soul and conscience, — because a marriage between
you and him is an evil thing, — a monstrous, impossible
thing ! "
:; Your attachment to us makes you exaggerate every-
thing, my poor Jean. Monsieur Michel loves me, I believe ;
I love him, I am sure, and if he bravely accomplishes the
task of distinguishing his name, I shall be most happy in
becoming his wife."
"Then," said Jean Oullier, in a tone of deep depression,
" I must look in my old age for other masters and another
home."
"Why ?"
"Because Jean Oullier, poor and of no account as he
may be, will never make his home with the son of a rene-
gade and a traitor."
"Hush ! Jean Oullier, hush ! " cried Bertha. "Hush,
I say, or I may break your heart."
"Jean ! my good Jean ! " murmured Mary.
"No, no," said the old keeper; "you ought to be told
the noble actions which have glorified the name you are
so eager to take in exchange for your own."
396 THE LAST VENDEE.
"Don't say another word, Jean Chillier," interrupted
Bertha, in a tone that was almost threatening. "Come,
I '11 tell you now, I have often questioned my heart to
know which I loved best, my father or you; but if you
say another word, if you utter another insult against my
Michel, you will be no more to me than — "
"Than a servant," interrupted Jean Oullier. "Yes;
but a servant who is honest, and who all his life has done
his duty without betraying it, — a servant who has the
right to cry shame on the son of him who sold Charette, as
Judas sold Christ, for a sum of money."
"What do I care for what happened thirty-six years
ago, — eighteen years before I was born? I know the one
who lives, and not the one who is dead, — the son, not the
father. I love him; do you hear me, Jean? I love him
as you yourself have taught me to love and hate. If his
father did as you say, which I will not believe, but if he
did, we will put such glory on the name of Michel — on
the name of the traitor and renegade — that every one
shall bow before it ; and you shall help in doing so, — yes,
you, Jean Oullier, — for I repeat, I love him, and nothing
but death can quench the spring of tenderness that flows
to him from my heart."
Mary moaned almost inaudibly ; but slight as the sound
was, Jean Oullier heard it. He turned to her. Then, as
if crushed by the plaint of one and the violence of the
other, he dropped on a chair and hid his face in his hands.
The old Vendéan wept, but he wished to hide his tears.
Bertha understood what was passing in that devoted heart;
she went to him and knelt beside him.
" You can measure the strength of my feelings for that
young man, " she said, " by the fact that it has almost led
me to forget my deep and true affection for you."
Jean Oullier shook his head sadly.
" I comprehend your antipathies, your feelings of repug-
nance," continued Bertha, "and I was prepared for their
expression; but, patience, my old friend, patience and
JEAN OULLIER'S IDEAS OF BARON MICHEL. 397
resignation ! God alone can take out of my heart that
which he bas put there; and he will not do that, for it
would kill me. Give us time to prove to you that your
prejudices are unjust, and that he whom I have chosen is
indeed worthy of me."
At this instant they heard the marquis calling for Jean
Oullier in a voice that showed some new and serious event
had happened. Jean Oullier rose and went to the door.
"Stop !" said Bertha; "are you going without answer-
ing me ? "
"Monsieur le marquis calls me, mademoiselle," replied
the Vendéan, in a chilling tone.
" Mademoiselle ! " cried Bertha ; " mademoiselle. Ah ! you
will not listen to my entreaties ? Well, then, remember
this : I forbid you — mark, I forbid you — to offer any
insult of any kind to Monsieur Michel; I command that
his life be sacred to you. If any evil happens to him
through you I will avenge it, not on you but on myself;
and you know, Jean Oullier, whether or not I do as I say."
Jean Oullier looked at the girl; then taking her by the
arm, he said : —
" Maybe it would be better so than to let you marry that
man."
The marquis now called louder than ever, and Jean
Oullier rushed from the room, leaving Bertha bewildered
by his resistance, and Mary bowed down beneath the
terror which the violence of her sister's love inspired
in her.
398 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XLIII.
BARON MICHEL BECOMES BERTHA's AIDE-DE-CAMP.
Jean Oublier went down, as we have said, in haste; per-
haps he was more anxious to get away from the young girl
than to obey the call of the marquis. He found the latter
in the courtyard, and beside him stood a peasant, covered
with mud and sweat.
The man had just brought news that Pascal Picaut's
house was surrounded by soldiers; he had seen them go
in, and that was all he knew. He had been stationed
among the gorse on the road to Sablonnière, with orders
from Jean Oullier to come to the château at once if the
soldiers should go in the direction of the house where the
fugitives had taken refuge. This mission he had fulfilled
to the letter.
The marquis, to whom of course Jean Oullier had told
how he left Petit-Pierre and the Comte de Bonneville in
Pascal Picaut's house, was terribly alarmed.
"Jean Oullier ! Jean Oullier ! " he kept repeating, in the
tone of Augustus calling, " Varus ! Varus ! " " Jean Oullier,
why did you trust others instead of yourself ? If any mis-
fortune has happened my poor house will be dishonored
before it is ruined ! "
Jean Oullier did not answer; he held his head down
gloomily, in silence. This silence and immovability exas-
perated the marquis.
"My horse ! my horse, Jean Oullier ! " he cried; "and
if that lad, whom yesterday, not knowing who he was, I
called my young friend, is made prisoner by the Blues,
BARON MICHEL BERTHA'S AIDE-DE-CAMI'. 399
let us show by dying to deliver him that we were not
unworthy of his confidence."
But Jean Oullier shook his head.
"What ! " exclaimed the marquis; "don't you mean to
fetch my horse ? "
"Jean is right," said Bertha, who had come upon the
scene and had heard her father's order and Jean Oullier's
refusal; "we must not risk anything by precipitate action."
Turning to the scout, she asked, " Did you see the soldiers
leave Ficaut's house with prisoners ? "
"No; I saw them knock down the gars Malherbe, whom
Jean Oullier stationed on the rise of the hill, and I watched
them till they entered Ficaut's orchard. Then I came
here at once, as Jean Oullier ordered me to do."
"Are you sure, Jean Oullier," said Bertha, "that you
can answer for the faithfulness of the woman in whose
charge you left them ? "
"Yesterday," he said, giving Bertha a reproachful look,
" I should have said of Marianne Ficaut that I could trust
her as myself ; but — "
"But ? " questioned Bertha.
"But to-day," said the old man, with a sigh, "I doubt
everything."
"Come, come !" cried the marquis; "all this is time
lost. My horse ! bring my horse ! and in ten minutes I
shall know the truth."
But Bertha stopped him.
"Ha ! " he exclaimed; "is this the way I am obeyed in
this house? What can I expect from others if in my own
family no one obeys my orders ? "
"Your orders are sacred, father," said Bertha, — "to
your daughters, above all ; but your ardor is carrying you
away. Do not forget that those for whose safety we are
so anxious are merely peasants in the eyes of others. If
the Marquis de Souday goes himself in search of two miss-
ing peasants their importance will be known directly, and
the news will reach our enemies."
400 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Mademoiselle Bertha is right," said Jean Oullier; "it
is better for me to go."
" Not you, any more than my father, " said Bertha.
"Why not?"
"Because you run too great a risk in going over there."
"I went there this morning; and if I ran that risk to
find out whose ball killed my poor Pataud, I can certainly
do the same to learn news of M. de Bonneville and Petit-
Pierre."
"I tell you, Jean," persisted Bertha, "that after all that
happened yesterday you must not show yourself where the
soldiers are. We must find some one who is not com-
promised, and who can get to the heart of the matter
without exciting suspicion."
"How unlucky that that animal of a Loriot would go
back to Machecoul !" said the marquis. "I begged him
to stay; I had a presentiment that I should want him."
" Well, have n't you Monsieur Michel ? " said Jean
Oullier, in a sarcastic tone; "you can send him to the
Picaut's house, or anywhere else, without suspicion. If
there were ten thoiisand men guarding it they 'd let him
in ; and no one, I am sure, would imagine he came on any
business of yours."
"Yes; he is just the person we want," said Bertha,
accepting the support thus given to her secret purpose,
and ignoring Jean Oullier's malicious intention in making
it. "Isn't he, father?"
" On my soul, I think so ! " cried the marquis. " Though
he is rather effeminate in appearance, the young man may
turn out very useful."
At the first rumor of alarm Michel had approached the
marquis, as if awaiting orders. When he heard Bertha's
proposition, and saw it accepted by her father, his face
became radiant. Bertha herself was beaming.
" Are you ready to do all that is necessary for the safety
of Petit-Pierre, Monsieur Michel ? " she said.
"I am ready to do anything you wish, mademoiselle, in
BAKON MICHEL BERTHA'S AIDE-DE-CAMP. 40 1
order to prove my gratitude to Monsieur le marquis for the
friendly welcome I have received from liim."
"Very good. Then take a horse — not mine; it would
be recognized — and gallop over there. Go into the house
unarmed, as though curiosity alone brought you, and if our
friends are in danger light a fire of brush on the heath.
During that time Jean Oullier will assemble his men; and
then, in a body and well-armed, we can fly to the support
of those so dear to us."
"Bravo ! " cried the Marquis de Souday; "I have always
said that Bertha was the strong-minded one of the family."
Bertha smiled with pride and looked at Michel.
"And you," she said to her sister, who had now come
down and joined them quietly, just as Michel departed to
get his horse, — "and you, don't you mean to dress and go
with us ? "
"No," replied Mary.
" Why not ? "
"I mean to stay as I am."
" Oh ! you can't mean it ! "
" Yes, I do," said Mary, with a sad smile. "In an army
there are always sisters of mercy to care for the fighting
men and comfort them; I shall be the sister of mercy."
Bertha looked at Mary with amazement. She may have
been about to question her as to this sudden change of
mind; but at that instant Michel, already mounted on the
horse provided for him, re-appeared, and approaching
Bertha stopped the words upon her lips. Addressing her
as the one to whom he looked for orders, he said: —
" You told me what I was to do in case some mis fortune
has happened at the Picaut house, mademoiselle; but you
have not told me what to do in case I find Petit-Pierre safe
and well."
"In that case," said the marquis, "come back here, and
set our minds at ease."
"No, no," said Bertha, who was determined to give the
man she loved some important part to play; "such goings
VOL. I. — 26
402 THE LAST VENDÉE.
to and fro would excite suspicion in the various troops now
stationed about the forest. You had better stay at the
Picauts' or in the neighborhood till nightfall, and then go
and wait for us at the July oak. You know where that
is, don't you ? "
"I should think so ! " said Michel; " it is on the road to
Souday."
Michel knew every oak and every tree on that road.
"Very good !" said Bertha; "we will be in the woods
near by. Make the signal, — three cries of the screech-
owl and one hoot, — and we will join you. Go on, dear
Monsieur Michel."
Michel bowed to the marquis and to the two young
ladies. Then, bending forward over the neck of his horse,
he started at a gallop. He was, in truth, an excellent
rider, and Bertha called attention to the fact that in turn-
ing short out of the porte cochère, he had very cleverly
made his horse change step.
" It is amazing how easy it is to make a well-bred gentle-
man out of a rustic like that," said the marquis, re-entering
the château. " It is true that women must have a finger in
it. That young man is really passable."
" Oli, yes ; well-bred gentlemen, indeed ! They are easy
enough to make; but men of heart and soul are another
thing," muttered Jean Oullier.
"Jean Oullier," said Bertha, "you are forgetting my
advice. Take care."
"You are mistaken, mademoiselle," replied Jean Oullier.
" It is, on the contrary, because I have forgotten nothing
that you see me so troubled. I thought my aversion to
that young man might be remorse," he muttered; "but I
begin to fear it is presentiment."
" Bemorse ! — you, Jean Oullier ? "
" Ah ! did you hear what I said ? "
" Yes."
"Well, I don't unsay it."
-'What remorse have you about him? "
BARON MICHEL BERTHA'S AIDE-DE-CAMP. 40o
"None about him," said Jean Oullier, in a gloomy voie ;
" I meant his father. "
"His father ? " said Bertha, shivering in spite of herself.
"Yes," said Jean Chillier. "My name was changed in a
day because of him; I was no longer Jean Oullier."
" What were you then ? "
"Chastisement."
" On his father ? "
Then, remembering all that was told in the region, of the
death of Baron Michel the older, she exclaimed: —
"His father ! found dead at a hunt ! Ah, miserable
man ! what do you mean ? "
" That the son may avenge his father by bringing mourn-
ing for mourning upon us."
" In what way ? "
"Through you, and because you love him madly."
" What of that ? "
"I can myself assure you of one thing."
" And that is ? "
"That he does not love you."
Bertha shrugged her shoulders disdainfully; but the
blow nevertheless reached her heart. A feeling that was
almost hatred to the old Vendéan came over her.
"Employ yourself in collecting your men, Jean Oullier,"
she said.
"I obey you, mademoiselle," replied the Chouan.
He went toward the gate. Bertha returned to the house,
without giving him another look. But before leaving the
château, Jean Oullier called up the peasant who had brought
the news.
" Before the soldiers got to Picaut's house did you see
any one else go in there ? "
"To Joseph's place, or Pascal's ?"
"Pascal's."
"Yes, I saw one man go in."
"Who was he?"
"The mayor of La Logerie."
•iO-i THE LAST VENDÉE.
"You say he went into Pascal's part of the house ?"
" I am sure of it. "
" You saw him ? "
"As plain as I see you."
"Which way did he go when he left it ? "
"Toward Machecoul."
" The same way by which the soldiers came soon after,
was n't it ? "
"Exactly; it wasn't half an hour after he left before
they came."
" Good ! " ejaculated Jean Oullier. Shaking his clenched
fist in the direction of La Logerie, he muttered to himself,
"Ah, Courtin ! Courtin ! you are tempting God. My dog
killed yesterday, this treachery to-day, — you try my
patience too far ! "
MAÎTEE JACQUES AND lUti BABBITS. 40î
XLIV.
MAÎTRE JACQUES AND HIS RABBITS.
To the south, of Machecoul, forming a triangle round the
village of Lege, stretch three forests. They are called
respectively the forests of Touvois, Grandes-Landes, and
La Roche-Servière.
The territorial importance of these forests is not great
if considered separately; hut standing each within three
kilometres of the others, and connected by hedges and
fields full of gorse and brambles, even more numerous
there than elsewhere in La Vendée, they form a very con-
siderable agglomeration of woodland. The result has been
that in times of civil war they became a very hot-bed of
revolt, where insurrection was fostered and concentrated
before it spread through the adjacent regions.
The village of Lege, besides being the native place of
the famous physician Jolly, was, almost continuously,
Charette's headquarters during the great war. It was
there, in the thick belt of woodland surrounding the vil-
lage that he took refuge if defeated, reformed his decimated
battalions, and prepared for other fights.
In 1832, although a new road from Nantes to the Sables-
d'Olonne, which runs through Lege, had modified in a
measure its strategic strength, the wooded neighborhood
was still the most formidable centre of the insurrectionary
movement then organized. The three forests hid, in their
impenetrable undergrowth of holly and ferns which grew
under the shadow of the great thickets, those bands of
refractories (conscripts escaping service) whose ranks were
406 THE LAST VENDÉE.
daily increasing and forming the kernel of the insurrec-
tionary divisions in the Eetz region and on the plains.
The clearings made by government, even the felling of
a considerable portion of the wood, had no perceptible
result. It was rumored that the deserters had excavated
underground dwellings, like those the first Chouans bur-
rowed in the forests of Gralla, in the depths of which they
had so often defied the closest search. In this particular
case rumor was riot mistaken.
Toward the close of the day when, as we have seen,
Michel started on horseback from the château de Souday
toward the Picaut cottage, any one who had stood con-
cealed behind one of the huge centennial beeches that
surround the glade of Folleron in the forest of Touvois,
would have seen a curious sight.
At the hour when the sun, sinking toward the hori-
zon, left a sort of twilight behind it, — an hour when the
wood-paths were already in a shadow that seemed to rise
from the earth, while the tree-tops were still burnished
with the last rays of the dying sunlight, — this concealed
spectator would have seen in the distance, and coming
toward him, a personage whom, with a very slight stretch
of fancy, he might have taken for some uncanny or impish
being. This personage advanced slowly, looking cau-
tiously about him, — a matter which seemed to be the more
easy because, at first sight, he appeared to have two heads,
with which to keep a double watch over his safety.
He was clothed in the sordid rags of an old jacket and
the semblance of a pair of breeches, the original cloth of
which had completely disappeared beneath the multifarious
patches of many colors with which its decay had been
remedied; and he appeared, as we have said, to belong to
the class of bicephalous monsters who occupy a distin-
guished place among the choice exceptions which Nature
delights to create in her fantastic moments.
The two heads were entirely distinct the one from the
other, and though they apparently came from the same
MAÎTBE JACQUES AND HIS RABBITS. 407
trunk there was no family resemblance between them.
Beside a broad and brick-dust colored face, seamed with
small-pox and covered with unkempt beard, appeared a
second face, less repulsive, very astute, and rather malign
in its ugliness, whereas the other countenance expressed
only a sort of idiocy which might at times amount to
ferocity.
These two distinct countenances did, in truth, belong to
two men, whose acquaintance we have already made at
Montaigu on the day of the fair; namely, to Aubin Courte-
Joie, the tavern keeper, and — if the reader will pardon an
almost too expressive name, but one we think Ave have no
right to change — to Trigaud the Vermin, the beggar, whose
herculean strength, it will be remembered, played a noted
part in the riot at Montaigu by lifting the general's leg
from the stirrup and throwing him out of his saddle.
By a judicious arrangement, which we have already
mentioned, Aubin Courte-Joie had supplemented, or re-
completed, his own personality by the help of this species
of beast of burden whom he had, by good luck, encountered
on bis path through life. In exchange for the two legs
he had left on the road to Ancenis, the truncated cripple
had obtained a pair of steel limbs, which resisted all
fatigue, feared no task, and served him as his own original
legs never did and never could have done, — legs, in short,
which did his will with passive obedience, and had reached,
after a certain period of association, such adaptability that
they instinctively guessed the very thoughts of Aubin
Courte-Joie, if conveyed by a mere word, a single sign, or
even a slight touch of a hand on the shoulder or a knee on
the flank.
The strangest part of this affair was that the least satis-
fied partner in the firm was not Trigaud- Vermin; quite
the contrary. His thick brain knew that Aubin Courte-
Joie was directing his physical strength in the direction
of his sympathies. The words "White" and "Blue,"
which dropped into his large ears, always pricked up and
408 THE LAST VENDÉE.
listening, proved to him that he supported, in his quality
of locomotive to the tavern-keeper, a cause whose worship
was the one glimmer of light which had survived the col-
lapse of his brain. He made it his glory. His confidence
in Aubin Courte- Joie was boundless; he was proud of
being linked body and soul to a mind whose superiority
he recognized, and he was now attached to the man who
might indeed be called his master, with the self-abnegation
that characterizes all attachments which instinct governs.
Trigaud carried Aubin sometimes on his back, sometimes
on his shoulders, but always as affectionately as a mother
carries her child. He took the utmost care of him; he
showed him little attentions which seemed to disprove the
poor devil's actual idiocy. He never thought of watching
his own feet or guarding them from the cutting and wound-
ing of stones and briers; but he carefully held aside, as he
walked along, the bushes or branches which he thought
might rub the body or scratch the face of his rider.
When they had advanced about a third of the way into
the open, Aubin Courte-Joie touched Trigaud on the
shoulder, and the giant stopped short. Then, without
needing to speak, the innkeeper pointed with his finger to
a large stone lying at the foot of an enormous beech-tree,
in the right-hand corner of the clearing.
The giant advanced to the beech, picked up the stone,
and awaited orders.
" Now," said Aubin Courte-Joie, " strike three blows."
Trigaud did as he was told, timing the blows so that the
second followed the first rapidly, and the third did not
sound until after a certain interval.
At this signal, which was made on the trunk of the tree,
a little square of turf and moss rose from the ground, and
a head beneath it.
"Ho! it's you, is it, Maître Jacques? What's the
watch-dog doing at the mouth of the burrow ? " asked
Aubin, visibly pleased at meeting with an intimate
acquaintance.
MAÎTRE JACQUES AND HIS RABBITS. 40 ( J
"Hey ! my gars Courte-Joie, this is the hour for busi-
ness, don't you see; and I never like to let my rabbits out
till I make sure myself the hunters are not about."
"And you are right, Maître Jacques; you are right,"
replied Courte- Joie; "to-day, especially, for there are lots
of guns on the plain."
" Hey, how '"s that, tell me ? "
"That 's what I want to do."
" But first, won't you come in ? "
"Oh, no; no, Jacques. It is hot enough where we are,
— is n't it Trigaud ? "
The giant uttered a grunt which might, at a pinch, pass
for an affirmation.
" Goodness ! why, he 's speaking ! " remarked Maître
Jacques. " They used to say he was dumb. You are in
luck 's way, gars Trigaud, to be taken into Aubin's good
graces ; do you know that ? Why, you are almost a man,
not to speak of having your board and lodging sure ; and
that 's more than all dogs can say, — even those at the
castle of Souday."
The beggar opened his large mouth and began a chuckle
of laughter, which he did not end, for a motion of Aubin's
hand stopped in the cavities of his larynx that impulse to
hilarity which his powerful lungs rendered dangerous.
"Hush! lower! lower, Trigaud!" he said, roughly.
Then turning to Maître Jacques, " He thinks he is in the
market-place of Montaigu, poor innocent ! "
"Well, as you won't come in, I '11 call out the gars.
You're right, my Courte-Joie; it is devilish hot inside.
Some of 'em say they are roasted; but you know how such
fellows grumble."
"That's not like Trigaud," replied Aubin, pounding
with his fist, by way of a caress, on the head of the ele-
phant who served him as steed; "he never complains,
— not he ! "
Trigaud gave a nod of gratitude for the signs of friend-
ship with which Courte-Joie honored him.
410 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Maître Jacques, whom we have just presented to our
readers, but with whom it remains i'or us to make them
fully acquainted, was a man of fifty to fifty -five years of
age, who had all the external appearance of a worthy farmer
of the Retz region. Though his hair was long and floated
on his shoulders, his beard, on the contrary, was cut close
and shaved with the utmost care. He wore a perfectly
clean jacket of gray cloth, cut in a shape that was almost
modern compared with those that were still in use in La
Vendée, and a waistcoat, also of cloth, in broad stripes, alter-
nately white and fawn-colored. Breeches of coarse brown
cloth and gaiters of blue twilled cotton were the only part
of his costume which resembled that of his compatriots.
A pair of pistols, with shining handles, stuck into his
jacket, were the only military signs he bore at this moment.
But in spite of his placid, good-humored face, Maître
Jacques was really the leader of the boldest band in the
whole region, and the most determined Chouan to be found
in a circuit of fifty miles, throughout which he enjoyed a
very formidable reputation.
Maître Jacques had never seriously laid down his arms
during the whole fifteen years that Napoleon's power
lasted. With two or three men — oftener alone and iso-
lated — he had managed to make head against whole
brigades detailed to capture him. His courage and his
luck were something supernatxiral, and gave rise to an idea
among the superstitious population of the Bocage that his
life was invulnerable, and that the balls of the Blues were
harmless against him. When, therefore, after the revolu-
tion of July, in fact, during the very first days of August,
1830, Maître Jacques announced that he should take the
field, all the refractories of the neighborhood flocked to
his standard, and it was not long before he had under his
orders a considerable body of men, with whom he had
already begun the second series of his guerilla exploits.
After asking Aubin Courte-Joie to excuse him for a few
moments, Maître Jacques, who, for the purposes of con-
MAÎTRE JACQUES AND HIS RABBITS. 411
versation had put first his head and then his bust above
the trap-door, now stooped down into the opening, and gave
a curiously modulated whistle. At this signal a hum arose
from the bowels of the earth, much like that of a hive of
bees. Then, close by, between two bushes, a wide sort of
lid or skylight, covered only with turf and moss and dried
leaves, exactly like the ground beside it, rose vertically,
supported on four stakes at the four corners. As it rose
it revealed the opening to a sort of grain-pit, very broad
and very deep; and from this pit about twenty men now
issued, one after another, in succession.
The dress of these men had nothing of the elegant piefcu-
resqueness which characterizes brigands as we see them
issue from pasteboard caverns at the Opéra-Comique, —
far, very far from that. Some wore uniforms which closely
resembled the rags on Trigaud- Vermin's person; others —
and these were the most elegant — wore cloth jackets.
But the jackets of the greater number were of cotton.
The same diversity existed in their weapons. Two or
three regulation muskets, half a dozen sporting guns, and
as many pistols formed the entire equipment of firearms.
The display of side-arms was far from being as respecta-
ble; it consisted solely of Maître Jacques's sabre, two
pikes dating back to the old war, and eight or ten scythes,
carefully sharpened by their owners.
When all the braves had issued from the pit into the
clearing. Maître Jacques walked up to She trunk of a felled
tree, on which he sat down. Trigaud placed Aubin Courte-
Joie beside him, after which the giant retired a few steps,
though still within reach of his partner's signals.
"Yes, my Courte- Joie," said Maître Jacques, "the
wolves are after us ; but it gives me pleasure to have you
take the trouble to come and warn me." Then, suddenly,
" Ah, ça ! " he cried ; " how happens it that you can come ?
I thought you were caught when they took Jean Oullier ?
Jean Oullier got away, I know, as they crossed the ford, —
there's nothing surprising in his escape; but you, my
412 THE LAST VENDÉE.
poor footless one, — how, in Heaven's name, did you get
off?"
"You forget Trigaud's feet," replied Aubin Courte- Joie,
laughing. " I pricked the gendarme who held me, and it
seems it hurt him, for he let go of me, and my friend
Trigaud did the rest. But who told you that, Maître
Jacques ? "
"Maître Jacques shrugged his shoulders with an indiffer-
ent air. Then, without replying to the question, which he
may have thought an idle one, —
"Ah, ça!" he said; "I hope you haven't come to tell
me that the day is changed ? "
"No; it is still for the 24th."
"That 's good," replied Maître Jacques; "for the fact is
I 've lost all patience with their delays and their shufflings.
Good Lord ! where 's the need of such a fuss to pick up
one 's gun, say good-bye to one's wife, and be off ? "
"Patience ! patience ! you won't have long to wait now,
Maître Jacques."
" Four days ! " said the other, in a tone of disgust.
"That's not long."
"I think it is too long by three. I didn't have Jean
Oullier's chance to do for some of them at the springs of
Baugé."
"Yes; the gars told me about that."
"Unhappily," continued Maître Jacques, "they have
taken a cruel revenge for it."
"How so?"
" Have n't you heard ? "
"No; I have just come straight from Montaigu."
"Ah, true; then you can't know."
"What happened.? "
"They caught and killed in Pascal Picaut's house a fine
young man I respected, — I, who don't think any too much
of his class usually."
" What was his name ? "
"Comte de Bonneville."
MAITRE JACQUES AND HIS RABBITS 413
" Did they really ? When was it ? "
"Why this very day, damn it ! about two in the
afternoon."
"How, in the devil's name, did you hear that, down in
your pit, Maître Jacques ? "
" Don't I hear everything that is of use to me ? "
"Then I don't know that there 's any use in my telling
you what brings me here."
" Why not ? "
"Because you probably know it."
"That may be."
"I should like to be sure whether you do or not."
« Pooh ! "
"Faith ! yes, I should. It would spare me a disagree-
able errand, which I only accepted against my will."
" Ah ! then you have come from those gentlemen '.' "
Maître Jacques pronounced the words we have under-
scored in a tone that varied from contempt to menace.
"Yes, I do, in the first instance," replied Aubin Courte-
Joie; "but I met Jean Oullier on my way, and he, too,
gave me a message for you."
"Jean Oullier ! Ah ! anything that comes from him is
welcome. He is a gars I love, — Jean Oullier ! He has
done a thing in his life which made me his friend forever."
"What was that ?"
"That's his secret, not mine. But come; tell me, in
the first place, what those lordly gentlemen want of me ? "
"It is your division leader who has sent me."
" The Marquis de Souday ? "
"Yes."
"Well, what does he want ? "
"He complains that you attract, by your constant sorties,
the attention of the government soldiers, and that you
irritate the population of the towns by your exactions, and
also that you paralyze the general movement by making it
more difficult."
"Pooh ! why have n't they made their movement sooner?
414 THE LAST VENDÉE.
We have waited long enough, God knows Î For my part,
I 've been waiting since July 30."
"And then — "
" What ! is there any more of it ? "
"Yes; he orders you — "
" Orders me ! "
"Wait a moment; you can obey or not obey, but he
orders you — "
"Listen to me, Courte- Joie; whatever he orders I here
make a vow to disobey it. Now, go on; I 'in listening."
"Well, he orders you to stay quietly in your quarters
till the 24th, and, above all, to stop no diligence nor any
traveller on the highroad, as you have been doing lately."
"Well, I swear, for my part," replied Maître Jacques,
"to capture the first person that goes to-night from Lege
to Saint-Êtienne or from Saint-Etienne to Lege. As for
you, stay here, gars Courte-Joie, and then you can tell him
what you have seen."
" Oh, no ! no ! " exclaimed Aubin.
"Why not?"
"Don't do that, Maître Jacques."
"Yes, by God ! I will, though."
"Jacques ! Jacques ! " insisted the tavern-keeper; "can't
you see it will compromise our sacred cause ? "
" Possibly ; but it will prove to him — that old fox
I never chose for my superior — that I and my men are
outside his division, and that here, at least, his orders shall
never be obeyed. So much for the orders of the Marquis
de Souday; now go on to Jean Oullier's message."
" I met him as I reached the heights near the bridge at
Servières. He asked where I was going, and when I told
him, 'Parbleu/' said he; 'that's the very thing! Ask
Maître Jacques if he can move out and let us have his
earth-hole for some one we want to hide there.' '
" Ah, ha ! Did he say who the person was, my Courte-
Joie ? "
"No."
MAÎTKE JACQUES AND HIS BABBITS. 415
''Never mind ! Whoever it is, if he comes in the name
of Jean Oullier, he '11 be welcome; for I know Jean Oullier
wouldn't turn me out if it were not for some good reason.
He is not one of the crowd of lazy lords who make all the
noise and leave us to do the work."
"Some are good, and some are bad," said Aubin,
philosophically.
" When is the person he wants to hide coming ? " asked
Maître Jacques.
"To-night."
" How shall I know him ? "
"Jean Oullier will bring him."
" Good. Is that all he wants ? "
"No; he wishes you to capture all doubtful persons in
the forest to-night, and have the whole neighborhood
watched, more especially the path toward Grand-Lieu."
"There now ! just see that ! The division commander
orders me to arrest no one, and Jean Oullier wants me to
clear the forest of curs and red-breeches, — reason the
more why I should keep the oath I made just now.
How will Jean Oullier know that I shall be expecting
him ? "
" If he can come — that is, if there are no troops in the
way at Touvois — I am to let him know."
"Yes; but how?"
"By a branch of holly with fifteen leaves upon it in
the middle of the road half-way along to Machecoul, at
the crossways of Benaste, the tip end turned toward
Touvois."
"Did he give you the password? Jean Oullier would
surely not forget that."
"Yes; 'Vanquished ' and 'Vendée.' "
"Very good," said Maître Jacques, rising and going to
the middle of the open. There he called four of his men,
gave them some directions in a low voice, and all four,
without replying, went off in four different directions.
At the end of about four minutes, during which time
116 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Maître Jacques had ordered up a jug of what seemed to be
brandy, and had offered some to his companion, four indi-
viduals appeared from the four directions in which the
other men had been sent. These were the sentinels just
relieved by their comrades.
" Any news ? " asked Maître Jacques.
"No," replied three of the men.
" Good. You, — what do you say ? " he inquired of the
fourth. "'You had the best post."
"The diligence to Nantes was escorted by four gen-
darmes."
"Ah, ha ! your nose is good; you smell specie. Bless
me ! and when I think there are those who order us not to
get it ! However, friends, patience ! we are not to be
put down."
" Well, what do you thiuk ? " interrupted Courte-Joie.
"I think there's not a pair of red breeches anywhere
about. Tell Jean Oullier he can bring his people."
" Good ! " said Courte-Joie, who during this examination
of the sentries was preparing a branch of holly in the
manner agreed upon with Jean Oullier. "Very good;
I'll send Trigaud." Turning toward the giant, "Here,
Vermin ! " he said.
Maître Jacques stopped him.
"Ah, ça!" he exclaimed; "are you crazy, to part with
your legs in that way ? Suppose you should need him ?
Nonsense ! there are forty men here who would like no
better than to stretch their legs. Wait, you shall see —
Hi ! Joseph Picaut ! "
At the call, our old acquaintance, who was sleeping on
the grass in a sleep he seemed much to need, sat up and
listened.
" Joseph Picaut ! " repeated Maître Jacques, impatiently.
That decided the man. He rose, grumbling, and went
up to Maître Jacques.
"Here is a branch of holly," said the leader of the
belligerents; "don't pluck off a single leaf. Carry it
MAÎTRE JACQUES AND HIS BABBITS. 417
immediately to the crossway of La Benaste ou the road to
Machecoul, and lay it down in front of the crucifix, with
its tip-end pointing toward Touvois."
Maître Jacques crossed himself as he said the word
"crucifix."
"But — " began Picaut, objecting.
" But? — what do you mean ? "
" I mean that, after four hours of such a run as I have
just made, my legs are breaking under me."'
"Joseph Picaut," replied Maître Jacques, whose voice
grew strident and metallic, like the blare of a trumpet,
"you left your parish and enrolled yourself in my band.
You came here; I did not ask you. Now, recollect one
thing: at the first objection I strike; at the second I
kill."
As he spoke Maître Jacques pulled a pistol from his
jacket, grasped it by the barrel, and struck a vigorous
blow with the butt-end on Picaut's head. The shock was
so violent that the peasant, quite bewildered, came down
on one knee. Probably, without the protection of his hat,
which was made of thick felt, his skull would have been
fractured.
" And now, go ! " said Maître Jacques, calmly looking
to see if the blow had shaken the powder from the pan.
Without a word Joseph Picaut picked himself up, shook
his head, and went off. Courte-Joie watched him till he
was out of sight; then he looked at Maître Jacques.
" Do you allow such fellows as that in your band ? " he
said.
"Yes; don't speak of it !"
"Have you had him long ? "
"No, only a few hours."
"Bad recruit for you."
"I don't say that exactly. He is a brave gars, like his
father, whom I knew well; only, he has to be taught to
obey like my fellows, and to get used to the ways of the
burrow. He '11 improve; he '11 improve."
vol. i. — 27
418 THE LA.ST VENDÉE.
" Oh, I don't doubt it ! You have a wonderful way of
educating them."
"God bless me ! I 've been at it a good while ! But,"
continued Maître Jacques, "it is time for my round of
inspection, and I shall have to leave you, my poor Courte-
Joie. It is understood, is n't it, that Jean Oullier's
friends are welcome to the burrow. As for the division
commander, he shall have his answer to-night. You are
sure that is all gars Oullier told you to say ? "
"Yes."
"Rummage your memory."
"I am sure that is all."
"Very well. If the burrow suits him, he shall have
it, — he and his friends. I don't bother myself about my
gars; those scamps, they are like mice, — they have more
than one hole. Good-bye for the present, gars Aubin ; and
while you are waiting, take a bite. I see them making
ready for a stew down there."
Maître Jacques descended into what he called his bur-
row. Then he came out a moment later, armed with a
carbine, the priming of which he examined with the utmost
care ; after which he disappeared among the trees.
The open was now very animated, and presented a most
picturesque effect. A large fire had been lighted in the
burrow, and the glare coming through the trap illumined
the trees and bushes with fantastic gleams. The supper
of the men, who were scattered about the open, was cook-
ing at it, while the men waited. Some, on their knees,
were telling their beads; others, sitting down, sang in low
tones those national songs whose plaintive, long-drawn
melodies were so in keeping with the character of the
landscape. Two Bretons, lying on their stomachs at the
mouth of the burrow, were betting, by means of two bones
of different shades of color, for the possession of sundry
copper coins, while another gars (who, from his pallid
face and shrivelled skin. — shrivelled with fever, — was
obviously a dweller among the marshes) employed himself,
MAÎTRE JACQUES AND HIS RABBITS. 419
without much success, in cleaning a thick coat of rust from
the barrel and match-lock of an old carbine.
Aubin Courte-Joie, accustomed to such scenes, paid no
attention to the one before him. Trigaud had made him
a sort of couch with leaves, and he was now seated on
this improvised mattress, smoking his pipe as tranquilly
as if in his tavern at Montaigu.
Suddenly he fancied he heard in the far distance the
well-known cry of alarm, — the cry of the screech-owl, —
but modulated in a certain long-drawn-out way which indi-
cated danger. Courte-Joie whistled softly to warn the
men about him to keep silence and listen; but almost at
the same instant a shot echoed from a place about a
thousand steps distant.
In the twinkling of an eye the water-pails, standing
ready for this very use, had put out the fire; the roof was
lowered, the trap closed, and Maître Jacques's belliger-
ents, among them Courte-Joie, whom his physical partner
remounted on his shoulders, were scattering in every
direction among the trees, where they awaited the next
signal from their leader.
420 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XLV.
THE DANGER OF MEETING BAD COMPANY IN THE WOODS.
It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening when Petit-
Pierre, accompanied by Baron Michel, now her guide in
place of poor Bonneville, left the cottage where she had
escaped such dangers.
It was not, as we can readily believe, without a deep
and painful emotion that Petit-Pierre crossed that thresh-
old and left the cold, inanimate body of the chivalrous
young man, whom she had known for a few days only, but
already loved as an old and trusted friend. That valiant
heart of hers had a momentary sense of weakness at the
thought of meeting alone the perils that for four or five
days poor Bonneville had shared with her. The royal
cause had only lost one soldier, yet Petit-Pierre felt as
though an army was gone.
It was the first grain of the bloody seed about to be
sown once more in the soil of La Vendee; and Petit-
Pierre asked herself in anguish if, indeed, nothing would
come of it but regret and mourning.
Petit-Pierre did not insult Marianne Picaut by charg-
ing her to take good care of the body of poor Bonne-
ville. Strange as the ideas of that woman may have
seemed to her, she understood the nobility of her feelings,
and recognized all that was truly good and profoundly
religious beneath her rough exterior. When Michel
brought his horse to the door and reminded Petit-Pierre
that every moment was precious, the latter turned to the
widow of Pascal Picaut, and holding out her hand, said :
" How can I thank you for all you have done for me ? w
BAD COMPANY IN THE WOODS. 421
"I have done nothing for you," replied Marianne; "I
have paid a debt, — fulfilled an oath, that is all."
"Then," said Petit-Pierre, with tears in her eyes, "you
will not even accept my gratitude ? "
"If you are determined to owe me something," said the
widow, "do this: when you pray for those who are dead
add to your prayers a few words for those who have died
because of you."
" Then you think I have some credit with God ? " said
Petit-Pierre, unable to keep from smiling through her
tears.
"Yes; because I know that you are destined to suffer."
"At least, you will accept this," said Petit-Pierre,
unfastening from her throat a little medal hanging to a
slender black silk cord. "It is only silver, but the Holy
Father blessed it in my presence, and said when he gave
it to me that God would grant the prayers uttered over it,
if they were just and pious."
Marianne took the medal. Then she said : —
"Thank you. On this medal I will pray to God that
our land be saved from civil war, and that He will ever
preserve its grandeur and its liberty."
"Eight!" said Petit-Pierre; "the last half of your
prayer will be echoed in mine."
Aided by Michel, she mounted the horse which the
young man led by the bridle, and with a last signal of
farewell to the widow, they both disappeared behind the
hedge.
For some minutes Petit-Pierre, whose head was bowed
on her breast, swayed to the motions of the horse and
seemed to be buried in deep and painful reflections. At
last, however, she made an effort over herself, and shaking
off the grief that overcame her, she turned to Michel, wh>
was walking beside her.
"Monsieur," she said, "I already know two things
which entitle you to my confidence: first, that we owed
the warning that troops were surrounding the chateau de
422 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Souday to you; second, that you have come to me to-day
in the name of the marquis and his charming daughters.
But there is still a third thing, about which I should like
to know, and that is, who you are. My friends are rare
under present circumstances, and I like to know their
names that I may promise not to forget them."
"I am called Baron Michel de la Logerie," replied the
young man.
" De la Logerie ! Surely this is not the first time I have
heard that name ? "
" Very likely not, Madame, " said the young man ; " for
our poor Bonneville told me he was taking your Highness
to my mother — "
" Stop, stop ! what are you saying ? Your Highness !
There is no highness here ; I see only a poor little peasant-
lad named Petit-Pierre."
" Ah, true ; but Madame will excuse — "
"What ! again?"
"Pardon me. Our poor Bonneville was taking you to
my mother when I had the honor of meeting and conduct-
ing you to Souday."
" So that I am under a triple obligation to you. That
does not disquiet me; for, great as your services have
been, I hope the time will come when I can discharge my
debt."
Michel stammered a few words, which did not reach the
ears of his companion. But the latter's words seemed to
have made an impression on him; for from that moment,
while obeying the injunction to refrain from a certain
deference, he redoubled his care and attention to the per-
sonage he was guiding.
"But it seems to me," said Petit-Pierre, after a moment's
thought, "from what Monsieur de Bonneville told me,
that royalist opinions are not altogether those of your
family."
" No, they are not, Ma — mon — "
"Call me Petit-Pierre, or do not call me anything; that
BAP COMPANY IN THE WOODS. 423
is the only way to avoid embarrassment. So it is to a
conversion that I owe the honor of having you for my
knight ? "
" An easy conversion ! At my age opinions are not con-
victions; they are only sentiments."
"You are indeed very young," said Petit-Pierre, looking
at her guide.
"I am nearly twenty-one."
Petit-Pierre gave a sigh.
"That is the fine age," she said, "for love or war."
The young man heaved a deep sigh, and Petit-Pierre,
who heard it, smiled imperceptibly.
"Ah ! " she said; "there 's a sigh which tells me many
things about the conversion we were speaking of just now.
I will wager that a pretty pair of eyes knows something
about it, and that if the soldiers of Louis-Philippe were to
search you at this moment they would find a scarf that is
dearer to you for the hands that embroidered it than for
the principles of which its color is the emblem."
"I assure you, Madame," stammered Michel, "that is
not the cause of my determination."
"Come, come, don't defend yourself; all that is true
chivalry, Monsieur Michel. We must never forget, whether
we descend from them or whether we seek to emulate them,
that the knights of old placed women next to God and on
the level of kings, combining all three in one device. Do
not be ashamed of loving ! Why, that is your greatest
claim to my sympathy ! Ventre- saint- gris ! as Henri IV.
would have said; with an army of twenty thousand lovers
I could conquer not only all France, but the world !
Come, tell me the name of your lady, Monsieur le Baron
de la Logerie."
"Oh ! " exclaimed Michel, deeply shocked.
"Ah ! I see you are discreet, young man. T congratu-
late you; it is a quality all the more precious because
in these days it is so rare. But never mind; to a
travelling-companion we tell all, charging him to keep
424 THE LAST VENDÉE
our secret inviolably. Come, shall I help you ? I will
wager that we are now going toward the lady of our
thoughts."
"You are right there."
"And I will further wager that she is neither more nor
less than one of those charming amazons at Souday."
" Good heavens ! who could have told you ? "
"Well, I congratulate you again, my young friend.
Wolves as I am told some persons call them, I know they
have brave and noble hearts, capable of bestowing happi-
ness on the husbands they select. Are you rich, Monsieur
de la Logerie ? "
"Alas, yes ! " replied Michel.
" So much the better, and not alas at all ! You can
enrich your wife, and that seems to me a great happiness.
In all cases, in all loves, there are certain little difficulties
to overcome, and if Petit -Pierre can help you at any time
you have only to call upon him; he will be most happy to
recognize in that way the services you have been good
enough to render him. But, if I 'm not mistaken, here
comes some one toward us. Listen; don't you hear a
tread ? "
The steps of a man now became distinctly audible.
They were still at some distance, but were coming nearer
"I think the man is alone," said Petit-Pierre.
"Yes; but we must not be the less on our guard," replied
the baron. "I shall ask your permission to mount that
horse in front of you."
"Willingly; but are you already tired ?"
"No, not at all. Only, I am well known in the neigh-
borhood, and if I were seen on foot leading a horse on
which a peasant was riding, as Haman led Mordecai, it
might give rise to a good deal of spéculation."
"Bravo ! what you say is very time. I begin to think
we shall make something of you in the end."
Petit-Pierre jumped to the ground. Michel mounted;
and Petit-Pierre placed herself humbly behind him. They
BAD COMPANY IN THE WOODS. 425
were hardly settled in their seats before they came within
thirty yards of an individual who was walking in their
direction, and whose steps now ceased abruptly.
"Oh ! oh ! " said Petit-Pierre; "it seems that if we are
afraid of him, he is afraid of us."
"Who 's there ?" called Michel, making his voice gruff.
" Ah ! is it you, Monsieur le baron ? " replied the man,
advancing. "The devil take me if I expected to meet you
here at this hour ! "
" You told the truth when you said that you were well
known," whispered Petit-Pierre, laughing.
"Yes, unfortunately," said Michel, in a tone which
warned Petit-Pierre they were in presence of a real danger.
" Who is this man ? " asked Petit-Pierre.
" Courtin, my farmer, — the one we suspect of denounc-
ing your presence at Marianne Picaut's." Then he added,
in a vehement and imperative tone, which made his com-
panion aware of the urgency of the situation, " Hide behind
me as much as possible."
Petit-Pierre immediately obeyed.
" Oh ! it is you Courtin, is it ? " said Michel.
"Yes, it is I," replied the farmer.
"Where do you come from ? " asked Michel.
"From Machecoul; I went there to buy an ox."
"Where is your ox? I don't see it."
"No, I couldn't make a trade. These damned politics
hinder business, and there 's nothing now in the market,"
said Courtin, who was carefully examining, as well as he
could in the darkness, the horse on which the young baron
was mounted.
Then, as Michel dropped the conversation, he con-
tinued : —
" But how is it you are turning your back to La Logerie
at this time of night ? "
"That 's not surprising; I am going to Souday."
"Might I observe that you are not altogether on the
road to Souday ? "
426 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" I know that ; but I was afraid the road was guarded,
so I have made a circuit."
" In that case, — I mean if you are really going to
Souday, " said Courtin, — "I think I ought to give you a
bit of advice."
"Well, give it; sincere advice is always useful."
"Don't go; the cage is emptj^."
"Pooh!"
"Yes, I tell you, it is empty; there's no use in youi
going there, Monsieur le baron, to find the bird who has
sent you scouring the country."
"Who told you that, Courtin ?" said Michel, manoeuv-
ring his horse so as to keep his body well before Courtin,
and thus mask Petit-Pierre behind him.
"Who told me ? Hang it ! my eyes told me; I saw
them all file out of the courtyard, the devil take them !
They marched right past me on the road to Grandes-
Landes."
" Were the soldiers in that direction ? " asked the young
baron.
Petit-Pierre thought this question rash, and she pinched
Michel's arm.
" Soldiers ! " replied Courtin; "why should you be afraid
of soldiers? But if you are, I advise you not to risk your-
self at this time of night on the plain. You can't go three
miles without coming plump on bayonets. Do a wiser
thing than that, Monsieur Michel."
"What do you advise me to do ? Come, if your way is
better than mine, I '11 take it."
"Go back with me to La Logerie; you will give your
mother great satisfaction, for she is fretting herself to
death over the way you are behaving."
" Maître Courtin, " said Michel, " I '11 give you a bit of
advice in exchange."
"What \s that, Monsieur le baron ? "
"To hold your tongue."
"No, I cannot hold my tongue," replied the farmer,
BAD COMPANY IN THE WOODS. 427
assuming an appearance of sorrowful emotion, — " no, it
grieves me too much to see my young master exposed to
such dangers, and all for — "
"Hush, Courtin !"
" For those cursed she-wolves whom the son of a peasant
like myself would have none of."
"Wretch ! will you be silent?" cried Michel, raising
his whip.
The action, which Courtin had no doubt tried to pro-
voke, caused Michel's horse to give a jump forward, and
the mayor of La Logerie was now abreast of the two
riders.
"I am sorry if I 've offended you, Monsieur le baron,"
he said, in a whining tone. " Forgive me ; but I have n't
slept for two nights thinking about it."
Petit -Pierre shuddered. She heard the same false and
wheedling voice that had spoken to her in the cottage of
the Widow Picaut, followed, after the speaker's departure,
by such painful events. She made Michel another sign,
by which she meant, " Let us get rid of this man at any
cost."
"Very good," said Michel; "go your way and let tis go
ours."
Courtin pretended to notice for the first time that Michel
had some one behind him.
" Good heavens ! " he exclaimed. " Why, you are not
alone ! Ah ! I see now, Monsieur le baron, why you were
so touchy about what I said. Well, monsieur," he said,
addressing Petit-Pierre, " whoever you are, I am sure you
will be more reasonable than your young friend. Join me
in telling him there is nothing to be gained by braving the
laws and the power of the government, as he is bent on
doing to please those wolves."
" Once more, Courtin, " said Michel, in a tone that was
actually menacing, "I tell you to go. I act as I think
best, and I consider you very insolent to presume to judge
of my conduct."
428 THE LAST VENDÉE.
But Courtin, whose smooth persistency we all know by
this time, seemed determined not to depart without getting
a look at the features of the mysterious personage whom
his young master had behind him.
"Come," he said; "to-morrow you can do as you like;
but to-night, at least, come and sleep at the farmhouse, —
you and the person, lady or gentleman, who is with you.
I swear to you, Monsieur le baron, that there is danger in
being out to-night."
" There is no danger for myself and my companion, for
we are not concerned in politics. What are you doing to
my saddle, Courtin ? " asked the young man suddenly,
noticing a movement on his farmer's part which he did
not understand.
"Why, nothing, Monsieur Michel; nothing," said Cour-
tin, with perfect good-humor. "So then, you positively
won't listen to my advice and entreaties ? "
"No; go your way, and let me go mine."
" Go, then ! " exclaimed the farmer, in his sly, sarcastic
tone; "and God be with you. Remember that poor
Courtin did what he could to prevent you from rushing
into danger."
So saying, Courtin finally drew aside, and Michel, set-
ting spurs to his horse, rode past him.
" Gallop ! gallop ! " cried Petit-Pierre. " That is the man
who caused poor Bonneville's death. Let us get on as fast
as we can; that man has the evil -eye."
The young baron stuck both spurs into his horse; but
the animal had hardly gone a dozen paces before the saddle
turned, and both riders came heavily to the ground. Petit-
Pierre was up first.
" Are you hurt ? " she asked Michel, who was getting up
more slowly.
" No," he replied; "but I am wondering how — "
"How we came to fall ? That 's not the question. We
did fall, and there 's the fact. Girth your horse again,
and as fast as possible."
BAD COMPANY IN THE WOODS. 429
"Aie!" cried Michel, who had already thrown the saddle
over his horse's back; " both girths are broken at precisely
the same height."
"Say they are cut," said Petit-Pierre. "It is a trick of
your internal Courtin; and it is a warning of worse —
Wait, look over there."
Michel, whose arm Petit-Pierre had seized, looked in
the direction to which she pointed, and there, about a
mile distant in the valley, he saw three or four camp-fires
shining in the darkness.
"It is a bivouac," said Petit-Pierre. "If that scoundrel
suspects the truth — and no doubt he does — he will make
for the camp and set those red-breeches on our traces."
" Ah ! do you think that knowing I am with you, I, his
master, he would dare — "
"I must suppose everything, Monsieur Michel, and I
must risk nothing."
"You are right; we must leave nothing to chance."
"Had n't we better leave the beaten path ? "
"I was thinking of that."
" How much time will it take to go on foot to the place
where the marquis is awaiting us ? "
"An hour, at least; and we have no time to lose. But
what shall we do with the horse ? He can't climb the
banks as we must."
"Throw the bridle on his neck. He'll go back to his
stable; ami if our friends meet the animal on the way,
they '11 know some accident has happened and will come
in search of us. Hush ! hush ! "
"What is it?"
"Don't you hear something ? " asked Petit-Pierre.
"Yes; horses' feet in the direction of that bivouac."
"You see it was not without a motive that your farmer
cut our saddle-girths. Let us be off, my poor baron."
"But if we leave the horse here those who search for us
will know the riders are not far off."
"Stop ! " said Petit-Pierre; "I have an idea, an Italian
430 THE LAST VENDÉE.
idea ! — the races of the barberi. Yes, that 's the very
thing. Do as I do, Monsieur Michel."
"Goon; I obey."
Petit-Pierre set to work. With her delicate hands, and
at the risk of lacerating them, she broke off branches of
thorn and holly from the neighboring hedge. Michel did
the same, and they presently had two thick and prickly
bundles of short sticks.
" What 's to be done with them ? " asked Michel.
" Tear the name off your handkerchief and give me the
rest."
Michel obeyed. Petit-Pierre tore the handkerchief into
two strips and tied up the bunches. Then she fastened
one to the mane, the other to the tail of the horse. The
poor animal, feeling the thorns like spurs upon his flesh,
began to rear and plunge. The young baron now began to
understand.
"Take off his bridle," said Petit-Pierre, "or he may
break his neck; and let him go."
The horse was hardly relieved of the snaffle that held
him before he snorted, shook his mane and tail angrily,
and darted away like a tornado, leaving a trail of sparks
behind him.
"Bravo ! " cried Petit-Pierre. "Now, pick up the sad-
dle and bridle, and let us find shelter ourselves."
They jumped the hedge, Michel having thrown the
saddle and bridle before him. There they crouched down
and listened. The gallop of the horse still resounded on
the stony road.
" Do you hear it ? " said the baron, satisfied.
"Yes; but we are not the only ones who are listening
to it, Monsieur le baron," said Petit-Pierre. "Hear the
echo."
MAÎTRE JACQUES KEEPS HIS OATH. 431
XLVI.
MAÎTRE JACQUES PROCEEDS TO KEEP THE OATH HE MADE
TO AUBIN COURTE-JOIE.
The sound which Baron Michel and Petit-Pierre now heard
in the direction by which Courtin had left them changed
presently into a loud noise approaching rapidly; and two
minutes later a dozen chasseurs, riding at a gallop in
pursuit of the trail, or rather the noise made by the run-
ning horse, which was snorting and neighing as it ran,
passed like a flash, not ten steps from Petit-Pierre and her
companion, who, rising slightly after the horsemen had
passed, watched their wild rush into the distance.
"They ride well," said Petit-Pierre; "but I doubt if
they catch up with that horse."
"They are making straight for the place where our
friends are awaiting us, and I think the marquis is in just
the humor to put a stop to their course."
" Then it is battle ! " cried Petit-Pierre. " Well, water
yesterday, fire to-day; for my part, I prefer the latter."
And she tried to hurry Michel in the direction where
the fight would take place.
"No, no, no !" said Michel, resisting; "I entreat you
not to go there."
"Don't you wish to win your spurs under the eyes of
your lady, baron ? She is there, you know."
"I think she is," said the young man, sadly. "But
troops are scattered over the country in every direction ; at
the first shots they will all converge toward the firing.
We may fall in with one of their detachments, and if,
unfortunately, the mission with which I am charged should
432 THE LAST VENDÉE.
end disastrously I shall never dare to appear again before
the marquis — "
"Say before his daughter."
"Well, yes, — before his daughter."
"Then, in order not to bring trouble into your love
affairs I consent to obey you."
" Oh, thank you ! thank you ! " cried Michel, seizing
Petit-Pierre's hand vehemently. Then perceiving the
impropriety of his action, he exclaimed, stepping back-
ward, " Oh, pardon me ; pray, pardon me ! "
"Never mind," said Petit-Pierre; "don't think of it.
Where did the Marquis de Souday intend to shelter me ? "
"In a farmhouse of mine."
" Not that of your man Courtin, I hope ? "
"No, in another, perfectly isolated, hidden in the
woods beyond Lege. You know the village where Tinguy
lived ? "
" Yes ; but do you know the way there ? "
"Perfectly."
" I distrust that adverb in France. My poor Bonneville
said he knew the way perfectly, but he lost it." Petit-
Pierre sighed as she added, in a lower tone, "Poor Bonne-
ville ! alas ! it may have been that very mistake that led
to his death."
The topic brought back the melancholy thoughts that
filled her mind as she left the cottage where the catas-
trophe that cost her the life of her first companion had
taken place. She was silent, and after making a gesture
of consent, she followed her new guide, replying only by
monos3*llables to the few remarks which Michel addressed
to her.
As for the latter, he performed his new functions with
more ability and .success than might have been expected of
him. He turned to the left, and crossing some fields,
reached a brook where he had often fished for shrimps in
his childhood. This brook runs through the valley of the
Benaste from end to end, rises toward the south and falls
MAÎTRE JACQUES KEEPS HIS OATH. 433
again toward the north, where it joins the Boulogne near
Saint-Colombin. Either bank, bordered with fields, gave
a safe and easy path to pedestrians. Michel took to the
brook itself, and followed it for some distance, carrying
Petit-Pierre on his shoulders as poor Bonneville had done.
Presently, leaving the brook after following it for about
a kilometre, he bore again to the left, crossed the brow of a
hill, and showed Petit-Pierre the dark masses of the forest
of Touvois, which were visible in the dim light, looming
up from the foot of the hill on which they now stood.
* Is that where your farmhouse is ? " asked Petit-Pierre.
"We have still to cross the forest," he said; "but we
shall get there in about three quarters of an hour."
" You are not afraid of losing your way ? "
"No; for we do not have to plunge into the thicket. In
fact, we shall not enter the wood at all till we reach the
road from Machecoul to Légé. By skirting the edge of
the forest to the eastward we must strike that road soon."
" And then ? "
"Then all we have to do is to follow it."
"Well, well," said Petit-Pierre, cheerfully, "I'll give
a good account of you, my young guide; and faith, it shall
not be Petit-Pierre's fault if you don't obtain the reward
you covet ! But here is rather a well-beaten path. Is n't
this the one you are looking for ? "
"I can easily tell," replied Michel, "for there ought to
be a post on the right — There ! here it is ! we are all
right. And now, Petit-Pierre, I can promise you a good
night's rest."
"Ah ! that is a comfort," said Petit -Pierre, smiling;
"for I don't deny that the terrible emotions of the day
have not relieved the fatigues of last night. "
The words were hardly out of her lips before a black
outline rose from the other side of the ditch, bounded
into the road, and a man seized Petit-Pierre violently by
the collar of the peasant's jacket which she wore, crying
out in a voice of thunder : —
vol. i. — 28
434 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Stop, or you 're a dead man ! "
Michel sprang to the assistance of his young companion
by bringing down a vigorous blow with the butt-end of his
whip on her assailant. He was near paying dear for his
intervention. The man, without letting go of Petit-Pierre,
whom he held with his left arm, drew a pistol from his
jacket and fired at the young baron. Happily for the latter,
in spite of Petit-Pierre's feebleness she was not of a stuff
to keep as passive as her captor expected. With a rapid
gesture she struck the arm that fired the weapon, and the
ball, which would otherwise have gone straight to Michel's
breast, only wounded him in the shoulder. He returned
to the charge, and their assailant was just pulling a second
pistol from his belt when two other men sprang from the
bushes and seized Michel from behind.
Then the first assailant, seeing that the young man could
interfere no longer, contented himself by saying to his
companions : —
"Secure that fellow first; and then come and rid me of
this one."
"But," said Petit-Pierre, "by what right do you stop us
in this way ? "
"This right," said the man, striking the carbine, which
he carried on his shoulder. " If you want to know why,
you will find out presently. Bind that man securely," he
said to his men. "As for this one," he added contemptu-
ously, " it is n't worth while; I think there '11 be no trouble
in mastering him."
"But I wish to know where you are taking us," insisted
Petit-Pierre.
"You are very inquisitive, my young friend," replied
the man.
"But — "
" Damn it ! come on, and you '11 find out. You shall
see with your own eyes where you are going in a very few
minutes."
And the man, taking Petit-Pierre by the arm, dragged
MAÎTRE JACQUES KEEPS HIS OATH. 435
her into the bushes, while Michel, struggling violently,
was pushed by the two assistants in the same direction.
They walked thus for about ten minutes, at the end of
which time they reached the open where, as we know, was
the burrow of Maître Jacques and his bandits. For it was
he, bent on sacredly keeping his oath to Aubin Courte-
Joie, who had stopped the two travellers whom luck had
sent in his way; and it was his pistol-shot which, as we
have already seen at the close of a preceding chapter, put
the whole camp of the refractories on the qui vive.
END OF VOL I.
THE LAST VENDEE;
OR,
THE SHE-WOLVES OF MACHECOUL
VOLUME II.
THE LAST VENDEE;
OR,
THE SHE-WOLVES OF MACHECOUL.
I.
IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT ALL JEWS ARE NOT FROM
JERUSALEM, NOR ALL TURKS PROM TUNIS.
" Hola ! hey ! my rabbits ! " called Maître Jacques, as he
entered the open.
At the voice of their leader the obedient " rabbits "
issued from the underbrush and from the tufts of gorse
and brambles beneath which they had ensconced them-
selves at the first alarm, and came running into the open,
where they eyed the two prisoners, as well as the darkness
would allow, with much curiosity. Then, as if this exami-
nation did not suffice, one of them went down into the
burrow, lighted two bits of pine, and jumping back put
the improvised torches under the nose of Petit-Pierre and
that of her companion.
Maître Jacques had resumed his usual seat on the trunk
of a tree, and was peaceably conversing with Aubin Courte-
Joie, to whom he related the incidents of the capture he
had made, with the same circumstantial particularity with
which a villager tells his wife of a purchase he has just
concluded at a market.
10 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Michel, who was naturally somewhat overcome by the
affair and by his wound, was sitting, or rather lying, on
the grass. Petit-Pierre, standing beside him, was gazing,
with an attention not exempt from disgust, at the faces of
the bandits; which was easy to do, because, having satis-
fied their curiosity, they had gone back to their usual
pursuits, — that is to say, to their psalm-singing, their
games, their sleep, and the polishing of their weapons.
And yet, while playing, drinking, singing, and cleansing
their guns, carbines, and pistols, they never lost sight for
an instant of the two prisoners who, by way of precaution,
were placed in the very centre of the open.
It was then that Petit-Pierre, withdrawing her eyes from
the bandits, noticed for the first time that her companion
was wounded.
"Oh, good God ! " she exclaimed, seeing the blood which
had run down Michel's arm to his hand; "you are shot ? "
" Yes ; I think so, Ma — mon — "
"Oh ! for heaven's sake, say Petit-Pierre, and more than
ever. Do you suffer much pain ? "
"No; I thought I received a blow from a stick on the
shoulder, but now the whole arm is getting numb."
"Try to move it."
"Well, in any case, there is nothing broken. See ! "
And he moved his arm with comparative ease.
"Good ! This will certainly win you the heart you
love, and if your noble conduct is not enough, I promise to
intervene in your behalf; and I have good reason to think
my intervention will be effectual."
" How kind you are, Ma — Petit-Pierre ! And whatever
you order me to do, I '11 do it after such a promise; even
if I have to attack a battery of a hundred guns single-
handed, I '11 go, head down, to the redoubt. Ah, if you
would only speak to the Marquis de Souday for me, I
should be the happiest of men ! "
"Don't gesticulate in that way; you will prevent the
blood from stanching. So it seems it is the marquis you
ALL JEWS ARE NOT FROM JERUSALEM. 11
are particularly afraid of. Well, I '11 speak to him, your
terrible marquis, on the word of — of Petit-Pierre. But
now, as they have left us alone to ourselves, let us talk
about our present affairs. Where are we ? — and who are
these persons ? "
"To me," said Michel, "they look like Chouans."
" Do Chouans stop inoffensive travellers ? Impossible ! "
"They do, though."
"I am shocked."
" Well, if they have not done it before, they have done
it now, apparently."
"What will they do with us ? "
"That we shall soon know; for see, they are beginning
to bestir themselves, — about us, no doubt ! "
" Goodness ! " exclaimed Petit-Pierre ; " how odd it will
be if we are in danger from my own partisans ! But
hush ! "
Maître Jacques, after conferring for some time with
Aubin Courte-Joie, gave the order to bring the prisoners
before him.
Petit-Pierre advanced confidently toward the tree, on
which the master of the burrow held his assizes; but
Michel who, on account of his wound and his bound hands,
found some difficulty in getting on his legs, took more
time in obeying the order. Seeing this, Aubin Courte-
Joie made a sign to Trigaud-Vermin, who, seizing the yourjg
man by the waist, lifted him with the ease another man
would have had in lifting a child three years old, and
placed him before Maître Jacques, taking care to put him
in precisely the same attitude from which he had taken him,
— a manœuvre Trigaud-Vermin accomplished by swinging
forward Michel's lower limbs and poking him in the back
before he let him fall at full length on the ground.
" Stupid brute ! " muttered Michel, who had lost undei
the effect of pain some of his natural timidity.
"You are not civil," said Maître Jacques; "no, I repeat
to you, Monsieur le Baron Michel de la Logerie, you are
12 THE LAST VENDÉE.
not civil, and the kindness of that poor fellow deserved a
better return. But come, let 's attend to our little busi-
ness ! " Casting a more observing look at the young man,
he added, "I am not mistaken; you are M. le Baron
Michel de la Logerie, are you not ? "
" Yes," replied Michel, laconically.
"Very good. What were you doing on the road to
Lege, in the middle of the forest of Touvois at this time
of night ? "
" I might answer that I am not obliged to give an account
of my actions to you, and that the highways are open to
everybody."
"But you won't answer me in that way, Monsieur le
baron."
" Why not ? "
"Because, with due respect to you, it would be folly,
and I believe you have too much sense to commit it."
"Very good; I won't discuss the point. T was going to
my farm of Banlœuvre, which, as you know, is at the far-
ther end of the forest of Touvois, in which we now are."
" Well done ; that 's right, Monsieur le baron. Do me
the honor to answer always in that way and we shall agree.
Now, how is it that the Baron de la Logerie, who has so
many good horses in his stables, so many fine carriages in
his coach-house, should be travelling on foot with his
friend, like a simple peasant, — like us, in short ? "
"We had a horse, but he got away in an accident we
met with, and we could not catch him."
"Well done again. Now, Monsieur le baron, I hope
you will be kind enough to give us some news."
"I ?"
"Yes. What is going on over there, Monsieur le
baron ? "
" How can things over our way interest you ? " asked
Michel, who not being quite sure to which party the man
he was addressing belonged, hesitated as to the color he
ought to give to his replies.
ALL JEWS ARE NOT FROM JERUSALEM. 13
"Go on, Monsieur le baron," resumed Maître Jacques;
* never mind whether what you have to say is useful to me
or not. Come, bethink yourself. Whom did you meet on
the way ? "
Michel looked at Petit-Pierre with embarrassment.
Maître Jacques intercepted the look, and calling up
Trigaud-Vermin, he ordered him to stand between the two
prisoners, like the Wall in "Midsummer-Night's Dream."
"Well," continued Michel, "we met what everybody
meets at all hours and on every road for the last three days
in and about Machecoul, — we met soldiers."
" Did they speak to you ? "
"No."
" No ? Do you mean to say they let you pass without
a word ? "
"We avoided them."
" Bah ! " said Maître Jacques, in a doubtful tone.
"Travelling on our own business it did not suit us to be
mixed up in affairs that were none of ours."
" Who is this young man who is with you ? "
Petit-Pierre hastened to answer before Michel had time
to do so.
"I am Monsieur le baron's servant," she said.
"Then, my young friend," said Maître Jacques, replying
to Petit-Pierre, " allow me to tell you that you are a very bad
servant. In fact, peasant as I am, I am grieved to hear a
servant answering for his master, especially when no one
spoke to him." Turning to Michel, he continued, "So
this lad is your servant, is he ? Well, he is a pretty boy."
And the lord of the burrow looked at Petit-Pierre with
scrutinizing attention, while one of his men threw the light
of a torch full on her face to facilitate the examination.
"Let us come to the point," said Michel; "what do you
want? If it is my purse I sha'n't prevent you from hav-
ing it. Take it; but let us go about our business."
"Oh, fie!" returned Maître Jacques; "if I were a gen-
tleman, like you, Monsieur Michel, I would ask satisfaction
14 THE LAST VENDÉE.
for such an insult. Do you take us for highwaymen?
That 's not flattering. I would willingly tell you my busi-
ness, only, I fear I should make myself disagreeable.
Besides, you say you have nothing to do with politics.
Your father, nevertheless, whom I knew something of in
the olden time, did meddle with politics, and did n't lose
his fortune that way either. I must admit, therefore, that
I expected to find you a zealous adherent of his Majesty
Louis-Philippe."
" Then you 'd have been very much mistaken, my good
sir," broke in Petit-Pierre, disrespectfully; "Monsieur le
baron is, on the contrary, a zealous partisan of his Majesty
Henri V."
"Indeed, my little friend!" cried Maître Jacques.
Then, turning to Michel, "Come, Monsieur le baron," he
continued, "be frank; is what your companion — I mean
your servant — says the truth ? "
"The exact truth," answered Michel.
"Ah, but this is good news ! I, who thought I had to
do with those horrid curs ! — good God ! how ashamed I
am of the way I have treated you, and what excuses I
ought to offer ! Pray, receive them, Monsieur le baron ;
and take your share, my excellent young friend, — master
and servant, please to accept them together. I 'm not too
proud to beg your pardon."
"Well, then," said Michel, whose displeasure was not
lessened by Maître Jacques's sarcastic politeness, "you
have a very easy way of testifying your regret, and that is
by letting us go our way."
" Oh, no ! " cried Maître Jacques.
" Why not ? "
" No, no, no ! I cannot consent to let you leave us in
that way. P>esides, two such partisans of legitimacy as
you and T, Monsieur le Baron Michel, have a great deal to
say to each other about the grand uprising that is now tak-
ing place. Don't you think so, Monsieur le baron ? "
"It may be so; but the interests of that cause require
ALL JEWS ARE NOT FROM JERUSALEM. 15
that I and my servant should immediately reach the safety
of my farm at Banlueuvre."
" Monsieur le baron, there is no spot in all this region
as safe as the one where you now are in the midst of us.
I cannot allow you to leave us without giving you some
proof of the really touching interest I feel for you."
"Hum ! " muttered Petit-Pierre, under her breath;
"things are going very wrong."
"Go on," said Michel.
" You are devoted to Henri V. ? "
"Yes."
" Very devoted ? "
"Yes."
" Supremely devoted ? "
"I have told you so."
"Yes, you have told me so, and I don't doubt your word.
Well, I '11 provide } r ou with a way to manifest that devotion
in a dazzling manner."
"Do so."
"You see my men," continued Maître Jacques, pointing
to his troop, — "some forty scamps who look more like
Callot's bandits than the honest peasants that they are.
They don't ask anything better than to be killed for our
3 r oung king and his heroic mother ; only, they lack every-
thing needful to attain that end, — shoes to march in, arms
to fight with, garments to wear, money to lessen the hard-
ships of the bivouac. You do not, I presume. Monsieur le
baron, desire that these faithful servants, accomplishing
what you yourself regard as a sacred duty, should be
exposed to cold, hunger, and other privations in all
weathers ? "
"But," said Michel, "how the devil am I to clothe
and arm your men ? Have I a base of supplies at com-
mand ? "
"Ah, Monsieur le baron," resumed Maître «Jacques,
"don't think I know so little of good manners as to dream
of burdening you with the annoyance of such details. No,
16 THE LAST VENDÉE.
indeed ! But I 've a faithful follower here " (and he
pointed to Aubin Courte-Joie) "who will spare you all
trouble. Give him the money, and he will lay it out to
the best advantage, all the while saving your purse."
"If that 's all," said Michel, with the readiness of youth
and the enthusiasm of his dawning opinions, " I 'm very
willing. How much do you want ? "
"Come, that 's good ! " exclaimed Maître Jacques, not a
little amazed at this readiness. "Well, do you think it
would be pushing things too far to ask you for five hundred
francs for each man ? I should like them to have, besides
the uniform, — green, you know, like the chasseurs of
Monsieur de Charette, — a knapsack comfortably supplied.
Five hundred francs, that 's about half the price Philippe
charges France for every man she gives him; and each of
my men is worth any two of his. You see, therefore, that
I am reasonable."
" Say at once the sum you want, and let us make an end
of this business at once."
" Well, I have forty men, including those now absent on
leave, but who are bound to join the standard at the first
call. That makes just twenty thousand francs, — a mere
nothing for a rich man like you, Monsieur le baron."
" So be it. You shall have your twenty thousand francs
in two days," said Michel, endeavoring to rise; "I give
you my word."
" Oh, no, no ; I wish to spare you all trouble, Monsieur
le baron. You have a friend in this region, a notary, who
will advance to you that sum if you write him a pressing
little note, a polite little note, which one of my men shall
take at once."
"Very well; give me something to write with, and
unbind my hands."
"My friend Courte- Joie here has pens, ink, and paper."
Maître Courte-Joie had already begun to pull an ink-
stand from his pocket. But Petit-Pierre stepped forward.
"One moment, Monsieur Michel," she said, in a resolute
ALL JEWS AKE NOT FROM JERUSALEM. 17
tone. " And you, Maître Courte-Joie, as I hear you called,
put up your implements. This shall not be done."
" Upon my word ! " ejaculated Maître Jacques ; " and
pray, why not, servant, — as you call yourself ? "
"Because such proceedings, monsieur, are those of ban-
dits in Calabria and Estramadura, and cannot be tolerated
among men who claim to be soldiers of King Henri V.
Your demand is an actual extortion, which I will not
permit."
" You, my young friend ? "
"Yes, I."
"If I considered you as being really what you pretend
to be, I should treat you as an impertinent lackey; but it
strikes me that you have a right to the respect we owe to
a woman, and I shall not compromise my reputation for
gallantry by handling you roughly. I therefore confine
myself, for the present, to telling you to mind your own
business and not meddle with what does n't concern you."
"On the contrary, monsieur, this concerns me very
closely," returned Petit-Pierre, with dignity. "It is of
the utmost consequence to me that no one shall make use
of the name of Henri V. to cover acts of brigandage."
" You take an extraordinary interest in the affairs of his
Majesty, my young friend. Will you be good enough to
tell me why ? "
"Send away your men, and I will tell you, monsieur."
"Off with you to a little distance, my lads ! " he said.
"It isn't necessary," he continued, as the men obeyed
him, " as I have no secrets from those worthy fellows ; but
I 'm willing to humor you, as you see. Come, now we are
alone, speak out."
"Monsieur," said Petit-Pierre, going a step nearer to
Maître Jacques, "I order you to set that young man at
liberty. I require you to give us an escort instantly to
the place where we are going, and I also wish you to send
in search of the friends we are expecting."
" You require ? — you order ? Ah, ça ! my little turtle-
TOL. II. — 2
18 THE LAST VENDÉE.
dove, you talk like the king upon his throne. If I refuse,
what then ? "
" If you refuse I will have you shot within twenty-four
hours."
" Upon my word ! one would think you were the regent
herself. "
"I am the regent herself, monsieur."
Maître Jacques burst into a roar of convulsive laughter.
His men, hearing his shouts, came up to have their share
in the hilarity.
"Ouf ! " he cried, seeing them about him; "here 's fun !
You were amazed enough just now, my lads, were n't you ?
— to hear a Baron de la Logerie, son of that Michel you
wot of, declare that Henri V. had no better friend than he.
That was queer enough ; but this — oh ! this is queerer
still, and even more incredible. Here 's something that
goes beyond the most galloping imagination. Look at this
little peasant. You may have taken him for anything you
like ; but I 've supposed him to be nothing else than the
mistress of Monsieur le baron. Well, well, my rabbits,
we are all mistaken, — you're mistaken; I'm mistaken!
This young man whom you see before you is neither more
nor less than the mother of our king ! "
A growl of ironical incredulity ran through the crowd.
"I swear to you," cried Michel, "it is true."
"Fine testimony, faith ! " retorted Maître Jacques.
" I assure you — " began Petit-Pierre.
"No, no," interrupted Maître Jacques; "I assure you
that if within ten minutes — which I grant to your squire
for reflection, my wandering dame — he does n't do as
agreed upon, I '11 send him to keep company with the
acorns over his head. He may choose, but choose quick,
— the money or the rope. If I don't have the one, he '11
have the other, that 's all ! "
"But this is infamous ! " cried Petit-Pierre, beside herself.
" Seize her ! " said Maître Jacques.
Four men advanced to execute the order.
ALL JEWS ARE NOT FROM JERUSALEM. 19
"Let no one dare to lay a hand on me!" said Petit-
Pierre. Then, as Trigaud-Vermin, callous to the majesty
of her voice and gesture, still advanced, "What!" she
cried, recoiling from the touch of that brutal hand, and
snatching from her head both hat and wig, "Is there no
man among those bandits who is soldier enough to recog-
nize me ? What ! Will God abandon me now to the mercy
of such brigands ? "
" No ! " said a voice behind Maître Jacques ; " and I tell
this man his conduct is unworthy of one who wears a cock-
ade that is white because it is spotless."
Maître Jacques turned like lightning and aimed a pistol
at the new-comer. All the brigands seized their weapons,
and it was literally under an arch of iron that Bertha —
for it was she — advanced iuto the circle that surrounded
the prisoners.
"The she-wolf!" muttered some of Maître Jacques's
men, who knew Mademoiselle de Souday.
"What are you here for ? " cried the master of the band.
"Don't you know that I refuse to recognize the authority
your father arrogates to himself over my troop, and that I
positively decline to be a part of his division ? "
"Silence, fool!" said Bertha. Then, going straight to
Petit-Pierre, and kneeling on one knee before her, " I ask
pardon," she said, "for these men who have insulted and
threatened you, — you who have so many claims to their
respect."
"Ah, faith," cried Petit-Pierre, gayly, "you have come
just in time ! The situation was getting critical ; and
here 's a poor lad who will owe you his life, for these
worthy people were actually talking of hanging him and
of sending me to keep him company."
" Good heavens, yes ! " said Michel, whom Aubin Courte-
Joie, seeing how matters stood, had hastened to unbind.
"And the worst of it was," said Petit-Pierre, laughing
and nodding at Michel, "that the young man deserved to
live for the favor of a good royalist like yourself."
20 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Bertha smiled and dropped her eyes.
"So," continued Petit-Pierre, "it is you who will have
to pay my debts toward him; and I hope you will not
object to my keeping a promise I have made him to speak
to your father in his behalf."
Bertha bent low to take the hand of Petit-Pierre and
kiss it, — a movement which concealed the rush of color to
her cheeks.
Maître Jacques, mortified and ashamed of his mistake,
now approached and stammered a few excuses. In spite
of her repulsion for the man's brutality, Petit-Pierre knew
it would be impolitic to do more than show a certain
amount of resentment.
"Your intentions may have been excellent, monsieur,"
she said, "but your methods are deplorable, and tend to
nothing less than making highwaymen of our supporters,
like the Company of Jehu in the old war ; and I hope you
will abstain from such proceedings in future."
Then, turning away, as if such persons no longer existed
for her, she said to Bertha, "Now tell me how you hap-
pened to come here just at the right moment."
"Your horse smelt his stable-mates," replied the young
girl ; " we caught him, and then turned aside, for we heard
the chasseurs coming up. Seeing the two bundles of
thorns tied to the poor beast, we thought that you wanted
to be rid of the animal in order to mask your escape, and
we all dispersed in diiferent directions to find you, giving
ourselves rendezvous at Banlœuvre. I came through the
forest; the lights attracted my attention, then the voices.
I left my horse at some distance, for fear he might betray
me; you know the rest, Madame."
"Very good," said Petit-Pierre; "and now if monsieur
will be good enough to give us a guide to Banlœuvre,
Bertha, let us start; for, to tell you the truth, I am half-
dead with fatigue."
"I will guide you myself, Madame," said Maître
Jacques, respectfully.
ALL JEWS AKE NOT FROM JERUSALEM. 21
Petit-Pierre bowed her head in assent; and Maître
«Jacques busied himself eagerly in his arrangements. Ten
men marched in advance to see that the road was clear,
while he himself with ten others escorted Petit-Pierre,
who was mounted on Bertha's horse.
Two hours later, as Petit-Pierre, Bertha, and Michel
were finishing their supper, the Marquis de Souday and
Mary arrived, the former testifying the utmost joy at find-
ing the person whom he called his "young friend" in
safety. We must admit that the old gentleman's joy, sin-
cere and genuine as it was, was expressed in the stiff,
ceremonious sentences of the old school.
In the course of the evening Petit-Pierre had a long con-
ference with the marquis in a corner of the large hall,
which Bertha and Michel watched with deep interest; which
was still further deepened when, on the sudden entrance
of Jean Oullier, the marquis rose, came up to the young
people, and taking Bertha's hand in his, said to Michel:
"Monsieur Petit-Pierre informs me that you aspire to
the hand of my daughter Bertha. I may have had other
ideas for her establishment, but in consequence of these
gracious commands I can only assure you, monsieur, that
after the campaign is over my daughter shall be your
wife."
A thunderbolt falling at Michel's feet would not have
stunned him more. While the marquis ceremoniously pre-
pared to place Bertha's hand in his he turned to Mary, as
if to implore her intervention ; but her low voice murmured
in his ears the terrible words, "I do not love you."
Overwhelmed with grief, bewildered and surprised,
Michel mechanically took the hand the marquis presented
to him.
22 THE LAST VENDÉE.
II.
MAÎTRE MARC.
The day on which all these events — namely, those in the
house of the Widow Picaut, in the château de Souday, the
forest of Touvois, and the farmhouse of Banlœuvre — took
place, the door of a house, No. 19 rue du Château, at
Nantes, opened about five in the afternoon to give exit to
two individuals, in one of whom we may recognize the civil
commissioner Pascal, whose acquaintance we have already
made at the château de Souday, and who, after leaving it,
as we related, with the Duchesse de Berry, poor Bonne-
ville, and the other Vendéan leaders, had returned without
difficulty to his official and private residence at Nantes.
The other, and this is the one with whom we are for the
present concerned, was a man about forty years of age,
with a keen, intelligent, and penetrating eye, a curved
nose, white teeth, thick and sensual lips, like those which
commonly belong to imaginative persons; his black coat
and white cravat and ribbon of the Legion of honor indi-
cated, so far as one might judge by appearances, a man
belonging to the magistracy. He was, in truth, one of
the most distinguished members of the Paris bar, who had
arrived at Nantes the evening before and gone straight to
the house of his associate, the civil commissioner. In the
royalist vocabulary he bore the name of Marc, — one of the
several names of Cicero.
When he reached the street door, conducted, as we have
said, by the civil commissioner, he found a cabriolet await-
ing him. The two men shook hands affectionately, and
the Parisian lawyer got into the vehicle, while the driver,
MAÎTRE MARC. 23
leaning over to the civil commissioner, asked him, as if
aware that the traveller was ignorant on the subject: —
" Where am I to take the gentleman ? "
" Do you see that peasant at the farther end of the street
on a dapple-gray horse ? " asked the civil commissioner.
"Yes."
"Then all you have to do is to follow him."
This information was hardly given before the man on
the gray horse, as though he had overheard the words of
the legitimist agent, started, went down the rue du
Château, and turned to the right, so as to keep along by
the bank of the river, which flowed to his left. The
coachman whipped up his horse, and the squeaking vehi-
cle on which we have bestowed the unambitious name of
"cabriolet,' - ' began to rattle over the uneven pavement of
the capital of the Loire-Inférieure, following, as best it
could, the mysterious guide before it.
Just as it reached the corner of the rue du Château and
turned in the direction indicated, the traveller caught sight
of the rider, who, without even glancing behind him, began
to cross the Loire, by the pont Rousseau, which leads to
the high-road of Saint-Philbert-de-Grand-Lieu. Once on
the road the peasant put his horse to a trot, but a slow
trot, such as the cabriolet could easily follow. The rider,
however, never turned his head, and seemed not only quite
indifferent as to what might be happening behind him, bat
also so ignorant of the mission he himself was performing
that the traveller began to fancy himself the victim of a
hoax.
As for the coachman, not being trusted with the secrets
of the affair, he could give no information capable of
quieting the uneasiness of Maître Marc. Having asked of
the civil commissioner, "Where am I to go ?" and being
told, "Follow the man on the dapple-gray horse," he fol-
lowed the man on the dapple-gray horse, seeming no more
concerned about his guide than his guide was concerned
about him
24 THE LAST VENDÉE.
They reached Saint -Philbert-de-Grand-Lieu in about two
hours and just at dusk. The man on the gray horse
stopped at the inn of the Cygne de la Croix, got off his
horse, gave the animal to the hostler, and entered the inn.
The traveller in the cabriolet arrived five minutes later
and entered the same inn. As he crossed the kitchen
the rider met him, and without appearing to take notice of
him, slipped a little paper into his hand.
The traveller entered the common room, which happened
at the moment to be empty ; there he called for a light and
a bottle of wine. They brought him what he asked for.
He did not touch the bottle, but he opened the note, which
contained these words : —
" I will wait for you ou the high-road to Lege ; follow me, but
do not attempt to join me or speak to me. The coachman will
stay at the inn with the cabriolet."
The traveller burned the note, poured himself out a glass
of wine, with which he merely wet his lips, told the coach-
man to stay where he was and expect him on the following
evening, and left the inn on foot, without attracting the
innkeeper's attention, or at any rate, without the inn-
keeper's attention seeming to be attracted to him.
At the end of the village he saw his man, who was cut-
ting a cane from a hawthorn hedge. The cane being cut,
the peasant continued his way, stripping the twigs off the
stick as he walked along. Maître Marc followed him for
a mile and a half, or thereabout.
By this time it was quite dark, and the peasant entered
an isolated house standing on the right of the road. The
traveller hastened on and went in almost at the same
moment as his guide. No one was there when he reached
the threshold except a woman in the room that looked out
on the high-road. The peasant was standing before her,
apparently awaiting the traveller. As soon as the latter
apppeared the peasant said to the woman : —
"This is the gentleman to be guided."
MAÎTRE MARC. 25
Then, having said these words, he went out, not giving
time to the traveller he had conducted to reward him with
either thanks or money. When the traveller, who fol-
lowed the man with his eyes, turned his astonished gaze
on the mistress of the house, she merely signed to him to
sit down, and then without taking further notice of his
presence, and without addressing him a single word, she
went on with her household avocations.
A silence of half an hour ensued, and the traveller was
beginning to get impatient, when the master of the house
returned home. Without showing any sign of surprise or
curiosity, he bowed to his guest; but he looked at his wife,
who repeated, verbatim, the words of the peasant: "This
is the gentleman to be guided."
The master of the house then gave the stranger one of
those uneasy, shrewd, and rapid glances, which belong
exclusively to the Vendéan peasantry. Then, almost
immediately, his face resumed its habitual expression,
which was one of mingled good-humor and simplicity, as
he approached his guest, cap in hand.
" Monsieur wishes to travel through this region ? " he
said.
"Yes, my friend," replied Maître Marc; "I am desirous
of going farther."
" Monsieur has his papers, no doubt ? "
"Of course."
"In order ?"
"They cannot be more so."
" Under his war name, or his real name ? "
"Under my real name."
"I am obliged, in order that I make no mistake, to ask
monsieur to show me those papers."
"Is it absolutely necessary ? "
"Yes; because until I have seen them I cannot tell
monsieur whether he will be absolutely safe in travelling
in these parts."
The traveller drew out his passport, which bore date
the 28th of February.
26 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Here they are," he said.
The peasant took the papers, east his eyes over them to
see if the description tallied with the individual before
him, refolded the papers, and returned them, saying: —
"It is all right. Monsieur can go everywhere with
those papers."
" And will you find some one to guide me ? "
"Yes, monsieur."
"I wish to start as soon as possible."
"I will saddle the horses at once."
The master of the house went out. In ten minutes he
returned.
"The horses are ready," he said.
"And the guide ?"
"He is waiting."
The traveller went out and found a farm-hand already
in his saddle, holding another horse by the bridle. Maître
Marc perceived that the led horse was intended for his
riding, the farm-hand for his guide. In fact, he had
scarcely put his foot in the stirrup before his new con-
ductor started, not less silently than his predecessor. It
was nine o'clock, and the night was dark.
TRAVELLING IN THE LOWER LOIRE. 27
III.
HOW PERSONS TRAVELLED IN THE DEPARTMENT OF THE
LOWER LOIRE IN MAY, 1832.
After riding for an hour and a half, during which time
not a word was exchanged between the traveller and his
guide, they reached the gate of one of those buildings
peculiar to that region, which are something between a
farmhouse and a château. The guide stopped, and made a
sign to the traveller to do likewise. Then he dismounted
and rapped at the door. A servant opened it.
"Here is a gentleman who wishes to speak to monsieur,"
said the farm-hand.
"It is impossible," replied the servant. "Monsieur has
gone to bed."
"Already ! " exclaimed the traveller.
The servant came closer.
"Monsieur spent last night at a rendezvous, and has
been nearly all day on horseback," he said.
"ISO matter," said the guide. "This gentleman must
see him ; he comes from Monsieur Pascal, and is going to
join Petit-Pierre."
"In that case it is different," said the servant. "I will
wake monsieur."
"Ask him," said the traveller, "if he can give me a safe
guide; a guide is all I want."
" I do not think monsieur would do that," said the servant.
" Why not ? "
"Because he will wish to guide monsieur himself," said
the man.
He re-entered the house. In five minutes he returned.
28 THE LA.ST VENDÉE.
"Monsieur wishes to know if monsieur will take any-
thing, or whether he prefers to continue his journey
without delay."
" I dined at Nantes and need nothing. I prefer to go
on immediately."
The servant again disappeared. A few moments later
a young man came out. This time it was not the servant,
but the master.
"Under any other circumstances, monsieur," he said,
"I should insist on your doing me the honor to rest a
while under my roof; but you are no doubt the person
whom Petit-Pierre expects from Paris ? "
"I am, monsieur."
" Monsieur Marc, then ? "
"Yes, Monsieur Marc."
"In that case, let us not lose a moment; you are expected
with the utmost impatience." Turning to the farm-hand,
he said, " Is your horse fresh ? "
"He has only done five miles to-day."
"In that case I '11 take him; my horses are all knocked
up. Stay here and drink a bottle of wine with Louis.
I '11 be back in two hours. Louis, take care of your com-
rade." Then turning to the traveller, he added, "Are you
ready, monsieur ? "
At an affirmative sign from the latter they started.
After a dead silence of a quarter of an hour a cry sounded
about a hundred steps before them. Monsieur Marc
started and asked what it was.
"It came from our scout," said the Vendéan leader.
" He asks in his fashion if the road is clear. Listen, and
you will hear the answer."
He stopped his horse and signed to Monsieur Marc to
do the same. Almost immediately a second cry was heard
coming from a much greater distance. It seemed the echo
of the first, so exactly alike were the two sounds.
" We can safely go on ; the road is clear, " said the
Vendéan leader.
TRAVELLING IN THE LOWER LOIRE'. 29
" Theu we are preceded by a scout ? "
" Preceded and followed. We have a man two hundred
steps before us and two hundred steps behind us."
" But who are they who answer the scouts ? "
"Peasants, whose cottages are along the road. Look
attentively at these cottages as you pass them, and you
will see a small skylight open and the head of a man come
up and remain there motionless, as if made of stone, until
we are out of sight. If we were soldiers of some neighbor-
ing cantonment the man who looked at us would instantly
leave his house by the back-door, and if there were any
meeting or assemblage of any kind in the neighborhood
warning would be given in time of the approach of the
troops." Here the leader interrupted himself. "Listen!"
he said.
The two riders stopped.
"This time," said the traveller, "I only heard one cry,
I think, — that of our scout."
"You are right; no cry has answered his."
" Which means ? "
"That troops are somewhere about."
So saying, he put his horse to a trot; the traveller did
the same. Almost at the same moment they heard a hur-
ried step behind them ; it was that of their rear scout, who
now reached them, running as fast as his legs could carry
him. At a fork of the road they found the man who
preceded them standing still and undecided. His cry had
not been answered from either road, and he was not sure
which way was best to take. Both led to the same des-
tination, but the one to left was the longest. After a
moment's deliberation between the chief and. the guide the
latter took the path to the right. The Vende'an and the
traveller followed him in about five minutes and were in
turn followed by their rear-guard after the same lapse of
time. These distances were carefully kept up between the
advanced guard, the army corps, and the rear-guard.
Three hundred steps farther on the two royalists found
30 THE LAST VENDÉE.
their forward scout once more stationary. He made them
a sign with his hand, requesting silence. Then, in a low
voice, he said: —
" A patrol ! "
Listening attentively they could hear, though at some
distance, the regular tramp of marching men; it was, in
fact, that of a small detachment of General Dermoncourt's
column making a night inspection.
The traveller and the Vendéan leader were now in one
of those sunken roads between banks and hedges so fre-
quent in La Vendée at this period, and more especially
during that of the great war, but which are now disappear-
ing and giving place to well-constructed parish roads.
The banks on either side were so steep that it would have
been impossible to make the horses mount either of them,
and there was no way of avoiding the patrol if they met it
except by turning short round and gaining some open place
where they might scatter to right or left. But in case of
flight the patrol of foot-soldiers would, of course, hear the
horsemen as plainly as the horsemen heard the foot-soldiers.
Suddenly the forward scout drew the attention of the
Vendéan leader by a sign. He had seen, thanks to
a momentary gleam of moonlight which instantly disap-
peared, the flash of bayonets; and his finger, pointing
diagonally, showed the Vendéan leader and the traveller
the course they ought to follow. The soldiers (to avoid
the water which usually flowed through these sunken roads
or lanes after rainy weather), instead of marching along
the lane, had climbed the bank and were now behind the
natural hedge which grew at the top of it. This was on
the left of the horsemen. By continuing in this way they
would pass within ten feet of the riders and the scouts,
who were hidden below them in the sunken lane. If
either of the two horses had neighed the little troop would
have been taken prisoners; but, as if the animals under-
stood the danger, they were as still as their masters, and
the soldiers passed on, without suspecting that any one was
TRAVELLING IN THE LOWER LOIRE. 31
near. When the sound of their footfalls died away the
travellers breathed again, and once more resumed their
march.
A quarter of an hour later they turned from the road
and entered the forest of Machecoul. There they were
more at their ease; it was not likely that the soldiers
would enter the woods at night, or at any rate take any but;
the mainroads which, like great arteries, passed through
it. By taking one of the wood-paths known to the country-
people, they had little to fear.
The two gentlemen now dismounted, and left their
horses in charge of one of the scouts, while the other dis-
appeared rapidly in the darkness, rendered deeper still by
the leafing out of the May foliage. The Vendéan leader
and the traveller followed the same path. It was evident
that they were nearing the end of their journey. The
abandonment of the horses amply proved it.
In fact, Maître Marc and the Vendéan had hardly gone
two hundred yards from the place where they left the
horses before they heard the hoot of an owl. The Vendéan
leader put his hands to his mouth, and in reply to the
long, lugubrious howl, he gave the sharp and piercing cry
of the screech-owl. The hoot of the horned owl answered
back.
"There 's our man," said the Vendéan leader.
A few moments later the sound of steps was heard on
the path before them, and their advanced scout came in
sight, accompanied by a stranger. This stranger was no
other than our friend Jean Oullier, sole and consequently
first huntsman to the Marquis de Souday, who had tem-
porarily renounced hunting, occupied as. he was by the
political events now developing around him.
In his previous introductions the traveller had noticed
the use of one formula: "Here is a gentleman who wishes
to speak to monsieur." This formula was now changed;
and the Vendéan leader said to Jean Oullier, "Here is a
gentleman who wishes to speak to Petit-Pierre."
32 THE LAST VENDÉE.
To this Jean Oullier merely replied: —
"Let him follow me."
The traveller stretched out his hand to the Vendéan
leader, who shook it cordially. Then he felt in his pocket,
intending to divide the contents of his purse between the
guides; but the Vendéan gentleman guessed his intention,
and laying a hand on his arm, made him a sign not to
do a thing which would seem to the worthy peasants an
insult.
Maître Marc understood the matter, and a friendly grasp
of their hands paid his debt to the peasants, as it had to
their leader. After which, Jean Oullier took the path by
which he had come, saying two words, with the brevity of
an order and the tone of an invitation : —
"Follow me."
The traveller was beginning to get accustomed to these
curt, mysterious ways, hitherto unknown to him, which
revealed if not actual conspiracy, at least approaching
insurrection. Shaded as the Vendéan leader and the
guides were by their broad hats, he had scarcely seen their
faces ; and now in the darkness it was with difficulty that
he made out even the form of Jean Oullier, although the
latter slackened his pace, little by little, until he fell back
almost to the traveller's side. Maître Marc felt that his
guide had something to say to him, and he listened atten-
tively. Presently he heard these words, uttered like a
murmur: —
"We are watched; a man is following us through the
wood. Do not be disturbed if you see me disappear.
Wait for me at the place where you lose sight of me."
The traveller answered by a simple motion of the head,
which meant, "Very good; as you say."
They walked on fifty steps farther. Suddenly Jean
Oullier darted into the wood. Thirty or forty feet in the
depths of it a sound was heard like that of a deer rising
in affright. The noise went off in the distance, as though
it were indeed a deer that had made it. Jean Oullier's
TRAVELLING IN THE LOWER LOIRE. 33
steps were heard in the same direction. Then all sounds
died away.
The traveller leaned against an oak and waited. At the
end of twenty minutes a voice said beside him : —
"Now, we '11 go on."
He quivered. The voice was really that of Jean
Oullier, but the old huntsman had come back so gently
that not a single sound betrayed his return.
" Well ? " said the traveller.
" Lost time ! " exclaimed Jean Oullier.
" No one there ? "
" Some one ; but the villain knows the wood as well as
I do."
" So that you did n't overtake him ? "
Oullier shook his head as though it cost him too much
to put into words that a man had escaped him.
"And you don't know who he was ? "
"I suspect one man," said Jean Oullier, stretching his
arm toward the south; "but in any case he is an evil one."
Then, as they reached the edge of the woods, he added,
"Here we are."
The traveller now saw the farmhouse of Banlœuvre
looming up before him. Jean Oullier looked attentively
to both sides of the road. The road was clear; he crossed
it alone. Then with a pass-key he opened the gate.
" Come ! " he said.
Maître Marc crossed the highway rapidly and disap-
peared through the gate, which closed behind him. A
white figure came out on the portico.
"Who 's there ? " asked a woman's voice, but a strong,
imperative voice.
"I, Mademoiselle Bertha," responded Jean Oullier.
"You are not alone, my friend ? "
" I have brought the gentleman from Paris who wishes
to speak to Petit-Pierre."
Bertha came down the steps and met the traveller.
"Come in, monsieur," she said.
VOL. II. — 3
34 THE LAST VENDÉE.
And she led the way into a salon rather poorly fur-
nished, though the floor was admirably waxed and the
curtains irreproachably clean. A great fire was burning,
and near the fire was a table on which a supper was already
served.
"Sit down, monsieur," said the young girl with perfect
grace, which, however, was not without a certain mascu-
line tone which gave it much originality. " You must be
hungry and thirsty; pray eat and drink. Petit-Pierre is
asleep ; but he gave orders to be waked if any one arrived
from Paris. You have just come from Paris, have you
not ? "
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"In ten minutes I will return."
And Bertha disappeared like a vision. The traveller
remained a few seconds motionless with amazement. He
was an observer, and never had he seen more grace and
more charm mingled with strength of will than in Bertha's
demeanor. She might be, thought he, the young Achilles,
disguised as a woman, before he saw the blade of Ulysses.
Absorbed in this thought or in others allied to it, the
traveller forgot to eat or drink.
Bertha returned as she had promised.
"Petit-Pierre is ready to receive you, monsieur," she
said.
The traveller rose; Bertha walked before him. She
held in her hand a short taper, which she raised to light
the staircase, and which lighted her own face at the same
time. The traveller looked admiringly at her beautiful
black hair and her fine black eyes, her ivory skin, with all
its signs of youth and health, and the firm and easy poise
of the figure, which seemed to typify a goddess.
He murmured with a smile, remembering his Virgil, —
that man who himself is a smile of antiquity, — "Incessu
patuit dea ! "
The young girl rapped at the door of a bedroom.
"Come in," replied a woman's voice.
TRAVELLING IN THE LOWER LOIRE. 35
The door opened. The young girl bowed slightly and
allowed the traveller to pass her. It was easy to see that
humility was not her leading virtue.
The traveller then passed in. The door closed behind
him, and Bertha remained outside.
36 THE LAST VENDÉE.
IV.
A LITTLE HISTOBY DOES NO HARM.
The room into which Maître Marc was now shown had
been recently built; the plastered walls were damp, and
the wainscot showed the fibre of its wood under the slight
coating of paint that covered it. In this room, lying on a
bedstead of common pine roughly put together, he saw a
woman, and in that woman he recognized her Koyal High-
ness the Duchesse de Berry.
Maître Marc's attention fixed itself wholly upon her.
The sheets of the miserable bed were of the finest lawn,
and this luxury of white and exquisite linen was the only
thing about her which testified in any degree to her station
in the world. A shawl with red and green checkers formed
her counterpane. A paltry fireplace of plaster, with a
small wooden mantel, warmed the apartment, the only fur-
niture of which was a table covered with papers, on which
were a pair of pistols, and two chairs, where lay the gar-
ments of a peasant-lad and a brown wig. The chair with
the wig stood near the table, that with the clothes was
near the bed.
The princess wore on her head one of those woollen coifs
distinctive of the Vendéan peasant-women, the ends of
which fell on her shoulders. By the light of two wax can-
dles, placed on the shabby rosewood night-table (a relic,
evidently, of some castle furniture), the duchess was look-
ing through her correspondence. A large number of
letters, placed on this table and held in place by a second
pair of pistols, which served as a paper-weight, were still
unopened.
A LITTLE HISTORY DOES NO HARM. 37
Madame appeared to be awaiting the new-comer im-
patiently, for as soon as she saw him she leaned half out
of her bed and stretched her two hands toward him. He
took them, kissed them respectfully, and the duchess felt
a tear from the eyes of her faithful partisan on the hand
he kept longest in his own.
" Tears ! " she said. " You do not bring me bad news,
monsieur, surely ? "
"They come from my heart, Madame," replied Maître
Marc. " They express my devotion and the deep regret I
feel in seeing you so isolated, so lost in this lonely Ven-
déan farmhouse, — you, whom I have seen — "
He stopped, for the tears choked his voice. The
duchess took up his unfinished phrase.
"At the Tuileries, you mean, on the steps of a throne.
Well, my good friend, I was far worse guarded and less
well served there than I am here. Here I am guarded and
served by a fidelity which shows itself in devotion, there I
was served by the self-interest that calculates. But come,
to business ; it makes me uneasy to observe that you are
delaying. Give me the news from Paris at once ! Is it
good news ? "
"Pray believe, Madame," said Maître Marc, "I entreat
you to believe in my deep regret at being forced to advise
prudence, — I, a man of enthusiasm ! "
"Ah ! ah ! " exclaimed the duchess. "While my friends
in La Vendée are being killed for my sake, the friends in
Paris are prudent, are they ? You see I have good reason
for telling you I am better served and guarded here than I
ever was at the Tuileries."
"Better guarded, yes, Madame; better served, no ! There
are moments when prudence is the very genius of
success."
"But, monsieur," said the duchess, impatiently, "I am
as well informed on the state of Paris as you can be, and I
know that a revolution is imminent."
"Madame," replied the lawyer, in a firm, sonorous voice,
38 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" we have lived for a year and a half in the midst of riots
and tumults, and none of them have yet been able to rise
to the level of revolution."
"Louis-Philippe is unpopular."
"Granted; but that does not mean that Henri V. is
popular. "
"Henri V! Henri V! My son is not Henri V., mon-
sieur; he is Henri IV. the Second."
" As for that, Madame, may I be allowed to say that he
is still too young to enable us to be sure of his true name
and nature. The more we are devoted to our leader the
more we owe him the truth."
"The truth ! yes, yes. I ask for it; I want it. But
what is the truth ? "
"Madame it is this. Unfortunately, the memories of a
people are lost when their horizon is narrow. The French
people — I mean that material, brute force which makes
convulsions and sometimes (when inspired from above)
revolutions — ■ has two great recollections that take the place
of all others. One goes back forty-three years, the other
seventeen years. The first is the taking of the Bastille;
in other words the victory of the people over royalty, — a
victory that bestowed the tricolor banner upon the nation.
The second memory is the double restoration of 1814 and
1815; the victory of royalty over the masses, — a victory
which imposed the white banner on the nation. Madame,
in great national movements all is symbolic. The tricolor
flag is liberty to the people; it bears inscribed upon its
pennant the thought, 'By token of this flag we conquer.'
The white flag is the banner of despotism; it bears upon
its double face the sign, 'By token of this flag we are
conquered.' "
" Monsieur ! "
"You asked for the truth, Madame; let me, therefore,
tell it to you."
"Yes; but after you have told it you will allow me to
reply."
Portrait of Louis Philippe.
A LITTLE HISTORY DOES NO HARM. 39
"Ah, Madame, I should be glad indeed if your reply
could convince me."
"Goon."
"You left Paris on the 28th of July, Madame; you did
not witness the fury with which the populace tore down
the white flag and trampled on the fleurs-de-lis."
" The flag of Denain and of Taillebourg ! the fleurs-de-lis
of Saint-Louis and of Louis XIV. ! "
"Unhappily, Madame, the populace remember only
Waterloo; they know only Louis XVI, — a defeat and
an execution. Well, the great difficulty I foresee for
your son, the descendant of Saint-Louis and of Louis
XIV., is that very flag of Taillebourg and of Denain.
If his Majesty Henri V., or Henry IV. the Second, as
you so intelligently call him, returns to Paris bearing
the white banner, he will not pass the faubourg Saint-
Antoine; before he reaches the Bastille he is dead."
" And if he enters with the tricolor, — what then ? "
"Worse still, Madame; he is dishonored."
The duchess bounded in her bed. But at first she was
silent; then, after a pause, she said: —
"Perhaps it is the truth; but it is hard."
"I promised you the whole truth, and I keep my word."
"But, if that is your conviction, monsieur, why do you
remain attached to a party which has no possible chance
of success ? "
" Because I have sworn allegiance with heart and lips to
that white banner without which, and with which, your
son can never return, and I would rather die than be
dishonored."
The duchess was once more silent.
"But," she said presently, "all this that you tell me
does not tally with the information which induced me to
come to France."
"No, doubtless it does not, Madame; but you must
remember one thing, — if truth does sometimes reach a
reigning prince it is never told to a dethroned one."
40 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Permit me to say that in your capacity as a lawyer,
monsieur, you may be suspected of cultivating paradox."
"Paradox, Madame, is one of the many facets of elo-
quence; only here, in presence of your Royal Highness,
my purpose is not to be eloquent, but to be true."
"Pardon me, but you said just now that truth was never
told to dethroned princes; either you were mistaken then
or you are misleading me now."
The lawyer bit his lips; he was hoist with his own
petard.
" Did I say never, Madame ? "
"You said never."
" Then let us suppose there is an exception, and that I
am permitted by God to be that exception."
"Agreed. And I now ask, why is truth not told to
dethroned princes ? "
"Because while princes on their thrones may have, at
times, men of satisfied ambition about them, dethroned
princes have only inordinate ambitions to satisfy. No
doubt, Madame, you have certain generous hearts about
you who devote themselves to your cause with complete
self-abnegation; but there are, none the less, many others
who regard your return to France solely as a path opened
to their private ends, to their personal reputation, fortune,
honor. There are, besides, dissatisfied men who have lost
their position and are craving to re-conquer it and avenge
themselves on those who turned them out of it. Well,
all such persons take a false view of facts; they cannot
perceive the truth of the situation. Their desires become
hopes, their hopes beliefs; they dream incessantly of a
revolution which may come possibly, but most assuredly
not when they expect it. They deceive themselves and
they deceive you ; they began by lying to themselves, and
now they are lying to you. They are dragging you into
the danger they are rushing into themselves. Hence the
error, the fatal error, into which you are now being hur-
ried, Madame, — an error T implore you to recognize in
A LITTLE HISTORY DOES NO HARM. 41
presence of the truth which I have, so cruelly perhaps,
unveiled before your eyes."
"In short," said the duchess, all the more impatiently
because these words confirmed those she had heard during
the conference at the château de Souday, " what is it that
you have brought in your toga, Maître Cicero? Is it peace
or war ? Out with it ! "
"As it is proper that we maintain the traditions of con-
stitutional royalty, I answer your Highness that it is for
her, in her capacity as regent, to decide."
" Yes, indeed ; and have my Chambers refuse me subsi-
dies if I do not decide as they wish. Oh, Maître Marc, I
know the fictions of your constitutional régime, the prin-
cipal feature of which is to do the work, not of those who
speak wisely, but of those who talk the most. But you
must have heard the opinions of my faithful and trusty
adherents as to the present opportunity for a great upris-
ing. What is that opinion ? What is your own opinion ?
We have talked of truth; truth is sometimes an awful
spectre. No matter; woman as I am, I dare to evoke it."
"It is because I am convinced there is the stuff of
twenty kings in Madame's head and heart that I have not
hesitated to take upon myself a mission which I feel to
be distressing."
"Ah, here we come to the point! Less diplomacy, if
you please, Maître Marc ; speak out firmly, as you should
to one who is, what I am here, a soldier."
Then, observing that the traveller, taking off his cravat,
was tearing it apart in search of a paper.
" Give it me ! give it me ! " she cried ; " I can do that
quicker than you."
The letter was written in cipher.
"I should lose time in making it out," said the duchess;
"read it to me. It must be easy to you, who probably
know what is in it."
Maître Marc took the paper from her hand and read,
without hesitating, the following letter : —
42 THE LAST VENDEE.
" Those persons in whom an honorable confidence has been
reposed cannot refrain from testifying their regret at unwise
councils which have brought about the present crisis. Those coun-
cils were given, no doubt, by zealous men ; but those men little
understand the actual state of things, or the condition of the
public mind.
They deceive themselves if they think there is any possibility
of an uprising in Paris. It would be impossible to find twelve
hundred men, not connected with the police, who would consent
to make a riot in the streets and
Guard and the faithful garrison.
They deceive themselves likewise about La Vendée, just as they
deceived themselves about Marseille and the South. La Vendee,
that land of devotion and sacrifice, is controlled by a numerous
army supported by the population of the cities, which are almost
wholly anti-legitimist; a rising of the peasantry could only end
in devastating the country and in consolidating the present govern-
ment by an easy victory.
It is thought that if the mother of Henri V. be really in France
she should hasten her departure as much as possible, after exhort-
ing all the Vendéan leaders to keep absolutely quiet. If, instead
of organizing civil war, she appeals for peace, she would have the
double glory of doing a grand and courageous deed and of pre-
venting the effusion of French blood.
The true friends of Legitimacy, who have not been informed of
present intentions, and not consulted on the perilous risks which
are being taken, and who have known nothing of acts until they
were accomplished, desire to place the responsibility of those acts
on the persons who have advised and promoted them. They dis-
claim either honor or blame for whatever result of fortune may
be the upshot."
During the reading of this communication Madame was
a prey to the keenest agitation. Her face, habitually
pale, was flushed; her trembling hand pushed back the
woollen cap she wore, and was thrust through and through
her hair. She did not utter a word or interrupt the reader
in any way, but it was evident that her calm preceded a
tempest. In order to divert it, Maître Marc said, as he
folded the letter and gave it to her : —
"I did not write that letter, Madame."
A LITTLE HISTORY DOES NO HARM. 43
"No," replied the duchess, unable to restrain herself
any longer; "but he who brought it was capable of
writing it."
Maître Marc felt sure that he should gain nothing in
dealing with that eager, impressionable nature if he low-
ered his head. He therefore drew himself up to his full
height.
"Yes," he said; "and he blushes for a moment's weak-
ness. And he now declares to your Royal Highness that
while he does not approve of certain expressions in the
letter he shares the sentiment that dictated it."
"Sentiment!" cried the duchess. "Call it selfishness;
call it caution, that comes very near to — "
"Cowardice, you mean, Madame. Yes, that heart is
cowardly, indeed, that leaves all and comes to share a
situation it never counselled. Yes, the man is selfish who
stands here and says, 'You asked for the truth, Madame,
and here it is; but if it pleases your Royal Highness to
advance to a death as useless as it is certain I shall march
beside you.' "
The duchess was silent for a few moments; then she
resumed, more gently : —
"I appreciate your devotion, monsieur, but you do not
understand the temper of La Vendee; you derive your
information from those who oppose the movement."
"So be it. Let us suppose that which is not; let us
suppose that La Vendée will surround you with battalions
and spare neither blood nor sacrifices for the cause ; never-
theless La Vendee is not France."
"Having told me that the people of Paris hate the
fleur-de-lis and despise the white flag, do you now want
me to believe that all France shares those feelings of the
Parisian populace ? "
"Alas! Madame, France is logical; it is we who are
pursuing chimeras in dreaming of an alliance between the
divine right of kings and popular sovereignty, — two
things which howl and rend each other when coupled.
44 THE LAST VENDÉE.
The divine right leads fatally and inevitably to absolut-
ism, and France will no longer submit to absolutism."
"Absolutism ! absolutism ! a fine word to frighten
children ! "
"No, it is not a fine word; it is a terrible one. Per-
haps we are nearer to the thing itself than we think;
but I grieve to say to you, Madame, that I do not believe
that God reserves to your royal son the dangerous honor of
muzzling the popular lion."
"Why not, monsieur ? "
"Because it is he whom that lion most distrusts. The
moment it sees him approaching in the distance, the lion
shakes his mane, sharpens his teeth and claws, and will
suffer him to come nearer only for the purpose of spring-
ing upon him. No one could be the grandson of Louis
XVI. with impunity, Madame."
" Then, according to you, the Bourbon dynasty has seen
its last days."
"God grant that such an idea may never come to me,
Madame. What I mean is that revolutions never go back-
ward ; I believe that if they once come to birth it is best
not to stop their development. It is attempting the impos-
sible ; it is like trying to drive a mountain torrent back-
ward to its source. Either our present revolution will be
fruitful of national good, — in which case, Madame, I know
the patriotism of your feelings too well not to be sure you
would accept it, — or it will be a barren failure, and then
the faults of those who have seized the sovereign power
will serve your son far better than all our efforts could."
"But, in that case, monsieur, things may go on thus to
the end of time."
"Madame, his Majesty Henri V. is a principle, and
principles share with God the privilege of having their
kingdom in eternity."
"Therefore, it is your opinion that I ought to renounce
my present hopes, abandon my compromised friends, and
three days hence, when they take up arms, leave them in
A LITTLE HISTORY DOES NO HARM. 45
the lurch and justify the man who tells them, 'Marie-
Caroline, for whom you are ready to fight, for whom you
are ready to die, despairs of her prospects and recoils at
fate; Marie-Caroline is afraid.' Oh, no; never, never,
never, monsieur ! "
" Your friends will not be able to make you that reproach,
Madame, for they will not take arms, as you suppose, a
few days hence."
" Are you ignorant that the day is fixed for the 24th ? "
"The order is countermanded."
"Countermanded ! " cried the duchess; "when ?"
"To-day."
"To-day!" she exclaimed, lifting herself up by her
wrists. "By whom?"
"By the man you yourself commanded them to obey."
" The maréchal ? "
"The maréchal, following the instructions of the com-
mittee in Paris."
"But," cried the duchess, "am I to be of no account ?"
"You, Madame!" exclaimed the messenger, falling on
one knee and clasping his hands, — " you are all. That is
why we seek your safety ; it is why we will not let you be
sacrificed in a useless effort; that is why we fear to let
you risk your popularity by a defeat."
"Monsieur, monsieur," said the duchess, "if Maria
Theresa's counsellors had been as timid as mine she would
never have re-conquered the throne of her son."
" It is, on the contrary, to secure, at a later period, your
son's throne that we now say to you, Madame, 'Leave
France ; let the people know you as an angel of peace, not
as a demon of war. ' "
" Oh ! oh ! " exclaimed the duchess, pressing her clenched
fists to her eyes; "what humiliation ! what cowardice ! "
Maître Marc continued as though he did not hear her, or
rather as if his resolution to make known a truth to her
mind was so fixed that nothing could change it.
" All precautions are taken to enable Madame to leave
46 THE LAST VENDÉE.
France without molestation. A vessel is cruising in the
bay of Bourgneuf ; your Highness can be on board of her
in three hours."
" Oh, noble land of Vendee ! " cried the duchess ; " could
I have believed you would repulse me, drive me from
you, — me who came to you in the name of your God and
your king ? Ah ! I thought that Paris alone was unfaith-
ful, ungrateful ; but you, — you to whom I come seeking
the recovery of a throne, you deny me so much as a
place of burial ! Oh, no, no; I never could have be-
lieved it ! "
"But you will go, will you not, Madame?" said the
messenger, still on his knees, with clasped hands.
"Yes, I will go," said the duchess. "I will leave
France. But remember this, I shall never return, for I
will never come with foreigners. They are only waiting,
as you well know, for the right moment to form a coalition
against Philippe. When that moment comes they will ask
me for my son, — not that they care for him more than
they cared for Louis XVI. in 1792, or Louis XVIII. in
1813, but he can be made the means of their having a party
in Paris. Well, I say to you, no ! they shall not have my
son ; no ! they shall not have him, not for a kingdom !
Rather than that I will fly with him to the mountains of
Calabria. I tell you, monsieur, if he must buy the throne
by the cession of a province, a town, a fortress, a house,
a cottage like that I am now in, I swear as regent and as
his mother, that he shall never be king of France. And
now, that is all I have to say to you. Go back to those
who sent you and repeat my words."
Maître Marc rose and bowed to the duchess, expecting
that as he left she would offer one of the two hands
she had stretched out to him when he came; but she
was motionless, stern, her fists were closed, her brows
knitted.
" God guard your Highness ! " said the messenger,
believing it was useless to stay longer, and thinking, not
A LITTLE HISTORY DOES NO IIAKM. 47
without reason, that as long as he was there not a muscle
of that generous organization would give way.
He was not mistaken ; but the door was scarcely closed
behind him before Madame, exhausted by the strain, fell
back upon her bed and sobbed aloud : —
"Oh, Bonneville ! my pocj i-Joune ville ! "
48 THE LAST VENDEE.
PETIT-PIERRE RESOLVES ON KEEPING A BRAVE HEART
AGAINST MISFORTUNE.
Immediately after the conversation we have just reported,
the traveller left the farmhouse; he was anxious to be
back at Nantes before the middle of the day. A few
moments after his departure, though it was scarcely day-
light, Petit-Pierre, dressed in her peasant's clothes, left
her room and went to the hall on the ground-floor of the
farmhouse.
This was a vast room, the dingy walls of which were
denuded in many places of the plaster that originally
covered them, while the beams across the ceiling were
blackened by smoke. It was furnished with a large ward-
robe of polished oak, the brass locks and handles of which
sparkled in the shadow of the dull, brown masses about it.
The rest of the furniture consisted of two beds, standing
parallel, surrounded by curtains of green serge, two com-
mon pitchers, and a clock in a tall carved wooden case, the
ticking of which was the only sign of life in the silence of
the night.
The fireplace was broad and high, and its shelf was
draped with a band of serge like that of the curtains;
only, instead of fading to a rusty green, this piece of stuff,
owing to the smoke, had changed to a dingy brown. On
this mantel-shelf were the usual adornments, — a wax
figure, representing the Child Jesus, covered by a glass
shade; two china pots, containing artificial flowers, covered
by gauze to protect them from flies; a double-barrelled
gun ; and a branch of consecrated holly.
PETIT-FIEKKE KEEPS A BKAVE HEART. 49
This hall was separated from the stable by a thin board
partition, and through this partition, in which were sliding
panels, the cows poked their heads to eat the provender
that was laid for them on the floor of the room.
When Petit- Pierre opened the door a man who was
warming himself under the high mantel of the fireplace
rose and walked away respectfully to leave his seat free to
the new-comer. But Petit-Pierre made him a sign with
one hand to resume his chair, gently pushing him with
the other. Petit-Pierre then fetched a stool and sat down
in the farther corner of the fireplace opposite to the man,
who was no other than Jean Oullier. Then she leaned
her head on her hand, put her elbow on her knee, and sat
absorbed in reflection, while her foot, beaten with a fever-
ish motion which communicated a tremulous movement to
the whole body, showed that she was under the shock of
some deep vexation.
Jean Oullier, who, on his side, had subjects for thought
and anxiety, remained silent and gloomy, twisting his
pipe, which he had taken from his mouth when Petit-
Pierre entered the room, mechanically in his fingers, and
issuing from his meditations only to give vent to sighs
that seemed like threats, or to push the burning logs
together on the hearth.
Petit-Pierre spoke first.
"Were not you smoking when I came in, my brave
fellow ? " she said.
"Yes," he replied, with a very unusual tone of respect
in his voice.
"Why don't you continue ? "
"I am afraid it may annoy you."
" Nonsense ! We are bivouacking, or something very
like it, my friend; and I am all the more anxious it should
be comfortable for all, for it is our last night together."
Enigmatical as these words were to him, Jean Oullier
did not allow himself to ask their meaning. With the
wonderful tact which characterizes the Vendéan peasantry,
VOL. ii. — 4
50 THE LAST VENDÉE.
he refrained from profiting by the permission given, but
without showing by look or sign that he knew the real
rank and quality of Petit-Pierre.
In spite of Petit-Pierre's own pre-occupations, she
noticed the clouds which darkened the peasant's face.
She again broke silence.
" What is the matter, my dear Jean Oullier ? " she
asked. "Why do you look so gloomy when I should
expect, on the contrary, to see you joyful ? "
" Why should I be joyful ? " asked the old keeper.
" Because a good and faithful servant like you shares in
the happiness of his masters; and I think your young
mistress looks happy enough to have a little of her joy
reflected in your face."
" God grant her joy may last ! " replied Jean Oullier,
with a doubtful smile.
"Why, Jean, surely you do not object to marriages of
inclination ! For my part, I love them ; they are the only
ones I have ever, in all my life, been willing to help on."
"I have no objection to such marriages," replied Jean
Oullier; "but I have a great objection to this husband."
« why ? "
Jean Oullier did not reply.
"Speak," said Petit-Pierre.
The Vendéan shook his head.
"Tell me, I beg of you, my dear Jean. I know your
young ladies, and I know now that they are like your own
children to you; you need not have any secrets from me.
Though I am not the Holy Father himself, you know very
well that I have power to bind and unbind."
"I know that you can do much," said Jean Oullier.
" Then tell me why you disapprove of this marriage ? "
"Because disgrace attaches to the name every woman
must bear if she marries Monsieur Michel de la Logerie;
and this woman ought not to give up one of the noblest
names in the land to take it."
"Ah, my dear Jean," said Petit-Fierre, with a sad
PETIT-PIERRE KEEPS A BRAVE HEART. 51
smile, "you are doubtless ignorant that in these days chil-
dren do not inherit as a tradition either the virtues or the
faults of their ancestors."
"Yes, I was ignorant of that," said Jean Oullier.
"It is task enough," continued Petit-Pierre, "or so it
appears, for each man to answer for himself in our day.
See how many fail ! — how many are missing from our
ranks, where the name they bear ought to have kept them !
Let us, therefore, be grateful to those who, in spite of
their father's example, in spite of their family ties, or the
temptations to their personal ambition, come to our banner
with the old chivalric sentiment of devotion and fidelity
in misfortune."
Jean Oullier raised his head and said, with a look of
hatred he did not attempt to conceal : —
" You may be ignorant — "
Petit-Pierre interrupted him.
"I am not ignorant," she said. "I know the crime you
lay to the Logerie father; but I know also what I owe to
the son, wounded for me and still bleeding from thai,
wound. As to his father's crime, — if his father really
committed it, which God alone can decide, — he expiated
that crime by a violent death."
"Yes," replied Jean Oullier, lowering his head; "that
is true."
"Who dares to penetrate the judgments of Providence ?
Can you venture to say that when he, in his turn, appeared
before that Judgment-seat, pale and bloody from a violent
death, the Divine mercy was not laid upon his head ?
Why, then, if God himself may have been satisfied, should
you be more stern, more implacable than God ? "
Jean Oullier listened without replying. Every word of
Petit-Pierre made the religious chords of his heart vibrate,
and shook his resolutions of hatred toward Baron Michel,
but did not uproot them altogether.
"Monsieur Michel," continued Petit-Pierre, "is a good
and brave young man, gentle and modest, simple and
52 THE LAST VENDEE.
devoted; he is rich, which certainly does no harm. I
think that your young mistress, with her rather self-willed
character and her habits of independence, could not do
better. I am convinced she will be perfectly happy with
a man of his nature. Why ask more of God, my poor Jean
Oullier ? Forget the past," added Petit-Pierre, with a sigh.
"Alas ! if we remembered all, we could love nothing."
Jean Oullier shook his head.
"Monsieur Petit -Pierre," he said, "you speak well and
like a good Christian; but there are things that cannot be
driven from the memory, and, unfortunately for Monsieur
Michel, my connection with his father is one of them."
"I do not ask your secrets, Jean," replied Petit-Pierre,
gravely ; " but the young baron, as you know, has shed his
blood for me. He has been my guide; he has given me a
refuge in this house, which is his. I feel something more
than regard for him, — I feel gratitude ; and it would be a
real grief to me to think that dissensions existed among
my friends. So, my dear Jean Oullier, in the name of the
devotion you have shown to my person, I ask you, if not
to abjure your memories, — for, as you say, we cannot
always do that, — at any rate, to stifle your hatred until
time, until the sight of the happiness the son of your
enemy bestows upon the child you have brought up and
loved, has effaced that hatred from your soul."
"Let that happiness come in the way God wills, and I
will thank Him for it; but I do not believe it will enter
the château de Souday with Monsieur Michel."
" Why not, if you please, my good Jean ? "
"Because the closer I look, Monsieur Petit-Pierre, the
more I doubt whether Monsieur Michel loves Mademoiselle
Bertha."
Petit-Pierre shrugged her shoulders impatiently.
"Permit me, my dear Jean Oullier," she said, "to doubt
your perspicacity in love."
"You may be right," said the old Vendéan; "but if this
marriage with Mademoiselle Bertha — the greatest honor
PETIT-PIERRE KEEPS A BRAVE HEART. 53
to winch that young man can aspire — really fulfils his
wishes, why did he make such haste to leave the farm-
house; and why has he been roaming all night in the
woods, like a madman ? "
"If he has been wandering all night, as you say," said
Petit-Pierre, smiling, "it is because happiness will not let
him rest; if he has really left the farm, it is probably on
some business for the cause."
" I hope so. I am not of those who think only of them-
selves; and though I am quite determined to leave the
family when the son of Michel enters it, I will none the
less pray God, night and morning, to promote the child's
happiness. At the same time, I shall watch that man.
If he loves her, as you say he does, I will try to prevent
my presentiments from being realized, — presentiments, I
mean, that instead of happiness he will only bring despair
upon his wife."
" Thank you, Jean Oullier. Then, I may hope — you
promise me, don't you ? — that you will not show your
teeth to my young friend ? "
" I shall keep my hatred and my distrust in the depths
of my heart, and only bring them forth in case he justifies
them; that is all I can promise you. Do not ask me to
like him, or respect him."
"Unconquerable race ! " muttered Petit-Pierre, in a low
voice; "it is that which has made thee so strong, so
grand."
"Yes," replied Jean Oullier to this aside, said loud
enough for the old Vendéan to overhear it, — "yes; we of
this region, we have but one love and one hatred. Can you
complain of that ? "
And he looked fixedly at Petit-Pierre, with a sort of
respectful challenge.
"No," said the latter; "and I complain of it the less
because it is nearly all that remains to Henri V. of his
heritage of fourteen centuries, — and it is powerless, they
say."
54 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Who says so ? " cried the Vendéan, rising, in a tone
that was almost threatening.
" You will soon know. We have talked of your inter -
ests, Jean Oullier, and I am not sorry, for our talk has
been a truce to thoughts that were sad indeed. Now I
must return to my own affairs. What time is it ? "
"Half-past four."
"Then wake up our friends. Their political anxieties
allow them to sleep; not so with me, for my politics are
of one sole thing, — maternal love. Go, friend ! "
Jean Oullier went out. Petit-Pierre, with bowed head,
walked up and down the room; sometimes she stamped
with impatience, and wrung her hands in despair. Pres-
enty she returned to the hearth. Two big tears were
rolling down her cheeks, and her emotion seemed to choke
her. Then she fell on her knees, and clasping her hands,
prayed to God, the Giver of all good, the Dispenser of
crowns, to enlighten and guide her resolutions and to grant
her either an indomitable power to fulfil her task or the
resignation to endure defeat."
WHEN WINE IS DRAWN IT IS BEST TO DRINK IT. 00
VI.
HOW JEAN OULLIER PROVED THAT WHEN THE WINE IS
DRAWN IT IS BEST TO DRINK IT.
Some minutes later Gaspard, Louis Renaud, and the Mar-
quis de Souday entered the room. Seeing Petit-Pierre on
her knees, ahsorbed in prayer and meditation, they paused
on the threshold; and the Marquis de Souday, who had
thought proper to salute the reveille, as in the good old
times, with a song, stopped short in his tune respectfully.
But Petit-Pierre had heard the opening of the door.
She rose and addressed those who stood there.
"Come in, gentlemen, and forgive me for disturbing you
so early," she said; "but I have important determinations
to announce to you."
"On the contrary, it is we who ought to ask your Royal
Highness's pardon for not foreseeing her wishes and for
having slept while we might have been useful to her," said
Louis Renaud.
" A truce to compliments, my friend, " interrupted Petit-
Pierre. "That appanage of royalty is ill-timed now that
royalty is deserted and engulfed for the second time."
" What can you mean ? "
"I mean, my good and dear friends," resumed Petit-
Pierre turning her back to the fireplace, while the Ven-
déans stood in a circle round her, — "I mean that I have
called you to me that I may now give back your promises
and bid you farewell."
"Give back our promises! bid us farewell ! " cried her
astonished partisans. "Your Royal Highness is surely
not thinking of leaving us ? "
56 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Then, all together, looking at each other, they cried
out : —
" It is impossible ! "
"Nevertheless, I must."
"Why so?"
"Because I am advised, — more than that, I am adjured
to do so."
"By whom?"
"By those whose judgment and intelligence I cannot
doubt, any more than I distrust their devotion and fidelity."
" But for what reasons ? — under what pretexts ? "
"It seems that the royalist cause is despaired of even
in La Vendee; the white banner is a rag which France
repudiates. I am told there are not in Paris twelve
hundred men who, for a few francs, would begin a riot in
the streets; that it is false to say that we have sympa-
thizers in the army, false that certain of the government
are true to us, false that the Bocage is ready to rise as
one man to defend the rights of Henri V. — "
"But," interrupted the noble Vendéan who had for the
time changed a name illustrious in the great war for that
of Gaspard, and who seemed incapable of longer control-
ling himself, "who gives such advice? Who speaks of La
Vendée with such assurance ? Who measures our devo-
tion, and says, 'Thus far and no farther shall it go ' ? "
"Various royalist committees that I need not name to
you, but whose opinion we must regard."
" Royalist committees ! " cried the Marquis de Souday.
Ha ! parbleu ! I know them ; and if Madame will believe
me, we had better treat their advice as the late Marquis
de Charette treated the advice of the royalist committees
of his day."
" How was that, my brave Souday ? " said Petit-Pierre.
"The respect I have for your Royal Highness," replied
the marquis, with magnificent self-possession, "will not,
unfortunately, allow of my specifying further."
Petit-Pierre could not help smiling.
WHEN WINE IS DRAWN IT IS BEST TO DKINK IT. 57
"All!" she said; "we no longer live in the good old
times, my poor marquis. Monsieur de Charette was an
autocratic sovereign in his own camp, and the Regent
Marie-Caroline will never be anything but a very consti-
tutional regent. The proposed uprising can succeed only
on condition of complete agreement among all those who
desire its success. Now, I ask you, does that complete
agreement exist when, on the eve of the uprising, notice is
given to the general that three fourths of those on whom
he counted would not take part in it ? "
"What matter for that ? " cried the Marquis de Souday;
"the fewer we are at the rendezvous, the greater the glory
to those who appear."
" Madame, " said Gaspard, gravely, " they went to you,
and they said to you, — when perhaps you had no thought
of re-entering France, — 'The men who deposed King-
Charles X.are held at arm's length by the present gov-
ernment and reduced to impotence; the ministry is so
composed that you will find few if any changes necessary
to make there; the clergy, a stationary and immovable
power, will lend its whole influence to the re-establish-
ment of the legitimate royalty by divine right; the courts
are still administered by men who owe their all to the
Restoration; the army, fundamentally obedient, is under
the orders of a leader who has said that in public policy
there should be more than one flag; the people, made
sovereign in 1830, has fallen under the yoke of the most
idiotic and most inept of aristocracies. Come, then,'
they said, 'your entry into France will be another return
from Elba. The population will everywhere crowd around
you to hail the last scion of our kings whom the nation
desires to proclaim ! ' On the faith of these words you
have come to us, Madame; and at your coming we have
risen to arms. I hold it, therefore, an error for our cause
and a shame for ourselves that this retreat, which would
impeach your own political sagacit}' - and prove our per-
sonal powerlessness, has been demanded of you."
58 THE LAST VENDEE.
"Yes," said Petit-Pierre, who by a singular turn of fate
found herself called upon to defend a course which was
breaking her heart, ■ — "yes; all you say is true. I was
promised all that; but it is neither your fault nor mine,
my brave, true friends, if fools have taken baseless hopes
for realities. Impartial history will say that when 1 was
accused of being a faithless mother (and I have been so
accused) I answered, as I was bound to answer, 'Here I
am, ready to make all sacrifices ! ' History will also say
of you, my loyal friends, that the more my cause seemed
hopeless and abandoned the less you hesitated in your
devotion to it. But it is a matter of honor with me not to
put that devotion to the proof uselessly. Let us talk
plainly, friends. Let us come down to figures; they are
practical. How many men do you think we can muster at
this moment ? "
"Ten thousand at the first signal."
"Alas!" said Petit-Pierre; "that is many, but not
enough. Louis-Philippe has at least four hundred and
eighty thousand unemployed troops, not to speak of the
National Guard."
"But think of the defections of the officers who will
resign," said the marquis.
"Well," said Petit-Pierre, addressing Gaspard, "I place
my destiny and that of my son in your hands. Tell me,
assure me, on your honor as a gentleman, that we have
two chances in ten of success, and instead of ordering you
to lay down your arms, I will stay among you to share your
perils and your fate."
At this direct appeal, not to his feelings but to his con-
victions, Gaspard bent his head and made no answer.
"You see," resumed Petit-Pierre, "that your judgment
and your heart are not in unison. It would be a crime in
me to use a chivalry which common-sense condemns. Let
us, therefore, not discuss that which has been decided, —
wisely decided, perhaps. Let us rather pray God to send
me back to you in better times and under more favor-
WHEN WINK IS DEAWN IT IS BEST TO DRINK IT. 59
able auspices. Meantime, let us now think only of my
departure."
No doubt the gentlemen present felt the necessity of
this resolution; little as it agreed with their feelings.
Believing that the duchess was fully determined on it, they
answered nothing and only turned away to hide their tears.
The Marquis de Souday walked about the room with an
impatience he did not attempt to disguise.
"Yes, "said Petit-Pierre, bitterly, after a long silence, — ■
"yes, some have said, like Pilate, 'I wash my hands of it,'
and my heart, so strong in danger, so strong to meet death,
has yielded; for it cannot face in cold blood the respon-
sibility of failure and the useless shedding of blood.
Others — "
"Blood that flows for the faith is never uselessly shed,"
Scud a voice from the chimney-corner. "God himself lias
said it, and, humble as I am, I dare to repeat the words of
God. Every man who believes and dies for his belief is
a martyr; his blood enriches the earth and hastens the
harvest."
"Who said that ?" asked Petit-Perre, eagerly, rising on
the tips of her toes.
"I," said Jean Oullier, simply, getting up from the
stool on which he was sitting, and entering the circle of
nobles and leaders.
"You, my brave fellow!" cried Petit-Pierre, delighted
to find a reinforcement at the very moment she seemed to
be abandoned by all. "Then you don't agree with the
Parisian gentlemen. Come here, and speak your mind.
In these days Jacques Bonhomme is never out of place,
even at a royal council."
" I am so little of the opinion that you ought to leave
France," said Jean Oullier, "that if I had the honor to be
a gentleman, like those present, I should lock the door
and bar your way and say, 'You shall not leave us ! ' "
"But your reasons ? I am eager to hear them. Speak,
speak, my Jean ! "
60 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"My reasons ? — my reasons are that you are our flag;
and so long as one of your soldiers is left standing, be he
the humblest of your army, he should bear it aloft and
steady until death makes it his winding-sheet."
"Go on, go on, Jean Oullier ! You speak well."
" My reasons ? — one is that you are the first of your
race who have come to fight with those who fight for its
cause, and it would be a shameful thing to let you go with-
out a sword being drawn from its scabbard."
" Go on, go on, Jacques Bonhomme ! " cried Petit-Pierre,
striking her hands together.
" But," interrupted Louis Kenaud, alarmed at the atten-
tion the duchess gave to Jean Oullier, "the withdrawals
we have just heard of deprive the movement of all chance
of success; it will be nothing more than a mere skirmish."
"No, no; that man is right ! " cried Gaspard, who had
yielded with great reluctance to Petit-Pierre's arguments.
"An attempt, if only a skirmish, is better than the non-
existence into which we should drop. A skirmish is a
date, a fact ; it will stand in history, and the day will
come when the people will forget all except the courage
of those who led it. If it does not lead to the recovery of
the throne it will at least leave traces on the memory of
nations. Who would remember the name of Charles
Edward were it not for the skirmishes of Preston-Pans
and Culloden? Ah, Madame, I long to do as this brave
peasant advises ! "
"And you would be all the more right, Monsieur le
comte," said Jean Oullier, with an assurance which showed
that these questions, apparently above his level, were
familiar to him, — "you would be all the more right
because the principal object of her Royal Highness, that
to which she is even willing to sacrifice the monarchy
confided to her regency, — I mean the welfare of the peo-
ple, — will otherwise fail."
" How do you mean ? " asked Petit-Pierre.
"The moment Madame withdraws and the government
WHEN WINE IS DKAWN IT IS BEST TO DRINK IT. 61
knows she is safely out of the country, persecutions will
begin; and they will be the more keen, the more violent,
because we shall have shown ourselves daunted. You are
rich, you gentlemen, — you can escape by flight, you can
have vessels to wait for you at the mouths of the Loire
and the Charente. Your country is everywhere, in many
lands. But as for us poor peasants, we are tethered like
the goats to the soil that feeds us ; we would rather face
death than exile."
"And your conclusion is, my brave Jean Oullier — "
"My conclusion is, Monsieur Petit-Pierre," said the
Vendéan, "that when the wine is drawn it is best to drink
it; we have taken arms, and having taken them, we ought
to fight without delay."
"Let us fight!" cried Petit-Pierre, enthusiastically.
"The voice of the people is the voice of God. I have
faith in that of Jean Oullier."
" Let us fight ! " echoed the marquis.
" Let us fight ! " said Louis Eenaud.
"Well then, what day shall we decide on for the first
outbreak ?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"Why," said Gaspard, "I thought it was decided for
the 24th!"
"Yes; but these gentlemen in Paris have countermanded
the order."
" Without informing you ? " cried the marquis. "Don't
they know that men are shot for less than that ? "
"I forgave them," said Petit-Pierre, stretching out her
hand. "Besides, those who did it are civilians, not
soldiers."
" This counter-order and delay are most unfortunate, "
said Gaspard, in a low tone; "had I known of it — "
" What ? " asked Petit-Pierre.
"I might not have agreed in the opinion of that peasant."
"Oh, nonsense!" cried Petit-Pierre; "you heard what
he said, dear Gaspard, — when the wine is drawn it is best
to drink it. Let us drink it gayly, gentlemen, even though
62 THE LAST VENDÉE.
it be that with which the lord of Beaumanoir refreshed
himself at the fight of the gallant Thirty. Come, Marquis
cle Souday, find me pen, ink, and paper in this farmhouse
where your future son-in-law has given me hospitality."
The marquis hastened to search for what Petit-Pierre
wanted; and while opening drawers and closets and rum-
maging the clothes and linen of the farmer, he contrived
to wring Jean Oullier's hand aud whisper : —
"You talked gold, my brave gars; never one of your
tally-hos rejoiced my heart like that "boot-and-saddle "
you've just rung out."
Then, having found what he wanted he carried it to
Petit-Pierre. The latter dipped the pen into the ink-
bottle, and in her firm, bold, large handwriting, she wrote
as follows : —
My dear Maréchal, — I remain among you. Be so good as
to come to me.
I remain, inasmuch as my presence has already compromised
many of my faithful followers, and it would be cowardice on my
part to abandon them. Besides, I hope, in spite of this unfor-
tunate counter-order, that God will grant us victory.
Farewell, Monsieur le maréchal; do not give in your resigna-
tion, for Petit-Pierre will not give in hers.
Petit-Pierre.
"And now," said Petit-Pierre, folding the letter, "what
day shall we fix for the uprising ? "
"Thursday, May 31," said the marquis, thinking that
the nearest time was the best, " if that is satisfactory to
you."
"No," said Gaspard; "excuse me, Monsieur le marquis,
"but it seems to me best to choose the night of Sunday,
the 3d to the 4th of June. On Sunday, after high mass,
the peasants of all the parishes assemble in the porches of
their different churches, and the captains will have an
opportunity to communicate the order without exciting
suspicion."
"Your knowledge of the manners and customs of this
WHEN WINK IS DRAWN IT IS BEST TO DRINK IT. 63
region is a great help, my friend," said Petit-Pierre, "and
I agree to your advice. Let the date be therefore the
night of the 3d to the 4th of June."
Whereupon, she began at once to write the following
order : —
Having resolved not to leave the. provinces of the West, but to
confide myself to their fidelity, — a fidelity so often proved, — 1 rely
upon you, monsieur, to take all necessary measures in your division
for the call to arms which is appointed to take place during the
night of the 3d and 4th of June.
I summon to my side all faithful hearts. God will help us to
save the country ; no danger, no fatigue, shall discourage me. I
shall be present at the first engagement.
To this document Petit-Pierre signed her name as fol-
lows : —
Marie-Cakoline,
Regent of France.
"There, the die is cast!" cried Petit-Pierre. "Now it
remains to conquer or die."
"And now," added the marquis, "if twenty counter-
orders are sent to me, I '11 ring that tocsin on the 4th of
June, and then — yes, damn it, after us the deluge ! "
"One thing is absolutely necessary," said Petit-Pierre,
showing her order. "This order must immediately and
infallibly reach the various division commanders so as to
neutralize the bad effects of the manifesto sent from
Nantes."
"Alas ! " said Gaspard; "God grant that luckless
counter-order may reach the country districts in time to
paralyze the first movement and yet leave vigor for the
second. I fear the reverse; I am terribly afraid that
many of our brave fellows will be the victims of their
courage and their isolation."
"That is why I think we ought not to lose a moment,
messieurs," said Petit-Pierre, "but use our legs while
waiting to use our arms. You, Gaspard, inform the
64 THE LAST VENDÉE.
divisions of Upper and Lower Poitou. Monsieur le Mar-
quis de Souday will do the same in the Retz and Mauges
regions. You, my dear Louis Renaud, must explain it all
to your Bretons. But who will undertake to carry my
despatch to the maréchal ? He is at Nantes; and your
faces are far too well known there to allow me to send any
of you on this errand."
"I will go," said Bertha, who had heard, in the alcove
where she was resting with her sister, the sound of voices,
and had risen to share in the discussion. " That is one of
my functions as aide-de-camp."
"Certainly it is; but your dress, my dear child," replied
Petit-Pierre, "will not meet the approval of the Nantes
people, charming as I myself think it."
"Therefore my sister will not go to Nantes, Madame,"
said Mary, coming forward; "but I will, if you permit me.
I can wear the dress of a peasant-woman, and leave your
Royal Highness her first aide-de-camp."
Bertha wished to insist; but Petit-Pierre, whispering in
her ear, said : —
" Stay, my dear Bertha ; I have something to say to you
about Baron Michel. We will plan a project he will not
oppose, I am very sure."
Bertha blushed, lowered her head, and left her sister to
take possession of the letter and convey it to Nantes.
WHY MICHEL DECIDED TO GO TO NANTES. 05
VII.
HEREIN IS EXPLAINED HOW AND WHY BARON MICHEL
DECIDED TO GO TO NANTES.
We have mentioned already, incidentally, that Michel had
left the farmhouse; but we did not dwell sufficiently on
this caper, nor on the circumstances that accompanied it.
For the first time in his life Michel acted slyly and even
showed duplicity. Under the shock of emotion produced
by Petit-Pierre's speech to the marquis, and by the vanish-
ing (through Mary's unexpected declaration) of all the
hopes he had been cherishing so complacently, he was
utterly crushed down and annihilated. Fully aware that
the fancy Bertha had so liberally shown for him separated
him from her sister far more than any aversion on the
hitter's part, he reproached himself for having encouraged
that fancy by his silence and his foolish timidity. But
there was no use scolding himself now; he knew that in
the depths of his soul he had not the necessary strength to
cut short a misunderstanding which fatally interfered
with an affection that was dearer to him than life itself,
There was not in bis nature resolution enough to bring the
matter to a frank, categorical explanation ; he felt it to be
impossible to say to that handsome girl, to whom he had
perhaps owed his life a few hours earlier, "Mademoiselle,
it is not you whom I love."
During all that evening, although occasions to open his
heart honestly to Bertha were not lacking, — for she, very
uneasy about a wound which if given to herself she would
hardly have noticed, persisted in dressing it, — Michel
remained passive in a situation the difficulties of which
VOL. II. — 5
66 THE LAST VENDÉE.
increased every moment. He tried to speak to Mary ; but
Mary took as much pains to prevent this as he did to
accomplish it, and he renounced the idea, which he
indulged for a moment, of making her his intermediary.
Besides, those fatal words, 'I do not love you,' sounded
in his ears like a funeral knell.
He profited by a moment when no one, not even Bertha,
had an eye upon him to retire, or rather to flee to his own
room. There he flung himself on the straw bed which
Bertha with her own white hands had prepared for him;
but he soon got up, his head on fire, his heart more and
more convulsed, to bathe his burning face in water and
bind a wet towel round his head. This done, he profited
by his sleeplessness to search for some method of release.
After an actual travail of imagination which lasted
nearly an hour an idea came to him. It was this, — that
he might have courage to write what he could not say.
This, Michel felt, was the highest point his strength of
character could reach. But in order to get any good out
of such a letter he felt he could not be present in the house
when Bertha received it and read the revelation of his
secret thoughts; for not only do timid persons dread being-
made to suffer, but they also dread making others suffer.
The result of Michel's reflections was that he would
leave the farmhouse; but not for long, be it under-
stood; for he intended, as soon as the position was
plainly defined and the ground cleared, to return and
take his place beside the sister he really loved. The
Marquis de Souday would surely not refuse him the hand
of Mary, since he had given him that of Bertha, as soon as
he was made aware that it was Mary and not Bertha whom
he loved. The father could have no possible reason for
refusal.
Much encouraged by this prospect, Michel rose and with
profound ingratitude cast off the towel to which he owed
(thanks to the quiet its cool refreshment had restored to his
brain), the good idea he was now intent on putting into
WHY MICHEL DECIDED TO GO TO NANTES. G7
execution. He went down to the yard of the farmhouse
and began to lift the bars at the stable entrance. But jnst
as he had lifted and pushed back the first of these bars
and was beginning on the second, he saw, under a shed, a
bale of straw, and out of that bale of straw came a head
which he recognized as that of Jean Oullier.
"The devil ! " said the latter in his gruffest tone; "you
are pretty early this morning, Monsieur Michel."
At that instant two o'clock rang from the steeple of a
neighboring village.
" Have you any errand to do ? " asked Jean Oullier.
"No," replied the baron, for he fancied that the Ven-
déan's eye could penetrate into the deepest recesses of his
soul, — "no; but I have a dreadful headache, and I thought
the night air might still it."
"I warn you that we have sentinels all around us, and if
you have not the password you may be roughly used."
"I ! "
" Damn it ! you as well as others. Ten steps from here
you '11 find out you are not the master of this house."
"But that password, — do you know it, Monsieur
Jean ? "
"Of course."
"Then tell me."
Jean Oullier shook his head.
"That 's the Marquis de Souday's affair. Go up to his
room; tell him you want to go away, and in order to do
so you must have the password. He '11 give it to you, —
that is, if he thinks proper to do so."
Michel took good care to do nothing of the kind, and
he remained standing where he was, with his hand on the
bar. As for Jean Oullier, he again buried himself in
the straw.
After a while Michel, wholly discomfited, went and sat
down on an overturned trough, which formed a kind of
seat at the inner gate of the farmyard. There he had
leisure to continue his meditations; but although the pile
68 THE LAST VENDÉE.
of straw did not move again, Michel fancied that an aper-
ture was made in its thickest part, and that in the depths
of that cavity he could see something glitter, which was,
doubtless, the eye of Jean Oullier. And alas ! he knew
there was no chance of eluding the eye of that watch-dog.
Luckily, as we have said, meditation was on this occa-
sion singularly useful to the young baron. The question
now was how to find a pretext to get away from Banlœuvre
in a proper manner. Michel was still seeking that pretext
when the first rays of the rising sun began to light up the
horizon and gild the thatch of the cottage-roof and color
with its opal tints the panes of the narrow windows.
Little by little life was renewed around Michel. The
cattle lowed for their food; the sheep, impatient for the
fields, bleated and poked their gray-white muzzles through
the bars of their pen; the hens fluttered down from their
perches and stretched their wings and clucked on the
manure heap; the pigeons came out of the cote and flew to
the roof, to coo their hymn of love eternal; while the
ducks, more prosaic, stood in a long line by the farmyard
gate and filled the air with discordant noises, — noises
which, in all probability, expressed their surprise at find-
ing that gate closed when they were in such a hurry to go
and dabble in the pond.
At the sound of these various noises, forming the matu-
tinal concert of a well-managed farm, a window just above
the bench on which Michel was sitting opened softly, and
J'etit-Pierre's head appeared within it. She did not, how-
ever, see Michel; her eyes were turned to heaven, and she
seemed entirely absorbed either by inward thought or by
the glorious spectacle the dawn presented to her. Any
eye — above all, that of a princess unaccustomed to watch
the rising of the sun — would have been dazzled by the jets
of flame which the king of day was sending along the
plain, where they sparkled like thousands of precious
stones upon the wet and quivering leaves of the forest-trees
and the dewy herbage of the fields; presently an invisi-
WHY MICHEL DECIDED TO GO TO NANTES. 69
ble hand softly raised the veil of vapor from the valley,
disclosing, one by one, like a modest virgin, its beauty,
grace, and splendor.
Petit-Pierre gave herself up to the contemplation of this
scene for several minutes. Then, resting her head on her
hand, she murmured sadly : —
"Alas ! bare as this poor cottage is, those who live in it
are more fortunate than I."
These words struck the young baron's brain like a magic
wand and elicited the idea, or rather the pretext, he had
been vainly searching for the last two hours. Ho kept
quite still against the wall, to which he had clung when
the window opened, and he did not move until a sound
told him the window was shut and he could leave his sta-
tion without being seen.
He went straight to the shed.
"Monsieur," he said to Jean Oullier, "Petit-Pierre
opened his window — "
"So I saw," said the Vendéan.
" He spoke ; did you hear what he said ? "
"It did not concern me, and therefore I did not listen."
"Being nearer to him, I heard what he said, without
intending to listen."
"Well?"
"Well, our guest thinks this house unpleasant and
inconvenient; it lacks many things which are a necessity
to a person of his aristocratic habits. Couldn't you — I
giving you the money, of course — could n't you procure
some of these necessary things ? "
"Where, I should like to know ?"
" Why, in the nearest town or village, — Lege or
Machecoul. "
Jean Oullier shook his head.
"Impossible," he said.
"Why so ? " asked Michel.
" Because if I were to buy articles of luxury just now
in either of those places, where not a gesture of certain
70 THE LAST VENDÉE.
persons is unobserved, I should awaken dangerous sus-
picion."
" Could n't you go as far as Nantes ? "
"No," said Jean Otillier, curtly; "the lesson I got at
Montaigu has taught me prudence, and I shall not leave
my post. But," he continued, in a slightly ironical tone,
"you who want the fresh air to cure your headache, — why
don't you go to Nantes ? "
Seeing his scheme thus crowned with success, Michel
blushed to the whites of his eyes; and yet he trembled,
now that it came to putting it into execution.
"Perhaps you are right," he stammered; "but I am
afraid, too."
"Pooh! a brave man like you ought to have no fear,"
said Jean Oullier, emerging from the straw, and shaking
it off as he walked toward the gate, leaving the young man
time to reflect.
"But — " said Michel.
" What ? " asked Jean Oullier, impatiently.
"Will you undertake to explain the reasons of my
departure to Monsieur le marquis, and present my excuses
to — "
"Mademoiselle Bertha?" said Jean Oullier, sarcasti-
cally. "Yes; don't trouble yourself."
" I shall be back to-morrow, " said Michel, as he passed
through the gate.
"Don't hurry; take your time, Monsieur le baron. Tf
not to-morrow, the next day will do." So saying, he
closed the heavj*- gate behind the young man.
The sound of the gate barricaded against him gave a
painful shock to Michel's heart. At that moment he
thought less of the difficulties he was seeking to escape
than of his total separation from the one he loved. Tt
seemed to him that the worm-eaten gate was an iron bar-
rier which he should ever find in future between the gentle
form of Mary and himself.
So, instead of starting on his way, he again sat down,
WHY MICHEL DECIDED TO GO TO NANTES. 71
this time by the roadside, and wept. There was a moment
when, if he had not feared Jean Oullier's sarcasms (inex-
perienced as he was, he could not be ignorant of the man's
malevolence), he would have rapped on the gate and asked
for re-admittance to see once more his tender Mary; but
an inward impulse of — we were about to say false shame;
let us rather say — true shame withheld him, and he at
last departed, without very well knowing whither he
went.
He was, however, on the road to Lege, and before long
the sound of wheels made him turn his head. He then
saw the diligence which ran from Sables-d'Olonne to
Nantes coming toward him. Michel felt that his strength,
lessened by the loss of blood, though his wound was slight,
would not enable him to walk much farther. The sight of
the vehicle brought him to a resolution. He stopped it,
got into one of the compartments, and reached Nantes a
few hours later.
But when he got there all the melancholy of his situa-
tion came over him. Habituated from childhood to live
the life of others, to obey a will that was not his own, and
still maintained in that mental servitude by the very sub-
stitution that had just taken place within him, — having,
as we may say, changed masters by abandoning his mother
to follow the woman whom he loved, — liberty was to him
so novel that he did not feel its charm, whereas his soli-
tude and isolation were unbearable to him.
For hearts that are deeply wounded there is no such
cruel solitude as that of a city; and the larger and more
populous it is, the greater the solitude. Isolation in the
midst of a crowd, the nearness of the joy and the heedless-
ness of those they meet, contrasting with the sadness and
anxiety in their own minds, become unendurable to them.
So it was now with Michel. Finding himself, almost
without the action of his own will, on the road to Nantes,
he hoped to find there some distraction to his anxious grief;
on the contrary, he found it far more keen and agonizing,
72 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Mary's image followed him; he seemed to see her in every
woman he met, and his heart dissolved into bitter regrets
and impotent desires.
In this condition of mind he presently turned back to
the inn at which the coach had stopped, where he shut him-
self up in a room and again began to weep. He thought
of returning instantly to Banlœuvre, flinging himself at
Petit-Pierre's feet, and asking her to be his mediator
between the two sisters. He blamed himself for not hav-
ing done so that morning, and for weakly yielding to the
fear of wounding Bertha's pride.
This current of ideas brought him naturally back to the
object, or rather the pretext, of his journey, — that is, the
articles of luxury he had proposed to purchase. Those
purchases once made, — to serve as a legitimate reason for
his absence, — he would write the terrible letter which
was, in truth, the one only and true cause of his flight
to Nantes.
Presently he decided that he had better begin by writ-
ing that letter. This resolution taken, he did not lose a
moment in carrying it out. He seated himself at the table
and composed the following letter, on which fell as many
tears from his eyes as words from his pen : —
Mademoiselle, — I ought to be the happiest of men, and yet
my heart is broken, and I ask myself whether death were not more
tolerable than the suffering I endure.
What will you think of me, what will you say when this letter
tells you that which I can no longer conceal without being utterly
unworthy of your goodness to me ? I need the memory of that
goodness, the certainty of the grandeur and generosity of your
soul, but, above all, I need the thought that it is the being you
love best in the world who separates us, before I can summon
courage to take this step.
Mademoiselle, I love your sister Mary ; I love her with all the
power of my heart ; I love her so that I do not wish to live — I
cannot live without her ! I love her so much that at this moment,
when I am guilty toward you of what a less noble character than
yours might perhaps consider a cruel wrong, I stretch to you my
WHY MICHEL DECIDED TO GO TO NANTES. 73
supplicating hands and say : Let me hope that I may obtain the
right to love you as a brother loves a sister !
It was not until this letter was folded and sealed that
Michel thought of how it might be made to reach Bertha.
No one in Nantes could be sent with it; the danger was
too great either for a faithful messenger, or for themselves
if the messenger were treacherous. The only means he
could think of was to return to the country and find some
peasant in the neighborhood of Machecoul on whose fidelity
he could rely, and wait himself in the forest for the reply
on which his future hung. This was the plan on which
he decided.
He spent the remainder of the evening in making the
different purchases for the comfort of Petit-Pierre, which
he packed in a valise, putting off till the next morning the
buying of a horse, — an acquisition which was necessary
to him in future if he was, as he hoped, to continue the
campaign he had already begun.
The next day, about nine o'clock in the morning, Michel,
mounted on an excellent Norman beast, with his valise
behind him, was preparing to start on his way back to the
Retz region.
74 THE LAST VENDÉE.
VIII.
THE SHEEP, RETURNING TO THE FOLD, TUMBLES INTO A
PIT-FALL.
It was market-day, and the influx of countrymen was con-
siderable in the streets and along the quays of Nantes. At
the moment when Michel reached the pont Eousseau the
road was blocked by a compact line of heavy vehicles
loaded with grain, carts heaped with vegetables, horses,
mules, peasants, and peasant-women, all carrying in bas-
kets, hods, or tin-pails the produce they were bringing to
the town.
Michel's impatience was so great that he did not hesi-
tate to plunge into the midst of the crowd ; but just as he
was pushing his horse into it he caught sight of a young
girl leaving it in a direction opposite to his own course,
and something in her aspect made him quiver.
She was dressed, like other peasant-women, in a blue-
and-red striped petticoat and a cotton mantle with a hood to
it; her head was covered by a coif, with falling lappets of
the commonest kind. Nevertheless, in spite of this hum-
ble costume, she closely resembled Mary, — so closely that
the young baron could not restrain a cry of astonishment.
He tried to turn back; but, unfortunately, the commo-
tion he made in the crowd by the stopping and turning of
his horse raised such a storm of oaths and cries that he
had no courage to brave it. He let his beast continue its
way, swearing to himself at the obstacles which hindered
his advance. Once over the bridge, however, he jumped
from his horse and looked about for some one to hold it,
THE SHEEP TUMBLES INTO A PIT-FALL. 75
while he went back to see if his eyes had deceived hiui, or
whether it were possible that Mary had come to Nantes.
At that instant a voice, nasal like that of all the beggars
of that region, asked alms of him. He turned quickly, for
he thought he knew the voice. Leaning against the last
post of the bridge were two individuals, whose counte-
nances were far too marked and characteristic to have
escaped his memory. They were Aubin Courte-Joie and
Trigaud- Vermin, who, apparently, were there for no other
purpose than to work upon the pity of the crowd, though,
in all probability, they had some object not foreign to the
political and commercial interests of Maître Jacques.
Michel went eagerly up to them.
" You know me ? " he asked.
Aubin Courte-Joie winked.
"My good monsieur," he said, "have pity on a poor
cartman who has had both legs crushed under the wheels
of his cart, coming down the hill by the springs of Baugé."
"Yes, yes, my good man," said Michel, understanding
instantly.
He went close up to the pair as he gave them alms, and
the alms were a piece of gold, which he slipped into the
capacious paw of Trigaud- Vermin.
"I am here by order of Petit-Pierre," he said, in a low
voice, to the false and the real mendicant; "hold my horse
for a few moments while I do an important errand."
The cripple made a sign of assent. Baron Michel tossed
the bridle of the horse to Trigaud and turned to re -cross
the bridge. Unfortunately for him, if the passage was
difficult for a horseman, it was still more difficult for a
foot-passenger. Michel in vain attempted some assump-
tion, and tried to make his timid nature more aggressive.
He punched with his elbows,' and glided where he could
through interstices ; he risked his life a dozen times under
the wheels of hay-carts and cabbage-carts, but finally he
was forced to resign himself to follow the stream and go
with the torrent, though it was evident the young peasant-
76 THE LAST VENDÉE.
woman would be far out of sight by the time he reached
the place where he had seen her.
He thought, sagaciously enough, that she must, like
other peasant- women, have gone toward the market, and
he took that direction, looking at all the countrywomen
he passed with an anxious curiosity that earned him some
jests and came near causing a quarrel or two. None of
them was she whom he sought. He rushed through the
market and the adjacent streets, but saw nothing that
recalled to him the graceful apparition he had seen on the
bridge.
Completely discouraged, he was thinking of returning on
his steps and remounting his horse, when, as he turned the
corner of the rue du Château he saw, not twenty steps dis-
tant from him, the identical petticoat of blue-and-red
stripes and the very cotton mantle of which he was in
search. The carriage and step of the woman who wore
that dress had all the elegance of Mary's own bearing. It
was surely her slender and delicate form the outline of
which he saw through the folds of the coarse material she
wore. Those were the curves of her graceful neck, which
made the lappets of her common coif an adornment; and.
the knot of hair which came below the coif, surely it was
braided of the same fair golden hair which Michel had so
often admired.
No, he could not be deceived ; that young peasant-woman
and Mary were one and the same person, and Michel was
so sure of it that he dared not pass her and look into her
face as he had into that of others. He contented himself
by simply crossing the street. The result of that strategic
movement assured him he was not mistaken.
But why was Mary in Nantes; and being there, why
was she thus disguised ? These questions Michel put to
himself without being able to solve them, and he was, after
a violent struggle with himself, just about to approach
the young girl and speak to her, when he saw her stop at
No. 17 of this very rue du Château, push the gate of the
THE SHEEP TUMBLES INTO A PIT-FALL. 77
house, and as the gate was not locked, pass through it,
enter an alley, close the gate behind her, and disappear.
Michel went eagerly to the gate ; but it was now locked.
He stood before it in deep and painful stupefaction, not
knowing what to do next, and half-inclined to believe he
was dreaming.
Suddenly he felt a tap upon his arm ; he shuddered, so
far was his mind at that moment from his body. Then he
turned round. The notary, Loriot, was beside him.
"You here ! " exclaimed the latter, in a tone that
denoted surprise.
" Is there anything so very astonishing in my being at
Nantes, Maître Loriot ? " asked Michel.
"Come, speak lower, and don't stand before that door
as if you had taken root there; I advise you not."
" Goodness ! what 's the matter with you ? I knew you
were cautious, but not to that extent."
" One can't be too cautious. Come, let 's talk as we
walk; then we sha'n't be remarked upon." Passing his
handkerchief over his face, which was bathed in perspira-
tion, he added, "Though it will compromise me horribly."
"I swear, Maître Loriot, I don't know what you are
talking about," exclaimed Michel.
"You don't understand what I mean, unfortunate young
man? Don't you know that you are down on the list of
suspected persons, and that a warrant has been issued for
your arrest ? "
" Well, let them arrest me ! " cried Michel, impatiently,
trying to turn the notary back toward the house into which
Mary had disappeared.
" Arrest you ! Hey ! you take it gayly enough, Monsieur
Michel. All right; call it philosophy. I ought to tell
you that this same news, which seems to you so unimpor-
tant, has produced such a dreadful effect upon your mother
that if chance had not thrown you in my way here I should
have gone immediately to Lege to find you."
" My mother ! " cried the young man, whom the notary
78 THE LAST VENDÉE.
was touching on his weak spot, — " what has happened to
my mother ? "
''Nothing has happened, Monsieur Michel. Thank
Heaven, she is as well as persons can be when their minds
are full of uneasiness and their hearts of grief. I must
not conceal from you that that is your mother's condition
at this moment."
"Good God ! what do you mean ?" said Michel, sighing
dolefully.
"You know what you are to her, Monsieur Michel; you
can't have forgotten the care she took of your youth, and
the solicitude she continues to bestow upon you, though
you are now of an age when lads begin to slip through
their mother's fingers. You can, therefore, imagine what
her tortures are in knowing that you are exposed every
day to the terrible dangers that surround you. I do not
conceal from you that I considered it my duty to inform
her of what I suppose to be your intentions, and I have
fulfilled that duty."
" Oh, what have you said to her, Maître Loriot ? "
" I told her, in plain language, that I believed you to be
desperately in love with Mademoiselle Bertha de Souclay — "
"Goodness ! " exclaimed Michel; "he, too ! "
"And," continued the notary, without noticing the
interruption, "that, to all appearance, you intend to
marry her."
" What did my mother say ? " asked Michel, with
visible anxiety.
"Just what all mothers say when they hear of a mar-
riage they disapprove. But come, let me question you
myself, my young friend; my position as notary of both
families ought to give me some influence with you. Have
you seriously reflected on what you are about to do ? "
"Do you share my mother's prejudices?" demanded
Michel. "Do you know anything against the reputation
of the Demoiselles de Souday ? "
"Nothing whatever, my young friend," replied Maître
THE SHEEP TUMBLES INTO A PIT-FALL. 70
Loriot, while Michel gazed anxiously at the windows
of the house into which Mary had entered, — "nothing
whatever ! On the contrary, I consider those young
ladies, whom I have known from childhood, as among
the purest and most virtuous in the land, in spite of
the malicious nickname a few evil tongues have applied
to them."
"Then," said Michel, "why is it you disapprove of what
I do ? "
"My young friend," said the notary, "please observe
that I have given no opinion; I simply advise prudence.
You will have to make three times as much effort to suc-
ceed in what must be called from a certain point of view
— pray excuse the word — a folly, as it would cost you to
renounce the attachment now ; though I don't say but what
the fine qualities of the young lady justify it."
"My dear Monsieur Loriot," said Michel, who at a safe
distance from his mother was not sorry to burn his vessels,
"the Marquis de Souday has been so good as to grant me
his daughter's hand; there 's no getting over that."
"Oh, that indeed is another thing," said Maître Loriot.
" If you have reached that point in the affair, I have only
one word to say and one advice to give. Remember that
it is always a serious matter legally to marry in defmnce
of the will of parents. Persist in your intention; that's
very right. But go and see your mother; don't give her
the chance to complain of your neglect. Try to overcome
her prejudices."
" Hum ! " muttered Michel, who felt the wisdom of
these remarks.
"Come," persisted Loriot, "will you promise me to do
as I ask you ? "
"Yes, yes ! " replied the young man, who wanted to get
rid of the notary, for he thought he heard steps in the
alley, and feared that Mary might come out while Maître
Loriot was there.
"Good !" said the latter. "Remember, also, that you
80 THE LAST VENDÉE.
are safer at La Logerie than elsewhere. Your mother's
name and influence with the administration can alone save
you from the consequences of your late conduct. You
have been, committing various pranks for some time past
which no one would have suspected you to be capable of;
you must admit that, young man."
"Yes, yes; I admit it," cried Michel, impatiently.
"That 's all I want. The sinner who confesses is half-
repentant. There ! now I must say good-bye ; I leave
Nantes at eleven o'clock."
" Are you going back to Lege ? "
" Yes ; with a young lady who is to meet me presently
at my hotel, and to whom I am to give a seat in my
cabriolet, which I would otherwise offer to you."
"You would go out of your way a mile or two to do me
a service, would n't you ? "
"Of course; with the greatest pleasure, my dear Mon-
sieur Michel," said the notary.
" Then, go by way of Banlceuvre, and give this letter to
Mademoiselle Bertha."
"So be it; but for God's sake," cried the notary, with
a frightened look, " be more cautious in your way of hand-
ing it to me."
" I notice you are not yourself, my dear Monsieur Loriot ;
when those people passed us just now you jumped off the
pavement as if they had the plague. What 's the matter
with you ? Come, Mr. Notary, speak up ! "
"I'd change my practice at this very moment for the
poorest practice in the Sarthe or the Eure departments.
I feel such terrible emotions that if they go on much longer
my days will be numbered ; that 's what 's the matter with
me. Monsieur Michel," continued the notary, lowering
his voice, "think of it; they have put four pounds of gun-
powder in my pockets, against my will. I tremble as I
walk along the pavement; every cigar that comes along
puts me into a fever. Well, good-bye ; take my advice
and go back to La Logerie."
THE SHEEP TUMBLES INTO A PIT-FALL. 81
Michel, whose agonies, like those of Maître Loriot, grew
worse and worse, let the notary depart, having got from
him all he wanted, — namely, the certainty that his letter
would reach Bauloeuvre. No sooner was Loriot out of
sight than his eyes, returning naturally to the house he
was watching, fixed themselves on a window where he
fancied he saw the curtain move, and the vague silhouette
of a face looking at him through the glass. He thought
it might be on account of his persistency in standing
before the house that the young girl watched him; he
therefore moved in the direction of the river, and hid
behind the angle of a house, not, however, losing sight of
all that happened in the rue du Chateau.
Presently the gate of No. 17 opened, and the same young
peasant-girl appeared; but she was not alone. A young
man, dressed in a long blouse, and affecting rustic man-
ners, accompanied her. Rapidly as they passed him,
Michel noticed that the man was young, and the distinc-
tion of his face was in marked contrast to his peasant's
clothes; he saw, too, that he was jesting with Mary on a
footing of equality, offering, apparently, to carry her bas-
ket, — an attention the young girl was refusing, with a
laugh.
The serpents of jealousy gnawed his heart. Convinced,
as he remembered what Mary had whispered to him, that
these disguises hid some amorous as well as some political
intrigue, he rushed away toward the Rousseau bridge,
which lay in exactly the opposite direction to that
taken by Mary and her friend. The crowd on the bridge
was no longer so great. He crossed it easily ; but when
he reached the further end, and began to look round
for Courte-Joie, Trigaud, and his horse, all three had
disappeared.
Michel was so upset in mind that it did not occur to him
to search the neighborhood. Remembering, too, what
the notary had said, he thought it would be dangerous to
lodge a complaint, which might bring about his own arrest,
VOL. II. — 6
82 THE LAST VENDÉE.
and reveal, besides, his acquaintance with the two mendi-
cants. He therefore made up his mind to do nothing
to recover his horse, but to go home on foot; and he
accordingly took his way toward Saint-Philbert-de-Grand-
Lieu.
Cursing Mary, and shedding tears over the betrayal of
which he believed himself the victim, he had no other
thought than to do as Maître Loriot advised, — that is to
say, return to La Logerie and fling himself into the arms
of his mother, toward whom the sight he had just seen im-
pelled him far more than the remonstrances of the notary.
Thus preoccupied, he reached the height of Saint-
Corentin without hearing the footsteps of two gendarmes
who were walking behind him.
"Your papers, monsieur," said one of them, a corporal,
after examining him from head to foot.
" My papers ? " exclaimed Michel, in astonishment, the
inquiry being addressed to him for the first time in his
life, — "I have none."
" And why have you none ? "
"Because I never supposed that any passport was required
to come from my house into Nantes."
" Where is your house ? "
"It is the château de la Logerie."
" What is your name ? "
"Baron Michel."
" Baron Michel de la Logerie ? "
"Yes."
" If you are Baron Michel de la Logerie, I arrest you, M
said the corporal.
Then, without more ado, and before the young man
could think of flight, which from the nature of the ground
was quite possible, the corporal eollared him, while the
other gendarme, minion of equality before the law, slipped
the hand-cuffs on his wrists.
This operation over, — and it lasted only a few seconds,
thanks to the stupefaction of the prisoner and the dexterity
THE SHEEP TUMBLES INTO A PIT-FALL. 83
of the gendarme, — the two agents of the armed forces
conducted Baron Michel to Saint-Colombin, where they
locked him into a sort of cellar, belonging to the bar-
racks of the troops stationed there, which was used as a
temporary prison.
84 THE LAST VENDÉE.
IX.
TRIGAUD PROVES THAT IP HE HAD BEEN HERCULES, HE
WOULD PROBABLY HAVE ACCOMPLISHED TWENTY-FOUR
LABORS INSTEAD OF TWELVE.
It was about four in the afternoon when Michel, thrust
into the lock-up of the guard-house at Saint-Colombin,
became aware of the delights of that abode. On entering
what seemed to be a dungeon, the young man's eyes, accus-
tomed to the brilliant light without, could distinguish
nothing around him. Little by little they grew accus-
tomed to the darkness, and then their owner was able to
make out the sort of lodging he was in.
It was partly under and partly above the surface of the
ground; its walls were of thicker and more solidly con-
structed masonry than was usual in such buildings, for
the reason that it supported the walls of the house above
it. The floor was bare earth; and as the place was very
damp, that earth was nearly mud. The ceiling was of
beams, placed very near together. The light usually
entered through a grating placed just above the level of
the ground; but owing to the necessities of its present use
this aperture was closed inside by heavy planks, and outside
by an enormous mill-stone placed vertically in front of it.
A hole in the centre of the stone gave entrance to a feeble
ray of light, of which two thirds was intercepted by the
plank shutters, so that it only cast a single weird gleam
into the middle of the cellar.
In the track of that gleam lay the fragments of a cider-
press, — that is to say, the branch of a tree squared at one
end, and now half -rotten, and a circular trough of free-
TRIGAUD PROVES HIS STRENGTH. 85
stone decorated with silvery arabesques by the slimy and
capricious promenades of slugs and snails.
To any other prisoner than Michel the inspection of his
surroundings might have seemed desperately discouraging,
for it plainly showed there were few, if any, chances of
escape; but the young baron was moved to make it by
nothing more than a feeling of vague curiosity. The first
anguish his heart had ever felt plunged him into a state of
prostration where the soul is indifferent to all outside
things; and in the first shock of discovering that he must
renounce the sweet hope of being loved by Mary, palace or
prison were alike to him.
He sat down on the edge of the trough, wondering who
could be the young man he had seen with Mary; then,
after the violence of his jealous transports subsided, he
turned to recollections of his first intercourse with the sis-
ters. But his anguish was as great from the one emotion
as from the other ; for, says the Florentine poet , that great
painter of infernal torture, " There is no greater pain than
to recall a happy time in wretchedness."
But let us now leave the young baron to his grief, and
see what was happening in other parts of the guard-house
of Saint-Colombin.
This guard-house, materially speaking, which had been
occupied for the last few days by a detachment of troops of
the line, was a vast building, with a front toward the
courtyard, while its rear looked out upon the country road
that leads from Saint-Colombin to Saint-Philbert -de-
Grand-Lieu, about a kilometre from the first of these two
villages and a stone's throw from the high-road between
Nantes and the Sables-d'Olonne.
This building, constructed on the ruins and with the
fragments of an old feudal fortress, occupied an eminence
that commanded the whole neighborhood. The advantages
of the position had struck Dermoncourt as he returned
from his expedition to the forest of Machecoul. Accord-
ingly, he left a score of men to hold it. It answered the
86 THE LAST VENDÉE.
purpose of a block-house, where expeditionary columns
could rind; on occasion, a resting-place or a refuge, and at
the same time it might be made a sort of station for pris-
oners, where they could be collected until a sufficiently
imposing force was mustered to escort them to Nantes,
without danger of rescue.
The accommodations of the guard-house consisted solely
of a somewhat vast hall and a b.irn. The hall, over the
cellar in which Michel was confined, and consequently five
or six feet above the ground, served as the guard-room. It
was reached by a flight of steps, made with the old stones
of the fortress, placed parallel with the wall.
The barn was used as barracks for the men; they slept
there on straw. The post was guarded with all military
precautions. A sentry stood before the gate of the court-
yard which opened to the road, and a lookout was stationed
in an ivy-covered tower, the sole remains left standing of
the old feudal castle.
Now, about six o'clock in the evening, the soldiers who
formed the little garrison were seated on some heavy rol-
lers which had been left at the foot of the outside wall of
the house. It was a favorite spot for their siesta; there
they enjoyed the gentle warmth of the setting sun and a
splendid view of the lake of Grand-Lieu in the distance,
the surface of which, tinted by the beams of the star of
day, resembled at that hour an immense sheet of scarlet
tin. At their feet ran the road to Nantes, like a broad
ribbon through the midst of the verdure which at that
season covered the plain; and we must admit that our
heroes in red trousers were more interested in what hap-
pened on that road than in all the beauties which Nature
spread before them.
On the evening of which we write, the laborers leaving
the fields, the flocks returning to their stables made the
road a somewhat lively and varied panorama. Each heavy
hay-cart, each group returning from the Nantes market,
and, above all, every peasant- woman in her short skirt was
TRIGAUD PROVES HIS STRENGTH. 87
a text for remark and jocularity, which, it must be owned,
were not restrained.
"Goodness ! " cried one of the men, suddenly, "what 's
that I see down there ? "
" A fellow with bagpipes," said another.
"Bagpipes, indeed ! Do you think you are still in Brit-
tany ? Down here they don't groan bagpipes ; they only
whine complaints."
" What has he got on his back, then, if it is n't his
instrument ? "
"That's an instrument, sure enough," said a fourth
soldier; "it must be an organ."
" Queer organ ! " said a fifth. " I tell you that 's a
sack; the man 's a beggar. You can tell him by his
clothes."
"Then his sack has eyes and a nose, like the rest of us.
Why, look at him, Limousin ! "
"Limousin's arm is long, but his sight is short," said
another; "you can't have everything."
"Pooh ! " said the corporal; "I see what it is. It is one
man carrying another on his shoulders."
" The corporal is right ! " chorused the soldiers.
"I am always right," said he of the woollen stripes,
" first as your corporal, next as your superior ; and if there
are any of you who doubt after I have once said a thing,
he is going to be convinced now, for here come the men
straight toward us."
As he spoke, the tramp who had roused the discussion
(in whom our readers have no doubt recognized Trigaud-
Vermin, as in his bagpipe, organ, or sack, they have also
recognized his rider, Aubin Courte-Joie) turned off the
main-road to the left, and came up the flight of steps which
led to the guard-house.
"What a pair of brigands !" said one of the soldiers.
"If they caught us alone, behind a hedge, either of those
rascals would clip us a shot, would n't he, corporal ? "
"Like enough," responded the latter.
88 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"But as we are all here together they come and beg, —
ha, the cowards ! "
"I '11 be shot if I give 'em a penny," said the soldier
who had spoken first.
"See here !" said another, picking up a stone; "I'll
put something into his hat."
"I forbid you," said the corporal.
"Why so?"
"Because he has n't any hat."
The soldiers burst out laughing at the joke, which was
recognized at once as very choice.
"Let's have a look," said a soldier, "at what the fellow
is really carrying; don't discourage him. For my part, I
don't find such delight in this beggarly guard-house that I
despise any sort of fun that comes along."
"Fun?"
"Yes, any kind, — music perhaps. Every tramp in this
region is a sort of troubadour. We '11 make him sing
what he knows, and a good deal he does n't know; it will
help pass the evening."
By this time the mendicant, now no longer an enigma
to the soldiers, was close beside them, holding out his
hand.
"You were right, corporal; he has got another man
perched on his shoulders."
"I was wrong," responded the corporal.
"How so?"
"That is n't a man, -—only a section of humanity."
The soldiers laughed at the second joke as heartily as
they laughed at the first.
"He can't spend much on trousers," said one.
"And less for boots," added the facetious corporal.
" Are n't they hideous ? " said the Limousin. " Upon
my word, you might think 'em a monkey mounted on a
bear."
While these poor waggeries were flying about and reach-
ing Trigaud's ear, he stood immovable, holding out his
TRIGAUD PROVES HIS STRENGTH. 89
hand and giving a most pitiable expression to his face,
while Aubin Courte-Joie, in his capacity as orator of the
association, repeated, in his nasal voice, the unvarying
formula : —
" Charity, if you please, my good gentlemen ! — charity
for a poor cartman with both legs taken off by his cart,
coming down the hill at Ancenis."
" What ignorant savages they must be to expect alms of
soldiers in garrison. Scamps ! I '11 bet if we searched
their pockets we 'd find double what we have got in our
own."
Hearing which suggestion, Aubin Courte-Joie modified
the formula, and came down to a precise request: —
"A bit of bread, just a bit of bread, if you please, my
good gentlemen," he said. "If you haven't any money
you have surely a bit of bread."
"Bread!" said the corporal. "Yes, you shall have
bread, my good man; and with the bread, soup, and with
the soup a bit of meat. We '11 do that for you; but I
should like to know what you'll do for us."
"My good gentlemen, I'll pray God for you," replied
Courte-Joie, in his nasal whine, which formed the treble to
his partner's bass.
"That will do no harm," said the corporal, — "no, cer-
tainly, there's no harm in that; but it isn't enough.
Come, have n't you anything funny in your sack ? "
"How do you mean?" asked Courte-Joie, assuming
ignorance.
"I mean, villanous old black-birds that you are, you
must be able to whistle an air or two; in which case, let 's
have the music first. That will pay for the soup and the
bread and the meat."
"Ah, yes, yes; I understand. Well, we don't refuse.
On the contrary, officer," said Aubin, flattering the cor-
poral, "it is fair enough that if you give us the charity of
the good God we should try to amuse you and your com-
pany as best we can."
90 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Good ; the more the better. You can't go too far, for
we are dying of dulness in your devilish land."
"All right," said Courte- Joie; "we '11 begin by showing
you something you never saw before."
Although the promise was nothing more than the usual
exordium of clowns at a circus, it roused the curiosity of
the soldiers, who clustered round the mendicants in silence,
with an eagerness that was almost respectful. Courte-
Joie, who until then had kept his seat on Trigaud's shoul-
ders, made a movement of his body, indicating that he
wished to be deposited on the ground, and Trigaud, with
that passive obedience which he practised to the will of
his master, seated him on a fragment of the old battlement
half-buried in nettles, which lay near the rollers on which
the men were seated.
" Hey ! how neatly that was done ! " cried the corporal.
" I 'd like to recruit that fellow and turn him over to the
fat major, who can't find a cob fit to carry him."
During this time Courte-Joie had picked up a stone,
which he gave to Trigaud. The latter, without further
directions, closed and then opened his hand, showing the
stone reduced to fragments.
" Good Lord ! he 's a Hercules ! You must tackle him,
Pinguet," said the corporal, addressing the soldier we have
hitherto called the Limousin.
"All right," said the latter, jumping up; "we'll see
about it."
Trigaud, taking no notice of the words or actions of
Pinguet, continued his exercises. He seized two soldiers
by the straps of their knapsacks, gently raised and held
them aloft at arm's-length for a few seconds, and then as
gently put them down, with perfect ease.
The soldiers cheered him loudly.
"Pinguet! Pinguet!" they cried," where are you?
Here 's some one who can knock you into a cocked-hat."
Trigaud continued his performances as if these experi-
ments on his strength were a pre-arranged matter. He
TRIGAUD PROVES HIS STUKXilTH. 91
invited two other soldiers to seat themselves astride of the
shoulders of the first two, and he carried all four with
almost as much ease as if there were but two. As he put
them down, Pinguet arrived with a gun on each shoulder.
"Bravo, Limousin ! bravo ! " cried the soldiers.
Encouraged by the acclam icions of his comrades, Pinguet
cried out : —
"All that is mountebank business. Here, you braggart,
let me see you do what I am going to do."
Putting a finger of each hand into the muzzle of a gun,
he held the weapons out before him, at arm's-length.
" Pooh ! " said Courte-Joie, while Trigaud looked on
with a movement of the lips that might pass for a smile at
Pinguet's feat, — "pooh ! bring two more guns."
When the guns were brought Trigaud put all four muz-
zles on the fingers of one hand and raised them to the
level of his eye, without any contraction of the muscles
that betrayed an effort. Pinguet was distanced forever in
the struggle.
Then rummaging in his pocket, Trigaud brought out a
horse-shoe, which he folded in two as easily as an ordi-
nary man would fold a leather strap. After each of his
experiments he turned his eyes to Courte-Joie, asking for
a smile ; then Courte-Joie would signify by a nod that he
was satisfied.
"Come," said Aubin, "you've only earned our suppers
so far; now you must get us a night's lodging. Ts n't that
so, my good gentlemen ? If my comrade does something
more wonderful still, won't you give us a little hay and a
corner in the stable to lie on ? "
"As for that, it is impossible," said the sergeant of the
company, who, being attracted by the shouts and plaudits
of the soldiers, had come to share the sight; "the orders
are strict."
This answer seemed to discourage Courte-Joie greatly;
his weasel-face grew serious.
"Never mind," said one of the men; "we '11 club
92 THE LAST VENDÉE.
together, and get you ten sous, which will pay for a bed
at the nearest tavern, and that will be softer than buck-
wheat hay."
"If the ox you ride has legs as solid as his arms," said
another, "a mile or two farther won't trouble you."
" First, let 's see the performance ! " cried the soldiers.
"Show us his best thing."
There was no repelling this enthusiasm, and Courte-
Joie yielded with an alacrity which showed his confidence
in his comrade's biceps.
" Have you a grindstone here, or anything that weighs
about twelve or fifteen hundred pounds ? " he asked.
"There 's the block of stone you are sitting on," said a
soldier.
Courte-Joie shrugged his shoulders.
" If that stone had a handle Trigaud would pick it up
for you with one hand."
" There 's that millstone we tipped up before the grating
of the dungeon," said a soldier.
"Why not tell him to lift the whole building at once ? "
said the corporal. " It took six of you men to put it where
it is, and with levers, too. I was furious that my rank
forbade me from lending a hand to what I called a pack
of idlers."
"Besides, you must not touch that millstone," inter-
posed the sergeant; "that 's also against orders. There 's
a prisoner in the cellar."
Courte-Joie gave Trigaud a glance, and the latter, pay-
ing no attention to the sergeant's remark, went straight to
the millstone.
"Don't you hear me?" said the sergeant, raising his
voice, and catching Trigaud by the arm ; " you are not to
touch it."
"Why not ?" said Courte-Joie. "If he moves it he '11
replace it; don't be afraid."
"Besides," said a soldier, "if you look at the mouse
they have got in the trap you '11 see it would never run
TKIGAUD PROVES HIS STRENGTH. 93
away if it could, — a poor little monsieur who might be
taken for a woman in disguise. I thought at iirst he was
the Duchesse de Berry herself."
''Yes, and he 's too busy crying to think of escape," said
the corporal, who was evidently burning with the desire
to see the feat. "When we took him his food, Pinguet
and T, — that is, I and Pinguet, — he burst into tears; I
declare if his eyes were n't two faucets ! "
"Well, well," said the sergeant, who was no less curious
than the rest to see how the tramp would accomplish his
Titanic task, "I will take the responsibility of allowing it."
Trigaud profited by the permission. He seized the mill-
stone between his arms at its base, leaned his shoulder on
its centre, and with a powerful effort tried to raise it.
But the weight of this enormous mass of stone had sunk
it into the ground on which it rested to the depth of some
four or five inches, and the adherence of this earth socket,
thus hollowed, neutralized Trigaud's efforts.
Courte-Joie, who had entered the circle of soldiers by
creeping on his hands and knees, like a huge scarabœus,
called attentiou to the nature of the difficulty; then with
a large flat stone which he picked up, and partly also with
his hands, he grubbed out the earth which hindered the
success of Trigaud's feat. The giant then applied himself
once more to the work. Soon he raised the huge block and
held it up for a few seconds, resting against his shoulder
and also against the wall, about a foot from the ground.
The enthusiasm of the soldiers knew no bounds. They
pressed around Trigaud and overwhelmed him with con-
gratulations to which he seemed perfectly insensible; they
shouted in frantic admiration, which was shared by the cor-
poral, and then, through the natural hierarchy of rank, by
the sergeant himself. They talked of carrying Trigaud
in triumph to the sutler's, where the reward of his vigor
awaited him, swearing by every oath known to the sons
of Mars that Trigaud deserved not only the bread and
soup and meat promised by the corporal, but the rations of
94 THE LAST VENDÉE.
a general, or indeed of the king of France, which would
be none too much to maintain the strength required for
such prowess.
As we have said, Trigaud seemed in no way puffed-up
by his triumph; his countenance remained as impassible
as that of an ox allowed to breathe alter some powerful
exertion. His eyes, however, sought those of Aubin
Courte- Joie, as if to ask "Master, are you satisfied ?"
Courte-Joie, on the other hand, looked radiant, possibly
because of the impression made upon the spectators by a
strength he considered his own, though it far exceeded
that which Nature had originally bestowed upon him.
Perhaps, however, his satisfaction was really caused by
the success of a little manœuvre he had cleverly performed
while the attention of all was concentrated on his com-
panion, — a manœuvre which consisted in slipping under the
millstone the large flat stone he held in his hand, placing
it in such a way that the enormous mass which closed the
grating of the cellar was so poised upon its smooth surface
that the strength of a child would suffice to displace it.
The two beggars were taken to the sutler's, and there
Trigaud furnished still another text of admiration to the
soldiers. After he had swallowed an enormous canful of
soup, four rations of beef and two loaves of bread were
placed before him. Trigaud ate the first loaf with the first
two rations; then, as if by changing his method of deglu-
tition he changed and improved the taste of the objects
swallowed, he took his second loaf, split it in two, scooped
out and ate, by way of pastime, the crumb within it,
placed the meat in the cavity, put the two halves of the
crust together, and proceeded to bite through the whole
with a coolness and force of jaw which brought down
thunders of applause from the delighted audience.
After about five minutes of this exercise nothing remained
of either bread or meat but a few crumbs of the loaf, which
Trigaud, apparently ready to begin all over again, care-
fully collected. His admirers hastened to bring him a
TRIGAUD PROVES HIS STRENGTH. 95
third loaf, which, though stale and dry, Trigaud treated
like the first two.
The soldiers were not yet satisfied; they would have
liked to push their investigations still further, but the
sergeant thought it more prudent to bring their scientific
curiosity to an end. Courte-Joie had now become thought-
ful, and his expression was noticed by the soldiers.
"Ah, ça ! " said the corporal; "here you are, eating and
drinking on the earnings of your comrade. That 's not
fair; it seems to me you might give us a song, if only to
pay your scot."
"UnquestionabTy," said the sergeant.
"Yes, yes, a song!" cried the soldiers, "and then the
affair will be complete."
"Hum!" muttered Courte-Joie. "I know some songs,
of course I do."
"All right then, sing away ! "
"But my songs may n't be to your liking."
"Never mind, — so long as it isn't a fugue for the
devil's funeral, anything will be fun to us; we are not
hard to please at Saint-Colombin."
"Yes," said Courte-Joie, "I can see that; you are
horribly bored."
"Monstrously," said the sergeant.
"We don't expect you to sing like Monsieur Nourrit,"
observed a Parisian.
"Make it a bit quizzical," said another man, "and the
more the better."
"As I have eaten your bread and drunk your wine," said
Courte-Joie, "I have no right to refuse you anything; but,
T repeat it, my songs will probably not be to your taste."
And thereupon, he trolled out the following stanza: —
"Look! look! my guru, down there ! down there!
Don't you see the infernal band ?
Spread out, spread out, surprise them there,
Behind the gorse, across the land.
Spread out ! I say, ray gars ! my r/ars /
Await the Blues with steady hand."
96 TIIE LAST VENDÉE.
Courte-Joie got no farther. After a moment of sur-
prised silence at his first words a roar of indignation arose ;
ten soldiers sprang upon him and the sergeant, seizing him
by the collar, threw him on the ground.
"Villain !" he cried, "I'll teach you to come here in
our midst and sing praises to your brigands."
But before the words were well out of his mouth (words
to which he added a variety of adverbs that were custom-
ary with him) Trigaud, his eyes flashing with anger, made
his way through to Courte-Joie, pushed back the sergeant
and stood before his comrade in so threateuing an attitude
that the soldiers remained for some moments silent and
uncertain.
But soon, mortified at being held at bay by an unarmed
man, they drew their sabres, and rushed upon the beggars.
" Kill them ! kill them ! " they cried; " they are Chouans ! "
"You asked me for a song; I warned you that the songs
I knew w r ere not to your taste," cried Courte-Joie, in a
voice that rose high above the tumult. " You ought not to
have insisted. Why do you complain ? "
" If you only knew such songs as you have just sung you
are a rebel, and I arrest you peremptorily."
"I know such songs as please the people of the towns
and villages whose alms are my living. A poor cripple
like me and an idiot like my comvade can't be dangerous.
Arrest us if you choose; but such captures won't do you
any honor."
"That may be," replied the sergeant, "but meantime
you '11 sleep in the lock-up. You were puzzled where to
go for a night's lodging, my fine fellow; well, I'll give
you one. Come, men, seize and search them, and let us
lock them up incontinently."
But, as Trigaud still maintained a threatening attitude,
no one hastened to execute the sergeant's order.
"If you don't go with a good grace," said the latter,
" I '11 send for some loaded muskets, and we will see if
your skiD is bullet-proof."
TRIGAUD PROVES HIS STRENGTH. 97
"Come, Trigaud, my lad," said Courte- Joie, "if we
must resign ourselves, we must; besides, it can't matter,
they won't detain us long. Their fine prisons are not built
for poor devils like us."
"That's right," said the sergeant, much pleased at the
pacific turn the affair was taking. "You will be searched,
and if nothing suspicious is found upon you, and you
behave properly during the night, we '11 see about letting
you out to-morrow morning."
The two beggars were searched, but nothing was found
upon them except a few copper coins; which confirmed the
sergeant in his ideas of clemency.
"After all," he said, pointing to Trigaud. "that great ox
is not guilty; I see no reason why I should lock him up."
"If you do," said the Limousin, "he might take it into
his head, like his forefather Samson, to shake the walls
and bring them down about our ears."
"You are right, Pinguet," said the sergeant, "because
that 's my opinion, too. We should only embarrass our-
selves by holding the pair. Come, off with you, friend,
and quick too ! "
"Oh ! my good monsieur, don't separate us," cried
Courte-Joie, in a tearful voice. " We can't do without
each other; he walks for me, and I think for him."
"Upon my word," said a soldier, "they are worse than
lovers."
"No," said the sergeant to Courte-Joie. "I shall make
you pass the night in the dungeon to punish you, and to-
morrow the officer of the day will decide what is to be
done with your carcass. Come, to the cellar ! "
Two soldiers approached Courte-Joie; but he with an
agility not to be expected in so helpless a body, sprang
upon Trigaud's shoulders, and the giant walked peacefully
along toward the door of the dungeon, under escort of
the soldiers.
On the way Aubin put his lips close to the ear of his
comrade and said some words in a low voice. Trigaud
VOL. II. — 7
08 THE LAST VENDÉE.
deposited his master at the cellar-door, through which the
sergeant thrust the cripple, who made his entrance by roll-
ing forward like an enormous ball.
The soldiers then took Trigaud outside the courtyard
gate, which they closed behind him. The giant stood for a
few moments motionless and bewildered, as if he did not
know what course to decide upon. He tried at first to sit
down on the rollers, where, as we have seen, the soldiers
took their siesta. But the sentry made him understand
that that was impossible, and the beggar departed in the
direction of the village of Saint-Colombin.
GIVING THE SLIP. 99
X.
GIVING THE SLIP.
About two hours after Aubin Courte-Joie's incarceration
the sentry of the post heard a cart coming up the road
which led past the guard-house. "Qui vive ?" he cried;
and when the cart was only a short distance from him he
ordered it to halt. The cart, or rather the cartman, obeyed.
The corporal and four soldiers came out of the guard-
room to inspect both man and vehicle. The cart was a
harmless one, loaded with hay, and was like all the others
that were plodding along the road to and from Nantes
during the evening. Only one man was with it; he
explained that he was going to Saint-Philbert with hay for
his landlord, — adding that he went by night to economize
time, which was precious at this season of the year. The
corporal gave orders to let him pass.
But this permission was wasted on the poor fellow. His
cart, drawn by a single horse, had stopped at the steepest
part of the rising ground about the guard-house, and in
spite of the efforts made by horse and cartman it was
impossible to start the heavy vehicle again.
"There isn't any sense," said the corporal, "in overbur-
dening a beast like that ! Don't you see that your horse
has double the load he can draw ? "
"What a pity," remarked one of the soldiers, "that the
sergeant let that big ox of a fellow we had here go. We
might have harnessed him to the horse and I '11 warrant
he 'd have pulled to the collar."
" That 's supposing he would have let himself be har-
nessed."
100 THE LAST VENDÉE.
If the man who spoke last had looked behind the cart,
he would have seen good reason why Trigaud should not
allow himself to be harnessed to the front of the cart to
pull it forward; he would also have understood the diffi-
culty the horse found in starting the cart. For this
difficulty was chiefly owing to Trigaud himself. The
giant, completely hidden in the darkness and behind the
hay, was dragging at the rear bar of the cart and opposing
his strength to that of the horse, with as much success as
he had won when exhibiting his prowess in the evening.
"Shall we lend you a hand ? " said the corporal.
"Wait till I try again," said the driver, who had turned
his cart obliquely, to lessen the sharpness of the acclivity,
and now, grasping the horse by the bridle, prepared for a
final effort to disprove the blame the corporal laid upon him.
He whipped his beast vigorously, exciting him by voice
and pulling on the bridle, while the soldiers joined their
cries to his. The horse stiffened all four legs for the
effort, making the sparks fly from his heels among the
stones of the road; then, he suddenly fell down, and at
the same moment, as if the wheels had encountered some
obstacle which disturbed their equilibrium, the cart swayed
over to left and upset against the building.
The soldiers ran forward and helped to release the horse
from the harness and get him on his legs. The result of
their friendly eagerness was that none of them saw
Trigaud, who, satisfied no doubt with a result to which
he had powerfully contributed by slipping under the cart
and hoisting it on his Herculean shoulders, until it lost its
centre of gravity, now retired composedly behind a hedge
to await events.
" Shall we help you to set your cart back on its pin ? "
said the corporal to the driver. " If so, you must get an
additional horse."
"Faith, no ! " cried the cartman. "To-morrow I '11 see
about it. It is evident the good God does n't mean me to
keep on, — mustn't go against His will."
GIVING THE SLIP. 101
So saying, the peasant threw the reins on the crupper of
his horse, pushed up the collar, mounted the animal, and
departed, after wishing good-night to the soldiers, and
saying he should be back in the morning to remove the
hay. Two hundred yards from the guard-house Trigaud
joined him.
"Well," said the peasant, "was that done to your lik-
ing ? Are you satisfied ? "
" Yes, " replied Trigaud, " that was just as gars Aubin
Courte- Joie ordered."
"Good luck to you, then ! As for me, I'll put the
horse back where I found it. But when the cartman
wakes up to-morrow and looks for his cart and his hay
he '11 be rather surprised to find it up there."
"Well, tell him it is for the good of the cause, and he
won't mind," replied Trigaud.
The two men parted.
Trigaud, however, did not leave the place; he roamed
about its. neighborhood till he heard the stroke of twelve
from the steeple of Saint-Colombin. Then he returned to
the guard-house, sabots in hand, and without making the
slightest noise, or rousing the attention of the sentry, who
was pacing up and down, he crept to the grating of the
dungeon. Once there he softly drew the hay into a thick
heap beside the millstone, which he then, as softly, turned
over upon it. Then he leaned behind it to the grating,
wrenched off the boards that closed it, drew out first
Courte-Joie, whom Michel pushed behind, then the young
baron by the hands; after which, putting one on each
shoulder, Trigaud, still barefooted, walked rapidly away
from the neighborhood of the guard-house, making, in
spite of his immense size and the weight he carried, no
more noise than a cat on a carpet.
When he had gone about five hundred yards he stopped;
not that he was tired but because Aubin Courte-Joie signed
to him. Michel slipped to the ground and feeling in his
pocket pulled out a handful of money, among it a few
1.02 THE LAST VENDÉE.
gold coins which he deposited in Trigaud's capacious
hand.
The giant made as though he were about to put them in
a pocket twice as capacious as the hand itself, but Aubin
Courte-Joie stopped him.
"Return that to monsieur," he said; " we don't take pay
from both sides."
"Both sides ! " exclaimed Michel, "what do you mean ?"
"Yes; we haven't obliged you personally as much as
you think for," said Courte- Joie.
"I don't understand you, friend."
"My young gentleman," said the cripple, "now that we
are safely outside that cellar I '11 frankly admit that I lied
to you just now, when I said I bad got myself locked up
merely to get you out of that hole. But, don't you see,
I wanted your help; I could never have clambered up
alone to that grating. Now, however, thanks to your
good-will and my friend Trigaud's wrists, we 've given
'em the slip successfully, and I feel bound to tell you that
you have only exchanged one captivity for another."
" What does that mean ? "
"It means that just now you were in a damp unhealthy
prison, and now, though you are in the midst of the fields,
on a calm, still night, you are none the less in prison."
"In prison?"
"Well, a prisoner."
"Whose prisoner ? "
" Mine, of course ! "
" Yours ? " said Michel, laughing.
" Yes, for the time being. Oh, you need n't laugh !
You are a prisoner, I tell you, till I consign you to the
hands that want you."
" Whose hands are they ? "
" As for that, you can find out for yourself. I fulfil my
errand, neither more nor less. You needn't be frightened;
you might have fallen into worse hands, that 's all I shall
tell you."
GIVING THE SLIP. 103
"But — "
"Well, in return for services that have been done, and
in consideration of a good sum of money for my poor
Trigaud, I took the order of a person who said : 'Help M.
le Baron Michel de la Logerie to escape, and bring him to
nie.' I have helped you to escape, and now I am taking
you to that person, Monsieur le baron."
"Listen," said the young man, who did not comprehend
one word of all the tavern-keeper was telling him : " Here
is my purse, well-filled; put me on the road to La Logerie,
where I desire to be this evening, and take the purse and
my thanks to boot."
Michel fancied that his two liberators did not think the
price paid sufficient.
"Monsieur," said Courte- Joie, with all the dignity of
which lie was capable, "my comrade Trigaud cannot accept
your reward because he has been already paid for doing
exactly the contrary of what you wish. As for me, I am
not aware if }^ou know who I am, and therefore it is best
to tell you. I am an honest trader, whom differences of
opinion with the government have compelled to close his
business; but, miserable as my external appearance may
be, let me tell you that I give my services to others, I
don't sell them."
"But where the devil are you taking me ?" demanded
Michel, who certainly did not expect such sensitive feel-
ings in his strange conductor.
"Be so good as to follow us, and in less than an hour
you will find out."
"Follow you, indeed ! when you say I am your prisoner!
Not I ! I am not so amiable as all that."
Courte- Joie made no answer; but a single touch on
Trigaud's arm told the giant what he had to do, and the
young man had scarcely uttered the words and made a hasty
step in advance, before Trigaud, flinging out his arm like
a grapnel-iron, seized him by the collar. Michel tried to
shout, preferring to be retaken by the soldiers rather than
104 THE LAST VENDÉE.
be Trigaud's prisoner. But with his free hand the giant
grasped the baron's face and silenced him as successfully as
the famous gag of Monsieur de Vendôme might have done it.
In this condition Michel was rushed, with the rapidity of a
race-horse, across the fields for a distance of some seven or
eight hundred yards, half suspended in space by the arm of
the colossus, so that he touched the ground with the points
of his toes only.
"That will do, Trigaud," said Courte- Joie, who was in
his usual place on the shoulders of his human steed, who
seemed to care little for the double burden ; " that will
do; the young baron is disgusted enough by this time with
the idea of going back to La Logerie. Besides, we were
cautioned to take care of him; it won't do to spoil the
merchandise." Then as Trigaud halted obediently, Aubin
said to Michel, who was nearly suffocated, " Will you be
docile now ? "
"You are the stronger, and I have no arms," said the
baron. "I am therefore obliged to submit to your ill-
treatment."
"Ill-treatment ! Ha ! don't you say that, or I '11 appeal
to your honor to say if it is n't true that you have urged
me all along, both in the dungeon of the Blues and here in
the fields, to let you go back to La Logerie, and that it was
only your obstinacy which obliged me to use violence."
"Well, at any rate, tell me the name of the person who
ordered you to come after me and take me to him."
"I am positively forbidden to do so," said Courte-Joie,
"but, without transgressing orders, I can tell you that it
is one of your very best friends."
A cold chill ran through Michel's heart. He thought of
Bertha. He fancied she had received his letter. It was
doubtless an angry "she-wolf " who awaited him, and, pain-
ful as the interview would be, he felt that he could not,
in honor, refuse it.
"Very good," he said; "I know now who it is."
"You know, do you ? "
GIVING THE SLIP. 105
"Yes, it is Mademoiselle de Souday."
Aubin Courte- Joie did not answer; but he looked at
Trigaud with an air that seemed to say, " Faith ! he 's
guessed it ! " Michel intercepted the look.
"Let us walk on," he said.
" You won't try to get away ? "
"No."
" On your word of honor ? "
" On my word of honor. "
" Well, as you are now sensible, we '11 give you the
means of getting along without skinning your feet among
the briers or gluing them to this cursed sticky soil, which
adds at least seven pound weight to our boots."
These words were soon explained to Michel, for after
crossing the highway behind Trigaud, and going a hun-
dred yards into the woods that bordered the road he heard
the whinnying of a horse.
"My horse ! " he exclaimed, not concealing his surprise.
"Did you think we had stolen it ?" asked Courte- Joie.
"Why didn't you stay at the place where I gave it to
you ? "
"Confound it!" replied Aubin. "I'll tell you: we
noticed a lot of men walking round us and watching us
with an interest that was too deep not to be disquieting;
and as inquisitive folk are not to my taste, and time went
by and you did n't return, we thought we had better take
your beast to Banlœuvre, where we supposed you had
gone, if not arrested; and it was only as we went along
we discovered that if not actually arrested you soon
would be."
" Soon would be ? "
"Yes, and so you were."
"Were you near me when the gendarmes arrested me ?"
"My young gentleman," replied Courte- Joie in his jeer-
ing, sarcastic way, "you must have little experience in life
or you would n't go along the high-roads dreaming of your
own affairs, instead of looking about you and seeing who
106 THE LAST VENDÉE.
go and come and what they are doing. You might have
heard the trot of those gendarmes ten minutes before they
came up with you; we heard them, and you might easily
have gone into the woods as we did."
Michel took care not to say what was rilling his mind to
the exclusion of every other thought at the moment the
gendarmes arrested him; he contented himself by giving a
deep sigh at this reminder of his sufferings. Then he
mounted his horse, which Trigaud had unfastened and pre-
sented to him awkwardly enough, though Courte- Joie
endeavored to show his henchman how to hold a stirrup
properly. Then they took once more to the high-road, and
the giant, with his hand on the withers of the horse,
accompanied Michel easily at whatever pace the latter
chose to ride.
A mile and a half farther on they struck into a cross-
road, and Michel fancied, dark as it was, that he recog-
nized the path from certain shapes in the dark masses of
the trees. Presently they reached a crossway at sight of
which the young man quivered. He had passed that place
on the evening when for the first time he walked home with
Bertha from Tinguy's cottage. A minute more and they
were making their way to the cottage itself, where, in
spite of the lateness of the hour, a light was sparkling; at
that instant a little cry, apparently a call, came from
behind the hedge that ran along the road.
Aubin Courte-Joie answered it.
"Is that you, Monsieur Courte-Joie ?" asked a woman's
voice, and at the same moment a white form showed itself
above the hedge.
" Yes, but who are you ? "
"Rosine, Tinguy's daughter; don't you remember me ?"
" Rosine ! " exclaimed Michel, confirmed in the thought
that Bertha was awaiting him by the sight of her young
maid.
Courte-Joie with his monkey-like agility slid down
Trigaud's body, and went to the hedge-bank with a move-
GIVING THE SLIP. 107
ment a good deal like that of a frog's jump, leaving
Trigaud to keep guard over Michel.
" Pest, little one ! " he cried, " the night is so dark one
may well take white for gray. But," he added, lowering
his voice, " why are not you at home, where we were told
to find you ? "
" Because there are people in the cottage, and it won't do
to take Monsieur Michel there."
" People ? Ah, ça ! those damned Blues get a footing
everywhere."
"There are no soldiers there; it is only Jean Oullier,
who has spent the day going round the country, and has
brought a few of the Montaigu men with him."
" What are they doing ? "
"Only talking. Go in, and drink a cup of cider with
them, and warm yourself a bit."
"Well, but our young gentleman, my dear, what shall
we do with him ? "
"Leave him with me. That was agreed upon, you know,
Maître Cour te- Joie."
" We were to give him to you in your house, where
there 's a cellar or a garret to put him in; and that 's easy
enough to do, for he is not hard to manage, poor fellow, —
but here in the open fields there 's a risk of losing him;
he'll slip away from you like an eel."
"Pooh!" said Rosine, with a smile which since the
deaths of her father and brother seldom came upon her
lips, " do you think he would make more objection to fol-
lowing a pretty girl than two old fellows like you ? "
" But suppose the prisoner carries off his keeper ? " said
Courte-Joie, still dissatisfied.
"Oh ! don't trouble yourself about that; I've a good
foot, a good eye, and an honest heart. Besides, Baron
Michel is my foster-brother; we 've known each other this
long while, and I know he is no more capable of forcing
the virtue of a girl than the bolts of a prison. Besides,
what were you told to do ? "
108 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Release him if we could and bring him, willingly or
unwillingly, to your father's house, where we were to
find you."
"Well, here I am, and there's the house; the bird is
out of his cage; that 's all that was asked of you, wasn't
it?"
"Hang it ! yes, I believe so."
"Then, good-night."
"Look here, Rosine, for greater security, don't you want
us to put a rope round his paws ? " said Courte-Joie,
sarcastically.
"Thank } r ou, no, Maître Courte-Joie," said Rosine,
going toward Michel; "better put one on your own
tongue."
Michel, in spite of the distance at which he stood, had
distinguished Rosine's name and perceived, as we have
said, the connivance which evidently existed between her
and his captors. He was more and more confirmed in the
belief that he owed his deliverance to Bertha. Courte-
Joie' s proceedings, the sort of violence he had used
toward him, by means of his auxiliary Trigaud, the mys-
tery in which the tavern-keeper had wrapped the origin
and reason of his devotion to a man whom he scarcely
knew, — all these things agreed wonderfully with the irrita-
tion which the letter he had sent by the notary was cal-
culated to rouse in the violent and irascible heart of the
young girl.
" Oh ! Rosine, is that you ? " he exclaimed, raising his
voice as soon as he saw through the darkness his foster-
sister coming toward him.
"Good ! " cried Rosine, "you are not like that wretch of
a Courte-Joie, who did n't choose to recognize me at first.
You knew me at once, didn't you, Monsieur Michel ?"
"Yes, of course. Tell me, Rosine, where is she ?"
"Who?"
"Mademoiselle Bertha."
"Mademoiselle Bertha ?"
GIVING THE SLIP. 109
"Yes."
"I don't know," said Rosine, with a simplicity which
Michel knew to be sincere.
"What ! you don't know ? " he repeated.
"I suppose she is at Souday."
"You don't know, you only suppose ? "
" Bless me — "
" Have you seen her to-day ? "
" No, Monsieur Michel ; I only know that she was to go
to the château to-day with Monsieur le marquis; but I 've
been at Nantes myself."
" At Nantes ! " cried the young man, " were you at Nantes
this morning ? "
"Yes."
" What time were you there ? "
"It was striking nine as we crossed the pont Rousseau."
" You say we ? "
"Yes, of course."
" Then you were not alone ? "
"Why, no ! I went there to accompany Mademoiselle
Mary; it was sending to the château for me that delayed
her journey."
" But where is she now, — Mademoiselle Mary ? "
" Now, this minute ? "
"Yes."
"On the little island of La Jonchère; and that 's where
I am going to take you. But how queer of you to ask me
all this, Monsieur Michel!"
" Are you really going to take me to her ? " cried Michel,
beside himself with joy. "Then come along, come quick,
my little Rosine."
"Good! and that old fool Courte-Joie, who said I
could n't manage you ! What idiots men are ! "
"Rosine, my dear, for heaven's sake don't lose time."
" I 'm ready ; but had n't you better take me up behind ?
and then we can go faster."
"Of course we can," said Michel, whose heart, at the
110 THE LAST VENDÉE.
mere idea of seeing Mary, abjured all its jealous suspicions,
and glowed with the thought that she whom he loved was
really the one who had so effectually managed his release.
" Come, come on ! "
"Here I am ! give me your hand," said Rosine, restiDg
her wooden shoe on the young man's foot. Then, making
her spring, "There ! I 'm all right," she said, settling her-
self. "Now then, turn to the right."
The young man obeyed, with no more thought of Courte-
Joie and Trigaud than if they did not exist. To him,
there was no one at this moment in the world but Mary.
"Rosine," he said, after he had gone a little way, long-
ing to talk about Mary, "how did mademoiselle know I
was arrested by the gendarmes ? "
"Bless me! I should have to tell you what happened
before that, Monsieur Michel."
"Tell me all you can, my dear, good Rosine; only, do
speak up. I 'm burning with impatience. Ah ! how good
it is to be free," cried the young man; "and to be going
to Mary ! "
"Then I must tell you that mademoiselle came from
Banlœuvre to Souday very early this morning; she bor-
rowed my Sunday clothes and put them on, and then she
said 'Rosine, you are to go with me.' "
"Go on, Rosine, do ! I 'm listening."
"Well, then we started, with eggs in our baskets like
real peasant-women. At Nantes while I sold eggs made-
moiselle did her errand."
" What was that errand, Rosine ? " asked Michel, before
whose eyes the form of the young man disguised as a
peasant now loomed like a spectre.
"Oh, that I don't know, Monsieur Michel." Then,
without pausing to notice the heavy sigh with which
Michel received her words, she added : " As mademoiselle
was very tired we asked Monsieur Loriot, the Lege notary,
to drive us back in his carriole. We stopped half way to
bait the horse and while the notary was gossiping with
GIVING THE SLIP. Ill
the innkeeper we went into the garden to get away from
the people who stared at mademoiselle, — who is really
much too beautiful for a peasant-woman. There she read
a letter, which made her cry dreadfully."
" A letter ! " exclaimed Michel.
"Yes, a letter Monsieur Loriot gave her as we came
along."
"My letter!" murmured Michel; "she has read my
letter to her sister ! Oh ! "
He stopped his horse abruptly, not knowing whether to
rejoice or to be terrified at this fact.
"What's the matter?" asked Rosine, who of course,
did not understand the sudden halt.
"Nothing, nothing," replied Michel, shaking the reins
and putting the horse to a trot.
Rosine resumed her tale.
"Well, she was crying over the letter when some one
called us from the other side of the hedge : it was Aubin
Courte-Joie, and Trigaud with him. He told us your
adventure, and asked mademoiselle what he had better do
with your horse. Then, poor young lady, she seemed to
feel worse than when she read that letter. She was all
upset, and said such a lot of things to Courte-Joie — who,
indeed, is under great obligations to Monsieur le mar-
quis — that she persuaded him to rescue you from the
soldiers. You 've got a good friend in her, Monsieur
Michel."
Michel listened delightedly; he was almost beside him-
self with joy and satisfaction, and would gladly have paid
a piece of gold for every syllable Rosine uttered. He
began to think his horse went much too slowly, and cutting
a branch from a nut-tree he endeavored to excite tlic
animal to a pace in keeping with the pulses of his heart.
"But," he asked, "why didn't she wait for me in your
father's cottage, Rosine ? "
"We did intend to, Monsieur le baron; in fact, we made
Monsieur Loriot leave us thero, telling him we would
112 THE LAST VENDÉE.
walk to Souday. Mademoiselle had charged Courte-Joie
to take you to my house, and on no account let you go to
Banlœuvre until she had seen you; but as ill-luck would
have it, the cottage, which since father's death has been
quite deserted, was to-night as full of people as an inn.
Jean Oullier has got a meeting there of all the leaders of
his district. So Mademoiselle Mary hid herself in the
barn, and asked me to take her to some place where she
could see you alone as soon as Courte-Joie brought you.
Here we are on a level with the mill of Saint-Philbert; we
shall see the lake of Grand-Lieu in a moment."
Rosine' s last words brought a more emphatic blow with
the nut-stick on the horse's quarters than any that pre-
ceded it. Michel felt that an end was coming to the
difficult position in which he stood. Mary now knew the
strength of his love; she knew that it was powerful
enough to make him reject the proffered marriage; she
was evidently not offended by it, since her regard for him
had led her to do him a signal service and even to risk her
reputation by doing it. Timid, reserved, and backward as
Michel was, his hopes now rose to the level of these
proofs, as he thought them, of Mary's affection. It seemed
to him impossible that a young girl who braved public
opinion, her father's anger, her sister's reproaches, to
secure the safety of a man whose love and whose hopes
she thoroughly well knew, could deny herself to that love
or disappoint those hopes. He saw his future through a
misty horizon still, but the mists were roseate as he began
to descend the hill which locks in the lake of Grand-Lieu
to the southeast.
"Are we getting there ? " he said to Eosine.
"Yes," she replied, slipping from the horse's back,
"follow me."
Michel dismounted and the pair entered a little thicket
of osiers, in the middle of which stood a willow, to which
Michel tied his horse. Then they pushed their way for a
hundred yards or so through the flexible branches, until
GIVING THE SLIP. 113
they came out upon the bank of a sort of creek which
flowed to the lake, Rosine jumped into a little boat with
a flat bottom. Michel offered to take the oars, but Rosine,
knowing that he was a novice at such performances,
pushed him back and took her seat on the thwart with
an oar in each hand.
"Ko, no !" she said, "I can manage better than you;
I have often rowed my poor father when he cast his nets
into the lake."
"But," said Michel, "are you sure you can hit the island
of Jonchère in this darkness ? "
"Look!" she said, without turning round, "can't you
see anything on the water ? "
"Yes," replied the young man, "I see what looks like a
star."
"Well, that star is Mademoiselle Mary, who is holding a
lamp in her hand. She must have heard the oars, and is
coming to meet us."
Michel would gladly have flung himself into the sea to
precede the boat, for, in spite of Rosine's nautical skill,
it progressed very slowly. He began to think he should
never get over the distance between himself and that light,
which was now seen to grow brighter and brighter every
moment.
But, alas ! contrary to the hopes which Rosine had
inspired, when they w r ere near enough to the island to dis-
tinguish the one willow which adorned it Michel did not
see Mary awaiting him on the shore ; the glow came from
a fire of rushes which she had doubtless lighted and left to
burn slowly out upon the shore.
"Rosine," cried Michel, aghast, jumping up in the
boat which he nearly overset, "I don't see Mademoiselle
Mary."
"She is probably in the duck-shooters' hut," replied the
girl, pulling in her oars. "Take one of those burning
sticks ; you '11 find the hut on the other side toward the
offing."
VOL. II. — 8
114 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Michel sprang ashore, did as he was told, and hurried
away in the direction of the hut.
The island of Jonchère is some two or three hundred
yards square. It is covered with reeds on the low ground,
which is overflowed in winter by the waters of the lake.
About fifty lare of dry laud rise above the level of
this inundation; on this elevation old Tinguy had built
for himself a little hut, to which he came on winter
nights to watch for wild-duck. This was the place to
which Rosine had taken Mary.
"Whatever his hopes might be, Michel's heart beat almost
to bursting when he came in sight of the little building.
As he laid his hand en the latch of the door the oppression
became so great that he hesitated.
During that momentary pause his eyes rested on a pane
of glass introduced into the upper half of the entrance
door, through which it was possible to look into the cabin.
There he beheld Mary, sitting on a heap of reeds, her head
bending forward on her breast.
By the feeble light of a lantern which was placed on a
stool he fancied he saw two tears glittering on the long,
fringed eyelashes of the young girl, and the thought that
those tears were shed for him made him lose all diffidence.
He opened the door and rushed to her feet, crying out:
" Mary, Mary, I love you ! "
MAKY IS VICTORIOUS. 115
XI.
MARY IS VICTORIOUS AFTER THE MAXXER OF PYRRHUS.
However firm Mary's resolution to control herself may
have been, Michel's entrance was so sudden, his voice
vibrated with such an accent, there was in his cry so much
of love, so passionate a prayer, that the gentle creature
was uuable to repress her own emotion; her breast heaved,
her fingers trembled, and the tears the young baron fancied
he saw on her eyelids detached themselves and fell, drop
by drop like liquid pearls, on Michel's hands which were
grasping hers. The poor lover himself was too overcome
with his own emotion to notice Mary's, and the girl had
time to recover herself before he spoke. She gently pushed
him aside and looked about her. Michel's eyes followed
Mary's and then fixed themselves anxiously and inquir-
ingly on her face.
" How is it that you are alone, monsieur ? " she asked.
" Where is Rosine ? "
"And you, Mary," said the young man, in a voice full
of sadness, " how is it that you are not, as I am, full of the
happiness of our meeting ? "
"Ah ! my friend," said Mary, dwelling on the word,
"you have no cause — now especially — to doubt the inter-
est I take in your safety."
"No," said Michel, trying to regain the hand she had
drawn away from him. "No, indeed, for it is you to
whom I owe my liberty, and probably my life."
"But," interrupted Mary, trying to smile, "all that does
not make me forget that we arc alone together. Do me
116 THE LAST VENDÉE.
the kindness to call Rosine, for there are certain social
conventions I do not wish to disregard."
Michel sighed and remained on his knees, while two
large tears escaped his eyelids. Mary turned away her
head that she might not see them ; then she made a motion
as if to rise. But Michel retained her. The poor lad had
not enough experience of the human heart to observe that
Mary had never before manifested any reluctance to be
alone with him, and to draw from her present action a
deduction favorable to his love. On the contrary, all his
beautiful visions went up in smoke, and Mary seemed to
him even colder and more indifferent than she had been of
late.
"Ah!" he cried, in a tone of melancholy reproach,
"why did you rescue me from the hands of the soldiers ?
They might have shot me, but I would meet that fate
rather than live to know you do not love me ! "
" Michel ! Michel ! " cried Mary.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "I repeat it, I would rather die."
"Don't talk so, naughty child that you are ! " said Mary,
striving to assume a maternal tone. "Don't you see that
it distresses me ? "
" You do not care ! " said Michel.
"You cannot doubt," continued Mary, "that my friend-
ship for you is true and most sincere."
"Alas ! Mary," said the young man, sadly, "that feeling
is not enough to satisfy the passion that consumes my
heart ever since I have known you; I do feel certain of
your friendship, but my heart wants more."
Mary made a supreme effort.
"My friend, what you ask of me, Bertha will give you;
She loves you as you wish to be loved, as you deserve to be
loved ; " said the poor child, in a trembling voice, striving
to put her sister's name as a barrier between herself and
the man she loved.
Michel shook his head and sighed.
" Oh, not her ! not her ! " he said.
MARY IS VICTORIOUS. 117
"Why — " said Mary as if she did not see his gesture
of refusal or hear that cry from his heart. "Why did you
write her that letter, which would have filled her with
despair had it reached her ? "
"That letter; then it was you who received it ? "
"Alas ! yes," said Mary, "and painful as it was to me,
it is most fortunate that I did so."
" Did you read it through ? " asked Michel.
"Yes," said the young girl, lowering her eyes before the
supplicating glance with which he enfolded her as he asked
the question. "Yes, I read it — all; and it is because 1
did so, dear friend, that I wished to speak to you before
you see my sister again."
" But, Mary, do you not see that that letter is truth itself
from the first line to the last, and that if I love Bertha at
all it can only be as a sister ? "
"No, no," cried Mary; "I only know that my future
would be horrible if I caused unhappiness to my poor
sister whom I love so well."
"But," said Michel, " what do you ask of me ? "
"I ask you," replied Mary, clasping her hands, "to
sacrifice a feeling which has not had time to strike deep
roots into your heart; I ask you to forget a fancy nothing
justifies, to renounce an attachment which can have no
good result for you and must be fatal to all three of us."
"Ask my life, Mary; I can kill myself, or let myself be
killed, — nothing is easier; but to ask me not to love you!
Good God ! what would my poor heart be if deprived of its
love for you ? "
"And yet it must be so, dear Michel," said Mary, in her
winning voice; "for never — no never — will you obtain
from me a word of encouragement for the love you speak
of in that letter. I have sworn it."
" To whom, Mary ? "
"To God and to myself."
"Oh !" exclaimed Michel, sobbing, "and I dreamed sin;
loved me ! "
118 THE LAST VENDUE.
Mary thought that the more warmth he put into his
words and actions, the colder it behooved her to be.
" All that I have now said to you, my friend," she con-
tinued, "is dictated not only by common-sense, but by the
strong interest I feel in your future. If I were indifferent
to you, I should simply express my feelings and let the
matter end ; but as a friend I cannot do so, — as a friend,
I say to you, Michel, forget the woman who can never be
yours and love the woman who loves you and to whom you
are virtually betrothed."
" Oh, but you know very well how that betrothal, as you
call it, took me by surprise; you know that in making that
proposal Petit-Pierre mistook my feelings. Those feel-
ings you well know. I expressed them to you that night
when the general and the soldiers were at the château.
You did not repulse them; I felt your hands press mine;
I knelt at your feet, Mary, as I do now; you bent your
head to mine; your hair, your beautiful, adored hair
touched my forehead. I did wrong not to tell Petit-
Pierre who it was I loved; but how could I expect what
has happened ? It never crossed my mind she could sup-
pose I loved any one but Mary. It is the fault of my
timidity, which I curse ; but, after all, it is not so grievous
a fault that it ought to separate me forever from the woman
I love, and chain my life to one I do not love."
"Alas ! my friend, the fault that seems to you so
light seems to me irreparable. Whatever happens, and
even though you repudiate the promise made in your
name and in which you acquiesced by silence, you must
understand that I can never be yours, for I will never
rend the heart of my beloved sister with the sight of
my happiness."
" Good God ! " cried Michel, " how wretched I am ! "
He put his face in his hands and burst into tears.
"Yes," said Mary, "I know you suffer now; but take
courage. Call up your virtup, your courage, my friend.
Listen willingly to my advice; this feeling will, little by
MARY IS VICTORIOUS. Hi)
little, be effaced from your heart. If necessary, I will go
away for a time that you may cure yourself."
"Go away! separate yourself from me! Ko, Mary,
never, never ! no, don't leave me, for I swear that the day
you leave, I leave; where you go, I go. Good God ! what
would become of me, deprived of your dear presence ? No,
no, no; don't go, I implore you, Mary."
"So be it; T will stay, but only to help you to do what-
ever may be painful and sad in your duty; and when that
is done, when you are happy, when you are Bertha's
husband — "
"Never ! never ! " muttered Michel.
"Yes, my friend, for Bertha is more fitted to be your
wife than I am ; her love for you, — and I can swear this
for I have heard her express it, — is greater than you sup-
pose; her tenderness will satisfy the craving for love which
now consumes you, and my sister's strength and energy,
which I do not possess, will clear your path in life of the
thorns and. briers you might not of yourself be able to put
aside. So, if there is really a sacrifice on your part, that
sacrifice, believe me, will be well-rewarded."
In saying these words Mary affected a calmness which
was far indeed from being in her heart, the real condition
of which was betrayed by her paleness and agitation. As
for Michel, he listened in feverish agitation.
"Don't talk so ! " he cried as she ended. "Do you sup-
pose the current of human affections is a thing to be
managed and directed as we please, like a river which an
engineer forces between the banks of a canal, or a vine
which the gardener trains as he will ? No, no; I tell you
again, I repeat it and I will repeat it a hundred times,
— it is you, you alone whom I love, Mary. It would be
impossible for my heart to name any other name than yours,
even if I wished it, and I don't wish it. My God ! my God ! "
continued the young man, flinging up his arms to heaven
with a look of agonized despair; "what would become of
me if I saw you the wife of another man ? "
120 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Michel," said Mary, with passionate fervor, "if you
will do as I ask you, I swear by all that is most sacred
that, as I cannot be your wife, I will belong to none but
God; I will never marry. All my affection, my tender-
ness shall remain yours; and this affection will not be of
the vulgar kind that years destroy or a mere chance kills.
It will be the deep, unutterable affection of a sister for a
brother; it will be a gratitude which will forever bind me
to you. I shall owe to you the happiness of my sister, and
all my life shall be spent in blessing you."
"Your love for your sister misleads you, Mary," replied
Michel. "You think only of her; you do not think of me
when you seek to condemn me to the horrible torture of
being chained, for life, to a woman I do not love. Oh,
Mary ! it is cruel of you, — you for whom I would give my
life, — it is cruel to ask of me a thing to which I can never
resign myself."
"Oh, yes, you can, my friend," persisted the girl; "you
can surely resign yourself to what, though it may be the
result of fate, is also most assuredly, a generous and mag-
nanimous action; you can resign yourself because you
know that God would never suffer a sacrifice like that to
go unrewarded, and the reward will be — yes, it will be —
the happiness of two poor orphans."
"Oh, Mary," said Michel, quite beside himself, "don't
talk to me like that. Oh, it is plain that you don't
know what it is to love ! You tell me to give you up!
but remember that you are my heart, my soul, my life, —
it is simply asking me to tear my heart from my breast,
forswear my soul, blast my happiness, dry up my very
existence at its source. You are the light for which and
by which the world, to my eyes, is a world; the day you
cease to shine upon my life I shall fall into a gulf the
darkness of which horrifies me. I swear to you, Mary,
that since I have known you, since that moment when I
first saw you and felt your hands cooling my wounded
forehead, you have been so identified with my being that
MARY IS VICTORIOUS. 121
there is not a thought in my mind that does not belong to
you, all that is within me refers to you, and if my heart
were to lose you, it would cease to beat as if the principle
of life were taken from it. You see, therefore, that it is
impossible I should do as you ask."
"And yet," cried Mary, in a paroxysm of despair,
"Bertha loves you, and I do not love you."
"Ah ! if you do not love me, Mary, if, with your eyes in
my eyes, your hands in my hands, you have the courage to
say, 'I do not love you,' then, indeed, all is over."
"What do you mean by that, — how is it all over ? "
"Simply enough, Mary. As truly as those stars in
heaven see the chastity of my love for you, as truly as that
God who is above those stars knows that my love for you
is immortal, Mary, neither you nor your sister shall ever
see me again."
"Oh, don't say that, Michel."
" I have but to cross the lake and mount my horse, which
is there among the osiers, and gallop to the first guard-
house; once there, I have only to say, { I am Baron Michel
de la Logerie, ' to be shot in three days." Mary gave a
cry. "And that is what I will do," added Michel, "as
surely as the stars look down upon us, and God himself is
above them."
The young man made a movement to rush from the hut.
Mary threw herself before him and clasped him round the
body, but her strength gave way, her hold loosened, and
she slipped to his feet.
"Michel," she murmured, "if you love me as you say
you do, you will not refuse my entreaty. In the name of
your love I implore you, — ■ I whom you say you love, — do
not kill my sister, grant me her life; grant her happiness
to my prayers and tears. God will bless you for it; and
every day my soul shall rise to Him, imploring happiness
for one who has helped me to save a sister I love better
than myself. Michel, forget me, — I ask it of your mercy,
Michel, — do not reduce my Bertha to despair."
122 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Oh, Mary, Mary, you are cruel ! " cried the young man,
grasping his hair with both hands; "you are asking rny
very life. I shall die of this."
"Courage, friend, courage," said the girl, weakening
herself.
"I could have courage for all, except renouncing you;
hut the simple thought of that makes me feebler than a
child, — more despairing than a soul in hell."
"Michel, my friend, will you do as I ask of you?"
stammered Mary, her voice half drowned in tears.
"I — I — "
He was about to answer that he would, but he stopped.
" Ah, " he cried, " if you suffered as I suffer ! "
At that cry of utter selfishness and yet of infinite love,
Mary, beside herself, panting for breath, half maddened,
clasped him in her nervous arms and said in a sobbing
voice : —
" Would it comfort you to know that my heart is torn
with an anguish like yours ? "
" Yes, yes ; oh, yes ! "
" Would hell be a paradise if I were by your side ? "
"An eternity of suffering with you, Mary, and I could
bear all."
"Well, then," cried Mary, losing control of herself; "be
satisfied, cruel man ! your sufferings, your anguish — I feel
them all. Like you, I am dying of despair at the sacrifice
our duty is wringing from us."
" Then you love me, Mary ? " said the young man.
"Oh, faithless heart !" she cried; "oh, faithless man,
who can see my tears, my tortures, and cannot see my
love ! "
" Mary, Mary ! " exclaimed Michel, staggering, breath-
less, mad, and drunken at once; "after killing me with
grief, will you kill me with joy ? "
" Yes, yes, I love you ! " repeated Mary. " I love you !
I needs must say the words that have choked me long.
Yes, I love you as you love me. I love you so well that
MARY IS VICTORIOUS. 123
when I think of the sacrifice we both must make, death
would be dear to me could it come at this moment when
I tell you the truth."
Saying these words in spite of herself, and as if attracted
by magnetic power, Mary approached her face to that of
the young man, who looked at her with the eyes of nue
whom a sudden hallucination has flung into ecstasy; her
blond hair touched his forehead; their breaths mingled
and intoxicated both. As if overcome by this amorous
effluence, Michel closed his eyes, his lips touched Mary's,
and she, exhausted by her struggle so long sustained
against herself, yielded to the impulse that moved her.
Their lips united, and thus they stayed for several moments,
lost in a gulf of dolorous felicity.
Mary was the first to recover herself. She rose quickly,
pushed Michel away from her, and began to cry bitterly.
At that instant Itosine entered the hut.
124 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XII.
BARON MICHEL FINDS AN OAK INSTEAD OF A REED ON
WHICH TO LEAN.
Mary felt that Rosine' s coming was a help sent to her
from above. Alone, without other support than her own
heart, which had yielded so utterly, she felt herself at the
mercy of her lover. Seeing Rosine, she ran to her and
caught her hand.
" What is it, my child ? " she said. " What have you
come to say ? "
She passed her hands over her forehead and eyes to
efface, if possible, the signs of her emotion.
"Mademoiselle," said Rosine, "I think I hear a boat."
" In which direction ? "
"Toward Saint-Philbert."
"I thought your father's boat was the only one on the
lake."
"No, mademoiselle, the miller of Grand-Lieu has one;
it is half -rotten to be sure, but some one has no doubt
taken it to come over here."
"Well," said Mary, "I'll go with you and see who
it is ? "
Then, without paying the slightest heed to the young
man, who stretched out his arms to her in a supplicating
way, Mary, who was not sorry to leave Michel in order
to gather up her courage, sprang from the hut. Rosine
followed her.
Michel was left alone, completely crushed; he felt that
happiness had escaped him, and he doubted the possibility
MICHEL FINDS AN OAK TO LEAN ON. 125
of recovering it. Never again would another such scene
bring another such avowal.
When Mary returned, after listening in all directions
without hearing anything more than the lapping of the
water on the shore, she found Michel sitting on the reeds
with his head in his hands. She thought him calm, — he
was only depressed; she went to him. Michel, hearing
her step, raised his head, and seeing her as reserved on her
return as she was emotional before she left him, he merely
held out his hand and shook his head sadly.
" Oh, Mary, Mary ! " he said.
" Well, my friend ? " she replied.
"Repeat to me, for Heaven's sake — repeat to me those
dear words you said just now ! Tell me again that you
love me ! "
"I will repeat it, dear friend," said Mary, sadly; "and
as often as you wish it, if the conviction that my love is
watching tenderly your sufferings and your efforts can in
any way inspire you with courage and resolution."
" What ! " cried Michel, wringing his hands, " are you
still thinking of that cruel separation ? Can you expect me,
with the knowledge of my love for you, and the certainty
of your love for me, — can you still expect me to give myself
to another woman ? "
"I expect us both to accomplish the duty that lies before
us, my friend. That is why I do not regret having opened
my heart to you. I hope that my example will teach you
to suffer, and inspire you with resignation to the will of
God. A fatal chain of circumstances, which I deplore as
much as you, Michel, has separated us; we cannot belong
to each other."
"But why not? I have made no pledge. I never said
one word of love to Mademoiselle Bertha."
"No; but she told me that she loved you. I received
her confidence as long ago as that evening when you met
her at Tinguy's cottage, and walked home with her."
"But whatever I said to her that night that may have
[■2(\ THF. I. Asr VENDE»
seemed tender referred to you," said the luckless young
man.
"Ah! friend, a heart which bends is soon filled; poor
Bertha deceived herself. As we returned to the chateau
that night and 1 was thinking in the depths of my heart,
•I love him." she said those very words to me aloud. To
love you is only to suffer, but to be yours, Michel, would
be a crime."
"Ah! my God. my Cod!"
■• Yes. Gk)d will give us strength, Michel,— the God whom
we invoke. Lei us hear heroically the consequences of
our mutual timidity. I do not. blame you for yours, lie
sure oï that; hut. at Least, spare me the remorse o( feeling
that 1 have made my sister's unhappiness without benefit
or advantage to myself."
•'But.*' said Michel, "your project is senseless; the very
thing you seek to avoid would surely come of it. Sooner
or later Bertha must disoover that 1 do not love her, and
then — "
"Listen to me. friend." interrupted Mary, laying her
hand on Michel's arm: "though very young. 1 have strong
convictions on what is called love. My education, the
direct opposite of yours, has, like yours, its drawbacks,
but also some advantages. One of these advantages — a
terrible one. 1 admit — is a practical view of realities.
Accustomed to hear conversations in which the past dis-
guised nothing of its weakness, f know, through what I
have learned from my father's life, that nothing is more
fugitive than the feelings which you now express to me.
I therefore hope that Bertha will have taken my place in
your heart before she has time to perceive your indiffer-
ence. That is my hope, Michel, and I pray you not to
destroy it."
"You ask an impossibility, Mary."
"Well, if it must be so, it must. You are free not to
keep the engagement which binds you to my sister: free to
reject the prayer I make to you on my knees; it will be
/M.I. PIHJ :■< TO LE 127
only; ' round and shame infli poor girls
already unjustly treated by the world. Bertha
will rafter, f know that; but at lea I 1 .suffer with
ad with * b re, Michel,
our sufferings, increased by each seeing that of the
other, end by •
■■ I implore I conjure you do not say such
words, — they break my heart."
"Listen, Michel; the hours are • the night is
nearly gone, day will soon be b<
and my resolution is . We] a dreamed
un which we must both forget. 1 have told you how
you can deserve, — I will not say my love, for you have
it, — but the eternal gratitude of your poor Mary. 1
to you," she added, in a deeper tone of supplication than
ed; " f you that if you will di
yourself to the happine ter, I will have but one
;it, one prayer, in my heart, — that of beseeching God
you here If, on the
you refuse me, Michel, if tart cannot
to the level of my i ion, you must renounce the
sight of us, you must go f c away; for, I repeat, and J
i it before God, 1 v.;]! never, my friend, ftif&r be
yours ! "
" Mary, Mary, • •
. at least, 'i en."
"To leave you any hope would be doing wrong, Michel;
and since the certainty that I share your sufferii
given you promised m< old — the fir:
and i hich strength I bit-
terly regret, the ' nade this night.
Ided, passing her hand acr<
r
you a request, a prayer; you will not listen to it;
there is nothing left but to bid \ ■■■}]."
y ! Oh, rather death '. I will
hat you exact — "
128 THE LAST VENDÉE.
He stopped, unable to say the words.
"I exact nothing," said Mary. "I have asked you on
my knees not to break two hearts instead of one, and, on
my knees, I once more ask it."
And she did, in fact, slip down to the feet of the young
man.
"Rise, rise !" he cried. "Yes, Mary, yes, I will do
what you want. But you must be there, you must never
leave me; and when I suffer too much I must draw my
strength and courage from your eyes. Promise me that,
Mary, and I will obey you."
"Thank you, friend, thank you. That which gives me
strength to ask and accept this sacrifice, is my conviction
that nothing is lost for your happiness as well as Bertha's."
"But yours, yours ? " cried the young man.
"Do not think of me, Michel." A groan escaped him.
"God," she continued, "has given consolations to sacrifice
of which the soul knows nothing till it sounds those
depths. As for me," said Mary, veiling her eyes with her
hand as though she feared they might deny her words,
"I shall endeavor to find the sight of your happiness
sufficient for me."
" Oh, my God, my God ! " cried Michel, wringing his
hands; "is it all over, — am I condemned to death?"
And he flung himself face down upon the floor.
At that moment Rosine entered.
"Mademoiselle," she said, "the day is breaking."
"What is the matter, Rosine ?" asked Mary; "you are
trembling! "
"I am sure I heard oars in the lake; and just now I
heard footsteps behind me."
"Footsteps on this lonely islet ! you are dreaming,
child."
" I think so myself, for I have searched everywhere and
seen no one."
"Now we must go," said Mary.
A sob from Michel made her turn to him.
MICHEL FINDS AN OAK TO LEAN ON. 129
"We must go alone, my friend," she said, "but in an
hour Rosine shall come back for you with the boat. Don't
forget what you have promised me. I rely upon your
courage."
"Rely upon my love, Mary," he said. "The proof you
exact is terrible; the task you impose immense. God
grant I may not fail under the burden of it."
"Remember, Michel, that Bertha loves you, that she
cherishes every glance you give her. Remember, too, that
I would rather die than have her discover the true state of
your heart."
" Oh, my God ! my God ! " murmured the young man.
" Courage ! courage ! Farewell, friend ! "
Profiting by the moment when Rosine turned to open
the door and look outside, Mary laid a kiss on Michel's
forehead. It was a different kiss from that she had given
him half an hour earlier. The first was the jet of flame,
which darts from the heart of the lover to that of the loved
one; the second was the chaste farewell of a sister to a
brother.
Michel understood the difference, and it wrung his heart.
Tears sprang again to his eyes. He went with the two
young girls to the shore, and when he had seen them in the
boat he sat down upon a stone and watched the little bark
till it was lost in the morning mist that was rising from
the lake.
The sound of oars still lingered in his ear; he was lis-
tening, as though to some funeral knell which told him
that his illusions were vanishing like phantom dreams,
when a hand was lightly laid upon his shoulder. He
turned and saw Jean Oullier close beside him.
The Vendéan's face was sadder than usual, but it seemed
to have lost the expression of hatred which Michel had so
often seen there. His eyelids were moist, and two big
drops were hanging to the beard which formed :i collar
round his face. Were they dew ? Could they be tears
from the, eyes of the old follower of Charette ?
VOL. II. — 9
130 THE LAST VENDÉE.
He held out his hand to Michel, a thing he had never
done before. The latter looked at him in surprise, and
took, with some hesitation, the hand that was offered to
him.
"I heard all," said Jean Oullier.
Michel sighed and dropped his head.
"Noble hearts ! both of you," said the Vendéan; "but
you were right. It is a terrible task that poor child has set
you. May God reward her devotion ! As for you, when
you feel that you are weakening, let me know, Monsieur
de la Logerie, and you '11 find out one thing, and that is, if
Jean Oullier hates his enemies he can also love those he
does love."
"Thank you," replied Michel.
"Come, come ! " continued Jean Oullier, "no more tears;
it is n't manly to cry. If necessary, I '11 try to make that
iron head, called Bertha, listen to reason; though I admit
to you, in advance, it is n't easy."
"But in case she won't hear reason, there is one thing
else you can help me in, — an easy thing."
"What is that?"
"To get myself killed."
Michel said it so simply that it was evidently the
expression of his thought.
"Oh, oh ! " muttered Jean Oullier; "he really looks, my
faith, as if he 'd do it." Then he added aloud, addressing
the young man: "Well, so be it; if the necessity comes,
we '11 see about it."
This promise, melancholy as it was, gave Michel a little
courage.
"Now, then," said the old Chouan, "come with me.
You can't stay here. I have a miserable boat, but by tak-
ing some precautions I think we can both of us get safely
ashore."
"But Rosine was to return in an hour and row me over,"
objected the young man.
" She will come on a useless errand, that 's all ; " replied
MICHEL FINDS AN OAK TO LEAN ON. 131
Jean Oullier. "It will teach her to gossip on the high-
road about other people's affairs as she did with you
to-night."
After these words, which explained how Jean Oullier
came to visit the island of Jonchère, Michel followed him
to the boat, and presently, avoiding the road taken by Marj
and Rosine, they took to the open country in the direction
of Saint-Philbert.
132 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XIII.
THE LAST KNIGHTS OF ROYALTY.
As Gaspard had clearly foreseen, and as lie had predicted
to Petit-Pierre at the farm-house of Banlceuvre, the post-
ponement of the uprising till the 4th of June was a fatal
blow to the projected insurrection. In spite of every effort
and every activity on the part of the leaders of the Legiti-
mist party, who all, like the Marquis de Souday, his daugh-
ters, and adherents, went themselves to the villages of
their divisions to carry the order for delay, it was too late
to get the information sent to the country districts, and
these conflicting plans defeated the whole movement.
In the region about Niort, Fontenay, and Luçon, the
royalists assembled; Diot and Robert, at the head of their
organized bands, issued from the forests of the Deux-Sèvres,
to serve as kernel to the movement. This was instantly
made known to the military leaders of the various sur-
rounding detachments, who at once assembled their forces,
marched to the parish of Amailloux, defeated the peas-
antry, and arrested a large number of gentlemen and
royalist officers who were in the neighborhood, and had
rushed into the fight on hearing the firing.
Arrests of the same kind were made in the environs of
the Champ-Saint-Père. The post of Port-la-Claye was
attacked, and although, because of the small number of
assailants the royalists were easily repulsed, it was evi-
dent from the audacity and vigor of the attack that it was
made, or at any rate led, by other than mere refractories, — •
deserting recruits.
THE LAST KNIGHTS OF ROYALTY. 133
On one of the prisoners taken at the Champ-Saint-
Père a list was found of the young mon forming the
corps d'élite of the royalist forces. This list, these attacks
made on various sides at the same time, these arrests of
men known for the enthusiasm of their Legitimist opinions,
naturally put the authorities on their guard, and made
them regard as imminent the dangers they had hitherto
treated lightly.
If the countermand of the uprising did not reach the
country districts of La Vendee in time, still less could the
provinces of Brittany and Maine receive the order; and
there the standard of revolt was openly unfurled. In
the first, the division of Vitré took the field, and even
won a victory for the Bretons at Bréal, — ■ an ephemeral
victory, which was changed to defeat the following day
at Gaudinière.
In Maine Gaullier received the countermand too late to
stop his gars from making a bloody fight at Chaney, which
lasted six hours; and besides that engagement (a serious
one in its results) the peasantry, unwilling to return to
their homes after beginning the insurrection, kept up a
daily guerilla warfare with the various columns of troops
which lined the country.
We may boldly declare that the countermand of May
22, the headlong and unsupported movements which then
took place, the want of cohesion and confidence which
naturally resulted, did more for the government of July
than the zeal of all its agents put together.
In the provinces where these premature attempts were
made it was impossible to revive the ardor thus chilled
and wasted. The insurgent peasantry had time to reflect;
and reflection, often favorable to calculation, is always
fatal to sentiment. The leaders, whose names were now
made known to the government, were easily surprised and
arrested on returning to their homes.
It was still worse in the districts where the peasantry
had openly taken the field. Finding themselves aban-
184 THE LAST VENDÉE.
doned by their own supporters, and not receiving the
reinforcements on which they counted, they believed them-
selves betrayed, broke their guns in two, and returned,
indignantly, to their cottages.
The Legitimist insurrection died in the womb. The
cause of Henri V. lost two provinces before his flag was
raised; but such was the courage of these sons of giants
that, as we are now about to see, they did not yet
despair.
Eight days had elapsed since the events recorded in our
last chapter, and during those eight days the political tur-
moil going on around Machecoul was so violent that it
swept into its orbit all the personages of our history whose
own passions and interests might otherwise have kept them
aloof from it.
Bertha, made uneasy at first by Michel's disappearance,
was quite reassured when he returned ; and her happiness
was shown with such effusion and publicity that it was
impossible for the young man, unless he broke the promise
he had made to Mary, to do otherwise than appear, on his
side, glad to see her. The many services she had to ren-
der to Petit-Pierre, the many details of the correspondence
with which she was intrusted, so absorbed Bertha's time
that she did not notice Michel's sadness and depression, or
the constraint with which he yielded to the familiarity her
masculine habits led her to show to the man whom she
regarded as her betrothed husband.
Mary, who had rejoined her father and sister two hours
after leaving Michel on the islet of Jonchère, avoided care-
fully all occasions of being alone with her lover. When
the necessities of their daily life brought them together
she took every possible means to put her sister at an
advantage in Michel's eyes; and when her own eyes
encountered those of the young baron she looked at him
with so supplicating an expression that he felt himself
gently but relentlessly held to the promise he had given.
If, by accident, Michel seemed to authorize by his
THE LAST KNIGHTS OF ROYALTY. 135
silence the attentions with which Bertha overwhelmed
him, Mary affected a joyous and demonstrative pleasure,
which, though doubtless far from her own heart, was
agonizing to that of Michel. Nevertheless, in spite of all
her efforts, it was impossible for her to conceal the ravages
which the struggle she was making against her love
wrought in her appearance. The change would certainly
have struck every one about her had they been less pre-
occupied, — Bertha with her love, Petit-Pierre and the
marcpiis with the cares of State. Poor Mary's healthy
freshness disappeared; dark circles of bluish bistre hol-
lowed her eyes, her pale cheeks visibly grew thinner, and
slender lines appearing on her beautiful forehead contra-
dicted the smile that was ever on her lips.
Jean Oullier, whose loving solicitude could not have
been deceived, was absent. The very day he returned to
Banloeuvre the marquis despatched him on a mission
to the East, and, inexperienced as he was in matters of
the heart, he had departed almost easy in mind, having
no real conception, in spite of all he had heard, that the
trouble was so deep.
The 3d of June had now arrived. On that day a great
commotion took place at the Jacquet mill in the district
of Saint-Colombin. From early morning the going and
coming of women and beggars had been incessant, and by
nightfall the orchard which surrounded the mill had all
the appearance of an encampment.
Every few minutes men in blouses or hunting-jackets,
armed with guns, sabres, and pistols, kept coming in;
some through the fields, others by the roads. They said a
word to the sentries posted around the farm, on which word
they were allowed to pass. They stacked their guns along
the hedge which separated the orchard from the courtyard,
and prepared, as they severally arrived, to bivouac, under
the apple-trees. Each and all came full of devotion; few
with hope.
The courage and loyalty of such convictions make them
136 THE LAST VENDÉE.
sacred and worthy of respect. No matter to what opinions
we may belong, we must be proud of finding such loyalty,
such courage, among friends, and glad to recognize them
among adversaries. That political faith for which men did
not shrink from dying maybe rebuked and denied; God
was not with it and it fell. Nevertheless, it has won the
right to be honored, even in defeat, without discussion.
Antiquity declared, "Ills to the vanquished!" but an-
tiquity was pagan. Mercy never reigned among false
gods.
As for us, — not concerning ourselves in the sentiments or
convictions which animated them, — we feel it was a noble
and chivalric devotion which these Vendéans of 1832 held
up to France, then beginning to be invaded by the narrow,
sordid, commercial spirit which has since then absorbed it.
And above all it seems noble and chivalrous when we
reflect that most of these Vendéans had no illusion as to
the outcome of their struggle ; they advanced without hope
to certain death. However mistaken they may have been,
whatever may be said of their action, the names of those
men belong to history; and we here join hands with his-
tory, if not to glorify them, at least to absolve them,
although their actual names must not be mentioned in our
narrative.
Inside the Jacquet mill the concourse, though less numer-
ous than without, was not less noisily busy. Some of the
leaders were receiving their last instructions and concert-
ing with each other for the morrow; others were relating
the occurrences of the day, which had not been uneventful.
A gathering had taken place on the moors of Les Vergeries,
and several encounters with the government troops had
occurred.
The Marquis de Souday made himself conspicuous among
the various groups by his enthusiastic loquacity. Once
more he was a youth of twenty. In his feverish impa-
tience it seemed to him that the sun of the morrow would
never dawn; and he was profiting by the time the earth
THE LAST KNIGHTS OF ROYALTY. 137
consumed in making its revolution to give a lesson in mili-
tary tactics to the young men about him.
Michel, sitting in the chimney-corner, was the only per-
son present whose mind was not completely absorbed in
the events that were impending. His situation was grow-
ing more complicated every moment. A few friends and
neighbors of the marquis had congratulated him on his
approaching marriage with Mademoiselle de Souday. At
every step he made he felt he was entangling himself more
and more in the net he had blindly entered head foremost;
and at the same time he felt that all his efforts to keep the
promise Mary had wrung from him were hopeless. He
knew it was in vain to attempt to drive from his heart the
gentle image that had taken possession of it.
His sadness grew deeper and heavier, and presented at
this moment a curious contrast with the eager countenances
of those about him. The noise and the excitement soon
became intolerable to him, and he rose and went out with-
out exciting notice. He crossed the courtyard and passing
behind the mill-wheel entered the miller's garden, fol-
lowed the water-course, and finally sat down on the rail of
a little bridge some two or three hundred yards from the
house.
He had been sitting there about an hour, indulging in
all the dismal ideas which the consciousness of his unfortu-
nate position suggested to him, when he noticed a man
who was coming toward him along the path he himself
had just taken.
"Is that you, Monsieur Michel ?" asked the man.
"Jean Oullier!" cried Michel. " Jean Oullier ! Heaven
has sent you. When did you get back ? "
"Half an hour ago."
"Have you seen Mary ? "
"Yes, I have seen Mademoiselle Mary."
And the old keeper raised his eyes to heaven and sighed.
The tone in which he said the words, the gesture, and the
sigh which accompanied them, showed that his deep solici-
138 THE LAST VENDÉE.
tude was not blind to the cause of the young girl's fading
appearance, and also that he fully appreciated the gravity
of the situation.
Michel understood him; he covered his face with his
hands and merely murmured : —
" Poor Mary ! "
Jean Oullier looked at him with a certain compassion;
then, after a moment's silence he said : —
" Have you decided on a course ? "
"No; but I hope that to-morrow a musket-ball will save
me the necessity."
"Oh," said Jean Oullier, "you can't count on that; balls
are so capricious, — they never go to those who call them."
"Ah, Monsieur Jean!" exclaimed Michel, shaking; "we
are very unhappy."
"Yes, so it seems; you are making terrible trouble for
yourselves, all of you. What you call love is nothing but
unreasonableness. Good God ! who could have told me
that these two children, who thought of nothing but roam-
ing the woods bravely and merrily with their father and
me, would fall in love with the first hat that came in their
way, — and that, too, when the man it covered was more of
a girl in his sex than they were in theirs ! n
"Alas! it is fatality, my good Jean."
"No," said the Vendéan, "you needn't blame fate; it
was I. But come, as you have n't the nerve to face that
foolish Bertha, and speak the truth, how do you expect to
remain an honest man ? "
"I shall do all I can to get nearer to Mary; you can
count on me for that so long as you act in that direction."
"Who says anything about your keeping near to Mary ?
Poor child ! she has more good sense than all of you. She
cannot be your wife, — she told you so the other day, or
rather the other night; and she was perfectly right, — only,
her love for Bertha is carrying her too far. She is con-
demning herself to the torture she wishes to spare her
sister; and that is what neither you nor I must allow."
THE LAST KNIGHTS OF ROYALTY. 131)
" How can we help it, Jean Oullier ? "
"Easily. As you cannot be the husband of the woman
you love, you must not be the husband of the woman you
don't love. Now it is my opinion that Mary's grief will
get easier when that pain is taken away from her. For
she may say what she pleases; there 's always a touch of
jealousy at the bottom of a woman's heart, however tender
it may be."
"Renounce both the hope of making Mary my wife and
the consolation of seeing her ? Impossible ! I can't do
it. I tell you, Jean Oullier, that to get nearer to Mary I
would go through hell-fire."
"Phrases, my young gentleman, phrases! The world
has been consoled for being turned out of paradise, and at
your age a man can always forget the woman he loves.
Besides, the thing that ought to separate you from Mary is
something else than hell-fire. It may be the dead body of
her sister; for you don't yet know what. an undisciplined
child it is that goes by the name of Bertha, nor of what she
is capable, I don't understand, poor fool of a peasant that
I am, all your fine sentiments; but it seems to me the
grandest of them ought to pause before an obstacle of this
sort."
"But what can I do, my friend ? What shall I do ?
Advise me."
"All the trouble comes, as I think, from your not hav-
ing the character of your sex. You must now do what a
person of the sex to which by your manners and your
weakness you seem to belong would do under the circum-
stances. You have not known how to master the situa-
tion in which fate placed you; and now you must flee
from it."
"Flee from it! But did you hear Mary say the other
day that if I renounced her sister she would never see me
again ? "
" What of that, if she respects you ? "
"But think of all I shall have to suffer! "
î tÔ THE LAST VENDÉE.
"You won't suffer at a distance more than you will
suffer here."
"Here, at least, I can see her."
"Do you think the heart knows distance ? No, not
even when those we are parted from have bid us their last
farewell. Thirty years ago and over I lost my ]>oor wife,
but there are days when I see her as plain as I now see
you. Mary's image will remain on your heart, and you
will hear her voice thanking you for what you now do."
"Ah ! I would rather you talked to me of death."
" Come, Monsieur Michel, make an effort. I 'd go on my
knees to }'ou if necessary — I who have many a cause of
hatred against you; I beg you, I implore you, give peace,
as far as it is now possible, to those poor crep^tures ! "
" What do you want me to do ? "
" I want you to go. I have said it, and I repeat it."
" Go ? Go away ? You can't mean it. Why, they fight
to-morrow, and to go to-day would be deserting, — it would
be dishonor."
"No, I don't want you to dishonor yourself. If you go
it shall not be desertion."
" How so ? "
"In the absence of a captain of the Clisson division I
have been appointed to take his command; you shall come
with me."
"Oh, T hope the first ball to-morrow may carry me off."
" You will fight under my eyes, " continued Jean Oullier ;
"and if any one doubts your bravery, I '11 bear witness to
it. Will you come ? "
"Yes," replied Michel, in so low a voice that the old
man could scarcely hear him.
" Good ! in three hours we start. "
" Start ! without bidding her farewell ? "
"Yes. In the face of such circumstances she might not
have the strength to let you go. Come, take courage ! "
"I will take it, Oullier; you shall be satisfied with me."
" Then I can rely upon you ? "
THE LAST KNIGHTS OF ROYALTY. 141
" You can. 1 give you my word of honor."
"I shall be waiting at the cross ways of Belle-Passe in
three hours from now."
"I will be there."
Jean Oullier made Michel a farewell sign that was
almost friendly; then springing across the little bridge,
he went to the orchard and mingled with the other
Vendéans.
142 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XIV.
JEAN 0ULLIER LIES FOK THE GOOD OF THE CAUSE.
The young baron remained for several minutes in a state
of utter prostration. Jean Oullier's words rang in his
ears like a knell sounding his own death. He thought he
dreamed, and he kept repeating, as if to convince himself
of the reality of his sorrow, " Go away ? Go away ? "
Presently, the chill idea of death, which he had lately
invoked as a succor from heaven, an idea adopted as we
fasten upon such thoughts at twenty, passed from his
brain to his heart and froze him. He shuddered from
head to foot. He saw himself separated from Mary, not
merely by a distance he dared not cross, but by that wall
of granite which incloses a man eternally in his last abode.
His pain grew so intense that he thought it a presenti-
ment. He now accused Jean Oullier of cruelty and injus-
tice. The sternness of the old Vendéan in refusing him
the consolation of a last farewell seemed to him intolera-
ble; it was surely impossible that he should be actually
denied a last look. He rebelled at the thought, and
resolved to see Mary, no matter what might come of it.
Michel knew the internal arrangements of the miller's
house. Petit-Pierre's room was the miller's own, above
the grindstones. This was, naturally, the place of honor
in the establishment. The sisters slept in a little room
adjoining this chamber. A narrow window in the smaller
room looked down upon the outside mill-wheel which kept
the machinery at work. For the present, however, all was
still, lest the noise should prevent the sentries from hear-
ing other sounds.
JEAN OULLIER LIES. 143
Michel waited till it was dark, — an hour perhaps; then
he went to the buildings. A light could be seen in the
narrow window. He threw a plank on a paddle of the
wheel and managed, by resting his body against the wall,
to climb spoke by spoke to the highest point oi' the wheel ;
there he found himself on a level with the narrow case-
ment. He raised his head and looked into the tiny room.
Mary was alone, sitting on a stool, her elbow resting on
the bed, her head in her hands. Now and then a heavy
sigh escaped her; from time to time her lips moved as
though she were murmuring a prayer. The young man
tapped against a window-pnne. At the sound she raised
her head, recognized him through the glass, and ran to
him.
"Hush!" he said.
" You ! you here ! " cried Mary.
"Yes, I."
" Good God ! what do you want ? "
" Mary, it is more than a week since I have spoken to
you, almost a week since I have seen you. I have come to
bid you farewell before I go to meet my fate."
" Farewell ! and why farewell ? "
"I have come to say farewell, Mary," said the youth,
firmly.
" Oh, you do not mean to die ? "
Michel did not answer.
"No, no; you will not die," continued Mary. "I have
prayed so much that God must hear me. But now that
you have seen me, now that you have spoken to me, you
must go, — go ! "
" Why must I leave you so soon ? Do you hate me so
intensely that you cannot bear to see me ? "
" No, you know it is not that, my friend ; " said Mary.
"But Bertha is in the next room; she may have heard
you come. She may be hearing what you say. Good God !
what would become of me — of me who have sworn to her
that I did not love you ! "
144 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Y ou may have sworn that to her, but to me you
swore otherwise. You swore that you loved me, and it
\v:i.^ upon the faith of that love that I consented to conceal
in) own."
" Michel, I entreat you, go away! "
" No, Mary, I will not go until your lips have repeated
to trie again what they said on the island of Jonchère."
" But that love is almost a crime ! " said Mary, desper-
ately. "Michel, my friend, T blush, I weep, when I think
of that momentary weakness."
"Mary! I swear to you that to-morrow you shall have
no such remorse, you shall shed no tears of that kind."
"Oh, you mean to die ! No, no; do not say it ! Leave
me the hope that my sufferings may bring you a better fate
than mine. Hush! Don't you hear? Some one is coming!
Go, Michel; go, go !"
" One kiss, Mary ! "
"No."
" Yes, yes ; a last kiss — the last ! "
"Never, my friend."
" Mary, it is to a dying man ! "
Mary gave a cry ; her lips touched his forehead ; but the
instant they had done so, and while she was closing the
window hastily, Bertha appeared in the door-way.
When the latter saw her sister, pale, perturbed, scarcely
able to support herself, she rushed, with the terrible
instinct of jealousy, to the window, opened it violently,
leaned out, and saw a shadow disappearing in the dark-
ness.
" Michel was with you, Mary ! " she cried, with trem-
bliiiL, r lips.
"Sister," said Mary, falling on her knees; "I swear — "
Bertha interrupted her.
"Don't swear, don't lie. I heard his voice."
Bertha pushed Mary away from her with such violence
that the latter fell flat upon the floor. Then Bertha,
springing over her sister's body, furious as a lioness
JEAN OULLIEK LIES. 14Ô
deprived of her young, rushed from the room and down
the stairs, crossed the mill, and reached the courtyard.
There, to her astonishment, she saw Michel sitting on
the doorstep beside Jean Oullier. She went straight up
to him.
•' How long have you been here ? " she said in a curt,
harsh voice.
Michel made a gesture as if to say, "I leave Jean Oullier
to reply."
u Monsieur le baron and I have been talking here for the
last half hour or more."
Bertha looked fixedly at the old Vendéan.
"That is singular!" she said.
•'"Why singular?" asked Jean Oullier, fixing his own
eyes steadily upon her.
"Because,"* said Bertha, addressing Michel and not Jean
Oullier. "because I thought I heard you talking with my
sister at her window, and saw you climbing down the mill-
wheel which you had mounted to reach her."
"Monsieur le baron doesn't look as if he had just
performed such an acrobatic feat,"' said Jean Oullier,
sarcastically.
" Then who do you suppose it was, Jean ? " said Bertha,
stamping her foot impatiently.
"Oh, some of those drunkards over there, who were
playing a trick."
"But I tell you that Mary was pale and trembling."
"With fright," said Jean Oullier. "She hasn't got
your iron nerves."
Bertha grew thoughtful. She knew the feelings that
Jean Oullier cherished against the young baron ; therefore
she could hardly suppose he was in league with him
against her. After a moment's silence her thoughts
reverted to Mary, and she remembered that she had left
her almost fainting.
"Yes," she said; "yes. Jean Oullier, you are right.
The poor child must have been frightened, and I, with my
VOL. II— 10
146 THE LAST VENDÉE.
rough ways, have made matters worse. Oh," she muttered,
"this love is making me beside myself ! "
Then, without another word to Michel or Jean Oullier,
she rushed into the mill.
Jean Oullier looked at Michel, who lowered his eyes.
"I shall not reproach you," he said to the young man,
" but you must see now on what a powder-barrel you are
.stepping. What would have happened if 1 had not been
here to lie, God forgive me ! as if I were a liar born."
"Yes," said Michel, "you are right, Jean, — I know it;
and the proof is that 1 swear to follow you, for I see
plainly I can't stay here any longer."
" That 's right. The Nantes men will start in a few
moments; the marquis joins them with his division; start
yourself at the same time, but fall behind and join me, you
know where."
Michel went off to fetch his horse, and Jean Oullier,
meantime, obtained his last instructions from the marquis.
The Veudéans camping in the orchard now formed in line,
their arms sparkling in the shadows. A quiver of repressed
impatience ran through the ranks.
Presently Petit-Pierre, followed by the principal leaders,
came out of the house and advanced to the Vendéans. She
was hardly recognized before a mighty cry of enthusiasm
burst from every mouth. Sabres were drawn to salute her
for whose cause each man was prepared to die.
"My friends," said Petit-Pierre, advancing, -'I promised
I would be present at the first armed meeting; and here I
am, never to leave you. Fortunate or unfortunate, your
fate shall be mine henceforth. If I cannot — as my son
would have done — rally you to where my white plume
shines, I can — as he would — die with you ! Go, sons of
giants, go where duty and honor call you ! "
Frantic cries of "Vive Henri V! Vive Marie-Caroline ! "
welcomed this allocution. Petit-Pierre addressed a few
more words to those of the leaders whom she knew; and
then the little troop on which rested the fate of the old-
JEAN OULLIER LIES. 147
est monarchy in Europe took its way in the direction of
Vieille- Y'igne.
During this time Bertha had been showering attentions
on her sister, all the more eager because of her sudden
change of feeling. She carried her to her bed and bathed
her face in cold water. Mary opened her eyes and looked
about her in a bewildered way, murmuring in a low voice
Michel's name. Her heart revived before her reason.
Bertha shuddered. She was about to ask Mary to for-
give her violence, but Michel's name on her sister's lips
stopped the words in her throat. For the second time the
serpents of jealousy were gnawing at her heart.
Just then the acclamations with which the Vendéans
welcomed the address of Petit-Pierre reached her ears.
She went to the window of the next room and saw the
waving line of a dark mass among the trees, lighted here
and there with flashes. It was the column just beginning
its march. The thought struck her that Michel, who was
certainly with that column, had gone without bidding her
good-bye ; and she returned, thoughtful, uneasy, and gloomy
to her sister's bedside.
148 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XV.
JAILER AND PRISONER ESCAPE TOGETHER.
At daybreak on the 4th of June the tocsin sounded from
all the bell-towers in the districts of Clisson, Montaigu,
and Machecoul. The tocsin is the drum-call of the Ven-
déans. Formerly, that is to say in the days of the great
war, when its harsh and sinister clang resounded through
the land the whole population rose in a mass and ran to
meet the enemy.
How many noble things those people must have done to
enable us to forget, almost forget, that their enemy was —
France !
Happily, — and this proves the immense progress we have
made in the past forty years, — happily, we say, in 1832 the
tocsin appeared to have lost its power. If a few peasants,
answering its impious call, left their ploughs and seized
the guns hidden in the hedges, the majority continued
calmly along the furrows, and contented themselves by
listening to the signal for revolt with that profoundly
meditative air which suits so well with the Vendéan cast
of countenance.
And yet, by ten o'clock that morning, a rather numerous
body of insurgents had already fought an engagement with
the regular army. Strongly intrenched in the village of
Maisdon, this troop sustained a strong attack directed
against it, and had only given way before superior num-
bers. It then effected its retreat in better order than
was customary with the Vendéans even after a slight or
momentary reverse.
JAILER AND PRISONER ESCAPE TOGETHER. 149
The reason was, and we repeat it, that La Vendée was no
longer fighting for the triumph of a great principle, but
simply from a great devotion. If we are now making our-
selves the historian of this war (after our usual fashion of
writing history) it is because we hope to draw from the
very facts we relate the satisfactory conclusion that civil
war will soon be impossible in France.
Now, this devotion of which we speak was that of
men of noble, elevated hearts, who felt themselves bound
by their fathers' past, and who gave their honor, their
fortunes, and their life in support of the old adage,
Noblesse oblige. That is the reason why the retreat was
made in good order. Those who executed it were no
longer undisciplined peasants, but gentlemen; and each
man fought not only from devotion but also from pride, —
pride for himself, and, in a measure, for others.
The Whites were immediately attacked again at Château-
Thébaud by a detachment of fresh troops sent by General
Dermoncourt to pursue them. The royalists lost several
men at the passage of the Maine, but having succeeded in
putting that river between themselves and their pursuers,
they were able to form a junction on the left bank with
the Nantes men, whom we lately saw departing, full of
enthusiasm, from the Jacquet mill, and who since then
had been reinforced by the men from Lege and the division
of the Marquis de Souday. This reinforcement brought
the effective strength of this column, which was under
Gaspard's command, to about eight hundred men.
The next morning it marched on Vieille-Vigne, hoping
to disarm the National Guard at that point; but learning
that the little town was occupied by a much superior force,
to which would be added in a few hours the troops assem-
bled at Aigrefeuille (where the general had collected a
large body for the purpose of throwing them on any point
in case of necessity), the Vendéan leader determined to
attack the village of Chêne, intending to capture and
occupy it.
150 THE LAST VENDÉE.
The peasants were scattered through the neighborhood.
Hidden among the wheat, which was already of a good
height, they worried the Blues with incessant sharp-shoot-
ing, following the tactics of their fathers. The men of
Nantes and the country gentlemen formed in column
and prepared to carry the village by main force, attack-
ing it along the chief street which runs from end to end
of it.
At the end of that street ran a brook; but the bridge
had been destroyed the night before, nothing remaining of
it but a few disjointed timbers. The soldiers, withdrawn
into the houses and ambushed behind the windows, pro-
tected with mattresses, poured a cross-fire down upon the
Whites, which repulsed them twice and paralyzed their
onset, until, electrified by the example of their leaders, the
Vendéan soldiers flung themselves into the water, crossed
the little river, met the Blues with the bayonet, hunted
them from house to house, and drove them to the extremity
of the village, where they found themselves face to face
with a battalion of the 44th of the line which the general
had just sent forward to support the little garrison of
Chêne.
The sound of the firing reached the mill, which Petit-
Pierre had not yet quitted. She was still in that room on
the first floor where we have already seen her. Pale, with
eager eyes, she walked up and down in the grasp of a
feverish agitation she could not quell. From time to time
she stopped on the threshold of the door, listening to the
dull roll of the musketry which the breeze brought to her
ears like the rumbling of distant thunder; then, she passed
her hand across her forehead, which was bathed in sweat,
stamped her feet in anger, and at last sat down in the
chimney-corner opposite to the Marquis de Souday, who,
though no less agitated, no less impatient than Petit-
Pierre, only sighed from time to time in a dolorous way.
How came the Marquis de Souday, whom we have seen
so impatient to begin all over again his early exploits in
JAILER AND PRISONER ESCAPE TOGETHER. 151
the great war, to be thus tied down to a merely expectant
position ? We must explain this to our readers.
The day of the engagement at Maisdon Petit-Pierre, in
accordance with the promise she had given to her friends,
made ready to join them and share in the fight itself. But
the royalist chiefs were alarmed at the great responsibility
her courage and ardor threw upon them. They felt that
the dangers were too many under the still uncertain chances
of this war, and they decided that until the whole army
were assembled they could not allow Petit-Pierre to risk
her life in some petty and obscure encounter.
liespectful representations were therefore made to her,
all of which failed to change her strong determination.
The Vendéan leaders then took counsel together and decided
among themselves to keep her as it were a prisoner, and
to appoint one of their own number to remain beside her,
and prevent her, by force if necessary, from leaving her
quarters.
In spite of the care the Marquis de Souday (who was of
the council) took in voting and intriguing to throw the
choice on one of his colleagues, he himself was selected;
and that is why he was now, to his utter despair, com-
pelled to stay in the Jacquet mill beside the miller's
fire, instead of being at Chêne and under the lire of the
Blues.
When the first sounds of the combat reached the mill
Petit-Pierre endeavored to persuade the marquis to let her
join her faithful Vendéans : but the old gentleman was not
to be shaken; prayers, promises, threats, were all in vain
against his strict fidelity to orders received. But Petit-
Pierre could plainly see on his face the deep annoyance he
felt; for the marquis, who was little of a courtier by
nature, was unable to conceal it. Stopping short before
him just as one of the sighs of impatience we have already
mentioned escaped him, she said : —
"It seems to me, marquis, that you are not extraordina-
rily delighted with my companionship ? "
152 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Oil ! " exclaimed the marquis, endeavoring, but without
success, to give a tone of shocked denial to his interjection.
"Yes," said Petit-Pierre, who had an object in persist-
ing, " I think you are not at all pleased with the post of
honor assigned to you."
" On the contrary, I accepted that post with the deepest
gratitude ; but — "
"Ah! there's a but? I knew it !" said Petit-Pierre,
who seemed determined to fathom the old gentleman's
mind on this point.
" Is n't there always a but in every earthly thing ? "
replied the marquis, evasively.
" What is yours ? "
"Well, I regret not to be able, while showing myself
worthy of the trust my comrades have laid upon me, I
certainly do regret not being able to shed my blood on your
behalf, as they are doing, no doubt, at this very moment."
Petit-Pierre sighed heavily.
"I have no doubt," she said, "that our friends are even
now regretting your absence. Your experience and tried
courage would certainly be of the utmost help to them."
The marquis swelled with pride.
"Yes, yes," he said; "I know they '11 repent of it."
" I am sure of it. My dear marquis, will you let me tell
you, with my hand on my couscience, the whole truth as
I see it ? "
"Oh, yes; I entreat you."
" Well, I think they distrusted you as much as they did
me."
"Impossible ! "
"Stop! you don't see what I mean. They said to
themselves: 'A woman would hinder us in marching; we
should have to think of her if we retreat. In any case
we must devote to the security of her person a troop of
soldiers we could better employ elsewhere.' They did not
choose to believe that I have succeeded in conquering the
weakness of my body, and that my courage is equal to the
JAILER AND PRISONER ESCAPE TOGETHER. 153
greatness of my task; if they think so of me, can you
wonder if they think it of you ? "
" Of me ! " cried Monsieur de Souday, furious at the
mere suggestion. " I have given proofs of courage all my
life!"
"All the world knows that, my dear marquis; but per-
haps, remembering your age, they may have thought that
your bodily vigor, like mine, was no longer equal to the
ardor of your spirit."
" Oh, that 's too much ! " cried the old soldier of former
days in a tone of the deepest indignation. " Why ! there
has n't been a day for the last fifteen years that I have n't
been six or eight hours in the saddle, — sometimes ten,
sometimes twelve! In spite of my white hairs I can
stand fatigue as well as any man. See what I can do
still ! "
Seizing the stool on which he was sitting, he struck it
with such violence against the stone chimney-piece that he
shattered the stool to bits and made a deep gash in the
mantel. Brandishing above his head the leg of the hap-
less stool which remained in his hand, he cried out : —
"How many of your young dandies, Maître Petit-Pierre,
could do that ? "
"I never doubted your powers, my dear marquis; and
that is why I say those gentlemen have made a great mis-
take in treating you like an invalid."
"An invalid! I? God's death!" cried the marquis,
more and more exasperated, and totally forgetting the
presence of the person with whom he was speaking. " An
invalid ! I ? Well, this very evening, I '11 tell them I
renounce these functions, which are those, not of a gentle-
man, but a jailer."
"That 's right ! " interjected Petit-Pierre.
"Functions, which for the last two hours," continued the
marquis, striding up and down the room, "I have been
sending to all the devils."
"Ah, ha!"
154 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" And to-morrow, yes, I say to-morrow, I '11 show them
who 's an invalid, that I will ! "
"Alas!" said Petit-Pierre in a melancholy tone, "to-
morrow may not belong to us, my poor marquis ; you are
wrong to count upon it."
" Why so ? "
"You know very well the uprising is not as general as
we hoped it might be. Who knows whether the shots we
now hear may not be the last fired in defence of the white
flag ? "
" Hum ! " growled the marquis, with the fury of a bull-
dog tugging at his chain.
Just then a call for help from the farther end of the
orchard put an end to their talk. They both ran to the
spot, and there saw Bertha, whom the marquis had sta-
tioned as an outside lookout, bringing in a wounded peas-
ant, whom she had scarcely strength enough to support.
Mary and Eosine had also rushed out at the cry. The
peasant was a young gars from twenty to twenty -two years
of age, with his shoulder shattered by a ball. Petit-Pierre
ran up to him and placed him on a chair, where he fainted.
"For heaven's sake, retire," said the marquis to Petit-
Pierre; "my daughters and I will dress the poor devil's
wound."
" Pray, why should I retire ? " said Petit-Pierre.
" Because the sight of that wound is not one that every-
body can stand; I am afraid it is more than you have
strength to bear."
"Then you are like all the rest; and you lead me to
suppose that our friends were right in the judgment they
formed on you as well as on me."
"I don't see that; how so ? "
"You think, as they do, that I am wanting in courage."
Then, as Mary and Bertha were beginning to examine
the wound, "Let the poor fellow's wound alone," she
continued, "I — and I alone, do you hear me ? — will
dress it."
JAILER AND PRISONER ESCAPE TOGETHER. 155
Taking her scissors Petit -Pierre slit up the sleeve of the
Vendéan's jacket, which was stuck to the arm by the dried
blood, opened the wound, washed it, covered it with lint
and deftly bandaged it. Just as she was finishing her
work the wounded peasant opened his eyes and recovered
his senses.
" What news ? " asked the marquis, unable to restrain
himself a moment longer.
"Alas!" said the man; "our (jars, who were conquerors
at first, are now repulsed."
Petit-Pierre, who did not blanch while attending to the
wound, grew as white as the linen she was using for
bandages; and putting in a last pin to hold it, she
seized the marquis by the arm and drew him toward
the door.
"Marquis," she said, "you, who saw the Blues in the
great war, tell me, what was done when the nation was in
danger ? "
"Done?" cried the marquis. "Why, everybody ran
to arms."
" Even the women ? "
"Yes, the women; even the old men, even the children."
" Marquis, it may be that the white flag will fall to-day
never to rise again. Why do you condemn me to making
barren and impotent prayers and vows in its behalf ? "
"But just reflect," said the marquis; "suppose a ball
were to strike you."
"Oh ! do you think my son's cause would be injured if
my bloody and bullet-riddled clothing were carried on a
pike in front of our battalions ? "
"No, no!" cried the marquis, passionately. "I would
curse my native soil if the stones themselves did not rise
at such a sight."
"Then come with me and let us join our troops."
"But," replied the marquis, with less determination than
he had previously shown against Petit-Pierre's entreaties,
— as if the idea of being regarded as an invalid had shaken
156 THE LAST VENDÉE.
the firmness with which he executed his orders, — " but I
promised you should not leave the mill."
"Well, I release you from that promise," said Petit-
Pierre ; "and I, who know your valor, order you to follow
me. Come, marquis, we may still be in time to rally vic-
tory to our flag; if not, if we are too late, we can at least
die with our friends."
So saying, Petit-Pierre darted through the courtyard
and orchard, followed by Bertha and by the marquis, who
thought it his duty to renew, from time to time, his
remonstrances; although, in the depths of his heart, he
was delighted with the turn affairs were taking.
Mary and Rosine remained behind to care for the
wounded.
THE BATTLEFIELD. 157
XVI.
THE BATTLEFIELD,
The Jacquet mill was about three miles from the village
of Chêne. Petit-Pierre, guided by the noise of the firing,
did half the way running; and it was with great difficulty
that the marquis stopped her as they neared the scene of
action, and succeeded in inspiring her with some prudence,
lest she should plunge head-foremost into the government
troops.
On turning one of the flanks of the line of sharp-shooters,
whose firing, as we have said, was her guide, Petit-Pierre,
followed by her companions, came upon the rear of the
Vendéan army, which had, in truth, lost all the ground we
saw it gain in the morning, and was now driven back some
distance beyond the village of Chêne. On catching sight
of Petit-Pierre, as, with flying hair and gasping breath
she came up the hill toward the main body of the Wn-
déans, the whole of the little army burst into a roar of
enthusiasm.
Gaspard, who, together with his officers, was firing like a
common soldier, turned round at the shout and saw Petit-
Pierre, Bertha, and the Marquis de Souday. The latter,
in the rapidity of their course, had lost his hat, and now
appeared with his white hair flying in the wind. It was
to him that Gaspard spoke first.
'•'Is this how the Marquis de Souday keeps his word ? "
he said in an irritated tone.
" Monsieur," replied the marquis, sharply, "it is not of a
poor invalid like me that you ought to ask that question."
158 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Petit-Pierre hastened to intervene. Her party was not
strong enough to allow of dissensions among its leaders.
"Souday is bound, as you are, to obey me," she said;
"I seldom claim the exercise of that right; but to-day I
have thought proper to do so. I assume my place as
generalissimo, and ask, how goes the day, lieutenant ? "
Gaspard shook his head significantly.
"The Blues are in force," he said, "and my scouts
report that reinforcements are reaching them."
"So much the better," cried Petit-Pierre; "they will be
so many more to tell Prance how we died."
" You cannot mean that, Madame ! "
"I am not Madame here; I am a soldier. Fight on,
without regard to me; advance your line of skirmishers
and double their fire."
" Yes ; but first, to the rear ! "
" To the rear ! who ? "
"You, in God's name ! "
"Nonsense ! to the front you mean."
Snatching Gaspard' s sword, Petit-Pierre put her hat on
the point of it as she sprang in the direction of the village
crying out : —
" Those who love me, follow me ! "
Gaspard vainly attempted to restrain her, and even
caught her arm; but Petit-Pierre, light and agile, escaped
him and continued her way toward the line of houses
whence the soldiers, observing the renewed movement on
the part of the Vendéans, were beginning a murderous
fire.
Seeing the danger that Petit-Pierre was incurring, all
the Vendéans rushed forward to make a rampart of their
bodies, and the effect of such a rush was so sudden, so
powerful, that in a few seconds they were over the brook
and into the village, where they came face to face with
the Blues. The clash was almost instantly followed by a
terrible mêlée. Gaspard, his mind wholly occupied by one
thing, the safety of Petit-Pierre, succeeded in reaching
THE BATTLEFIELD. 159
her and flinging her back among his men. So intent was
he on saving the august life he felt that God himself had
intrusted to him, that he gave no thought to his own safety,
and did not see that a soldier posted at the corner of the
first house was aiming at him.
It would have been all over with the Chouan leader if
the marquis had not observed the threatened danger. Slip-
ping along the wall of the house he threw up the muzzle of
the weapon just as its owner fired it. The ball struck a
chimney ; the soldier turned furiously on the marquis, and
tried to stab him with his bayonet, which the latter evaded
by throwing back his body. The old gentleman was about
to reply with a pistol-shot when a ball broke the weapon
in his hand.
"So much the better ! " he cried, drawing his sabre and
dealing so terrible a blow that the soldier rolled at his feet
like an ox felled by a club; "I prefer the white weapon."
Then, brandishing his sabre he cried out: "There, General
Gaspard, what do you think of your invalid now ? "
Bertha had followed Petit-Pierre, her father and the
Vendéans ; but her thoughts were much less on the soldiers
than on what was passing immediately about her. She
looked for Michel, striving to distinguish him in the whirl-
wind of men and horses that passed beside her.
The government troops, surprised by the suddenness
and vigor of the attack, retreated step by step; the
National guard of Vieille-Vigne had retired altogether.
The ground was heaped with dead. The result was that
as the Blues no longer replied to the straggling fire of the
gars posted in the vineyards and gardens around the vil-
lage, Maître Jacques, who commanded the skirmishers,
was able to assemble his men in a body. Putting himself
at their head he led them through a by-way which skirted
the gardens and fell upon the flank of the soldiers.
The latter, whose resistance was becoming by this time
more resolute, sustained the attack valiantly, and forming
in line across the main street of the village, presented a
160 THE LAST VENDÉE.
front to their new assailants. Soon a pause of hesitation
appeared among the Vendéans, the Blues regained the
advantage, and their column having, in its charge, passed
the opening of the little by-way by which Maître- Jacques
and his men had debouched, the latter with five or six of
his "rabbits," among whom figured Aubin Courte-Joie and
Trigaud- Vermin, found themselves cut off from the body
of their comrades. Whereupon Maître Jacques, rallying
his men about him, set his back to a wall to protect his
rear, and sheltering beneath the scaffolding of a house
which was just being built at the corner of the street, pre-
pared to sell his life dearly.
Courte-Joie, armed with a small double-barrelled gun,
fired incessantly on the soldiers ; each of his balls was the
death of a man. As for Trigaud, his hands being free, for
the cripple was strapped to his shoulders by a girth, he
manoeuvred with wonderful adroitness a scythe with its
handle reversed, which served him as lance and sabre both.
Just as Trigaud, with a backward blow, brought down a
gendarme whom Courte-Joie had only dismounted, great
shouts of triumph burst from the government ranks, and
Maître Jacques and his men beheld a woman in a riding-
habit in the hands of the Blues, who seemed, even in the
midst of the fight, to be transported with joy. It was
Bertha, who, still preoccupied by her search for Michel,
had imprudently advanced too far and was captured by the
soldiers. They, being deceived b} r her dress, mistook her
for the Duchesse de Berry; hence their joy.
Maître Jacques was misled like the rest. Anxious to
repair the blunder he had made in the forest of Touvois,
he made a sign to his men, and together they abandoned
their defensive position, and rushing forward, thanks to a
great swathe mown down by Trigaud's terrible scythe,
they reached the prisoner, seized her, and placed her in
their midst.
The soldiers, disappointed, renewed their efforts, and
flung themselves on Maître Jacques and his men, who had
THE BATTLEFIELD. 161
promptly regained their shelter against the wall of the
house ; and the little group became a centre toward which
converged the points of twenty-five bayonets, and a con-
tinuous fusillade from the circumference of the circle.
Already two Vendéans were dead; Maître Jacques, struck
by a ball which broke his wrist, was forced to drop
his gun and take to his sabre, which he wielded with his
left hand. Courte- Joie had exhausted his cartridges; and
Trigaud's scythe was almost the only protection left to
the four surviving Vendéans, — an efficacious protection
hitherto, for it laid the assailants on the ground in such
serried ranks that the soldiers no longer dared to approach
the terrible mendicant.
But Trigaud, wishing to strike a direct blow at a horse-
man, missed his aim. The scythe struck a stone and flew
into a thousand bits ; the giant fell to his knees, so violent
was the force of his impulsion ; the girth which fastened
Courte-Joie to his shoulders broke, and the cripple rolled
into the midst of the fray.
A loud and joyous hurrah greeted this accident, which
delivered the formidable giant into the hands of his ene-
mies ; and a National guard was in the act of raising his
bayonet to stab the fallen cripple, when Bertha, taking a
pistol from her belt, fired upon the man and brought him
down upon the body of Courte-Joie.
Trigaud had risen with an agility scarcely to be expected
of so enormous a bulk; his separation from Courte-Joie
and the danger the latter was in increased his strength
tenfold. Using the handle of his scythe, he disposed of
one man and disabled another. With a single kick he
sent to a distance of several feet the body of the man who
had fallen upon his friend, and taking the latter in his
arms, as a nurse lifts a child, he joined Bertha and Maître
Jacques beneath the scaffolding.
While Courte-Joie lay on the pavement, his eyes, roving
about him with the rapidity and acuteness of a man in
peril of death, seeking on all sides for a chance of escape,
VOL. II. — 11
162 THE LAST VENDÉE.
fell on the scaffolding where they noticed a heap of stones
collected by the masons for the construction of the wall.
"Get under shelter in the doorway," he said to Bertha,
when, thanks to Trigaud, he found himself beside her;
" perhaps I can return the service you have just done me.
As for you, Trigaud, let the red-breeches come as near as
they please."
In spite of Trigaud's thick brain he at once understood
what his companion wanted of him ; for, little as the sound
was in harmony with the situation, he broke into a peal of
laughter that resembled the braying of trumpets.
The soldiers, seeing the three disarmed men, and wish-
ing, at any cost, to recapture the woman whom they still
supposed to be the Duchesse de Berry, came nearer, call-
ing out to the Vendéans to surrender. But, just as they
stepped beneath the scaffolding, Trigaud, who had placed
Courte-Joie near Bertha, sprang to one of the joists that
supported the whole erection, seized it with both hands,
shook it, and tore it from the ground. In an instant the
planks tipped, and the stones piled upon them followed
their incline and fell like hail, beyond Trigaud, upon eight
or ten oC the foremost soldiers.
At the same moment the Nantes men, led by Gaspard
and the Marquis de Souday, making a desperate effort,
firing, sabring, bayoneting hand to hand, had driven
back the Blues, who now retreated to their line of battle
in the open country, where their superiority in num-
bers and also in weapons would infallibly give them the
victory.
The Vendéans, rash as the effort was, were about to risk
an attack, when Maître Jacques, whom his men had
rejoined, and who, in spite of his wound, still continued
to fight, said a few words in Gaspard's ear. The latter
immediately, and in spite of the commands and entreaties
of Petit-Pierre, ordered a retreat and again took up the
position he had occupied an hour earlier on the other side
of the village.
i
THE BATTLEFIELD. 163
Petit-Pierre was ready to tear her hair with anger, and
urgently demanded explanations, which Gaspard did not
give her until he had ordered a halt.
"We are now surrounded by five or six thousand men,"
he said, "and we ourselves are scarcely six hundred. The
honor of the flag is safe, and that is all we can hope for."
"Are you certain of that ? " asked Petit- Pierre.
"Look for yourself," he replied, taking her to a rise in
the ground from which could be seen, converging on all
sides toward the village of Chêne, dark masses topped with
bayonets which sparkled in the rays of the setting sun.
There, too, they heard the sound of drums and bugles
approaching from all the points of the horizon.
"You see," continued Gaspard, "that in less than an
hour we shall be completely surrounded, and no resource
will then remain to these brave men — who, like myself,
cannot away with Louis Philippe's prisons — but to get
themselves killed upon the spot."
Petit-Pierre stood for some moments in gloomy silence ;
then, convinced of the truth of what the Vendéan leader
told her, beholding the destruction of the hopes which a
few moments earlier had seemed to her ardent mind so
strong and dauntless, she felt her courage desert her, and
she became, what she really was, a woman; she, who had
so lately braved fire and sword with the nerve of a hero,
sat down by the wayside and wept, disdaining to conceal
the tears which furrowed her cheeks.
164 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XVII.
AFTER THE FIGHT.
Gaspard, having rejoined his companions, thanked them
for their services, told them of the state of things, and
dismissed them for better times, — advising them to disperse
at once, and thns escape all pursuit by the soldiers. Then
he returned to Petit-Pierre, whom he found in the same
place, and around her the Marquis de Souday, Bertha, and
a few Vendéans who would not think of their own safety
till certain of hers.
"Well," asked Petit-Pierre when Gaspard returned to
her alone, " have they gone ? "
"Yes; they could do no more than they have done."
" Poor souls ! what troubles await them ! " said Petit-
Pierre. "Why has God refused me the consolation of
pressing them to my heart ? But I should never have
had the strength; they do right to leave me without fare-
well. Twice to suffer thus in life is too much agony.
Those days at Cherbourg ! — I hoped I might never see
their like again."
"Now," said Gaspard, "we must think of your safety."
"Oh, never mind me personally," replied Petit-Pierre;
" my sole regret is that the balls did not choose to come
my way. My death would not have given you the victory,
that is true; but at least the struggle would have been
glorious. And now what are we to do ? "
"Wait for better days. You have proved to the French
people that a valiant heart is beating in your bosom. Cour-
age is the principal virtue they demand of their rulers;
they will remember your action, never fear."
AFTER THE FIGHT. 165
"God wills it!" said Petit-Pierre, rising and leaning
on Gaspard's arm, who led her from the hilltop into the
road across the plain. The government troops, who did not
know the country, were forced to keep to the main roads.
Gaspard guided the little company, which ran no risk
in the open country, except from scouts — thanks to the
knowledge Maître Jacques possessed of paths that were
almost impassable; they reached the neighborhood of the
Jacquet mill without so much as seeing a tricolor cockade.
As they went along, Bertha approached her father and
asked him whether in the midst of the mêlée he had seen
or heard of Baron Michel; but the old gentleman, horrified
at the issue of the insurrection prepared with so much care
and so quickly stifled, was in the worst of humors, and
answered gruffly that for the last two days no one knew
what had become of the Baron de la Logerie; probably he
was frightened, and had basely renounced the glory he
might have won and the alliance which would have been
the reward of his glory.
This answer filled Bertha with consternation. Useless,
however, to say that she did not believe one word of what
her father said; but her heart trembled at an idea which
alone seemed to her probable, — namely, that Michel had
been killed, or at any rate grievously wounded. She
resolved to make inquiries of every one until she dis-
covered something as to the fate of the man she loved.
She first questioned all the Vendéans. None of them had
seen Michel; but some, impelled by the old hatred against
his father, expressed themselves about the son in terms
that were not less vehement than those of the marquis
himself.
Bertha grew frantic with distress; nothing short of pal-
pable, visible, undeniable proof could have forced her to
admit that she had made a choice unworthy of her, and,
though all appearances were against Michel, her love,
becoming more ardent, more impetuous under the pressure
of such accusations, gave her strength to regard them as
166 THE LAST VENDÉE.
calumnies. A few moments earlier her heart was torn,
her brain maddened under the idea that Michel had met
his death in the struggle; and now that glorious death had
become a hope, a consolation to her grief. She was frantic
to acquire the cruel certainty, and even thought of return-
ing to Chêne, visiting the battle-iield, in search of her
lover's body, as Edith sought that of Harold; she even
dreamed of avenging him on his murderers after vindicat-
ing his memory from her father's aspersions. The girl was
reflecting on the pretext she could best employ to remain
behind the rest and return to Chêne, when Aubin Courte-
Joie and Trigaud, the rear-guard of the company, came up
and were about to pass her. She breathed more freely;
they, no doubt, could throw some light upon the matter.
"You, my brave friends," she said, "can you give me
news of Monsieur de la Logerie ? "
"Yes, indeed, my dear young lady," replied Courte-Joie.
" Ah ! " cried Bertha, with the eagerness of hope, " he
has not left the division as they say he has, has he ? "
"He has left it," replied Courte-Joie.
" When ? "
"The evening before the fight at Maisdon."
" Good God ! "" cried Bertha, in a tone of anguish. " Are
you sure ? "
" Quite sure. I saw him meet Jean Oullier at the Croix-
Philippe; and we walked a little way together."
"With Jean Oullier ! " cried Bertha. "Oh ! then I am
satisfied; Jean Oullier was not deserting. If Michel is
with Jean Oullier he has done nothing cowardly or
dishonorable."
Suddenly a terrible thought came into her mind. Why
this sudden interest on Jean Oullier 's part for the young
man ? Why had Michel followed Jean Oullier rather than
the marquis ? These questions, which the young girl put
to herself, filled her heart with sinister forebodings.
" And you say you saw the two on their way to Clisson ? "
she said to Courte-Joie.
AFTEK THE FIGHT. 167
"With my own eyes."
"Do you know what is going on at Clisson ? "
"It is too far from here to have got the details as yet,'*
replied Courte- Joie; " but a gars from Sainte-Lumine over-
took us just now and said that a devilish firing had been
going on since ten o'clock in the morning over against
Sèvre."
Bertha did not answer; her ideas had taken another
course. She saw Michel led to his death by Jean Oullier's
hatred; she fancied the poor lad wounded, panting, aban-
doned, lying helpless on some lonely and bloody moor,
calling on her to save him.
"Do you know any one who could guide me to Jean
Oullier ? " she asked Courte-Joie.
"To-day?"
"Now, this instant."
"The roads are covered with the red-breeches."
"The woodpaths are not."
"But it is almost night."
"We shall be all the safer. Find me a guide; if not, I
shall start alone."
The two men looked at each other.
"No one shall guide you but me," said Aubin Courte- Joie.
"Do I not owe your family a debt of gratitude ? Besides,
Mademoiselle Bertha, you did me, no later than to-day, a
service I shall never forget, — in knocking up the bayonet
of that National guard who was going to split me."
"Very good; then drop behind and wait for me here in
this wheat-field," said Bertha. "I shall be back in fifteen
minutes."
Courte-Joie and Trigaud lay down among the wheat ears,
and Bertha, hastening her steps, rejoined Petit-Pierre and
the Vendéans just as they were about to enter the mill.
She went rapidly up to the little room she occupied with
her sister, and hurriedly changed her clothes, which were
covered with blood, for the dress of a peasant-woman.
Coming down, she found Mary busy among the wounded,
168 THE LAST VENDÉE.
and told her, without explaining her plan, not to feel
uneasy if she did not see her again till the next day. She
then returned to the wheat-field.
Reserved as she was in what she said to her sister, her
face was so convulsed and agitated that Mary read upon it
plainly the thoughts that filled her soul; she knew of
Michel's disappearance, and she did not doubt that Bertha's
sudden departure was caused by it. After the scene of the
previous evening Mary dared not to question her sister;
but a new anguish was added to those which already rent
her heart, and when she was called to mount and attend
Petit-Pierre in search of another refuge, she knelt down
and prayed to God that her sacrifice might not be useless,
and that it would please Him to protect both the life and
honor of Bertha's affianced husband.
THE CHÂTEAU DE LA PÉNISSIÈKE. 169
XVIII.
THE CHÂTEAU DE LA PENISSIERE.
While the Vendéans were making their useless but not
inglorious fight at Chêne, forty-two of their number were
sustaining a struggle at Pénissière de la Cour, of which
the memory survives in history.
These forty-two royalists, who were part of the Clisson
division, left that town intending to march to the village
of Cugan, and there disarm the National Guard. A fright-
ful storm forced them to find shelter in the château de la
Pénissière, where a battalion of the 29th regiment of the
line, informed of their movements, lost no time in besieging
them.
La Pénissière is an ancient building, with a single story
between the ground-floor and garret. It has fifteen irregu-
larly shaped windows. The chapel backs against one cor-
ner of the château. Beyond it, joining the valley, are
meadow-lands divided by evergreen hedges, which heavy
rains sometimes transform into a lake. A battlemented
wall, built by the Vendéans, surrounded the building.
The commanding officer of the battalion of the line had
no sooner reconnoitred the situation than he ordered an
immediate attack. After a short defence the exterior wall
was abandoned, and the Vendéans retreated to the château,
within which they barricaded themselves. Each man took
his place on the ground-floor, and on the main-floor; and
on both floors a bugler was stationed, who never ceased to
sound his instrument throughout the combat, which began
with rapid volleys from the windows, so well directed and
so vigorous as to conceal the small number of the besieged.
170 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Picked men and the best shots were chosen to fire;
they discharged, almost without stopping, the heavy blun-
derbusses which their comrades reloaded and handed back
to them. Each blunderbuss carried a dozen balls. The
Vendéans fired five or six at once; the effect was that of
a discharge of grape-shot. Twice the regular troops
attempted an assault; they came within twenty paces of
the château, but were forced to retreat.
The commander ordered a third attack, and while it was
preparing, four men, assisted by a mason, approached the
château by a gable-end, which had no outlook on the gar-
den, and was therefore undefended. Once at the foot of
the wall, the soldiers raised a ladder, and reaching the
roof uncovered it, flung down into the garret inflamma-
ble substances, to which they set fire, and then retreated.
Immediately a column of smoke burst from the roof, through
which the flames soon forced their way.
The soldiers, uttering loud cries, again marched eagerly
to the little citadel, which seemed to be flying a flag of
flame. The besieged had discovered the conflagration, but
there was no time to extinguish it; besides, the flames
were pouring upward, and they trusted that after destroy-
ing the roof the fire might burn out of itself. Accordingly
they replied to the shouts of their assailants with a terrible
fusillade, — the bugles never ceasing for a single instant to
sound their joyous and warlike notes.
The Whites could hear the Blues saying to each other:
"They are not men, they are devils!" and this military
praise inspired them with fresh ardor.
Nevertheless, a reinforcement of fifty men having reached
the besiegers, the commanding officers ordered the drum-
mers to beat the charge ; and the soldiers, emulous of each
other, rushed for the fourth time upon the château. This
time they reached the doors, which the sappers began to
batter in. The Vendéan leaders ordered their men on the
ground-floor up to the first floor; the men obeyed; and
while one half of the besieged continued the firing, the
THE CHATEAU DE LA PÉNISSIÈRE. 171
other half pulled up the boards and broke through the
ceilings, so that when the soldiers entered the building
they were greeted with a volley at close quarters, poured
down upon them from above through the rafters. Again,
and for the fourth time, they were forced to retreat.
The commander of the battalion then ordered his men to
do on the ground-floor what they had done in the attic.
Fascines of gorse and dried fagots were thrown through
the Avindows into the rooms of the lower floor; lighted
torches were flung after them, and in a few moments the
Vendéans were inclosed in fire above and below them.
And still they fought. The volumes of smoke which
issued from the window were striped, every second or two,
with the scarlet flame of the blunderbusses; but the firing
now became the vengeance of despair rather than an effort
of defence. It seemed impossible for the little garrison to
escape death.
The place was no longer tenable ; beams and joists were
on fire and were cracking beneath the feet of the Vendéans ;
tongues of flame began to dart here and there through the
floor; at any moment the roof might fall in and crush them
from above, or the floor give way and precipitate them
into a gulf of flame. The smoke was suffocating.
The Vendéan leaders took a desperate resolution. They
determined to make a sortie ; but to give it any chance of
success, the firing would have to be kept up to protect the
movement. The leaders asked if any would volunteer to
sacrifice themselves for the safety of their comrades.
Eight men stepped forward.
The troop was then divided into two squads. Thirty-
three men and a bugler were to gain, if possible, the
farther extremity of the park, which was closed by a
hedge only; the eight others, among them the second
bugler, were left to protect the attempt.
In consequence of these arrangements, and while those
who volunteered to remain were running from window to
window and keeping up a vigorous fire 3 the others broke
172 THE LAST VENDÉE.
through the wall on the opposite side to where the soldiers
were attacking, issued in good order with the bugler at
their head, and made their way at a quick step toward the
end of the park where the hedge stood. The soldiers fired
upon them and rushed to intercept them. The Vendéans
fired back, knocked over those who opposed them, escaped
through the hedges, leaving five of their number dead, and
scattered over the meadows, which were then under water.
The bugler, who received three wounds, never ceased to
sound his bugle.
As for the men who remained in the château, they still
held out. Each time that the soldiers attempted to
approach, a volley issued from the brazier and cut a swathe
through their ranks. This lasted for half an hour. The
bugle of the besieged never ceased to sound through the
rattling of the volleys, the crackling of the flames, the
rumbling of the falling timbers, like a sublime defiance
hurled by these men at Death standing before them.
At last, an awful crash was heard ; clouds of smoke and
sparks rose high in air; the bugle was hushed, the firing
ceased. The flooring had fallen in, and the little garrison
were doubtless swallowed up in the burning gulf beneath
them — unless a miracle had happened.
Such was the opinion of the soldiers, who, after watch-
ing the ruins for some moments, and hearing no cry or
moan that betrayed the presence of a living Vendéan,
abandoned the furnace which was burning up the bodies of
both friends and enemies; so that nothing remained on
the scene of the struggle, lately so turbulent and noisy,
but the red and smoking flames dying down in silence,
and a few dead bodies lighted by the last glare of the
conflagration.
Thus the scene remained for several hours of the night.
But about one o'clock a man of more than ordinary height,
gliding beside the hedges, or crawling when obliged to
cross a path, inspected cautiously the surroundings of the
château. Seeing nothing that warranted distrust, he made
THE CHÂTEAU DE LA PÉNISSIÈRE. 173
the round of the devastated building, examining attentively-
all the bodies he found ; after which he disappeared among
the shadows. Presently, however, he returned, carrying a
man upon his back and accompanied by a woman.
These men and this woman, as our readers are of course
aware, were Bertha, Courte-Joie, and Trigaud.
Bertha was pale; her firmness and her habitual resolu-
tion had given way to a sort of restless bewilderment.
From time to time she hurried before her guides, and
Courte-Joie was obliged to recall her to prudence. When
the three debouched from the wood into the meadow lately
occupied by the soldiers, and saw in front of them the fif-
teen openings which stood out, red and gaping, from the
blackened wall, like so many vent-holes out of hell, the
young girl's strength gave way; she fell upon her knees
and cried out a name which her agony transformed into a
sob. Then, rising like a man, she rushed to the burning
ruins.
On her way she stumbled over something; that some-
thing was a dead body. With a horrible expression of
anguish she stooped to look at the livid face, turning it
toward her by the hair. Then, seeing other bodies scat-
tered on the ground, she went wildly from one to another
as if beside herself.
"Alas ! mademoiselle," said Courte-Joie, "he is not here.
To spare you this dreadful sight, I had already ordered
Trigaud, who came here first, to look at those bodies. He
has seen Monsieur de la Logerie two or three times, and
idiot though he be, you can be sure he would have recog-
nized him were he here among the dead."
"Yes, yes, you are right; and if he is anywhere — "
cried Bertha, pointing to the ruins; and before the two
men could stop her, she sprang upon the sill of a window
on the ground-floor, and there, standing on the heated
stone, she looked down into the gulf of fire still belching
at her feet, into which it almost seemed as though she
were about to fling herself.
174 THE LAST VENDÉE.
At a sign from Courte-Joie Trigaud seized the girl
round her waist and placed her at some distance on the
grass. Bertha made no resistance, for an idea had just
crossed her brain which paralyzed her will.
"My God ! " she cried, as if with a last expiring sigh of
her former strength, "you denied me the power to defend
him or to die with him; and you now deny me the conso-
lation of giving burial to his body."
"But mademoiselle," said Courte-Joie, "if it is the will
of the good God you must resign yourself to it."
"Never ! never ! never ! " cried Bertha, with the excite-
ment of despair.
"Alas ! " said the cripple, "my heart is heavy too; for
if Monsieur de la Logerie is down there, so is poor Jean
Oullier."
Bertha groaned; in the selfishness of her grief she had
never once thought of Jean Oullier. "It's true," con-
tinued Courte-Joie, "he dies as he wished to die — with
arms in his hand; but that doesn't console me for think-
ing he is down there."
"Is there no hope?" cried Bertha. "Couldn't they
have escaped in some way ? Oh, let us look ! let us
search ! "
Courte-Joie shook his head.
"I think it is impossible. After what that man of the
thirty-three others who did escape told us, it does not
seem possible. Five of those who made the sortie were
killed."
"But Jean Oullier and Monsieur Michel were among
those who remained," said Bertha.
"No doubt; and that is why I have so little hope. See,"
said Courte-Joie, pointing to the walls, which rose from
their foundations to the eaves without a fissure, and then
recalling Bertha's eyes by a gesture to the furnace of
the ground-floor, where the roof and the floors were still
burning; "see, there is nothing left but charred remains
and walls that threaten ruin. Courage, mademoiselle,
THE CHÂTEAU DE LA PÉNISSIÈKE. 175
courage, for there is not one chance in a hundred that your
lover and Jean Oullier have escaped that wreck."
"No, no ! " cried Bertha, rising. "No ! I say he cannot,
he shall not be dead ! If it needed a miracle to save him
God has performed it. I will dig those embers, 1 will
sound those walls. I will have him, dead or living ! 1
say I will; do you hear me Comte- Joie ? "
Seizing in her white hands a beam which protruded its
charred end through a window, Bertha made superhuman
efforts to draw it toward her, as if with that lever she
could lift the enormous mass of material and discover what
it concealed.
"Don't think of it!" cried Courte-Joie, desperately;
"the work is beyond your strength, mademoiselle, and
above mine and even Trigaud's. Besides, we have n't
time for it; the soldiers will return by daybreak, and they
mustn't find us here. Let us go, mademoiselle; for
Heaven's sake let us go at once ! "
"You may go if you like," said Bertha, in a tone that
allowed of no objections. "I shall stay here."
" Stay here ! " exclaimed Courte-Joie, horrified.
"I shall stay. If the soldiers return it will no doubt
be for the purpose of searching the ruins. I will throw
myself at the feet of their commander; my prayers, my
tears will persuade them to let me share in the work, and I
shall find him — oh, yes, I shall find him ! "
"You are mistaken, mademoiselle; the red-breeches will
know you as the daughter of the Marquis de Souday. If
they don't shoot you, they '11 take you prisoner. Come
away ! it will be daylight soon. Come, and if necessary,"
added Courte-Joie, alarmed at the girl's determination,
"if necessary, I promise to bring you back to-morrow
night."
" No, I tell you, no, — I will not go away ! " answered
the young girl. "Something tells me here" (and she
struck her breast) "that he is calling me, he wants me."
Then, as Trigaud advanced, on a sign from Courte-Joie,
176 THE LAST VENDÉE.
apparently to seize her, she cried out, springing once more
to the sill of the window : —
"Come a step nearer, and I will jump into that furnace."
Courte- Joie, perceiving that nothing could be obtained of
Bertha by force, was about to resort to prayers, when Tri-
gaud, who had remained standing with his arms stretched
out in the position he had taken to seize the young girl,
made a sign to his companion to be silent.
Courte-Joie, who knew by experience the extraordinary
acuteness of the poor fool's senses, obeyed him. Trigaud
listened.
"Are the soldiers returning ?" asked Courte-Joie.
"No; it is not that," replied Trigaud.
Then, unbinding Courte-Joie, who was strapped as usual
to his shoulders, he lay down flat on his stomach with his
ear to the ground. Bertha, without coming down from
her present post, turned her head to the mendicant and
watched him. The movement he had made, the words he
had said, caused her heart, she knew not why, to beat
violently.
" Do you hear anything extraordinary ? " asked Courte-
Joie.
"Yes," replied Trigaud.
Then he made a sign to Courte-Joie and Bertha to listen
likewise. Trigaud, as we know, was stingy of words.
Courte-Joie lay down with his ear to the earth. Bertha
sprang down from the window, and it was but a second
after she had laid her ear to the ground before she rose
again, crying out : —
" They are alive ! they are alive ! Oh, my God, I thank
thee ! "
"Don't let us hope too soon," said Courte-Joie; "but I
do hear a dull sound which seems to come from the depths
of those ruins. But there were eight of them; we can't
be sure the sound comes from the two we seek."
"Not sure, Aubin! My presentiment, which would not
let me go away when you begged me, makes me sure of it.
THE CHATEAU DE LA PÉNISSIÈRE. 177
Our friends are there, I tell you; they found a shelter in
some cellar where they are now imprisoned by the fall of
these materials."
"It may be so," replied Courte-Joie.
"It is certainly so ! " cried Bertha. "But how can we
release them ? How shall we reach the place where they
are ? "
"If they are in a vault, the vault must have an opening;
if they are in a cellar, the cellar has a window."
"Well, then, if we can't find either we must dig out the
earth and through the foundation-wall."
So saying, Bertha began to go round the building, drag-
ging aside with frenzied motions the beams, stones, tiles,
and other fragments which had fallen beside the outer wall
and now hid its base.
Suddenly she gave a cry. Trigaud and Courte-Joie ran
to her, — one on his great legs, the other on his stumps and
hands, with the rapidity of a batrachian.
" Listen ! " said Bertha, triumphantly.
Sure enough, on the spot where she stood they heard
distinctly a dull but continued sound coming from the
depths of the ruined building, — a sound like that of some
tool or instrument striking steady and regular blows on
the foundations.
"This is the place," said Bertha, pointing to an enor-
mous pile of rubbish heaped against the wall. "We shall
find them here."
Trigaud set to work. He began by pushing away a
whole section of the roof which had slid down outside the
building and now lay vertically against the wall. Then
he threw aside the loose stones piled there by the fall of
a window-casing on the first floor ; and finally, after won-
derful feats of strength, he laid bare an opening through
which the sounds of the labor of the buried men came to
them distinctly.
Bertha wanted to pass through the opening as soon as it
was practicable; but Trigaud held her back. He took a
VOL. II. — 12
178 THE LAST VENDÉE.
fallen lath, lit it by the embers, fastened the girth, which
usually held Courte- Joie to his shoulders, round the latter' s
waist, and lowered him into the cavity.
Bertha and Trigaud held their breaths. Courte-Joie's
voice was heard, speaking to some one; then he gave a
signal to be hoisted up. Trigaud obeyed with the alacrity
of a well-fed animal.
" Living ? are they living ? " cried Bertha, in anguish.
"Yes, mademoiselle, but for God's sake don't attempt
to go down there ; they are not in the cellar, but in a sort
of niche beyond it. The opening through which they got
there is blocked. "We must break through the Avail to
reach them; and I am very much afraid that may bring
down the roof of the cellar upon them. Let me direct
Trigaud."
Bertha fell on her knees and prayed. Courte-Joie col-
lected a number of dry laths and returned to the cellar;
Trigaud followed him.
At the end of ten minutes, which seemed to Bertha as
many centuries, a loud noise of crashing stones was heard.
A cry of anguish escaped her; she darted to the opening
and there met Trigaud coming up, bearing on his shoulder
the body of a man bent double, whose pale face was hang-
ing down upon the giant's breast. Bertha recognized
Michel.
" He is dead ! Oh, my God ! he is dead ! " she cried, not
daring to go up to him.
"No, no," said a voice from below, which Bertha recog'
nized as that of Jean Oullier, "no, he is not dead."
At these words the girl sprang forward, took Michel
from Trigaud's hands, laid him on the grass, and quite
reassured by the beating of his heart, endeavored to bring
back his senses by bathing his forehead with water from
a pool.
THE MOOR OF BOUAIMÉ. 17.'
XIX.
THE MOOR OF BOUAIME.
While Bertha endeavored to bring Michel from his swoon
(which was chiefly caused by suffocation) Jean Oullier
reached the outer air, followed by Courte-Joie, whom
Trigaud drew up by the same means he had used to lower
him. A moment more and all three were safely outside.
"Ah ça ! were you the only ones in there ? " said Courte -
Joie to Jean Oullier.
"Yes."
"And the others ?"
"They took refuge under the stairway; the ceiling fell
before they had time to get to us."
" A re they dead ? "
"I don't think so; for about an hour after the soldiers
left we heard the stones moving and voices. We called to
them, but they did not hear."
"It is a lucky chance we came."
" That it is ; without you I could never have got through
that wall, especially with the young baron in such a state.
Ha ! I 've made a fine campaign of it, faith," muttered
Jean Oullier, shaking his head as he looked at Bertha,
who, having drawn Michel's head and shoulders on her
knees and brought him to his senses, was now expressing
to him all the happiness she felt in recovering him.
"And it is not over yet," said Courte-Joie, ignorant of
the meaning the old Vendéan gave to his words, and
anxiously looking to the east, where a broad purple line
announced that the day was breaking.
" What do vou mean ? " asked Jean Oullier.
180 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"I mean that two hours more of darkness would have
mightily helped our safety; a cripple, a fainting man,
and a woman are not so easy to manœuvre on a retreat.
Besides, the victors in yesterday's fight will swarm upon
the roads to-day — if they don't beat the woods."
"Yes; but I 'm at ease now. I don't have that roof
over my head."
"You are only half saved yet, my good Jean."
"Well, let us take precautions."
So saying, Jean Oullier began to search for the car-
tridge-boxes of the dead, and took their contents. Then he
loaded his gun as coolly as though he were starting on a
hunt, and went up to Bertha and Michel. The eyes of the
latter were closed as if he were unconscious.
"Can you walk ? " Jean Oullier said to him.
Michel did not answer. When he first opened his eyes
he saw Bertha, and closed them hastily, conscious of the
difficulties of his position.
" Can you walk ? " repeated Bertha, in a tone which the
latter could no longer pretend not to hear.
"I think so," he replied.
In point of fact he had only a flesh wound in the arm;
the bone was not injured.
Bertha had examined the wound and slung the arm about
his neck with her white silk cravat.
"If you can't walk," said Jean Oullier, "I '11 carry you."
At this fresh proof of the change in Jean Oullier's feel-
ings to the young baron, Bertha went up to him.
"You must explain to me why you took away my
betrothed husband," she said, emphasizing the last two
words; "and why you persuaded him to leave his post and
be dragged into this affair which has exposed him, in spite
of all the dangers he may have met, to serious and shame-
ful accusations."
"If Monsieur de la Logerie's reputation has suffered
through me," replied Jean Oullier, gently, "I will repair
it."
THE MOOR OF BOUAIMÉ. 181
" You ? " said Bertha, more and more astonished.
"Yes," said Jean Oullier; "for I can and will say openly
that with all his effeminate ways, this young man has
shown himself to be full of courage and constancy."
"Will you really do that, Jean Oullier ?" cried Bertha.
"Not only will I do it," said the old Vendéan, "but if
my testimony is not enough I will get that of the brave
men beside whom he fought, — for I now desire that his
name be counted honorable and honored."
" Is it possible that you say that, Jean Oullier ? "
Jean Oullier nodded.
" You who would rather see me dead than bearing that
name ? "
" That 's how things change in this world, Mademoiselle
Bertha. I desire now to see Monsieur Michel my master's
son-in-law."
Jean Oullier said the words with a look so expressive
and a voice so sad and meaning, that Bertha felt her heart
tighten, and she thought involuntarily of Mary. She was
about to question the old keeper, but, at that moment, the
sound of trumpets came down upon the wind from the
direction of Clisson.
"Courte-Joie was right ! " exclaimed Jean Oullier.
"The explanation you ask of me, Bertha, you shall have
as soon as circumstances permit; for the present we must
think of our own safety." Then, listening attentively,
he added: "Come, let us start ! there 's not an instant to
lose, I '11 answer for that."
Passing his hand through Michel's well arm to support
him, he gave the signal to depart. Courte-Joie was
already perched on Trigaud's shoulders.
" Which way shall we go ? " he asked.
"Better make for the lonely farmhouse of Saint-Hilaire,"
replied Jean Oullier, who felt Michel staggering under his
first few steps. "It is quite impossible that Monsieur
Michel should do the twent}^ miles to Machecoul."
"Straight for Saint-Hilaire, then," said Courte-Joie.
182 THE LAST VENDÉE.
In spite of their slow advance, by reason of Michel's
feebleness in walking, they were not more than a few hun-
dred steps from the farm, when Trigaud showed his rider
with some pride a sort of club he had been peeling and
polishing with his knife as he walked along. It was made
from the stem of a wild apple-tree, of suitable length,
which Trigaud had spied in the orchard at Pénissière; he
thought it admirably suited to replace the terrible scythe
he had shattered at Chêne.
Courte-Joie gave a cry of anger. Evidently he did not
share the satisfaction with which his companion flourished
the knotty bulk of his new weapon.
"The devil take that animal to the lowest hell!" he
cried.
" What 's the matter ? " asked Jean Chillier, leaving
Michel to Bertha's care and hurrying on to join Courte-
Joie and Trigaud.
" Matter ! " cried Courte- Joie, " the matter is that this
brute has put the whole band of the red-breeches on our
track ! May the plague choke me for not having thought
of it before ! Ever since we left La Pénissière he has
been a regular Tom Thumb; and, unluckily for us, it is n't
bread crumbs he has strewn along the way, but the twigs,
leaves, bark of his tree. Those scoundrelly soldiers, who,
I have n't a doubt, will find out that we dug among the
embers, are by this time at the other end of the trail
this animal has provided for them. Ah, double, treble,
quadruple, brute ! " concluded Courte -Joie, by way of
peroration.
Joining action to words he brought down his fist with
all his might on the skull of the giant, who seemed no
more conscious of the blow than if Courte-Joie had merely
passed his hand through his hair.
"Damn it !" said Jean Oullier, "what's to be done
now ? "
" Give up the farm at Saint-Hilaire, where they 'd catch
us like mice in a trap."
THE MOOR OF BOUAIMÉ. 18,5
"But," said Bertha, quickly, "Monsieur Michel cannot
possibly go any farther. See how pale he is ! "
"Let us bear to the right," said Jean Oullier, "and make
for the Bouaimé moor, where we can hide among the rocks.
To walk faster and leave fewer tracks, I '11 take Monsieur
Michel on my shoulders. We '11 walk in file, and Trigaud's
steps will hide the rest."
The Bouaimé moor, toward which Jean Oullier now
guided the little troop, lies about three miles from the
village of Saint-Hilaire; the river Maine must be crossed
to reach it. It extends on the north as far as Remouillé
and Montbert; the lay of the land is very uneven and it is
strewn with granite rocks, some evidently placed there by
the hand of man. Druidic stones and dolmens lift their
brown heads crowned with moss amid tufts of heather
and the yellow flowers of the gorse and broom. It was
to one of the most remarkable of these stones that Jean
Oullier now guided the little caravan. This stone was
flat, and rested on four enormous corner-stones of granite.
Ten or a dozen persons could easily have lain in its
shadow.
Michel was no sooner there than he gave way entirely,
and would have fallen flat on the ground if Bertha had not
supported him. She hastened to gather ferns, which she
spread beneath the dolmen; and Michel wa,s no sooner laid
upon them than, in spite of the gravity of the situation, he
fell soundly asleep.
Trigaud was stationed as sentinel on the dolmen;
aboriginal statue on an aboriginal pedestal, he called to
mind by his mighty outline the giants of two thousand
years ago, who raised that altar. Courte-Joie, unstrapped,
lay down to rest near Michel, whom Bertha would not
leave, in spite of the exhaustion, both moral and physical,
which the fatigues of the previous day and night had
entailed upon her. Jean Oullier walked away, partly to
reconnoitre the situation, and partly to obtain provisions,
of which they stood greatly in need.
184 THE LAST VENDÉE.
For about two hours Trigaud's eyes had roved over the
broad expanse of the savanna before and around him.
Not a sound had reached his ear, attentively listening,
except the monotonous hum of bees and wasps pilfering
sweetness from the broom and the wild thyme. The mists
which the sun was drawing from the earth began to assume
to Trigaud's eyes a variety of rainbow tints, the shimmer-
ings of which, added to the rays of the sun, which were
now falling plumb on his tufts of red hair, benumbed his
brain; various somniferous combinations were about to
plunge him into a siesta, not induced, unfortunately for
him, by any meal, when the sudden report of a fire-arm
roused him from his torpor.
He looked in the direction of Saint-Hilaire and saw the
white vapor produced by the shot. Next, he saw a man
running at full speed, apparently making for the dolmen.
With one bound Trigaud was off his pedestal. Bertha,
who had resisted sleep, heard the shot and immediately
waked up Courte-Joie.
Trigaud took the cripple in his arms and hoisted him
above his head till he was fully ten feet off the ground,
saying but two words, which, however, needed no com-
mentary : —
"Jean Oullier."
Courte-Joie shaded his eyes with his hand and had no
difficulty in recognizing the old Vendéan; but he noticed
that instead of making direct for the dolmen, Jean Oullier
had taken to the opposite hill and was heading for Mont-
bert. He also observed that instead of running on the
slope of the hill, where he might have been sheltered from
the eyes of his pursuers, the old huntsman had chosen the
most exposed places, keeping in full view of whoever was
within three miles of him.
Jean Oullier, he knew, was far too wary to act heed-
lessly; he must have some good reason for his present
behavior; no doubt he was attracting the enemy's atten-
tion to himself in order to divert it from the rest of the
THE MOOR OF BOUAIMÉ. 185
party. Courte-Joie therefore concluded that the wisest
thing for him and his companions to do was to stay in
their present shelter and await events, carefully watching,
meantime, all that happened.
Whenever intelligence was needed instead of senses,
Courte-Joie no longer trusted to Trigaud. He had him-
self hoisted to the top of the dolmen, although, small
as his truncated body was, he thought best not to display
it too openly on that pedestal. He therefore lay down
flat on his stomach with his face turned in the direction of
the hill up which Jean Oullier was proceeding.
Soon, at the very place whence the Vendéan had issued,
he saw a soldier, then another, then a third; he counted
them up to twenty. They did not seem eager to measure
speed with their game; they simply spread over the moor
to cut off his retreat in case he attempted to return. These
equivocal tactics increased Courte- Joie's watchfulness ; for
they led him to think that the soldiers had some other
object in view than the mere pursuit of the Vendéan. The
hill which the latter was mounting ended, about half a
mile from the point where Jean Oullier then was, in a
sharp point of rocks, at the foot of which was a bog. It
was on that spot, no doubt because Jean Oullier was aim-
ing for it, that Courte-Joie 's attention was now fixed.
" Hum ! " said Trigaud, suddenly.
" What is it ? " asked Courte-Joie.
"Red-breeches," replied the other, pointing to the bog.
Courte-Joie followed the direction of Trigaud's finger
and saw the barrel of a gun in the midst of the reeds ; then
a form. It was that of a soldier, and he, like the one first
seen on the heath, was followed by twenty others. Courte-
Joie saw them crouching among the reeds like sportsmen on
the watch. Their game was Jean Oullier. If he descended
by the point of rocks, as he was evidently about to do, he
must fall into the ambush.
There was not a moment to be lost in warning him.
Courte-Joie did not hesitate; he seized his gun and fired
186 THE LAST VENDÉE.
it, taking care to hold the muzzle below the bushes and
to fire behind the dolmen. Then he looked hastily back to
the scene of action.
Jean Oullier had heard the signal and knew the ring
of Courte- Joie's little gun; he was not mistaken for a
moment as to the reasons that constrained his friend to
abandon the concealment he was preserving for them at
such cost to himself. Instantly he made a half turn, and
instead of continuing his way to the steep descent and the
bog, he rapidly descended the hill he had been climbing.
He no longer ran, he flew; no doubt some plan had occurred
to him, and he was hurrying to put it into execution. At
the rate he was coming down he would join his friends in
a few moments.
But in spite of Courte-Joie's precautions to conceal the
smoke of his shot, the soldiers had seen the direction from
which it came, and those on the moor as well as those in
the bog joined forces behind Jean Oullier (who was still
coming down at a great pace), and seemed to be consulting
together while awaiting orders.
Courte-Joie glanced about him, apparentl} 7 studying each
point of the horizon ; he wet a finger and lifted it to dis-
cover the direction of the wind, and felt the heather anx-
iously, to be sure that the sun, which was hot, and the
wind, which was keen, had dried it thoroughly.
" What are you doing ? " asked Bertha, who had watched
the different phases of this prologue, fully aware of the
imminence of the danger, and was now helping Michel,
who seemed more depressed than suffering, to get on his
feet.
"What am I doing, — or rather what am I going to do,
my dear young lady ? " replied the cripple. " I am going
to make a glorious bonfire; and you can boast to-night, if
the fire saves you, as I hope it will, that you never saw
the like before."
So saying, he gave Trigaud several lighted bits of tinder,
which the latter stuck into bundles of dried herbage, which
THE MOOR OF BOUAIMÉ. 187
he placed at intervals of ten feet among the heather, blow-
ing each of them into a flame with his powerful lungs.
He was placing his last bundle as Jean Oullier came up
the slope, which led to the dolmen.
" Up ! up ! " cried the latter. " I am not ten minutes in
advance of them."
"Yes, but this will give us twenty," said Courte- Joie
pointing to the twigs of heather which were beginning to
curl and crackle with the flames, while a dozen or more
spiral lines of smoke were rising in the air.
"That fire won't burn fast enough or hot enough to stop
them," said Jean Oullier. "Besides," he added, after
studying the condition of the atmosphere, "the wind will
send the flame in the direction that we must take."
"Yes; but flame, gars Oullier, carries smoke," said
Courte-Joie, triumphantly; "and that 's what I 'm counting
on. The smoke will hide how few we are and where we
are going."
"Ah! Courte-Joie, Courte-Joie," muttered Oullier
between his teeth, " if you had your legs what a poacher
you 'd be ! "
Then, without saying another word, he picked Michel
up and put him on his shoulders (in spite of the young
man's assurance that he could walk well enough, and did
not wish to cause that additional fatigue to the old Ven-
déan), and followed Trigaud, who had already started with
his rider on his back.
"Take mademoiselle's hand!" called Courte-Joie to
Jean Oullier; "and tell her to shut her mouth and take in
a long breath; in ten minutes we sha'n't be able to see or
breathe."
In fact the ten minutes had not expired before the ten
columns of smoke were blended into one and formed a
dense sheet stretching to right and left five hundred feet,
while the flames roare«l sullenly behind them.
" Can you see sufficiently to guide us ? " said Jean
Oullier to Courte-Joie; "for the most important thing of
all is not to go astray, and next, not to get separated."
188 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"We have no other guide than the smoke," replied
Courte-Joie. " Let us follow that boldly and it will take
us where we want to go; hut don't lose sight of Trigaud
as head of the column."
Jean Oullier was one of those men who know the value
of words and time; he therefore contented himself with
saying : —
" Forward, march ! " giving the example and seeming no
more hindered by Michel's weight than Trigaud was by
Courte-Joie's.
They walked thus for fifteen minutes without getting
out of the smoke which their conflagration, spreading with
amazing rapidity under the force of the wind, rolled up
about them. Once or twice Jean Oullier muttered to
Bertha, who was half suffocated : —
" Can you breathe ? "
To which she replied with an almost inarticulate yes.
As for Michel, the old keeper cared not at all; he was cer-
tain to keep up with the rest, inasmuch as he, Jean Oullier,
had him on his shoulders.
Suddenly Trigaud, who marched at their head guided
by Courte-Joie, and utterly indifferent to where he went,
stepped back abruptly. He had set his feet in water,
which the smoke had prevented him from seeing, and he
was now knee-deep in it. Aubin uttered a cry of joy.
"We 've done it ! " he said; "the smoke has led us as
straight as the best-broken hound ever led a sportsman."
" Ah ! " exclaimed Jean Oullier.
"You understand now, don't you, my gars?" said
Courte-Joie, in a tone of triumph.
" Yes ; but how shall we reach the island ? "
" How ? Why, there 's Trigaud."
"True; but when the soldiers miss us won't they suspect
the trick ? "
"Of course, if they do miss us; but I intend they
sha'n't."
"Goon."
THE MOOK OF BOUAlMi 189
"They don't know how many we are. We will put
Mademoiselle Bertha and the wounded man in safety, and
then, as if we had made a mistake and found our way
blocked by the pond, you and 1 and Trigaud will land, and
show them by a few shots where we are. After that,
being free of incumbrance, we can easily get into the
woods of Gineston, and return to the island after dark."
" But these poor children will be left without food ! "
"Pooh!" said Courte- Joie, "it won't kill them to go
twenty-four hours without eating."
"So be it." Then, with a sort of sad contempt for his
want of intelligence, "Last night," he continued, "must
have addled my brain, or I should have thought of all this
myself."
"Don't expose yourselves uselessly," said Bertha, half
joyous at the thought of the tête-à-tête which these strange
circumstances were giving her with the man she loved.
" Don't trouble about that, " replied Jean Oullier.
Trigaud took Michel in his arms, without unhorsing
Courte-Joie (which would have made him lose time) and
entered the pond. He walked thus till the water was up
to his middle; then he hoisted Michel to his head in case
the water mounted higher. It stopped, however, at the
level of the giant's breast. He crossed the pond to a sort
of island about twelve feet square, which seemed in the
midst of that stagnant water to be nothing more than a
vast duck's-nest. It was covered with a forest of reeds.
Trigaud deposited Michel among the reeds and returned
for Bertha, whom he carried in the same manner and put
down, as he might a bird, beside the young Baron de la
Logerie.
"Lie down flat among the reeds in the middle of the
island ! " called Jean Oullier from the shore. " Lift the
reeds you have just bent down, and I can promise that no
one will find you ! "
"Very good," replied Bertha; "and now, my friends,
think only of yourselves."
190 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XX.
THE FIRM OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE AND CO. DOES HONOR TO
ITS PARTNERSHIP.
It was high time for the three Chouans to finish what they
had to do on the borders of the pond. The flames were
rolling onward with terrifying rapidity; they ran along the
flowery tops of the broom and heather like gold and purple
birds swept forward by the wind, as if they preferred to
play among the twigs and branches before they seized
upon the stems. Their mutterings, like the roar of ocean,
increased in all directions round the fugitives, and the
smoke grew denser and more suffocating.
But the steel muscles possessed by Jean Oullier and
Trigaud were a match for the flames, and the trio were
soon safe from all danger of fire. They turned obliquely
to the left, and soon reached a dip in the valley which was
almost free of the smoke which so far had been their main
protection, — serving to hide their number, the direction of
their flight, and the manoeuvre by which Michel and Bertha
were now in a place of safety.
"Let us crawl; we must crawl now, Trigaud," cried
Jean Oullier. " The soldiers must n't see us till we know
where they are and what they are doing."
The giant bent down as though he were going on all
fours ; and it was lucky for him he did so, for no sooner
had he stooped than a ball, which he would otherwise
have received in his breast, whizzed harmlessly through
the air.
"The devil ! " cried Courte- Joie; "you did n't give that
advice a bit too soon, gars Oullier."
THE FIKM OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE AND CO. 191
" They have guessed our trick and have surrounded us —
on this side at least," said Jean Oullier.
They now saw a file of soldiers posted at a hundred
paces from each other, all the way from the dolmen to a
distance of a mile and a half, evidently waiting, like
huntsmen, till the quarry should reappear.
" Shall we rush upon them ? "
" That 's my advice; but wait till I have made a gap."
Putting his gun to his shoulder (but without leaving his
horizontal position) Jean Oullier fired on the soldier who
was now reloading his gun. The man, struck in the
breast, twirled round upon himself and fell head foremost
to the ground.
" That 's one ! " said Jean Oullier.
Then aiming at the next soldier as calmly as he would at
a partridge, he fired. The second man fell like the first.
" A double-shot ! " exclaimed Courte- Joie. " Bravo, gars
Oullier, bravo ! "
"Forward ! forward !" cried Oullier, springing to his
feet with the agility of a panther. "Forward! and spread
a little to give less chance for the balls they '11 rain upon
us!"
The Vendéan was right. The three comrades had
scarcely advanced ten steps before six or eight successive
discharges were heard; and one of the balls splintered the
club which Trigaud was carrying in his hand. Happily
for the fugitives, the soldiers hurrying on all sides to tho
help of their wounded companions, and coming up out of
breath, had fired unsteadily. Nevertheless they closed the
way and it is probable that Jean Oullier and his friends
would not have had time to escape through their line with-
out a hand-to-hand fight.
As it was, just as Jean Oullier, who held the left, was
about to spring across a little ravine, a shako rose on the
other side, and he saw a soldier awaiting him with fixed
bayonet. The rapidity of his rush prevented the Vendéan
from reloading his gun, but he calculated that as his adver-
192 THE LAST VENDÉE.
sary contented himself with his bayonet he was probably
in the same condition as himself. Eisking all, he drew
his knife, put it between his teeth, and continued his way
with headlong speed. On the edge of the ravine he stopped
short, and putting up his gun took aim at his adversary.
The soldier, thinking the Vendéan's gun was loaded, flung
himself flat on his stomach to escape the shot. An instant
after, and as if the pause he made had not diminished the
impulsion of his spring, Jean was across the ravine, over
the body of the soldier, and away like lightning on the
other side.
Trigaud was equally fortunate ; and save for a ball which
grazed his shoulder and added more rags to those he wore,
he and his partner Courte-Joie got safely across the line.
The two fugitives (Trigaud and Courte-Joie count as one)
now turned diagonally, one to right, the other to left, so
as to meet at the point of the angle. At the end of five
minutes they were within speaking distance.
" Are you all right ? " said Jean Chillier to Courte-Joie.
"All right!" answered the cripple; "and in twenty
minutes, if we don't have a limb lopped off by those ras-
cally Blues, we '11 be in the fields; and once we are behind
a hedge the devil himself can't touch us. That was a bad
idea of ours, taking to the moor, gars Oullier."
"Pooh! we'll soon be away from it; and the young
folks are much safer where they are than if we had put
them in the thickest forest. You are not wounded ? "
" No ; and you, Trigaud ? I thought I felt a sort of
shudder on your hide."
The giant showed the gash the ball had made in his
club; evidently, this misfortune, which destroyed the sym-
metry of the work at which he had fondly labored all the
morning, troubled him far more than the damage done to
his clothing or to his deltoid, which was slightly injured
by the passage of the ball.
"Oh, be joyful!" cried Courte-Joie; "here are the
fields."
THE FIRM OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE AND CO. 193
In truth, not a thousand steps away from the fugitives,
at the bottom of a slope which was so gentle as to be
almost imperceptible, fields of wheat were visible, their
ears already yellowing and swaying to the breeze in their
dull-green sheaths.
" Suppose we stop to breathe a minute," said Courte-Joie,
who seemed to feel the fatigue that Trigaud felt.
"Yes," said Jean Oullier, "and give me time to reload.
Meautime, do you look about."
Jean Oullier reloaded his gun, and Courte-Joie turned
his eyes in a circle around him.
" Oh, ten million thunders ! " exclaimed the cripple sud-
denly, just as the Vendéan was ramming in his second ball.
" What now ? " said Jean Oullier, turning round.
"Forward ! all the devils of hell ! forward ! I don't see
anything yet, but I hear something that bodes no good."
"Whew ! they are doing us the honor of cavalry, gars
Courte-Joie. Quick, quick, lazy-bones ! " he added,
addressing Trigaud.
The latter, as much to relieve his lungs as to make
answer to Jean Oullier, gave vent to a sort of bellow
which a lusty Poitevin bull might have envied him, and
then with a single stride he jumped an enormous stone
which lay on his way; as he did so a cry of pain burst
from Jean Oullier.
"What 's the matter ?" asked Courte-Joie, looking back
to the latter, who had stopped and was leaning on his gun
with his foot raised.
"Nothing, nothing," replied Oullier; "don't trouble
about me."
He tried to walk, gave another cry, and sat down.
"Oh," said Courte-Joie, " we shall not go on without you
Tell me, what 's the matter ? "
"Nothing, I say."
" Are you wounded ? "
" Oh, for that bone-setter of Montbert ! " exclaimed Jean
Oullier.
VOL. II. — 13
194 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" What 's that ? " said Courte-Joie, who did not catch
his meaning.
"I've either broken or turned my ankle by stepping
into a hole; at any rate, I can't take another step."
" Trigaud will take you on one shoulder and me on the
other."
"Impossible ! you could never reach the hedges."
"But if we leave you behind they '11 kill you, my Jean."
"Maybe so," said the Vendéan, "but I '11 kill a few of
them before I die; and by way of a beginning, look at
that fellow."
A young officer of chasseurs, better mounted than the
/est, appeared at the top of a rise about three hundred
paces from the fugitives. Jean put his musket to his
shoulder and tired. The young man threw up his arms
and fell from his saddle. Jean Oullier reloaded his gun.
"Can't you walk at all ?" asked Courte-Joie.
"I might limp a dozen steps; but what's the good of
that ? "
"Then here we '11 stay, Trigaud."
"You won't do such a foolish thing, I hope ? " cried Jean
Oullier.
"Yes, by my faith, I will. Where you die we die, old
friend; but, as you say, we'll bring down a few of them
first."
"No, no, Courte-Joie; that sha'n't be so. You must
live to look after those young ones we left over there —
What are you about, Trigaud ? " he suddenly asked, look-
ing at the giant, who had gone down into a ravine and was
lifting a block of granite.
"Don't scold him!" said Courte-Joie; "he isn't wasting
time."
" Here, here ! " cried Trigaud, showing a hollow made by
the flow of water under the stone.
" Faith, he 's right. I declare if he has n't the mind
of a monkey this day, my (jars Trigaud ! Here, Jean
Oullier, here, get under! get under!"
THE FIRM OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE AND CO. 195
Jean Oullier dragged himself to the stone and rolled into
the excavation, where he curled himself into a hall with
the water to his middle. Trigaud then replaced the stone,
leaving just enough space to give air and light to the living
heing it covered like a tombstone.
The giant had just concluded this work when the horse-
men appeared at the top of the slope; and after convincing
themselves that the young officer was really dead, dashed
down in pursuit of the Chouans at full gallop.
Nevertheless, all hope was not lost. Trigaud and Courte-
Joie were scarcely fifty steps from a hedge beyond which
they would be safe from horsemen; and as for the foot-
soldiers, they appeared to have relinquished their pursuit.
But a subaltern officer admirably mounted pressed them
so hard that Courte-Joie felt the hot breath of the animal
on his legs. The rider, determined to end the matter,
rose in his stirrups and aimed such a blow with his sabre
at the cripple's head that he would certainly have split it
in two; but the horse, which he did not have well in
hand, swerved to the left, while Trigaud instinctively
flung himself to the right. The weapon therefore missed
its mark and merely made a flesh wound on the cripple's
arm.
"Face about ! " cried Courte-Joie to Trigaud, as though
he were commanding a company. The latter pivoted round,
absolutely as though his body were riveted to the ground
with an iron screw.
The horse, passing beside him, struck him in the breast,
but did not shake him. At the same instant Courte-Joie,
firing one barrel of his little gun, knocked over the subal-
tern, who was dragged to some distance by the impetus of
his horse.
"One!" counted Trigaud, in whom the imminence of
danger seemed to develop a loquacity which was not
habitual with him.
During the moment that this affair lasted the other
horsemen were rapidly approaching; a few horse's-lengths
196 THE LAST VENDÉE.
alone separated them from the two Vendéans, who could
hear, above the tramp of their galloping steeds, the sharp
cocking of their pistols and musketoons. But that moment
had sufficed Courte-Joie to judge of the resources offered
him by the place in which he found himself.
They were now at the farther end of the moor of
Bouaimé, a few steps from a crossway whence several
roads diverged. Like all such open spaces in Brittany
and La Vendee, this crossway had its crucifix; and the
cross, which was of stone, and dilapidated on one side,
offered a temporary refuge which might soon become unten-
able. To right were the first hedges of the fields; but
there was no chance whatever of reaching them, for three
or four horsemen, forestalling their intention, had obliquely
advanced to thwart it. Opposite to them and flowing to
their left was the river Maine, which made a bend at this
place; but Courte-Joie knew it was useless to even think
of putting the river between himself and the soldiers, for
the opposite bank was a face of rock rising from the water;
and in following the current to find a spot to land, the two
Chouans would have been simply a target for the enemy.
It was, therefore, the refuge of the cross on which
Courte-Joie decided, and in that direction Trigaud, under
his master's orders, proceeded. But just as he reached the
column of stone and turned it to put its bulk between the
soldiers and themselves, a ball struck an arm of the cross,
ricochetted, and wounded Courte-Joie in the cheek, — not,
however, preventing the cripple from replying to it in
turn.
Unfortunately, the blood which poured from the wound
fell on Trigaud's hands. He saw that blood, gave a roar
of fury, — as though he felt nought but that which injured
his companion, — and charged madly on the soldiers like a
wild-boar on its hunters.
In an instant Courte-Joie and Trigaud were surrounded;
a dozen sabres whirled above their heads, a dozen pistol
muzzles threatened their bodies, and one gendarme seized
THE FIRM OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE AND CO. 197
Courte- Joie. But Trigaud's club descended; it fell upon
the leg of the gendarme and crushed it; the hapless rider
uttered a terrible cry and fell from his horse, which fled
across the moor.
At the same instant a dozen shots were fired; Trigaud
had a ball in the breast, and Courte- Joie's right arm,
broken in two places, hung helpless at his side. The giant
seemed insensible to pain; with his trunk of a tree he
made a moulinet which broke two or three sabres and
warded others.
"To the cross! to the cross !" cried Courte- Joie. "It
is well to die there."
"Yes," muttered Trigaud; hearing his master speak of
• dying he brought down his club convulsively on the head
of a horseman, who fell like a log. Then, executing the
order he had received, he walked backward to the cross —
to cover as much as possible the body of his friend with
his own body.
" A thousand thunders ! " shouted a corporal ; " we are
wasting time and lives and powder on those beggars."
So saying, he spurred his horse and forced it with one
bound upon the two Vendéans. The horse's head struck
Trigaud full in the chest, and the shock was so violent that
it brought the giant to his knees. The soldier profited by
the chance to strike Courte- Joie a blow which entered his
skull.
" Throw me at the foot of the cross and escape if you
can!" said Courte-Joie, in a failing voice. "It is all over
with me." Then he began the prayer: "Receive my soul,
God ! "
But the colossus no longer obeyed him; maddened with
blood and fury he uttered hoarse, inarticulate cries, like
those of a lion at bay; his eyes, usually dull and lifeless,
cast out flames; his lips drew up, exposing the clenched
and savage teeth ready to render eraunch for craunch with
a tiger. The gallop of the horse had carried the soldier
who wounded Courte-Joie to some distance. Trigaud could
198 THE LAST VENDÉE.
not reach him; but he measured the space with his eye,
and whirling the club above his head, he flung it hissing
through the air as if from a catapult.
The rider forced his horse to rear, and so avoided the
blow; but the horse received it on his head. The creature
beat the air with his forefeet as he fell over backward, and
rolled with his rider on the ground.
Trigaud uttered a cry of joy more terrible and horrible
than a cry of pain; the rider's leg was caught beneath the
animal. He flung himself upon him, parried with his arm,
which was deeply gashed, a sabre-cut; seized the soldier
by the leg; dragged him from the body of the horse; and
then, twirling him in the air, as a child does a sling, he
dashed out his brains upon an arm of the cross.
j The byzantine stone shook to its base, and remained bent
over to one side, and covered with blood. A cry of horror
and of vengeance burst from the troops, but this specimen
of the giant's strength deterred the soldiers from approach-
ing him; they stopped where they were, to reload their
guns.
During this time Courte-Joie breathed his last, saying,
in a load voice : —
"Amen !"
Then Trigaud, feeling his beloved master dead, and
utterly ignoring the preparations the chasseurs were mak-
ing to kill him, — Trigaud sat down at the foot of the
cross, unfastened the body of Courte-Joie from his shoul-
ders and laid it on his knees, as a mother might handle
the body of her child; he gazed on the livid face, wiping
with his sleeve the blood that blurred it, while a torrent
of tears — the first that being, indifferent to all the mis-
eries of life, had ever shed — flowed thick and fast from
his eyes, mingling with the blood he was piously and
absorbedly removing.
A violent explosion, two new wounds, and the dull thud
produced by three or four balls striking the body which
Trigaud was holding in his arms and pressing to his breast,
THE FIKM OF AUBIN COURTE-JOIE AND CO. 199
roused him from his grief and his insensibility, lie rose
to his full height; and this movement, which made the
soldiers think he meant to spring upon them, caused them
to gather up the reins of their horses, while a visible shud-
der ran through their ranks.
Eut Trigaud never looked at them ; he thought of them
no longer; he was seeking a means of not being parted
from his friend by death; was he searching for a spot
which promised him a union throughout eternity ?
He walked toward the river. In spite of his wounds,
in spite of the blood which flowed down his body from
the holes of several pistol-balls and left a rivulet of
blood behind him, Trigaud walked firm and erect. He
reached the river-bank before a single soldier thought of
preventing him; there he stopped at a point overlooking a
black pool of water, the stillness of which proclaimed its
depth. Clasping the body of the cripple still tighter to
his breast, and gathering up his last remaining strength,
he sprang forward into its depths without uttering a word.
The water dashed noisily above the mighty mass it now
engulfed, boiling and foaming long over the place where
Trigaud and his friend had disappeared; then it subsided
into rings, which widened, widened ever till they died upon
the shore.
The soldiers had ridden up. They thought the beggar
had thrown himself into the water to reach the other bank,
and pistol in hand they held themselves ready to fire the
moment he came to the surface of the stream.
But Trigaud never reappeared; his soul had gone to join
the soul of the only being he had loved in this world, and
their bodies lay softly together on a bed of reeds in a pool
of the river Maine.
2U0 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXI.
IN WHICH SUCCOR COMES FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER.
During the week which had just elapsed Maître Courtin
kept prudently quiet and out of sight in his farmhouse at
La Logerie. Like all diplomatists, Courtin had no great
fancy for war; he calculated, very justly, that the period
of pistol-shots and sabre-cuts must soon pass by, and he
wished to be fresh and lively for the succeeding period,
when he might be useful to the cause — and to himself —
according to the petty means which Nature allotted to
him.
He was not without some uneasiness, the cautious farmer,
as to the consequences which might result to him from the
part he had taken in the arrest of Jean Oullier and the
death of Bonneville; and at this moment when hatred,
rancor, vengeance of all kinds had put the country under
arms, he thought it wisest not to foolishly risk his person
within their range. He was even afraid of meeting his
young master, Baron Michel (inoffensive as he knew him
to be), ever since a certain night when be had cut the
girths of the baron's saddle.
In fact, the day after that performance, thinking that
the best way to escape being killed was to seem half dearl,
he took to his bed and gave out, by his servant-woman, to
his neighbors and administrators that a malignant fever
like that of poor old Tinguy had brought him to death's
door.
Madame de la Logerie, in her distress at Michel's flight,
had sent twice for her farmer; but danger paralyzed
Courtin's desire to please her, and the proud baroness,
SUCCOR COMES FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER 201
goaded by anxiety, was forced to go herself to the peasant's
house.
She had heard that Michel was a prisoner, and was
about to start for Nantes to use all her influence with the
authorities to get him released, and all lier authority as a
mother to take him far away from this disastrous neigh-
borhood. Under no circumstances would she return to
La Logerie, where further sojourn seemed to her dangerous
by reason of the conflict about to take place; and she was
anxious to see Courtin and leave him in charge of the
château and her interests.
Courtin promised to be worthy of her confidence, but in
so weak and dolorous a voice that the baroness left the
farmhouse with a heart full of pity for the poor devil,
even in the midst of her own personal anxieties.
After this came the fights at Chêne and La Pénissière.
On the days of their occurrence the noise of the musketry,
as it reached the farmer's ears, caused a relapse in his ill-
ness. But no sooner had he heard of the result of those
fights than he rose from his bed entirely cured. The next
day he felt so vigorous that, in spite of his woman's
remonstrance, he determined to go to Montaigu, his mar-
ket-town, and get the orders of the sub-prefect as to his
future course. The vulture smelt the carnage, and wanted
to be sure of his little share of the spoil.
At Montaigu Maître Courtin learned that his trip was
useless; the department had just been placed under mili-
tary authority. The sub-prefect advised the mayor of La
Logerie to go to Aigrefeuille and get his instructions from
the general, who was there at that moment.
Dermoncourt, fully occupied with the movement of his
columns, and having, as a brave and loyal soldier, little
liking for men of Courtin's character, received the latter's
denunciations, made under the guise of necessary informa-
tion, with an abstracted air, and, in fact, showed a coldness
to the mayor of La Logerie which greatly chilled that
functionary's hopes. Nevertheless the general accepted a
'202 THE LAST VENDÉE.
proposal which Courtin made him, to put a garrison in the
château de la Logerie; for the position seemed to him an
excellent one from which to hold the whole region in hand,
from Machecoul to Saint Colombin.
Heaven owed the farmer some compensation for the
general's want of sympathy, and, with its usual justice,
. soon bestowed it.
As he left the house which served as headquarters,
Maître Courtin was approached by a man whom he had no
recollection of ever having met, but who, nevertheless,
showed him the utmost civility and a friendliness that was
altogether touching. This individual was a man about
thirty years of age, dressed in black clothes, the cut of
which resembled that of priestly garments worn in a city.
His forehead was low, his nose hooked like the beak of a
bird of prey. His lips were thin ; and yet, in spite of their
thinness, they were prominent, owing to a peculiar forma-
tion of the jaw; his pointed chin protruded at an angle
which was more than sharp; his hair, of a leaden black,
was plastered along his temples, and his gray eyes, often
dropped, seemed to see through his winking eyelids. It
was the countenance of a Jesuit grafted on the face of a
Jew.
A few words said by this unknown man to Courtin
appeared to remove the distrust with which the latter was
inclined to receive advances which seemed to him at first
suspicious. He even accepted with a good grace an invita-
tion to dinner at the hôtel Saint-Pierre, which the stranger
gave him; and after two hours passed tête-à-tête in a
private room, where the individual we have described
ordered the table to be laid, such mutual sympathy had
been developed that they treated each other, Courtin and he,
as old friends; exchanging, when they parted, many shak-
ings of the hand, while the mayor of La Logerie, as he
struck his spurs into his pony's flanks, promised his new
acquaintance that he should not be long without hearing
from him.
SUCCOR COMES FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER 203
Toward nine o'clock that evening Maître Courtin was
jogging along, with the tail of his beast toward Aigrefeuille
and its nose toward La Logerie; he seemed quite lively
and joyous, and was flirting his whip by its leather handle
right and left on the flanks of his little steed, with a jollity
and ease that were not characteristic of him.
Maître Courtin's brain was evidently larded with couleur-
de-rose ideas. He was thinking how on the morrow he
should have, at a stone's throw from his farm, a detachment
of fifty soldiers, whose presence would relieve him of
anxiety, not only about the consequences of what he had
done, but also about those of certain things that he wanted
to do; he was thinking, too, that in his capacity as mayor
he could use those fifty bayonets according to the needs of
his private animosities. This idea gratified his self-love
and his hatred together.
But, seductive as this idea of a Pretorian guard which
could, if cleverly managed, be turned into his private
guard, might be, it was surely not sufficient to give Maître
Courtin — a practical man if ever there was one — his
present exuberant satisfaction.
The mysterious unknown had no doubt dazzled his eyes
with something more than the glitter of an ephemeral
glory, — in fact, it was neither more nor less than piles of
gold and silver which Maître Courtin was beholding in his
mind's eye through the mists of the future, and toward
which he was mechanically stretching out his hand with a
smile of covetousness.
Under the control of these agreeable hallucinations, and
somewhat hazy from the fumes of wine which li is new
friend had poured for him generously, Maître Courtin let
himself drop into a state of gentle somnolence; his body
swayed to right and left, according to the caprices of his
ambling pony, until at last, the quadruped having stumbled
over a stone, Maître Courtin pitched forward and remained
doubled over on the pommel of his saddle.
The position was uncomfortable, but Maître Courtin was
204 THE LAST VENDÉE.
careful not to change it; he was then in the midst of so
delightful a dream that, for all the world, he would not
lose it by awaking. He thought he was meeting his young
master, who said to him, waving his hand over the domain
of La Logerie, "All this is thine ! "
The gift was proving more considerable than Courtin at
first thought it; untold riches were developing. The trees
in the orchard were laden down with gold and silver fruit;
all the poles in the neighborhood would not suffice to
hinder the branches from breaking under the weight of
such wealth. The wild-roses and hawthorns were bear-
ing, instead of their usual haws, jewels of all colors,
which sparkled in the sun like so many carbuncles; and
there was such a quantity of them that, although he knew
they were precious stones, Courtin saw, with an eye of
equanimity, a small marauder filling his pockets with
them.
The farmer entered his own stable. In that stable he
beheld a file of fat and well-fed cows extending out of
sight so far, so far, that the one which was nearest the
'door seemed to be of the size of an elephant, while the- one
in the farthest distance was no bigger than a worm. Under
each of these cows was a 3^oung girl milking. The first
two had the features of the "she-wolves," the daughters
of the Marquis de Souday. From the teats of the cows
they were milking ran a white and yellow liquid, brilliant
as two metals in fusion. As it fell into the copper pails
of the two girls it produced that delightful sound which is
music to the ear, — the sound of gold and silver coins piling
one above the other.
As he looked into the pails the happy farmer saw that
they were more than half full of rare and precious coins of
various effigies. He stretched out his eager, grasping,
quivering hands to seize these treasures, and as he did so
a violent shock accompanied by a cry of agony put to flight
his soft illusions.
Courtin opened his eyes and saw in the darknes? a
SUCCOR COMES FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER. 205
peasant-woman with torn clothes and dishevelled hair
stretching out her hands to him.
"What do you want?" cried Maître Courtin, assuming
a gruff voice and raising his stick in a threatening
manner.
" Your help, my good man ; I implore it in God's name ! "
Finding that pity alone was asked for, and certain now
that he had only a woman to deal with, Maître Courtin,
who at first had looked about him in a terrified manner,
was completely reassured.
"You are committing a misdemeanor, my dear," he said.
" You have no right to stop persons on the high-road and
ask for alms ! "
"Alms! who said anything about alms?" returned the
woman, in a refined and haughty tone of voice which
arrested Courtin's attention. "I want you to help in
rescuing an unfortunate man who is dying of fatigue and
exposure ! I want you to lend me your horse to take him
to some farmhouse in the neighborhood."
"Who is it I am to help ? "
" You seem by your dress to belong to the country peo-
ple. I shall therefore not hesitate to tell you the truth,
for I am sure, whatever your political opinions may be, you
will not betray us, — he is a royalist officer."
The voice of the unknown woman excited Courtin's
curiosity to the utmost. He leaned from his saddle striv-
ing to see in the darkness the face of her to whom the
voice belonged; but he did not succeed in doing so.
" Who are you, yourself ? " he asked.
" What is that to you ? "
"Do you expect me to lend my horse to persons I don't
know ? "
"I have made a mistake; your answer proves that I was
wrong to treat you as a friend or a generous enemy. I
had better have employed another means. Give me your
horse at once ! "
"Indeed!"
206 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"You have two minutes for decision."
" And if I refuse ? "
"I will blow your brains out! " said the woman, point-
ing a pistol at Courtin and clicking the trigger to let him
know the execution of the threat would follow promptly.
"Ah, good! I recognize you now," said Courtin. "You
are Mademoiselle de Souday."
Then, without allowing his questioner time to say more,
the mayor of La Loger ie got off his pony.
" Very good ! " said Bertha, for it was she. " Now tell
me your name, and to-morrow the horse shall be sent home
to you."
"No need, for I '11 go with you and help you."
" You ! why this sudden change ? "
"Because I take it the person you want me to help is the
owner of my farm."
" His name ? "
"Monsieur Michel de la Logerie."
"Ah ! you are one of his tenants. Then we can go to
your farmhouse for concealment."
"But," stammered Courtin, who was far from comforta-
ble at the thought of meeting the young baron, especially
when he reflected that if he took him with Bertha under
his roof Jean Oullier would be certain to come there after
them, "you see I am the mayor, and — "
" You are afraid of compromising yourself in serving
your master ! " exclaimed Bertha, in a tone of the deepest
contempt.
"Oh, no, not that! I'd give my blood for the young
man; but we are to have a garrison of soldiers in the
château de la Logerie."
" So much the better ; they will never suspect that Ven-
déans, insurgents, would take refuge so near them."
"But I think, in the interest of Monsieur le baron, that
Jean Oullier could find you a safer retreat than my house,
where the soldiers are likely to be, morning, noon, and
nisrht."
SUCCOR COMES FROM AN UNEXPECTED OUARTER. 207
"Alas ! poor Jean Oullier is not likely to help any of
his friends in future."
"How so?"
" We heard this morning some brisk firing in the direction
of the moor; we did not stir from where we were, as he
told us to wait till he returned. But we waited, and
waited, in vain ! Jean Oullier is either dead or a prisoner,
for he is not one of those who desert their friends."
If it had been daylight Courtin could not have concealed
the joy this news, which relieved him of his worst anxie-
ties, caused him. But, though he was not master of his
countenance, he was of his words ; and he answered Bertha,
who had spoken in an agitated voice full of feeling, with
a mournful ejaculation which rather reconciled her to him.
"Let us walk faster," said Bertha.
" I 'in willing. What a smell of burning there is here ! "
"Yes, they set fire to the heath."
" Ah ! How came Monsieur le baron to escape the fire ?
He is in the direction of it."
"Jean Oullier put us among the reeds in the Fréneuse
pond."
"Ah ! that 's why when I touched you just now I felt
you were all wet ? "
" Yes ; as Jean Oullier did not return I crossed the pond
to seek for help. Finding no one, I took Baron Michel
on my shoulders and brought him ashore. I hoped to
carry him to the nearest house, but I have not the strength.
I have been obliged to leave him among the bushes and
come to the high-road myself. We have had nothing to
eat for twenty -four hours."
" Ha ! you 're a stalwart girl ! " cried Courtin, who, in
the uncertainty he felt as to how his young master might
receive him, was not sorry to conciliate Mademoiselle
Bertha's good-will. "You are just the helpmate Monsieur
le baron needs in these stirring times."
" It is my duty to give my life for him, " said Bertha.
"Yes," said Courtin, emphatically; "and that duty no
208 THE LAST VENDÉE.
one, I swear to God, understands as you do. But be calm
and don't walk so fast ! "
" But he suffers ! he may be calling for me — if he comes
out of his swoon."
"Did he swoon ? " cried Courtin, eagerly, seeing in
that small detail the chance of escaping an immediate
explanation.
"Yes, poor fellow ! he is badly wounded, too."
" Good God ! "
" Just think ! for twenty-four hours, in his state, he has
had no proper care ! for my help has been powerless, I may
say."
" Good heavens ! "
" And think, too ! he has been all day in the burning
sun in the middle of the reeds; and to-night, in spite of
my precautions, the fog has wet him through and through,
and he has had a chill.
" Good Lord ! "
"Ah! if evil happens to him I '11 expiate my fault in
penance all my life for having urged him into dangers for
which he was unfit ! " cried Bertha, whose political senti-
ments vanished before the loving anguish Michel's suffer-
ings caused her.
As for Courtin, Bertha's assurance that Michel was not
in a state to talk to him seemed to double the length of his
legs. The girl no longer needed to hasten him on; he
walked at his top speed, with a vigor he seldom showed,
pulling the pony after him by the bridle, the beast being
recalcitrant over the rough and heated road.
Believed for ever and aye of Jean Chillier, Courtin
believed it would be easy to excuse himself to his young
inaster, — in fact, that the matter would settle itself.
They soon reached the spot where the girl had left
Michel. He, with his back against a stone, his head
dropped on his breast, Avas, if not actually unconscious, in
such a state of utter prostration that he had only a dim
and confused sense of what was passing about him. He
paid no heed to Courtin; and when the latter, with Bertha's
SUCCOR COMES FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER. 209
help, hoisted him on the poi^, he pressed Courtin's hand,
as he did that of Bertha, without knowing what he was
about.
Courtin and Bertha walked on either side of the pony to
support Michel, who, without their help, would have
fallen to left or right.
They reached the farmhouse. Courtin woke up his
servant-woman, on whom he knew he could rely, took his
own mattress (the only one the house afforded) into a sort
of lean-to above his bedroom, where he installed his young
master with such zeal, self-devotion, and eager protesta-
tions that Bertha ended by regretting the opinion she had
formed of him on the high-road.
When Michel's wound was dressed, and he was safely
in the bed improvised for him, Bertha went to the ser-
vant's room to seek her rest.
Left alone, Maître Courtin rubbed his hands; he had done
a good night's work. Violent behavior had not answered
hitherto ; gentleness, he was sure, was more likely to suc-
ceed. He had done better than enter the enemy's camp —
he had brought the enemy's camp into his own house, which
gave him every likelihood of detecting the secrets of the
Whites, especially those concerning Petit-Pierre.
He went over in his brain all the injunctions given to
him by the mysterious man at Aigrefeuille; the most
important of which was to send him immediate informa-
tion if he contrived to discover the retreat of the heroine
of La Vendée, and not to communicate any facts to the
generals, — men who cared nothing for the art of diplo-
macy, and were altogether below the level of great political
machinations.
Courtin now thought it possible, through Michel and
Bertha, to discover Madame's retreat; he began to believe
that dreams were not always lies, and that, thanks to the
two young people, the wells of gold and silver and precious
stones, the streams of metallic milk, would become to him
a reality.
VOL. II. — 14
210 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXII.
ON THE HIGHWAY.
During all this time Mary had no news of Bertha. Since
the evening on which the latter left the Jacquet mill,
announcing her resolve to search for Michel, Mary knew
nothing of Bertha's movements. Her mind was lost in
conjecture. Had Michel spoken? Had Bertha, reduced to
despair, done some fatal deed? Was he wounded? Was he
killed? Had Bertha herself been shot in one of her adven-
turous undertakings? Such were the gloomy alternatives
Mary feared for the two objects of her affections; both left
her a prey to the keenest anxiety, the sharpest anguish.
In vain she told herself that the wandering life she now
led with Petit-Pierre, forced each evening to leave the
shelter of the night before, made it very difficult for
Bertha to recover their traces. Making all such allow-
ances it seemed to Mary that, unless some misfortune had
happened to her, Bertha would surely have sent some
news of her whereabouts through the channels of communi-
cation which the royalists possessed among the peasantry.
Mary's courage was already weakened by the many shocks
she had just endured; and she herself, unsupported, iso-
lated, deprived of her lover's presence, which had secretly
sustained her in the hour of struggle, now gave way to
gloomy distress, and broke down utterly under her trouble.
She spent her days, which she ought to have employed in
resting after the fatigues of the night, in watching for
Bertha or for some messenger who never came; for hours
at a time she sat silently absorbed in her grief, speaking
only when spoken to.
ON THE HIGHWAY. 211
Mary certainly loved her sister ; the immense sacrifice
to which she had resigned herself for Bertha's sake abun-
dantly proved it — and yet she blushed, owning to herself,
honestly, that it was not Bertha's fate that chiefly filled
her mind. However warm, however sincere was the affec-
tion Mary felt for her sister, another and more imperious
emotion had glided into her soul, and fed on the pain it
brought there. In spite of all the poor girl's efforts, the
sacrifice of which we speak had never detached her from
him who was the occasion of it. Now that Michel was
separated from her, she fancied she could indulge with-
out danger the thoughts she had struggled to put away
from her; and little by little Michel's image had so
gained possession of her heart that it no longer left it,
even for a moment.
In the midst of the sufferings of her life, the pain these
remembrances of her lover gave her seemed comforting;
she flung herself into it with a sort of passion. Day by
day he had an ever-increasing share in the tears and
anxiety caused by the strange and long-protracted absence
of her sister. After yielding, without reserve, to her
despair, after exhausting every gloomy supposition, after
evoking all the cruel alternatives of the uncertainty in
which each passing hour left her, after anxiously counting
all the minutes of those hours, little by little Mary fell
into regret, — regret intermingled with self-reproach.
She went over in her memory the smallest incidents of
her relation and that of her sister with Michel. She
asked herself whether she were not doing wrong in break-
ing the heart of the poor lad while she broke her own;
whether she had the right to force the disposal of his love;
whether she were not responsible for the misery into which
she was plunging Michel by compelling him to be a sharer
in the immense sacrifice she was offering to her sister.
Her thoughts returned, with irresistible inclination, to the
night spent on the islet of Jonchère. She saw once more
those reedy barriers; she fancied she heard that softly
212 THE LAST VENDÉE.
harmonious voice, which said: "I love thee ! " She closed
her eyes, and again she felt the young man's breath as it
touched her hair, and his lips laying on her lips the first, the
only, but ah! the ineffable kiss she had received from him.
Then the renunciation which her virtue, her tenderness
for her sister urged upon her seemed greater than her
strength could bear. She blamed herself for rashly
attempting a superhuman task, and Love regained so
vigorously a heart all love, that Mary, — ordinarily pious,
submissive, accustomed to seek, in view of a future life,
the path of patient courage, — Mary had no longer the
strength to look to heaven only; she was crushed. In the
anguish of her passion she gave herself up to impious
despair, asking God if this fleeting memory of the touch
of those lips was all she was to know of the happiness of
being loved; and whether life were worth the pain of living
thus disinherited of joy.
The Marquis de Souday at last perceived the great
alteration produced on Mary's face by these grievous
emotions; but he naturally attributed it to the great
bodily fatigue the young girl was now enduring. He was
himself much depressed in seeing all his fine dreams van-
ishing, and all the predictions made to him by the general
realized. He saw with dread a return of his exiled days
without even having seen, as it were, the dawn of a strug-
gle. Still, he felt it his duty to force his courage and
resolution to the level of the misfortune which over-
whelmed him, and that duty the marquis would have died
rather than not fulfil; for was it not a soldier's duty ?
Little as he cared for social duties and proprieties, the
more he stickled for those which concerned his military
honor. Therefore, notwithstanding his inward depression,
he showed no outward sign of it, and even found in the
vicissitudes of their adventurous life the text of many a
joke with which he tried to distract the minds of his com-
panions from the anxiety and disappointment consequent
on the failure of the insurrection.
ON THE HIGHWAY. 213
Mary had told her father of Bertha's departure; and the
worthy old gentleman had intelligently guessed that the
girl's anxiety about the conduct and fate of her betrothed
was at the bottom of it. As eye-witnesses had already
brought him word that Michel, far from failing in his
duty, had heroically contributed to, the defence of La
Pénissière, the marquis, — who supposed that Jean Oullier,
on whose care and prudence he implicitly relied, was with
his daughter and future son-in-law, — the marquis did not
think it necessary to be more uneasy at Bertha's absence
than a general might have been about an officer dispatched
on an expedition. Nevertheless, the marquis could not
explain to himself why Baron Michel had preferred to
tight so well under Jean Oullier's orders rather than under
his own, — and he was inclined to be annoyed at the
preference.
Surrounded by Legitimist leaders, Petit-Pierre, on the
very evening of the fight at Chêne, left the Jacquet mill,
where the danger of a surprise was imminent. The main-
road, which was not far distant, was covered at intervals
by bodies of soldiers escorting prisoners. Petit-Pierre
and her body-guard started, therefore, as soon as it was
dark.
Wishing to follow the highway as much as possible, the
little troop encountered a detachment of the government
troops, and was forced to crouch in a wayside ditch, which
was filled with brambles, for over an hour, while the
detachment filed by. The whole region was so patrolled
by these movable columns that it was only by following
the most impassable wood-paths that the fugitives could
be sure of escaping their vigilance.
Petit-Pierre's uneasiness was extreme; her physical
appearance betrayed her mental sufferings, but her words,
her behavior, never ! In the midst of this hazardous life,
so disturbed and often so gloomy, the same bright gayety
sparkled from her, and held its own with that the marquis
was assuming. Pursued as they were, the fugitives never
214 THE LAST VENDÉE.
had a full night's rest; and no sooner had the daylight
dawned than danger and fatigue awoke when they did.
These terrible night marches were sometimes dangerous,
and always horribly fatiguing to Petit-Pierre. Sometimes
she went on horseback, oftener on foot, — through fields
divided by hedges and embankments, which could only be
crossed after darkness had fallen; through vineyards,
which, in that region, trail their vines on the ground,
where they catch the feet and threaten a fall at every
moment; through cow-paths trampled into mud by the
constant passage of the cattle, — mud which came to the
knees of foot-passengers and horses.
Petit-Pierre's companions were now very anxious as to
the results of this life of incessant emotion and bodily
fatigue on the health of their precious charge. They
deliberated on the best means of putting her, once for all,
in safety. Opinions differed ; some were for taking her to
Paris, where she might be lost in the midst of a vast popu-
lation ; others proposed Nantes, where a safe concealment
was already prepared; a third party counselled immediate
embarkation, not thinking it possible to ensure her safety
so long as she stayed in Prance, where search would be
only the more active because the actual insurrection was
at an end.
The Marquis de Souday was of the latter opinion; to
which objection was made that a vigorous watch was kept
along the coast, and that it would be absolutely impossible
to embark from any port, however insignificant, without a
passport.
Petit-Pierre cut short the discussion by declaring that
she should go to Nantes, and would enter it on the morrow
in full daylight, dressed as a peasant-woman. As the
great change and depression visible in Mary's appearance
had not, as may well be supposed, escaped her, and as she
supposed, like the marquis, that they were due to the great
fatigue the girl was enduring, — and as this fatigue would
continue if she stayed with her father, — Petit-Pierre pro-
ON THE HIGHWAY. 215
posed to the marquis to take his daughter with her. The
marquis accepted the offer gratefully.
Mary did not readily resign herself. Shut up in a
town she was not so likely to obtain news of Bertha and
Michel, which she was now awaiting from hour to hour
with feverish anxiety. On the other hand, refusal was
Impossible, and she therefore yielded.
On the morrow, which was Saturday, and market-day,
Petit-Pierre and Mary, dressed as peasant-women, started
for the town at six in the morning; they had about ten
miles to go. After walking for half an hour the wooden
shoes, but, above all, the woollen socks, to which Petit-
Pierre was not accustomed, hurt her feet. She tried to
keep on; but knowing that if she blistered her feet she
would be unable to continue the journey, she sat down by
the wayside, took off her shoes and stockings, stuffed them
into her capacious pockets, and started again barefooted.
Presently, however, she noticed, as other peasant-women
passed her,- that the whiteness and delicacy of her skin
might betray her; she therefore turned off the road a little
way, took some dark, peaty earth, and rubbed it on her feet
and legs till they were stained with it, and then resumed
her way.
They had just reached the top of the hill at Sorinières
when they saw in front of a roadside tavern two gendarmes
who were talking with a peasant like themselves, who
was on horseback.
Mary and Bertha were at this moment in the midst of a
group of five or six peasant-women, and the gendarmes
paid no attention to any of them. But Mary, who watched
every one she passed, thinking some information as to
Bertha and Michel might chance to reach her, — Mary
fancied that the mounted peasant looked at her with pecu-
liar attention. A few moments later she turned her head
and saw that the peasant had left the gendarmes, and was
hurrying his pony as if to overtake the group of peasant-
women.
216 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Take care of yourself, " she whispered hastily to Petit-
Pierre; "there 's a man I don't know who just examined
me with great attention and then started to follow us. Go
on alone, and seem not to know me ! "
"Very good; but suppose he joins you, Mary ? "
"I can answer him; don't be afraid."
"In case we are forced to separate, shall you know
where to find me ? "
"Yes; but don't let us say another word to each other —
he is coming."
The horse's hoofs were now ringing on the paved
centre of the road. Without appearing to do so Mary
lagged behind the group of peasant-women. She could
not help quivering when she heard, as she expected, the
voice of the man addressing her.
" So we are going to Nantes, my pretty girl ? " he began,
pulling in his horse when he reached Mary's side, and
again looking at her attentively.
"So it appears," she said, seeming to take the matter
gayly.
" Don't you want my company ? " asked the rider.
"Oh, no, thank you," replied Mary, imitating the speech
of the Vendéan peasant-women; "I'll keep on with the
rest from our parts."
"The rest from your parts ? You don't expect me to
believe that all those girls before us are from your village ? "
"Whether they are or not, what 's that to you?" retorted
Mary, evading a question which was evidently insidious.
The man saw through her purpose.
"I '11 make you a proposal," he said.
" What sort of proposal ? "
"Get up behind me."
"Yes, that's likely!" replied Mary; " a pretty sight it
would be to see a poor girl like me holding on to a man
who looks like a gentleman."
" Especially as you are not accustomed to hug those who
look and are such."
ON THE HIGHWAY. 217
"What do you raeau by that ? " asked Mary.
"I mean that you may pass for a peasant-girl in the eyes
of gendarmes; hat my eyes are another thing. You are
not what you are trying to seem, Mademoiselle Mary de
Souday."
"If you have no evil intentions toward me why do you
say my name in a loud voice on the public highway ? "
asked the young girl, stopping short.
" What harm is there in that ? " said the rider.
"Only that those women may have heard you; and if I
wear these clothes you must know it is because my interests
or my safety oblige me."
" Oh ! " said the man, winking one eye and affecting a
knowing air; "those women you pretend to be afraid of
know all about you."
" No, they do not ! "
"One of them does, any how."
Mary trembled in spite of herself; but summoning all
her strength of will, she replied: —
" Neither one nor all. But may T ask why you are put-
ting these questions to me ? "
"Because, if you are really alone, as you say you are,
I shall ask you to stop here for a few minutes."
"I ?"
"Yes."
" For what purpose ? "
"To save me a long search I should have made to-
morrow if I had not met you now."
" Search for what ? "
"Why, for you !"
"Do you mean that you are seeking me ? "
"Not on my own account, you must understand."
"But who sent you on such an errand ? "
"Those who love you." Then lowering his voice he
added: "Mademoiselle Bertha and Monsieur Michel."
"Bertha? Michel?"
"Yes."
218 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Then he is not dead ! " cried Mary. " Oh, tell me, tell
me, monsieur, I implore you, what has become of them ? "
The terrible anxiety betrayed by the tone in which
Mary said the words, the agitation of her face as she
awaited the answer, which seemed to be one of life or
death to her, were noticed with curiosity by Courtin, on
whose lips flickered a diabolical smile. He took pleasure
in delaying his answer in order to prolong the young girl's
anguish.
"No, no ! " he said at last, "don't be uneasy; he '11 get
over it ! "
" Get over it ! is he wounded ? " asked Mary, vehemently.
" Did n't you know it ? "
" Oh, my God ! my God ! Wounded ! " cried Mary, with
her eyes full of tears.
"Pooh ! " said Courtin, "his wound won't keep him long
in bed or hinder his marriage ! "
Mary felt that she turned pale in spite of herself. Cour-
tin' s words reminded her that she had not asked news of
her sister.
"And Bertha?" she said, "you have told me nothing
about her."
" Your sister ? Ha ! she 's a dashing girl ! When she
hooks her arm into her husband's she may well say she
has earned him."
"But she is not ill, she is not wounded, is she ? "
"She is a trifle ill, but that 's all."
"Poor Bertha !"
" She did too much. I tell you there 's many a man
would have died of the strain if he had done what she
did."
" Good God ! " cried Mary; "both ill, and both without
care ! "
"Oh, as for that, no; they are caring for one another.
You ought to see how your sister, ill as she is, cossets the
young baron. Some men have the luck of it, that 's a fact;
Monsieur Michel is just as much petted by his lady dove
ON THE HIGHWAY. 219
as he was by his mother. He '11 have to love her well, if
he does n't want to be ungrateful.''
Mary's agitation increased at these words, — a fact
which did not escape the rider's notice, and he smiled.
"Shall I tell you something that I think I have dis-
covered ? " he said.
" What is it ? "
" Why, that Monsieur le baron, in the matter of color,
prefers fair hair to black."
"What do you mean ?" asked Mary, quivering.
"If you wish me to explain, I '11 tell something that you
know as well as I do; and that is, that he loves you. And
if Bertha is the name of his betrothed, Mary is the name
of his heart's love."
"Oh!" cried Mary, "you are inventing all that; Mon-
sieur de la Logerie never told you any such thing."
"No; but I have seen it for myself; and as I cherish
him like my own flesh and blood, I want to see him happy,
the dear lad ! Therefore I said to myself yesterday, when
your sister asked me to get word to you about her, that
I 'd clear my conscience of the matter and tell you what I
think."
"You are mistaken in your thoughts, monsieur," replied
Mary. " Monsieur Michel does not care for me ; he is my
sister's betrothed husband, and he loves her deeply; I can
assure you of that."
"You are wrong not to trust me, Mademoiselle Mary.
Do you know who I am? I am Courtin, Monsieur Michel's
head farmer, and I may say, his confidential, man; and if
you choose — "
"Monsieur Courtin, you will oblige me extremely,"
interrupted Mary, " if you would choose — "
"What?"
"To change the conversation."
"Very good; but allow me to renew my offer. Won't
you ride behind me? — it would ease your journey. You
are going to Nantes, I suppose ? "
220 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Yes," replied Mary, who, little as she liked Courtin,
thought she had better not conceal her destination from
the Baron de la Logerie's confidential man.
"Well," continued Courtin, "as I am going there myself
we had better go together, unless — If you are going
to Nantes on an errand, and I could do it for you, I 'd
willingly undertake it, and save you the trouble."
Mary, in spite of her natural truthfulness, felt com-
pelled to dissimulate; for it was all-important that no
one should even guess at the cause of her journey.
"No," she replied; "it is impossible. I am on my way
to join my father, who has taken refuge in Nantes, where
he is now concealed."
"Dear, dear !" said Courtin, "Monsieur le marquis hid-
ing in Nantes ! that 's a clever idea. They are looking for
him the other way, and talk of turning the chateau de
Souday inside out to its foundations."
" Who told you that ? " asked Mary.
Courtin saw that he had made a blunder by seeming to
know the plans of the government agents; he tried to
repair it as best he could.
" It was chiefly to prevent you from going back there that
Mademoiselle Bertha sent me in search of you," he said.
"Well, you see," said Mary, "that neither my father
nor I are at Souday."
" Ah, that reminds me ! " exclaimed Courtin, as if the
thought had just come naturally into his head; " if Made-
moiselle Bertha and Monsieur de la Logerie want to com-
municate with you, how are they to address you ? "
"I don't know myself as yet," replied Mary. "I am to
meet a man on the pont Bousseau who will take me to the
house where my father is concealed. After I get there
and have seen him I will write to my sister."
"Very good; if you have any communication to make,
or if Monsieur le baron and your sister want to join you,
and need a guide, I will undertake to manage it." Then,
with a meaning smile, he added : " I '11 answer for one
ON THE HIGHWAY. 221
thing ; Monsieur Michel will be sending me more than
once."
" Enough ! " said Mary.
"Ah! excuse me. I didn't know it would make you
angry."
"It does; your suppositions are offensive both to your
master and to me."
"Pooh!" said Courtin, "all that is only talk. Mon-
sieur le baron has a fine fortune, and there is n't a young
lady the country round, whether she is an heiress or not,
who would turn up her nose at it. Say the word, Made-
moiselle Mary," continued the farmer, who believed that
everybody worshipped money as he did; "only say the
word and I '11 do my best to make that fortune yours."
"Maître Conrtin," said Mary, stopping short, and look-
ing at the farmer with an expression in her eye he could
not mistake ; " it needs all my sense of your attachment to
Monsieur de la Logerie to keep me from being seriously
angry. I tell you again, and once for all, you are not to
speak to me in that manner ! "
Courtin expected a different reply, — ■ his conception of
a " she-wolf " not admitting of such delicacy. He was
all the more surprised because he saw very plainly that
the young girl shared the love his prying eyes had detected
in the depths of the young baron's heart. For a moment
he was disconcerted. Then he reflected that he might lose
all by hurrying matters ; better let the fish get thoroughly
entangled in the net before he pulled it in.
The mysterious man at Aigrefeuille had told him it was
probable that the leaders of the Legitimist insurrection
would seek shelter in Nantes. Monsieur de Souday — ■
Courtin believed this — was there already; Mary was on
her way; Petit-Pierre would probably follow. Michel's
love for the young girl might be used, like Ariadne's
thread, to lead the way to her retreat, which would prob-
ably be that of Petit-Pierre; and the capture of Petit-
Pierre was the real end and object of Courtin's ambitious
222 THE LAST VENDÉE.
hopes. If he persisted in accompanying Mary he would
rouse her suspicions; and although he was most desirous
to succeed that very day in his enterprise, prudence and
strategy prevailed, and he resolved to give Mary some
proof which might reassure her completely as to his
intentions.
"Ah ! " said he, "I see you despise my horse; but all
the same it hurts me to see your little feet cut to pieces on
those stones."
"Well, it can't be helped," replied Mary. "I shall be
less noticed on foot than if I were mounted behind you ;
and, if I dared, I would ask you not to keep at my side.
Anything that draws attention to me is dangerous. Let
me walk alone and join those peasant-women just in front
of us. I run less risk in their company."
"You are right," said Courtin; "and all the more because
the gendarmes are behind and will overtake us soon."
Mary started; true enough, two gendarmes were really
following them about a thousand feet back.
"Oh ! you need n't be afraid," said Courtin; "I '11 detain
them at that tavern. Go on alone ; but tell me, first, what
I am to say to your sister ? "
" Tell her that all my thoughts and prayers are for her
welfare."
"Is that all?"
The girl hesitated; she looked at the farmer; doubtless
the expression of his countenance betrayed his secret
thoughts, for she lowered her head and answered : —
"Yes, that is all."
Courtin was well aware that although Mary did not utter
Michel's name, he was the first and last thought of her
heart.
The farmer stopped his horse. Mary, on the other hand,
hastened her steps and joined the other peasant-women,
who had gained some distance ahead while she talked with
Courtin. As soon as she reached them she walked on by
Petit-Pierre and told her what had happened, — suppres-
ON THE HIGHWAY. 223
sing, of course, that part of the conversation that related
to the young baron.
Petit-Pierre thought it wise to evade the curiosity of
the man; for his name recalled in a vague way some
unpleasant memory. She therefore dropped behind the
other women with Mary; and when they were fairly out
of sight — thanks to a turn in the road — the two fugitives
slipped into a wood at a short distance from the higlnvay,
from the edge of which they could see who passed it.
After about fifteen minutes they saw Courtin hurrying, as
best he could, his stubborn pony. Unfortunately, the
farmer passed too far from the place where they were
hidden to allow of Petit-Pierre's recognizing him as the
man who had visited Pascal Picaut's house, and cut the
girths of Michel's horse.
When he was out of sight Petit-Pierre and her com-
panion returned to the high-road and continued their way
to Nantes. The nearer they came to the town, where
Petit-Pierre was promised a safe retreat, the more their
fears diminished. She was now quite used to her costume,
and the farmers who passed them did not seem to perceive
that the little peasant-woman who tripped so lightly along
the road was other than she seemed to be. It was surely
a great thing to have deceived an instinct so penetrating as
that of the country-folk, who have no masters, and perhaps
no rivals, in this respect except soldiers.
At last they came in sight of Nantes. Petit-Pierre put
on her shoes and stockings, preparatory to entering the
town. One thing, however, made Mary uneasy. Courtin
would doubtless be watching for her on the bridge; there-
fore, instead of entering by the pont Eousseau, the two
women took advantage of a boat to cross the Loire to the
other side of the town.
As they passed the Bouffai a hand was laid on Petit-
Pierre's shoulder. She started and turned round. The
person who had taken that alarming liberty was a worthy
old woman on her way to market, who had put down her
224 THE last vp:ndée.
basket of apples in order to rest herself, and was not able
to lift it alone and replace it on her head.
"My dears," she said to Petit-Pierre and Mary, "do
help me, please, to get up my basket, and I '11 give you
each an apple."
Petit-Pierre took one handle, motioned to Mary to take
the other, and the basket was quickly replaced and balanced
on the head of the old woman, who began to walk away
without bestowing the promised reward. But Petit-Pierre
caught her by the arm, saying : —
" Look here, mother, where 's my apple ? "
The market-woman gave it to her. Petit-Pierre set her
teeth into it and was munching it with an appetite sharp-
ened by a ten-mile walk, when, lifting her head, her eyes
fell on a notice posted on the walls upon which appeared
in large letters these words : —
STATE OF SIEGE.
It was a ministerial decree placing four departments in
La Vendée under martial law.
Petit-Pierre went up to the notice and read it through
from end to end tranquilly, in spite of Mary's entreaties
to go as quickly as possible to the house where she was
expected. Petit-Pierre very justly remarked that the mat-
ter was of such importance to her that she was right in
obtaining a thorough knowledge of it.
Presently, however, the two women went their way into
the dark and narrow streets of the old Breton city.
WHAT BECAME OF JEAN OULLIEK. 22i
XXIII.
WHAT BECAME OF JEAN OULLIEK.
Though it was next to impossible for the soldiers to dis-
cover Jean Oullier in the hiding-place poor Trigaud's her-
culean strength had made for him, nevertheless, now that
Courte-Joie and his companion were dead, Jean Oullier
had only exchanged the prison into which the Blues would
have thrust him, had he fallen into their hands, for another
prison more terrible, a death more awful than any his
captors could inflict upon him. He was buried alive; and
in this deserted region there was little hope that any
human being would hear his cries.
Toward the middle of the night which followed his
parting from his two associates, finding they did not
return, he felt certain that some fatal event had overtaken
them; evidently, they were either dead or prisoners. The
mere idea of the position in which he himself was placed
was enough to freeze the blood in the veins of the bravest
man; but Jean Oullier had one of those strongly religious
natures which continue a struggle in faith when the brav-
est despair. He commended his soul to God in a short but
fervent prayer, and then set to work as ardently as he had
done in the burning ruins of La Pénissière.
Up to this time he had been crouching, bent double,
with his chin on his knees ; it was the only position the
cramped quarters of the excavation allowed. He now
endeavored to change it, and after many efforts he suc-
ceeded in getting on his knees. Then bracing himself on
his hands and applying his shoulders to the heavy stone,
he endeavored to raise it. But that which was child's
VOL. II. — 15
226 THE LAST VENDÉE.
play to Trigaud was impossible to any other man. Jean
Oullier could not even shake the enormous mass which the
giant had placed between him and the heavens.
He felt the ground beneath him; it was not earth but
rock, — rock to right, rock to left, above and below him,
rock only.
The slab of granite which Trigaud had laid like a mon-
strous cover on the stone box, slanted forward and left an
open space about four inches wide between the bed of the
rivulet and the imprisoned man, through which the air
could reach him.
It was on this side that Jean Oullier, after fully recon-
noitring his position, decided to apply his efforts.
He broke the point of his knife against the rock and
made a chisel of it. The butt-end of his pistol answered
for a hammer, and he set to work to widen the aperture.
He spent twenty-four hours at this labor, without other
sustenance than that contained in his huntsman's brandy-
flask, from which he sipped from time to time some drops
of the strengthening liquor it contained. During those
twenty-four hours his courage and force of will did not
desert him for a single instant.
At last, on the evening of the second day, he succeeded
in passing his head through the aperture he had cut in the
base of his prison ; before long his shoulders could follow
his head ; and then, clasping the rock and making a vigor-
ous effort, he drew out the rest of his body.
It was indeed high time that he did so; his strength was
exhausted. He rose to his knees, then to his feet, and
attempted to walk. But his injured ankle had swelled to
such a frightful extent during the thirty-six hours he had
spent in that horribly constrained position that at the first
step he took all the nerves of his body quivered as if they
were wrung. He uttered a cry and fell gasping on the
heather, mastered at last by the terrible pain.
Night was coming on. Listen as he might, Jean Oullier
could hear no sound. The thought came to him that this
WHAT BECAME OF JEAN OULLIER. 227
night, now beginning to wrap the world in its shadows,
would be his last. Again he commended his soul to God,
praying him to watch over the two children he had loved
so well, and who, but for him, would long ago have been
orphaned through their father's indifference. Then, deter-
mined to neglect no chances, he dragged himself by his
hands, or rather crept, in the direction where the sun had
set, which he knew to be that of the nearest dwellings.
He had gone in this way nearly a mile when he reached
a little hill, whence he could see the lights in a few lonely
houses scattered on the moor. Each of them was to him a
pharos, beckoning to life and safety; but, in spite of all
his courage, his strength now deserted him and he could
do no more. It was sixty hours since he had eaten any-
thing. The stumps of the brambles and the gorse, cut
down in the haying season and sharpened by the scythe,
had torn his hands and chest, and loss of blood from these
wounds still further weakened him.
He allowed himself to roll into a ditch by the wayside ;
determined to go no farther, but to die there. Intense
thirst possessed him, and he drank a little water which was
stagnant in the ditch. He was so weak that his hand
could scarcely reach his mouth; his head seemed abso-
lutely empty. From time to time he fancied he heard in
his brain a dull, lugubrious roar, like that of the sea mak-
ing a breach over a ship and about to engulf it; a sort of
veil seemed to spread before his eyes, and behind that veil
coursed myriads of sparks, which died away and sparkled
again like phosphorescent gleams.
The unfortunate man felt that this was death. He tried
to shout, not caring whether enemies or friends came to
his relief; but his voice died away in his throat, and he
scarcely heard himself the hoarse cry which he managed
to emit.
Thus he remained for over an hour, in a dying condi-
tion. Then, little by little, the veil before his eyes
thickened and took prismatic tints; the humming in his
228 THE LAST VENDÉE.
braiu had strange modulations, and for a time lie lost con-
sciousness of all about him.
But his powerful being could not be annihilated without
a further struggle; the lethargic stillness in which he
remained for some time allowed the heart to regulate its
pulses, the blood to circulate less feverishly. The torpor
in which he now lay did not lessen the acuteness of his
senses. Presently he heard a sound which his huntsman's
ear did not mistake for a single instant. A step was com-
ing across the heather, and that step he knew to be a
woman's.
That woman could save him ! Torpid as he was, Jean
Oullier understood it. But when he tried to call or make
a movement to attract her attention he was like a man in
a trance, who sees the preparations for his funeral and is
unable to arrest them; he perceived with terror that noth-
ing remained of him but his intelligence, and that bis
body, completely paralyzed, refused to obey him. As the
hapless being nailed in his coffin makes frantic efforts to
burst the iron barrier which parts him from the world, so
Jean Oullier strained at every spring which Nature puts at
the service of man's will to conquer matter. In vain.
And yet, the steps were coming nearer; each minute,
each second made them more distinct, more unmistakable
to his ear. He fancied that every pebble they displaced
rolled to his heart; his agony from the multiplicity of his
abortive efforts grew intense; his hair rose on his head;
an icy sweat stood on his brow. It was worse and more
cruel than death itself, for death feels nothing.
The woman passed.
Jean Oullier heard the thorns on the briers catch and
scrape her dress as if even they wished to stop her; he saw
her shadow lying dark upon the bushes; then she passed
away, and the sound of her steps was lost in the sighing of
the wind among the reeds.
The unfortunate man believed he was doomed; and the
moment hope abandoned him the awful struggle he had
WHAT BECAME OF JEAN OULLIEK. 229
fought against himself came to an end. He recovered
calmness and mentally prayed to God, commending his
soul to Him.
This prayer so absorbed him that it was not until he
heard the noisy breathing of a dog, which passed its head
through the bushes scenting an emanation, that he noticed
the coming of an animal. He turned, with an effort, not
his head, that was impossible, but his eyes in the direction
of the creature, and there saw a cur gazing at him with
frightened but intelligent eyes.
Catching Jean Oullier's gaze the animal retreated to a
little distance and began to bark. At this instant Jean
Oullier fancied that he heard the woman calling to her
dog; but the creature did not choose to leave its post, con-
tinuing to bark. It was a last hope, — a hope that was not
balked.
Tired of calling to her dog, and curious to know what
excited it, the woman retraced her steps. Chance, or
Providence, willed that this woman should be the widow
of Pascal Picaut. As she neared the bushes she saw a
man; stooping over him she recognized Jean Oullier.
At first she thought him dead; then she saw his eyes,
unnaturally wide open, fixed upon her. She laid her hand
upon the huntsman's heart and felt it beating; she lifted
him to a sitting posture, threw a little water on his face,
and poured a few drops through his clenched teeth. Then
— as if through contact with a living being he recovered
contact with life itself — Jean Oullier felt the enormous
weight which lay upon him lightening; warmth returned
to his torpid limbs; he felt its glow steal softly to each
extremity; tears of gratitude welled from his eyelids and
rolled down his sunken cheeks; he caught the woman's
hand and carried it to his lips, wetting it with tears.
She, on her side, was greatly moved. Philippist as she
Avas, the good woman highly esteemed the old Chouan.
"Well, well," she said, "don't take on so, my Jean
Oullier ! It is all natural, what I am doing ! I 'd do as
230 THE LAST VENDÉE.
much for any Christian; and all the more for you, who are
a man after God's own heart ! "
" That does n't prevent — " said Jean Oullier.
He could say no more, his breath failed him.
" Does n't prevent what ? " asked the widow.
Oullier made an effort.
"Does n't prevent — that I owe you my life," he said.
"Oh, nonsense !" exclaimed Marianne.
"It is as I say. Without you, I should have died."
"Without my dog, Jean. You see it is n't me, but the
good God you have to thank." Then noticing with horror
that he was covered with blood, " Why, you are wounded ! "
she exclaimed.
"Oh, no, nothing but scratches. My worst trouble is
that I have dislocated my ankle; and besides, I haven't
eaten anything for nearly three days. It is chiefly weak-
ness that is killing me."
" Good gracious ! but see here, I was just carrying din-
ner to some men who are getting litter for me on the moor.
You shall have their soup."
So saying, the widow put down the basket she was carry-
ing, untied the four corners of a cloth in which were
several porringers full of soup and bouilli smoking hot.
She gave several spoonfuls to Jean Oullier, who felt his
strength returning as every mouthful of the warm and suc-
culent broth got down into his stomach.
"Ah ! " he said; and he breathed noisily.
A smile of satisfaction crossed the grave, sad face of the
widow.
"Now," she said, sitting down opposite to him, "what
are you going to do ? Of course you know the red-
breeches are after you ? "
"Alas ! " said Jean Oullier; "I have lost all power with
my poor leg. It will be months before I can roam the
woods as I must to escape a prison. What I had better
do," he added with a sigh, "is to get to Maître Jacques;
he will give me a corner in some of his burrows, where I
can stay till my leg is well."
WHAT BECAME OF JEAN OULLIER. 231
"But your master ? — and his daughters ? "
"The marquis won't go back yet awhile to Souday; and
he is right."
" What will he do, then ? "
"Probably cross the chaunel with the young ladies."
"That 's a pretty idea of yours, Jean Oullier, to go and
live among that crew of bandits who follow Maître Jacques !
Fine care they '11 take of you ! "
"They are the only ones who can take me in without
being compromised."
"How about me? You forget me, and that isn't nice
of you, Jean."
"You?"
"Yes, me !"
"But you forget the ordinance."
"What ordinance ?"
"About the penalties incurred by those who harbor
Chouans."
" Pooh ! my Jean ; such orders are not issued for honest
folk, but for scoundrels ! "
"Besides, you hate Chouans."
"No; it is only brigands I hate, whichever side they
are. They were brigands who killed my poor Pascal,
and on those brigands I '11 avenge his death if I can. But
you, Jean Oullier, your cockade, be it white or tricolor, is
that of an honest man, and I '11 save you."
"But I can't walk a step."
" That 's no matter. Even if you could walk, Jean, I 'd
be afraid to take you to my house by daylight, — not that
I fear for myself; but ever since the death of that young
man I fear treachery. Get back under those bushes ; hide
as best you can; wait till dark, and I '11 come back with
a cart and fetch you. Then, to-morrow, I '11 go for the
bone-setter at Machecoul; he '11 rub his hand over the
nerves of your foot, and in three days you '11 run like a
rabbit."
" Hang it ! I know that would be best, but — "
232 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Would n't you do as much for me ? "
"You know, Marianne, I'd go through fire and water
for you."
"Then don't say another Avord. I shall be back after
dark."
"Thank you; I accept your offer. You may be very
sure you are not helping an ungrateful man."
" It is not to get your gratitude I am doing it, Jean
Oullier; but to fulfil my duty as an honest woman."
She looked about her.
" What are you looking for ? " asked Jean.
" I was thinking if you tried to get farther back among
the bushes you would be safer than in this ditch."
"I think it is impossible," said Oullier, showing his
ankle, now swelled to the size of a man's head, and his
torn hands and face. "Besides, I am not badly off here;
you passed close by these bushes and did not suspect they
hid a man."
"Yes, but a dog might pass and smell you out, just as
mine did. Remember, my Jean, the war is over, and the
days of denunciation and vengeance will begin, if they
have not already begun."
"Bah !" said Jean Oullier, "we must leave something
for the good God to do."
The widow was no less of a believer than the old Chouan.
She gave him a piece of bread, cut an armful of ferns
with which she made him a bed, and then, after carefully
raising the branches of the briers and brambles about him,
and satisfying herself that the eye of no passer would
detect him, she departed, exhorting him to patience.
Jean Oullier settled himself as comfortably as he could,
offered a fervent thanksgiving to the Lord, munched his
bread, and presently went to sleep in that heavy sleep
which follows great prostration.
He must have been lying there several hours when the
sound of voices woke him. In the species of somnolence
which followed the state of torpor he had been in, he
WHAT BECAME OF JEAN OULLIEE. 233
fancied he heard the name of his young mistresses;
suspicious as all men of his stamp are in the matter of
their affections, he fancied some danger must be threaten-
ing either Bertha or Mary, and the thought was like a
lever, which lifted in a second the torpor of his mind.
He rose on his elbow, gentty moved the brambles which
made a thick rampart before him, and looked through them
into the road.
It was dark, but not dark enough to prevent him from
seeing the outline of two men who were sitting on a fallen
tree on the other side of the road.
"Why didn't you continue to follow her, as you recog-
nized her ? " said one of them whom, from his strong
German accent, Jean Oullier judged to be a stranger in
these regions.
"Ha! damn it ! " said the other. "She-wolf as she is,
I never thought her so wily; but she gave me the slip, fool
that I was."
"You might have been certain that the one we were
after was in that group of peasant-women, and that Mary
de Souday only stayed behind to meet and detain you."
"As for that, you are right enough; for when I asked
that same group of women where the young girl was they
said that she and her companion had lagged behind and
left them on the road."
"What did you do then ? "
" Hang it ! I put up the pony at an inn , and hid myself
at the farther end of Pirmile and waited for them."
"In vain, I suppose."
"In vain, — for more than two hours."
" They must have taken a cross-road and entered Nantes
by the other bridge."
"Probably."
" It is very unfortunate. Who knows if such a piece of
luck will ever happen to you again? Perhaps you may
never find her now."
"Oh, yes. I shall. Let me alone for that."
234 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" How will you do it ? "
"Oh! — as my neighbor the Marquis de Souday, or my
friend Jean Oullier would say — 'God wants her soul;'
and I have at home just the bloodhound we need for the
hunt."
"Bloodhound?"
"Yes, a regular bloodhound. There is something the
matter with one of his front paws, but as soon as that
is well I '11 put a chain round his neck and he '11 take
us straight in the direction we want to go, without any
trouble to us, except taking care he does not pull too
hard on the chain and break it in his hurry to get there."
"Come, stop joking; these are serious matters."
"Joking ! what do you take me for ? Do you suppose I
joke in presence of the fifty thousand francs you have
promised me ? — for you really did say fifty thousand,
did n't you ? "
" You ought to be sure of it, for you have made me tell
you a score of times."
"I know that; but I am never tired of hearing it, any
more than I shall be tired of fingering the louis when I get
them."
"Deliver us the person we want, and you shall have
them."
"Bless me! I hear those yellow-boys chinking in my
ears, — dzing ! dzing ! "
"Meantime, tell me what you mean by a bloodhound."
" Oh ! I 'd tell you willingly, but — "
"But what?"
"Give and take, you know."
"What do you mean by 'give and take ' ? "
"Well, as I told you the other day, I wish to oblige the
government, partly because I respect it, and partly because
T like to harass the nobles and all that belong to them —
for I hate 'em all. But, all the same, while obliging the
government of my choice, I should be glad to see the color
of its money, — for, don't you see, thus far I have given
WHAT BECAME OF JEAN OULLIEK. 235
it much more than I receive. Besides, how Jo I know
that if the government lays hold of that person for whom
they offer her weight in gold, how do I know, I say, that
they will pay what they promised .me, or rather promised
you
?»
"You are a fool."
"I should be a fool if I did not say what I am saying to
you now. I like to make myself secure; and if I must
speak frankly, I don't see much security in this affair."
"You run the same risks that I do. I have received
from an eminent person the promise of one hundred thou-
sand francs if I succeed."
"One hundred thousand francs! That's very little to
have come so far to get. Come, own that it is two hun-
dred thousand, and that you give me a quarter of it;
because I am on the spot and don't have to travel for the
money as you do. Two hundred thousand francs ! You
are pretty lucky ! A good round sum and rings well. So
be it, I '11 have confidence in the government; but, let me
ask, why should I have it in you ? How can I be sure you
won't slip off with the money when the government pays
it? And if you should, where 's the court or the judge
before whom I could sue you, I 'd like to know ? "
"My good sir, political associates must trust each other;
faith signs their contract."
"Is that why they are so wonderfully well kept?
Frankly, I 'd prefer another signature."
"Whose?"
"Yours, or that of the minister with whom you are
dealing."
"Well, we'll try to satisfy you."
"Hush!"
"What?"
"Don't you hear something ? "
"Yes; some one is coming this way. I think I hear the
wheels of a cart."
The two men rose at once, and by the light of the moon.
236 THE LAST VENDÉE.
which was then shining, Jean Oullier, who had not lost a
single word of the conversation, saw their faces. One of
the men was a stranger to him; the other proved to be
Courtin, — a fact he knew already by the tones of the
farmer's voice and the mention he had made of Michel and
the "she- wolves."
" Let us go, " said the stranger.
"No," replied Courtin; "I 've a number of things to say
to you. Let us hide in this bush till the cart has gone by,
and then we can finish our business."
They walked toward the ditch. Jean knew he was
lost; but, unwilling to be caught like a hare on its form,
he rose to his knees, and pulled his knife from his belt. It
was blunt, to be sure, but in a hand to hand struggle could
still be of use. He had no other weapon and supposed the
two men to be unarmed. But Courtin, who had seen a
man's form rise in the bush and heard the rustle of the
reeds and brambles, made three steps backward, seized his
gun hidden behind the fallen tree, cocked one barrel,
lifted the weapon to his shoulder, and fired. A stifled cry
followed the explosion.
"What have you done ?" cried the stranger, who seemed
to think Courtin's action rather too expeditious.
"See ! see !" replied Courtin, trembling and very pale;
"a man was watching us."
The stranger went to the bushes and parted the branches.
"Take care! take care!" said Courtin; "if it is a
Chouan and he is not quite dead, he '11 attack you."
So saying, Courtin, with his other barrel cocked, held
himself ready to fire at a safe distance.
"It is a peasant," said the stranger, "but I think he is
dead."
So saying, he took Jean Oullier by the arm and dragged
him out of the ditch. Courtin, seeing that the man was
motionless and apparently dead, ventured to approach.
"Jean Oullier !" he cried out, recognizing the Vendéan,
"Jean Oullier ! My faith! I never expected to kill a man,.
WHAT BECAME OF JEAN OULLIER. 2 i
but since it was to be, it is a grand thing it was he instead
of another. That, I can truly say, deserves to be called a
lucky shot"
••Meantime," said the stranger, ''here conies the cart. - '
" Yes, it is at the top of the hill, for the horse is trotting.
Come, there 's no time to lose; we had better be off. Is
. ally dead ? "
"He seems so."
'"Very good; forward then."
The stranger dropped Jean Oullier's arm, and the head
fell back upon the ground with the heavy thud of a dead-
- _ at.
es, he 's dead, sure enough Î " said Courtin.
Then, not daring to go nearer, he pointed his finger at the
body. "There," said he, "that secures us our pay better
than any signature; that dead body is worth two hundred
thousand francs to us."
•■ How so ? "
" He was the only man who could get that bloodhound I
told you about away from me. I thought he was dead. I
was mistaken. Xow that I know it with my own eye
are safe. Forward ! forward ! "
" Yes. for here comes the cart."
The vehicle was now not a hundred steps from the body.
The two men sprang into the bushes and disappeared in
the darkness, while the widow Picaut, who was coming
for Jean Chillier, alarmed by the shot, ran forward to the
place where she had left him.
238 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXIV.
MAÎTRE COURTIN's BATTERIES.
A few weeks had sufficed to bring about a radical upset-
ting of the lives of all those personages who, from the
beginning of this narrative, have successively passed under
the eyes of the reader.
Martial law was proclaimed in the four departments of
La Vendée. The general who commanded them issued a
proclamation inviting the country-people to give in their
submission, promising to receive it with indulgence. The
attempt at insurrection had so miserably failed that the
greater part of the Vendéans abandoned all hope for the
future. A few of them, who were openly compromised,
followed the advice of their own leaders, given when they
disbanded them, and gave up their arms. But the civil
authorities would not accept this capitulation; they seized
the offered arms and arrested their owners. A goodly
number of these confiding persons were thrown into prison,
and this impolitic severity paralyzed the pacific intentions
of those who with greater prudence were awaiting events.
Maître Jacques owed to these proceedings a large
increase in the number of his troop; he made so much,
and made it so cleverly, out of the conduct of his adversa-
ries, that he finally gathered about him a body of men
large enough to still hold out in the forests while the rest
of La Vendée disarmed itself.
Gaspard, Louis Renaud, Bras-d' Acier, and other leaders
put the sea between them and a stern government. The
Marquis de Souday alone could not resolve upon that step.
Ever since he had parted from Petit-Pierre — that is, ever
MAÎTRE COUKTIN'S BATTERIES. 239
since Petit-Pierre had left him — the unfortunate gentle-
man had completely lost the jovial good-humor with which,
as a matter of honor, he had, up to the last moment,
opposed the gloomy views of his co-leaders ; but as soon as
duty no longer forced him to be gay, the marquis dropped
to the lower extreme and became, as we may say, sad unto
death. The defeat at Chêne not only wounded him in his
political sympathies, but it knocked over to their founda-
tions all the castles in Spain he had been so gleefully
erectirig. He now saw in this partisan existence, which
his imagination had been endowing with romantic charm,
things he had never dreamed of, — reverses which over-
whelmed him, obscure poverty, the mean and trivial priva-
tions of an exile's life. He reached a point, — even he,
who so recently had thought life in his little castle insuf-
ferably insipid, — he reached a point at which he regretted
the good, pleasant evenings which the caresses and chatter
of his girls made so pleasant, — above all, he missed his
gossip with Jean Oullier; and he was so unhappy over the
latter's continued absence that he made inquiries about
his huntsman's fate with a solicitude not in any way cus-
tomary with him.
The marquis was in this frame of mind when he one day
encountered Maître Jacques loitering about the environs
of Grand-Lieu and watching the movements of a column
of soldiers. The Marquis de Souday had never had much
liking for the master of " rabbits, " whose first act of dis-
cipline had been to defy his authority. The independent
spirit displayed by Maître Jacques had always seemed to
the old gentleman a fatal example set to the Vendéans.
Maître Jacques, on the other hand, hated the marquis, as he
hated all whose birth or social position gave them natu-
rally the position of leaders; and yet be was so touched by
the misery to which he saw the old gentleman reduced in
the cottage where, after Petit-Pierre's departure, the mar-
quis had taken refuge, that he offered to hide him in the
forest of Touvois; promising, besides the good cheer which
240 THE LAST VENDÉE.
always reigned in his little camp, and which he proposed
to share with him, some amusement in occasional frays
indulged in with the soldiers of King Louis-Philippe.
Needless to say that the marquis always bluntly called that
king "Philippe."
It was the last consideration we have mentioned which
determined Monsieur de Souday to accept Maître Jacques'
proposals. He burned to avenge the ruin of his hopes, and
to make some one pay for his disappointments, for the an-
noyance his separation from his daughters caused him, and
for the grief he felt at Jean Oullier's disappearance. He
accordingly accompanied the lord of the burrows, who,
from being his subordinate — or rather his insubordinate —
now became his protector; and the latter, really touched
by the simplicity and good-nature of the marquis, showed
him much more considerate attention than his rough
exterior and ways of life would seem to promise.
As for Bertha, the day after her retreat to Courtin's
house, and as soon as she recovered some strength, she
plainly perceived that to be under the same roof with the
man she loved, far from the protection of her father, and
without Jean Oullier, who could in a way replace him,
was, to say the least of it, an impropriety; and, in spite
of the fact that Michel was wounded, might be interpreted
in a way to injure her reputation. She therefore left the
farmhouse and installed herself with Eosine in thé Tinguy
cottage. This was about three quarters of a mile distant
from Courtin's house, where she went daily to give Michel
all the care of a sister, and the delicate attentions of a
loving woman.
The tenderness, devotion, and self-abnegation of which
Bertha gave Michel so many proofs touched the young man
deeply; but as they did not in any degree affect his feel-
ings for Mary, his situation became more and more diffi-
cult and embarrassing. He dared not think of the despair
he might bring into the heart of the young girl to whom
he owed his life. Nevertheless, little by little, a gentle
MAÎTKE COURTIN's BATTERIES. 241
resignation did succeed the bitter and violent repulsion he
had felt at first, and without habituating himself to the
idea of the sacrifice Mary demanded of him, he replied by
smiles, which he tried to make affectionate, to the atten-
tions which Bertha showered on him; and when she left
his bedside the sigh that escaped him, and which she
interpreted as meant for her, alone testified to his inward
feelings.
If it had not been for Courtin, who always came to his
room as soon as Bertha had disappeared through the trees
of the garden, and sitting beside him talked of Mary,
Michel's tender and impressionable soul might have ended
in resigning itself to the necessities of the situation, and in
accepting the fate they made for him. But Courtin talked
to his young master so incessantly of Mary, he showed so
earnest a wish to see him happy according to his heart's
desire, that Michel, as the wound in his arm healed and
his strength returned, felt his inward wound reopening,
and his gratitude to Bertha disappearing before the image
of her sister.
Courtin was doing a work analogous to that of Penelope ;
he undid at night that which Bertha, with so much care,
had done by day. When he brought the young baron to
his house the latter's feebleness precluded all necessity of
asking pardon for his former conduct; and now, having,
as we have heard him tell, got possession of Michel's
secret, he managed, by protestations of devotion to his
interests and by cleverly encouraging the young man's love
for Bertha's sister, to worm himself back entirely into his
master's confidence. Michel had suffered as much from
not being able to tell his woes as from the woes them-
selves. Courtin seemed to be so sympathizing, he flattered
his dreams so pleasantly, he seemed to admire Mary so
truly, that, little by little, he led Michel to betray, if not
to confess, what had passed between him and the sisters.
Courtin was very careful, however, not to assume a posi-
tion hostile to Bertha. He managed, cleverly enough,
VOL. II. — 13
242 THE LAST VENDÉE.
to make her think he was devoted to the idea of her mar-
riage with his young master. When they met away from
Michel he always spoke to her as though to his future
mistress; and he did this so well that Bertha, knowing
nothing of his antecedents, was constantly talking to
Michel of the great devotion of his farmer, whom she
called "our good Courtin."
But no sooner was he alone with Michel than he entered,
as we have said, into all the latter's secret feelings. He
pitied him; and Michel, under the influence of that pity,
allowed himself to tell his farmer the incidents of his
relation to Mary. Courtin constantly repeated to him,
"She loves you;" insinuating that he, Michel, ought to
force Mary with a gentle violence, for which she would
certainly be grateful, to follow the dictates of her own
heart. He even went beyond Michel's own hopes and
assured him that as soon as he was well and communica-
tions were once more open, he could so arrange matters
that, without ingratitude to Bertha, she could be brought
to renounce, of herself, the projected marriage.
Michel's convalescence did not progress as rapidly as
Courtin desired. He saw, with deep anxiety, the days go
by without affording any clue as to Petit-Pierre's actual
hiding-place ; and he restlessly awaited the moment when
he could let loose his young master on Mary's traces, —
for, of course, the reader has understood that Michel was
the " bloodhound " he had talked of using.
Bertha, relieved of all anxiety about Michel's wound,
had made, with Rosine, several trips into the forest of
Touvois to see her father in his present refuge. Two or
three times after such excursions Courtin had led the con-
versation to persons concerned in the insurrection in whom
the sisters would probably take an interest; but Bertha
remained impenetrable ; and the farmer was too well aware
that the topic was dangerous, and that the slightest impru-
dence on his part would speedily awaken suspicion, to press
such inquiries. Still, as Michel grew better and stronger,
MAÎTRE COURTIN'S BATTERIES. 243
he urged him, whenever they were alone together, to come
to a determination ; offering to take a letter at any time to
Mary and bring back her answer, doing his best to make
it favorable.
This state of things lasted six weeks. At the end of
that time Michel was almost well ; his wound had healed
and his strength returned. The neighborhood of the post
which the general had established at La Logerie prevented
the young man from showing himself during the daytime;
but as soon as it was dark he walked about the orchard
leaning on Bertha's arm. These evening promenades
annoyed Courtin, who, so long as Bertha and Michel
talked together in the house, could overhear what they
said by eavesdropping; and one day he told them posi-
tively that their nocturnal rambles must cease. On being
asked why, he produced a judgment by default which con-
demned Michel de la Logerie to death.
This communication produced but little effect on Michel,
but Bertha was terror-stricken. She almost flung herself
at the young man's feet, and begged his pardon for having
enticed him into this fatal position; and that night when
she left the farmhouse she was in a state of pitiable
agitation.
The next day she came early. All night she had
dreamed dreadful dreams, and they followed her waking.
She saw Michel discovered, arrested, shot ! Two hours
earlier than usual she was at the farmhouse. Nothing had
happened; nothing seemed to make that day more alarm-
ing than other days. It passed as usual, — full of charm
mingled with anguish for Bertha; full of melancholy
internal aspirations for Michel.
Evening came, — a beautiful summer's evening. Bertha
was leaning against a little window looking out into the
orchard; she was watching the sunset beyond the great
trees of the forest of Machecoul, the tops of which were
undulating like waves of verdure. Michel was sitting on
his bed breathing in the soft odors of the comincr nieht.
244: THE LAST VENDÉE.
Suddenly they heard the wheels of a carriage coming up
the avenue.
The young man darted to the window. Both saw a
calèche entering the court-yard. Courtin ran to the car-
riage, hat in hand ; a head looked out, — it was that of the
Baronne de la Logerie.
Michel, on seeing his mother, felt a cold chill run
through his veins; it was evident that she had come for
him. Bertha questioned him with her eyes to ask what
she ought to do. Michel pointed to a dark corner, — a
sort of closet or recess without a door, — where she might
hide, and hear all without being seen herself. He thought
he should gather strength from her secret presence. Five
minutes later the stairs creaked under his mother's step.
Bertha had rushed to her hiding-place and Michel had
seated himself near the window, as if he had neither seen
nor heard anything. The door opened and the baroness
appeared.
Perhaps she had come with the intention of being harsh
and stern as usual; but on seeing Michel by the paling
light, pale himself as the twilight, she abandoned all
severity, and opening her arms, cried out : —
" Oh, my unhappy child ! have I found you ? "
Michel, who did not expect this reception, was greatly
moved; and he flung himself into his mother's open arms
crying: —
" Oh, mother, — mother ! My good mother ! "
She, too, was greatly changed; traces were plainly to
be seen upon her face of incessant tears and sleepless
nights.
MADAME DE LA LOGEKIE AND MICHEL. 245
XXV.
MADAME LA BARONNE DE LA LOGERIE, THINKING TO SERVE
HER SON'S INTERESTS, SERVES THOSE OE PETIT-PIERRE.
The baroness sat down, or rather, fell into a chair, draw-
ing Michel to his knees before her, and taking his head,
which she pressed to her lips. At last the words which
she seemed unable to bring out came to her.
"Is it possible that you are here in this place, not a
hundred steps away from the château, which is full of
soldiers ? "
"The nearer I am to them, mother," replied Michel,
"the less they'll look for me here."
" But don't you know what has taken place in Nantes ? "
" What has taken place there ? "
"The military courts have passed sentence after sen-
tence."
"That only signifies to those they catch," said Michel,
laughing.
"It signifies to every one," said his mother; "for those
who are not taken may be taken at any moment."
"Not when they are hiding in the house of a mayor well-
known for his Philippist opinions."
" You are none the less — "
The baroness stopped, as if her mouth refused to utter
the words.
" Go on, mother ! "
" You are none the less condemned — "
" Condemned to death ; I know that. "
"What! you know it, unhappy boy, and you stay here
quietly?"
246 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" I tell you, mother, that as long as I am with Courtin
I 'm quite safe."
" Then he has been kind to you, has he, that man ? "
"He has been simply a second providence. He found
me wounded and dying of hunger; he brought me home,
and since then he has fed and hidden me."
"I must own I have distrusted him."
" Then you are wrong, mother. "
"Maybe so. But talk of our own affairs, my dear
child. No matter how well hidden you may be, you can-
not stay here."
"Why not ?"
" Because a mere chance, the slightest imprudence would
betray you." Michel shook his head. "You don't want
me to die of terror, do you ? " said his mother.
"No no; I will listen to you."
"Well, I shall die of terror if you stay in France."
"But, mother, have you reflected on the difficulties of
flight ? "
"Yes; and I have surmounted them."
"How so?"
"I have chartered a small Dutch vessel which is now
lying in the river opposite to Couéron. Get on board of
her and go. God grant that you are strong enough for
the journey." Michel did not answer. "You will go to
England," continued his mother. "You will leave this
cursed land which drank your father's blood ; say you
will, my son! So long as you stay here I cannot have an
easy moment; I fancy at all hours I see the hand of the
executioner stretched out to tear you from my arms." Still
Michel kept silence. "Here," continued the baroness, "is
a letter to the captain ; and here too is an order for fifty
thousand francs to your credit in England or America.
Wherever you are, write to me, so that I may follow and
join you. But what is the matter ? Why don't you answer
me ?"
The fact is, Michel received this proposal with an insen-
MADAME DE LA LOGERIE AND MICHEL 24/
sibility which almost amounted to stupor. Go away ?
why, that was to part from Mary ! At the mere idea of
that separation his heart was so wrung that he fancied he
would rather face the death to which he was condemned.
Since Courtin had assisted in reviving his passion, he had
in his heart conceived new hopes, and without saying a
word of them to his farmer, he thought day and night on
the means of getting to her. He could not endure the
idea of once more renouncing her; and instead of replying
to his mother as she developed her plan, he was simply
strengthening his determination to be Mary's husband.
Hence the silence which, naturally, made the baroness
uneasy.
"Mother," said Michel at last, "I do not answer you
because I cannot answer as I wish."
" How do you mean, as you wish ? "
"Listen to me, mother," said the young man, with a
firmness of which at any other time she would have
thought him, and perhaps he might have thought himself,
incapable.
"You don't refuse to go, I hope ? "
"I don't refuse to go," said Michel, "but I put condi-
tions to my going."
"Conditions where it concerns your life, your safety?
Conditions before you consent to relieve your mother's
agony ? "
"Mother," said Michel, "since we last saw each other I
have suffered much, and consequently I have learned
much. I have learned, above all, that there are moments
which decide the whole future happiness or misery of our
lives. I am now in one of those moments, mother."
" And you mean to decide for my misery ? "
"No; I shall speak to you as a man, that is all. Do not
be surprised at that; I was thrown, a child, into the midst
of these events, and I have come out of them a man. T
know the duties I owe my mother; those duties are
respect, tenderness, gratitude, — and those duties I will
248 THE LAST VENDÉE.
never evade. But in passing from youth to manhood,
mother, horizons open and broaden the farther we go;
there we find duties, succeeding those of youth, not exclu-
sively to our family, but also to society. When a man
reaches that stage in his life, though he still loves his
mother, he must inevitably love another woman, who will
be to him the mother of his children."
" Ah ! " exclaimed the baroness, starting back from her
son with an impulse that was stronger than her will.
"Yes, mother," said the young man, rising, "I have
given that love; another love has replied to mine; our
lives are indissolubly united; if I go, I will not go alone."
" You will go with your mistress ? "
"I will go with my wife, mother."
" Do you suppose that I shall give my consent to that
marriage ? "
"You are free not to give your consent, mother, but I
am free not to leave this place."
"Oh, wretched boy!" cried the baroness; "is this my
reward for twenty years of care, and tenderness, and
love ? "
"That reward, mother," said Michel, his firmness in-
creased by the knowledge that another ear was listening
to his words, "you have in the respect I bear you, and
the devotion of which I will give you proofs on every
occasion. But true maternal love is not a usurer; it does
not say, 'I will be twenty years thy mother in order to be
thy tyrant;' it does not say, 'I will give thee life, youth,
strength, intelligence, in order that all those powers shall
be obedient to my will.' No, mother, true maternal love
says: 'While thou wert feeble I supported thee; while
thou wert ignorant I taught thee; while thou wert blind
I led thee. To-day thou art strong and capable; make thy
future life, not according to my will, but thine own; choose
one among the many paths before thee, and wherever it
may lead, love, bless, reverence the mother who made and
trained thee to be strong ; ' that is the power of a mother
MADAME DE LA LOGERIE AND MICHEL. 249
over her son, as I see it; that is the respect and the duty
which he owes to her."
The baroness was speechless; she would sooner have
expected the skies to fall than to hear such firm and argu-
mentative language from her son. She looked at him in
stupefaction.
Proudly satisfied with himself, Michel looked at her
calmly, with a smile upon his lips.
"So," she said, "nothing will induce you to give up this
folly?"
"Say rather that nothing will induce me to break my
word."
"Oh ! " cried the baroness, pressing her hands upon her
eyes, "unhappy mother that I am ! "
Michel knelt beside her.
"I say to you: blessed mother you will be on the day
you make the happiness of your son ! "
" What is there so seductive about those wolves ? " cried
the baroness.
"By whatever name you call the woman I love," said
Michel, " I shall reply to you : she has every quality that
a man should seek in a wife ; and it is not for you and me,
mother, who have suffered so much from calumny, to seize,
as readily as you have done, on the calumnies told of
others."
"No, no, no ! " cried the baroness, "never will I consent
to such a marriage ! "
"In that case, mother," said Michel, "take back those
cheques and the letter to the captain of the vessel; they
are useless to me, for I will not leave this place."
" What else can you do, you miserable boy ? "
"Oh, that's simple enough. I'd rather die than live
separated from her I love. I am cured. I am able to
shoulder a musket. The remains of the insurrectionary
army are collected in the forest of Touvois under command
of the Marquis de Souday. I will join them, and fight
with them, and get myself killed at the first chance. This
250 THE LAST VENDÉE.
is the second time death has missed me," he added with a
pallid smile. "The third time his aim may be true and
his hand steady."
The young man laid the letters and cheques on his
mother's knees. In his tones and gestures there was such
resolution and firmness that his mother saw that she cher-
ished in vain the hope of changing him. In presence of
that conviction her strength gave way.
"Well," she said, "be it according to your will, and
may God forget that you have forced your mother to yield
to you."
" God will forget it, mother ; and when you see the hap-
piness of your son you will forget it yourself. "
The baroness shook her head.
"Go," she said, "marry, far away from me, a stranger
I do not know and have never seen."
"I shall marry, I hope, a woman whom you will know
and appreciate, mother; and that great day of my happi-
ness will be blessed by your sanction. You have offered
to join me wherever I go; wherever that may be I shall
expect you, mother."
The baroness rose and made a few steps toward the door.
"Going without a word of farewell, without a kiss,
mother ? Are you not afraid it may bring me evil ? "
" My unhappy boy, come to my arms, to my heart ! "
And she said the words with that maternal cry which,
sooner or later, must come from a mother's heart. Michel
pressed her tenderly to his breast.
" When will you go, my child ? " she said.
"That must depend on her, mother."
" As soon as possible, will you not ? "
"To-night, I hope."
"You will find a peasant's dress below in the carriage.
Disguise yourself as best you can. It is twenty-four miles
from here to Couéron. You could get there by five in the
morning. Don't forget the vessel's name, — the 'Jeune
Charles. ' "
MADAME DE LA LOGERIE AND MICHEL. 1^51
"Don't be anxious, mother. The moment I know my
end is happiness I shall take every precaution to reach it."
"As for me, I shall go back to Paris and use all my
influence to get that fatal sentence revoked. But you — i
entreat you, and I repeat it — take care of your life, and
remember that my life is wrapped up in yours."
Mother and son again kissed each other, and Michel took
his mother to the door. Courtin, as a faithful servitor,
was keeping watch below. Madame de la Logerie begged
him to accompany her to the chateau.
When Michel, after locking the door, turned round he
saw Bertha, with a smile of happiness on her lips, and a
halo of love about her head. She was waiting the moment
to throw herself into his arms. Michel received her in
them; and if the little room had not been dark she must
have seen the embarrassment on the young baron's face.
"And now," she said, "nothing can part us; we have my
father's consent, and noAv your mother's."
Michel was silent.
" Shall we start to-night ? "
Still Michel said nothing.
"Well," she said, "why don't you answer me ?"
"Because nothing is less sure than our departure," he
replied.
. "But you promised your mother to go to-night."
"I told my mother it depended on Aer."
" That is, on me, " said Bertha.
"What!" exclaimed Michel, "would Bertha, true royal-
ist and so devoted to the cause, leave France without
thinking of those she leaves behind her ? "
" What can you mean ? " asked Bertha.
"I mean something grander and more useful to the
country than my own escape, my personal safety," said
the young man.
Bertha looked at him in astonishment.
"I mean the escape and safety of Madame," added
Michel.
252 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Bertha gave a cry; she began to understand.
" Ah ! " she ejaculated.
" That vessel my mother has chartered for me can take
from France not only you and me, but the princess, your
father, and," he added in a lower voice, "your sister."
"Oh, Michel, Michel !" cried the young girl, "forgive
me for not thinking of that ! Just now I loved you; now
I admire you ! Yes, yes, you are right; Providence itself
inspired your mother; yes, I will forget all the hard and
cruel things she said of me, for I see in her an instrument
of God sent to our succor to save us all. Oh, my friend,
how good you are ! — more than that, you are grand for
having thought of it."
The young man stammered unintelligible words.
"Ah !" continued Bertha, in her enthusiasm, "I knew
you were the bravest and most loyal of men; but to-day
you have gone beyond my hopes and expectations. Poor
child ! wounded, condemned to death, he thinks of others
before he thinks of himself ! Ah, friend, I was happy,
now I am proud in my love ! "
If the room had been lighted Bertha must have seen the
flush on Michel's cheek; he knew what his disinterested-
ness really was. It is true that after obtaining his
mother's consent to marry the woman he loved, Michel
had really dreamed of something else, — namely, the idea
of rendering to Petit-Pierre the greatest service the most
devoted follower could do for her at that moment, and
afterward avow all and ask her, as a reward for that ser-
vice, to procure for him Mary's hand. We can readily
imagine his shame and confusion of face in Bertha's pres-
ence, and why, to all these demonstrations of the young
girl the baron, cold in spite of himself, replied merely : —
"Now that all is arranged for us, Bertha, we have no
time to lose."
"No," she said, "you are right. Give your orders.
Now that I recognize the superiority not only of your
heart but of your mind, I am ready to obey."
MADAME DE LA LOGERIE AND MICHEL. 253
"Well," said Michel, "we must part here."
"Why so ? " asked Bertha.
"Because you must go to the forest of Touvois and
notify your father of what has happened, and bring him
away with you. From there you must get to the bay of
Bourgneuf, where the 'Jeune Charles ' shall stop and pick
you up. I shall go to Nantes and tell the duchess."
" You, in Nantes ! Do you forget that you are con-
demned to death and that the authorities are watching
for you ? It is I who must go to Nantes and you to
Touvois."
"But the 'Jeune Charles ' expects me, Bertha, and in all
probability the captain would obey no one but me; seeing
a woman in place of a man he might suspect some trap and
throw us into inextricable difficulties."
"But just reflect on the dangers you run in Nantes."
" On the contrary, it may be, if you think of it, Bertha,
the very place where I should run the least. They will
never suppose that, being condemned to death in Nantes,
I should enter the town which condemned me. You know
very well that there are times when the greatest boldness
is the greatest safety. This is one of those times; and
you must let me do as I choose."
"I told you I would obey you, Michel; I obey."
And the proud and beautiful young girl, submissive as a
child, awaited the orders of the man who, thanks to an
appearance of devotion, had just acquired almost gigantic
proportions in her eyes.
Nothing was simpler than the decision they had made
and its mode of execution. Bertha gave Michel the address
of the duchess in Nantes and the different passwords by
which he could gain admittance to her. She herself,
dressed in Kosine's clothes, was to reach the forest of
Touvois. Michel, of course, was to wear the peasant's cos-
tume brought to him by his mother. If nothing occurred
to interfere with these arrangements the "Jeune Charles"
would be able to sail at five o'clock on the following morn-
254 THE LAST VENDÉE.
ing, carrying Petit-Pierre away from France, and with her
the last vestiges of civil war.
Ten minutes later Michel was astride of Courtin's pony,
saddled and bridled by himself, and taking leave, by a
wave of his hand, of Bertha, who returned to the Tinguy
cottage, from which she intended to start immediately by
a cross-road toward the Touvois forest.
Cathedral of Nantes.
MARCHES AND COUNTER-MARCHES. 255
XXVI.
MARCHES AND COUNTER-MARCHES.
In spite of the adornment of wind-galls and spavin, with
which age and toil had favored Maître Courtin's pony, that
brave beast showed energy enough in the amble which
served him for a trot to bring Michel into Nantes before
nine o'clock at night. His first stopping-place was to be
the tavern of the Point du Jour.
He had hardly crossed the pont Bousseau before he
began to look about him for the said tavern. Recognizing
its sign, — a star lengthened by a ray of the most beautiful
yellow ochre painter ever used, — he stopped his pony, or
rather the pony of Maître Courtin, before a wooden trough
where the horses of the wagoners, who wanted to halt
without unharnessing, were watered.
No one appeared at the door of the inn. Forgetting the
humble clothes which he wore, and remembering only the
alacrity with which the servants at La Logerie welcomed
his arrival, Michel rapped impatiently on the trough with
the heavy stick he held in his hand. At the sound a man
in bis shirt-sleeves came out of the court-yard and advanced
to Michel; he wore on his head a blue cotton cap pulled
down to his eyes. Michel fancied that what he saw of the
face was not unknown to him.
"The devil ! " cried the man in a grumbling tone; "are
you too much of a lord, my young gars, to take your horse
to the stable yourself ? However, no matter; you shall be
served as well as any."
"Serve me as you please, but answer a question."
"Ask it," said the man, folding his arms.
256 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"I want to see Père Eustache," added Michel, sinking
his voice.
Low as the tone was, the man showed signs of annoy-
ance; he looked furtively about him, and though there
was no one to be seen but a few children who were gazing
with their hands behind their backs in naïve curiosity at
the new-comer, he took the horse hastily by the bridle and
led him into the court -yard.
"I told you I wanted to see Fère Eustache," said Michel,
getting off the pony as soon as the man in the blue cap had
led him to the shed which served as stable to the hôtel
Point du Jour.
"I know that," said the latter. "I heard it, confound
you; but I don't keep your Père Eustache in my oat-bin.
Besides, before I tell you where to find him I 'd like to
know where you come from."
"The South."
" Where are you going ? "
"To Rosny."
" Very good ; then you must go to the church of Saint-
Sauveur, and there you will find the man you want. Go;
and try not to speak so loud, Monsieur de la Logerie, when
you talk in the street — if you want to gain the object of
your journey."
"Ah, ha!" cried Michel, somewhat astonished; "so
you know me ? "
"I should think so ! " said the man.
"I must have that horse taken back to its home."
"It shall be done."
Michel put a louis into the man's hand, who seemed
delighted with the fee and made him many offers of ser-
vice; then he boldly went out into the town. When he
reached the church of Saint-Sauveur the sexton was in the
act of shutting the gates. The lesson the young baron had
just received at the gate of the inn bore fruits; Michel
waited cautiously and looked about him before putting any
questions.
MARCHES AND COUNTER-MARCHES. 257
Four or five beggars, before leaving the church porch,
where they had asked alms all day of the faithful, were
kneeling beneath the organ to say their evening prayer.
Xo doubt Père Eustache was among them ; for besides two
or three women with their cotton capes, patched with
various colors, thrown over their heads, there were three
male beggars, each with a holy-water sprinkler in his
hand. Either of the three might be the man Michel was
in search of; luckily he knew the sign of recognition. He
took the branch of holly that was fastened in his hat,
which Bertha had told him was the sign by which l'ère
Eustache would know him, and let it drop before the door.
Two of the beggars passed without taking the least notice
of it; the third, who was a little old man, thin and weakly,
whose enormous nose projected boldly beyond a black silk
cap, stopped when he saw the holly on the pavement,
picked it up, and looked about him uneasily. Michel
issued from behind the pillar which concealed him.
Père Eustache (for it was he) cast a sidelong look at
the young man; then, without a word, he walked toward
the cloister. Michel understood that the holly was not a
sufficient sign to the distrustful giver of holy water ; after
following for about ten yards, he hastened his steps and
accosted him, saying : —
"I am from the South."
The beggar stopped.
" Where are you going ? " he asked.
"To Rosny," replied Michel.
The beggar turned round and retraced his steps; this
time he went toward the town. A look from a corner of
his eye told Michel it was all right. The latter then let
his guide pass him and followed him at a distance of five
or six paces. They returned past the portal of the church,
and soon after, having entered a dark and narrow alley,
the beggar stopped for a few seconds before a low door
placed in the wall of a garden; then he continued his wa\ .
Michel was about to follow him; but the beggai made
VOL. II. — 17
258 THE LAST VENDÉE.
him a sign as if to point out the little door, and rapidly
disappeared. The young man then saw that Père Eustache
had slipped the holly branch he had picked up through the
iron ring that served as a knocker.
So this was the end of his journey. He raised the
knocker and let it fall. At the sound a small wicket made
in the door itself opened and a man's voice was heard ask-
ing what was wanted. Michel repeated the passwords,
and he was shown into a room on the ground-floor, where
a gentleman, whom he recognized as having seen at the
château de Souday on the evening when General Dermon-
court ate the supper prepared for Petit-Pierre, and seen
again, gun in hand, before the fight at Chêne, was quietly
reading a newspaper, sitting before a large fire with his
feet on the fender, wrapped in his dressing-gown.
In spite of his very pacific appearance and occupation,
a pair of pistols lay within reach of his hand on a table
where there 'were also, laid out for use, pens, ink, and
paper. The gentleman recognized Michel at once and rose
to receive him.
"I think I have seen you in our ranks, monsieur," he
said.
"Yes, monsieur," replied Michel, "the evening before
the fight at Chêne."
" And the day of the fight ? " asked he of the dressing-
gown, smiling.
"I was fighting at La Pénissière, where I was wounded."
The gentleman bowed.
" Will you have the goodness to tell me your name ? "
he said.
Michel told his name; the gentleman in the dressing-
gown consulted a pocket-book, gave signs of satisfaction,
and turning to the young man asked: —
" Will you now tell me what has brought you ? "
"The wish to see Petit-Pierre, and do her a great
service."
"Pardon me, monsieur; but no one can see the person of
MARCHES AND COUNTER-MARCHES. 259
whom you speak, at least not so easily. You are indeed
one of us; I know that you may be relied on so far; but
you will readily understand that all going and coming
about a retreat which has hitherto been able to keep its
secret successfully, would soon attract the attention of the
police. Have the kindness, therefore, to tell me your
plans, and I will see that you receive an answer."
Michel then related what had passed between himself
and his mother; how she had chartered a vessel for his
escape, and how the idea had occurred to him that it
might be used to put Petit-Pierre in safety. The man in
the dressing-gown listened with ever-increasing interest,
and as soon as the young baron had given full information
he exclaimed : —
"It really seems as though Providence had sent you.
It is impossible — no matter what precautions we take to
conceal the place where Petit-Pierre is hidden — it is
really impossible to escape the police investigations much
longer. For the good of the cause, for Petit-Pierre's own
sake and for ours, it is much better that she should leave
the country ; and as the difficulty of chartering a vessel is
thus removed, I will at once see Petit-Pierre, explain the
circumstances, and receive her orders."
" Shall I go with you ? " asked Michel.
"No; your peasant's dress beside me would immediately
attract the attention of the police spies, by whom we are
surrounded. What inn are you stopping at ? "
"The Point du Jour."
"That is where Joseph Picaut is hostler; there is noth-
ing to fear there."
" Ah ! " exclaimed Michel, " I knew his face was not
unknown to me; but I thought he lived in the open
country between the river Boulogne and the forest of
Machecoul ! "
"You were right; he is only a tavern hostler as occasion
demands. Wait there for me. I will go to you in two
hours from now, — either alone, or accompanied by Petit-
260 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Pierre, — alone, if Petit-Pierre rejects your proposal ; with
her, if she accepts."
" Are you perfectly sure of that man Picaut ? " asked
Michel.
" Yes, as we are of ourselves. If there is any fault to
find with him it is that he is too zealous. Eemember that
since Petit-Pierre has been in La Vendée more than six
hundred peasants have known at different times of her
various hiding-places ; and the noblest claim of those poor
people to honor, is that not one, poor as he was, thought
of betraying her. Let Joseph know that you expect friends,
and that he must be on the watch for them. If you merely
say to him the words, 'Pue du Château, No. 3,' you will
obtain from him, and all connected with the inn, the most
absolute and also the most passive obedience."
" Have you any other advice to give me ? "
"Perhaps it may be prudent for the persons who will
accompany Petit-Pierre to leave the house where she is
hidden singly, and go singly to the tavern of the Point
du Jour. Ask them to give you a room with a window
looking on the quay; have no light in your room, but keep
the window open."
"You have forgotten nothing ? "
" Nothing. Adieu, monsieur, or rather, au revoir ! If
we succeed in reaching your vessel safely you will have
done an immense service to the cause. As for me, I am
in continual fear. They say enormous sums have been
offered for the betrayal of the princess, and I tremble lest
some one may yet be tempted to sacrifice her."
Michel was ushered out; but instead of taking him by
the door through which he had entered, they took him
through an entrance which opeued on another street.
Thence he rapidly crossed the town and returned to the
quay. When he reached the tavern of the Point du
Jour he found that Joseph Picaut had engaged a boy to
take Courtin's pony back to the farmhouse as Michel had
requested.
MARCHES AND COUNTER-MARCHES. 261
On entering the stable Michel made Joseph a sign, which
the latter understood perfectly; he sent the boy away,
postponing the return of the horse till the next day.
"You said you knew me," remarked Michel as soon as
they were alone.
"I did more, Monsieur de la Logerie; I called you by
your name."
"Well, I 'in not sorry to know that we have equal advan-
tages in that respect. I know your name; it is Joseph
Picaut."
"I don't say it is n't," said the peasant, with a sly look.
"Are you to be trusted, Joseph ? "
"That depends on who trusts me, — blues and reds, no;
whites, yes."
"Then you are white ? "
Picaut shrugged his shoulders.
"If I were not, should I be here, — I who am condemned
to death as you are? That's so; they have done me the
honor of a sentence by default. Yes, you and I are equal
before the law now."
" And you are here — "
"As hostler, neither more nor less."
"Then take me to the master of the inn."
Picaut woke up the inn-keeper, who was in bed. The
latter received Michel with some distrust; and the young
man, feeling there was no time to lose, decided on striking
the great blow, and said deliberately the five words : —
"Pvue du Chateau, No. 3."
The words were scarcely heard by the inn-keeper before
his distrust disappeared and his whole manner changed.
From that moment he and his house were at Michel's dis-
posal. It was now Michel's turn to make inquiries.
" Have you other travellers in the house ? "
"Only one."
"Of what kind?"
"The very worst, — a man to fear."
" You know him, then ? "
262 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"It is the mayor of La Logerie, Courtin, a vile cur."
" Courtin ! " exclaimed Michel. " Courtin here ! Are
you sure ? "
"I don't know him; but Picaut says it is he."
" When did he get here ? "
" About fifteen minutes ago."
"Where is he ?"
"He has just gone out. He got something to eat and
went off immediately, telling me he should not be in till
late, — not before two in the morning. He said he had
business in Nantes."
"Does he know you knew him? "
"I think not; unless he recognized Joseph Picaut just
as Picaut recognized him. But I doubt if he did, for he
stood in the light and Joseph kept in the shade."
Michel reflected a moment.
"I don't think Courtin is as bad as you suppose him to
be," he said; "but never mind, it is as well to distrust
him, and on no account must he know of my presence in
your inn."
Picaut, who had hitherto been standing on the thresh-
old of the door, here came forward and joined in the
conversation.
" Oh ! " he said, " if he is likely to trouble you, say so ;
we can settle him so that he shall know nothing, or if he
does know anything he shall be made to hold his tongue.
I have old scores against him which I 've long wanted a
pretext to — "
"No, no ! " cried Michel, hastily, "Courtin is my farmer.
I am under obligations to him which make me anxious that
no harm shall happen to him; besides," he hastened to
add, seeing the frown on Picaut's brow, "he is not what
you think he is."
Joseph Picaut shook his head; but Michel did not notice
the gesture.
"Don't trouble yourself," said the inn-keeper. "If he
comes in I '11 look after him."
MARCHES AND COUNTER-MARCHES. 2G3
"Very good. As for you, Joseph, take the horse on
which I came. I want you to do an errand. By the bye,
Courtin must not see that horse in the stable; he would
certainly recognize it, inasmuch as it is his own beast."
"What next ?"
"You know the river, don't you ? "
"There's not a corner of the left bank I've not shot
over. I know less of the right."
"That's all right; it is the left bank you'll have to
follow."
"Follow where ?"
"To Couéron. Opposite to the second island, between
the two old wrecks, you will see a vessel called the 'Jeune
Charles.' Though at anchor its foretopsail will be set;
you '11 know it by that."
"Trust me to know it."
"Take a boat and row out to her. They '11 call to you,
'Who's there?' Answer, 'Belle-Isle en Mer.' Then
they '11 let you go aboard. You '11 give the captain this
handkerchief, just as it is, — that is to say, knotted at
three corners, — and you will tell him to be all ready to
weigh anchor at one o'clock to-night."
" Is that all ? "
" Yes — or rather, no, it is not all. If I am satisfied
with you, Picaut, you shall have five pieces of gold such
as the one I gave you to-night."
"Well, well," said Joseph Picaut, "leaving out the
chance of being hung, it is not such a bad business; and
if I can only get a shot now and then at the Blues, or
revenge myself on Courtin, I sha'n't regret Maître Jacques
and his burrows. What next ? "
" How do you mean ? "
" Why, after I have done the errand ? "
"Then you will hide somewhere on the bank of the
river, and wait for us; whistle to let us know where you
are. If all goes well imitate a cuckoo; if on the con-
trary you see anything that ought to make us uneasy, give
the owl's cry."
264 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Ha! Monsieur de la Logerie," said Joseph, "I see
you 've been well trained. All you 've ordered is clear,
and seems to me well arranged. It is a pity, though, you
haven't a better horse to put between my legs; otherwise
the matter could be quickly done."
Joseph Picaut departed on his mission. The inn-keeper
then took Michel to a poor-looking room on the first floor,
which served as an annex to the dining-room, and had two
windows opening on the main-road; then he put himself
on the watch for Courtin.
Michel opened one of the windows as agreed upon with
the gentleman in the dressing-gown; after which he sat
down on a stool, placing himself so that his head could not
be seen from the road he was watching.
mighel's love affairs take a happier turn. 2G5
XXVII.
michel's love affairs seem to be taking a happier
TURN.
Michel, under his apparent composure, was really in a
state of extreme anxiety. He was about to meet Mary;
and, at the mere idea his breast tightened, his heart
swelled, his blood coursed in leaps along his veins; he felt
himself trembling with emotion. He formed no hopes as
to what the result might be, but the firmness which, con-
trary to all his habits, he had shown in presence of his
mother and also of Bertha had answered so well that he
now resolved to be equally firm with Mary. He saw very
plainly that he had come to a crisis in this singular situa-
tion, and that eternal happiness or irreparable misery
would result from his present conduct.
He had been on the watch about an hour and a half, fol-
lowing anxiously with his eyes all the human forms which
seemed to be approaching the little inn, looking to see if
they came toward the door, feeling wretched when they
passed it and his hopes vanished, thinking minutes eter-
nities, and wondering whether his heart would not burst in
his bosom when he was actually in Mary's presence.
All of a sudden he saw a shadow coming from the direc-
tion of the rue du Château, walking rapidly, skirting the
house, and making no sound with its motions. Ity the
clothing he recognized a woman; but it could not, of
course, be Petit-Pierre, or Mary, for it was not to be sup-
posed that either would venture there alone.
And yet, it seemed to the baron as if the woman were
looking up at the house trying to recognize it; next he saw
266 THE LAST VENDÉE.
her stop before the inn, and then he heard the three little
raps, the signal, struck on the door. With one bound he
sprang from his post of observation to the staircase, rushed
hastily down, opened the door, and in the woman, closely
wrapped in a mantle, he recognized Mary.
Their two names were all the young pair dared to say
when they found themselves face to face; then Michel
seized the young girl by the arm, guided her through the
darkness, and took her to the chamber on the first floor.
But scarcely had they entered it, when, falling on his
knees, he burst forth : —
"Oh, Mary, Mary ! is it really you ? Am I not dream-
ing ? I have dreamt so often of this blessed moment, so
often have I tasted this infinite joy in imagination only,
that I fancy I am still the plaything of a dream. Mary,
my angel, my life, my love, oh ! let me hold you to my
heart ! "
"Michel, my friend," said the young girl, sighing to
feel she could not conquer the emotion that now seized
upon her, "I, too, am happy that we meet again. But tell
me, poor, dear friend, you have been wounded, have you
not ? "
"Yes, yes; but it was not my wound that made me
suffer; it was the misery of being parted from all I love
in this world. Oh, Mary ! believe me, death was deaf and
obstinate, or it would have come at my call."
" Michel, how can you say such things ? How can you
forget all that my poor Bertha has done for you ? We
have heard all; and I have only loved and admired my
dear sister the more for the devotion she has proved to
you at every instant."
But at Bertha's name Michel, who was resolved not to
let Mary impose her will upon his any longer, rose abruptly
and walked about the room with a step which betrayed his
emotion. Mary saw what was passing in his soul and she
made one last effort.
"Michel," she said, "I ask you, I conjure you, in the
michel's love affairs take à happier turn. 267
name of all the tears I have shed to your memory, speak
to ine only as though to a sister; remember that you are
soon to become my brother.''
" Your brother ! I, Mary ? *' said the young man, shak-
ing his head. "As for that, my decision is made, and
firmly made. Never, never, will I be your brother, I
swear it ! "
"Michel, do you forget that you once swore otherwise ?"
"I did not swear it; no ! you wrung the promise from
me, you wrung it cruelly; you took advantage of the love
I bear you to compel me to renounce it. But all that is
within me rises against that promise; there's not a fibre
in my body that does not refuse to keep it. And I here
say to you, Mary, that for two months, ever since we have
been parted, I have thought of you only! Buried in the
blazing ruins at La Pénissière and near to death, 1 thought
of you only ! Wounded with a ball through my shoulder,
which just missed my heart, I thought of you only ! Dying
of hunger, weariness, and weakness, I thought of you only
— of you alone ! Bertha is my sister, Mary ; you are my
beloved, my precious treasure; and you, Mary, you shall
be my wife ! "
" Oh, my God ! how can you say it, Michel ; are you
mad? "
" I was for a moment, Mary — when I thought I could
obey you. But absence, grief, despair, have made another
man of me. Count no longer on the poor, weak reed
which bent at your breath; whatever you may say or do,
you shall be mine, Mary ! — because I love you, because
you love me, because I will no longer lie to God or to my
own heart."
"You forget, Michel," said Mary, "that my resolutions
do not change as yours do. I swore to a course of conduct,
and I shall keep my oath."
"So be it ; then I will leave Bertha forever; Bertha
shall never see me again ! "
" My friend — "
268 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Seriously, Mary, for whose sake do you suppose I -am
here now ? "
" You are here to save the princess, to whom we are all
devoted, body and soul.''
"I am here, Mary, to meet you. Don't think more of
my devotion to the princess than it deserves. I am devoted
to you, Mary, and to no other. What inspired in my
mind the thought of saving Petit-Pierre ? My love for
you ! Should I have thought of it, think you, if it had
not been that in saving her I should see you ? Don't
make me either a hero or a demigod; I am a man, and a
man who loves you ardently and is ready to risk his head
for you ! Why should I care, otherwise, for these quar-
rels of dynasty against dynasty ? What have I to do with
the Bourbons of the elder branch or the Bourbons of the
younger branch, — I, whose past has nothing to do with
either of them; I, who have not a single memory connect-
ing me with theirs ? My opinions are — you; my beliefs
are — you. If you were for Louis Philippe, I should be
for Louis Philippe. You are for Henri V. and I am for
Henri V. Ask for my blood and I shall say, 'There it is,
take it ! ' but don't ask me to lend myself any longer to an
impossible state of things."
" What do you mean to do, then ? "
"Tell Bertha the truth."
" The truth ! impossible ! you will never dare to ? "
" Mary, I declare to you — "
"No, no!"
" Yes, I declare to you that I shall do it. Every day I
am shaking off the swaddling-clothes of my weak youth.
There 's a vast distance already between me and that child
you met in the sunken road, scratched and weeping with
fear at the very name and thought of his mother. It is to
my love that I owe this new strength. I have borne,
without blenching, a look which formerly made me
bow my head and bend my knees. I have told all to
my mother, and my mother has replied to me, 'I see you
Michel's love affairs take a happieb turn. 2G9
are a man; do as you will!' My will is to consecrate
my life to you; but I also will that you shall be mine.
See, therefore, in what a senseless struggle you have
plunged us. I, the husband of Bertha ! let us suppose it
for a moment; why, there could be no greater misery on
earth than that poor creature would endure, not to speak
of mine. They told me tales in my infancy of Carrier's
4 republican marriages, ' when living bodies were tied to
dead ones and flung into the Loire. That, Mary, would
be our marriage, Bertha's and mine ; and you, you would
stand by and see our agony ! Mary, would you be glad of
your work then ? No, I am resolved; either I will never
see Bertha again, or the first time that I do see her I will
tell her how my stupid timidity misled Petit-Pierre, and
how courage has always failed me until now to speak the
truth ; and then — then — no, I will not tell her that I do
not love her, but I will tell her that I love you."
" Good God ! " cried Mary, " but don't you know, Michel,
that if you do that she will die of it ? "
"No, Bertha will not die of it," said the voice of Petit-
Pierre, who had entered the room behind them without
their hearing her. The two young people turned round
hurriedly with a cry. "Bertha," continued Petit-Pierre,
" is a noble and courageous girl, who will understand the
language you propose to address her, Monsieur de la
Logerie, and who will also know how to sacrifice her hap-
piness to that of the sister she loves. But you shall not
have the pain of telling her. It is I who did the wrong, —
or rather, who made the mistake, — and it is I who will
repair it; begging Monsieur Michel," she added, smiling,
"to be in future a little more explicit in his confidences."
At the first sound of Petit-Pierre's voice, which had
startled them into a cry, the lovers hastily stepped apart
from each other ; but the princess caught them by the arm,
drew them once more together, and joined their hands.
"Love each other without remorse !" she said. "You
have both been more generous than any one has the right
270 THE LAST VENDÉE.
to expect of our poor human race. Love each other with-
out stint ! for blessed are they who have no other ambition
in this world."
Mary lowered her eyes, but as she lowered them her
hand pressed Michel's. The young man knelt at the feet
of the little peasant lad.
"It needs all the happiness you order me to take, to
console me for not dying for you, " he said in a spasm of
gratitude.
" Oh, don't talk of being killed or dying ! Alas ! I see
how useless it is to be killed or to die. Look at my poor
Bonneville ! What good did all his great devotion do
me ? No, Monsieur de la Logerie, live for those you love ;
and you have given me the right to place myself among
them ! Live for Mary, and — I will take upon myself to
declare that Mary will live for you ! "
"Ah! madame," cried Michel, "if all Frenchmen had
seen you as I have seen you, if they knew you as I know
you — "
"I should have some chance of returning in triumph —
especially if they were lovers ! However, let us, if you
please, talk of other things; before dreaming of future
triumphs we must think of present retreat. See if our
friends have arrived. I must blame you, my brave senti-
nel, for being so absorbed in Mademoiselle Mary that you
failed to make me the concerted signal ; and I might have
waited in the street till morning if I had not heard your
voice through the window ; happily, you had left the door
open and I was able to get in."
As Petit-Pierre uttered this reproach in a laughing tone
two other persons who were to accompany her in her flight
arrived; but after a short consultation it was decided that
her safety might be endangered by the presence of too
many persons, and they stayed behind. Petit-Pierre,
Michel, and Mary started alone.
The quay was deserted ; the pont Rousseau seemed abso-
lutely solitary. Michel led the way. They crossed the
MICHELE LOVE AFFAIRS TAKE A HAPPIER TURN. 271
bridge without incident. Michel took a path along the
bank; Petit-Pierre and Mary followed him, walking side
by side. The night was splendid, — so splendid that they
feared to continue along this open way. Michel proposed
to take the road to Pèlerin, which ran parallel with the
river, but was less exposed than the path along the bank.
Thanks to the moonlight, they could see the river from
time to time, like a broad and brilliant silver sheet,
marked here and there with wooded islets, their tree-tops
clearly defined against the sky. This clearness of the
night, though it had its inconveniences, had on the other
hand, some advantages. Michel, who served as guide,
was sure of not losing his way; and, as they walked
along, they could even see the schooner itself at intervals.
When they had passed, or rather gone round the village
of Pèlerin, the young baron hid the duchess and Marie in
a rocky hollow of the shore, and going to a little distance
along the bank he gave the whistle which was to signal
Joseph Picaut.
As Joseph did not reply with the owl's cry, — the cry
of alarm, — Michel, who, up to that time had been very
anxious, felt more easy. He felt sure that, as he received
no answer, the Chouan would soon come to him.
He waited five minutes; nothing stirred. He whistled
again, more sharply than before; still nothing answered,
no one came. He thought he might have been mistaken
as to the place of meeting, and he hurried along the bank.
But no ! a hundred steps farther took him past the isle of
Couéron ; and there was no other island within sight where
a vessel could lie, — yet the vessel was not visible.
It certainly was the spot agreed upon, and he returned
upon his steps. The vessel must be within sight where
he had first stopped; but even so, he could not explain to
himself Joseph Picaut's absence.
An idea came to him. Had the enormous sum promised
to whoever would deliver up the person passing under the
name of Petit-Pierre tempted the Chouan, whose cast of
272 THE LAST VENDUE.
countenance had not impressed him favorably? He com-
municated his suspicions to Petit-Pierre and Mary, who
now joined him.
But Petit-Pierre shook her head.
"It is not possible," she said. "If that man had
betrayed us we should have been arrested before now;
besides, that does n't explain the absence of the vessel."
" You are right. The captain was to send a boat ashore,
and I don't see it."
"Perhaps it is not yet time."
Just then the church clock at Pèlerin struck two, as
though it was ordered to make answer to her words.
"There ! " said Michel, "it is two o'clock ! "
" Was there any fixed hour with the captain ? "
"My mother could only act on probabilities, and she
told him it might be as late as five o'clock."
" He had, then, no reason to be impatient, for we have got
here three hours too soon."
"What shall we do?" asked Michel. "My responsi-
bility is so great I dare not act by myself."
"We must take a boat and look for the ship. As the
captain is aware we know his anchorage, very likely he
expects us to go to him."
Michel went a few hundred feet toward Pèlerin and
found a boat made fast to the shore. Evidently, it had
been lately used, for the oars, which were lying in the
bottom of it, were still wet. He came back with the news
to his companions, asking them to go back into their hid-
ing-place while he crossed the river.
" Do you know how to row ? " asked Petit-Pierre.
"I own to you," replied Michel, blushing for his ignor-
ance, "that I am not very good at it."
"Then," said Petit-Pierre, "we will go with you. I
will steer the boat; many a time I have done that in the
bay of Naples for amusement."
"And I'll help him to row," said Mary. "My sister
and I often row over the lake of Grand-Lieu."
MICHEL'S LOVE AFFAIRS TAKE A HAPPIES TURN. 273
All three embarked. When they reached the middle of
the river Petit-Pierre, looking forward in the direction
of the current, cried out : —
" There she is ! there she is ! "
"Who ? What?" exclaimed Mary and Michel together.
" The ship ! the ship ! There, don't you see ? "
And Petit-Pierre pointed down the river in the direction
of Paimbœuf .
"No," said Michel, "that can't be the ship ! "
"Why not?"
" Because it is sailing away from us ! "
Just then they reached the extremity of the island.
Michel jumped ashore, helped his two companions to land,
and ran with all speed to the other side.
" It is our vessel ! " he cried, returning. "To the boat !
to the boat, and row as fast as we can ! "
All three sprang again into the boat; Mary and Michel
strained at the oars while Petit-Pierre took the helm.
Helped by the current the little boat flew along rapidly;
there was still a chance of overtaking the schooner if she
kept on her present course.
But presently a black shadow came between their eyes
and the lines of the masts and cordage standing out
against the sky; she had hoisted her mainsail. Soon
another bit of canvas, the foretopsail, rose into the air;
the jib followed; and then the "Jeune Charles," profiting
by the breeze which was steadily rising, hoisted her other
sails, one by one.
Michel took the second oar from Mary's tired hands and
bent to the thwarts like a convict on the galleys. Despair
had seized him ; for in that second of time he had seen
all the consequences which would follow on the loss of the
schooner. He began to shout and hail her; but Petit-
Pierre stopped him, exhorting him to prudence.
" Ah ! " she cried, her gayety surmounting all vicissi-
tudes of fortune, "Providence evidently does not choose
that I shall leave this glorious land of France ! "
VOL. II. — 18
274 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" God grant it may be Providence ! " said Michel.
" What do you mean by that ? " asked Petit-Pierre.
"I fear there is some horrible machination under all
this."
"Nonsense, my poor friend; it is only a bit of ill-luck.
They mistook the day or the hour, that 's all. Besides,
how do we know whether we could have slipped through
the cruisers at the mouth of the Loire ? All 's for the
best, perhaps."
But Michel was not convinced by Petit-Pierre's reason-
ing; he continued to lament; talked of throwing himself
into the river and swimming to the schooner, which was
now gently widening the distance and beginning to disap-
pear in the mists on the horizon. It was, in fact, with
much difficulty that Petit-Pierre succeeded in calming him ;
perhaps she might not have done so without Mary's help.
Three o'clock was now ringing from the steeples at
Couéron; in another hour it would be daylight. There
was no time to lose. Michel and Mary took up the oars;
they regained the shore and left the boat about where they
found it. It then became a question whether they should
return to Nantes. This being decided upon, it was most
important to get there before daybreak.
Suddenly Michel, as they walked along, stopped and
struck his forehead.
"I 'm afraid I have committed a great folly," he said.
" What folly ? " asked the duchess.
"I ought to have returned to Nantes by the other bank."
"Pooh ! all roads are safe if you follow them cautiously;
besides, what should we have done with the boat ? "
"Left it on the other shore."
" So that the poor fisherman to whom it belongs would
have lost a whole day in looking for it ! No, no! better
take more trouble ourselves than snatch the bread out of
the mouth of some poor fellow who has little enough as
it is."
They reached the pont Rousseau. Here Petit-Pierre
MICHELS LOVE AFFAIRS TAKE A HAPPIES TURN. 275
insisted that .Michel should let her return to the house
alone in company with Mary; but Michel would not con-
sent. Perhaps he was too happy in the sense of Mary's
presence; for she, under the influence of Petit-Pierre's
promise, replied (with sighs, it is true, but still she
replied) to the tender words her lover said to her. Por
this reason, perhaps, he positively refused to leave them,
and all they could induce him to do was to walk behind
them, at some distance.
They had just crossed the place du Bouffai when Michel,
as he turned the corner of the rue Saint-Sauveur, felt cer-
tain that he heard a step behind him. He turned and saw
a man, who, perceiving that he was noticed, darted hastily
into a doorway. Michel's first idea was to follow him;
but he reflected that if he did so he should lose sight of
Petit-Pierre and Mary. He therefore hurried on and
overtook them.
" We are followed ! " he said to Petit-Pierre.
"Well, let them follow us I" said the duchess, with her
usual serenity. "We have plenty of ways of evading
them."
Petit-Pierre signed to Michel to follow her up a cross-
street, where, after taking about a hundred steps, they
reached the end of the little alley which Michel had once
before taken, and where he had recognized a door by the
branch of holly hung there by Père Eustache.
Petit-Pierre lifted the knocker and struck three blows
at varying intervals. At this signal the door opened as
though by magic. Petit-Pierre made Mary enter the
court-yard and then she entered herself.
" Good ! " said Michel. " Xow I will see if that man is
still watching us."
" Xo, no !" cried Petit-Pierre, "you are condemned to
death. If you forget it, I don't; and as you and I are
running the same danger, you will be good enough to take
the same precautions. Come in — quick ! "
During this time the man whom Michel had seen read-
276 THE LAST VENDÉE.
ing his paper the evening before, appeared on the portico,
wearing the same dressing-gown and apparently half asleep.
He raised his arms to heaven on seeing Petit-Pierre.
"Never mind! never mind!" said the latter, "don't
lose time in lamentation. It is all a failure, and we are
followed. Open the door, my dear Pascal ! "
He turned to the half -open door behind him.
"No, not the house door," said Petit-Pierre, "the gar-
den door. In ten minutes the house will be surrounded}
we must make for the hiding-place at once ! "
"Follow me, then."
"We will follow. So sorry to disturb you, my poor
Pascal, at such an early hour ; and all the more distressed
because my visit will force you to come too, if you don't
want to be arrested."
The garden door was now open. Before passing through,
Michel stretched out his hand to take Mary's. Petit-
Pierre saw the action and gently pushed the girl into the
young man's arms.
"Come," she said, "kiss him, or, at any rate, let him
kiss you ! Before me, it is quite permissible ; I stand to
you as a mother, and I think the poor lad has fully earned
it. There ! Now go your way, Monsieur de la Logerie,
and we will go ours; but remember that the care of my
own interests will not prevent me from looking after
yours."
"When may I see her again ?" said Michel, timidly.
"It will be dangerous, I know that," replied Petit-
Pierre; "but after all, they say there 's a God who pro-
tects both lovers and drunkards, and if so, I '11 rely on
him. You shall pay one visit at least to the rue du
Château, No. 3. I intend, if I can, to return your Mary
to you."
So saying, Petit-Pierre gave Michel a hand, which he
kissed respectfully; then Petit-Pierre and Mary turned in
the direction of the upper town, while Michel took his
way back toward the pont Kousseau.
FISHERMEN AND FISHERMEN. 1277
XXVIII.
SHOWING HOW THERE MAY BE FISHERMEN AND FISHERMKN.
Maître Courtin had been very unhappy in mind during
the whole evening Madame de la Logerie had compelled
him to pass with her. By gluing his ear to the door he
had heard every word the baroness had said to her son,
and he knew, therefore, of the scheme of the schooner.
Michel's departure would, of course, upset all his pro-
jects for the discovery of Petit-Pierre; consequently, he
was little desirous of the honor the baroness did him in
taking him home with her. He was, in fact, most anxious
to get back to the farmhouse. He hoped, by evoking the
image of Mary, to prevent, or at least delay, the flight of
his young master; for if the latter departed he lost, of
course, the thread by which he expected to penetrate the
labyrinth in which Petit-Pierre was hidden.
Unluckily for him, as soon as Madame de la Logerie
reached the château she strack another vein of ideas. In
taking Courtin from the farmhouse her only idea had been
to hide her son's departure and protect him from the
farmer's curiosity; but on reaching the château she found
the house, occupied for the last few weeks by a band of
soldiers, in such deplorable disorder that she forgot, in
presence of a devastation which assumed to her eyes the
proportions of a catastrophe, all her natural distrust of
Courtin, and she kept him with her as the recipient and
echo of her lamentations. Her despair, expressed with
the energy of conviction, prevented Courtin from leaving
her, without some decided pretext, and therefore delayed
his return to the farmhouse.
278 THE LAST VENDÉE.
He was too shrewd not to suspect that the baroness had
brought him to keep him away from her son; but her
despair was so genuine at the sight of her broken china,
shattered mirrors, greasy carpets, and her salon trans-
formed into a guardroom and adorned with primitive but
most expressive designs, that he began to doubt his first
suspicion, and to think that if his young master had really
not been cautioned against him it would be an easy matter
to join him before he could board the vessel.
It was nine o'clock before the baroness, after shedding
a last tear over the filthy defacements of the château, got
into her carriage and Courtin was enabled to give the order
to the postilion to drive on: "Road to Paris! " No sooner
had he done so than he turned round rapidly and ran with
all his might toward the farmhouse.
It was empty; the servant told him that Monsieur
Michel and Mademoiselle Bertha had been gone two hours,
and had taken the road to Nantes.
Courtin at once thought of following them, and ran to
the stable to get his pony, — that, too, had gone ! In his
hurry he had forgotten to ask the servant by what manner
of locomotion his young master had started. The recollec-
tion of his pony's extremely slow method of progression
reassured him somewhat; but, at any rate, he only stopped
in his own house long enough to get some money and the
insignia of his dignity as mayor; then he started bravely
afoot in quest of him whom by this time he regarded as a
fugitive and almost as the embezzler of a hundred thou-
sand francs, which his imagination had already discounted
through the person of Mary de Souday's lover.
Maître Courtin ran like one who sees the wind whirling
away his bank-notes; in fact, he went almost as fast as
the wind. But his haste did not prevent him from stop-
ping to make inquiries of every one he passed. The mayor
of La Logerie was innately prying at all times, and on
this occasion, as may well be supposed, he was not back-
ward with his questions.
K1MIERMEN AND FISHERMEN. 279
At Saint-Philbert-de-Graud-Lieu, he was told that his
pony had been seen about half-past seven o'clock that even-
ing. He asked who rode it] but he got no satisfactory
answer on that point, — the inn-keeper, of whom he
impaired, having taken notice only of the obstinacy of the
animal in refusing to pass the tavern sign (a branch of
holly and three apples saltierwise) where his master usually
baited him on the way to Nantes.
A little farther on, however, the farmer was luckier;
the rider was described to him so exactly that he could
have no doubt about his being the young baron; and he
was also told that the traveller was alone. The mayor, a
prudent man if ever there was one, supposed that the two
young people had parted company out of prudence, mean-
ing to rejoin each other by different roads. Luck was
evidently on his side; the pair were parted, and he knew,
if he could only meet Michel alone, the game was won.
He felt so sure that the young baron had not deviated
from the road and was now in Nantes that when he reached
the inn of the Point-du-Jour he did not trouble himself
to ask the inn-keeper for further information, which, by
the bye, he doubted if the man would give him. He
stopped only long enough to eat a mouthful, and then,
instead of following Michel into Nantes, he turned back
over the pont Rousseau and then to the right, in the direc-
tion of Pèlerin. The wily farmer had his plan.
We have already explained the hopes which Courtin had
founded on Michel. Mary's lover would sooner or later
betray to him, for some personal end, the secret hiding-
place of the woman he loved; and as that beloved woman
was living with Petit-Pierre, Michel's betrayal of Mary's
retreat would also betray the duchess. But if Michel con-
trived to escape, all Courtin's hopes went with him.
Consequently, at any cost Michel must not escape. Now,
if Michel did not find the "Jeune Charles" at her anchor-
age Michel would be forced to remain.
As for Madame de la Logerie, she being well on the
280 THE LAST VENDÉE.
road to Paris, it would be some days at least before she
could hear that her son had not sailed, and could take
other measures to remove him from La Vendée. Courtin
was confident that this delay would suffice him to obtain
from Michel the clue he sought.
The only difficulty was that he did not know in what
way to reach the captain of the "Jeune Charles," the
name of the schooner which he had heard the baroness tell
to Michel; but — without dreaming of his likeness in this
to the greatest man of antiquity — Courtin resolved to run
for luck.
Luck did not escape him. When he reached the top of
the hill above Couéron he saw, above the poplar-trees on
the islet, the masts of the schooner; the foretopsail was
hoisted and was flapping to the breeze. Undoubtedly, it
was the vessel he was in search of. In the lessening
twilight, which was beginning to make all things indis-
tinct, Maître Courtin, glancing along the shore, saw at
about ten paces from him a fishing-rod held horizontally
over the river with a line at the end, and a cork at the end
of the line which floated on the current.
The rod seemed to come from a small hillock, but the
arm that held it was invisible. Maître Courtin was not a
man to remain in ignorance of what he wanted to know ;
he walked straight to the hillock and round it; there he
discovered a man crouching in a hollow between two rocks,
absorbed in contemplation of the swaying of his float at
the will of the current.
The man was dressed as a sailor, — that is, he wore
trousers of tarred-cloth and a pea-jacket; on his head was
a species of Scotch-cap. A few feet from him the stern of
a boat, fastened by its bow to the shore, swayed gently to
the wash of the water. The fisherman did not turn his
head as Courtin approached him, although the latter took
the precaution to cough, and make his cough significant of
a desire to enter into conversation. The fisherman not
only kept an obstinate silence, but he did not even look
Courtin's way.
FISHERMEN AND FISHERMEN. 281
''It is pretty late to be fishing," remarked the mayor
of La Logerie at last.
"That shows you know nothing about it," replied the
fisherman, with a contemptuous grimace. "I think, on
the contrary, that it is rather too early. Night is the
time it is worth while to fish; you can catch something
better than the young fry at night."
"Yes; but if it is dark how can you see your float ? "
"What matter?" replied the fisherman, shrugging his
shoulders. " My night eyes are here," he added, showing
the palm of his hand.
"I understand; you mean you feel a bite," said Courtin,
sitting down beside him. "I'm fond of fishing myself;
and little as you think so, I know a good deal about
it."
"You? fishing with a line?" said the other, with a
doubtful air.
"No, not that," replied Courtin. "I depopulate the
river about La Logerie with nets."
Courtin dropped this hint of his locality, hoping that the
fisherman, whom he took to be a sailor stationed there by
the captain of the schooner to take Monsieur Michel de la
Logerie on board, would catch it up; but he was mistaken;
the man gave no sign of recognizing the name; on the con-
trary he remarked coolly : —
"You boast of your talent for the great art of fishing,
but I don't believe in it."
" Pray why ? " asked Courtin. " Have you the mon-
opoly ? "
"Because you seem to me, my good sir, to be ignorant
of the first principle of that art."
"And what may that principle be ?" asked Courtin.
"When you want to catch fish avoid four things."
"What are they ?"
"Wind, dogs, women, and chatterers. It is true, I
might say three," added the man in the pea-jacket, philo-
sophically, "for women and chatterers are one."
282 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Pshaw ! you '11 soon find out that my chattering, as
you call it, is not out of season, for I am going to propose
to you to earn a couple of francs."
"When I 've caught half a dozen fish I shall have earned
more than a couple of francs, and amused myself into the
bargain."
"Well, I '11 go as far as four, or even five francs," con-
tinued Courtin; "and you will have the chance to do a
service to your neighbor, which counts for something,
doesn't it?"
" Come," said the fisherman, "don't beat round the bush;
what do you want of me ? "
" I want you to take me on board your schooner, the
'Jeune Charles,' the masts of which I see over there
beyond the trees."
"The 'Jeune Charles,' said the sailor, reflectively,
"what's the 'Jeune Charles' ?"
"Here," said Maître Courtin, giving the fisherman an
oil-skin hat he had picked up on the shore, on which
appeared the words, in gilt letters: "Le Jeune Charles."
"Well, I admit you must be a fisherman, my friend,"
said the sailor. ' " The devil take me if your eyes are not
in your fingers, like mine; otherwise you never could
have read that in the darkness ! Now, then, what have
you to do with the 'Jeune Charles' ?"
" Did n't I mention something just now that struck your
ear ? "
"My good man," said the fisherman, "I 'm like a well-
bred dog; I don't yelp when bitten. Heave your own log
and don't trouble yourself about my keel."
"Well, I am Madame la Baronne de la Logerie's farmer."
"What of it?"
"I am sent by her," said Courtin, growing more and
more audacious as he went on.
"What of that?" asked the sailor, in the same tone,
but more impatiently. "You come from Madame de la
Logerie; well, what have } r ou got to say for her?"
FISHERMEN AND FISHERMEN. 283
"I came to tell you that the thing is a failure; it is all
discovered, and you must get away as fast as you can."
"That maybe," replied the fisherman; "but it doesn't
concern me. I am only the mate of the 'Jeune Charles; '
though I do know enough of the matter to put you aboard
and let you talk with the captain."
So saying, he tranquilly wound up his line and threw
it into the boat, which he pulled toward him. Making a
sign to Courtin to sit down in the stern, he put twenty
feet between him and the shore with one stroke of the oars.
After rowing five minutes he turned his head and found
they were close alongside the "Jeune Charles," which,
being in ballast, rose some twelve feet above them out of
the water.
At the sound of oars a curiously modulated whistle came
from the schooner, to which the mate replied in somewhat
the same manner. A figure then appeared in the bows;
the boat came up on the starboard side and a rope was
thrown to it. The man with the pea-jacket climbed aboard
with the agility of a cat, then he hauled up Courtin, who
was less used to such nautical scrambling.
284 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXIX.
INTERROGATORIES AND CONFRONTINGS.
When, to his great joy, the mayor of La Logerie found
himself safely on the deck of the vessel, he saw a human
form whose features he could not distinguish, so hidden
were they in a thick woollen muffler which was wound
around the collar of an oil-skin coat; but whom, by the
respectful attitude of the cabin-boy, who had summoned
him on deck, Courtin took to be the captain of the schooner
himself.
"What 's all this ? " said the latter, addressing the mate
and swinging the light of a lantern, which he took from
the cabin-boy, full in the face of the new-comer.
"He comes from you know who," replied the mate.
"Nonsense !" returned the captain. "What are your
eyes good for if they can't tell the difference between the
cut of a young fellow of twenty and an old hulk like
that ? "
"I am not Monsieur de la Logerie, that 's a fact," said
Courtin. "I am only his farmer and confidential man."
"Very good; that 's something, but not all."
" He has ordered me — "
"In the name of all the porpoises ! I don't ask what
he ordered you, you miserable land -lubber," cried the
captain, squirting a black jet of saliva, — an action which
somewhat hindered the explosion of his evident wrath.
"I tell you that's something, but not all."
Courtin looked at the captain with an amazed air.
" Don't you understand, — yes or no ? " demanded the
latter. "If no, say so at once, and you shall be put
INTERROGATORIES AND CONFEONTINGS. 2S5
ashore with the honors you deserve, ■ — and that 's a good
taste of the cat-o'-nine-tails round your loins."
Courtin now perceived that in all probability Madame
de la Logerie had agreed with the captain of the " Jeune
Charles" on a password, or sign of recognition; that sign
he did not know. He felt he was lost ; all his plans crum-
bled to naught, his hopes vanished; besides which, caught
in a trap like a fox, he would appear in the young master's
eyes when he came aboard for what he really was. His
only way of escape from the luckless position he had put
himself into was to pretend that simplicity of a peasant
which sometimes amounts to idiocy and to empty his face
of all intelligence.
"Hang it, my dear gentleman," he said, "I don't know
a thing more, myself. My good mistress said to me, says
she: 'Courtin, my good friend, you know the young baron
is condemned to death. I 've arranged with a worthy
.sailor to get him out of France; but we 've been denounced
by some traitor. Go and tell this to the captain of the
"Jeune Charles," which you'll find at anchor opposite
Couéron, behind the islands ! ' and I came just as hard as
I could, and that 's all I know."
Just then a vigorous " Ahoy ! " was given from the bows
of the vessel and diverted the captain's mind from the vio-
lent reply he was doubtless about to make. He turned to
the cabin-boy, who, lantern in hand and mouth open, was
listening to the conversation between his master and
Courtin.
"What are you doing there, you shirk, booby, whelp ? "
cried the captain, accompanying his words with a panto-
mine which — thanks to the rapid evolutions of the young
aspirant to a broad pennant — touched him only on the
fleshy parts, though it sent him whirling into the gang-
way. " Is that how you mind your work ? " Then, turn-
ing to the mate he added: "Don't let any one aboard
without knowing him."
But the words were hardly out of his mouth before the
286 THE LAST VENDÉE.
new-coiner, using the rope which had hoisted Courtin, and
which was still hanging, appeared on deck. The captain
picked up the lantern which the cabin-boy had dropped in
his skurry, and which, providentially, was not extinguished;
and then, light in hand, he advanced to his visitor.
" By what right do you come aboard my vessel without
hailing me, you ! " cried the angry captain, seizing the
stranger by the collar.
"I came aboard because I have business with you,"
replied the other, with the confident air of a man who is
sure of his facts.
"What is it, then ? Out with it, quick ! "
"Let go of me, first. You may be sure I sha'n't get
away, as I came of my own accord."
" Ten thousand millions of whales ! " cried the captain,
"holding you by the collar doesn't choke the words in
your throat, does it ? "
"But I can't talk when I 'm embarrassed !" said the
new-comer, without showing the least timidity at the tone
of his questioner.
"Captaiu," said the mate, intervening, "it seems to me,
sacredie ! that you are mistaken. You ask the fellow who
is backing and filling to show his colors, and you are
tying the halliards of the other when he wants to run
his up."
"True," said the captain, loosening his hold of the new-
comer, whom our readers of course know to be Jean
Picaut, Michel's real messenger.
The latter now felt in his pocket, pulled out the hand-
kerchief given to h ira by Michel, and offered it to the
captain, who carefully unfolded it and counted the three
knots with as much particularity as though they were so
much money. Courtin, to whom no one was paying atten-
tion, watched the whole scene and lost nothing of it.
"Good ! " said the captain; "you are all right. We '11
talk presently ; but first, I must get rid of that fellow aft.
You, Antoine," he added, addressing the mate, "take this
INTEKKOGATORIES AND CONFBONTINGS. 287
one to the steward's pantry and give him a quantum of
grog."
The captain returned aft and found Courtin sitting on a
coil of rope. The mayor of La Logerie held his head in
his hands as if he were paying not the slightest attention
to the scene forward. He seemed stupefied, whereas, as
we know, he had not lost a word of the conversation
between the captain and Joseph Picaut.
" Oh, do have me put ashore, captain ! " he said, as soon
as he saw the latter approaching him. "I don't know
what 's the matter with me; but for the last few minutes
I have felt very ill — as if I were going to die ! "
"Pooh ! if you are like that in a river swell you '11 have
a hard time of it before we cross the line ! "
" Cross the line ? good God ! "
"Yes, my fine fellow; your conversation strikes me as
so agreeable that I sha'n't part company with you. You '11
stay aboard of me during the little trip half round the
world I 'm bound for."
" Stay aboard ! what, here ? " cried Courtin, feigning
more terror than he really felt. "And my farm, and my
good mistress, what '11 become of them ? "
" As for the farm, I '11 engage to show you such sights
in foreign lands that you can make it a model farm when
you get back. And as for your good mistress, I '11 replace
her advantageously."
"But why, monsieur ? What makes you take this sud-
den resolution to carry me off? Just think, if my stomach
turns with this river swell, as you call it, I sha'n't be fit
for anything all the way ! "
"That will teach you to fool the captain of the 'Jeune
Charles, ' lubberly thief that you are ! "
"But how have I offended you, my worthy captain? "
"Come," said the officer, apparently resolved to cut
short the dialogue, "answer plainly; it is your only chance
to escape going to the sharks. Who sent you here ? "
"I told you," cried Courtin, "it was Madame de la
288 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Logerie ! and when I tell you that I am her farmer, it is
as true as it is that there 's a God in heaven ! "
"But," said the captain, "if Madame de la Logerie sent
you, she must have given you something by which you
could be recognized, — a note, a letter, a scrap of paper.
If you have nothing to show, you don't come from her;
and if you don't come from her, you are a spy ! — in which
case, beware ! The moment I 'm sure of it, I '11 treat you
as spies should be treated ! "
"Ah! my God!" cried Courtin, pretending to be more
and more terrified; "I can't allow myself to be so sus-
pected. There, take these; they are letters to me which I
happen to have about me; they '11 show you I really am
Courtin, as I told you; and there 's my scarf, as mayor of
La Logerie. My God ! what can I do to convince you I
speak the truth?"
"Your mayor's scarf ! " cried the captain. "How is it,
you rascal, that if you are a public functionary under oath
to the government, how is it, I say, that you are aiding and
abetting a man who has borne arms against the govern-
ment, and is now condemned to death? "
" Ah ! my dear monsieur, that 's because I am so attached
to my masters that my feelings for them are stronger than
my sense of duty. Well, — if I must tell you, — it was in
my capacity as mayor that I knew the plan was betrayed,
and that you were to be boarded to-night. I told Madame
de la Logerie of the danger; and it was then she said to
me: 'Take that handkerchief and find the captain of the
"Jeune Charles" — ' "
" She gave you a handkerchief ? "
" Yes, upon my word ! "
" Where is it ? "
"In my pocket."
"Fool, idiot, jackass, give it to me ! "
"Give it to you?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I 'in willing, — there it is ! "
INTERROGATORIES AND CONFRONTINGS. 289
And Courtin slowly drew a handkerchief from his pocket.
" Give it me, you dog ! " cried the captain, snatching the
handkerchief from Courtin's hand and convincing himself
by a rapid examination that the three knots were really
there.
"But, you stupid brute, you idiot, beast!" continued
the captain, "didn't Madame de la Logerie tell you to give
me that handkerchief ? "
"Yes, she told me," replied Courtin, making his expres-
sion of face as vacant as possible.
" Then why did n't you give it to me ? "
"Hang it !" said Courtin; "when I was hoisted on to
the deck I saw you blowing your nose with your finger^,
and I said to myself, 'Bless me ! if the captain does that
he won't need a handkerchief.' "
" Ha ! " said the captain, scratching his head, with
remains of doubt in his mind, "either you are a clumsy
trickster or a downright imbecile. In either case, as there
is more chance of your being imbecile, I prefer to settle
on that. Now, tell me over again what you are here for,
and what the person who sent you told you say to me."
"Well, here 's word for word what my good mistress
said to me: 'Courtin,' says she, 'I know I can trust you,
can't I ? ' ' Yes, that you can,' says I. ' Well,' says she,
' you must know that my son, whom you 've watched over,
and nursed, and hidden in your house at the risk of your
life, is to escape to-night on board of the "Jeune Charles."
But, as I have heard, and as you have told me yourself,
the plan is discovered. You have only just time to go and
tell the worthy captain that he must not wait for my son,
but had better sail away as fast as he can, or he will be
arrested this very night for aiding and abetting the escape
of a political prisoner — and also, for other things.' '
Maître Courtin added the conclusion of his speech, pre-
suming from the general appearance of the captain of the
" Jeune Charles " that he might have other peccadilloes on
his conscience than the one in question. Perhaps the
VOL. II. — 10
290 THE LAST VENDÉE.
mayor's astute mind was not mistaken, for the worthy
sailor was somewhat pensive for a few moments.
"Come," he said at last, "follow me."
The farmer passively obeyed; the captain took him to
his own cabin, put him in, and double-locked the door.
A few minutes later Courtin, who was in darkness and not
a little uneasy at the turn that matters were taking, heard
a tramp of footsteps on the deck which presently approached
the cabin door. The door was unlocked, the captain
entered first; he was followed by Joseph Picaut, behind
whom came the mate, bearing a lantern.
" Ah, ça ! " cried the captain of the " Jeune Charles, "
" now we '11 get at the bottom of this matter ! We '11
unravel the thread which seems to me pretty well tangled
up, or, by the hull of my ship, I '11 brush the shoulders of
both of you with the cat-o' -nine-tails till the devil him-
self would pity you ! "
" As for me, captain, I have said all I have to say ! "
exclaimed Courtin.
Picaut quivered at the sound of that voice ; he had not
yet seen his enemy, and was not aware that he was on
board the vessel. He made one step forward to convince
himself.
" Courtin ! " he cried, " the mayor of La Logerie ! Cap-
tain, if that man knows our secret, we are lost ! "
" Who is he, then ? " demanded the captain.
" A traitor, a spy, a sneak ! "
"The devil he is !" cried the captain. "You needn't
tell it me fifty times before I believe it; for there 's some-
thing sly and false in the fellow's face which does n't a bit
suit me."
"Ha!" continued Joseph Picaut, "you are not mis-
taken. He 's the damnedest cur and lowest scum in the
whole Retz district ! "
" What have you got to say to that, come now ? " said
the captain to Courtin.
" He can't say anything; T defy him ! " continued Picaut.
INTERROGATORIES AND CONFRONTINGS. 291
Courtin was silent.
" Well, well, I see I shall have to take strong measures
to make you speak, my fine fellow ! " said the captain,
who, thereupon, pulled from his bosom a little silver
whistle hanging to a silver chain, and produced therefrom
a prolonged and piercing sound. At the signal two sailors
entered the cabin.
At sight of them a diabolical smile crossed Courtin 's face.
"Good !" said he; "that's just what I wanted before
speaking."
Taking the captain by the arm he led him to a corner of
the cabin and said a few words in his ear.
"Is that true, actually true ? " asked the captain.
"Easy enough to prove it ! " replied Courtin.
"You are right there," said the captain.
At a word from him the mate and the two sailors seized
Joseph Picaut, pulled off his jacket and tore open his
shirt. The captain then came up to him and gave him a
smart blow on the shoulder. Instantly the two letters
branded on the Chouan when he went to the galleys were
visible on his rugged skin.
Picaut had been so suddenly and violently seized and
handled by the three men that he had no time to defend
himself in the first instance; but he no sooner perceived
the object of the assault than he made the most desperate
efforts to escape the clutches by which he was held; of
course, however, he was mastered by the triple strength
against him and could only roar with rage and blaspheme.
"Lash his hands and feet ! " cried the captain, judging
of the man's honesty by the tell-tale certificate on his
shoulder, "and down with him to the hold between two
hogsheads !" Then, turning to Maître Courtin, who gave
a sigh of relief, "I beg your pardon, my worthy mayor,"
he said, "for confounding you with a scoundrel of that
kind; but don't be uneasy, I '11 guarantee that if any one
sets fire to your barn within the next three years it won't
be that fellow's hand that applies the match ! "
292 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Then, without losing a moment he went on deck, and
Courtin, to his great satisfaction, heard him call all hands
to get the vessel under way.
Once convinced of the danger he was in, the worthy
sailor seemed in so s great a hurry to put as much space as
possible between the law and himself, that he excused
himself to the mayor of La Logerie without even the
civility of offering him a glass of brandy, shoved him into
the boat with a hasty good-bye, and left him to find his
way to the shore as best he could.
Maître Courtin rowed as directly to the bank as the cur-
rent would let him ; and just as the boat's keel touched the
sandy shore he saw the " Jeune Charles " slowly moving
as sail after sail was hoisted to the breeze.
Courtin then hid himself in the same nook of the rocks
where he had found the mate of the vessel fishing, and
there he waited.
But not for long; he had hardly been there half an hour
before Michel arrived, and he saw, to his great astonish-
ment, that neither of the two women who accompanied
him was Bertha. A moment later, and he discovered that
they were Mary and Petit-Pierre.
Then, indeed, he congratulated himself on the success of
his trick, so wonderfully seconded by chance, and he now
bent all his mind to profit by the rare good luck which
providence had bestowed upon him.
It will readily be understood that he never lost sight of
Michel, Mary, and Petit-Pierre as long as they waited on
the shore, and that when the three embarked in the boat
to overtake the ship, he watched them with his eyes every
inch of their way; that he saw them return and land, and
followed them back to Nantes with such precautions that the
three fugitives were wholly unaware they were spied upon.
And yet, cautious as Courtin was, it was actually he
whom Michel had caught sight of at the corner of the
place du Bouffai; it was he who followed the trio to the
house which he saw them enter.
INTERROGATORIES AND CONFRONTING^. 1:93
AVlien the door into the court-yard closed after them,
and they disappeared from sight, he was certain that he
now knew the duchess's hiding-place. He passed before the
door, and as he did so, he drew from his pocket a bit of
chalk and made a cross upon the wall beside it ; then, cer-
tain that he had the fish in his net, he felt he had only to
draw it in and put his hand on a hundred thousand francs.
2U4 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXX.
WE AGAIN MEET THE GENERAL,, AND FIND HE IS NOT
CHANGED.
Maître Courtin was not a little excited. As the last of
the three persons he had followed from Couéron disap-
peared into the court-yard a vision danced before his eyes,
such as he had seen that night on the moor returning from
Aigrefeuille, — a vision that seemed to him the most beau-
tiful of all possible visions : he saw before his dazzled eyes
the sparkling of a pyramid of coins, casting their adorable
gold reflections into the far, far future.
Only, the pyramid was double the size of the one he had
then seen : for his first thought on finding the fish in his
net was that he should be a monstrous fool if he let that
mysterious man at Aigrefeuille share in the benefits of his
catch. He resolved on the spot not to let him know of the
discovery, but to go himself straight to the authorities of
Nantes and reveal the matter to them. To do him justice,
however, it must be said that Maître Courtin did think,
in this first flush of his hopes, of his young master, and of
the fact that he was about to deprive him of liberty, per-
haps of life ; but he instantly smothered that sentiment of
untimely remorse, and, in order not to let his conscience
send forth another such cry, he began to run with alj his
might toward the Prefecture.
He had hardly gone fifty yards before, just as he turned
the corner of the rue du Marché, a man, running from the
opposite direction, bolted against him and knocked him
to the wall. Courtin gave a cry, not of pain, but amaze-
ment, for the man was no other than Monsieur Michel de
•THE GENERAL IS NOT CHANGED. 295
la Logerie, whom he thought he had left safely behind the
green door he had carefully marked with a white cross.
His stupefaction was so great that Michel would cer-
tainly have noticed it had he not himself been so pre-
occupied; but at the moment he was only delighted to see
a man he thought to be his friend, and who, as he believed,
might now be of use to him.
" Oh, Courtin ! " he cried, " tell me, did you come down
the rue du Marché ? "
"Yes, Monsieur le baron."
"Then you must have met a man running away."
"No, Monsieur le baron."
"Why, yes, you must ! It is impossible that you did
not see him, — a man who seemed to be on the watch for
some one ? "
Maître Courtin reddened; but he instantly recovered
himself.
"Wait! stop ! yes, I did," he said, suddenly resolving
to profit by this unexpected chance of averting all sus-
picion from himself. " There was a man walking in front
of me, but I saw him stop at that green door you see down
there."
" That 's it ! " cried Michel, forgetting everything except
his desire to discover the man who had followed them.
"Courtin, will you give me a proof of your fidelity and
devotion ? I positively must discover that man. Which
way do you think he went ? "
"That way," replied Courtin, pointing to the first street
his eyes lighted on.
"Come on, then, and follow me."
Michel started to run in the direction Courtin had
pointed out; bat the latter, as he followed, began to
reflect. For an instant he thought of leaving his master
to run where he liked, and going himself about the business
he was engaged in; but the next instant he thought other-
wise and congratulated himself heartily for not following
his first idea.
290 THE LAST VENDÉE.
It was evident to his mind that the house had two issues;
and as Michel had discovered they were watched, both
must have been used to throw the pursuer off the scent.
Petit-Pierre had probably gone out as Michel did, by
another door. Michel must surely know, by this time,
the real retreat where Mary lived with Petit-Pierre; he
would therefore stay by Michel, from whom he could
undoubtedly obtain the information he wanted; whereas
he might lose all by pushing matters too hastily. He
therefore resigned himself to the loss of his expected catch
and possessed his soul in patience.
He hastened his pace, and rejoined Michel.
"Monsieur le baron," he said, "I must remind you to be
cautious. It is getting to be daylight; the streets will
soon be full of people, and they will all look at you if you
run in this way with your clothes all wet and muddy. If
we meet a police-agent he will certainly think it suspicious
and arrest you; and what will your mother say then? She
has given me so many cautions about you ! "
" My mother ? why, she thinks me at sea, on my way to
England ! »
" Were you going away ? " asked Courtin, with the most
innocent air in the world.
"Yes; did n't she tell you so ? "
"No, Monsieur de la Logerie," replied the farmer, giv-
ing an expression of deep and bitter sadness to his counte-
nance, " no. I see that, in spite of all I have done for you,
the baroness distrusts me ; and I tell you that cuts me to
the heart as a ploughshare cuts into the ground."
"Oh, nonsense ! don't trouble about that, my good
Courtin; but your change of front has been rather sudden
and needs explanation. In fact, when I think of that
night you cut the girths of my horse's saddle, I ask myself
why you have become so kind and attentive and devoted."
"Oh, hang it, Monsieur Michel! that's easy told. At
that time I was fighting for my political opinions; now
that all danger of insurrection is over, and I am certain the
THE GENERAL JS NOT CHANGED. 297
government 1 love can't be overthrown, 1 don't sec any-
thing in Chouans and she-wolves but friends of my master;
and it makes me sorry bo be so little understood."
"Well," said Michel, "lam going to give you a proof
that 1 appreciate your return to better ideas by confiding
to you a secret I believe you bave already guessed.
Courtin, it is probable that the new Baronne de La Logerie
will not be the one who, till now, people think it is."
"You mean you won't marry Mademoiselle de Souday '.' "
"Quite the contrary; only, my wife's name m.;\ be Mary,
and not Bertha."
"Ah, I 'm glad for you ! for you know I helped that on
as much as 1 eould; and if I didn't do more it was because
you wouldn't let me. Ah, ça I have you seen Made-
moiselle Mary since you came to Nantes ? "
"Yes, I have seen her; and the few minutes I spent with
her sufficed, I hope, to secure my happiness," cried Michel,
giving way to the intoxication of his joy. Then he added:
" Are you obliged to go back to La Logerie to-night ? "
" Monsieur le baron ought to feel that I am at his ser-
vice," replied Courtin.
"Very good; then you shall see her yourself, Courtin;
for to-night I 'm to meet her again."
"Where?"
"Where I met you just now."
"Oh, that's good ! " said Courtin, his face brightening
with a satisfaction equal to that on Michel's own face.
"That's good ! you don't know how happy I am to have
you marry according to your own likings. Faith ! if your
mother consents, you are right enough to take the one you
love. You see, now, I gave you good advice."
And the worthy farmer rubbed his hands as though he
were on a pinnacle of satisfaction.
"My good Courtin," said Michel, touched by his farmer's
sympathy, " where shall I find you this evening ? "
"Where you please."
" Did n't you put up, as I did, at the Point du Jour ? "
298 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Yes, Monsieur le baron."
"Well, then, we can pass the day there. To-night you
can go with me when I meet Mary, and keep watch for us."
"But," said Courtin, much embarrassed by a proposal
which interfered with all his plans, "I 've got a good deal
to do in town."
"Well, I '11 go with you; it will help me to kill time."
"No, that won't do; my business as mayor will take me
to the Prefecture, and you must n't go there. No, do you
go back to the inn and keep quiet, and to-night at ten
o'clock I '11 be on hand to start, — you as happy as a king,
and I very glad of your happiness."
Courtin was most anxious to be rid of Michel for the
present. The idea of gaining the whole reward for the
capture of Petit-Pierre so filled his mind that he was
determined not to leave Nantes without knowing the exact
amount offered, and laying some plan to obtain it all him-
self and not divide it with any one.
Michel yielded to Courtin's reasoning, and giving a
glance at his muddy clothing he decided to take leave of
him then and there and go back to the tavern.
As soon as his young master had left him Courtin made
his way to the quarters of General Dermoncourt. He gave
his name to the orderly, and after a few minutes' delay
he was shown into the presence of the man he came to see.
The general was a good deal dissatisfied with the turn
matters were taking; he had sent to Paris plans of pacifi-
cation, somewhat like those which had succeeded so well
under General Hoche. These plans had not been approved ;
the general saw the civil authority encroaching everywhere
on the powers which martial law assigned to the military
alone; and his susceptibilities as an old soldier, wounded
at every turn, together with his patriotic feelings, made
him deeply dissatisfied.
" What do you want ? " he said to Courtin, looking him
over from head to foot.
Courtin bowed as low as he was able.
THE GENERAL IS NOT CHANGED. 209
"General," he said, "perhaps you remember the fair at
Montaigu ? "
" Parbleu, as if it were yesterday ! and especially the
night after it. Ha ! that expedition would have been a
success, and I might have strangled the insurrection at its
birth if a scoundrelly keeper had n't inveigled one of my
troopers. By the bye, what was that man's name ? "
"JeanOullier."
"What became of him ? "
Courtin could not help turning pale.
"He died," he said.
"The best thing he could do, poor devil; and yet, I 'm
sorry too, — he was a brave fellow."
"If you remember the man who defeated the affair,
general, it seems strange you have forgotten the one who
helped you with information."
The general looked at Courtin.
"Jean Oullier was a soldier, a comrade, and soldiers
remember each other ; the rest — I mean spies and in-
formers — they forget as soon as possible."
"Very well," said Courtin. "Then I shall have to
refresh your memory, general, and tell you that I am the
man who informed you of Petit-Pierre's hiding-place."
"Oh, are you ? " said the general. "Well, what do you
want to say now ? Speak out, and briefly ! "
"I want to do you exactly the same service over again."
" As for that, times are changed, my good friend. We
are no longer among the sunken roads of the Retz region,
where a tiny foot, a fair skin, and a soft voice are remark-
able because they are rare in the country. Here, all the
women look like great ladies ; and a score of men of your
kind have been to me to sell their mare's-nests. My
soldiers have been kept on the qui-vive all the time; we
have searched a dozen different places, and all to no
purpose."
" General, T have a right to expect you to put faith in
me, because the information I gave you first was correct."
300 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Upon my word, " muttered the general, in a low tone,
" it would be rather pleasant to discover, all by myself,
what that man from Paris with his squads of spies, and
sneaks, and pimps, and criminal and detective police can't
find out. Are you sure of what you say ? " he continued,
raising his voice.
"I am sure that within twenty -four hours I shall know
the street and the number of the house — "
"Then come and see me."
"But, general, I should wish to know — " Courtin
stopped.
" Know what ? " asked the general.
" I have heard talk of reward, and I wish to know — "
" Ah, true ! " said the general, looking at Courtin with
sovereign contempt. "I forgot, though you are a public
functionary, that you are one of those who don't neglect
their private interests."
" You said yourself, general, that we were the ones that
were soonest forgotten."
"And you want money to take the place of public grati-
tude ? Well, that 's logical. So, then, you don't give, my
worthy mayor, you sell, you traffic, you trade in human
flesh; and to-day, having something to sell, you come to
what you think the best market, — is that it ? "
"You have said it. Oh, don't feel embarrassed, gen-
eral, business is business ; and I am not ashamed to attend
to mine ! "
" So much the better; but I 'm not the man you ought to
go to. They 've sent down a gentleman from Paris who is
specially charged to attend to this matter. When you can
lay hands on your prey, you had better go to him and
sell it."
"So I will, general. But," continued Courtin, "as I did
you such a service that first time, don't you feel inclined
to give me some reward ? "
" My good fellow, if you think I owe you anything I am
ready to pay it. Speak out ! I 'm listening."
THE GENERAL IS NOT CHANGED. 301
"It will be all the easier because I don't ask much."
"Goon."
" Tell me the sum the government has promised to the
man who delivers Petit-Pierre into your hands."
"Fifty thousand francs, perhaps; I didn't pay much
attention to it, any way."
"Fifty thousand francs !" exclaimed Courtin, stepping
back as if he had been struck. " Why, fifty thousand francs
is nothing ! "
"I agree with you there; it isn't worth while to be
infamous for such a sum as that. But you can say that to
those it concerns; as for you and me, we have done with
each other, I think. Take yourself away. Good-day . to
you ! "
And the general, resuming the work he had laid aside
to receive Courtin, paid not the slightest attention to the
bows and civilities with which the mayor of La Logerie
endeavored to make a proper retreat.
The latter departed far less satisfied in mind than he
was when he entered. He had no doubt whatever that the
general knew correctly the exact amount of the reward,
and he could not reconcile what he had just heard with
what the mysterious man at Aigrefeuille had told him, —
unless it might be that the said mysterious man was the
agent sent by the government from Paris. He now gave
up all idea of acting without him, and he resolved, while
practising the utmost caution, to let him know as soon as
possible what had happened.
Until now the man had come to Courtin; but the farmer
had his address, and was directed to write to him if any-
thing important occurred. Courtin did not write; he went
in person. After a good deal of trouble he managed to
find, in the lowest quarter of the town, at the farther end
of a damp and muddy blind alley full of the sordid booths
of rag-pickers and old-clothes men, a tiny shop, where, fol-
lowing certain directions, he asked for Monsieur Hyacinthe.
He was told to go up a ladder, and was then shown into a
302 THE LAST VENDÉE.
small room, niuch cleaner and more decent than miglit
have been expected from the general appearance of this
lair.
There he found the man from Aigrefeuille, who received
him far better than the general had done; and with whom
he had a long conference.
C0UKT1N IS AGAIN DISAPPOINTE]'. 303
XXXI.
COURTIN MEETS WITH ANOTHER DISAPPOINTMENT.
If the day seemed long to Michel, to Courtin its length
was intolerable; he thought that night would never come.
And though he felt he ought to keep away from the rue du
Marché and the adjacent streets, it was impossible to avoid
airing his impatience in their neighborhood.
When evening came, mindful of his engagement with
Michel, he returned to the tavern of the Point du Jour.
There he found Michel awaiting him eagerly. As soon as
the young man saw him he exclaimed : —
"Ah, Courtin, I am thankful to see you. I have dis-
covered the man who followed us last night."
" Hein ! what ? what did you say ? " asked Courtin, mak-
ing, in spite of himself, a step backward.
" I have discovered him, I tell you ! "
"But the man — who is he ? " asked Courtin.
"A man in whom I felt sure I might trust; and you
would have trusted him too in my position, — Joseph
Picaut."
"Joseph Picaut!" repeated Courtin, feigning astonish-
ment.
"Yes."
" Where did you meet him ? "
"At this inn, where he is hostler, or rather, where he
is playing the part of hostler."
" Why did he follow you ? You can't have had the im-
prudence to tell him your secret ? Ah, young man, young
man ! " exclaimed Courtin ; " they may well say youth and
imprudence go together. A former galley-slave ! "
304 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" That 's the very reason. Don't you know why he was
sent to the galleys ? "
"Damn it, yes ! for highway robbery."
"But it was in the time of the great war. However,
that 's neither here nor there. I gave him an errand to
do."
" If I were to ask you what errand, you 'd think me
inquisitive; and yet it is my real interest in you that
makes me ask, and nothing else."
" Oh ! I have no reason for concealing the matter from
you. I sent him to let the captain of the 'Jeune Charles '
know that I should be on board at three o'clock in the
morning. Well, no one has since seen Picaut or the horse
— and, by the bye," added the young baron, laughing, "the
horse was your pony, my poor Courtin ; your pony, which
I took from the farm and rode to Nantes."
"Oh! oh! " exclaimed Courtin, "then Sweetheart is — "
"Sweetheart is probably lost to you forever."
"Perhaps he has gone back to his stable," said Courtin,
who, even in presence of the grand financial horizon which
was opening before him, felt a profound regret for the
twenty or twenty-five pistoles at which he valued his
pony.
"Well, what I want to tell you is, that if, as I suppose,
Joseph Picaut followed us he must now be on the watch
about the neighborhood."
"What object has he?" inquired Courtin. "If he
wanted to deliver you up nothing could have been easier
than to bring the gendarmes here."
Michel shook his head.
" No, — do you say no ? "
" I say it is not I whom he is after, Courtiu ; it is not on
my account he watched us yesterday."
" Why so ? "
" Because the price on my head would not pay him for
his treachery."
" But whom else can he be spying on ? " said the farmer,
COUKTIN IS AGAIN DISAPPOINTED. 305
calling up all the vacant simplicity he was capable of
imprinting on his face and accent.
" A Yendéan leader whom I was anxious to save while
making my own escape," replied Michel, beginning to per-
ceive whither Courtin's questions were leading him, —
though he was not sorry to admit the latter into half his
secret in order to use him when occasion came.
"Ah, ha!" exclaimed Courtin; "and you think he has
discovered the hiding-place of the Yendéan leader ? That
would be a misfortune, Monsieur Michel."
"No; he only got to the outworks, as it were; but I am
afraid, now that he is once on the scent, he may have
better luck this time."
" This time, — how do you mean ? "
"Why, to-night, if he watches us, he will find out I
have a meeting with Mademoiselle Mary."
" Mordieu ! you 're right."
"And that makes me very uneasy," said Michel.
"But I shall be on the watch; and if you are followed
I '11 whistle in time for you to get away."
"And you?"
Courtin laughed.
"Oh ! I — I don't risk anything. My opinions are
well-known, thank God; and in my capacity as mayor I
can have all the dangerous companions I choose."
"Evil is good sometimes," said Michel, laughing in his
turn. "But listen, what time is that ?"
"Striking nine from the clock at Bouffai."
"Then, come on, Courtin."
Courtin took his hat, Michel his, and they both went
out and were soon at the corner where Michel had met his
farmer the night before. The latter stood with his right
to the rue du Marché and his left toward the alley into
which opened the green door he had marked with a cross.
"Stay there, Courtin," said Michel. "I '11 wait at the
farther end of this alley; I don't know which way Mary
means to come. If she passes you, direct her toward me;
VOL. II. — 20
306 THE LAST VENDÉE.
if she comes my way, do you move up nearer to us, so as to
be ready in case of need."
" Don't trouble about that, " said Courtin, as he settled
himself on the watch.
Courtin was now at the summit of happiness; his plan
had completely succeeded. In one way or another he was
certain to come in contact with Mary ; Mary was the inti-
mate attendant on Petit-Pierre; he would fellow Mary
when she left Michel, and he had no doubt that the young
girl, unconscious of being tracked, would herself betray
the hiding-place of the princess by going there.
Half-past nine o'clock ringing from all the belfries in
Nantes surprised Courtin in the midst of these reflections.
Their metallic vibrations were hardly stilled before he
heard a light step coming up on his right; he went in that
direction, and saw a young peasant-woman wrapped in a
mantle and carrying a package in her hand, whom he
recognized to be Mary. The young girl, seeing a strange
man apparently on the watch, hesitated. Courtin went up
to her and made her recognize him.
"It is all right, Mademoiselle Mary," he said, replying
to her relieved gesture ; " but I 'm not the one you are
looking for, am I ? You want Monsieur le baron; well,
there he is, waiting for you down there."
And he pointed with his finger to the alley. The girl
thanked him with a gesture of her head and moved hastily
away in the direction given her. As for Courtin, con-
vinced that the interview would be a long one, he sat
down, philosophically, on a milestone, prepared to wait.
Prom that milestone, however, he could keep the two
young people in sight while dreaming of his coming
fortune, which now seemed a certainty, — for he held in
Mary one end of the thread that would lead him through
the labyrinth; and this time, he vowed, the thread should
not break.
But he had scarcely begun to set up the scaffolding of
glorious dreams on the golden clouds of his imagination,
COURTIN IS AGAIN DISAPPOINTED. 307
when the two young people, after exchanging a few sen-
tences, returned in his direction. They passed in front of
him; the young baron had Mary on his arm and was carry-
ing the little package the farmer had lately seen in Mary's
hand. Michel nodded to him.
" Ho, ho ! " thought Courtin, " is it going to be as easy
as this ? There 's absolutely no credit in it." And he
followed the lovers on a sign from Michel, keeping at a
short distance behind them.
Presently, however, he began to feel a slight uneasiness.
Instead of going to the upper town, where Courtin felt
instinctively that the princess was hidden, the pair turned
down toward the river. The farmer followed their move-
ments with deep anxiety. Soon, however, he began to
fancy that Mary had some errand in that direction, and
that Michel was only accompanying her.
Nevertheless, his anxiety again deepened when, on
turning the corner of the quay, he saw the young pair
making straight for the tavern of the Point du Jour,
which they presently entered. Unable to restrain himself
any longer he ran hastily forward and overtook the baron.
"Ah, here you are, — just in time ! " said Michel.
" What is it ? " asked the spy.
" Courtin, my dear fellow, I 'm the happiest man on
earth ! "
"Why so?"
"Quick ! saddle me two horses ! "
"Two horses?"
"Yes."
"And Mademoiselle Mary ? don't you mean to take her
back ? "
" ~No, Courtin, I shall carry her off ! "
"Where?"
"To Banlceuvre; where we shall make some plan to get
away together."
" But will Mademoiselle Mary desert — "
Courtin stopped short; he was about to betray him-
308 THE LAST VENDÉE.
self. But Michel was much too happy and excited to ue
distrustful.
" Mademoiselle Mary will not desert any one, my dear
Courtin; we are to send Bertha in her place. Don't you
see that I can't be the one to tell Bertha I do not love
her ? "
" Then who will tell her ? "
"Don't trouble yourself about that, Courtin; somebody
will tell her. Now, quick ! saddle those horses ! "
" Have you any horses here ? "
"No, none of my own; but there are always horses,
don't you understand, for those who travel for the good of
the cause."
And Michel pushed Courtin toward the stable, where,
in fact, two horses were munching their oats as if awaiting
the young people.
Just as Michel was putting the saddle on the second
horse the master of the inn came down, followed by Mary.
"I come from the South and am going to Bosny,"
Michel said to him, continuing to saddle one of the horses,
while Courtin was saddling, but more slowly, the other.
Courtin heard the password, but did not comprehend it.
"Very good," said the master of the inn, nodding his
head in sign of intelligence.
Then, as Courtin seemed rather behindhand, he helped
him to saddle the other horse and rejoin Michel.
"Monsieur Michel," said Courtin, making a last effort,
"why go to Banlœuvre instead of to La Logerie ? You
would be more comfortable at my house."
Michel questioned Mary by a look.
" Oh ! no, no, no ! " she said. " Remember, my dear
friend," she whispered, "that Bertha will be certain to
return there to get news of us, and to know why the vessel
was not at the place agreed upon; and I wouldn't for all
the world see her before the friend you know of speaks to
her. I think I should die of shame and grief if I saw her
just now."
COURTIN IS AGAIN DISAPPOINTED. 309
At Bertha's name, which he overheard, Courtin raised
his head as a horse raises his to the sound of trumpets.
" Mademoiselle does not want to go to La Logerie ? " he
said.
"But, Mary," said Michel, hesitating.
" What ? " asked the girl.
" Who will give your sister the letter that summons her
to Nantes ? "
"As for that," said Courtin, "it isn't hard to find a
messenger. If there is anything you want said or done,
Monsieur Michel, I '11 undertake it."
Michel hesitated; but he, like Mary, dreaded Bertha's
first outbreak of anger. Again he looked at Mary; she
replied with an assenting sign.
" Then we will go to Banlœuvre ; and you must take the
letter," said Michel, giving Courtin a paper. "If you
have anything to say to us, Courtin, you will find us there
for the present."
"Ah, poor Bertha ! poor Bertha ! " said Mary, springing
on her horse. "How shall I ever console myself for my
happiness ? "
The two young people were now in their saddles; they
made a friendly sign to the master of the inn ; Michel com-
mended the letter once more to Courtin's care, and then
they both rode away from the tavern of the Point du
Jour.
At the end of the pont Rousseau they came near riding
over a man who, in spite of the heat of the weather, was
wrapped in a sort of mantle which almost hid his face.
This sombre apparition alarmed Michel; he quickened his
horse's pace and told Mary to do the same. After going
about a hundred yards Michel turned round. The stranger
had stopped, and, in spite of the darkness, was watching
them.
"He is looking at us ! " said Michel, feeling instinctively
that they had just passed some great danger.
After the unknown man had lost sight of the riders he
310 THE LAST VENDÉE.
continued his way to Nantes. At the door of the Point
du Jour he stopped, looked about him as if in search of
some one, and saw a man reading a letter by the light of
a lantern. He went up to the man, who, at the sound of
his steps, looked round.
"Ah, it's you!" said Courtin. "Faith, you've just
missed getting here too soon; a minute earlier and you
would have found yourself in company you would n't have
liked."
" Who were those two young people who nearly knocked
me over on the bridge? "
"The very ones I mean."
"Well, what 's the news, — good, or bad?"
"Both; but more good than bad."
"Is it to be to-night?"
"No; the affair is postponed."
" You mean failed, blunderer ! "
Courtin smiled.
" It is true that luck has been against me since yester-
day; but no matter ! we must be satisfied with walking,
not running, that 's all. Though to-day is a failure, in
view of immediate results, I would n't take twenty thou-
sand francs for it."
" Ah, ha ! you are sure of that ? "
"Yes, very sure. The proof is that I've got hold of
something already. "
"What?"
"This," said Courtin, showing the letter he had just
unsealed and read.
" A letter ? "
"A letter."
"What 's in it ? " said the man in the cloak, putting out
his hand to take the paper.
" One moment. We will read it together. I prefer to
hold it, because it is intrusted to me for delivery."
"Well, let us read it," said the man.
They both went up to the lantern and read as follows: —
COUKTIN IS AGAIN DISAPPOINTED. 311
Come to me as soon as possible ; you know the passwords.
Your affectionate
Petit-Pierre.
" To whom is that letter addressed ? " asked the man in
the cloak.
"To Mademoiselle Bertha de Souday."
" Her name is not on the cover, nor at the bottom of the
page."
"Because a letter might be lost."
" And you are commissioned to deliver that letter ? "
"Yes."
The man gave a second glance at the paper.
"The writing is certainly hers," he said. "Ah ! if you
had only allowed me to accompany you we should have her
by this time."
" What does that matter, if you are sure of her later ? "
" Yes, true. When shall I see you again ? "
"Day after to-morrow."
" Here, or in the country ? "
"At Saint-Philbert-de-Grand-Lieu; that is half way
between Nantes and my house."
"I hope next time you won't stir me up for nothing."
"I promise you that."
"Try to keep your word; I keep mine. Here 's the
money. See, I hold it ready, so that you may not have to
wait for it."
He opened his wallet and showed the farmer, compla-
cently, a mass of bank-bills amounting probably to a
hundred thousand francs.
" Oh, " said Courtin, " only paper ! "
"Paper, of course, but signed 'Garat;' that is a good
signature."
"jSTo matter," said Courtin; "I prefer gold."
"Well, gold you shall have," said the other, replacing
the portfolio in his pocket and crossing his mantle over
his coat.
If the pair had not been so engrossed in their conversa-
312 THE LAST VENDÉE.
tion they would have seen that a peasant had climbed the
wall between the street and the court-yard by the help of
a cart which stood outside, and was listening to what they
said, and gazing at the bank-notes with an air which
implied that in Courtin's place he would have been quite
satisfied with Garat's signature.
"Very good; then the day after to-morrow at Saint-
Philbert," repeated the man in the cloak.
"Day after to-morrow."
"What time?"
"Evening, of course."
" Say seven o'clock. The first comer will wait for the
other."
"But you '11 bring the money? "
"You mean the gold? yes."
"All right."
"Do you expect to bring the matter to conclusion
then ? "
"I hope to. It costs nothing to hope."
"Day after to-morrow, at Saint-Philbert, seven o'clock,"
muttered the peasant on the wall, letting himself gently
down into the street. "We '11 be there." Then he added
with a laugh that sounded terribly like the grinding of
teeth: "When a man is branded he ought to earn his
label."
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY DRAGS FOR OYSTERS. 313
XXXII.
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY DRAGS FOR OYSTERS AND BRINGS
UP PICAUT.
Bertha, who had left the farmhouse at La Logerie at the
same time as Michel, reached, her father after a tramp of
about two hours. She found him extraordinarily depressed
and utterly disgusted with the hermit's life he was leading
in Maître Jacques' warren, though the latter had arranged
it for his personal comfort and installed him safely in it.
From a feeling that was purely chivalrous, Monsieur de
Souday had not been willing to leave the country so long
as Petit-Pierre was in it, and in danger. Therefore, when
Bertha came to him with the news of the duchess's prob-
able departure, the old Vendéan gentleman resigned him-
self, though without heartiness, to follow the advice of
General Dermoncourt and depart for the third time to
foreign lands.
He and his daughter left the forest of Touvois at once.
Maître Jacques, whose hand was now nearly well, though
it lacked two fingers, wished to accompany them to the
coast and assist in their embarkation.
It was midnight when the three travellers, following
the high-road from Machecoul, reached the heights above
the valley of Souday. As the marquis looked at the four
weathercocks on his four towers, which were shimmering
in the moonlight above the sea of verdure which sur-
rounded them, he sighed. Bertha heard him and came
nearer to his side.
"What is it, father?" she said. "What are you
thinking of ? "
314 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Of many things, my poor child," he answered, shaking
his head.
"Don't take gloomy thoughts into your head, father.
You are still young and vigorous; you'll see the house
again some day."
"Yes," said the marquis, with another sigh, "but — " he
stopped, half choking.
"But what ? " asked Bertha.
"I shall never see my poor Jean Oullier again."
"Alas ! " said the girl.
"Oh, house, — poor house!" said the marquis; "how
empty you will seem to me without him ! "
Though there was really more of egotism than attach-
ment to his faithful servant in the marquis's regret, if
Jean Oullier could have heard that lament it would cer-
tainly have touched him deeply.
Bertha resumed the subject.
"Do you know, father," she said, "I can't help fancy-
ing, though I am sure I don't know why, that our poor
friend, in spite of all they say, is not dead. It seems to
me that if he were really dead I should have wept more
for him; a secret hope, which I can't explain, comes and
stops my tears."
"That 's odd," interrupted Maître Jacques; "but I have
just the same feeling. No, Jean Oullier is not dead; and
I have something better than presumption to go upon, — I
saw the body they said was his, and I could n't recognize
it."
"Then what has become of him ? " asked the marquis.
"Faith, I don't know!" replied Maître Jacques; "but
I keep expecting every day to get news of him."
The marquis sighed again. At this moment they were
passing through an angle of the forest. Perhaps he was
thinking of the hecatombs of game he and his faithful
keeper had piled beneath those verdant arches, — a sight,
alas! he might never see again. Perhaps the few words
said by Maître Jacques had opened his heart to a renewed
THE MAEQDIS DE SOUDAY DRAGS FOR OYSTERS. 315
hope of recovering his old friend. The latter supposition
is the more probable, for he urged the master of rabbits to
make most particular inquiries about Jean Oullier's fate,
and to let him know the result.
When they reached the seashore the marquis would not
wholly conform to the plan laid down by Michel and
Bertha for his embarkation. He feared that if they fol-
lowed the shore along the bay of Bourgneuf, as agreed
upon, they might draw the attention of the coast-guard
cutter to the schooner; nothing would induce him to incur
the reproach of compromising Petit-Pierre's safety for
personal considerations, and he decided that the proper
thing to do was for himself and daughter to go out to sea
and meet the "Jeune Charles."
Maître Jacques, who had friends and accomplices every-
where, soon found a fisherman who was willing, for the
consideration of a few louis, to take them in his boat to
the schooner. The little craft was drawn up on the shore.
The marquis and Bertha, instructed by Maître Jacques,
who was familiar with all smuggling manœuvres, slipped
into it and escaped the eyes of the custom-house officers
who watched the coast. An hour later the tide floated the
boat; the owner aud his two sons, who served as crew, got
into her and put out to sea.
As it still wanted half an hour till daybreak, the mar-
quis did not wait till the boat was in the offing to come
out of his hiding-place in the little deck cabin, where he
was even more cribbed and confined than in Maître
Jacques' burrow. As soon as the fisherman saw him he
began to ask questions.
"You say, monsieur, that the vessel you expect is com-
ing from the mouth of the Loire ? "
"Yes," replied the marquis.
"At what hour was she to leave Nantes ? "
"Prom three to five this morning," said Bertha.
The fisherman consulted the wind.
"The wind is southwest," he said; "the tide was high
316 THE LAST VENDÉE.
at. three o'clock. We ought to meet them between eight
and nine; it will take them four hours to get here. Mean-
time, in order not to attract attention from the coast-guard,
we had better throw over some drag-nets and make a pre-
tence of fishing, to explain our being here."
" Make a pretence ! " cried the marquis ; " why, I should
like to fish in good earnest ! All my life I have wanted
the opportunity for that sport; and faith, as I can't hunt
in Machecoul this year, it is a fine compensation which
Heaven sends me, — too fine to miss it ! "
In spite of Bertha's cautions — for she feared her father's
great height might attract attention — the marquis began
to work with the fisherman at once.
The net was thrown out and allowed to drag for some
time at the bottom of the sea; but before long, the Marquis
de Souday, who had valiantly hauled on the ropes to bring
the net to the surface, was as delighted as a child with
the shining mass of eels, turbot, plaice, skate, and oysters
which came up palpitating from the depths of the sea. He
at once forgot his griefs, his hopes, his memories ; he forgot
Souday and the forest of Machecoul, the marches of Saint-
Philbert, the great moors; and with them he forgot wild-
boars, deer, foxes, hares, partridges, and snipe, and thought
only of the shining population with smooth or scaly skins
which each throw of the net produced before his eyes.
Daylight came.
Bertha, who till then had sat in the bows absorbed in
thought, watching the waves as they parted at the prow of
the little vessel and floated away in two phosphorescent
furrows, — Bertha now climbed on a coil of rope to examine
the horizon.
Through the morning mists, thicker at the mouth of the
river than elsewhere, she could see the tall masts and
spars of several vessels ; but none of them carried the blue
pennant by which they were to recognize the "Jeune
Charles." She observed this to the fisherman, who assured
her, with an oath, that it was impossible for the schooner,
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY DRAGS FOR OYSTERS. 317
if she left Nantes during the night, to have made the open
sea already.
The marquis did not give the worthy fisherman and his
men much time for discussion, for he was so pleased with
his taste of their trade that he allowed no spare time
between the throws of the net; and any little pause that
occurred he filled up with questions to the old sailor on
the rudiments of nautical science.
It was in the course of this instructive conversation that
the fisherman requested him to observe that by throwing
the net as a drag they were forced to make long tacks, and
that this method of proceeding would end by leading them
astray from their post of observation. But the marquis,
with that careless indifference which was the basis of his
character, paid no attention to the skipper's argument, and
continued to fill the hold of the boat with the products of
the haul.
The morning went by. It was ten o'clock, and still no
vessel approached them. Bertha became very uneasy ; she
mentioned her fears to her father several times, and at
last with so much urgency that the marquis could do no
less than consent to go nearer to the mouth of the river.
He profited by the manœuvre, however, to make the old
sailor teach him how to haul his wind, — that is to say,
how to trim his sails so as to make as slight an angle with
the keel as the rigging would allow. They were in the
most tangled part of the demonstration when Bertha
uttered a cry.
She had just seen at a few hundred feet from the boat a
large vessel with all sail spread, to which she had hitherto
paid no attention, as it did not fly the promised signal,
and was now partly hidden by the jib of the boat.
"Look out ! look out! " she cried; "there 's a ship com-
ing down upon us ! "
The fisherman saw in an instant the danger that threat-
ened them, and springing to the helm he wrenched it from
the hand of the marquis, then, without observing that he
318 THE LAST VENDÉF-.
knocked the latter flat on the deck, he managed to get the
boat round to windward of the ship, which was close upon
them. Rapid as the manœuvre was, he could not prevent
a slight collision; the boom of the lugger's mainsail grazed
the side of the schooner with a loud noise, her gaff was
entangled for a moment with the hitter's bowsprit; the
boat heeled over, shipped a sea, and if the skipper's rapid
manoeuvre had not enabled him to catch the wind, she
might not have righted as rapidly as she did, or perhaps
not have righted at all.
" The devil take that damned coaster ! " cried the old
fisherman. " Another minute and we should have gone to
the bottom in exchange for the fish we 've just caught ! "
" Go about ! go about ! " cried the marquis, exasperated
by his fall. " After him ! the devil take me if I don't
board him and ask the captain what he means by such
insolence ! "
"Do you expect me," said the old sailor, "with my one
sail and two poor jibs, to overhaul a craft of that kind?
Look at his canvas, the villain ! — every stitch set ! And
see how it draws ! "
"Yet we must overtake him ! " cried Bertha, running aft.
"It is the 'Jeune Charles! ' "
And she showed her father a broad, white band at the
stern of the other vessel on which could be read, in letters
of gold. "Le Jeune Charles."
" Faith, you are right, Bertha ! " cried the marquis.
" Go about, my friend, go about ! But why does n't he
carry the signal agreed upon with Monsieur de la Logerie ?
And why, instead of steering for the bay of Bourgneuf, is
he heading east ? "
"Perhaps some accident has happened," said Bertha,
turning pale.
" God grant it may not be to Petit-Pierre ! " muttered
the marquis.
Bertha admired her father's stoicism, but in her heart
she murmured : " God grant it may not be to Michel ! "
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY DRAGS FOR OYSTERS. 319
"Never mind!" said the marquis, "we must find out
what all this means."
The lugger had meantime gone about, and again catch-
ing the wind, began to move rapidly through the water;
this manœuvre on a vessel of her size could be done so
quickly that the schooner, in spite of lier volume of sail,
did not get far in advance. The fisherman was able to
hail her.
The captain appeared on the poop.
"Are you the 'Jeune Charles' from Nantes?" asked
the skipper of the boat, making a trumpet of his two
hands.
" What 's that to you ? " answered the captain of the
schooner, whose good humor did not seem to be restored
by the certainty of having evaded the clutches of the
law.
"I have folks aboard for you ! " cried the fisherman.
"More messengers ! A thousand devils! I tell you if
you bring me any more such fellows like those I have had
this night, I '11 run you down, you old oyster-dredger,
before I let 'em aboard ! "
"No, they are passengers ! Aren't you looking out for
passengers ? "
" I 'm looking out for a good wind to take me round Cape.
Finisterre ! "
"Let me come alongside," said the fisherman, at Bertha's
suggestion.
The captain of the " Jeune Charles " looked at the sea,
and not perceiving between himself and the coast anything
to warrant apprehension, and desirous, moreover, to know
if the passengers asking to come aboard were those for
whom his vessel was chartered, he did as the fisherman
requested, hauled down his foresail and mainsail and
brought-to his vessel sufficiently to throw a line to the
lugger and bring her alongside.
" Now, then ! " cried the captain, leaning over his bul-
warks, " what 's all this about ? "
320 THE LAST VENDEE.
"Ask Monsieur de la Logerie to come and speak to us,"
said Bertha.
"Monsieur de la Logerie is not aboard of me," replied
the captain.
"But," returned Bertha, in a troubled voice, "at any
rate, you have two ladies, have n't you ? "
"Ladies or passengers, I have n't any," said the captain;
"except a rascal in irons down in the hold, where he is
cursing and swearing fit to take the masts out of the ship
and make the bulkhead he 's lashed to tremble."
"Good God!" cried Bertha, trembling herself. "Do
you know if any accident has happened to the persons
who were to embark on your ship ? "
"Faith, my pretty young lady," said the captain, "if
you would tell me what all this means you would oblige
me greatly; for the devil is in it if I can make out any-
thing about it. Last night two men came on board, both
from Monsieur de la Logerie, with two different messages :
one ordered me to sail at once; the other told me to stay
where I was. One of these men was an honest farmer, — a
mayor, I think, for he showed me a bit of a tricolor scarf.
It was he who told me to up anchor and be off as fast as I
could. The other, who wanted me to stay, was an old
galley-slave. I put faith in the most respectable of the
two, for, after all, his advice was safest, and I came away."
" My God ! " exclaimed Bertha, " it must have been
Courtin; some accident has happened to Monsieur de la
Logerie ! "
" Do you want to see the other man ? " asked the
captain.
"Whatman?" said the marquis.
" The one I 've got below in irons. You may recognize
him, and then we shall get at the truth of this business, — ■
though it is too late now to do any good."
"Too late to get away, — yes, that may be," said the
marquis; "but not too late to save our friends if they
are in any peril. Show us the man ! "
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY DRAGS FOR OYSTERS. 321
The captain gave an order, and a few seconds later
Joseph Picaut was brought on deck. He was still chained
and bound; but, in spite of his bonds, he had no sooner
caught sight of the coast of La Vendée, which he thought
he was fated never to see again, than, without reckoning-
distance, or the impossibility of swimming, bound as he
was, he tried to escape his captors and fling himself into
the sea.
This happened on the starboard side forward, so that
the passengers in the lugger, which was now to leeward
near the stern of the vessel, could not see what happened ;
but they heard Joseph Picaut's cry and knew that a strug-
gle of some kind was taking place on the schooner. The
lisherman pushed his boat along the side of the ship, and
they then saw Joseph Picaut struggling in the grasp of
four men.
" Let me jump into the water ! " he was shouting. " I \i
rather die at once than rot in that hole ! "
He might possibly have succeeded in flinging himself
overboard if he had not at that instant recognized the faces
of the Marquis de Souday and Bertha, who were looking
up at him in amazement. " Ah, Monsieur le marquis ! ah,
Mademoiselle Bertha!" cried Picaut; "you will save me,
won't you ? It is for executing Monsieur Michel's orders
that this brute of a captain treats me as he does ; and the
lies of that scoundrel Courtin are at the bottom of it."
"Now, then, I want to know the truth about all this,"
interposed the captain. "If you can relieve me of that
blaspheming fellow I shall be glad enough; for I 'm not
bound for either Botany-Bay or Cayenne."
" Alas ! " said Bertha, " it is all true, captain. I don't
know what motive the mayor of La Logerie could have had
to send you to sea without your passengers ; but it is very
certain that this man is the one who told you the truth."
" Unbind him, then ! Ten thousand cat-o' -nine-tails ! let
him go hang where he pleases ! Now, as foi you, what do
you want ? Are you coming with me, or are you not ? It
VOL. II. — 21
322 THE LAST VENDÉE;
won't cost any more to take you or leave you. I was paid
in advance; and to ease my conscience I 'd rather like to
take somebody."
"Captain," said Bertha, "is n't it possible to go back up
the river and let our friends embark to-night as they meant
to do last night ? "
"Impossible ! " replied the captain, shrugging his
shoulders. "Think of the custom-house officers and the
river-police ! No, no; a plan postponed is a plan defeated.
Only, I say again, if you wish to use my vessel to get over
to England, I am at your service, and it shall cost you
nothing."
The marquis looked at his daughter, but she shook her
head.
"Thank you, captain, thanks," replied the marquis.
"It is impossible."
"Then we had better part company at once," said the
captain. " But before we do so, let me ask you to do me
a service."
" What is it ? "
" It is about a little note of hand which I will give you,
duly signed, requesting you to draw my share of it when
you draw your own."
"I'll do anything to please you, captain," said the
marquis, affably.
"Very good; then add one hundred lashes on the back
of the fellow who fooled me last night, in addition to your
own."
"It shall be done," replied the marquis.
" If he has any strength to bear them after he has paid
what he owes to me," said a voice.
At the same instant a heavy body fell into the water,
and the head of Joseph Picaut was seen about ten paces
off, its owner swimming vigorously to the lugger. Once
freed of his irons, the Chouan, fearful, no doubt, that some
unforeseen circumstance should detain him on the vessel,
had plunged head foremost over the schooner's bulwark.
THE MARQUIS DE SOUDAY DRAGS FOR OYSTERS. 323
The skipper and the marquis gave him each a hand, and
Joseph Picaut clambered into the boat. He was scarcely
there before he shouted : —
" Monsieur le marquis, tell that old whale up there that
the brand on my shoulder is a cross of honor ! "
" Yes, captain, that 's true ! " cried the marquis. " This
peasant was sent to the galleys for doing his duty in the
days of the Empire, — his duty as we see it, I mean; and
though I don't wholly approve of the means he took, I can
declare to you that he has not deserved the treatment you
gave him."
"Very well," said the captain, "that 's all right. Once,
twice, thrice, will you come aboard, or will you not ?"
"No, captain, thank you."
"Then good-bye, and better luck."
So saying, the captain signed to the helmsman, the
schooner paid off into the wind, the sails were squared
again, and the vessel sailed rapidly away, leaving the
lugger stationary.
While the old fisherman was working his boat to shore,
Bertha and her father held counsel together. In spite of
Picaut's explanations (and those explanations were brief,
the Chouan having only seen Courtin at the moment when
he was seized and bound) they could not understand the
motives of the mayor of La Logerie. His conduct, how-
ever, was plain enough, and seemed to them extremely
suspicious, — although, as Bertha now told her father, he
had shown a true devotion to Michel during his illness,
and had often expressed to her the utmost attachment to
his young master. The marquis, however, was strongly of
opinion that his present tortuous behavior concealed some
scheme that was not only dangerous to Michel's safety,
but to that of their other friends.
As for Picaut, he declared plainly that he lived and
breathed for vengeance only, and that if Monsieur de
Souday would give him a suit of sailor's clothes to replace
those which were torn from his back in the struggles he
324 THE LAST VENDÉE.
had gone through, he would start for Nantes the instant
he touched land.
The marquis, convinced that Courtin's treachery was
in some way connected with Petit-Pierre, wished to go to
the town himself; but Bertha, who believed that Michel,
finding the escape a failure, would return to the farmhouse
at La Logerie, where he would expect her to join him,
persuaded her father to put off entering Nantes till he
could get some more definite information.
The fisherman landed his passengers at the Pornic point.
Picaut, for whose benefit the skipper's son had given
up his spencer and his oilskin cap, started across country
in a bee-line for Nantes, swearing in every key that
Courtin had better look out for himself. But before leav-
ing the marquis he begged him to tell Maître Jacques all
the particulars of his adventure, feeling quite certain that
the master of the warren would fraternally assist in his
revenge.
It was thus that, thanks to his knowledge of localities,
he was able to reach Nantes about nine that evening; and
going, naturally, to his old post at the Point du Jour,
he overheard a part at least of the conversation between
Courtin and the mysterious individual of Aigrefeuiile,
and saw the money, or rather the bank-bills, which Courtin
did not regard as valuable until they were changed into
coin.
As for the marquis and his daughter, it was not until
nightfall that they ventured, notwithstanding Bertha's
impatience, to start for the forest of Touvois; and it was
not without actual grief of heart that the old gentleman
thought of the happy morning he had spent among the
fishes, reflecting that it would have no morrow, and that
he was fatally condemned to live, for an indefinite time,
like a rat in his hole.
THAT VVIIIOU HAPPENED IN TWO DWELLINGS. 325
XXXIII.
THAT WHICH HAPPENED IN TWO DWELLINGS.
Maître Jacques was not mistaken in his presentiments ;
Jean Oullier was living. The ball which Courtin had fired
at random into the bush — on chance, as it were — had
entered his breast; and when the widow Picaut (the
wheels of whose cart had alarmed Courtin and his com-
panion) reached him, she felt sure she was lifting a dead
body. With a charitable sentiment, very natural to a
peasant-woman, she did not choose that the body of a man
for whom her husband had always, in spite of their politi-
cal differences, expressed the utmost respect, should be
left as food for the buzzards and jackals ; she was deter-
mined that the good Vendéan should lie in holy ground,
and she therefore placed him on her cart to take him home.
Only, instead of hiding him in the cart, as she had
intended doing, she now laid him on it uncovered, and
several of the peasants whom she met on the way stopped
to look at and touch the bloody remains of the Marquis de
Souday's old keeper. In this way the news of Jean
Oullier's death was spread about the canton; and this wa^
how the marquis and his daughters heard of it, and why 1
Courtin, — who, the next day, wanted to make sure that
the man he most feared was no longer living to terrify
him, — why Courtin had been deceived and misled like
the rest.
It was to the old cottage where she had formerly lived
with her husband that Marianne Picaut now took the body.
Since Pascal's death she had, in her loneliness, removed
to the inn kept by her mother at Saint-Philbert. The
326 THE LAST VENDÉE.
cottage was nearer to Machecoul, Jean Oullier's parish,
than the inn; to which, had he been living, she intended
to take him and keep him safely concealed till he was
well.
Just as the cart reached the open crossway we have
often mentioned, one road of which led to the dwelling of
the two Picaut brothers, it met a man on horseback fol-
lowing the road to Machecoul. This man, who was no
other than our old acquaintance, Monsieur Roger, the
doctor at Lege, questioned some of the little ragamuffins
who, with the persistency and curiosity of their age, were
following the cart. When the doctor heard that it con-
tained the body of Jean Oullier, he left his present direc-
tion and followed the cart to the Picaut dwelling.
The widow placed Jean Oullier on the bed where Pascal
Picaut and the poor Comte de Bonneville had lain side by
side. While thus busy in doing him the last offices, and
wiping the blood and dust which covered his face and
matted his hair, the widow suddenly looked up and saw
the doctor.
"Alas ! dear Monsieur Roger," she said, "the poor gars
is beyond your help, more 's the pity. There are so many
left on this earth who are not worth their salt that it is
doubly sad when one like Jean Oullier is carried off before
his time."
The doctor made the widow tell him all she knew of
Jean Oullier's death. The presence of her sister-in-law
and the children and women who had followed the cart out
of curiosity, prevented the widow from relating how she
had met him and left him a few hours earlier, full of life,
except for his broken ankle; and how, returning after
dark, she heard a pistol-shot and the footsteps of men who
were running away, having no doubt murdered him. She
merely said that coining from the moor she had found the
body on the road.
"Poor, brave man !" said the doctor. "But after all,
better such a death — the death of a soldier — than the fate
THAT WHICH HAPPENED IN TWO DWELLINGS. 327
that awaited him had he lived. He was seriously com-
promised, and if taken, they would have sent him, no
doubt, to the cells on Mont Saint-Michel."
As he said the words the doctor went nearer to the body
and mechanically took the inert arm to lay it over the
breast; but his hand had no sooner come in contact with
the flesh than the doctor started.
" What is it ? " asked the widow.
"Nothing," replied the doctor, coldly. "The man is
dead and only needs the last offices."
" Why did you bring his body here ? " said the wife of
Joseph Picaut, angrily. " We shall have the Blues down
upon us ! You know what happened the first time, and can
judge by that."
"What does that signify to you," said the widow, "as
neither you nor your husband live here any longer ? "
"It is the very reason we don't live here," replied
Joseph's wife. " We are afraid the Blues nia} 1 " be after us
and destroy the little property that is left."
" You would do well to have him recognized before } T ou
bury him," interrupted the doctor; "and if that will be
any trouble to you I'll undertake to remove the body to
the château of the Marquis de Souday, whose physician I
am." Then, seizing a moment when the widow passed
close beside him, he whispered, "Get rid of these people."
This was easy to do, as it was then near midnight. As
soon as they were alone the doctor said, going close up to
Marianne : —
"Jean Oullier is not dead."
"Not dead ? " she cried.
"No. I said nothing before those people, because, in n^
opinion, it is of the utmost consequence that no one shall
come here and disturb you in the care I am sure you will
give him."
" God bless you ! " said the good woman, joyfully. " If I
can help to cure him you may count on me; I '11 do it with
the greatest happiness, for I shall never forget the friend-
328 THE LAST VENDÉE.
ship my poor husband felt for him. Neither shall I cease
to remember that though I was then working against him
and his, Jean Oullier would n't let me die by the hand of a
murderer. "
Then, having carefully closed all the shutters and the
door of her room, the widow lighted a fire, heated water,
and while the doctor examined the wound and tried to dis-
cover what, if any, vital organs were involved, she said
good-bye to a few old gossips still lingering about the
house, saying she was on her way back to Saint-Phi lbert.
Then at the first turn of the road she darted into the woods
and returned to the cottage by way of the orchard.
She listened at Joseph Picaut's part of the house; it
was closed and she heard no sound. Evidently her sister-
in-law and the children had returned to the hiding-place in
which they lived while the husband and father continued
to keep up, under Maître Jacques, the partisan warfare.
Marianne re-entered her own part of the house by the
back door. The doctor had finished dressing the wound:
the signs of life in the body were becoming more and more
evident. Not only the heart, but the pulses too were
beating; and on putting a hand before the lips the breath
could be distinctly felt. The widow listened joyfully to
what the doctor told her.
" Do you think you can save him ? " she asked.
"That's in God's hands," replied the doctor. "All 1
can say is that no vital organ is involved, but the loss of
blood has been enormous ; and I have also found it impossi-
ble to extract the ball."
" But, " said Marianne, " I have heard that men can be
cured and live to old age with a ball in the body."
" So they can, " replied the doctor. " But now, how are
you going to manage ? "
"I did mean to take the poor fellow to Saint-Philbert
and hide him there till he died or recovered."
"You can't do that now," said the doctor. "He must
have been saved by what we call a clot, which has plugged
THAT WHICH HAPPENED IN TWO DWELLINGS. 329
the artery. The slightest jar now would prove fatal.
Besides, in your mother's inn at Saint-Philbert, with so
many going and coming, you could never conceal his
presence."
"Good God ! do you believe that in such a state they
would have the cruelty to arrest him ? "
" They would not put him in prison, of course ; but they
would take him to some hospital, and as soon as he recovers
they would try him, and condemn him either to death or
to the galleys. Jean Oullier is one of those obscure
leaders who are so dangerous through their influence on
the body of the people that the government will be pitiless
toward him. Why don't you confide in your sister-in-
law ? Jean Oullier and she hold the same opinions."
" You heard what she said ? "
"That 's true. I see you can't have much confidence in
her pity. And yet, God knows, she of all people ought to
be merciful to her neighbor, for if her husband were taken
it might go far worse with him than with Jean Oullier."
"Yes, I know that," said the widow, in a gloomy voice.
"Death is upon them all."
"Well," said the doctor, "the question is, can you hide
him here ? "
" Here ? Yes, of course I can ; he will even be safer
here than elsewhere, because the house is thought to be
empty. But who would take care of him ? "
" Jean Oullier is not a girl or a baby, " replied the doctor.
"Two or three days hence, after the fever subsides, he can
be left alone all day; and I '11 promise you to visit him at
night."
"Very good; and I '11 be here all the time I can without
exciting suspicion."
Marianne, with the doctor's help, carried the wounded
man into the stable adjoining her room; she bolted tli"
door carefully, placed her own mattress on a pile of straw,
and then, appointing to meet the doctor there the follow-
ing night, and knowing that the sick man would need onlv
330 THE LAST VENDÉE.
a little fresh water at first, she threw herself on a heap of
straw beside him and waited patiently till he showed some
signs of returning life, either by words or even by a sigh.
The next day she showed herself at Saint-Philbert; and
when asked about Jean Oullier, replied that she had fol-
lowed the advice of her sister-in-law, and fearing to be
molested, had taken the dead body back to the moor where
she had found it. Then she returned to her house on pre-
tence of putting it in order. The following evening she
again closed it carefully and went back to Saint-Philbert
before dark, so that all the town might see her. But no
sooner was it really night than she returned to Jean
Oullier.
She nursed him in this way for three days and nights,
shut up with him in the stable, fearing to make the slight-
est noise that might betray her presence; and though at
the end of those three days Jean Oullier was still in the
state of torpor which follows great physical commotions
and loss of blood, the doctor advised her to stay at home
during the day and return to him only at night.
Jean Oullier's wound was so severe that he really hung
for a fortnight between life and death; fragments of his
clothing carried in by the ball remained in the wound,
where they kept up the inflammation, and it was not till
Nature herself eliminated them that the doctor, to the
widow's great joy, declared him out of danger. The good
woman's care redoubled as soon as she felt he would
recover; and though her patient was still weak and could
hardly articulate more than a few words, and the signs
were few of his being any better, she never failed to spend
the night beside him and supply all his wants, taking at
the same time the utmost precautions.
In spite of all drawbacks, however, no sooner were the
foreign substances expelled from the wound, and a steady
and healthful suppuration set up, than he made rapid strides
to recovery. As his strength returned he began to worry
greatly about those he loved; and he now implored the
THAT WHICH HAPPENED IN TWO DWELLINGS. 331
widow to bring him some news of the Marquis de Souday,
Bertha, Mary, and even Michel, — Michel, who had actually
triumphed over the old Vendéan's antipathies and con-
quered a place, however small, in his affections. Marianne
did as he requested, and made some inquiries of the roj'al-
ist travellers who stopped at her mother's inn ; and she
was soon able to relieve Jean Oullier's mind by telling
him that his friends were all living and well; that the
marquis was in the forest of Touvois, Bertha and Michel
at Courtin's farmhouse, and Mary, in all probability, at
Nantes.
But the widow had no sooner uttered the name of Courtin
than a total change came over her patient's face; he passed
his hand across his forehead as if to clear his thought, and
rose in his bed for the first time without assistance.
Friendship and tenderness had occupied his first returning
thoughts; hatred and thoughts of vengeance now filled his
hitherto empty brain, and over-excited it with all the more
violence because it had been torpid so long.
To her terror, Marianne Picaut heard Jean Oullier again
uttering phrases he had cried out in his fever, and which
she had then taken for delirium; she heard him mingle
Courtin's name with accusations of treachery and murder
and of fabulous sums paid for some crime. Talking thus,
her patient became violently excited; with flashing eyes,
and in a voice trembling with emotion he implored her to
go and find Bertha and bring her to his bedside. The poor
woman believed his excitement was caused by a return of
the fever, and was all the more uneasy because the doctor
had told her that he should not return for two nights.
She nevertheless promised the patient to do as he requested.
On this promise Jean Oullier calmed down, and little by
little, overcome with the violence of the emotions he had
just passed through, he went to sleep.
The widow, sitting on the straw beside the bed, and con-
scious of her own fatigue, felt her eyes closing and sleep
overtaking her in spite of herself, when, all of a sudden
332 THE LAST VENDÉE.
she heard, or fancied she heard, some unusual sound in the
court-yard. She listened attentively; it was certainly a
man's step on the pavement which surrounded the pile of
manure which lay in the yard of the two dwellings. Pres-
ently a hand unfastened the latch of the adjoining door,
and Marianne heard a voice, which she recognized as that
of her brother-in-law, cry out : " This way, this way ! "
and then the steps went up to Joseph's house.
Marianne knew that the house was empty; this nocturnal
visit of her brother-in-law excited her curiosity. She did
not doubt it concerned some scheme of violence such as all
Chouans cherish traditionally, and she resolved to listen.
She softly raised the shutter of a hole through which
the cows, when in the stable, poked their heads to eat the
provender laid for them on the floor of the room itself.
Through this narrow opening she crawled into her own
room ; then she climbed noiselessly up the ladder on which
the Comte de Bonneville had met his death, entered the
garret, which, as we know, was common to the two houses,
and there, with her ear to the floor above her brother-in-
law's room, listened attentively.
She came into the midst of a conversation already begun .
" Did you see the sum ? " said a voice which was not
completely unknown to her, though she could not recall
the owner of it.
" As plain as I see you, " replied Joseph Picaut. " It was
all in bank-bills; but he insisted on having it in gold."
"So much the better ! for bills, I must say, don't attract
me much; it is difficult to get them taken in country
places."
"I tell you he is to have gold."
" Good ! and where are they to meet ? "
" At Saint-Philbert, to-morrow night. You have plenty
of time to collect your gars."
" My gars ! are you crazy ? How many did you say they
were ? "
"Two; that villain and his companion."
THAÏ WHICH HAPPENED IN TWO DWELLINGS. 333
"Well, then, two against two; that's the right kind of
war, as Georges Cadoudal of glorious memory used to say."
"But you have only one hand now, Maître Jacques."
"That doesn't matter, if the one hand is a good one.
I '11 settle the strongest of the pair."
"No, no ! that 's not in the agreement ! "
" What do you mean ? "
"I want the mayor for myself."
" You are exacting ! "
"Oh, the villain! it will be little enough satisfaction
for all he has made me suffer."
"If they have the money you say they have, there '11 be
enough to compensate you, even if he had sold you on the
shambles like a negro. Twenty-five thousand francs ! You
are not worth all that, my good fellow, I know ! "
"Perhaps not; but revenge is what I am after, and I 've
long wanted to get my hand on him, the damned cur. It
was he who caused — "
"Caused what?"
"No matter; I know."
Joseph Picaut's meaning was unintelligible to every one
except Marianne. She was certain that the recollection in
the Chouan's mind related to the killing of her poor hus-
band, and a shudder ran through her frame.
"Well," said Joseph's companion, "you shall have your
man. But, before undertaking the matter, will you swear
that all you have said is true, and that it is really a gov-
ernment agent on whom I am to lay hands ? Otherwise,
you understand, the affair won't suit me."
"The devil ! Do you suppose any private man is rich
enough to make presents like that to such a villain ?
Besides, those fifty thousand francs are only on account;
I heard that plainly."
" And you could n't find out what they were paying such
a large sum for ? "
"No, but I can guess."
"Tell me."
334 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"It is iny opinion, Maître Jacques, that in ridding the
earth of that pair of rascals we shall be killing two birds
with one stone, — a private master first, and a political
stroke next. But don't be uneasy; I'll know more by
to-morrow night, and let you know."
" Sacredié ! " exclaimed Maître Jacques ; " you make my
mouth water. Look here ! I retract my word; you can
only have your man if I leave a bit of him ! "
" Leave a bit of him ! what do you mean ? "
"Why, before you settle with him I want my share in
the conversation."
"Pooh ! do you suppose you could get his secret out of
him ? "
"Yes, if he is once my prisoner."
"He 's a sly one ! "
"Nonsense. You, who knew the old days, don't you
remember how we used to make 'em speak, — those who
did n't want to ? " said Maître Jacques, with a dangerous
look.
" Ha, yes ! how we roasted their paws ! Faith, you are
right; that will serve my vengeance better still," replied
Joseph Picaut.
"And then we shall find out why and wherefore the
government sends those little gifts of fifty thousand francs,
on account, to a country mayor. That knowledge may be
worth more to us than the gold we pocket."
" Hey ! gold has its value, especially to us who are old
offenders and likely to leave our heads on the place du
Bouffai. With my share, that is, tweuty-five thousand
francs, I can get away and live elsewhere."
" You shall do as you like. But come ! tell me exactly
where your pair are to meet; it is important not to miss
them."
" At the inn of Saint-Philbert."
"Then that's all right. Isn't that inn kept by your
sister-in-law, or pretty nearly ? She shall have her share;
it will be in the family."
THAT WHICH HAPPENED IN TWO DWELLINGS. 335
"Oh, no, no ! " cried Joseph. "In the first place she is
not one of ours; and besides, she doesn't speak to me
since — "
" Since what ? "
"My brother's death, there ! since you force me to tell
you."
" Ah, ha ! so it was true, what they said, that if you did
not strike the blow, you at least held the candle ? "
" Who said that, — who said that ? " shouted Joseph
Picaut. "Name him, Maître Jacques, and I'll hack him
into pieces like that stool ! " And suiting the action to the
word, he dashed the stool on which he was sitting to the
stone hearth and shivered it to fragments.
"Quiet! quiet!" said Maître Jacques; " what 's all that
to me ? You know I never meddle in family affairs. Come
back to our own business. You were saying ? "
"I was saying, don't mix the matter up with my sister-
in-law."
"Then it must be settled in the open country. But
where ? They '11 be sure to come by different roads."
" Yes, but they will go away together. In order to get
home, the mayor will have to take the road to Nantes as
far as the Tiercet."
" Well, then, let 's ambush by the road to Nantes among
the reeds; it is a good hiding-place. For my part, I've
made more than one good stroke just there."
" So be it. Where shall we meet ? I shall leave here
to-morrow, before daylight," said Joseph.
"Well, then, meet me at the Ragot crossways in the
forest of Machecoul," said the master of warrens.
Joseph agreed to the place and promised to.be there.
The widow heard him offer Maître Jacques a night's lodg-
ing under his roof; but the old Chouan, who had his bur-
rows in every forest of the canton, preferred those asylums
to all the houses in the world, if not for comfort, at least
for security.
He departed therefore, and all was silent in Joseph's
part of the house.
336 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Marianne returned to lier stable and found Jean Oullier
fast asleep; she did not wake him. The night was far
advanced, — so advanced that she had only time to get back
to Saint-Philbert before daylight. After arranging, as
usual, everything that her patient might want during the
morrow, she left the stable through the window.
As she walked thoughtfully along, the hatred she felt to
her brother-in-law, because of her firm conviction that he
had shared in the death of Pascal, and her deep desire for
vengeance, which the loneliness and sufferings of her
widowhood made daily more imperious, came over her.
It seemed to her that heaven, by calling her providentially
to the discovery of Joseph's secret intention of crime, put
itself on her side; she believed she would be serving its
designs (while satisfying her hatred) in preventing the
accomplishment of this crime and the ruin and death of
those she considered innocent. Her first idea had been to
denounce Maître Jacques and Joseph either to the police
or to those they intended to attack ; but she now renounced
that scheme and resolved to be herself, and all alone, the
intermediary between fate and the victims of the intended
crime.
COURTIN FINGERS HIS FUT! THOUSAND FKANCS. ool
XXXIV.
COURTIN FINGERS AT LAST HIS FIFTY THOUSAND FRANCS.
Petit-Pierre's letter to Bertha had not told Courtin
much, except that Petit-Pierre was in Nantes and awaited
Bertha. As to her hiding-place and the means of reaching
it, the letter left him in the dark.
He did, however, possess an important piece of informa-
tion in his knowledge of the house with two entrances,
through which Michel, Mary, and the duchess had un-
doubtedly passed. For a moment he thought of continu-
ing his method of spying, and of following Bertha when,
in obedience to Petit-Pierre's injunction, she should seek
the princess in Nantes ; and he also thought of discounting
to his profit the distress of the girl's mind when she should
discover the true relations of Michel and her sister. But
the farmer had now come to doubt the efficacy of the means
he had hitherto employed; he felt he might lose, without
recovery, his last chance of success, if accident or the
vigilance of those he watched were to baffle once more his
sagacity and cunning. He therefore decided to try another
means and take the initiative.
Was the house which opened on the nameless alley to
which we have several times taken the reader, and also on
the rue du Marché, actually inhabited ? If so, who lived
there ? Through that person, or persons, might it not be
possible to reach Petit-Pierre ? Such were the questions
which reflection placed before the mind of the mayor of
La Logerie.
In order to solve them it was necessary that he should
stay in Nantes; and Maître Courtin at once resolved to
VOL. II. — 22
338 THE LAST VENDÉE.
give up returning to his farm, where it was very probable
that Bertha had already gone to meet Michel on learning
of the failure of his attempt to escape. He therefore boldly
decided on his new course.
The next day, at ten o'clock in the morning, he knocked
at the door of the mysterious house; but instead of pre-
senting himself at the door on the alley, he went to that
on the rue du Marché, — his intention being to convince
himself that the two doors gave entrance to the same
house.
When the person who answered the knock had satisfied
himself through a little iron grating that the person knock-
ing was alone, he opened, or rather half-opened the door.
The two heads now came face to face.
" Where do you come from ? " asked the man inside.
Taken aback by the suddenness with which this question
was put, Courtin hesitated.
" Par dieu ! " he said, "from Touvois."
"No one is expected from there," replied the man,
attempting to close the door; but it was not so easy to do
this, for Courtin had his foot against it.
A ray of light darted into the farmer's mind ; he remem-
bered the words Michel had used to obtain the two horses
from the landlord of the Point du Jour, and he felt cer-
tain that those words, which he had not understood at the
time, were the countersign.
The man continued to push the door; but Courtin held
firm.
" Wait, wait ! " he said. " When I said I came from
Touvois I was only trying to find out if you were in the
secret; one can't take too many precautions in these devilish
times. Well, there ! I don't come from Touvois, I come
from the South."
" And where are you going ? " asked his questioner, with-
out, however, yielding one inch of the way.
"Where do you expect me to go, if I come from the
South, but to Rosny ? "
COURTIN FINGERS HIS FIFTY THOUSAND PKANCS. 339
"That's all right," said the servant; "but don't you
see, my fine friend, that no one can come in hero without
showing a white paw? "
"For those who are all white, that is n't difficult."
"Hum ! so much the better," said the man, a peasant of
Lower Brittany, who was running over the beads of a
chaplet in his hand while speaking.
But inasmuch as Courtin had really answered with the
proper passwords, he showed him, though with evident
reluctance, into a small room, and said, pointing to a
chair : —
"Monsieur is engaged just now. I will announce you
as soon as he has finished with the person who is now in
his office. Sit down, — unless you want to spend the time
more usefully."
Courtin saw that he had gained more than he expected.
He had hoped to meet some subordinate agent from whom
he could extract, either by trickery or corruption, the clues
he wanted. When the man who admitted him spoke of
announcing him to his master, he felt that the matter was
becoming serious, and that he ought to be ready with some
tale to meet the necessities of the situation. He refrained
from questioning the servant, whose stern and gloomy
countenance showed him to be one of those rigid fanatics
who are still to be found on the Celtic peninsula. Courtin
instantly perceived the tone he ought to take.
"Yes," he said, giving to his countenance a humble and
sanctimonious expression, "I will wait Monsieur's leisure
and employ the time in prayer. May I take one of those
prayer-books ? " he added, glancing at the table.
"Don't touch those books if you are what you pretend to
be; they are not prayer-books, they are profane books,"
replied the Breton. "I '11 lend you mine," he continued,
drawing from the pocket of his embroidered jacket a little
book, the cover and edges of which were blackened by
time and usage.
The movement he made in carrying his hand to his
340 THE LAST VENDÉE.
pocket disclosed the shining handles of two pistols stuck
into his wide belt, and Courtin congratulated himself on
not having risked any attempt on the fidelity of the Breton,
whom he now felt to be a man who would have answered
it in some dangerous way.
"Thank you," he said, as he received the book and knelt
down with such humility and contrition that the Breton,
much edified, removed the hat from his long hair, made
the sign of the cross, and closed the door very softly, that
he might not trouble the devotions of so saintly a person.
As soon as he was alone, the farmer felt a desire to
examine in detail the room in which he found himself;
but he was not the man to commit such a blunder as that.
He reflected that the Breton's eye might be fixed on him
through the keyhole; he therefore controlled himself and
remained absorbed in prayer.
Nevertheless, while mumbling his pater-nosters, Courtin's
eyes did rove about the floor below him. The room was
not more than a dozen feet square, and was separated from
an adjoining room by a partition, in which there was a
door. This little room was plainly furnished in walnut,
and was lighted by a window on the court-yard, the lower
panes of which were provided with a very delicate iron
grating painted green, which prevented any one on the
outside from seeing into the apartment.
He listened attentively to hear if any sound of voices
could reach him; but as to this, precautions had doubtless
been taken, for though Maître Courtin strained his ears
toward the door and toward the chimney, near which he
was kneeling, not a sound reached him.
But, as he stooped beneath the chimney-piece to listen
better, Courtin caught sight, among the ashes, of several
bits of crumpled paper lying in a heap, as if placed there
to be burned. These papers tempted him; he dropped
his arm, and then, leaning his head against the chimne} r -
piece, he slowly stretched out his hand and took up the
papers, one by one. Without changing his position he
COURTIN FINGERS HIS FIFTY THOUSAND FRANCS. 341
managed to open them, confident that his movements at
that level were hidden from any eye at the keyhole by a
table in the middle of the room.
He had examined and thrown away as of no interest
several of these papers, when on the back of one (among a
number of insignificant bills which he was about to crum-
ple up on his knee and return to the ashes) he spied certain
words in a delicate v and refined handwriting, which struck
him ; they were as follows : —
" If you feel uneasy, come at once. Our friend desires me. to
say that there is an empty room in our retreat which is at your
service."
The note was signed M. de S. Evidently, as the initials
indicated, it was signed by Mary de Souday. Courtin
put it carefully away in his pocket; his peasant craftiness
had instantly perceived the possible good he might get out
of its possession.
He continued his investigations, however, and came
to the conclusion, from sundry bills for large payments,
that the owner or lessee of the house must be intrusted with
the management of the duchess's money-matters. Just
then he heard the sound of voices and of steps in the pas-
sage. He rose hastily and went to the window. Through
the grating we have mentioned he saw the servant escort-
ing a gentleman to the door. The latter held in his hand
an empty money-bag, and before leaving the premises he
folded it up and put it in his pocket. Until then Courtin
had not been able to see his face; but, just as he passed in
front of the servant to go out of the door, Courtin recog-
nized Maître Loriot.
"Ah, ha ! " he said. "So he 's in it, is he ? It is he
who brings them money. Decidedly, I made a good stroke
in coming here."
He returned to his place near the chimney, thinking that
the time for his interview had probably arrived. When
the Breton opened the door he found the visitor so absorbed
342 THE LAST VENDÉE.
in his orisons that he never stirred. The peasant went to
him, touched him gently on the shoulder, and asked him
to follow him ; Courtin obeyed, after ending his prayer as
he began it, by making the sign of the cross, which the
Breton imitated.
The farmer was now shown into the same room where
Maître Pascal had formerly received Michel ; on this occa-
sion, however, Maître Pascal was much moi*e seriously
employed. Before him was a table covered with papers,
and Courtin fancied he saw the shining of various gold-
pieces among a pile of opened letters, which seemed to
have been lately heaped there as if to hide them.
Maître Pascal intercepted the farmer's glance; at first
he was not displeased, attributing it to nothing more than
the inquisitive interest which the peasantry always attach
to the sight of gold and silver. Nevertheless, as he did
not choose to allow that curiosity to go too far, he pre-
tended to search for something in a drawer, and in order
to do so threw up an end of the long green table-cloth so
that it covered the pile of papers effectually. Then, turn-
ing to his visitor he said roughly : —
" What do you want ? "
a To fulfil an errand."
" Who sends you ? "
"Monsieur de la Logerie."
" Ah, do you belong to that young man ? "
"I am his farmer, his confidential man."
"Then say what you have to say."
"But I don't know that I can do that," said Courtin,
boldly.
"Why not?"
"Because you are not the person to whom Monsieur de
la Logerie sent me."
"Who was it, then?" asked Maître Pascal, frowning
with some uneasiness.
"Another person, to whom you were to take me."
"I don't know what you mean," returned Maître Pascal,
COURTIN FINGERS HIS FIFTY THOUSAND FRANCS. 343
unable to conceal the impatience he felt at what he sup-
posed to be an unpardonable piece of heedlessness on
Michel's part.
Courtin, noticing his annoyance, saw that he had gone
too far; but it was dangerous to beat too rapid a retreat.
"Come," said Pascal, "will you, or will you not tell me
what you are here for ? I have no time to waste."
"Bless me ! I don't know what to do, my good gentle-
man,'' said Courtin. "I love my young master enough to
jump into the fire for him. When he says to me * do this '
or ' do that,' I always try to execute his orders just as he
gives them, so as to deserve his confidence ; and he did not
tell me to give his message to you."
"What is your name, my good man ? "
"Courtin, at your service."
" What parish do you belong to ? "
"La Logerie."
Maître Pascal took up a note-book, and looked it over
for a few moments; then he fixed an investigating and
distrustful eye on Courtin.
" You are the mayor of La Logerie ? " he asked.
"Yes, since 1830." Then, observing Maître Pascal's
increasing coldness, "It was my mistress, Madame la
baronne, who had me nominated," he added.
"Did Monsieur de la Logerie only give you a verbal
message for the person to whom he sent you ? "
"Yes; I have a bit of a letter here, but it is n't for that
person."
" Can I see that bit of a letter ? "
"Of course; there's no secret in it, because it isn't
sealed."
And Courtin held out to Maître Pascal the paper Michel
had given him for Bertha, in which Petit-Pierre begged
her to come to Nantes.
"How happens it that this paper is still in your hands ? "
asked Maître Pascal. "It is dated some da}'s ago."
"Because one can't do everything all at once; and I am
344 THE LAST VENDÉE.
not going back our way just yet, and till I do I can't meet
the person to whom I 'in to give the note."
Maître Pascal's eyes had never left the farmer's face
from the moment he had failed to find Courtin's name on
the list of those whose loyalty could be trusted. The
latter was now affecting the same idiotic simplicity that
had succeeded so well with the captain of the "Jeune
Charles."
"Come, my good man," said Maître Pascal, "it is
impossible for you to give your message to any one but
me. Do so if you think proper; if not, go back to your
master, and tell him he must come himself."
"I sha'n't do that, my dear monsieur," replied Courtin.
"My master is condemned to death, and I don't wish to
say a word to bring him back to Nantes. He is better off
with its. I '11 tell the whole thing to you; you can do
what you think best about it, and if Monsieur is not
pleased, he may scold me; I'd rather that than bring
him here."
This artless expression of devotion reconciled Maître
Pascal in a degree to the farmer, whose first answer had
seriously alarmed him.
"Go on, my good man, and I will answer for it your
master will not blame you."
"The matter is soon told: Monsieur Michel wants me
to tell you, or rather tell Monsieur Petit-Pierre, — for that
is the name of the person he sent me to find, — "
" Go on ! " said Maître Pascal, smiling.
" I was to tell him that he had discovered the man who
ordered the ship to sail a few moments before Monsieur
Petit-Pierre, Mademoiselle Mary, and himself reached the
rendezvous."
" And who may that man be ? "
" One named Joseph Picaut, lately hostler at the Point
du Jour."
"True; the man whom we placed there has disappeared
since yesterday," said Maître Pascal. " Go on, Courtin ! "
COURTIN FINGERS HIS FIFTY THOUSAND FRANCS. 345
"I was to warn Monsieur Petit-Pierre to beware of this
Picaut in town, and to say he would look out for him in
the country. And that 's all."
"Very good; thank Monsieur de la Logerie for his in-
formation. And now that I have received it, I can assure
you that it was intended for me."
"That 's enough to satisfy me," said Courtin, rising.
Maître Pascal accompanied the farmer as he went out
with much civility, and did for him what Courtin had
noticed that he did not do for Maître Loriot, — he followed
him to the very door of the street.
Courtin was too wily himself to mistake the meaning of
these attentions; and he was not surprised, when he had
gone about twenty paces from the house, to hear the door
open and close behind him. He did not turn round ; but,
certain that he was followed, he walked slowly, like a man
at leisure, stopping to gaze like a countryman into all the
shop-windows, reading the posters on the walls, and care-
fully avoiding everything that might confirm the suspi-
cions he had not been able to destroy in Maître Pascal's
mind. This constraint was no annoyance to him; in fact,
he enjoyed his morning, feeling that he was on the verge
of obtaining the reward of his trouble.
Just as he arrived in front of the hôtel des Colonies
he saw Maître Loriot under the portico, talking to a
stranger. Courtin, affecting great surprise, went straight
to the notary, and inquired how he came to be at Nantes
when it was not the market-day. Then he asked the
notary if he would give him a seat in his cabriolet back to
Lege, to which the latter very willingly assented, saying,
however, that he still had a few errands to do and should
not be ready to leave Nantes for four or five hours, and
advising Courtin to wait in some café.
Now, a café was a luxury the farmer would not allow
himself under any circumstances, and that day least of all.
In his religious fervor he wont devoutly to church, where
he assisted at vespers said for the canons; after which he
346 THE LAST VENDÉE.
returned to Maître Loriot's hotel, sat down on a stone
bench under a yew-tree, and went to sleep, or pretended to
do so, in the calm and peaceful slumber of an easy con-
science.
Two hours later the notary returned; he told Courtin
that unexpected business would detain him at Nantes, and
that he could not start for Lege before ten o'clock. This
did not suit the farmer, whose appointment with Monsieur
Hyacinthe (the name, it will be remembered, of the mys-
terious man of Aigrefeuille) was from seven to eight o'clock
at Saint-Philbert-de-Grand-Lieu. He therefore told Mon-
sieur Loriot that he must give up the honor of his company
and go on foot, for the sun was getting low and he wanted
to get home before night-fall.
When Courtin, sitting on the bench, had first opened his
eyes, he saw the Breton servant watching him; he now
paid no attention to him and seemed not to see him as he
started to keep his rendezvous. The Breton followed him
over the river; but Courtin never once betrayed, by look-
ing backward, the usual uneasiness of those whose con-
sciences are ill at ease. The result was that the Breton
returned to his master and assured him that it was a great
mistake to distrust the worthy peasant, who spent his
leisure hours in the most innocent amusements and pious
practices ; so that even Maître Pascal, cautious as he was,
began to think Michel less to blame for confiding in so
faithful a servant.
THE TAVERN OF THE GRAND SAINT-JACQUES. 341
XXXV.
THE TAVERN OF THE GRAND SAINT- JACQUES.
One word on the lay of the land about the village of Saint-
Philbert. Without this little topographical preface, which
shall be short, like all our prefaces, it would be difficult
for our readers to follow in detail the scenes we are now
about to lay before their eyes.
The village of Saint-Philbert stands at the angle formed
by the river Boulogne as it falls into the lake of Grand-
Lieu; the village is on the left bank of the river. The
church and the principal houses are somewhere about fif-
teen hundred yards from the lake; the main, in fact the
only street follows the river-bank, and the lower it goes
to the lake, the fewer and poorer the houses ; so that when
the vast blue sheet of water, framed in reeds, which forms
the terminus of the street is reached, there is nothing to
be seen but a few thatched huts occupied by men who are
employed in the fisheries.
Yet there is, or rather was at the time of which we
write, one exception to this decadence of the lower end of
the village street. About thirty steps away from the huts
we have mentioned stood a brick and stone house, with red
roofs and green shutters, surrounded with hay and straw
stacks, like sentinels round a camp, and peopled with a
world of cows, sheep, chickens, ducks, — all either lowing
and bleating in the stables or clucking and gabbling before
the door as they preened themselves in the dust of the
road.
The road served as the court-yard of the house, which,
if deprived of that useful resort, could still fall back upon
348 THE LAST VENDÉE.
its gardens, which are simply the most magnificent and
productive of all the country round. From the road the
crests of the fruit-trees can be seen above the farm-build-
ings, covered in spring-time with the rosy snow of their
blossoms ; in summer, with fruits of all kinds ; and during
nine months of the year, with verdure. These trees spread
in a semi-circle about a thousand feet southerly, to a little
hill crowned with ruins which looks down upon the waters
of the lake of Grand-Lieu.
This house is the inn kept by the mother of Marianne
Picaut. These ruins are those of the château de Saint-
Philbert-de-Grand-Lieu.
The high walls and gigantic towers of this the most
celebrated baronial castle in the province, built to hold
the country in check and command the waters of the lake,
the gloomy arches that once echoed to the clanking spurs
of Comte Gilles de Retz as he trod its paved floors, meditat-
ing on those monstrous debauches which surpassed all that
Rome in its decadence ever invented, — now, dismantled,
dilapidated, swathed in ivy, overgrown with gilliflowers,
crumbling on all sides, have descended, from degradation
to degradation, to the lowest of all ; grand, savage, terrible
as they once were, they are now humbly utilitarian; they
have been reduced at last to making a living for a family
of peasants, descendants of poor serfs who in former days
regarded them, no doubt, with fear and trembling.
These ruins shelter the gardens from the northwest
wind, so fatal to fertility, and make this little corner of
earth a perfect Eldorado, where all things grow and pros-
per, — from the native pear to the grape, the fruiting
sorbus to the fig-tree.
But this was not the only service which the old feudal
castle did to its new proprietors. In the lower halls,
cooled by currents of impetuous air, they kept their fruits
and garden products, preserving them in good condition
after the ordinary season had passed; thus doubling their
value. And besides this source of profit, the dungeons,
THE TAVERN OF THE (iKAND SAINT-JACQUES. o49
where Gilles de Retz had piled his victims, were now a
dairy, the butter and cheese of which were justly cele-
brated. This is what time has done with the Titanic
works of the former lords of Saint-Philbert.
One word now on what they once were.
The château de Saint-Philbert consisted originally of a
vast parallelogram enclosed with walls, bathed on one side
by the waters of the lake and protected on the other side
by a broad moat hollowed in the rock. Four square towers
flanked the four corners of this enormous mass of stone;
a citadel in the centre, with its portcullis bristling with
spikes, defended the entrance. Opposite to the citadel, on
the other side of the castle, a fifth square tower, taller
and more imposing than the rest, commanded the whole
structure, and the lake, which surrounded it on three sides.
With the exception of this fifth tower and the citadel,
or keep, all the rest of the fortress, walls and main-build-
ings, had pretty much crumbled away, and time had not
entirely spared the great tower itself. The rotten beams
of the first floor, unable to support the stones which year
by year slid down upon them in greater numbers, had sunk
to the ground-floor, raising it by over a foot, leaving no
other ceiling in the tower than the rafters of the roof.
It was in this lower room that the grandfather of the
widow Picaut had principally kept his fruit, and the walls
were lined with shelves on which the good man spread in
winter the various products of his garden. The doors and
windows of this portion of the tower had remained more
or less intact, and at one of these windows could still be
seen an iron bar covered with rust, which undoubtedly
dated from the days of Comte Gilles.
The other towers and the walls of the main building
were completely in ruins; the masses of masonry which
had fallen had rolled either into the court-yard, which they
obstructed, or into the lake, which covered them with its
reeds at all times and its foam in stormy weather. The
citadel, about as intact as the great tower, was crowded
350 THE LAST VENDÉE.
with an enormous mass of ivy which took the place of a
roof; in it were two small chambers, which, notwithstand-
ing the colossal appearance of the structure, were not more
than eight or ten feet square, owing to the enormous thick-
ness of the walls.
The inner court-yard, used in feudal days as the bar-
rack-ground of the castle's defenders, obstructed by the rub-
bish which time had heaped there, — fragments of columns
and battlements, broken arches, dilapidated statues, — was
now impassable. A narrow path led to the great tower;
another, less carefully cleared, led to a remaining vestige
of the east tower, where a stone staircase was actually left
standing, by which all persons desirous of enjoying a beau-
tiful view could, after a series of acrobatic feats, reach the
platform of the main tower by following a gallery which
ran along the wall like those Alpine paths cut on the face
of the rock between precipice and mountain.
It is unnecessary to say that, except during the period
of the year when the fruits were stored there, no one fre-
quented these ruins of the château de Saint-Philbert. At
that period a watchman was stationed there, who slept in
the keep; all the rest of the year the gates of the tower
were locked and the place was abandoned to lovers of his-
torical reminiscences, and to the boys of the village, who
pervaded the old ruins, where they found nests to pillage,
flowers to pick, dangers to brave, — all things of eager
attraction to children.
It was in these ruins that Courtin had appointed to meet
Monsieur Hyacinthe. He knew they would be absolutely
deserted at the hour he named to his associate, inasmuch
as the lingering ill-repute of the place drove away at night
all the village urchins who, as long as the sun was above
the horizon, scampered like lizards among the dentelled
ridges of the old ruin.
The mayor of La Logerie left Nantes about five o'clock;
he was on foot, and yet he walked so fast that he was an
hour earlier than he needed to be when he crossed the
THE TAVERN OF THE GRAND SAINT-JACQUES. 351
bridge which led into the village of Saint-Philbert. Maître
Courtin was somewhat of a personage in the village. To
see him desert the Grand Saint- Jacques (the inn before
which he usually tied his pony Sweetheart) in favor of
the Pomme de Pin, the tavern kept by the mother of the
widow Picaut, would have been an event which, as he
very well knew, would have set the village tongues a wag-
ging. He was so convinced of this that, although, being
deprived of his pony and never taking any refreshment
except what was offered to him, it seemed a useless matter
to go to an inn at all, the mayor of La Logerie stopped, as
usual, before the door of the Grand Saint-Jacques, where
he held with the inhabitants of the village (who, since the
double defeat at Chêne and La Pénissière, had drawn closer
to him) a conversation which, under present circumstances,
was not unimportant to him.
"Maître Courtin," said one man, "is it true what they
say ? "
" What do they say, Matthieu ? " replied Courtin. " Tell
me; I 'd like to know."
" Hang it ! they say you 've turned your coat, and noth-
ing can be seen but the lining of it, — so that what was
blue is now white."
" Well done ! " said Courtin; " if that is n't nonsense ! "
"You 've given occasion for it, my man; and since your
young master went over to the Whites it is a fact that
you 've stopped gabbling against them as you once did."
" Gabbling ! " exclaimed Courtin, with his slyest look,
" what 's the good of that ? I have something better to do
than gabble, and — and you '11 hear of it soon, my lad."
" So much the better ! for, don't you see, Maître Courtin,
all these public troubles are death to business. If patriots
can't agree, they '11 die of poverty and hunger instead
of being shot like our forefathers. Whereas, if we could
only get rid of those troublesome gars who roam the forests
about here and make trouble, business would soon pick up,
and that 's all we want."
352 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Roaming ? " repeated Courtin, " who are roaming ?
Seems to rne that none but ghosts are left to roam now."
"Pooh ! there 's plenty of them left. It is n't ten min-
utes since I saw the boldest of them go by, gun in hand,
pistols in his belt, — just as if there weren't any red-
breeches in the land."
" Who was he ? "
" Joseph Picaut, by God ! — the man who killed his
brother."
"Joseph Picaut! here?" exclaimed Courtin, turning
livid. "It isn't possible!"
" It 's as true as you live, Maître Courtin ! as true as
there is a God ! He did have on a sailor's hat and jacket,
but never mind, I recognized him all the same."
Maître Courtin reflected a moment. The plan he had
laid in his head, which rested on the existence of the house
with two issues, and the daily intercourse of Maître Pascal
with Petit-Pierre, might fail; in which case, he had Bertha
to fall back upon as a last resource. There would then
remain, in order to discover Petit-Pierre's retreat, one
means open to him, — the means he had already failed in
with Mary, — namely, to follow Bertha when she went to
Nantes. If Bertha saw Joseph Picaut all was lost; still
worse would it be if Bertha put Picaut in communication
with Michel ! Then the part he had played in stopping
the embarkation would be disclosed to the young baron,
and the farmer was a ruined man.
Courtin asked for pen, ink, and paper, wrote a few lines,
and gave them to the man who had spoken to him.
"Here, gars Matthieu," he said, "here's a proof that
I 'm a patriot and that I don't turn round like a weather-
cock to the wind of any master. You accuse me of follow-
ing my young landlord in all his performances ; well, the
fact is that I have only known within the last hour where
he is hiding, and now I am going to lay hands on him.
The more occasion I have to destroy the enemies of the
nation, the better pleased I am, and the more I hasten to
THE TAVERN OF THE GRAND SAINT-JACQUES. 353
take advantage of it; and what 's more, I do it without
inquiring whether it is to my advantage or disadvantage,
or whether the persons I denounce are my friends or
not."
The peasant, who was a double-dyed Blue, shook Courtin \s
hand heartily.
" Are your legs good ? " continued the latter.
"I should think so ! " said the peasant.
" Well, then, carry that to Mantes at once ; and as I have
a good many haystacks out, I rely on you to keep my
secret; for, you understand, if I 'm suspected of having
the young baron arrested, those stacks will never get into
my barn."
The peasant made a promise of secrecy, and Courtin, as
it was now dusk, left the inn on the right, made a tack
across the fields, and then, returning cautiously on his
steps, took a path which led to the ruins of Saint-Phil-
be rt.
He reached them by the shore of the lake, followed the
moat, and entered the court-yard by a stone bridge which
had long replaced the portcullis that gave entrance to the
citadel.
As he entered the court-yard he whistled softly. At the
signal a man sitting on the fallen masonry rose and came
to him. The man was Monsieur Hyacinthe.
" Is that you ? " he said, as he approached with some
caution.
"Yes," said Courtin, "don't be alarmed."
"What news ?"
"Good; but this is not the place to tell it."
" Why not ? "
"Because it is as dark as a pocket. I almost walked
over you before I knew it. A man might be hidden here
at our feet and we not be the wiser. Come ! the affair is
in too good shape just now to risk anything."
"Very good; but where will you find a lonelier place
than this ? "
vol. ii. — 23
354 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"We must find one. If I knew of an open desert in
the neighborhood I 'd go there and speak low. But, for
want of a desert, we '11 find some place where we are cer-
tain of being alone."
"Goon; I '11 follow you."
JUDAS AND JUDAS. 35i
XXXVI.
JUDAS AND JUDAS.
It was toward the great middle tower that Courtin now
guided his companion, not without stopping once or twice
to listen; for, whether it was reality or fancy, the mayor
of La Logerie thought he saw shadows gliding near them.
But as Monsieur Hyacinthe reassured him after every
pause, he ended by thinking it an effect of imagination;
and when they reached the tower he opened a door, entered
first, took from his pocket a wax candle and a sulphur
match, lighted the candle and carried it cautiously into all
the corners and angularities of the room to make sure that
no one was hidden there.
A door, cut in the wall to the right and partly broken
down by the rubbish of the ceiling, excited his fears and
also his curiosity. He pushed it open and found himself
in front of a yawning space from which a damp vapor was
rising.
" Look there ! " said Monsieur Hyacinthe, who followed
him, showing Courtin a wide breach in the outer wall,
through which they could see the lake sparkling in the
moonlight. " Look at that ! "
"I see it plain enough," said Courtin, laughing. "Yes,
Mère Chompré's dairy needs repairing; since I was here
last the hole in that wall is double the size it used to be.
One might get a boat in now."
Raising his light and holding it outward he tried to
look into the depths below; not succeeding, he took a stone
and flung it into the water, where it fell with a sonorous
noise that sounded like a threat, while the wash of the
356 THE LAST VENDÉE.
ruffled water against the steps and the foundations gave an
answering ripple.
"Well," said Courtin, "there is evidently nothing there
that can hear us but the fish of the lake; and the old
proverb says, you know, 'Mute as a fish.''
Just then a stone came rolling down from the roof along
the tower wall and fell into the court-yard.
" Did you hear that ? " asked Monsieur Hyacinthe,
uneasily.
"Yes," replied Courtin. Unlike his companion, who
seemed to grow more timorous in the gigantic shadow
thrown by the ruins, the farmer recovered courage after
convincing himself that no human being could possibly be
lurking in the court-yard. "I 've seen large bits of masonry
fall from the top of that old tower just from the blow of
a bat's wing."
"Hé, hé!" exclaimed Monsieur Hyacinthe, with bis
nasal laugh, which was like that of a German Jew ; " it is
precisely the night-birds we have to fear."
"Yes, the Chouans," replied Courtin. "But no ! these
ruins are too near the village; and though a villain I
thought I had got rid of has been seen roaming about here
to-day, I feel sure he won't dare to risk a visit by night."
" Put out your light, then ! "
"ISTo, no; we don't need it to talk by, that's true, but
we have something else to do than talk, I 'm thinking."
" Have we ? " said Monsieur Hyacinthe, eagerly.
"Yes. Come into this recess, where we shall be shel-
tered, and where the light can be hidden."
So saying he led Monsieur Hyacinthe beneath the arch-
way that led down to the gate of the cellars, placed the
light behind a fallen stone, and sat down himself on the
cellar steps.
"Do you mean to say," said Monsieur Hyacinthe, plant-
ing himself in front of Courtin, "that you are going to
give me the name of the street and the number of the
house in which the duchess is hidden ? "
JUDAS AND JUDAS. 357
"That, or something like it," replied Conrtin, who had
heard the clinking of gold on Monsieur Hyacinthe's per-
son, his eyes sparkling with greed.
"Come, don't lose time in useless words. Do you know
where she is living ? "
"No."
"Then why have you brought me here ? Ha ! if I have
a regret it is that I ever committed myself to a dawdler
like you."
For all answer Courtin took the paper he had picked
from the ashes of the hearth in the rue du Marché and
held it out to Monsieur Hyacinthe, raising the light that
he might see to read it.
"Who wrote that ? " asked the Jew.
"The young girl I told you about, who was with the
person we are in search of."
"Yes, but she is not with her now."
"That is true."
"Therefore I should be glad to know what good this
letter is. What does it prove ? How can it help our
purpose ? "
Courtin shrugged his shoulders and replaced the candle
beside the stone.
"Really, for a city gentleman," he said, "you are not
very sharp."
" What do you mean by that ? "
"Don't you see that the duchess offers an asylum to the
man to whom the letter is addressed, in case he is in any
danger ?"
"Yes, what next ?"
" Next ? Why, if we put him in danger he is certain to
take it."
"And then?"
"Then we can search the house he goes to, and catch
them all together."
Monsieur Hyacinthe reflected.
"Yes, the scheme is a good one," he said, turning the
358 THE LAST VENDÉE.
letter over and over in his hand and holding it near the
candle to make sure it contained no other writing.
"I should think it was a good one ! " exclaimed Courtin.
" Where does that man live ? " asked Monsieur Hyacinthe,
carelessly.
"Oh, as for telling you where he lives, that's another
matter. I 've told you the scheme, and you think it a good
one, — you said so yourself ; if I told you how to carry it
out I should just be giving myself away for nothing."
" But suppose the man does not accept the retreat offered
to him, and does not go to the house where she is hidden ? "
said Monsieur Hyacinthe.
"Oh, that 's impossible if we follow a plan I '11 explain
to you. His own house has two issues. We go to one
with a posse of soldiers; he escapes by the other, which
we leave clear; he sees no danger that way, but we follow
him from a distance. You see for yourself the thing
can't fail. And now, unfasten your belt and pay me the
money."
" Will you come with me ? "
"Of course I will."
" From now till the game is played you will not leave me
a single instant ? "
"I don't wish to, inasmuch as you only pay me half
now."
"But remember this," said Monsieur Hyacinthe, with
a determination scarcely to be expected from his pacific
demeanor, "I warn you that if you make even one sus-
picious gesture, if I have the slightest reason to think you
are deceiving me, I will blow your brains out."
So saying Monsieur Hyacinths drew a pistol from his
pocket and showed it to his companion. The face of the
man who made the threat was cold and calm, but a danger-
ous flash in his eye convinced the other that he was a man
to keep his word.
"As you please," said Courtin; "and all the easier for
you because I have no weapon."
JUDAS AND JUDAS. 359
"That 's a blunder," remarked Monsieur Hyacinthe.
"Come," said Courtin, "pay me what you promised, and
swear to me that if the thing succeeds you will pay me as
much more."
"You may rely upon my word, which is sacred; a man
is honest, or he is not honest. But why do you want to
carry this gold yourself, as you and I are not' to part ? "
continued Monsieur Hyacinthe, who seemed to have as
much reluctance to part with his belt as Courtin had
eagerness to grasp it.
"What ! " exclaimed the latter; "don't you see I'm in
a fever to touch that gold, to feel it, to handle it ? I am
dying to know if it is really there, even if I don't touch
it. Why, for the joy of that, for that one moment of
happiness when I feel it in my fingers, I 've risked all !
You shall give it to me now, or I '11 not say another word.
Yes ! for this one moment I 've braved everything, I 've
summoned courage, — I who am afraid of my shadow, I
who trembled and shook when I walked up our avenue at
night. Give me that gold, give me that gold, monsieur !
We have many dangers to face, many risks to run yet;
that gold will give me courage. Give me that gold if you
wish me to be as calm, as relentless as yourself."
"Yes," replied Monsieur Hyacinthe, who had watched
the vivid lighting up of the peasant's dull, wan face as he
said these words. "Yes, you shall have the money the
instant you give me the address; but I will have the
address, the address ! "
One was as eager as the other for the thing each desired.
Monsieur Hyacinthe rose, and took off his belt; Courtin,
intoxicated with the metallic sound he heard, again
stretched forth his hand to seize it.
" One moment ! " cried Monsieur Hyacinthe ; " give and
take ! "
"Yes, but let me first see if it is really gold you have
there."
The Jew shrugged his shoulders, but he yielded to the
360 THE LAST VENDÉE.
wishes of his accomplice; he pulled the iron chain that
closed the mouth of the leathern bag, and Courtin, dazzled
by the gleam of gold, felt a shudder pass through all his
body, while with elongated neck, and fixed eyes, and trem-
bling lips, he plunged his hands with ineffable, indescrib-
able pleasure into the heap of coin which rippled through
his fingers.
" He lives, " he said, " rue du Marché, No. 22 ; the other
door is in an alley running parallel with the rue du
Marché."
Maître Hyacinthe released his hold on the belt, which
Courtin seized with a deep sigh of satisfaction. But
almost at the same instant he raised his head with a
terrified look.
"What is it ? " asked Monsieur Hyacinthe.
"I heard steps," said the farmer, his face convulsed.
"No, no," said the Jew, "I heard nothing. I 've been a
fool to give you that money."
" "Why ? " said Courtin, clasping the belt to his breast as
if afraid the other might snatch it back.
"Because it seems to double your fears."
With a rapid movement Courtin clutched his companion's
arm.
" What is the matter ? " asked Monsieur Hyacinthe
again, beginning to feel uneasy.
" I tell you I hear steps overhead ! " said Courtin, look-
ing up to the dark and gloomy space above them.
"Nonsense; perhaps you are ill."
"I don't feel well, that 's true."
" Then let 's leave the place ; we have nothing more to
do here, and it is time we were on the way to Nantes."
" No, no, not yet/'
" Why not yet ? "
" Let us hide here and listen. People are about, and they
are watching for us ; and if they are watching for us they '11
guard the door. Oh, my God ! my God ! can it be that
they are after my gold already?" moaned the farmer,
JUDAS AND JUDAS. 361
trying to fasten the belt about his waist, but trembling so
violently that he could not do it.
"My good friend, you are certainly losing your head,"
said Monsieur Hyacinthe, who proved to be the more
courageous man of the two. "Let us put out the light
and hide in the cellar. We can see from there if you are
mistaken."
"You are right, you are right," said Courtin, blowing
out the candle as he opened the cellar door and went down
the first step into the inundated vault.
But he went no farther. A cry of terror burst from him,
in which could be heard the words : —
" Help, help ! Monsieur Hyacinthe ! "
The latter laid a hand on his pistol, when a powerful
hand seized his arm and twisted it as if to break it. The
pain was so great that the Jew fell on his knees, the sweat
pouring from his face as he cried out for mercy.
"One word, and I '11 kill you like the dog you are ! "
said the voice of Maître Jacques. Then, addressing Joseph
Picaut, who was just behind him, he went on: "Well,
do-nothing, have n't you got him ? What are you about ? "
" Oh, the villain ! " exclaimed Joseph, in a voice that
was broken and breathless from his efforts to hold Courtin,
whom he had seized the moment the latter opened the door
to go down the cellar stairs, and who was now making
desperate efforts to save, not himself, but his gold. "Oh,
the traitor! he is biting me, tearing me. If you hadn't
forbidden me to bleed him, I 'd soon have done for him."
At the same instant two bodies fell within six feet of
Monsieur Hyacinthe, whom Maître Jacques was pinning to
the ground.
" If he kicks too long, kill him, kill him ! " said Maître
Jacques. "Now that I know all I want to know, I don't
see why not."
" Damn it ! why did n't you say so before, and I 'd have
finished him at once ! "
By a violent effort Picaut threw Courtin under him and
362 THE LAST VENDÉE.
got a knee upon his breast, pulling a long-bladed knife
from his belt, on which, dark as it was, Courtin saw the
light flashing.
"Mercy ! mercy ! " cried the mayor. " I '11 tell all, I '11
confess all ; but don't kill me ! "
Maître Jacques' hand stayed Picaut's arm, which, in spite
of Courtin's offer, was in the act of descending upon him.
"Don't kill him !" said Maître Jacques, "on reflection,
he may still be useful. Tie him up like a sausage, and
don't let him stir, paws or toes ! "
The luckless Courtin was so terrified that he actually
held out his hands to Joseph, who bound them with a slen-
der, loose rope Maître Jacques had made his companion
bring with him. Nevertheless, the wretched man would
not release his clutch on the belt full of gold, which he
held pressed to his stomach by his elbow.
" Have n't you bound him yet ? " cried Maître Jacques,
impatiently.
"Let me finish roping this paw," replied Joseph.
"Very good; and when you've done bind this fellow,
too," continued Maître Jacques, pointing to Monsieur
Hyacinthe, whom he had allowed to get upon his knees,
in which posture the Jew remained silent and motionless.
"I could do it faster if there were any light," said
Joseph Picaut, provoked to find a knot in his rope, which
in the darkness he could not undo.
" Well, after all, " said Maître Jacques, " why the devil
are we in a hurry ? Why not light the lantern ? It would
do my soul good to see the faces of these sellers of kings
and princes."
Suiting the action to the word, Maître Jacques pulled
out a little lantern and lighted it with a sulphur match as
imperturbably as if he had been in the depths of his forest
of Touvois ; then he turned the light full on the faces of
Monsieur Hyacinthe and Courtin. By the gleam of that
light Joseph Picaut saw the leather belt the farmer was
hugging to his breast, and he sprang forward to tear it
JUDAS AND JUDAS. 363
from liirn. Maître Jacques mistook the object of his action.
Thinking that the Chouan's hatred to Courtin had got the
better of him, and that he meant to kill him, the master
of rabbits sprang forward to prevent it.
As he did so a line of fire darted from the upper part of
the tower and shot through the darkness; a dull explosion
was heard and Maître Jacques fell head foremost on Cour-
tin 's body, who felt his face covered with a warm and
fetid liquid.
"Ha! villain!" cried Maître Jacques, rising on one
knee and addressing Joseph, "ha ! you have led me into
a trap. I forgave you your lie, but you shall pay for
your treachery ! "
Kaising his pistol, he fired at close quarters on Pascal
Picaut's brother. The lantern rolled down the steps into
the waters below and was extinguished; the smoke of the
two shots made the darkness deeper.
Monsieur Hyacinthe, when Maître Jacques fell, rose
pale, mute, mad with terror, and ran hither and thither
about the tower, endeavoring to find an exit. At last he
saw through a narrow window the sparkle of a star on the
black vault of heaven, and with the strength of terror he
climbed to the opening, giving no heed to the fate of his
accomplice, and plunged head foremost into the lake.
The immersion into cold water calmed the blood which
was rushing violently to his brain, and he recovered his
self-control. He came to the surface of the water, where
he kept himself b}' swimming. Then he looked about him
to see in which direction he had better turn, and his eyes
lighted on a boat moored at the breach in the wall through
which the waters of the lake had forced their way into the
tower. Shuddering, he swam for it, making as little noise
as he could, climbed in, seized the oars, and was five hun-
dred feet away from the shore before he even thought of
his companion.
"Eue du Marche', No. 22," he cried. "No, terror
has n't made me forget it. Success depends now on the
364 THE LAST VENDÉE.
rapidity with which I get to Nantes. Poor Courtin ! — I
may now consider myself heir to the last fifty thousand
francs ; but what a fool I was to give him the first ! I
might at this very moment have had the address and the
money both. What a blunder ! what a blunder ! "
Then, to stifle his remorse, the Jew bent to his oars and
made the boat spin across the lake with a vigor which
seemed quite incompatible with his weakly appearance.
AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 365
XXXVII.
AN EYE FOR AN EYE, AND A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH.
In order to follow Monsieur Hyacinthe for a moment we
were obliged to leave our older acquaintance, Courtin,
stretched on the ground, legs and arms tied, in thickest
darkness, between the two wounded bandits.
The sound of Maître Jacques' heavy breathing and
Joseph's moans terrified him as much as their threats had
done. He trembled lest one or the other might revive and
remember he was here, and execute summary vengeance on
him; he held his breath, lest even its tremor might recall
him to their minds.
And yet, another feeling was even more powerful in
him than the love of life. He was resolved to keep to the
very last moment the precious belt from those who might
be his murderers, and he continued to hug it to his breast,
even daring, in order to hide it, that which he would not
have dared to save his life ; he gently suffered the belt to
slip to the ground beside him, and then with an almost
imperceptible motion he crept in the same direction until
he had covered it with his body.
Just as he had managed to execute this difficult manœuvre
he heard the door of the tower rolling and creaking on its
rusty hinges, and he saw a sort of phantom clothed in
black advancing toward him, holding a torch in one hand,
and dragging with the other a heavy musket, the butt-end
of which resounded on the stones.
Though the shades of death were already darkening his
eyes, Joseph Picaut saw the apparition; for he cried out,
in a voice broken with agony : —
36G THE LAST VENDÉE.
"The widow ! the widow ! "
The widow of Pascal Picaut, for it was she, walked
slowly forward, without a glance at Courtin or Maître
Jacques, who, pressing his left hand on a wound in his
breast, was striving to rise upon his right; then she stopped
in front of her brother-in-law and gazed at him with an
eye that was still threatening.
" A priest ! a priest ! " cried the dying man, horrified by
that awful phantom, which roused a hitherto unknown
feeling in his breast, — that of remorse.
" A priest ! What good will a priest do you, miserable
man? Can he bring back to life your brother whom you
murdered ? "
"No, no ! " cried Joseph; "no, I did not murder Pascal.
I swear it by eternity, to which I am now going ! "
" You did not kill him, but you let others do so, — if,
indeed, you did not urge them to the crime. Not content
with that, you fired at me. You would have been twice a
fratricide in one day if the hand of a brave man had not
pushed aside your weapon. P>ut be sure of this : it is not
the harm you tried to do to me that I am avenging. It is
the hand of G-od that strikes you through me — Cain !"
"What ! " exclaimed Joseph Picaut and Maître Jacques,
"that shot — "
"I fired it; I knew I should surprise you here in the
commission of another crime, and it was I who shot you
in the act. Yes, Joseph, yes ; you so brave, you so proud
of your strength, bow down before God's judgment ! — you
die by a woman's hand."
" What matters it to me how I die ? Death comes from
God. I implore you, woman, give my repentance chance
for efficacy; let me be reconciled to the Heaven I have
offended; bring me a priest, I implore you ! "
" Did your brother have a priest in his last hour ? Did
you give him, you, the time to lift his soul to God when
he fell beneath the blows of your accomplices at the ford
of the Boulogne ? No, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a
AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 367
tooth! Die a violent death ; die without help temporal or
spiritual, as your brother died. And may all brigands,"
she added, turning to Maître Jacques, "all brigands who,
in the name of any flag, no matter which it is, bring ruin
to their country and mourning to their homes, descend
with you to the lowest hell ! "
"Woman!" cried Maître Jacques, who had succeeded in
raising himself, "whatever be his crime, whatever he may
have done to you, it is not good that you should speak to
him thus. Forgive him, that you may yourself be for-
given ! "
"I ?" said the widow. " Who dares to raise a voice
against me ? "
"The man whom, without intending it, you have sent to
his grave; he who received the ball you meant for your
brother-in-law ; the man who speaks to you, I — I whom
you have killed. And yet I am not angry with you; for,
by the way the world wags now, the best thing men of
heart can do is to go and see if that three-colored rag
which seems to be to the fore here waves in God's heaven."
Marianne gave a cry of astonish aient, almost of horror,
when she heard what Maître Jacques told her. As the
reader has doubtless understood, she had watched for the
arrival of Courtin ; then when he and his companion had
entered the tower she went up the old staircase and along
the outer gallery till she reached the platform of the tower;
thence, through the rafters of the roof, she had fired on her
brother-in-law.
We have seen how, in consequence of the movement,
made by Maître Jacques to save Courtin, he was the one to
receive the shot.
This miscarriage of her hatred had, as we have said,
bewildered the widow; but quickly recovering herself as
she remembered what bandits these men really were, she
said : —
"Even if that is true, if I did shoot one intending to
shoot the other, my shot struek you as you were both
368 THE LAST VENDÉE.
about to commit another crime. I have saved the life of
an innocent man."
A savage smile curled the pale lips of Maître Jacques
on hearing her last words. He turned toward Courtin and
felt in his belt for the handle of his second pistol.
"Ha ! yes ! " he said with a dangerous laugh; "here 's
an innocent man; I had almost forgotten him. Well, that
innocent, since you remind me of him, I '11 give him his
brevet as martyr. I won't die without accomplishing my
mission."
" You shall not stain your last hour with blood, as you
have stained your whole life, Maître Jacques ! " cried the
widow, placing herself between Courtin and the Chouan.
"I know how to prevent it."
And she turned the muzzle of her gun full on Maître
Jacques.
"Very good," said Maître Jacques, as if he resigned
himself. " Presently, if God allows me time and strength,
I will make you know the two scoundrels whom you call
innocent; but, for the time being, I will let this one live.
In exchange, and to deserve the absolution I gave you just
now, forgive your poor brother. Don't you hear the rattle
in his throat ? He will be dead in ten minutes, and then
it will be too late."
"Ko, never ! never ! " said the widow, in a muffled voice.
Not only the voice but the rattle in Joseph's throat grew
perceptibly weaker, and yet he did not cease to use his last
remaining strength in beseeching his sister's pardon.
" It is God and not I whom you must implore, " she said.
"No," said the dying man, shaking his head; "I dare
not pray to God so long as your curse is upon me."
" Then address your brother, and pray to him to forgive
you."
"My brother !" murmured Joseph, closing his eyes as
if a terrible spectre were before him; "my brother ! I
shall see him ! I shall be face to face with him ! "
And he strove to push away with his hand the bloody
AN EYE FOR AX EYE. 369
phantom which seemed to beckon to him. Then, in a
voice that was hardly intelligible, and was indeed scarcely
more than a whisper, —
"Brother ! brother ! " he murmured, "why do you turn
away your head when I pray to you ? In the name of our
mother, Pascal, let me clasp your knees. Remember the
tears we shed together in our childhood, which the first
Blues made so bitter. Forgive me for having followed the
terrible path our father enjoined on both of us. Alas !
alas ! how could I know it would bring you and me face to
face as enemies ? My God ! my God ! he does not answer
me ! Oh, Pascal, why do you turn away your head ? Oh !
my poor child, my little Louis, whom I shall never see
again," continued the Chouan, "pray to your uncle, pray
to him for me ! He loved you as his own child; ask him,
in the name of your dying father, to help a repentant sin-
ner to reach the throne of God ! Ah, brother ! brother ! "
he murmured, with a sudden expression of joy that bor-
dered on ecstasy, "you hear him, you pardon me, you
stretch your hand to the child. My God ! my God ! take
my soul now, for my brother has forgiven me ! "
He fell back upon the ground from which, by a mighty
effort, he had risen to stretch his arms toward the vision.
During this time, and gradually, the hatred and ven-
geance in the widow's face subsided. When Joseph spoke
of the little boy whom Pascal loved as his own child, a
tear forced its way from her eyelids; and when at last, by
the gleam of her torch, she saw the face of the dying man
illuminated, not with an earthly light, but by a sacred halo,
she fell upon her knees, and pressing the hand of her
wounded brother, she cried out: —
" I believe you, I believe you, Joseph ! God unseals the
eyes of the dying and lets them see into the heights of
heaven. If Pascal pardons you, I pardon you. As he for-
gets, so I forget. Yes, I forget all to remember one thing
only, — that you were his brother. Brother of Pascal, die
in peace ! "
vol. ii. — 24
370 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Thank you, thank you," stammered Joseph, whose
voice now hissed through his lips, which were stained
with a bloody froth. " Thank you ! but — the wife, the
children?"
" Your wife shall be my sister, and your children are my
children," said the widow, solemnly. "Die in peace,
Joseph!"
The hand of the Chouan went to his forehead as though
he meant to make the sign of the cross ; his lips murmured
a few words, doubtless not said for human ears, for no one
understood them. Then he opened his eyes unnaturally
wide, stretched out his arm, and gave a sigh; it was his
last.
" Amen ! " said Maître Jacques.
The widow knelt down and prayed beside the body for
some instants, — quite amazed that her eyes should be filled
with tears for him who had made her weep so bitterly.
A long silence followed. Ko doubt this silence oppressed
Maître Jacques, for he suddenly called out : — •
" Sacredié ! who would suppose there was one living
Christian still here ? I say one, for I don't call Judas a
Christian."
The widow quivered; beside the dead she had indeed
forgotten the dying.
"I '11 go back to the house and send help," she said.
"Help? Don't do anything of the kind; they'd only
cure me for the guillotine; and, thank you, la Picaut, I 'd
rather die the death of a soldier. I 've got it, and I won't
let go of it now."
"Do you suppose I 'd give you up to the authorities ?"
"Yes; for you are a Blue and the wife of a Blue. Damn
it ! the capture of Maître Jacques would make a fine figure
on your record-book."
"My husband was a patriot, and I shared his feelings,
that is true. But I have a horror, above all things, of
traitors and treachery. For all the gold in the world I
would not betray a person, not even you."
AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 371
" You say you have a horror of treachery. Do you hear
that, you cur? "
"Come, Jacques, let me semi help," said the widow.
"No," said the Chouan bandit, " I 'm at the end of my
tether; I feel it and I know it. I 've made too many such
holes not to know all about it. In two hours, or three at
most, I shall be disporting myself on the great open
moor, — the last, grand, beautiful moor of the good God.
But listen to me now."
"I am listening."
"This man whom you see here," he continued, pushing
Courtin with his foot as he might a noxious animal, "this
man, for a few gold coins, has sold a head which ought to
be sacred to all, not only because it is of those who are
destined to wear a crown, but because her heart is noble
and kind and generous."
"That head," replied the widow, "I have sheltered be-
neath my roof."
In the portrait Maître Jacques had drawn she recognized
the duchess.
"Yes, you saved her that time, la Picaut, I know it; and
it is that which makes you so great in my eyes; it is that
which leads me to make you my last request."
"Tell me what it is."
"Come nearer and stoop down; you alone must know
what I have to say."
The widow went close to Maître Jacques and leaned over
him and listened attentively.
"You must," he said in a very low voice, "tell all this
to the man you have in your bouse."
" Who is that ? " asked the widow, thunderstruck.
"The man you are hiding in your stable; the one you go
every night to nurse and comfort."
" But who told you ? "
"Pooh ! do you think anything can be hidden from
Maître Jacques? All I say is true, la Picaut, and it makes
Maître Jacques the Chouan, Maître Jacques the Chauffeur,
proud to be among your friends."
372 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"But the gars is a very sick man; he has hardly strength
to stand, and then only by leaning on the wall."
"He '11 find strength, never fear; he 's a man, — a man
indeed such as there '11 be no more of after we have gone,"
said the Vendéan, with savage pride; "and if he can't
take the field himself he '11 make others do so. Tell him
merely that he must warn Nantes instantly, without losing
a minute, a second; he must warn he knows who. That
other man who was here is already on the march while we
are talking."
"It shall be done, Maître Jacques."
" Ah ! if that rascal Joseph had only spoken sooner ! "
resumed Maître Jacques, raising his body to stop the blood
which was rushing violently to his chest. " He knew, I am
certain, what was plotting between these two villains; but
he had them in his power and he never thought to die.
Well! man proposes, and God disposes. It must have been
the booty that tempted him. By the bye, widow, you
ought to be able to find that booty somewhere."
" What must I do with it ? "
"Divide it in two parts; give one to the orphans this
war has made, white as well as blue ; that 's my share.
The other belongs to Joseph; give that to his children."
Courtin gave a sigh of anguish; for the words were
spoken loud enough for him to hear.
" No, " said the widow, " no, it is the money of Judas ;
it would bring evil. I will not take that money for those
poor children, innocent as they are."
" You are right ; then give it all to the poor. The hands
that receive alms cleanse everything, even crime."
"And he ?" said the widow, motioning toward Courtin
but not looking at him, " what is to be done with him ? "
" He 's well bound and gagged, is n't he ? "
"He seems to be."
"Well, leave it to the man you have at your house to
say what shall be done with him."
"So be it."
AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 373
"By the bye, la Picaut, when you go for him, give him
this roll of tobacco. I have no further use for it, and I
think it will please him mightily. I declare, though,"
continued the master of warrens, " it makes me half sorry
to die. Ha ! I 'd give my twenty-five thousand francs
prize-money to see the meeting of our man and this one;
droll enough, that will be ! "
"But you must not stay here," said Marianne Picaut.
"We have a little bedroom in the citadel, where I will carry
you. There, at any rate, you can see a priest."
"As you please, widow; but first, do me the kindness to
make sure that my scoundrel is securely bound. It would
embitter my last moments, don't you see, if I thought he
would get loose before the shaking up he is going to have
presently."
The widow bent over Courtin. The ropes were so tightly
bound around his arms that they entered the flesh which
was red and swollen on each side of them. The farmer's
face, above all, betrayed the misery he was enduring and
was paler than that of Maître Jacques.
"He can't stir," said Marianne. "See! Besides, I'll
turn the key on him."
"Very good; it won't be for long. You will go at once,
won't you, la Picaut ? "
" Yes, I promise."
"Thank you. Ah ! the thanks I give you are nothing
to those the man you have over there will give when you
tell him all."
" Well, well ! Now let me carry you to the citadel,
where you can have the care you need. The confessor and
the doctor will both hold their tongues, don't be afraid of
that."
"Very good; carry me along. It will be queer to see
Maître Jacques die in a bed, when he never, in all his life,
slept on anything but ferns and heather."
The widow took him in her arms and carried him to the
little room we have mentioned, and laid him on a pallet
374 THE LAST VENDÉE.
that was kept there. Maître Jacques, in spite of the suf-
fering he must have endured, in spite of the gravity of his
position, continued, in the presence of death, the same merry
but sardonic being he had been all his life. The nature of
this man, totally unlike that of his compatriots, never
belied itself for a single instant. But, in the midst of his
lively sarcasms, flung at the things he had defended quite
as much as at those he had attacked, he never ceased to
urge the widow Picaut to go at once and fulfil the errand
to Jean Oullier which he had intrusted to her.
Thus urged, Marianne only took time to lock the door
and push the bolts of the fruit-room in which she left
Courtin a prisoner. She crossed the garden, re-entered
the inn, and found her old mother greatly alarmed by the
noise of the shots which had reached her. Her daughter's
absence increased the old woman's fears, and she was
beginning to be terribly alarmed lest the widow had been
made the victim of some trap by her brother-in-law, when
Marianne returned.
The widow, without telling her mother a word of what
had happened, begged her not to let any one pass into the
ruins; then, flinging her mantle over her shoulders, she
prepared to go out. Just as she laid her hand on the latch
of the door a light knock was given without. Marianne
turned back to her mother.
"Mother," she said, "if any stranger asks to pass the
night at the inn say we have no room. No one must enter
the house this night; the hand of God is upon it."
The person outside rapped again.
" Who 's there ? " said the widow, opening the door, but
barring the way with her own person.
Bertha appeared on the threshold.
" You sent me word this morning, madame," said the
young girl, "that you had an important communication to
make to me."
"You are right," said the widow. "I had wholly
forgotten it."
AN EYE FOR AN EYE. 375
"Good God!" cried Bertha, noticing that Marianne's
kerchief was stained with blood, "has any harm happened
to my people, — to Mary, my father, Michel? "
And in spite of her strength of mind, this last thought
shook her so terribly that she leaned against the wall to
keep herself from falling.
"Don't be uneasy," answered the widow. "I have no
misfortune to tell you; on the contrary, I am to say that
an old friend whom you thought lost is living, and wants
to see you."
"Jean Oullier ! " cried Bertha, instantly guessing whom
she meant, " Jean Oullier ! It is he whom you mean, is n't
it ? He is living ? Oh, God be thanked ! my father will
be so glad ! Take me to him at once, — at once, I entreat
you ! "
"It was my intention to do so this morning; but since
then events have happened which lay upon you a duty
more pressing still."
"A duty ! " exclaimed Bertha, astonished. "What
duty ? "
"That of going to Nantes immediately; for I doubt if
poor Jean Oullier, exhausted as he is, can possibly do what
Maître Jacques requests of him."
" What am I to do in Nantes ? "
" Tell him, or her, whom 3^011 call Petit-Pierre that the
secret of her present hiding-place has been sold and bought,
and she must leave it instantly. Any place is safer than
the one she is now in. Betrayal is close upon her; God
grant you may get there in time ! "
"Betrayed ! " cried Bertha, "betrayed by whom? "
"By the man who once before sent the soldiers to my
house to capture her, — by Courtin, the mayor of La
Logerie."
" Courtin ! Have you seen him ? "
"Yes," replied Marianne, laconically.
" Oh ! " cried Bertha, clasping her hands, " let me see
him ! "
376 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Young girl, young girl," said the widow, evading a
reply to this request, " it is I, whom the partisans of that
woman have made a widow, who urge you to make haste
and save her; and it is you, who boast of being faithful to
her, who hesitate to go ! "
"No, no; that is not so !" cried Bertha. "I do not
hesitate; I am going."
She made a motion to go out; the widow stopped her.
"You cannot go to Nantes on foot; you would get there
too late. In the stable of this house you will find two
horses; take either you please, and tell the hostler to saddle
him."
"Oh," said Bertha, "I can saddle him myself. But
what can we ever do for you, my poor widow, who have
twice saved her life ? "
"Tell her to remember what I said to her in my cottage
beside the bodies of two men killed for her sake; tell
her that it is a crime to bring discord and civil war into
a region where her enemies themselves protect her from
treachery. Go, mademoiselle, go ! and may God guide
you."
So saying, the widow left the house hurriedly, — going
first to the rector of Saint-Philbert, whom she asked to
visit the citadel, and then, as rapidly as possible, she struck
across the fields to her own house.
TUE KED-BKEECHES. 377
XXXVIII.
THE RED-BREECHES.
For the last twenty-four hours Bertha's anxiety had been
extreme. It was not only on Courtin that her suspicions
fell; they extended to Michel himself.
Her recollections of that evening preceding the fight at
Chêne, the apparition of a man at her sister's window, had
never entirely left Bertha's mind; from time to time they
crossed it like a flash of flame, leaving behind them a pain-
ful furrow, which the passive attitude taken toward her
by Michel during his convalescence was far from soothing.
But when she learned that Courtin, whom she supposed to
have acted under Michel's directions, had ordered the
schooner to sail, and when, above all, she returned,
frightened and breathless with love, to the farmhouse at
La Logerie, and did not find him whom she came to seek,
then indeed her jealous suspicions became intense.
Nevertheless, she forgot all to obey the duty laid upon
her by the widow; before that duty all considerations must
give way, even those of her love. She ran to the stable
without losing another moment; chose the horse that
seemed to her most fit to do the distance rapidly; gave
him a double feed of oats to put into his legs the elasticity
they needed; threw upon his back, as he ate, the sort of
pack-saddle used in those regions; and, bridle in hand,
waited until the animal had finished eating.
As she stood there waiting, a sound, well-known in those
days, reached her ears. It was that of the regular tramp
of a troop of armed men. At the same moment a loud
knocking was heard on the inn door.
378 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Through a glazed sash, which looked into a bake-house
that opened into the kitchen, the young girl saw the
soldiers, and discovered at the first words they said that
they wanted a guide. At that moment everything was
significant to Bertha; she trembled for her father, for
Michel, for Petit-Pierre. She therefore would not start
until she had found out what these men were after. Con-
fident of not being recognized in the peasant-woman's dress
she wore, she passed through the bake-house and entered
the kitchen. A lieutenant was in command of the little
squad.
" Do you mean," he was saying to Mère Chompré, "that
there 's not a man in the house, — not one ? "
"No, monsieur; my daughter is a widow; and the only
hostler we have is out somewhere, but I don't know
where."
"Well, your daughter is the person I want. If she were
here she would serve us as guide, as she did at the Springs
of Baugé one famous night; or, if she couldn't come her-
self, she might tell us of some one to take her place. I
know I could trust her; but these miserable peasants, half
Chouans, whom we compel to guide us against their will,
never leave us an easy moment."
"Mistress Picaut is absent; but perhaps we can supply
some one in her place," said Bertha, advancing resolutely.
"Are you going far, gentlemen ? "
" Bless my soul ! a pretty girl ! " said the young officer,
approaching her. " Guide me where you will, my beauty,
and the devil take me if I don't follow you ! "
Bertha lowered her eyes and twisted the corner of her
apron like a bashful village-girl, as she answered: —
"If it is n't very far from here, and the mistress is will-
ing, I '11 go with you myself. I know the neighborhood."
" Agreed ! " cried the lieutenant.
"But on one condition," continued Bertha, — "that some
one shall bring me back here. I am afraid to be out in
the roads alone."
THE RED-BREECHES. 379
"God forbid I should yield that privilege to any one,
my dear, even if it costs me my epaulets ! " said the officer.
" Do you know the way to Banlœuvre ? "
At the name of the farmhouse belonging to Michel,
where she had lived herself for some days with the mar-
quis and Petit-Pierre, Bertha felt a shudder run through
her body, a cold sweat came upon her forehead, her heart
beat violently, but she managed to master her emotion.
"Banlœuvre?" she repeated. "No, that's not in our
parts. Is it a village or a château, Banlœuvre ? "
"It is a farmhouse."
" A farmhouse ! Whom does it belong to ? "
"To a gentleman of your neighborhood."
"Are you billeted at Banlœuvre? "
"No; we have an expedition there."
"What is an expedition? "
"Well done ! " cried the lieutenant. "Here 's a pretty
girl who wants information ! "
"Natural enough, too. If I take you, or get some one
to take you to Banlœuvre, of course I want to know why
you are going there."
"We are going," said the sub-lieutenant, joining in the
conversation for the sake of showing his wit, "to give a
white such a dose of lead that he '11 turn blue."
"Ah ! " cried Bertha, unable to repress the exclamation.
"Hey ! what's the matter Avith you ?" asked the lieu-
tenant. "If we had told you the name of the man we are
going to arrest, I should have said you were in love with
him."
"I ?" said Bertha, calling up her strength of mind to hide
the terror in her heart. "I, in love with a gentleman ?"
"Kings have married shepherdesses," said the sub-
lieutenant, who seemed to be of a comic humor.
"Well, well ! " cried the lieutenant; "here 's the shep-
herdess fainting away like a fine lady."
"I ? fainting ! " exclaimed Bertha, endeavoring to laugh.
" Nonsense, we don't have city manners here ! "
380 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Nevertheless, you are as pale as your linen, my pretty
girl."
" Goodness ! you talk of shooting a man as you would a
rabbit in a hedge ! "
"Not at all the same thing," said the sub-lieutenant;
"for a rabbit is good to eat, whereas a dead Chouan is good
for nothing."
Bertha could not prevent her proud, energetic face from
betraying, by its expression, the disgust she felt at the
jokes of the young officer.
"Ah, ça!" said the lieutenant, "you are not as patriotic
as your mistress. I see we sha'n't get much help from you."
"I am patriotic; but much as I hate my enemies, I can't
see them killed with a dry eye."
"Pooh ! " said the officer, "you '11 get accustomed to it,
just as we soldiers get accustomed to sleeping on the high-
roads instead of our beds. To-night, when the letter of
that cursed peasant came to the guard-house at Saint-
Martin, and obliged me to start off at once, I damned the
State to all the devils. Well, I now see I was wrong, for
it has its compensations, — in fact , instead of cursing and
swearing, I find the expedition charming."
So saying, and as if to add to the pleasures of the situa-
tion, he stooped and tried to snatch a kiss from the neck
of the young girl. Bertha, who did not suspect his amor-
ous intention, felt the young man's breath upon her face
and started away, red as a pomegranate, her nostrils
quivering, her eyes sparkling with indignation.
"Oh, oh ! " continued the lieutenant, "you are not going
to get angry for a silly kiss, are you, my beaut}^ ? "
"Do you think, because I am a poor country-girl, that
I can be insulted with impunity ? "
" ' Insulted with impunity ' ! hey, what fine language ! "
said the sub-lieutenant ; " and they told us we were coming
to a land of savages."
"Do you know," said the lieutenant, looking fixedly at
Bertha, "that I 've a great mind to do something."
THE RED-BREECHES. 381
"Do what ?'"
" Arrest you on suspicion, and not let you off till you
pay me the ransom I would set upon your liberty."
" What would that be ? "
"A kiss."
"I can't let you kiss me, because you are neither my
father, nor brother, nor husband."
"Are they the only ones who will have the right to put
their lips to those pretty cheeks ? "
"Of course they are."
"Why so?"
"I don't wish to forget my duty."
"Your duty ! oh, you little joker ! "
"Don't you think we peasant-girls have our duties as
well as you soldiers have yours ? Come " (Bertha tried to
laugh), " if I were to ask you the name of the man you are
going to arrest, and it would be against your duty to tell
it, would you tell it to me ? "
"Faith," said the young man, "I should n't fail much in
duty if I did tell you; for there is n't, I think, the slight-
est harm in your knowing it."
" But suppose there were any harm ? "
"Oh, then — but I declare I don't know; your eyes have
turned my head, and I really can't say what I should do.
Well, yes, if you are really as curious as I am weak, I '11
tell you that name and betray the country; only, I must
be paid for it with a kiss."
Bertha's apprehensions were so great, — she was so con-
vinced that Michel was the object of the expedition, — that
she forgot, with her usual impetuosity, all caution, and
without reflecting on the suspicions she gave rise to by her
persistency, she abruptly offered him her cheek. He took
two resounding kisses.
"Give and take," he said, laughing. "The name of the
man we are going to arrest is Monsieur de Vincé."
Bertha drew back and looked at the officer. A misgiv-
ing crossed her mind that he had tricked her.
382 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Come, let 's start, " said the lieutenant to his subordi-
nate. "I shall go and ask the mayor for the guide we
evidently can't get here." Turning to Bertha he added,
"Any guide he may give me won't please me as you do,
my dear," and he gave an affected sigh. Then he called to
his men : " Forward there, march ! "
Before starting himself he asked for a match to light his
cigar. Bertha searched in vain on the mantel-piece.
The officer then took a paper from his pocket and lighted
it at the lamp. Bertha watched his movements and threw
a glance at the paper, which the flames were beginning to
shrivel up, and she distinctly saw there Michel's name.
"I suspected it," thought she. "He lied tome. Yes,
yes, it is Michel they are going to arrest."
As the officer threw down the half -burned paper, she put
her foot upon it with some difficulty, and the officer took
advantage of her motions to seize another kiss.
"Hush ! " he said, putting his finger on his lip; "you
are not a peasant-girl. Look out for yourself, if you have
any reason for hiding. If you play your part as badly
with those who are seeking you as you have with me, who
am not instructed to arrest you, you are lost."
So saying, he hastily turned away, fearing perhaps to be
lost himself. He was no sooner out of sight than Bertha
seized the remains of the paper. It contained the denun-
ciation that Courtin had sent to Nantes by the peasant
Matthieu, which the latter, to save himself trouble, had
put into the first post-office he came to. This post-office
was that of Saint-Martin, the next village to Saint-
Philbert.
Enough remained unburned of Courtin's writing to
enlighten Bertha as to the object of the troop now advanc-
ing on Banlœuvre. Her head swam. If the sentence
already pronounced on the young man were executed by
the soldiers, Michel would be dead in two hours ; she saw
him, a bloody corpse, reddening the earth about him. Her
mind gave way.
THE RED-BREECHES. 383
"Where is Jean Oullier ? " she cried to the old landlady.
"Jean Oullier ?" said the latter, gazing stolidly at the
girl. "I don't know what you mean."
" I ask you, where is Jean Oullier ? "
"Is n't Jean Oullier dead ?" replied Mère Chompré.
"But your daughter, where has your daughter gone ?"
"l 'ni sure I don't know; she never tells me where she
is going when she goes out. She is old enough to be the
mistress of her own actions."
Bertha thought of the Picaut cottage; but to go there
would take her an hour, and it might prove a waste of
time. That hour would suffice to insure Michel's death.
"She will be back in a minute," she said to the old
woman. " When she comes tell her I could not go as soon
as she expected to the place she knows of; but I will be
there before daylight."
Running' to the stables, she slipped the bridle on the
horse, sprang upon his back, rode him out of the building,
and giving him a vigorous blow with a switch, put him at
once into a gait that was neither trot nor gallop, but fast
enough to gain half an hour at least on the soldiers. As
she crossed the market-place of Saint-Philbert she heard
on her right the receding footsteps of the little troop.
Then she took her bearings, passed the houses, dashed
her horse into the river Boulogne, and came out to join the
road a little above the forest of Machecoul.
384 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XXXIX.
A WOUNDED SOUL.
Fortunately for Bertha the horse she was riding had
better qualities than his appearance denoted. He was a
little Breton beast which, when quiet, seemed gloomy,
sad, depressed, like the men of his native region; but once
warmed to action (like them again) he increased every
moment in vigor and energy. With flaring nostrils, and
his tangled mane floating in the wind, he attained to a
gallop; presently his gallop became a run. Plains, val-
leys, and hedges passed and disappeared behind him with
fantastic rapidity, while Bertha, bending low upon his
neck, gave rein and urged him onward with voice and
whip.
The belated peasants whom she met, seeing the horse
and its rider fade into the distance as quickly as they had
seen them appear, took them for phantoms, and signed
themselves devoutly behind them.
Rapid as this going was, it was not as fast as Bertha's
heart demanded ; to her a second seemed a week, a minute
a year. She felt the terrible responsibility that rested on
her, — the responsibility of blood and death and shame.
Could she save Michel, and, having saved him, should she
still have time to avert the clanger that threatened Petit-
Pierre? That was the question.
A thousand confused ideas coursed through her brain;
she blamed herself for not having given Marianne's mother
more careful instructions; she was seized with vertigo at
the thought that after the headlong rush of that mad ride,
A WOUNDED SOUL. 385
the poor little Breton horse would surety be unable to return
from Banloeuvre to Nantes; Bhe reproached herself for
using in the interests of her love the time and resources
"which might be necessary to save the noblest head in
France; then she reflected that unless others possessed, as
she did, the passwords, it would be impossible fur any one
to reach the illustrious fugitive. So thinking, and torn
by a thousand conflicting emotions, culminating in a sort
of intoxication or madness, she pressed her horse with her
heel and continued her wild ride, which, at any rate, cooled
her brain, burning with thoughts that were like to burst it.
At the end of an hour she reached the forest of Touvois.
There she was compelled to slacken speed; the way was
full of quagmires. Twice the little horse plunged into
them. She was forced to let him walk, calculating that in
any case she had gained sufficiently on the soldiers to give
Michel time to escape.
She hoped; she breathed. A moment of joyful satis-
faction came to quench the all-consuming anguish of her
fears; once more Michel would owe to her his life !
We must have loved, we must have known the ineffable
joy of sacrifice, to comprehend what there was of happiness
in this immolation of herself to the man she loved, and
the proud joy with which Bertha thought for an instanl
that Michel's life, which she was now about to save, might
cost her dear.
Her mind was full of these thoughts when she saw the
white walls of the farmhouse shining in the moonlight,
framed by the dark tufts of the nut-trees. The gate of the
farmyard was open. Bertha dismounted, fastened her
horse to a ring in the outer wall, and crossed the yard on
foot.
The manure which covered the ground deadened the
sound of her steps ; no dog barked to welcome her, or to
signify her presence to the inmates. To her great surprise
Bertha noticed a horse standing, saddled and bridled, by
the door of the house. The horse might belong to Michel;
vol. II. — 25
386 THE LAST VENDÉE.
but then again it might belong to a stranger. Bertha was
determined to make sure before entering the house.
One of the shutters in the room where Petit-Pierre had
asked her hand of her father in Michel's name stood open.
Bertha went softly up to it and looked within.
Hardly had her eyes rested on the interior of the room
when she gave a stifled cry and almost fainted. She had
seen Michel at Mary's knees; one hand was round her
sister's waist, and the latter's hand was toying with his
hair; their lips were smiling to each other; their eyes
shone with that expression of joy which can never be mis-
taken by hearts that have loved.
The prostration caused by this discovery lasted but a
second. Bertha rushed to the door of the room, pushed it
open violently, and appeared on the threshold like an
embodiment of Vengeance, her hair dishevelled, her eyes
flaming, her face livid, her breast heaving.
Mary gave a cry and fell on her knees with her face in
her hands. She had guessed the whole at a single glance,
so frightfully convulsed was Bertha's face.
Michel, horrified by Bertha's look, rose hastily, and, as
though he found himself suddenly in presence of an enemy,
he mechanically put his hand on his arms.
"Strike !" cried Bertha, who saw his action; "strike,
miserable man ! It will be a fit conclusion to your baseness
and your treachery ! "
"Bertha," stammered Michel, "let me tell you, let me
explain to you ! "
"To your knees! to your knees ! — you and your accom-
plice ! " cried Bertha. " Say on your knees the lies you
will invent for your defence ! Oh, the vile wretch ! And I
have flown here to save his life ! I, half mad with terror
and despair for the fate that was hanging over him; I,
who have forgotten all, all, honor, duty; I, who laid my
life at his feet, who had but one thought, one object, one
desire, one wish, — that of saying to him, 'Michel, look !
see how I love you ! ' — I come, and T find him betraying
A WOUNDED SOUL. 387
his word, denying his promises, faithless to sacred ties —
I will nut say of love, but of gratitude — and with whom ?
for whom ? The being I loved next to him in this world,
the companion of my childhood, — my sister ! Was there
no other woman to seduce ? Speak! speak, wretch! " went
on Bertha, seizing the young man's arm and shaking it with
violence. " Or did you wish, in deserting me, to take away
mv only consolation, — the heart of that second self 1
called a sister '.' "
" Bertha, listen to me ! " said Michel. " Listen to me,
I implore you ! We are not, thank God, as guilty as you
think us. Oh, if you did but know, Bertha ! "
"I will hear nothing; I listen only to my heart, which
grief is breaking, which despair has crushed; I listen only
to the voice within me which says you are a coward ! base !
My God ! my God ! " she cried, grasping her hair in her
clenched hands, " my God ! is this the reward of my ten-
derness, which was so blind that my eyes refused to see,
my ears to hear when they told me that this child, this
timid, trembling, wavering, unmanly creature, was not
worthy of my love ? Oh, poor fool that I have been ! I
hoped that gratitude would bind him to her who took pity
on his weakness, who braved all prejudice and public
opinion to drag him from the bog of infamy and make his
name, his degraded name, an honorable and honored one ! "
"Ah!" cried Michel, rising, "enough ! enough !"
"Yes, enough of a degraded name !" repeated Bertha.
"That touches you, does it? So much the better; I will
say it again and again. Yes, a name soiled and degraded
by all that is most odious, cowardly, infamous, — by
treachery ! Oh, family of betrayers ! The son continues
in the way of the father; I ought to have expected it."
"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle ! " said Michel, "you
abuse the privilege of your sex in thus insulting me; and
not only me, but all that a man holds most sacred, — the
memory of his father ! "
" Sex ! sex ! So I have a sex now, have I ? I had none
3S8 THE LAST VENDÉE.
when you were betraying me at the feet of that poor fool,
none when you were making me the most miserable of
creatures; but now, because I do not lament and tear my
hair and beat my breast and drag myself to your feet, now,
now you suddenly discover I am a woman, a being to be
respected because she is gentle, to whom suffering must be
spared because she is weak ! No, no ! for you I have no
longer a sex. You have before you, from this hour, a
being whom you have mortally offended, and who returns
you insult for insult. Baron de la Logerie, coward and
traitor double-dyed is he who seduces the sister of his
betrothed wife, — yes, I was the affianced wife of that
man ! Baron de la Logerie, not only are you a traitor and
a coward, but you are the son of a traitor and a coward ;
your father was the infamous wretch who sold and betrayed
Charette. He, at least, paid the penalty of his crime,
which he expiated with his life. You have been told that
he was killed in hunting, — a benevolent lie, which I here
refute. He was killed by one who saw him do his deed
of treachery ; he was killed by — "
"Sister!" cried Mary, springing forward and laying
her hand on her sister's lips, "you are about to commit the
crime you denounce in others; you are betraying secrets
which do not belong to you ! "
" Be it so ; but that man shall speak ! The contempt I
cast upon him shall make him raise his head ! He shall
find, in his shame or in his pride, the strength to send me
out of a life that is odious to me, a life which can be
henceforth but a long delirium, an eternal despair. Let
him complete with one blow the ruin he has begun ! My
God ! my God ! " continued Bertha, in whose eyes the
tears were beginning to force their way, " why dost thou
suff er men to break the hearts of thy living creatures ? My
God ! my God ! what can ever console me for this ?"
"I will," said Mary. "I will, my sister, my good sister,
my precious sister, if you will but hear me, if you will
only pardon me."
A WOUNDED SOUL. 389
"Pardon you ! you ?" cried Bertha, pushing Mary away
from her. "No! you are the partner of that man; I know
you no more ! But, I warn you, watch each other mutu-
ally, for your treachery will bring evil on both of you."
"Bertha! Bertha! in God's name, do not say such
things ! Do not curse us, do not insult us thus ! "
" Ha ! " exclaimed Bertha, " you feel it, do you ? Yes,
it is not without good reason that we are called 'she-
wolves ' ! And now they'll say: 'The Demoiselles de
Souday both loved Monsieur de la Logerie, and after prom-
ising to marry ' (for I suppose he promised it to you as he
did to me) ' he deserted them and took a third ! ' Why,
even for wolves it would be monstrous ! "
"Bertha ! Bertha!"
"If I scorned the epithet they gave us, as I scorn all
empty considerations of mock propriety," continued the
young girl, still at the height of her excitement, "if I
laughed at the conventions of society and the world, it was
because we both — both , do you hear that ? — because we
both had- the right to walk proudly in a virtuous indepen-
dence of unsullied honor; because we were so high in our
inward consciousness that such miserable insults were
beneath our notice. But to-day all that is changed, and I
here declare that I will do for you, Mary, what I disdain
to do for myself, — if that man will not marry you, I will
kill him. It will at least save our father's name from
dishonor."
"That name is not dishonored; I swear it, Bertha!"
cried Mary, kneeling down before her sister, who, shaken
at last beyond her strength , fell into a chair and clasped
her head in her hands.
"So much the better; it is one pain the less for her
whom you will never see again." Then, twisting her arms
with a gesture of despair, "My God ! my God ! " she cried,
"after having loved them so well, to be forced to hate
them ! "
" No, you shall not hate me, Bertha ! Your tears, your
390 THE LAST VENDÉE.
sufferings are worse to me than your anger. Forgive me !
Oh, my God ! what am I saying ? You will think me
guilty if I clasp your knees and ask your pardon. I am
not guilty, I swear it. I will tell you — but oh ! you must
not suffer, you must not weep ! Monsieur de la Logerie,"
continued Mary, turning to Michel a face that was bathed
in tears, "Monsieur de la Logerie, all that has happened
is a dream; the daylight has come. Go! go far away;
forget me! Go at once!"
"Mary," said Bertha, who had suffered her sister to take
her hand, which the latter covered with tears and kisses,
"you do not reflect; it is too late; it is impossible."
"Yes, yes, it is possible, Bertha!" said Mary, with a
heart-rending smile. "Bertha, we will each take a spouse
whose name will protect us from " the calumnies of the
world."
" Whom do you mean, poor child ? "
Mary raised her hand to heaven.
" God ! " she said.
Bertha did not answer; grief was choking her; but she
held Mary tightly clasped against her breast, while Michel,
utterly overcome, fell on a bench in a corner of the room.
"Forgive us ! " murmured Mary, in her sister's ear.
"Do not crush him ! Is it his fault if a mistaken educa-
tion has made him so irresolute and timid that he had no
courage to speak when it was his duty to do so ? He has
long wished to tell you the truth, but I have withheld him.
I alone am to blame, I hoped we should forget each other.
Alas, alas ! God has made us very feeble against our own
hearts ! But now, we will never leave each other, you and
I, dear sister. Look at me ! let me kiss your eyes ! ISTo
one shall ever come between us ! no man shall bring trouble
and discord between two sisters. No, no ! we will live
alone together, loving each other, — alone with ourselves
and God, to whom we will consecrate our lives; and there
will still be happiness, my Bertha, happiness in our soli-
tude, for we can pray for him, we can pray for him ! "
A WOUNDED JSOUL. 391
Mary uttered the last words in a heart-rending tone.
Michel, convulsed with anguish, came and knelt beside
her before Bertha, who, with her mind bent on her sister,
did not notice him.
At this moment the soldiers appeared at the door which
Bertha had left open, and the officer we have seen at the
inn of Saint-Philbert advanced into the middle of the room
and laid his hand on Michel's shoulder.
" You are Monsieur Michel de la Logerie ? " he said.
"Yes, monsieur."
"Then I arrest you, in the name of the law."
"Great God ! " cried Bertha, recovering her senses. "I
had forgotten it! Ah, it is 1 who have killed him! And
the other! down there! down there! Oh, what is hap-
pening there ? "
" Michel, Michel ! " said Mary, forgetting what she had
just said to her sister. "Michel, if you die, I will die
with you."
"No, no," cried Bertha, "he shall not die; I swear to
you, sister, you shall still be happy! Make way, mon-
sieur, make way ! " she said to the officer.
"Mademoiselle," replied the latter, with painful polite-
ness, "like you I cannot trifle with my duty. At Saint-
Philbert you were only, to me, a suspicious person. I am
not a commissary of police, and I was not called upon to
interfere with you. Here I find you in flagrant rebellion
against the laws, and I arrest you."
"Arrest me! arrest me at this moment! You may kill
me, monsieur, but you shall not have, me living! "
And before the officer could recover from his surprise-
Bertha climbed the window, sprang into the court-yard,
and reached the gate. It was guarded by soldiers. Look-
ing about her the girl saw Michel's horse, which, frightened
by the noise and the apparition of the soldiers, had broken
loose and was running hither and thither about the yard.
Profiting by the confidence that the officer felt in the
precaution taken of surround'mv the house, a security
392 THE LAST VENDÉE.
which prevented him from ordering violence against a
woman, she went straight to the animal and sprang into
the saddle with a bound, then passing like a thunderbolt
before the eyes of the amazed officer, she reached a place
in the wall which was slightly broken down; there with
heel and bridle she urged on the horse, which was an
excellent English hunter, made it jump the barrier which
was still nearly five feet high, and darted away across the
plain.
" Don't fire ! don't fire upon that woman ! " cried the
officer, who did not think the prize worth taking dead if
he could not get her living.
But the soldiers who formed the cordon outside the
court-yard did not understand the order, and a rain of balls
hissed around Bertha as the vigorous stride of her good
English beast carried her toward Nantes.
THE CHIMNEY-BACK. 393
XL.
THE CHIMNEY-BACK.
Let us now see what was happening in Nantes during this
night which began with the death of Joseph Picaut, i'ul-
lowed by the arrest of Monsieur Michel de la Logerie. .
Toward nine o'clock that evening a man with his
clothes soaked in water and soiled with mud presented
himself at the Prefecture, and on refusal of the usher in
charge to take him to the prefect, he sent in to that official
a card, bearing, as it appeared, some all-powerful name,
for the prefect immediately left his employment to receive
this man, who was no other than the one known to us as
Monsieur Hyacinthe.
Ten minutes after their interview a strong force of gen-
darmes and police officers was on its way to the house
occupied by Maître Pascal in the rue du Marché, and soon
appeared before the door of the house which opened on the
street.
No precaution was taken to dull the sound of the
column's advance, or to mislead any one as to its inten-
tions; so that Maître Pascal, on becoming aware of its
advance, had plenty of time to notice that the door into
the alley was not guarded, and to escape in that way before
the emissaries of the law could burst in the door on the rue
du Marché, which was not opened to them.
He made at once for the rue du Chateau and entered
No. 3. Monsieur Hyacinthe, whom he had not perceived,
hidden as he was behind a stone block near the entrance
of the alley, followed him with all the practised skill of a
hunter stalking the game he covets.
394 THE LAST VENDÉE.
During this preliminary operation, for the success oi
which Monsieur Hyacinthe had probably vouched, the
authorities had taken strong military measures; and no
sooner had the Jew made his report of what he had seen
to the prefect of the Loire than twelve hundred men
advanced upon the house into which the spy had seen
Maître Pascal disappear. These twelve hundred men were
divided into three columns. The first went down the
Cours, leaving sentinels stationed along the walls of the
Archbishop's garden and the adjoining houses, skirted
the castle moat and came in front of No. 3 rue du Château,
where it deployed. The second, following the rue de
l'Evêché, crossed the place Saint-Pierre, went down the
main street, and joined the first column by the rue Basse-
du-Château. The third united with the two others from
the upper end of the rue du Château, leaving, like the
others, a long line of sentries with fixed bayonets behind it.
The investment was complete ; the whole nest of houses,
in the midst of which was No. 3, was securely surrounded.
The troops entered the ground-floor, preceded by the
commissaries of police, who marched before them, pistol
in hand. The soldiers spread themselves through the
house and guarded all the exits; their mission was then
fulfilled. That of the police began.
Four ladies were, apparently, the only occupants of the
house. These ladies, who belonged to the upper aris-
tocracy of Nantes, and were respected, not only for their
social position, but for their honorable characters, were;
arrested.
Outside the house a crowd gathered, and formed another
cordon behind that of the soldiers. The whole town
seemed to have turned into the streets; but no sign of
royalist sympathy was shown. The crowd was grave and
curious, that was all.
Investigations began inside the house; and their first
result confirmed the authorities in the conviction that
Madame la Duchesse de Berry occupied it. A letter
THE CHIMNEY-BACK. 395
addressed to her Royal Highness was lying open <>n a
table. The disappearance of Maître Pascal, who was seen
to enter the house and known not to have left it, proved
the existence of some hiding-place within it.s walls. That
hiding-place must be found.
All articles of furniture were opened if the keys were in
them; broken open if they were not. The sappers and
masons sounded the walls and floors with their hammers ;
builders, who were taken from room to room, declared it
impossible, comparing the internal with the external con-
struction, that any hiding-place was made in the walls.
In several of the rooms, however, articles were found, such
as printed papers, jewels, articles of silver, which might,
to be sure, have belonged to the owners of the house, but,
under the circumstances, seemed to point to the presence
of the princess within the walls. When the garret was
reached the builders declared that there, less than else-
where, was it possible for a hiding-place to exist.
The police then searched the neighboring houses, sound-
ing the walls with such violence that fragments of masonry
were detached, and at one time it was thought that the
walls themselves were coming down.
While these things were happening about them the
ladies of the house, who were under arrest, showed the
greatest coolness; though kept in sight by their guards,
they calmly sat down to dinner. Two other women, —
and history ought, ere this, to have searched out their
names and preserved them for posterity, — two other
women were the special objects of police investigation;
these women, the servants of the household, named Char-
lotte Moreau and Marie Boissy, were taken to the castle,
thence to the barracks of the gendarmerie, where, finding
that they resisted all threats, an attempt was made to cor-
rupt them. Large and still larger sums of money were
offered to them, but they answered steadily that they knew
nothing whatever of the Duchesse de Berry.
After these ineffectual efforts the search relaxed; the
30 u THE LAST VENDÉE.
prefect was the first to retreat, leaving, by way of precau-
tion, a sufficient number of men to guard each room in the
house, while the commissaries of police took up their
quarters on the ground-floor. The house was still sur-
rounded and the National Guard sent a detachment to
relieve the troops of the line, who took a rest.
In distributing sentries, two gendarmes were placed in
two attic rooms, which had, of course, been carefully
searched. The cold was so sharp that these men suffered
from it. One of them went downstairs and returned with
an armful of peat-fuel, and ten minutes later a fine fire
was blazing in the chimney, the iron back of which was
soon red-hot.
Almost at the same time, although it was scarcely day-
light, the work of the masons began again; their crow-bars
and mallets struck the walls of the attic rooms and made
them tremble. In spite of this noisy racket, one of the
gendarmes was fast asleep; his companion, now comfort-
ably warm, had ceased to keep up the fire, and the masons,
satisfied at last, gave up the search in this part of the
house, which, with the instinct of their trade, they had
carefully explored.
The gendarme who was awake, profiting by the silence
that followed the diabolical uproar which had continued
since early on the previous evening, went to sleep himself.
His companion soon after waked up cold. His eyes were
scarcely open before he thought of warming himself, and
relighted the fire; but as the peat did not ignite very
readily, he threw into the fireplace a number of copies of
the " Quotidienne " which lay pell-mell upon the table. The
flames from the newspapers produced a thicker smoke and
greater heat than the peat had done at any time. The
gendarme, feeling comfortable, was occupying his time by
reading the "Quotidienne," when all of a sudden his
pyrotechnic edifice came tumbling clown, and the peat
squares which he had set against the chimney-back rolled
into the room.
TIIK CHIMNEY-BACK, 397
At the same instant lie heard from behind that back a
noise which gave him an odd idea; he fancied there were
rats in the chimney, and that the heat of his fire had forced
them to decamp. On this he woke np his comrade, and
together they made ready to chase the rodents, sabre in
hand.
While their attention was wholly fixed on this new
species of game, one of them noticed a decided movement
of the chimney-back, and he called out : —
" Who 's there ? "
A woman's voice replied: —
"We surrender, — we will open the door; put out your
fire ! "
The two gendarmes jumped to their fire and scattered it
out with a few kicks. The chimney-back then slowly
turned on a pivot and disclosed a hollow space, from which
a woman, bareheaded, her face pale, her hair standing up
from her forehead like that of a man, dressed in a simple
Neapolitan gown of a brown color, scorched in many
places, came forth, placing her feet and hands on the
heated hearth.
This woman was Petit-Pierre, her Royal Highness
Marie-Caroline, the Duchesse de Berry.
Her companions followed her. For sixteen hours they
had been confined in that cramped place without food.
The hole which was thus their asylum was made between
the flue of the chimney and the wall of the adjoining house
under the roof, the rafters of which served to conceal it.
At the moment when the troops surrounded the house
her Royal Highness was listening to Maître Pascal, who
gave her an amusing account of the scare which had led
him to leave his house and come to hers. Through the
windows of the room in which she sat the duchess could
see the moon rising in the calm sky, and defining, like a
brown silhouette, the massive towers, the silent, motion-
less towers of the old castle.
There are moments when nature seems so gentle, so
398 THE LAST VENDEE.
friendly, that it is impossible to believe a danger lurks and
threatens us from the midst of such perfect quietude.
Suddenly Maître Pascal, coming nearer to the window,
saw the flash of bayonets. Instantly he threw himself
back, exclaiming : —
" Escape ! save yourself, Madame ! "
The duchess at once rushed up the staircase, the others
following her. Reaching the hiding-place, she turned and
called to her companions. As they knew the place could
only be entered on their hands and knees, the men went
first; then, as the young lady who attended on her Royal
Highness was unwilling to pass before her, the duchess
said, laughing : —
"Go in, go in ! Good strategy requires that when a
retreat is made the commander should always be in the
rear."
The soldiers entered the door of the house just as that
of the hiding-place was closed on the princess and her
friends.
We have seen with what minute care the search had
been made. Every blow struck on the walls resounded in
the refuge of the duchess; the plaster fell in showers, the
bricks were loosened, and the prisoners came near being
buried in the mass of rubbish shaken down by the jar of
the hammers and the iron-bars and joists of the searchers.
When the gendarmes built their fire the back of the chim-
ney and the wall gave forth a heat which made the little
chamber almost insupportable. After a while those who
were imprisoned in it could scarcely breathe, and they
would have perished asphyxiated if they had not succeeded
in getting a few slates off the roof, which made an opening
that let in air.
The duchess suffered the most; for, having entered last,
she was nearest to the chimney-back. Each of her com-
panions begged her to change places, but she would not
consent to it. To the danger of being suffocated was now
added that of being burned alive. The door of the hiding-
TI1K CHIMNEY-BACK.
place was red-hot, and threatened at every momenl to Bet
rire to the clothing of the women. In fact, Madame's
gown had been twice on fire and she had put if, out with
her hands, which were badly burned; the scars remained
visible for many months.
Every minute exhausted the interior air, and the exter-
nal air admitted through the tiny holes did not suffice to
renew it. The breathing of the prisoners became mon;
and more difficult; another ten minutes in that furnace
might sacrifice the future life of the duchess. Her com-
panions implored her to surrender; but she would not.
Her eyes filled with tears of anger, which the scorching
air dried upon her cheeks. The fire had again caught her
gown and again she had extinguished it; but in the move-
ment she thus made she chanced to touch the spring of the
chimney-back, which moved and attracted the attention of
the gendarme.
Supposing that this accident had betrayed her retreat,
and pitying the sufferings of her companions, Madame
consented to surrender, leaving the chimney as we have
related. Her first words were a request to see General
Dermoncourt. One of the gendarmes went to find him on
the ground-floor, which he had not chosen to leave through-
out the search.
400 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XLI.
THREE BROKEN HEARTS.
As soon as the general's arrival was announced, Madame
went hastily toward him.
"General," she said quickly, "I surrender to you; and
I trust to your loyalty ! "
"Madame," replied Dermoncourt, "your Koyal High-
ness is under the safeguard of French honor ! "
He led her to a chair, and as she seated herself she
pressed his arm firmly and said : —
"General, I have nothing to reproach myself with. I
have done my duty as a mother to recover my son's
inheritance."
Her voice was clear and accentuated. Though pale, she
was excited as if by fever. The general sent for a glass of
water, in which she dipped her fingers; the refreshing
coolness calmed her.
During this time the prefect and the commander of the
National Guard were notified of what had happened. The
prefect was the first to arrive. He entered the room in
which Madame was sitting, with his hat on his head, ignor-
ing that a woman was a prisoner there, — a woman whose
rank and whose misfortunes deserved more respect than
had ever been shown her.
He approached the duchess, looked at her, touched his
hat cavalierly, and said : —
"Yes, that is really she."
Then he went out to give some orders.
" Who is that man ? " asked the princess.
TIIKEE BR0KI1X II HAUTS. 401
The question was a natural one, for the prefect had pre-
sented himself without any of the distinctive signs of his
high administrative position.
"Madame can surely guess," said the general.
She looked at him with a slight laugh.
"I suppose it must be the prefect," she said.
"Madame could not have been more correct had she seen
his license."
"Did that man serve under the Restoration? "
"No, Madame."
"I am glad for the Restoration."
The prefect now returned, entering without being an-
nounced, as before; and, as before, he did not remove his
hat. Apparently, the prefect was hungry on that particu-
lar morning, for he brought with him, on a plate which he
held in his hand, a slice of pâté. He put the plate on the
table, asked for a knife and fork, and began to eat with
his back to the princess.
Madame looked at him with an expression of mingled
anger and contempt.
" General, " she said, " do you know what I most regret
in the station I once occupied? "
"No, Madame."
"Two ushers, to turn that man out."
When the prefect had finished his repast he turned
round and asked the duchess for her papers.
Madame replied that he could look in her late hiding-
place, where he would find a white portfolio she had left
there.
The prefect went to fetch the portfolio and brought it
back with him.
"Monsieur," said the duchess, opening it, "the papers
in this portfolio are of very little consequence; but I wish
to give them to you myself in order that I may explain
their ownership."
So saying, she gave him one after the other the things
that were in the portfolio.
vol. ii. — 26
402 THE LAST VENDÉE.
" Does Madame know how much money she has here ? "
asked the prefect.
"Monsieur, there ought to be about thirty-six thousand
francs ; of which twelve thousand belong to persons whom
I will designate."
The general here approached and said that if Madame
felt better it was urgent that she should leave the house.
" To go where ? " she said, looking at him fixedly.
"To the castle, Madame."
"Ah, yes, and from there to Blaye, no doubt ? "
"General," said one of Madame's companions, "her
Royal Highness cannot go on foot; it would not be proper."
"Monsieur," replied Dermoncourt, "a carriage would
only encumber us. Madame can go on foot by throwing
a mantle over her shoulders and wearing a hat. "
On this the general's secretary and the prefect, who
seemed to be suddenly pricked by gallantry, went down
stairs and returned with three hats. The princess chose a
black one, because, as she said, the color was analogous to
the circumstances; after which she took the general's arm
to leave the house. As she passed before the door of the
garret she gave a glance at the chimney-back, which
remained open.
"Ah, general !" she said, laughing, "if you had not
treated me as they treated Saint Lawrence, — which by
the bye is quite unworthy of your military generosity, —
you would n't have me under your arm, now. Come,
friends," she added, addressing her companions.
The princess went down the staircase on the general's
arm. As she was about to cross the threshold into the
street she heard a great noise among the crowd, who
flocked behind the soldiers and formed a line ten times as
deep as that of the military.
Madame may have thought that those cries and shouts
were aimed at her; but she gave no sign of fear except
that she pressed a little closer to the general's arm.
When the princess advanced between the double line of
THREE BROKEN HEARTS. 4l»3
soldiers and National Guards, who made a lane from the
house to the castle, the cries and mutterings she had heard
became louder and more violent than before. The gene 1
cast his eyes in the direction from which the tumult chieflj
came, and there he saw a young peasant-woman trying to
force her way through the ranks of the soldiers who
opposed her passage; and yet, being struck by her beauty
and the despair that was visible on her face, were refrain-
ing from violence in repulsing her.
Dermoncourt recognized Bertha, and called the duchess's
attention to her. The latter gave a cry.
"General," she said eagerly, "you have promised not
to separate me from my friends; let that young girl come
to me."
On a sign from the general the ranks opened, and Bertha
reached the august prisoner.
"Pardon, Madame ! pardon for an unhappy woman who
might have saved you, and did not! Oh, I would I could
die, cursing that fatal love which has made me the invol-
untary accomplice of the traitors who have sold your
Koyal Highness ! "
"I don't know what you mean, Bertha !" interrupt ■'.
the princess, raising the young girl and giving her the arm
that was free. "What you are doing at this moment
proves that whatever else has happened I cannot doubt a
devotion the memory of which will never leave me. But
I have to talk to you of other things, dear child. I have
to ask your pardon for contributing to an error which may,
perhaps, have made you most unhappy ; I have to tell you
that — "
"I know all, Madame," said Bertha, lifting her eyes,
that were red with tears, to the princess.
" Poor child ! " exclaimed the duchess, pressing the
girl's hand. "Then, follow me, come with me; time ami
my affection will calm a sorrow that I comprehend, that I
respect — "
"I beg your Highness to forgive me for not obeying
4:04 THE LAST VENDÉE.
lier, but I have made a vow which I must fulfil. God
alone is placed by duty above my princess."
" Then go, dear child ! " said Madame, comprehending the
young girl's meaning. " Go, and may the God you seek
be with you ! When you pray to Him remember Petit-
Pierre; the prayers of a broken heart ascend to Him." l
They had now reached the gates of the prison. The
duchess raised her eyes to the blackened walls of the old
castle; then she held out her hand to Bertha, who, kneel-
ing down, laid a kiss upon it, murmuring once more the
words, " Forgive me ! " Then Madame, after an instant's
hesitation, passed through the postern, giving a last smile
in token of farewell to Bertha.
The general withdrew his arm from the duchess to allow
her to pass in ; then he turned hastily to Bertha and said
in a low voice: —
" Where is your father ? "
"He is at Nantes."
"Tell him to return to the château, and stay there
quietly; he shall not be disturbed. I'll break my sword
sooner than allow him to be arrested, my old enemy ! "
"Thank you for him, general."
"And you, if you have any need of my services, com-
mand them, mademoiselle."
"I want a passport to Paris."
"When?"
"At once."
" Where shall I send it to you ? "
"To the other side of the pont Kousseau; to the inn of
the Point du Jour."
1 Hers was a gallant soul. She was privately married to an Italian
nobleman of distinguished name and fame, and a child was born to her
during her imprisonment at Blaye. The Bourbons never forgave her ;
they treated her, and so did the French people, as if she had disgraced her-
self. Justice has never been done to her brave, generous, gallant heart, —
a royal heart that felt for others. Her second marriage was a most happy
one. She survived her husband several years, and died in 1873. — Tk.
THREE BROKEN HEARTS. 405
"In an hour you shall have it, madi moiselle."
With a sign of farewell the general turned and disap-
peared beneath the gloomy portal.
Bertha worked her way through the close-pressed ranks
of the crowd until she reached the nearest church, which
she entered. There she remained a long time kneeling on
the cold stone pavement.
When she rose the stones were wet with tears.
Then she crossed the town and the pont Rousseau.
Approaching the inn of the Point du Jour, she saw her
father sitting at the threshold of the door. Within the
last few hours the Marquis de Souday had aged ten years ;
his eye had lost the humorous, bantering look which gave
it such expression; he carried his head low, like a man
whose burden was too heavy for him.
Warned by the priest who had received the last confes-
sion of Maître Jacques, and who went to the forest of
Touvois to tell the marquis what had happened, the old
man started at once for Nantes. A mile from the pont
Rousseau he met Bertha, whose horse had fallen, having
broken a tendon in the furious pace to which she had
urged him.
The girl confessed to her father what had happened.
The old man did not reproach her, but lie broke the stick
he held in his hand against the stones of the road.
When they reached the pout Rousseau public rumor
informed them, though it was onl}' seven in the morning,
of the arrest of the princess before that arrest was actually
accomplished. Bertha, not daring to raise her e}*es to her
father, rushed toward Nantes; the old man seated himself
on the bench before the inn, where we rind him four hours
later.
This sorrow was the only one against which his selfish
and epicurean philosophy was impotent. He would have
pardoned his daughter many faults; but he could not think
without despair that she had covered his name with the
crime and shame of lèze-chivalry, and that a Sunday, the
406 THE LAST VENDÉE.
last of the name, should have helped to fling royalty into
the gulf.
When Bertha approached him he silently held out to
her a paper a gendarme had given him. It was her pass-
port from the general.
" Father, will you not forgive me as she forgave me ? "
said the girl, in a gentle, humble tone which contrasted
strangely with her self-assuming manner in other days.
The old gentleman sadly shook his head.
"Where shall I find my poor Jean Oullier ?" he said.
" Since God has preserved him to me I want to see him.
I want him to go with me out of this country ! "
" Will you leave Souday, father ? "
"Yes."
" Where will you go ? "
"Where I can hide my name."
"And Mary, poor Mary, who is innocent! "
" Mary will be the wife of the man who is the cause of
this execrable crime. I will never see Mary again ! "
"You will be alone."
"No; I shall have Jean Oullier."
Bertha bowed her head; she entered the inn, where she
changed her peasant dress for mourning garments, which
she had bought on her way through the town. When she
came out the old man had gone. Looking about her she
saw him, with his hands clasped behind his back, his head
sunk on his breast, sadly walking in the direction of Saint-
Philbert.
Bertha sobbed; then she cast a lingering look at the
verdant plain of the Retz region, which can be seen in the
distance from Nantes, backed by the dark -blue line of the
forest of Machecoul.
"Farewell, all that I love in this world! " she cried.
Then she turned and re-entered the town of Nantes.
con's executioner 407
XLII.
god's executioner.
During the three hours that Courtin spent bound hand and
foot, and lying on the earth in the ruins of Saint-Philbert,
side by side with the corpse of Joseph Picaut, his heart
passed through all the agony that can rend and torture a
human being.
He felt the precious belt beneath him, for he had man-
aged to lie upon it; but the gold it contained only added
more pangs to his other pangs, more terror to the countless
terrors which assailed his brain. That gold, which was
more to him than life itself, was he doomed to lose it ?
Who was this unknown man whom he had heard Maître
Jacques tell the widow to summon ? What was this
mysterious vengeance he had now to fear? He passed in
review before him all the persons to whom, in the course
of his life, he had done harm; the list was long, and their
threatening faces peopled the darkness of the tower.
And yet, at times, a ray of hope traversed his gloomy
mind; vague and undecided at first, it presently took on
consistency. Could it be that a man possessing that glori-
ous gold should die ? If vengeance rose before him would
not a handful of those coins silence it ? His imagination
counted and re-counted the sum belonging to him, which
was really, really his own, which was bruising his
delightfully, pressing into his loins as if the gold itself
were becoming a part of his very body. Then he reflected
that if he could only escape he should add fifty thousand
more francs to the fifty thousand now beneath him; and,
helpless as he was, a victim doomed to death, awaiting the
408 THE LAST VENDÉE.
fall of the sword of Damocles above his head, which might
at any instant cut the thread of his life, his heart melted
into such joy that it took the character of intoxication.
But soon his ideas again changed their course. He asked
himself if his accomplice — in whom he felt only the con-
fidence of an accomplice — would not profit by his absence
to cheat him of the share that belonged to him; he saw
that man escaping, weighed down by the weight of the
enormous sum he was carrying, and refusing to divide
it with him, who, after all, had done the whole betraj'al.
He mentally prepared for such occasion; he thought of
words of entreaty to reach the heart of that Jew, threats
to intimidate him, reproaches that might move him; but
suddenly, when he reflected that if Monsieur Hyacinthe
loved gold as he loved it, — which was probable, inas-
much as he was a Jew, — when he measured his associate
by his own measure, when he sounded in his own soul the
depths of the sacrifice he demanded, he said to himself
that tears, prayers, threats, reproaches would all be use-
less, and he fell into paroxysms of rage; he vented roars
which shook the old arches of the feudal edifice; he strug-
gled in his bonds, he bit the ropes, he tried to tear them
with his teeth ; but those ropes, slender and loosely twisted
as they were, seemed to take on life, to become living
things under his efforts; he fancied he felt them struggling
against him, increasing their tangled snarl; the knots he
undid seemed to tie themselves again, not singly as before,
but in double , treble, quadruple turns ; and then, as if to
punish his efforts, they buried themselves in his flesh,
where they made a burning furrow. All dreams of hope,
all thought of riches and happiness vanished like clouds
before the breath of a tempest; the phantoms of those
whom the farmer had persecuted rose terrible before him;
all things lurking in the shadow, stones, beams, fragments
of broken wood-work, fallen cornices, all took form, and
each of those threatening shapes looked at him with eyes
which shone in the darkness like thousands of sparks dart-
god's executioner. 409
ing on the tissue of a black shroud. The mind of the
wretched man began to wander. Mad with terror and
despair he called to the corpse of Joseph Picaut, of which
he could see the outline, stiff and stark, about four feet
from him; he offered him a fourth, a third, a half of his
gold if he would loose his bonds; but the echo of the^
arches alone replied in its funereal voice, and, exhausted by
emotion, he fell back for a moment into dull insensibility.
He was in one of these moments of torpor when a :
without made him quiver. Some one was walking in the
inner court-yard of the castle, and presently he heard the
grinding of the rusty bolts of the old fruit-room. Court i n 's
heart beat as though it would burst his breast. He was
breathless with fear, choking with anguish; he felt that
the coming person was the avenger summoned by Maître
Jacques.
The door opened. The flame of a torch lighted the
rafters with its ruddy glare. Courtin had an instant of
hope; it was the widow, bearing the torch, whom he first
saw, and he thought she was alone; but she had scarcely
made two steps into the tower before a man who was
behind her appeared. The hair of the hapless farmer
rose on his head; he dared not look at the man; he closed
his eyes and was silent.
The man and the widow came nearer. Marianne gave
the torch to her companion, pointing with her linger to
Courtin; and then, as if indifferent to what was about to
happen, she knelt down at the feet of Joseph Ticaut's
body and began to pray.
As for the man, he came close beside the farmer and,
no doubt to convince himself that he was really the mayor
of La Logerie, he cast the light of the torch across his
face.
"Can he be asleep ?" he said to himself, in a low voice.
"Xo, he is too great a coward to sleep; no, his face is too
pale — he 's not sleeping."
Then he stuck his torch into a fissure in the wall, SI t
410 THE LAST VENDÉE.
down on an enormous stone which had rolled from the top
to the middle of the tower and, addressing Courtin, said to
him : —
"Come, open your eyes, Monsieur le maire. We have
something to say to each other, and I like to see the eyes
of those who speak to me."
" Jean Oullier ! " cried Courtin, turning livid, and mak-
ing a desperate effort to burst his bonds and escape. "Jean
Oullier living! "
"If it were only his ghost, Monsieur Courtin, it would
be, I think, enough to terrify you; for you have a long
account to settle with him."
"Oh, my God! my God!" exclaimed Courtin, letting
himself drop back on the ground like a man who resigns
himself to his fate.
" Our hatred dates far back, does n't it ? " continued Jean
Oullier; "and its instincts have not misled us; they have
embittered you against me, and to-day, exhausted and half
dead as I am, they have brought me back to you."
" I have never hated you, " said Courtin, who the moment
he perceived that Jean Oullier was not about to kill him
on the spot, felt a gleam of hope in his heart and foresaw
the possibility of saving his life by discussion. "I have
never hated you; on the contrary! and if my ball did
strike you it was not because I meant it for you. I did not
know you were in that bush."
"Oh, my grievances against you go farther back than
that, Monsieur Courtin ! "
" Farther back ? " replied Courtin, who, little by little,
was recovering some energy. "But I swear that before
that accident, which I deplore, I never put you in any
danger, I never did you any harm."
"Your memory is short, and your offences weigh most
on the soul of the offended person, it appears ; for I remem-
ber the wrongs you have done me."
"What wrongs ? What can you remember against me ?
Speak, Monsieur Jean Oullier! Do you think it right to
god's executioner. 411
kill a man without hearing him, without allowing him to
say one word in his defence?"
"Who told you I meant to kill you ?" said Jean Chillier,
with the icy calmness he had not quitted lor an instant.
"Your conscience, perhaps."
"Speak out, Monsieur Jean! tell me of what 1 am
accused! Except for that luckless shot, I know I am as
white as the driven snow. Yes, 1 can prove to you that
no one has been a better friend than I to the worthy family
at Souday; no one has respected them more, or been more
glad of this marriage which is to unite the families of your
master and mine."
"Monsieur Courtin," said Jean Oullier, who had left
free course to this flux of words, " it is, as you say, only
fair that an accused person should defend himself. Defend
yourself, therefore, if you can. Listen to me ; I begin — "
"Oh, go on! I am not afraid of your questions!'*
replied Courtin.
"We shall soon see that. Who betrayed me to the gen-
darmes at the fair of Montaigu, so as to lay hands more
securely on my master's guests, whom you rightly sup-
posed I was defending? Who, having done that, basely
hid himself behind the hedge of the last garden in Mon-
taigu, and after borrowing a gun of the owner of that
garden, fired at my dog and killed my poor companion ?
Answer, Monsieur Courtin!"
"Who dares to say he saw me do that?" cried the
farmer.
" Three persons; among them the man from whom you
borrowed the gun."
"How should 1 know the dog was yoiirs ? No, Mon-
sieur Jean, upon my honor, T was ignorant of it."
Jean made a contemptuous gesture.
"Who," he continued, in the same calm but accusing
voice, "who, having slipped into Pascal Picaut's house,
sold to the Blues the secret he discovered there. — the
secret of a sacred hospitality ? "
412 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"I bear testimony to that," said the deep voice of
Pascal's widow, issuing from her silence and immobility.
The farmer shuddered and dared not defend himself.
"Whom have I constantly found," resumed Jean Oullier,
"during the last four months, busy with shameful schemes,
laying his plots and sheltering them under the name of his
young master, proclaiming devotion and fidelity to him,
and soiling the very name of those virtues by contact with
his criminal intentions ? Whom did I hear, on the Bouaimé
moor, discussing the price of blood ? Whom did I see
weighing the gold offered him for the basest and most
odious of treacheries ? Who, I say, was that man, if not
you ? "
" I swear to you by all there is most sacred among men ! "
said Courtin, who still believed that Jean Oullier's princi-
pal grievance was the shot that wounded him. " I swear
to you that I did not know you were in that luckless
bus'h!"
"But I tell you I don't blame you for that! I have not
said a word, I have not opened my lips to you about it!
The list of your crimes is long enough without adding
that!"
" You speak of my crimes, Jean Oullier, and you forget
that my young master, who will soon become yours, owes
me his life ; and that if I had been the traitor that you call
me I should have delivered him up to the soldiers who
passed and repassed my house every day while he was
there. You forget all that, while, on the contrary, you
rake up every trifling circumstance against me."
"If you did save your master," continued Jean Oullier,
in the same inexorable tone, "it is because that sham
devotion was useful to your plans. Better for him, better
for those two poor girls, if you had let them end their days
honorably, gloriously, than to have mixed them up in these
shameless intrigues. That is what I have against you,
Courtin; that thought alone doubles the hatred I feel to
you."
GOD'S EXECUTION! :;. 413
•'The proof that I don't hate you, Jean Chillier, is that
if I had chosen you would long ago have been put out of
this world."
" What do you mean ? "
"On the day of that hunt when the father of Monsieur
Michel was killed — murdered, .Monsieur Jean, we won't
blink the word — a beater was not ten paces from him;
and the name of that beater was Courtin."
Jean Oullier rose to his full height.
"Yes," continued the farmer, "and this beater saw it
was Jean Oullier's ball that brought the traitor down."
"Yes," said Jean Oullier ; "but it was not a crime it
was an expiation. I am proud to have been the man whom
God selected to punish that criminal."
"God alone may punish, God alone may curse," said the
mayor.
"No, I am not mistaken; it is He who has put into my
heart this hatred of sin, this ineradicable recollection of
treachery; it was the finger of God touching my heart
when that heart quivered at the name of the traitor. When
my shot struck that Judas I felt the breath of the divine
Justice cross my face and cool it; and, from that moment
to this I have found the peace and calmness I never had
while that unpunished criminal prospered before my eyes.
God was with me."
"God is never with a murderer."
"God is always with the executioner who lifts the sword
of justice. Men have their laws, He has his. I was that
day, as I am to-day, the sword of God."
"Do you mean to murder me as you murdered Baron
Michel ? "
" I mean to punish the man who sold Petit-Pierre as T
punished him who sold Charette. I shall punish him
without fear, without doubt, without remorse."
"Take care; remorse will come when your future master
calls you to account for his father's death."
"That young man is just and loyal; if he is ever called
4i4 THE LAST VENDÉE.
upon to judge my conduct I shall tell him what I
saw in the wood of La Chabotière, and he will judge
me rightly."
" Who can testify that you tell the truth ? One man
alone, and that is I. Let me live, Jean, let me live! and,
as that woman did just now, I will rise and say: 'I bear
testimony to that. ' "
"Fear makes you foolish, Courtin. Monsieur Michel
will ask for no other testimony when Jean Oullier says,
'This is the truth; ' when Jean Oullier, baring his breast,
says, 'If you wish to avenge your father, strike! ' when
Jean Oullier kneels before him and prays to God to send
the expiation if He himself judges that the deed should be
expiated. No, no! and you are wrong, wrong to evoke in
your terror those bloody memories before my mind. You,
Maître Courtin, you have done worse things than Michel
did; for the blood you sold is nobler still than that he
trafficked in. I did not spare Michel, why should I spare
you? Never, never!"
" Pity ! mercy ! Jean Oullier. Do not kill me ! " sobbed
the wretched man.
"Implore those stones, ask pity of them! They may
answer you ; but nothing can move my will, or shake my
resolution. You shall die!"
" Ah, my God ! my God ! " cried Courtin, " is there no
one to help me ? "Widow Picaut ! widow Picaut ! here !
here ! will you let him cut my throat ? Here ! help me !
protect me ! If you want gold, I '11 give it ! I have gold,
gold! No, what am I saying ? My mind is wandering;
I have no gold ! " said the poor wretch, fearing to spur on
the murder he saw glittering in the eyes of his enemy if he
offered such hopes. "No, I have no gold, but I have prop-
erty, estates. I'll give you all; I'll make you rich —
both of you! Oh, mercy, Jean Oullier! Widow Picaut,
defend me ! "
The widow did not stir; except for the movement of
her lips she might have been taken, as she knelt there in
god's executioner 415
her mourning garments, pale as marble, mute and motion-
less beside the corpse, for one of those kneeling statues
we often see at the foot of some ancient monument.
"What!," continued Courtin, "will you really kill me?
kill me without a fight, without danger, when 1 cannol
lift a foot to escape or a hand to defend myself? Will
you cut my throat in my bonds like a beast that they drag
to a slaughter-house? Oh, Jean Oullier, that 's not the
work of a soldier; you are a butcher!"
" Who told you I would do it thus ? No, no, no, Maître
Courtin. Look, the wound you gave me has not healed;
it still bleeds. I am weak, tottering, feeble; I am pro-
scribed, a price is on my head! — well, in spite of all that,
I am so certain of the justice of my cause that I do not
hesitate to appeal to the judgment of God. Courtin, you
are free ! "
"Free?"
"Yes, I set you at liberty. Oh, you need not thank me;
what I do, I do for myself, not you, — that it may never be
said Jean Oullier struck a fallen man, an unarmed man.
But don't mistake; the life I give you now, I will take
some day."
"Oh, God!"
"Maître Courtin, you will go from here unbound and
free; but, I warn you, beware! As soon as you have
passed the threshold of these ruins I shall be upon your
traces ; and those traces I will never abandon until I have
struck you down and made your body a corpse. Beware,
Maître Courtin, beware ! "
So saying, Jean Oullier took his knife and cut the cords
that bound the farmer hand and foot. Courtin made a
bound of almost frantic joy; but he instantly controlled it.
In springing up he felt the belt; it seemed as though it
called to him. Jean Oullier had given him life, but what
was life without his gold?
He flung himself down upon it as quickly as he had
risen.
116 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Jean Oullier had seen, rapid as Courtin's movement was,
the swollen leather of the belt, and he guessed what was
passing in the farmer's mind.
" Why don't you go ? " he said. " What are you waiting
for ? Yes, I understand ; you are afraid that, seeing you
free as myself and stronger than I, my wrath may revive ;
you are afraid I may throw you another knife like my own
and say to you : ' Defend yourself, Maître Courtin, we are
equal now ! ' iSTo, Jean Oullier has but one word, and that
he has given you. Make haste! depart! fly! If God is
with you, He will protect you against me; if He condemns
you, what care I for the start I give you ? Take your
cursed gold, and begone ! "
Maître Courtin did not answer. He rose, stumbling like
a drunken man; he tried to fasten the belt around his
waist, but could not; his fingers trembled as though they
were shaken by an ague. Before departing he kept him-
self turned in terror toward Jean Oullier. The traitor
feared treachery; he could not believe that the generosity
of his enemy did not hide some trap.
Jean Oullier pointed with his finger to the door. Courtin
rushed into the court; but before he reached the postern-
gate he heard the voice of the Vendéan, sonorous as the
clarion of battle, calling to him : —
" Beware, Courtin ! beware ! "
Maître Courtin, free as he was, shuddered; and in that
moment of agitation he struck his foot against a stone,
tripped, and fell forward. He uttered a cry of agony,
fancying that the Vendéan was upon him; he thought
he felt the cold steel of a knife piercing between his
shoulders.
It was only an omen. Courtin rose, and a minute later,
having passed the postern, he darted, a free man, into the
open country he had not expected to see again.
When he had disappeared the widow went up to Jean
Oullier and offered him her hand.
"Jean," she said, "as I listened to you, I thought how
god's executioner. -417
right my Pascal was when he told me there were brave,
strong souls under every flag.'"'
Jean Oullier wrung the hand the worthy woman who
had saved his life held out to him.
" How do you feel now ? " she asked.
"Better; we are always stronger for a struggle."
"And where are you going ?"
"To Nantes. After what your mother told us, I think
Bertha may not have gone there; and I fear some disaster
from the delay."
"Well, at any rate, take a boat; that will spare your legs
the fatigue of half the distance."
"I will," replied Jean Oullier.
And he followed the widow to the place on the lakeside
where the boats of the fishermen were drawn up on the
sand.
27
418 THE LAST VENDÉE.
XLIII.
SHOWS THAT A MAN WITH FIFTY THOUSAND FRANCS
ABOUT HIM MAY BE MUCH EMBARRASSED.
As soon as Maître Courtin had crossed the bridge leading
from the castle he began to run like a madman; terror
lent him wings. He did not ask himself whither his steps
led him ; he fled to flee. If his strength had equalled his
fear he would have put the world between himself and
the threats of the Vendéan, — threats he continued to hear
resounding in his ears like a funeral knell.
But after he had done about a couple of miles across
country in the direction of Machecoul, exhausted, breath-
less, choked by the rapidity of his flight, he fell rather
than seated himself on the bank of a ditch, where he came
to his senses and began to reflect on what he had better do.
His first idea was to go at once to his own house ; but that
idea he almost immediately abandoned. In the country,
no matter what effort the authorities might make to pro-
tect the mayor of La Logerie, Jean Chillier — with his rela-
tions to the country-people and his perfect knowledge of
roads, forests, and gorse moors, seconded by the sympathy
that the whole community felt for him, and by the hatred
they felt for Courtin — was all-powerful, and the game
would be wholly on his side.
In Nantes alone could the farmer find refuge, — Nantes,
where an able and numerous police would protect his life
until such time as they could arrest Jean Chillier, — a
result Courtin hoped to reach very soon by the information
he was able to give as to the usual hiding-places of the
insurrectionists.
FIFTY THOUSAND PEANCS MAY EMB \ MAN.
As lie sat there thin] Lngs his hand went to
his bolt to lift it; the weight of of gold he carried
hurt him, and had contributed not a little to the breal
fatigue of his hard run. That gesture decided his fate.
Surely he should find Monsieur Hyacinthe in Nante
The thought of receiving from his , if their plot
had succeeded (and tins he did not doubt), an equal sum
to that he carried, filled Courtin's heart with a joy that put
him far above the tribulations he had lately undergone.
He did not hesitate another moment, but turned at once in
the direction of the town.
He resolved on getting there as the crow flies, across
country. On the road he risked being watched; chance
alone could put Jean Oullier on his traces if he kept to the
plain. But his imagination, heated by the terrible vicis-
situdes of the night, was more powerful than his conn, ion-
sense. No matter how carefully he glided beside the
hedges, crouching in the shadows and Stirling the sound of
his steps, not daring to enter any field until certain it was
deserted, a panic fear pursued him all the way.
In the trees with their pruned heads, which rose above
the hedges, his fancy saw assassins; in their knotty
branches extending above him, arms and hands wiih
daggers ready to strike him. He stopped, chilled with
fear; his legs refused to carry him farther, as though they
were rooted to the ground; an icy sweat burst from his
body; his teeth chattered convulsively ; bis shaking fingers
clutched his gold, and it took him a long time to recover
from his terror. He could not endure to continue in the
fields, and made for the high-road.
Besides, he reflected that he might meet a vehicle of
some kind on its way to Nantes and obtain a seat in il,
Avhich would shorten the way aid also protect him.
After taking about five hundred steps he came out upon
the road which follows for over a mile the shores of the
lake of Grand-Lieu, to which it serves as a species of dike.
Courtin stopped every lew minutes to listen; and près-
420 THE LAST VENDÉE.
ently he fancied he hoard the trot of a horse's feet. He
flung himself into the reeds which bordered the road on
the lakeside, and crouched there, again enduring all the
agonies of mind which we have just described.
But he now heard oars to his left dipping softly in the
water. He crept through the reeds to look in the direction
of the sound, and saw, in the shadow, a boat gliding slowly
past the shore. It was, no doubt, some fisherman, intend-
ing to gather in his nets before daybreak.
The horse came nearer; the ring of his hoofs on the
stones of the road terrified Courtin; danger was there,
there! and he must flee from it. He whistled softly to
attract the attention of the fisherman. The latter stopped
rowing.
" This way ! this way ! " cried Courtin.
He had scarcely said the words before a vigorous stroke
of the oars sent the boat within four feet of the fugitive.
"Can you put me across the lake and take me as far
as Port-Saint-Martin?" asked Courtin. "I'll pay you a
franc for it."
The fisherman, who was wrapped in a sort of pea-jacket,
with a hood which concealed his face, answered only by
a nod; but he did better than reply. Using his boat-hook
he drove the wherry in among the reeds, which bent and
quivered under its prow; and just as the horse whose
coming had so terrified Maître Courtin reached the point
in the road he had lately left, the latter, with two springs,
gained the boat and was safely in it.
The fisherman, as though he had shared his passenger's
apprehensions, turned the boat toward the middle of the
lake, while Courtin gave a sigh of relief. At the end of
ten minutes the road and the trees that bordered it seemed
merely a line upon the horizon.
Courtin could scarcely contain himself for joy. The
boat, which some fortunate chance had brought to that
spot, would enable him to crown his hopes and fulfil all
wishes. Once at Port-Saint-Martin, he had only a three-
FIFTY THOUSAND FBANCS MAY EMBARRASS A MAX. 421
mile walk to Nantes over a road frequented at every hour
of the day or night; and once in Nantes he was safe.
Courtin's joy was so great that, in spite of himself, and
as an effect of the reaction of his terror, he felt impelled
to some outward manifestation of it. Sitting in the Bti in
of the boat, he looked excitedly at the fisherman, as the
latter bent to his oars and put at every stroke a stretch of
water between him and danger. Those strokes, he counted
them aloud; then he laughed a hollow laugh, fingered his
belt, and made the gold slip forward and back inside it.
This was not mere joy — it was intoxication.
Presently, however, he began to think the fisherman had
gone far enough from the shoi-e, and that it was high time
to turn the boat's head to Port-Saint-Martin, which they
were now leaving behind them on their right. He waited
a few minutes, thinking it might be a manoeuvre of the
fisherman's to catch some current of which he would take
advantage. But still the fisherman rowed on and on
towards the middle of the lake.
" Hey, gars, " cried the farmer at last, "you can't have
heard me rightly; you are making for Port-Saint-l'ère,
and T told you Port-Saint-Martin. Go the way I told
you, and you'll earn your money sooner!"
The fisherman was silent.
"Did you hear me ? What are you about ? " cried Courtin,
impatiently. "Port-Saint-Martin, I say! Go to your
right! It is very well not to keep too near the shore, ont
of reach of balls in these queer times; but I wish you to
go in that direction if you please."
The boatman appeared not to hear him.
"Ah, ça! are you deaf ?" exclaimed the farmer, begin-
ning to get angry.
The fisherman replied only by a vigorous stroke of his
oars, which sent the boat flying several paces farther out
on the surface of the lake.
Courtin, beside himself, sprang to the bow. knocked off
the hood which in the darkness concealed the fisherman's
■422 THE LAST VENDÉE.
head, put his own face close to the man's face, and then,
■with a stifled cry, fell on his knees at the bottom of the
boat.
The man let go his oars, but did not rise.
"God has spoken, Maître Courtin," he said; "His judg-
ment is against you! I was not seeking you, but He sends
you to me; I had forgotten you for a time, and He puts you
in my way. God wills that you shall die, Maître Courtin."
"jSTo, no, no! you won't kill me, Jean Oullier! " cried
the wretched man, falling back into all his terrors.
"I will kill you as surely as those stars which are in the
sky were placed there by God's hand. Therefore, if you
have a soul, think of it; repent, and pray that your doom
may not be too severe."
"Oh, you cannot do it, you will not do it, Jean Oullier!
Think that you are killing a child of the good God, whose
name you speak! Oh, not to tread the earth again, which
is so beautiful in the sunlight! to sleep in an icy bed
away forever from those I love! Oh, no, no, no! it is
impossible ! "
"If you were a father, if you had wife, mother, or sis-
ter expecting your return, your words might touch me;
but no! useless among men, you have lived only to use
them, and to return them evil for good. You blaspheme
even now in lying, for you love no one. Ko one has ever
loved you on this earth, and my knife will wound no heart
but your own in killing you. Maître Courtin, you are now
to appear before your Judge; once more, I say, commend
your soul to Him."
"Can a few short moments suffice for that? A guilty
man like me needs time, needs years of repentance to equal
his crimes. You who are so pious, Jean Oullier, you will
surely leave me time to sorrow for my sins."
"No; life would only enable you to commit others.
Death is expiation; you fear it. Put your fears and your
anguish at the feet of the Lord, and He will receive you in
His mercy. Maître Courtin, time is passing, and as true as
FIFTY THOUSAND PBANCS MAY EMBARRASS A MAX. 423
God is there above those stars, in ten minutes you will be
before Him ! "
"Ten minutes, my God! ten minutes! Oh, pity! pity!
mercy ! "
"The time you employ in useless prayers is lost to your
soul; think of that, Maître Courtin, think of that ! "
Courtin did not answer; his hand bad touched an oar,
and a gleam of hope came into his mind. He gently Beized
it; then rising abruptly, he aimed a blow at the head <d'
the Vendéan. The latter threw himself to the right and
evaded it; the oar fell on the forward gunwale and was
shivered into a thousand bits, leaving but a fragment in
the farmer's hand.
Quick as lightning Jean Chillier sprang at Courtin 'a
throat. Again the hapless man fell on his knees. Para-
lyzed by fear he rolled to the bottom of the boat; his
choking voice could scarcely murmur the cry for "Mercy!
mercy ! "
"Ha, the fear of death did awaken a spark of courage
in you! " cried Jean Oullier. "Ha, you found a weapon!
Well, so much the better, — so much the better! Defend
yourself, Courtin; and if the weapon you hold in your
hand does n't suit you, take mine ! " continued the old
keeper, flinging his knife at the other's feet.
But Courtin was incapable of seizing it; all movement
had become impossible to him. He stammered a few
incoherent words; his whole body trembled as though he
was shaken by an ague; his ears hummed and all his
senses seemed to leave him in his awful dread of death.
"My God!'' cried Jean Oullier, pushing the inert mass
before him with his foot, "my God! I cannot put my
knife into that dead body."
He looked about him as if in search of something.
Nature was calm; the night silent; the breeze scarcely
ruffled the surface of the lake; the undulation of the water
rippled softly against the sides of the boat; nothing was
heard but the cry of the water-fowl flying eastward, their
424 THE LAST VENDÉE.
wings dotting with black the crimson lines of the dawn as
it slowly ascended heavenward.
Jean Oullier turned abruptly to Courtin and shook him
by the arm.
" Maître Courtin, I will not kill you without taking my
share of the danger," he said. "Maître Courtin, I will
force you to defend yourself; if not against me, at least
against death. Death is coming, it is here; defend
yourself! "
The farmer answered only by a moan. He rolled his
haggard eyes about him, but it was plain he could not dis-
tinguish the objects that surrounded him. Death, terri-
ble, hideous, menacing, effaced all else.
At the same instant Jean Oullier gave a vigorous stamp
with his heel on the bottom of the boat. The rotten
planks gave way and the water entered, boiling and foam-
ing, into the boat.
Courtin was roused by the coldness of the flood as it
reached him; he gave an awful cry, — a cry in which there
was nothing human.
"I an lost! " he screamed.
"It is God's judgment!" said Jean Oullier, stretching
his arm to heaven. " Once I did not strike you because
you were bound; this time, my hand spares you again,
Maître Courtin. If your good angel wants you, let him
save you; I have not stained my hands with your blood."
Courtin had risen while Jean Oullier said these words,
and he moved hither and thither in the boat, making the
water plash about him. Jean Oullier, calm, impassible,
knelt in the bow and prayed.
The water came higher and higher.
"Oh, who will save me? who will save me?" cried
Courtin, now livid, and contemplating with terror the six
inches of wood which alone remained above the surface of
the lake.
"God, if it pleases Him! Your life, like mine, is in His
hands ; let Him take one or the other — or save, or con-
FIFTY THOUSAND FRANCS MAY EMBABKASS A MAX. 425
demn us both. We are in His hands; once more, Maître
Courtin, I say to you, accept His will."
As Jean Oullier spoke the boat gave a lurch; the water
had reached the level of the gunwale, the skiff whirled
once round, sustained itself for a second on the surfine,
and then slowly sank beneath the feet of the two men
and buried itself in the depths of the lake with dismal
mutterings.
Courtin was dragged down by the suction of the boat;
but he came to the surface of the water, and his lingers
seized the second oar, which floated near him. This slen-
der bit of light dry wood supported him ou the water long
enough for him to make another appeal to Jean Oullier.
The latter did not answer; he was swimming gently in
the direction of the dawn.
"Help! help!" cried the miserable Courtin. "Help
me to get ashore, Jean Oullier, and I will give you all the
gold I have upon me! "
" Throw that ill-gotten gold to the bottom of the lake ! "
said the Vendéan, seeing the farmer buoyed upon the oar.
"That is your one chance of saving your life; and this
advice is the only help I will give you ! "
Courtin put his hand to the belt; but drew it back as
though his fingers were burned by the contact, or as if the
Vendéan had commanded him to rip open his bowels and
sacrifice his flesh and blood.
"No, no! " he murmured, "I can save it, and myself too."
He began to swim; but he had neither the skill nor the
practice of Jean Oullier in that exercise. Moreover, the
weight of the gold upon him was too great; at every stroke
he went beneath the water, which, in spite of him, got into
his throat. Again he called to Jean, but Jean Oullier was
now a hundred yards away.
In one of these immersions, which lasted longer than
the others, he was seized with a sort of vertigo, and sud-
denly, with a rapid movement, he detached the belt. But,
before letting his precious gold drop into the gulf, he
426 THE LAST VENDÉE.
resolved to handle it, to feel it for the last time; he did
clasp it, he did feel it with his trembling ringers.
That last contact with the metal he loved decided his
fate; he could not resolve to release his hold of it; he
pressed it to his breast, and made a strong movement with
his feet to tread the water; but the weight of the upper
part of his body burdened with the coin threw him off his
balance; he sank. After a few seconds passed under water,
he rose half suffocated, flung a curse to the heaven he saw
for the last time, and then, dragged down by his gold as
by a demon, he went to the bottom.
Jean Oullier, turning at that moment, saw rings upon
the surface of the water, — the last sign given by the
mayor of La Logerie of his existence; the last movement
ever made around him in the land of the living.
The Vendéan raised his eyes to heaven and worshipped
God for the justice of his decrees.
Jean Oullier swam well; but his recent wound and the
fatigues and emotions of this terrible night had exhausted
him. When he was only a hundred strokes from the shore
he felt that his strength betrayed his courage; neverthe-
less, calm and resolute in this crucial moment as he had
been all his life, he resolved to struggle to the last. On
he swam.
Soon he felt a sort of faintness; his limbs grew numb;
he fancied a thousand pins were pricking and tearing his
flesh; his muscles grew painful; the blood mounted vio-
lently to his brain, and a dull, confused humming, like the
roaring of the sea against the rocks, clamored in his ears;
black clouds filled with phosphorescent sparks danced
before his eyes ; he thought he was about to die, and yet
his limbs, obedient in their impotence, continued the
motion his will imposed upon them. He still swam.
His eyes closed in spite of himself; his limbs now
stiffened entirely; he gave a last thought to those with
whom he had crossed the sea of life, — to the children, to
the wife, to the old man who had brightened his youth;
FIFTY THOUSAND FRANCS MAY EMBARRASS A MAN. 427
to the two young girls who had takes the places of those
he loved; he desired that his last prayer, like his last.
thought, should be of them.
But at that instant, and in spite of himself, an idea sud-
denly crossed his brain. A phantom passed before his
eyes; he saw the elder Michel bathed in his blood, dying
on the mossy ground of the forest, liaising his arm from
the water aloft to heaven he cried out : —
"God! if I was mistaken, if it was a crime, forgive me I
not in this world but the next! "
Then, as if that solemn invocation had exhausted its last.
powers, the soul seemed to leave the body, which floated
inert upon the current at the moment when the sun, rising
above the mountains on the horizon, gilded with its ear-
liest lires the waters of the lake, — the same moment when
Courtin, sinking to the bottom, rendered his last breath;
the same moment when Petit-Pierre, in Nantes, was driven
from her hiding-place and arrested.
Michel, in charge of the soldiers, was making his way
to Nantes.
After marching half an hour along the high-road, the
lieutenant who commanded the little troop came up to his
prisoner.
"Monsieur," he said, "you look like a gentleman; I
have the honor to be one myself. It pains me to see you
handcuffed. Will you give me your word of honor not to
escape if T release you ? "
"Gladly," said Michel; "and I thank you, monsieur,
swearing to you that no matter from what direction sue© r
may come to me, I will not leave your side without
your permission."
After this they continued their way, arm in arm; so
that any one who met them would little have suspected
that one was a prisoner.
The night was fine, the sunrise splendid; all the flowers,
moist with dew, sparkled like diamonds; the air was full
428 THE LAST VENDÉE.
of sweetest fragrance; the birds were singing in the
branches. This march to Nantes was really a delightful
promenade.
When they reached the extremity of the lake of Grand-
Lieu the lieutenant stopped his prisoner, with whom he
had advanced fully half a mile beyond the escort, and
pointing to a black mass, which was floating on the sur-
face of the water, about fifty feet from the shore, he asked
him what he thought it was.
"It looks like the body of a man," answered Michel.
" Can you swim ? "
"A little."
"Ah, if I knew how to swim I 'd be in the water now,"
said the officer, sighing, and turning as if to call up his
men.
Michel waited for nothing more; he ran to the bank,
threw off his clothes, and jumped into the lake. A few
instants later he brought to shore a body he had already
recognized as that of Jean Oullier.
During this time the soldiers had come up, and they at
once set to work to revive the drowning man. One of
them took out his flask, and prying open the Vendean's
teeth poured a few drops of brandy into his mouth.
This revived him. His first glance fell on Michel, who
was holding his head, and such an expression of anguish
came upon his face that the lieutenant noticed and mis-
took it.
"This is the man who saved you, my friend," he said,
pointing to Michel.
"Saved me! he! his son!" exclaimed Jean Oullier.
"Ah! I thank thee, God, who art wonderful in thy
mercy as thou art terrible in thy justice ! "
EPiLOm k. 4-!9
EPILOGUE.
Toward seven o'clock in the evening of a day in the year
lS-li', ten years after the events we have here recorded, a
heavy carriage stopped before the gate of the Carmelite
convent at Chartres.
The carriage contained five persons: two children eight
and nine years old, a gentleman and lady, — the first about
thirty-five, the second thirty, — and a peasant, bent with
age but still vigorous in spite of his white hair. Although
his dress was humble, this peasant occupied the seat besidt:
the lady; one of the children was sitting on his knee and
playing with the rings of a thick steel chain which fastened
his watch to the button-hole of his waistcoat, while he
himself passed his brown and shrivelled hand through the
silky hair of the little one.
At the jar of the carriage, as it turned from the paved
high-road into the faubourg Saint-Jean, the lady put her
head out of the window; then she drew it back with an
expression of pain as she saw the high walls that sur-
rounded the convent, and the gloomy portal which gave
entrance to it.
The postilion dismounted, and going, to the door of the
carriage said: —
"This is the place."
The lady pressed the hand of her husband, who was
seated opposite to her, while two large tears rolled down
her cheeks.
"Go, Mary, and take courage," said the young man, in
whom our readers will recognize Baron Michel (]<■ la
430 THE LAST VENDÉE.
Logerie. "I regret that the couvent rules will not let me
share this duty with you. It is the first time in ten years
we have suffered apart."
" You will speak to her of me, will you not ? " said the
old peasant.
"Yes, my Jean," answered Mary.
The young woman sprang from the carriage and knocked
at the gate. The sound of the knocker gave a funeral
note, which echoed through the vaulted portal.
" Mère Sainte-Marthe ? " said the lady when her sum-
mons was answered.
" Are you the person our mother is expecting ? " asked
the Carmelite.
"Yes, sister."
"Then come in. You shall see her; but remember, our
rule requires that, although she is oar Superior, you can
see her only in presence of a sister; and she forbids you
absolutely to speak to her, even in these last moments, of
the earthly things she has left behind her."
Mary bowed her head.
The Carmelite went first and conducted the Baronne de
la Logerie along a damp, dark corridor, in which were a
dozen doors; she opened one of these doors and stood aside
to allow the lady to enter. Mary hesitated an instant; she
was choking with emotion; then she regained her self-
command, crossed the threshold, and found herself in a
little cell about eight feet square.
In this cell, for all furniture, was a bed, a chair, and a
prie-dieu; for all ornament, a few holy images fastened to
the bare walls, and an ebony and brass crucifix, which
stretched out its arms above the prie-dieu.
Mary saw nothing of all that. On the bed lay a woman
whose face had taken the color and the transparency of
wax, and whose discolored lips seemed about to exhale
their parting breath.
This woman was, or rather, had been Bertha. She was
now naught else than the Mère Sainte-Marthe, superior of
EPILOGUE. 431
the couvent of the Carmelites at Chartres, — soon to be only
a corpse.
When she saw the lady enter the dying woman stretched
forth her arms, and Mary fled to them. Long they held
themselves embraced; Mary bathing with tears her sister's
face, Bertha gasping, — for in her eyes, hollowed by the
austerities of the cloister, there seemed to be no more tears.
The Carmelite sister, who had seated herself on the
chair and was reading her breviary, was, however, not so
occupied with her prayers that she did uot notice what was
passing before her. She probably thought these embraces
were lasting too long, for she coughed significantly.
Mère Sainte-Marthe gently pushed Mary away from her,
but did not release her hand, which she held in hers.
"Sister! sister!" murmured Mary, "who could have
told me we should meet thus ? "
"It is God's will, to which we must submit," replied the
Carmelite mother.
"His will is sometimes very stern," sighed Mary.
" How can you say so, sister ? That will is gentle and
most merciful to me. God, who might have left me longer
on this earth, deigns to recall me to Him."
" You will meet our father above, " said Mary.
" And whom do I leave behind me ? "
" Our good Jean Oullier, who lives and loves you always,
Bertha."
"Thank you; and whom else?"
"My husband, — and two children, who are named, the
boy, Pierre, the girl, Bertha. I have taught them to bless
you daily."
A faint color came upon the cheeks of the dying woman.
"Dear children!" she murmured, "if God grants me a
place beside Him, I promise to pray for them above."
And the dying soul began on earth the prayer it was to
end in heaven.
In the midst of that prayer and in the silence of that
cell, the striking of a clock was heard, then the tinkling of
432 THE LAST VENDÉE.
a bell, and the sound of feet approaching along the corri-
dor. They were bringing the viaticum.
Mary fell on her knees by Bertha's pillow. The priest
entered, holding the sacred chalice in his left hand, and in
his right the consecrated wafer.
At this moment Mary felt the hand of Bertha seeking
hers ; for the purpose, as she thought, of pressing it. She
was mistaken ; Bertha slipped into her sister's hand an object
which she felt to be a locket. She tried to look at it.
"No no," said Bertha, "wait till I am dead."
Mary made a sign of obedience and bowed her head upon
her clasped hands.
The cell was now filled with nuns, all kneeling; and as
far as could be seen along the corridor were others in their
gloomy robes kneeling and praying.
The dying woman seemed to recover some strength with
which to go into the presence of her Creator; she lifted
herself up, murmuring : —
" I am ready, my God ! "
The priest laid the wafer on her lips, and she fell back
gently on the bed with closed eyes and clasped hands.
Except for the motion of her lips, she seemed to have died,
so pale was her face, so feeble the breath that issued from
her bosom.
The priest concluded the other ceremonies of the extreme
unction, but she did not open her eyes. He left the cell,
and the assistants followed him.
The Carmelite nun, who had first met Mary, now came
to her where she knelt, and touching her gently on the
shoulder, said : —
" My sister, the rule of our order forbids that you should
stay any longer in this cell."
"Bertha! Bertha!" said Mary, sobbing, "do you hear
what they say to me? My God! after living together
twenty years without being parted for a single day, and
then separated for eleven years, — not to be allowed one
hour together when we are parting for eternity!"
EPIL0G1 K.
• Fou m 13 stay in the house until I am dead, my bj
and it will make me happy to think you are mar me and
praying for me."
Mary bent down to kiss her dying sister for the last
time, but the nun interposed. Baying: —
"Do not turn our blessed mother's mind from the ci
tial path she now has entered, by vain, earthly thoughts."
'•()]), I will not leave her thus!" cried .Mary, flinging
herself on Bertha's bed and putting her lips to those of
her sister. Bertha's lips replied by a feeble quiver, then
she gently pushed her sister away from her. But the hand
that made this motion had no power to rejoin the other.
and it fell inert upon the bed.
The nun advanced, and without a tear, without a Bigh,
without a sign of emotion upon her face, she took that
dying hand, joined it to the other, and laid them clasped
upon Bertha's breast. Then she gently pushed Mary to
the door.
"Oh, Bertha! Bertha!" cried her sister, breaking into
sobs.
It seemed to her that a murmur echoed back these sobs,
and in that murmur she fancied that she heard the name
of " Mary ! "
She was in the corridor; the door of the cell was closed
behind her.
" Oh, let me see her ! " she cried. " Let me see her once
more, — only once ! "
But the nun stretched out lier arms and barred the way.
"I submit," said Mary, blinded by her tears. "Take
me where you choose, sister."
The nun led her to an empty cell, the occupant of which
had died the night before. Mary saw through her tears a
prie-dieu surmounted by a crucifix, and she went, half
stumbling, to kneel there.
For an hour she remained absorbed in prayer. At th
end of an hour the nun returned and said, in the Bame odd
impassible voice: —
vol. ii. — 28
434 THE LAST VENDÉE.
"Mère Sainte-Marthe is dead."
" May I see her ? " asked Mary.
"The rule of our order forbids it," replied the Car-
melite.
Mary dropped her head into her hands with a sigh.
One of those hands still clasped the object Bertha had
given her at the moment she was about to receive, for the
last time, the blessed sacrament. Mère Sainte-Marthe
was dead, and Mary was free to look at what she had
given her.
It was, as she knew already from its shape, a locket.
Mary opened it. It contained some hair and a paper.
The hair was the color of Michel's hair; the paper con-
tained these words : " Cut during his sleep on the night of
June 5, 1832."
" 0, my God ! " murmured Mary, raising her eyes to the
crucifix, " my God ! in thy mercy receive her ! for thy
passion lasted but forty days, and hers has lasted eleven
years ! "
Putting the locket upon her heart, Mary went down the
cold, damp stairway of the convent.
The carriage and those it contained were still waiting
before the gate.
" Well ? " asked Michel, opening the door and making
a step toward his wife.
"Alas, it is all over!" replied Mary, throwing herself
into his arms. "She died promising to pray for us above."
" Happy children ! " said Jean Oullier, laying his hands,
one on the head of the little boy, the other on that of the
little girl. " Happy children ! walk fearlessly through life,
for a martyr watches over you in heaven ! "
THE END.
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