other brave men, would you?”
“Is that all I am to get from you, after all? is that all the regard you have for me? very well, Annot–it is well at any rate we should understand each other. They were right, I find, when they told me that you were such a coquette, you would have a dozen lovers at the same time.”
“And they were right, I find, when they told me you were too fond of yourself ever to love any girl truly.”
“Oh, Annot! and is it come to this? I’m sorry I ever came to Echanbroignes. I’m sorry I ever saw you.”
“And if you are, M. Chapeau, I’m sure I’m sorry enough I ever saw you;” and Annot again increased the distance between her and her lover.
They walked on from hence in silence till they came to the little mill, and each stood gazing on the stream, which ran gurgling down beneath the ash and willow-trees, which dipped their boughs in its waters.
“How kind you were, the last time we were here together,” said Jacques; “how kind and generous you were then; you are very different now.”
“And you are very different, too, M. Chapeau; much more different than I am; it’s all your own fault; you choose to give yourself airs, and I won’t put up with it, and I believe we may as well part.”
“Give myself airs! No; but it’s you give yourself airs, and say things which cut me to the heart–things which I can’t bear; and, therefore, perhaps, we may as well part :” and Jacques assumed a most melancholy aspect, as he added, “So, good bye, Annot; there’s my hand. I wouldn’t, at any rate, part anything but friends after all.”
“Good bye,” said poor Annot, putting out her hand to her lover, and sobbing violently. “Good bye; I’m sure I never thought it would come to this. I’m sure I gave up everybody and everything for your sake.”
“Well; and didn’t I give up everybody, too. Haven’t I come all the way over here week after week, when people wondered what made me leave Durbellière so much; and wasn’t it all for love of you? Oh, Annot! Annot!” and even the manly dignity of M. Chapeau succumbed to tears.
“It’s no good talking,” said she, greatly softened; “for you can’t have loved me, and treated me as you did this day, letting me walk all alone from St. Laud, without so much as a word or a look; and that before all the people: and I that went merely to walk back with you. Oh! I could have died on the roadside to find myself treated in such a way.”
“And what must I have felt to hear you talking as you did before them all? Do you think I felt nothing?”
“Talking, Jacques; what talk?”
“Why; saying that you loved Cathelineau better than any one. That he was the only man you admired; that you dreamed of him always, and I don’t know how much more about his eyes and whiskers.”
“Why now, Jacques; you don’t mean to be jealous?”
“Jealous; no I’m not jealous.”
“Jealous of a man you know I never saw,” said Annot, smiling through her tears.
“Jealous. No, I tell you I’m not jealous; but still, one doesn’t like to hear one’s mistress talking of another man’s eyes, and whiskers, and those sort of things; no man would like it, Annot; though I care about it as little myself as any man.”
“But don’t you know Cathelineau is a saint, Jacques?”
“Oh! but you said saints might marry, and have a lot of children, and so they may.”
“But I never saw Cathelineau, Jacques,” and she put her hand upon his arm.
And you are not in love with him, Annot?”
“How can I be in love with a man I never put eyes on?”
“And you won’t say again, that you’d like to have him for a lover?”
“That was only my little joke, Jacques. Surely, a girl may joke sometimes.”
“And you do love me, don’t you?” and Jacques now got very close to his mistress.
“Ah! but why did you let me walk home all the way by myself? You know I love you dearly; but you must beg my pardon for that, before I’ll ever tell you so again.”
And Jacques did beg her pardon in a manner of his own twenty times, sitting by the gurgling mill-stream, and to tell the truth Annot seemed well pleased with the way in which he did it; and then when the fountain of her love was opened, and the sluice gate of her displeasure removed, she told him how she would pray for him till he came back safe from the wars; how she would never speak a word to mortal man in the way of courting, till he came back to make her his wife; how she would grieve, should he be wounded; how she would die, should he be killed in battle: and then she gave him a little charm, which she had worked for him, and put it round his neck, and told him she had taken it with her to St. Laud, to give it him there beneath the cross, only he had gone away from her, so that she couldn’t do so: and then Jacques begged pardon again and again in his own queer way; and then, having sat there by the mill-stream till the last red streak of sunlight was gone, they returned home to the village, and Annot told her father that Dame Rouel had been so very pressing, she had made them stay there to eat bread and cheese. And so Annot, at last, went to bed without her supper, and dreamed not of Cathelineau, but of her own lover, Jacques Chapeau.
CHAPTER VIII
AGATHA LAROCHEJAQUELIN.
As Chapeau had said, great preparations were made at Durbellière for the coming campaign. The old Marquis had joined with his son in furnishing everything which their limited means would admit of, for the wants of the royalists. Durbellière had become quite a depôt; the large granaries at the top of the house were no longer empty; they were stored with sacks of meal, with pikes and muskets, and with shoes for the soldiers. Agatha’s own room looked like an apartment in a hospital; it was filled with lint, salves, and ointments, to give ease to those whom the wars should send home wounded; all the contents of the cellars were sacrificed; wine, beer, and brandy, were alike given up to aid the spirits of the combatants; the cattle were drawn in from the farms, and kept round the house in out-houses and barns, ready to be slaughtered, as occasion might require, an abattoir was formed in the stable yard, and a butcher kept in regular employment; a huge oven was built in an outhouse attached to the stables, and here bakers, from neighbouring parishes, were continually kept at work: they neither expected, or received wages; they, and all the others employed got their meals in the large kitchen of the château, and were content to give their work to the cause without fee or reward. Provisions, cattle, and implements, were also sent from M. de Lescure’s house to Durbellière, as it was considered to be more central, and as it was supposed that there were still some republicans in the neighbourhood of Bressuire, whereas, it was well known that there were none in the rural districts; the more respectable of the farmers also, and other country gentlemen sent something; and oxen, sheep, and loads of meal; jars of oil, and casks of wine were coming in during the whole week before the siege of Saumur, and the same horses took them out again in the shape of bread, meat, and rations, to the different points where they would be required.
As soon as M. de Lescure had left home, on his recruiting service in the south of La Vendée, the ladies of his house went over to Durbellière, to remain there till Henri Larochejaquelin should start for Saumur, and give their aid to Agatha in all her work. Adolphe Denot was also there: he, too, had been diligently employed in collecting the different sinews of wars; and as far as his own means went had certainly not begrudged them. There was still an unhappy air of dissatisfaction about him, which was not to be observed with any one else: his position did not content his vanity; the people did not talk of him as they did of Cathelineau, and Henri Larochejaquelin; he heard nothing of La Vendée relying on his efforts; the nanes of various men were mentioned as trustworthy leaders, but his own was never among them. De Lescure, Charette, d’Elbée, Stofflet, were all talked of; and what had they done more than he had; or what, indeed, so much: the two latter were men of low origin, who had merely shown courage in the time of need: indeed, what more had Cathelineau done; whereas, he had never failed in courage, and had given, moreover, his money, and his property; yet he felt that he was looked on as a nobody. Jacques Chapeau was almost of more importance.
And then, again, his love for Agatha tormented him. He had thought to pique her by a show of indifference himself, but he found that this plan did not answer: it was evident, even to him, that Agatha was not vexed by his silence, his altered demeanour, and sudden departure. He had miscalculated her character, and now found that he must use other means to rouse the affection in her heart, without which he felt, at present, that he could not live happily. He thought that she could not have seen with indifference the efforts he was making in the cause which she loved so well; and he determined to throw himself at her feet before he started for Saumur, and implore her to give him a place in her affections, while her heart was softened by the emotions, which the departure of so many of her friends, on the eve of battle, would occasion.
Agatha had had but little conversation with him since his last arrival at Durbellière, but still she felt that he was about to propose to her. She shunned him as much as she could; she scrupulously avoided the opportunity which he anxiously sought; she never allowed herself to be alone with him; but she was nevertheless sure the evil hour would come; she saw it in his eye as they sat together at their meals–she heard it in the tones of his voice every time he spoke. She knew from his manner that he was preparing himself for the interview, and she also knew that he would not submit tamely to the only answer she could bring herself to give him.
“Marie,” said she to her cousin, on the Saturday evening, “I am in the greatest distress, pray help me, dearest. I am sure you know what ails me.”
“In distress, Agatha, and wanting help from me!–you that are wont to help all the world yourself! But I know, from your face, you are only half in earnest.”
“Indeed, and indeed, I never was much more so. I never was more truly in want of council. Can you not guess what my sorrow is?”
“Not unless it is, that you have a lover too much?–or perhaps you find the baker’s yeast runs short?”
“Ah, Marie, will you always joke when I am serious!”
“Well then, Agatha, now I am serious–is it that you have a lover too much?”
“Can any trouble be more grievous?”
“Oh, dear, yes! ten times worse. My case is ten times worse: and alas, alas! there is no cure for that.”
“Your case, Marie?”
“Yes, my case, Agatha–a lover too few!”
“Ah, Marie, do not joke with me tonight. I want your common sense, and not your wit, just now. Be a good, dear girl, and tell me what I shall say to him. I know he will not go to Saumur before–before he has proposed to me.”
“Then, in the name of common sense, dear Agatha, tell him the truth, whatever it may be.”
“You know I do not–cannot love him.”
“Nay, I know nothing. You have not said yet who ‘him’ is–but I own I can give a guess. I suppose poor Adolphe Denot is the man you cannot love? Poor Adolphe! he must be told so, that is all.”
“But how shall I tell him, Marie? He is so unlike other men. Henri is his friend, and yet he has never spoken to him about me, nor to my father. If he would ask my hand from Henri, as another would, Henri would talk to him, and explain to him that it could not be-that my heart is too much occupied with other cares, to care for loving or being loved.”
“That means, Agatha, till the right lover comes.”
“No, Marie; but till these wars are over. Not that I could ever love Adolphe Denot; but now, at present, methinks love should be banished from the country, and not allowed to return till the King is on his throne again.”
“Well, Agatha, I don’t know. That would be somewhat hard upon us poor girls, whose lovers are more to our taste, than M. Denot is to yours. I know not that our knights will fight the worse for a few stray smiles, though the times be so frightful.”
“Do you smile on yours then, Marie; and I will smile to see you happy. But tell me, dearest, what shall I say to Adolphe? You would not have me give him hope, when I feel I can never love him?”
“God forbid!–why should you? But has he never spoken to Henri on the subject, or to the Marquis?”
“Never a word. I’m sure he never spoke of it to my father, and Henri told me that he had never said a word to him.”
“Then you have spoken to your brother on the subject? And what did he say?”
“He said just what a dear, good brother should have said. He said he was sorry for his friend, but that on no account whatever would he sacrifice his sister’s happiness.”
“M. Larochejaquelin always does just what he ought to do. He is as good and kind to you as Charles is to me.”
“Henri and I are so nearly of an age; we were always companions together. I do not think any lover will be agreeable to me as long as he is with me.”
“But if he should take a love of his own, Agatha? It wont do, you know, for sisters to monopolize their brothers; or what shall we spinters do?”
“He shall bring his love here, and she shall be my own sister. If he makes the choice I think he will, I shall not have to open a new place in my heart for her, shall I, Marie?”
“Nay, I know not. Now it is you that wander from the subject.”
“And it is cruel in you to bring me back to it. If he proposes to me tomorrow, Marie, what shall I say to him?”
“Keep out of his way tomorrow. He goes on Monday morning.”
“It is very well to say, ‘Keep out of his way;’ but if he formally demands an interview, I cannot refuse it.”
“If he formally desires an interview, do you give him a formal reception: if he formally offers you his hand, do you formally decline the honour.”
“I would it were you, Marie, that he loved.”
“A thousand thanks to you, Mademoiselle Larochejaquelin. I appreciate your generosity, but really I have no vacancy for M. Denot, just at present.”
“Ah! but you would reject him with so much more ease, than I can do it.”
“Practice, my dear, is everything: this time you may feel a little awkward, but you will find you will dispose of your second lover without much difficulty, and you will give his congé to your third with as much ease, as though you were merely dismissing a disobedient kitchen-maid.”
“I cannot bear to give pain; and Adolphe will be pained; his self-love will be wounded at the idea of being rejected.”
“Then spare his self-love, and accept him.”
“No; that I will not do.”
“Then wound his self-love, and reject him.”
“Would I could do the one without the other; would I could persuade him I was not worthy of him.”
“Nay, do not attempt that; that will be direct encouragement.”
“I will tell him that I am averse to marriage; in truth, that will be no falsehood. I do not think that my heart is capable of more love than it feels at present.”
“That may be true now, Agatha; but suppose your heart should enlarge before the autumn, at the touch of some gallant wizard–take my advice, dear girl, make no rash promises.”
“I will tell him that I cannot think of love till the King is on the throne once more.”
“If you say so, he will promise valiantly to restore His Majesty, and then to return to you to look for his reward. Shall I tell you, Agatha, what I should say?”
“Do, dearest Marie: tell me in sober earnest; and if there be ought of sobriety mixed with your wit, I will take your advice.”
“I would say to him thus: ‘M. Denot,’ or ‘Adolphe,’ just as your custom is to address him–but mind, mark you, make him speak out firmly and formally first, that your answer may be equally firm and formal. ‘M. Denot, you have paid me the greatest honour which a gentleman can pay a lady, and I am most grateful for the good opinion which you have expressed. I should be ungrateful were I to leave you for one moment in doubt as to my real sentiments: I cannot love you as I ought to love my husband. I hope you will never doubt my true friendship for you; but more than sincere friendship I cannot give you.’ There, Agatha, not a word more, nor a word less than that; sit quite straight on your chair, as though you were nailed to it; do not look to the right or to the left; do not frown or smile.”
“There will not be the least danger of my smiling, Marie.”
“But do not frown neither; fancy that you are the district judge, giving sentence on a knotty piece of law; show neither sentiment, pride, nor anger. Be quite cold, inflexible and determined; and, above all things, do not move from your seat; and I think you will find your lover will take his answer: but if he do not–repeat it all over again, with a little more emphasis, and rather slower than before. If it be necessary, you may repeat it a third time, or indeed till he goes away, but never vary the words. He must be a most determined man if he requires the third dose. I never heard of but one who wasn’t satisfied with the second, and he was an Irishman.”
“If I could only insist on his sitting still and silent to hear me make my formidable speech, your advice might be very good.”
“That, my dear, is your own strong point: if he attempts to interrupt you, hear what he says, and then begin again. By the time you have got to your ‘real sentiments,’ I doubt not he will be in his tantrums: but do you not get into tantrums too, or else you are as good as lost; let nothing tempt you to put in an unpremeditated word; one word might be fatal; but, above all, do not move; nothing but an awful degree of calm on your part will frighten him into quiescence: if you once but move, you will find M. Denot at your feet, and your hand pressed to his lips. You might as well have surrendered at once, if anything like that occur.”
“Well, Marie, let what will happen, at any rate I will not surrender, as you call it. As to sitting like the district judge, and pronouncing sentence on my lover as you advise–I fear I lack the nerve for it.”
Agatha was quite right in her forebodings. Adolphe Denot had firmly made up his mind to learn his fate before he started for Saumur, and immediately on rising from breakfast, he whispered to Agatha that he wished to speak to her alone for a moment. In her despair she proposed that he should wait till after mass, and Adolphe consented; but during the whole morning she felt how weak she had been in postponing the evil hour; she had a thousand last things to do for her brother, a thousand last words to say to him; but she was fit neither to do nor to say anything; even her prayers were disturbed; in spite of herself her thoughts clung to the interview which she had to go through.
Since the constitutional priests had been sent into the country, and the old Curés silenced, a little temporary chapel had been fitted up in the château at Durbellière, and here the former parish priest officiated every Sunday; the peasants of the parish of St. Aubin were allowed to come to this little chapel; at first a few only had attended, but the number had increased by degrees, and at the time when the revolt commenced, the greater portion of the pastor’s old flock crowded into or round the château every Sunday; so that the Sabbath morning at Durbellière was rather a noisy time. This was especially the case on the 6th of June, as the people had so much to talk about, and most of the men wished to see either the old or the young master, and most of the women wanted to speak to one of the ladies; by degrees, however, the château was cleared, and Agatha with a trembling heart retreated to her own little sitting-room upstairs to keep her appointment with Adolphe Denot.
She had not been long there, when Adolphe knocked at the door: he had been there scores of times before, and had never knocked; but, although he was going to propose to make Agatha his wife, he felt that he could no longer treat her, with his accustomed familiarity.
He entered the room and found Agatha seated; so far she had taken her friend’s advice; she was very pale, but still she looked calm and dignified, and was certainly much less confused than her lover.
“Agatha,” said he, having walked up to the fire-place, and leaning with his arm upon the mantle-piece, “Agatha, tomorrow I start for Saumur.”
He was dressed very point-de-vice; the frills of his shirt were most accurately starched; his long black hair was most scrupulously brushed; his hands were most delicately white; his boots most brilliantly polished; he appeared more fit to adorn the salon of an ambassador, than to take a place as a warrior beneath the walls of a besieged town. Adolphe was always particular in his dress, but he now exceeded himself; and he appeared to be the more singular in this respect at Durbellière just at present, as the whole of the party except himself women included, had forgotten or laid aside, as unimportant, the usual cares of the toilet.
“You, at any rate, go in good company, Adolphe,” said Agatha, attempting to smile. “May you all be successful, and return as heroes–heroes, indeed, you are already; but may you gather fresh laurels at Saumur. I am sure you will. I, for one, am not in the least despondent.”
“Yes, Agatha, I shall go to Saumur, determined at any rate not to lose there any little honour I may yet have won. If I cannot place the white flag of La Vendée on the citadel of Saumur, I will at any rate fall in attempting it.”
“I am very sure, that if you fail, it will not be for lack of courage, or of resolution. You and Henri, and M. de Lescure and our good friend Cathelineau, have taught us to expect victory as the sure result of your attempts.”
“Ah! Agatha, one word from your lips, such as I long to hear, would make me feel that I could chain victory to my sword, and rush into the midst of battle panoplied against every harm.”
“Your duty to your King should be your best assurance of victory; your trust in your Saviour, your panoply against harm; if these did not avail you, as I know they do, the vain word of a woman would be of little service.”
“You speak coldly, Agatha, and you look coldly on me. I trust your feelings are not cold also.”
“I should have hoped that many years of very intimate acquaintance between us, of friendship commenced in childhood, and now cemented by common sympathies and common dangers, would have made you aware that my feelings are not cold towards you.”
“Oh no! not cold in the ordinary sense. You wish me well, I doubt not, and your kind heart would grieve, if you heard that I had fallen beneath the swords of the republicans; but you would do the same for Cathelineau or M. de Bonchamps. If I cannot wake a warmer interest in your heart than that, I should prefer that you should forget me altogether.”
Agatha began to fear that at this rate the interview would have no end. If Adolphe remained with his arm on the marble slab, and his head on one side, making sentimental speeches, till she should give him encouragement to fall at her feet, it certainly would not be ended by bed-time. She, therefore, summoned all her courage, and said,
“When you asked me to meet you here, your purpose was not to reproach me with coldness–was it Adolphe? Perhaps it will be better for both of us that this interview should terminate now. We shall part friends, dear friends; and I will rejoice at your triumphs, when you are victorious; and will lament at your reverses, should you be unlucky. I shall do the same for my own dear Henri, and I know that you two will not be separated. There is my hand,” she added, thinking that he appeared to hesitate; “and now let us go down to our friends, who are expecting us.”
“Are you so soon weary of hearing the few words I wish to say to you?” said Adolphe, who had taken her hand, and who seemed inclined to keep it.
“No, I am not weary. I will hear anything you wish to say.” And Agatha having withdrawn her hand, sat down, and again found herself in a position to take advantage of Marie’s good advice.
Adolphe remained silent for a minute or two, with his head supported on his hand, and gazing on the lady of his love with a look that was intended to fascinate her. Agatha sat perfectly still; she was evidently mindful of the lesson she had received: at last, Adolphe started up from his position, walked a step or two into the middle of the room, thrust his right hand into his bosom; and said abruptly, “Agatha, this is child’s play; we are deceiving each other; we are deceiving ourselves; we would appear to be calm when there is no calm within us.”
“Do not say we. I am not deceiving myself; I trust I am not deceiving you.”
“And is your heart really so tranquil?” said he. “Does that fair bosom control no emotion? Is that lovely face, so exquisitely pale, a true index of the spirit within? Oh! Agatha! it cannot be; while my own heart is so torn with love; while I feel my own pulses beat so strongly; while my own brain burns so fiercely, I cannot believe that your bosom is a stranger to all emotion! Some passion akin to humanity must make you feel that you are not all divine! Speak, Agatha; if that lovely form has within it ought that partakes of the weakness of a woman, tell me, that at some future time you will accept the love I offer you; tell me, that I may live in hope. Oh, Agatha! bid me not despair,” and M. Denot in bodily reality fell prostrate at her feet.
When Agatha had gone up to her room, she had prepared herself for a most disagreeable interview, but she had not expected anything so really dreadful as this. Adolphe had not contented himself with kneeling at her feet on one knee, and keeping his head erect in the method usual in such cases; but he had gone down upon both knees, had thrown his head upon her feet, and was now embracing her shoes and stockings in a very vehement manner; her legs were literally caught in a trap; she couldn’t move them; and Adolphe was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult to make him hear anything.
“Adolphe, Adolphe, get up!” she almost screamed, “this is ridiculous in the extreme; if you will not get up, I must really call for some one. I cannot allow you to remain there!”
“Oh, Agatha, Agatha!” sobbed Adolphe.
“Nonsense, Adolphe,” said Agatha. “Are you a man, to lie grovelling on the floor like that? Rise up, or you will lose my esteem for ever, if that be of any value to you.”
“Give me one gleam of hope, and I will rise,” said he, still remaining on his knees, but now looking up into her face; “tell me not to despair, and I will then accomplish any feat of manhood. Give me one look of comfort, and I will again be the warrior ready for the battle; it is you only who can give me back my courage; it is you only who can restore to me the privilege of standing erect before all mankind.”
“I can tell you nothing, Adolphe, but this–that, if you continue on your knees, I shall despise you; if you will rise, I will give you at any rate a reasonable answer.”
“Despise me, Agatha! no, you cannot despise me; the unutterable burning love of a true heart is not despicable; the character which I bear before mankind is not despicable. Man is not despicable when he kneels before the object which he worships; and, Agatha, with all my heart, I worship you!”
“Now you are profane as well as contemptible, and I shall leave you,” and she walked towards the door.
“Stay then,” said he, “stay, and I will rise,” and, suiting the action to the. word, he got up. “Now speak to me in earnest, Agatha; and, since you will have it so, I also, if possible, will be calm. Speak to me; but, unless you would have the misery of a disturbed spirit on your conscience, bid me not despair!”
“Is that your calmness, Adolphe?”
“Can a man, rushing towards the brink of a precipice, be calm? Can a man be calm on the verge of the grave? I love you, Agatha, with a true and holy love; but still with a love fierce and untameable. You reviled me when I said I worshipped you, but I adore the ground you tread on, and the air you breathe. I would shed my last drop of blood to bring you ease; but I could not live and see you give that fair hand to another. My joy would be to remain ever as your slave; but then the heart that beats beneath your bosom must be my own. Agatha, I await your answer; one word from your lips can transport me to paradise!”
“If I am to understand that you are asking me for love–for a warmer love than that which always accompanies true friendship–I am obliged to say that I cannot give it you.” Adolphe remained standing in the middle of the room, with his hand still fixed in his bosom, and with a look intended to represent both thunder and lightning. He had really thought that the little scene which he had gone through, very much to his own satisfaction, would have a strong effect on Agatha, and he was somewhat staggered by the cool and positive tone of her reply. “It grieves me that I should give you pain,” she continued, “if my answer does pain you; but I should never forgive myself, were I not to speak the truth to you plainly, and at once.”
“And do you mean that for your final, and only answer to me?”
“Certainly, my only answer; for I can give you no other. I know you will be too kind, too sensible, to make it necessary that I should repeat it.”
“This is dreadful,” said Denot, putting his hand to his brow, “this is very dreadful!” and he commenced pacing up and down the room.
“Come,” said she, good naturedly, “let us go down–let us forget this little episode–you have so much of happiness, and of glory before you, that I should grieve to see you mar your career by a hopeless passion. Take the true advice of a devoted friend,” and she put her hand kindly on his arm, “let us both forget this morning’s scene–let us only remember our childhood’s friendship; think, Adolphe, how much you have to do for your King and your country, and do hot damp your glorious exertion by fostering a silly passion. Am not I the same to you as a sister? Wait till these wars are over, and then I will gather flowers for you to present to some mistress who shall truly love you.”
“No, Agatha, the flowers you gather for me shall never leave my own bosom. If it be the myrtle, I will wear it with joy to my dying day, next my heart: if it is to be a cyprus branch, it shall soon be laid with me in the tomb.”
“You will think less sadly in a short time,” said Agatha; “your spirits will recover their proper tone amid the excitement of battle. We had better part now, Adolphe;” and she essayed to leave the room, but he was now leaning against the door, and did not seem inclined to let her depart so easily.
“You will not, I hope, begrudge me a few moments,” said he, speaking between his teeth.
“You may reject me with scorn, but you can hardly refuse me the courtesy which any gentleman would have a right to expect from your hands.”
“You know that I will refuse you nothing which, either in courtesy or kindness, I can do for you,” said she, again sitting down. He, however, seeing her once more seated, did not appear much inclined to conclude what he had to say to her, for he continued walking up and down the room, in a rather disturbed manner; “but you should remember,” she added, “how soon Henri is going to leave me, and how much we have all to think and to talk of.”
“I see my presence is unwelcome, and it shall not trouble you long. I would soon rid your eyes of my hated form, but I must first say a few words, though my throat be choked with speaking them. My passion for you is no idle boyish love; it has grown with my growth, and matured itself with my manhood. I cannot now say to myself that it shall cease to be. I cannot restore calmness to my heart or rest to my bosom. My love is a fire which cannot now be quenched; it must be nourished, or it will destroy the heart which is unable to restrain it. Think, Agatha, of all the misery you are inflicting; think also of the celestial joy one word of yours is capable of giving.”
“I have said before that I grieve to pain you; but I cannot speak a falsehood. Were it to save us both from instant death, I could not say that I love you in the sense you mean.”
“Oh, Agatha! I do not ask you to love me–that is not to love me now; if you will only say that your heart is not for ever closed against my prayers, I will leave you contented.”
“I can say nothing which would give you any hope of that which can never happen.”
“And that is all I am to expect from you in return for as true a love as man ever bore to woman?”
“I cannot make you the return you wish. I can give you no other answer.”
“Well, Agatha, so be it. You shall find now that I can be calm, when my unalterable resolve requires it. You shall find that I am a man; at any rate, you shall not again have to tell me that I am despicable,” and he curled his upper lip, and showed his teeth in a very ferocious manner. “You shall never repeat that word in regard to Adolphe Denot. Should kind fortune favour my now dearest wish, you will soon hear that my bones are whitening under the walls of Saumur. You will hear that your des-pi-ca-ble lover,” and he hissed out the offending word, syllable by syllable, between his closed teeth, “has perished in his attempt to be the first to place the white flag of La Vendée above the tri-colour. If some friendly bullet will send me to my quiet home, Adolphe Denot shall trouble you no longer,” and as he spoke the last few words, he softened his voice, and re-assumed his sentimental look; but he did not remain long in his quiet mood, for he again became furious, as he added: “But if fortune should deny me this boon, if I cannot find the death I go to seek, I swear by your own surpassing beauty, by your glorious unequalled form, that I will not live without you. Death shall be welcome to me,” and he raised his hands to heaven, and then dashed them against his breast. “Oh! how dearly welcome! Yes, heroic death upon the battlefield shall calm this beating heart–shall quell these agonized pangs. Yes, Agatha, if fortune be but kind, death, cold death, shall soon relieve us both; shall leave you free to bestow upon a colder suitor the prize you have refused to my hot, impatient love; but if,” (and here he glanced very wildly round him), “my prayers are not heard, if after Saumur’s field, life be still left within my body’s sanctuary, I will return to seize you as my own, though hosts in armour try to stop my way. I will not live without you. I will not endure to see another man aspire to the hand which has been refused to me. Adieu, Agatha, adieu! I trust we shall meet no more; in thinking of me, at any rate, your memory shall not call me despicable,” and he rushed out of the door and down stairs, without waiting to hear whether Agatha intended making any answer to this poetical expression of his fixed resolution.
In the commencement of his final harangue, Agatha had determined to hear him quietly to the end; but she had not expected anything so very mad as the exhibition he made. However, she sat quietly through the whole of it, and was glad that she was spared the necessity of a reply.
Nothing more was seen of Adolphe Denot that night. Henri asked his sister whether she had seen him, and she told him that he had made a declaration of love to her, and had expressed himself ill-satisfied with the only answer she had been able to give him. She did not tell her brother how like a demoniac his friend had behaved. To Marie she was more explicit; to her she repeated as nearly as possible the whole scene as it had occurred; and although Agatha was almost weeping with sorrow, there was so much that was ludicrous in the affair, that Marie could not keep herself from laughing.
“He will trouble you no more,” said she. “You will find that he will not return to Durbellière to carry you off through the armed hosts. He will go to England or emigrate; and in a few years’ time, when you meet him again, you will find him settled down, and as quiet as his neighbours. He is like new-made wine, my dear–he only wants age.”
On the following morning, by break of day, the party left Durbellière, and Adolphe Denot joined his friend on the gravelled ring before the house; and Agatha, who had been with her brother in his room, looking from the widow saw her unmanageable lover mount his horse in a quiet, decent way, like the rest of the party.
CHAPTER IX
LE MOUCHOIR ROUGE.
Nothing interfered to oppose the advance of the royalist troops towards Saumur. At Coron, as had been proposed, Larochejaquelin and Denot joined Father Jerome; and Cathelineau also, and M. d’Elbée joined them there. Every house in the town was open to them, and the provisions, which by the care of M. de Larochejaquelin had been sent there, were almost unneeded. If there was any remnant of republican feeling in Coron, at any rate it did not dare to shew itself. The road which the royalists intended to take ran from Cholet, through Coron, Vihiers, and Doué, to Saumur. The republicans, who were now in great force at Saumur, under Generals Coustard and Quetineau, had sent small parties of soldiers into the town of Vihiers and Doué, the inhabitants of which were mostly republican. Before the arrival of M. de Larochejaquelin, the blues, as the republican troops were called by the Vendeans, had been driven out of Vihiers by a party of royalists under the direction of Stofflet, who had raised himself to distinction soon after the commencement of the revolt. This man was a gamekeeper in the employment of an emigrant nobleman, and though he was a rough, harsh, uneducated, quarrelsome man, nevertheless, by his zeal and courage, he had acquired great influence among the people, and was now at the head of a numerous, and, for La Vendée, well-armed body of men.
Our friends accordingly found the road open for them as far as Doué. After their junction with Stofflet, their army amounted to about 7,500 men; and at Done they were to meet M. Bonchamps and M. de Lescure, who, it was supposed, would bring with them as many more. They marched out of Vihiers early on the Tuesday morning, having remained there only about a couple of hours, and before nightfall they saw the spire of Doué church. They then rested, intending to force their way into the town early on the following morning; but they had barely commenced their preparations for the evening, when a party of royalists came out to them from the town, inviting them in. M. de Lescure and M. Bonchamps were already there. The republican soldiers had been attacked and utterly routed; most of them were now prisoners in the town; those who had escaped had retreated to Saumur, and even they had left their arms behind them.
All this good fortune greatly inspirited the Vendeans. The men talked with the utmost certainty of what they would do when they were masters of Saumur. Cathelineau had brought with him the celebrated cannon of St. Florent, ‘Marie Jeanne,’ and she now stood in the market place of Done, covered with ribbons and flowers. Many of the men had never hitherto seen this wonderful piece of artillery, and they hastened to look at it. ‘Marie Jeanne’ that night was patted, kissed, and caressed by thousands. Cathelineau was equally the object of their admiration; every peasant who had not yet seen him, hurried to gaze on him; and after his arrival in Doué, he was two hours employed in a military operation, hitherto undertaken, I believe, by no other general: he was endeavouring to shake hands with every man in the army. Chapeau here was again of great use, for he stood at Cathelineau’s elbow, and hurried the men away as soon as they touched his hand. But for this precaution, the work could never have been done; and as it was, some of the men were discontented, and declared their intention of returning home, for Cathelineau was called away before he had completed his task: he was obliged to go the Town Hall to attend a council that was held there of the different Vendean chiefs.
The arms which they had taken in Vihiers and Doué, were of the greatest use to them; in both places they had found a cannon; they had taken nine or ten from Fontenay, and others from Thouars. Most of the men among them now had muskets, and they were able to take to Saumur with them twenty-four pieces of heavy artillery. What could the infamous blues expect to do against a force so numerous, so well armed, and so well officered!
That evening a council of war was held by the different chiefs of the Vendeans in the Town Hall of Doué. Lescure, Larochejaquelin, Cathelineau, d’Elbée, and Stofflet were there. M. Bonchamps, who had been very severely wounded at Fontenay, but who had insisted on being carried along with his own men, was brought in on a litter. Father Jerome was there, and another priest who had come with M. Bonchamps. There were a couple of old royalist noblemen, not sufficiently active to take a part in the actual fighting, but sufficiently zealous in the cause to leave their homes for the purpose of giving the young commanders the benefit of their experience. Foret also, Cathelineau’s friend, was present, and Adolphe Denot: indeed many others, from time to time, crowded into the room, for the door was not well kept, nor were the councils of the generals in any way a secret. Jacques Chapeau, as a matter of course, managed to make his way into the room, and took upon himself the duties of doorkeeper.
The Mayor’s arm-chair stood at the head of the table, as the leaders dropped into the room one after another, but no one appeared willing to occupy it. Hitherto there had been no chief among the Vendeans; this was the first meeting which had been held with anything approaching to the solemnity of a general assembly, and it occurred to each of them that whoever should then seat himself in the Mayor’s chair, would be assuming that he was the chief leader of the revolt.
“Come, M. de Lescure,” said Stofflet, “we have much to do, and but little time; let us make the most of it: do you take the President’s seat. Gentlemen, I am sure we could have no better President than M. de Lescure?”
They all agreed, with the exception of the chosen leader. “By no means,” said he. “I was the last here who joined the cause, and I certainly will not place myself first among those who have led the way in the work we have taken up. No; here is the man who shall be our President.” And as he spoke he caught hold of Cathelineau, who was immediately behind him, and absolutely forced him into the chair.
“Indeed, indeed, M. de Lescure–” said Cathelineau, endeavouring to extricate himself from the seat; but both his voice and his exertions were stopped, for three or four of them united to hold him where he was, and declared that he should be the President for the evening.
“Indeed, and indeed you will not stir,” said Henri, who stood behind his chair, and placed his hands heavily on the postillion’s shoulders.
“It was you that brought us here,” said de Lescure, “and you must not now avoid the responsibility.”
“Ah! M. de Lescure,” said he, “there are so many more fitting than me.”
“Not one in all La Vendée,” said M. Bonchamps: “sit where you are, Cathelineau.”
“You must do it, Cathelineau;” whispered his friend Foret; “the peasants would not endure to see any man put above you.”
“Cathelineau will not shrink from the burden which the Lord has called upon him to bear,” said Father Jerome.
“Providence,” said d’Elbée, “has summoned the good Cathelineau to this high duty; he will not, I am sure, oppose its decrees.”
And thus Cathelineau found himself seated in the Mayor’s chair at the head of the table, whilst the highest noblemen and gentry of the country took their places around it, and from that moment Cathelineau became the General-in-Chief of the Vendeans.
Each leader then gave in the numbers of the men who had come with him, and it was found that the army consisted of above fifteen thousand men. Lists were then made out of the arms and accoutrements which they possessed, and the men in a rude way were drafted into regiments under the command of the leaders who had brought them. There was a small body of cavalry equipped in most various manners, and mounted on horses, which resembled anything rather than a regular squadron of troopers: these were under the immediate command of Henri Larochejaquelin.
“Gentlemen,” said Cathelineau, “we have, you know, three different attacks to make, three positions to carry, before we can be masters of Saumur.”
“Yes,” said Bonchamps, “there in the camp at Varin on the right, and the redoubts of Bournan on the left; the fortifications of the town itself lie between them, and a little to the rear of both.”
“Exactly, M. Bonchamps; the town itself, I take, is the easiest task of the three; but as we are situated it must be the last.”
“I think you will find that Varin is their strongest point,” said de Lescure.
“M. de Lescure is right,” said Cathelineau. “We shall find them very strong in their camp. I had with me, yesterday, two men from Saumur; they knew nothing of General Quetineau’s intentions, but they had seen detachments of men constantly going to and fro between Saumur and the camp; they calculate that we shall think that the weaker side.”
“Bournan is right on our way,” said Bonchamps; “but the ground lies so advantageously for them, that they will cut us to pieces if we attempt to push our way up the hill against the heavy artillery they will have there.”
“M. Bonchamps is quite right there,” said Cathelineau. “I think we should not attack Bournan, till we can do so from the side of the town. I think Bournan should not be our first object; but nevertheless, we must be prepared to meet at Varin the great body of the army; we must drive them from thence back into the town.”
“Yes,” said Henri, “and follow them in, as we are driving them. The sight of their comrades in disorder will itself conquer the men in the citadel; it is always so with the blues.”
“We must remember, Henri,” said de Lescure, “these are not conscripts, nor yet merely the Marsellaise, we have to deal with: the men who fought at Jemappes and at Valmy are here; the old cuirassiers of the French army.”
“They are cowards, Charles,” said Henri, “or they would not have deserted their King.”
“They are good soldiers, nevertheless,” said Bonchamps. “I have fought among them, and know it.”
“They are the better worth our fighting then,” said Henri.
“Providence can give us the victory over tried veterans as well as over untried conscripts; it were a sin to doubt it,” said M. d’Elbée.
“That would be a good subject for a sermon to the soldiers, but a bad argument in a council chamber,” said Bonchamps. “We shall find the cuirassiers tough fellows to deal with.”
“We must take our enemies as we find them,” said Cathelineau; “but if you will allow me, gentlemen, and as you have placed me here, I will tell you what I would propose?’
“Do, Cathelineau, do!” said Henri; “let us have one plan, and then make the best we can of it; we can at any rate do our duty like men.”
“I think we should leave this early tomorrow morning, and move across the country as though we were going to Montreuil; we shall so come on the Montreuil road about a league from Saumur, and not very far, that is about half a league, from the camp at Varin.”
“And then, Cathelineau, will you attack the camp tomorrow evening?” said de Lescure.
“I think not, M. de Lescure; but I would make a feint to do so, and I would thus keep the republicans on the alert all night; a small body of our men may, I think, in that way fatigue the masses of the republicans in the camp–we might harass them the whole night, which will be dark from eleven till near three; and then with the earliest sunrise our real attack should be made.”
“Bravo, Cathelineau!” said Henri; “and then fall on them when they are in want of sleep.”
“Yes,” said de Lescure, “and they will have learnt to think that our attacks in that quarter are only feints.”
“Such may be our good luck, M. de Lescure; at any rate, if you think of nothing better, we may try it.”
It was thus decided, and arranged that Larochejquelin should, on the following evening, leave the main body of the army with all the mounted men belonging to it, and advance near enough to the camp at Varin to allow of his being seen and heard by the republicans, and that he should almost immediately retreat: that a body of infantry should then move on, and take up a position near to the camp, which should also return after a while, and that as soon as darkness had come on, a third advance should be made by a larger body of men, who should, if possible, approach within musket shot o the trenches, and endeavour to throw the republicans into disorder. At four o’clock in the morning, the real attack was to be made by the combined Vendean forces, of which Cathelineau was to lead the centre, de Lescure the left, consisting of the men brought by himself and Larochejaquelin from the centre of the Bocage; and d’Elbée the right, which was formed of men chiefly brought by M. Bonchamps from the province of Anjou. M. Bonchamps was himself too ill from the effects of his wounds to accompany the army beyond Doué.
Early on the following morning the whole army, with the exception of the men left with Foret, defiled out of Doué, and crossed over to the Montreuil road, dragging with them their cannons, baggage-waggons, and ammunition; their movements were not made with very great order, nor with much celerity; but, about six o’clock in the evening, on the 10th of June, Cathelineau took up his position about a league from Saumur. They got possession of one or two farm-houses, and were not long in making their arrangements for the night; the men were accustomed to sleep out in the open air since the war commenced, and were well content to remain in clusters round the cannons and the waggons.
At eight o’clock, Larochejaquelin had his little troop of cavalry ready mounted, and started with them for the camp of Varin. As he and his companions dashed along through the waggons and by the cannons the peasants who were preparing to lay down for the night, and who knew nothing of the plans of their Generals, rose up one after another wondering.
“There goes ‘le Mouchoir Rouge,'” said one, alluding to Henri’s costume; for when in action he always wore a red handkerchief round his waist, and another round his neck.
“Yes; that is ‘le Mouchoir Rouge,'” said another, “he is off for Saumur; the horsemen are already starting for Saumur.”
“Come, then; they shall not go alone,” said another. “We will start for Saumur. We will not lie here while others are in the battle.”
These were men from the neighbourhood of Durbellière, who were now placed under the orders of M. de Lescure; but who conceived that, as their lord and master was gone before them, it must be their duty to follow. The word was passed from one to another, and the whole body of them was soon in motion. It must be remembered that they were, in no respect, similar to disciplined troops; they had received no military instruction, and did not therefore, know, that they were doing wrong in following their own master; they were in receipt of no pay; amenable to no authority, and consequently afraid of no penalties; their only idea was to do the best they could for the cause, to fight with courage and perseverance, and to trust to God for the result: it was not, therefore, wondering that, in the present instance, they so completely mistook their duty.
Cathelineau’s men, who were intended to form the centre of the attack on the next morning, were placed just to the right of the road, but their baggage and cannons had not been moved from it; in fact, they were nearly mixed with M. de Lescure’s men; whereas M. d’Elbée’s portion of the army was removed a good deal further to the right, and was placed immediately on the banks of the river Thoué. The camp at Varin, which was to be attacked, was situated between the river and the road to Saumur. In Cathelineau’s division there were some few who understood the plan which had been decided on, and some others who knew that they should not move without orders, and they did what they could to prevent their companions from joining the rush made by M. de Lescure’s party; but their efforts were nearly in vain. Every man learnt in the confusion that the attack was to be made on Saumur that night, and no man wished to be left behind.
“Come friends, let us follow ‘le Mouchoir Rouge;’ he never meant, I am sure, to leave us here,” said the spokesman of one party.
“The Saint of Angers is on before us,” said the others; “he would let no man see the enemy before himself. The good Cathelineau is gone to Saumur, let us follow him!”
In this way they soon learnt to believe that both Cathelineau and Larochejaquelin were on before them, and they were not long in hurrying after them. Within twenty minutes, about six thousand men started off without a leader or any defined object, to besiege the walls of Saumur; they did not even know that a vast entrenched encampment of the enemy’s troops lay directly in their way. The men had, most of them, muskets with three or four rounds of powder and ball each; many of them also had bayonets. They were better armed than they had hitherto ever been, and they consequently conceived themselves invincible. Cathelineau’s men, however, would not stir without ‘Marie Jeanne,’ and that devoted, hard-worked cannon was seized by scores, and hurried off with them towards Saumur.
De Lescure and Cathelineau were together in a farm-house, within five hundred yards of the place where the baggage had been left, and within half a mile of the most distant of the men who had thus taken upon themselves to march, or rather to rush, away without orders; and some of those who still had their senses about them, soon let their Generals know what was going forward.
They were seated together, planning the attack for the next morning. Denot was with Larochejaquelin, and d’Elbée and Stofflet were together with the detachment on the banks of the river: they were, therefore, alone when Father Jerome rushed into the room.
“The men are off, M. de Lescure,” said he: “do you not hear them? For Heaven’s sake go down to them, Cathelineau; some one has told them that you and Larochejaquelin were gone to Saumur; and they are all preparing to follow you.”
“Heaven and earth I” said de Lescure, “they will be destroyed.”
“Unless you stop them they will,” said Father Jerome, “they will all fall upon the camp just as the republicans are under arms, and prepared to receive them. Hurry, Cathelineau; you alone can stop them.”
Cathelineau without uttering a word, seized his sword, and rushed out of the room without his cap; and followed by M. de Lescure, hurried through the farm-yard, leapt a little gate, and got upon the road a few yards from the place where the waggons had been left. The whole place was in the utmost confusion: the men were hurrying to and fro, hardly knowing what they were doing or going to do: the most ardent of them were already a quarter of a mile advanced on the road to Saumur; others were still following them; those who knew that they should have stayed quiet during the night, were in the utmost distress; they did not know whether to support their comrades, or to remain where they were.
“‘What ails them, Peter?” said Cathelineau, catching hold of the arm of a man who had followed him from St. Florent, “if they advance they will be destroyed at Varin;” and as he spoke, he leapt upon the top of one of the waggons laden with provisions, which had come from Durbellière.
It was a beautiful warm evening in June, and the air was heavy with the sweet scent of the flowering hedges; it was now nearly nine o’clock, and the sun had set; but the whole western horizon was gorgeous with the crimson streaks which accompanied its setting. Standing in the waggon, Cathelineau could see the crowds of hurrying royalists rushing along the road, wherever the thick foliage of trees was sufficiently broken to leave any portion of it visible, and he could hear the eager hum of their voices both near him and at a distance.
“No power on earth could bring them back,” said he. “Now, Peter, run to the stable for your life; my horse is there and M. de Lescure’s–bring them both. They are both saddled. Run my friend; a moment lost now will cost a hundred lives.”
It was Peter Berrier to whom he spoke, and in spite of his evil treatment at Durbellière, Peter ran for the horses, as though he was running for the King’s crown.
“It is impossible to stop them,” said Cathelineau, still standing on the waggon, and speaking to de Lescure, whom he had outran. “All La Vendée could not stop them; but we may head them, M. de Lescure, and lead them on; we must attack the camp tonight.”
“Our loss will be terrible if we do,” said de Lescure.
“It will, it will be terrible, and we shall be repulsed; but that will be better than letting them rush into positive destruction. In an hour’s time they will be between the camp, the town, and the heights of Bournan, and nothing then could save them.”
“Let us go, then,” said de Lescure; “but will you not send to d’Elbée?”
“Yes; but do not desire him to follow us. In two hours time he will have enough to do to cover our retreat.”
“We shall, at any rate, have the darkness in our favour,” said de Lescure.
“We shall; but we have two dreadful hours of light before that time comes: here are our horses–let us mount; there is nothing for us now but a hard ride, a good drubbing–and then, the best face we can put upon it tomorrow.”
Orders were then given to Peter Berrier to make the best of his way across to M. d’Elbée, and to explain to him what had occurred, and bid him keep his men in reserve under arms, and as near to the waggons as he could. “And be sure,” said Catheineau, “be sure, Peter, to make him understand, that he is at once to leave the river and come across to the road, to keep his men, you know, immediately close to the waggons.”
“I understand,” said Peter, “I understand,” and he at once started off on his important errand.
“It is a bad messenger, I fear,” said Cathelineau; “but we have no better; indeed we are lucky even to find him.”
“I wonder,” said Peter Berrier to himself, as he ran across the fields, “I wonder whether they’ll make nothing of this job, too, as they did of that day at St. Florent. I suppose they will; some men haven’t the luck ever to be thought much of.”
Notwithstanding his gloomy presentiments, Peter made the best of his way to M. d’Elbée, and having found him, told him how the men had started by themselves for Saumur; how de Lescure and Cathelineau had followed them; how they intended to attack the camp at Varin that night, and he ended by saying, “And you, M. d’Elbe–“
“Of course we must follow them,” said d’Elbée.
“Not a foot,” said Peter; “that is just why they sent me, instead of any common messenger; that I might explain it all to you properly. You are not to stir a foot after them; but are to remain here, just where you are, till they return.”
“That is impossible,” said d’Elbée. “What good on earth can I do, remaining here?”
“Why, Cathelineau will know where to find you, when he wants you.”
“You are mistaken, Peter Berrier,” said d’Elbée. “You must be mistaken. Perhaps he meant that I should go over to the road, to cover their retreat. God knows they will want some one to do so.”
“That is just it,” said Peter. “They mean to retreat down the river, and you are to remain just where you are.”
As might be expected, M. d’Elbée was completely puzzled, and he sent off three or four men, to endeavour to get fresh orders, either from Cathelineau or from de Lescure; and while waiting to receive them, he kept his useless position by the river side.
In the mean time, Cathelineau and de Lescure had hurried off, at the top of their horses’ speed, to endeavour to head the column of madmen who were rushing towards almost certain destruction. They will, at any rate, meet Larochejaquelin on his return, and he will stop them. This thought occurred to both of them, but neither of them spoke; indeed, they were moving too quickly, and with too much trouble to be able to speak. There object now was not to stop the men who thronged the roads; they only wanted to head them before they came to the portion of the road which passed close by the trenches of the camp at Varin.
They were so far successful, that they found themselves nearly at the head of the column by the time they came within sight of the great banks which the royalists had thrown up. It was still light enough for them to see the arms of the republican troops, and they were near enough to the camp to hear the movements of the men within it, in spite of the increasing noise of their own troops.
“They are ready to receive us,” said de Lescure to himself, “and a warm reception they are likely to give us.”
He now separated himself from Cathelineau, and galloped before the trenches to an open space where Larochejaquelin had stationed himself with the cavalry. Henri had completely surprised the sentinels on duty in the camps; he and about twenty others had dismounted, had shot four or five sentries at their post, and had again retreated to their horses before the republicans were able to return his fire. But what was his surprise on preparing to remount his horse, to hear the rush of his own men coming along the road, and to see the cloud of dust which enveloped them. Henri tried to speak to them, and to learn what new plan brought them there; but the foremost men were too much out of breath to speak to him: however, they shouted and hurraed at seeing him, and slackened their pace a little. They were then almost within musket shot of the republicans, and the balls from the trenches began to drop very near them. Henri was still in an agony of suspense, not knowing what to do or to propose, when de Lescure emerged from out of the cloud of dust, and galloped up to him.
“What on earth has brought you here, Charles?” said Henri. “Why have the men come on in this way? Every man within the camp will have a musket in his hand in five minutes time.”
“It is too late now to help it,” said de Lescure; “if we both live over this night, I will explain it to you. Cathelineau is behind there; we must lead the men to the attack; he will be in the trenches immediately.”
“Lead on,” said Henri, jumping off his horse, “or rather I will go first; but stop, the men must have five minutes to get their breath; they are all choked with running. Come, my men,” said he, turning to the crowds who were clustering round them, “we will disturb the dreams of these republicans; the blues are not fond of fighting by night, but if they are asleep I think we will soon wake them,” and accompanied by his friend, he rushed down into the trenches, and the men followed him by hundreds, covered with dust, choked with thirst, breathless with their long run, and utterly ignorant what they were going to do, or how they were to for an entrance into the camp.
At the same moment, Cathelineau leapt into the trench at the point nearest to the road by which he had come, and his men followed him enthusiastically, shouting at the top of their voices “Vive le roi!” “A bas la république.” Hitherto they had been successful in every effort they had made. The republican troops had fled from every point which had been attacked; the Vendeans had, as yet, met no disasters, and they thought themselves, by the special favour of the Almighty, invincible when fighting against the enemies of the King.
The camp at Varin was not a regularly fortified position; but it was surrounded by a deep trench, with steep earth-works thrown up inside it. These were high enough to afford great protection to those within, and steep enough to offer a considerable obstacle to any attacking party: but the earth was still soft, and the foremost among the Vendeans were not long in finding themselves within the entrenchment; but when there they met a terribly hot reception.
The feigned attack made by Larochejaquelin had just served to warn the republicans, and by the time the real attack was made, every man was under arms. As de Lescure had said, the old soldiers of Valmy and of Jemappes were there. Men accustomed to arms, who well knew the smell of powder, and who were prepared to contest every inch of ground before they gave it up. These men, too, wore defensive armour, and the Vendeans, unaccustomed to meet enemies so well prepared, were dismayed, when they perceived that their enemies did not as usual give way before them.
The slaughter in the trenches was tremendous: the first attack had been made with great spirit, and about four hundred of the Vendeans were in the camp before the murderous fire of the republicans commenced, among these were de Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Cathelineau; and they made their way even to the centre of the camp; but those who had not made a portion of the first assault, fell back by twenties and thirties under the fire of the republicans; twice Larochejaquelin returned and nearly cleared the top of the trenches, in order to make way for the men below to come up; but they were frightened and intimidated; their powder was all gone, and they perceived that their first attempt had failed; their friends and comrades were falling on every side of them; and, after a while, they retreated from the trenches beyond reach of musket shot. Cathelineau had expected that this would be the case, and though he had been one of the first within the camp, he was prepared to leave it again as soon as he could make the men, who were with him, understand that it was necessary they should do so. It was now dusk, and the uncertain light favoured his intention.
“‘Where is your master?” said he to Jacques, whom he chanced to find close to him; “tell him to lead his men down the trenches again, back to the road, at once, at once; beg him to be the first to leap down himself; they will not go unless he leads them.”
Jacques did as he was bid, and Larochejaquelin led the men back to the trenches.
“Come, my friends,” said he, “we have given them enough for tonight–we have broken their sleep; come, we will visit them again tomorrow.” And he dashed through a body of republicans who were now firing from the trenches, and about one hundred of his own men followed him.
The republicans had stuck huge pine-wood torches into the green sods a-top of the trenches, which gave a ghastly glaring light immediately in their own vicinity, though they did not relieve the darkness at a few paces distant. As Henri rushed through them, some of the soldiers observed his peculiar costume and hallaoed out, “fire upon the red scarf,” (tirez sur le mouchoir rouge,) but the confusion was too great to allow of this friendly piece of advice being followed, or else the musketeers were bad marksmen, for Henri went safely through the trench, though many of his men were wounded in following him..
Cathelineau’s men soon followed, as did also Cathelineau himself; the last man who leapt into the trenches was de Lescure; but he also got safely through them–not above twenty-five or thirty of those who had forced their way into the camp, fell; but above three hundred of those who had only attempted it, were left dead or wounded in the trenches. And now the retreat commenced, and Cathelineau found it impossible to accomplish it with anything like order; the three leaders endeavoured to make the men conceive that they had been entirely successful in all which it had been thought desirable to accomplish, but they had seen too much bloodshed to be deceived–they were completely dismayed and disheartened, and returned back towards Montreuil, almost quicker than they had come.
The men had brought ‘Marie Jeanne’ with them; but in the species of attack which they had made, the cannon was not of the slightest use; it had not been once discharged. A great effort was now made to take it back with them, but the attempt was unsuccessful: they had not dragged it above five hundred yards, when they heard that the republicans were following them; and then, as every man was obliged to think of himself, poor ‘Marie Jeanne’ was left to her fate.
It was soon evident to Cathelineau and de Lescure, that they were pursued; but the night was dark, and they calculated that M. d’Elbée’s men would be drawn up at the waggons; it was more than probable that they would then be able, not only to stop the pursuit, but to avenge themselves on their pursuers. What then was their surprise on reaching the waggons, to find them utterly deserted–there was not a single man with them.
This was a great aggravation to the misery of their predicament. They had no resource but to fly on to Montreuil, which was still above two leagues distant from them; and should the republican troops persevere in the pursuit, their loss upon the road would be terrific. The darkness was their only friend, and on they went towards Montreuil.
The republican soldiers were stopped by the waggons and cannons; it was then as dark as a night in June ever is; it was well known also that the Republic had no friends in Montreull; the troops had been driven from the place by M. de Lescure, on his road to Doué, and the royalists would be able to make a very strong stand in the streets of the town; the pursuit was, therefore, given up, and the blues returned to the camp at Varin, with all the artillery and the baggage belonging to the royalists.
M. d’Elbée remained all the while in his position by the river; he heard the firing–he also heard the confused noise of the retreat, but he felt that it was impossible for him, at that hour of night, to take any steps without knowing what had been done, or what he had better do: at about four in the morning, he learnt exactly what had occurred, and then he rejoined Cathelineau at Montreuil.
The Vendeans, during the night, lost every cannon they possessed; all their baggage, consisting of provisions, wearing apparel, and ammunition; they lost also about five hundred men, in killed, wounded and prisoners; but all this was not of so much injury as the loss of the prestige of victory. The peasants had conceived themselves invincible, and they were struck with consternation to find they were liable to repulse and defeat. Early on the following morning, another council of war was held, but the spirits and hopes of the Generals had been greatly damped.
CHAPTER IX
THE BISHOP OF AGRA.
On this occasion the meeting of the leaders was kept strictly secret; none were admitted but those who were known to be the chosen chiefs of the Vendeans; it consisted of Cathelineau, de Lescure, Larochejaquelin, d’Elbée, Stofflet, and Father Jerome. They had been closeted together about an hour and a half, when Father Jerome left the room, and rode off towards Thouars, on the best horse which could be found for him; no one seemed to know where or for what he was going, though much anxiety was expressed on the subject. Those who knew him, were well aware that he was not about to desert the cause in its first reverse. In the meantime, the Generals tried to reassure the men. Cathelineau explained to them that they had brought on themselves the evils which they now suffered by their absurd attempt to act without orders; and de Lescure and Larochejaquelin endeavoured to rouse their energies by pointing out to them the necessity of recovering their favourite cannon.
“Ah! M. Henri,” said one of the men from Durbellière, “how can we get her again when we have lost our guns, and have got no powder?”
“How!” said Henri, “with your sticks and your hands, my friends–as your neighbours in St. Florent took her, at first, from the blues; we all think much of the men of St. Florent, because it was they first took ‘Marie Jeanne;’ let us be the men who rescue her from these traitors, and these people will think much of us.”
About two o’clock in the day a closed carriage was driven into Montreuil very fast, by the road from Thouars; the blinds were kept so completely down, that no one could see who was within it; it was driven up to the door of the house in which the council had been held; the doors of the carriage and of the house were opened, and two persons alighted and ran into the house so quickly that their persons could hardly be recognized, even by those who were looking at them.
“That last is Father Jerome, at any rate,” said a townsman.
“Who on earth had he with him?” said another; “he must be some giant,” said a third, “did you see how he stooped going into the door.”
“A giant, stupid;” said a fourth, “how could a giant get out of such a carriage as that; besides, where could Father Jerome find giants in these days.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the other, “but I am sure he was eight feet high; didn’t you see his back as he ran into the house.”
Soon after the mysterious entry into the house, Henri left it, and went out to the fields beyond the town, where most of the men were still resting after the long fatigue of the night; much discontentment had been expressed by them, and many had already declared their intention of returning home. Every measure had been taken to comfort them; they had been supplied with provisions and tobacco from the town, and every effort had been used to renew their hopes and courage. Cathelineau had passed the greater portion of the morning among them, going from one quarter to another, assuring the men that their loss was most trifling, that their future victory was certain–it was nearly in vain; they declared that they could do nothing without ‘Marie Jeanne.’
Henri now went among them, and as he did so, Jacques Chapeau proceeded through the town, imploring all the men who were in it, to go out and join the rest of the army, as a holy man had been sent direct from Rome by the Pope, to tell the people of La Vendée what it was their duty to do.
Henri did not say quite so much as this, but he told the men that a friend of theirs–a bishop of the Church–one especially appointed by the King before he died, to provide for the spiritual comfort of his poor people in the west of France, was now among them, and would soon address them. He directed them to stay where they were till this man of God should be among them, and he besought them strictly to follow any advice which he might give them.
Every one in the town flocked out to the army–men, women and children were soon in the fields, and the report was spread abroad through them all, that the mysterious carriage which had rattled through the streets of Montreuil, had brought to that favoured town a holy bishop, sent expressly by their father the Pope to give good advice to his dear children in La Vendée.
About four o’clock in the afternoon the stranger walked among them. Father Jerome walked on his right hand, and Cathelineau on his left. M. de Lescure followed immediately behind them. He was a very tall man–nearly seven feet high; and his peculiar costume added in appearance to his real height–he was dressed in the gorgeous robes of a bishop of the Church of Rome as he would appear at the altar of his cathedral when about to celebrate high mass; he had his mitre on his head and his crozier in his hand; and as he walked through the crowd, the men and women everywhere kneeled down and bowed their heads to the earth; the people were delighted to have so holy a man among them–to see a bishop in La Vendée. The bells were all rung, and every sign of joy was shewn; the peasants were already beginning to forget their defeat of the previous night.
As he walked through the kneeling crowd, he stood still a moment or two, from time to time, and blessed the people; his voice was full and deep, but very musical; his face was supremely handsome, but devoid of all traces of passion. As he lifted his hands to heaven, and implored the Almighty to protect the righteous arms of his poor children in La Vendée, he certainly looked every inch a bishop; the peasants congregated round him, and kissed his garments–if they could even touch the shoes on his feet, they thought themselves happy.
It took the little procession two hours to move in this way through the whole of the army, during which time the bishop’s companions did not speak a word; they merely moved on, with their eyes turned towards the ground. At length they reached a temporary altar, standing on a platform raised five steps above the ground, which had been erected under the care of M. d’Elbe since the arrival of the bishop in Montreuil. Here were collected M. d’Elbée, Stofflet, Larochejaquelin, Adolphe Denot, and the other principal leaders of the army, and as the little procession drew near, they knelt upon the top step of the platform, and Cathelineau, de Lescure and Father Jerome knelt with them. The bishop then blessed them each separately, commencing with Cathelineau; he placed his crozier on the altar, and putting both his hands on the head of the kneeling General, he said in a loud and solemn voice:
“May the Lord bless you, my son! may he enable you to direct the arms of his faithful people, so as to show forth His glory, and magnify His name; may he help your endeavours to restore to a suffering people their Church and their King; may His dear Son preserve you in danger, comfort you in affliction, be near you in the hour of death, and reward you in heaven.” He then went round to them all, and blessed them each, though in a somewhat shorter form; and, at last, standing on the top step, in the front of the whole army, so that every one could see him, he uttered a general benediction on the people, and a prayer for their success; and while he did so, boys dressed in surplices made their way through the crowd, swinging censers filled with burning frankincense, and loading the air with that peculiar scent, which always fills the mind with devotional ideas.
As soon as this was over, and the people had risen from their knees, Cathelineau spoke to them, and told them that the Bishop of Agra had been especially appointed by their King to watch over and protect their spiritual interest; that Monseigneur had heard with great grief of the misfortune which had happened to them the preceding evening, and that he would now tell them how, with God’s assistance, they might hope in future to avoid such calamities.
The bishop then addressed them, and said:
“My children, I rejoice that Providence has given me the privilege of seeing so many of you collected here today. You have been brought together for a great and holy purpose; the enemies of the Almighty God are in your country–enemies who can never prevail to the breath of one hair against His omnipotence; but who may, and who will prevail to the destruction of your families here, and the perdition of your souls hereafter, if you fail in performing the duties which are before you. You are now called, my children–called especially from on high, to deliver your land from these enemies; to go out to the battle, and to fight in God’s name, till you have restored the King to his throne, and your pastors to their churches; and I rejoice to learn that you have so readily undertaken the task which is before you. Till yesterday your success was most wonderful; your career has been glorious. You unhesitatingly obeyed the leaders who commanded you, and they led you from one victory to another: but yesterday you were beaten back–yesterday evening, for the first time, you found your enemy too strong for you; they did not fall beneath your bullets; they did not feel your swords! Why was this, my children? Why was it that on yesterday evening the protecting hand of heaven was withdrawn from you?” Here the bishop paused in his address, as though expecting a reply, and then, after waiting a minute, during which the whole army remained in most perfect quiet, answered the question himself “Because, my children, you yesterday followed no accustomed leader; you obeyed no order; you went out to the battle with self-proud hearts, and a vain confidence in yourselves, rather than in the Almighty. It is not by such efforts as that, that the chosen soldiers of La Vendée can expect to conquer the enemies of France. You were vain in your own conceits; you trusted in your own strength; you were puffed up with worldly glory: and your strength has proved weakness, and your glory has been turned to disgrace. I trust, my children, you will not require another such a lesson; I trust you will not again forget your God and your Saviour, as you did on yesterday evening. Tomorrow morning the General, under whom the hand of Providence has placed you, the good Cathelineau, shall again lead you against your enemies; and, if you confidently trust in God for the result, he shall assuredly lead you to victory.”
The bishop then again blessed the army, and walked off the field, surrounded by the different leaders of the army, and left the town without being again seen by the multitude.
The effect which this singular visit had upon the people was almost miraculous. Their faith was so perfect, that it never occurred to them to doubt the truth of anything which fell from consecrated lips. The word of a priest with them was never doubted, but the promises of a bishop were assurances direct from heaven: they would consider it gross impiety to have any doubt of victory, when victory had been promised them by so holy a man as he who had just addressed them. After the Bishop of Agra had left the town, Larochejaquelin and de Lescure went through the army, talking to the men, and they found them eager to renew the attack on the camp of Varin. Though Varin was nearly three leagues from them, and though they had been up nearly the whole previous night, they would willingly have returned to the attack that evening, had they been allowed to do so.
This was not considered expedient: but it was resolved that the attack on the camp should be renewed as early as possible on the following morning, as it was considered that the republicans would not expect so quick a return of an army which had been completely routed; and might, therefore, to a certain extent, be taken by surprise.
“We must run fast, friends,” said Chapeau to his allies from Durbellière and Echanbroignes, “for the first men who reach Varin, will retake ‘Marie Jeanne;’ we will have a share in her, as well as the men of St. Florent.”
With sunrise the next morning, the army was again on the move towards Saumur: it was arranged that Cathelineau, de Lescure, Denot, and Larochejaquelin should lead the men through the trenches and into the camp; and that d’Elbe should remain on the road, prepared, if necessary, to second the attack, but ready should the first attempt be successful, to fall on the republicans as they retreated from the camp to the town, and, if possible, to follow them within the walls. Stofflet was to lead a division of fifteen hundred men past the camp, between the heights of Bournan and the town, so as to intercept the republicans, should they attempt from that position, to relieve their comrades when retreating from the camp. There was a bridge over the Thoué, close to the town of Saumur, called the bridge of Fouchard. This bridge was between Bournan and the town, as also between the camp and the town, and the possession of this bridge would be of great advantage to the royalist army. Stofflet was charged to obtain this advantage, if he did not find that the cannons from the town prevented him.
About four o’clock the army was on the move from Montreuil, and by eight they were again in front of the camp at Varin; the portion of the road which they had passed in such confusion the night but one before, and where they had left their cannon and their waggons, was now stripped of all signs of the encampment, which had been made there, nothing but the deep ruts, made by the cannon wheels, were to be seen; everything which they had brought with them, the trophies of all their victories, the white flags which the ladies of La Vende had worked for them; the provisions, the wine and meat, which the kindness of their landlords had sent with them, were all gone–were in the hands of the republicans; these reflections served to rouse the anger of the peasants, and made them determined to get back what they had lost, though they pulled down the walls of Saumur with their nails.
At a few moments after eight, the attack commenced; the first assault was headed by Cathelineau, who rushed into the trenches, accompanied by the Curé of St. Laud. Father Jerome held a large crucifix in his hands, and as he followed Cathelineau, he lifted it high above his head, to encourage the men who were about to make the assault; hundreds of them were on the verge of the trench as he did so; others were following them closely; they were already within fire of the republican batteries, the balls from which were falling among them; but, regardless of the firing, they all fell on their knees, with their faces towards the earth, as soon as they saw the crucifix in the hands of their priest; and there, on the very field of battle, offered up a prayer that they might that day be victorious.
“They will be cut down like grass, simpletons that they are,” said Stofflet; “besides, the first moment is everything; two hundred should by this time have been within the camp.”
“Let them alone,” said M. d’Elbée, “they are quite right as they are; they will not fight the worse for saying their prayers.”
As he finished speaking, the men rose again, and rushed against the earth-work.
Their attempt of the preceding evening had had one good effect–it had taught the peasants that those who hesitated were in five times more imminent danger than those who at once got into the trench; and that the men climbing up the embankment, or at the top of it, were not nearly so liable to be struck, as the men at the bottom of the trench, or as those beyond it; they therefore eagerly stuck their hands and feet into the earth, and made the best of their way into the encampment.
It had been expected by the republicans that the next attack of the royalists would probably be made at Bournan, and they had consequently moved most of the cuirassiers from Varin to strengthen that important place; the men left in the encampment, consisted chiefly of those tribes of republicans who were enrolled into the French army under the name of Marseillaise–men who were as ferocious in the hour of victory, as they were prone to fly at the first suspicion of defeat–men who delighted in bloodshed, but who preferred finding their victims ready bound for the slaughter. It was the abject cowardice of these troops, which gave so wonderful a career of success to the Vendeans; it was their diabolical cruelty which has made the sufferings of the royalists more notorious even than their bravery.
De Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Adolphe Denot led their men further along the road to the point at which Henri had been standing when he first saw the crowd of royalists coming towards him on the former evening, and from thence they also got into the encampment. As has been said, they had no powder; the men who commenced the assault were armed with muskets and bayonets, but the greater number of the assailants had no bayonets at all, and many of them nothing but sticks; still they forced their way into the centre of the camp; here a very strong opposition was made to them; the republicans were so well armed, that the royalists were unable to disperse them when any number of them made a stand together; when they moved from their ground, however, the Vendeans uniformly succeeded in driving them before them.
Cathelineau’s men also made their way through the camp, and there Cathelineau and Larochejaquelin met each other.
“Well done, my friend; well done,” said Henri, seizing the postillion by the hand, “this is a glorious meeting; the blues are beaten; we have only now to drive them into the river.”
“Or into the road,” said Jacques, who as usual was close to his master, “when once there, M. d’Elbée will not be long in handing them over to providence.”
“Once more, my children, once more said the priest, “drive them out, drive them out, vive le roi quand même!” and as he spoke, he brandished the crucifix over his head like a tomahawk; the sacred symbol was covered with gore, which appeared to have come from the head of some unfortunate republican.
“Ah, my friends!” hallaoed Cathelineau, advancing on before the others, “look–look there; there is our ‘Marie Jeanne;’ hurry then, hurry;” and there, immediately before them, was their own sacred trophy; their favourite cannon: they wanted no further incentive; the men who had followed Larochejaquelin, and the men of St. Florent who had come with Cathelineau, saw it at the same time, and vieing with each other, rushed onwards to gain the prize.
The republicans were amazed at the impetuosity of their enemies, and at last fled before them; when once these newly-levied troops were turned, their officers found it impossible to recover them; it was then sauve qui peut, and the devil take the hindmost. The passage from the camp towards the town was still open; no attack having been made from that quarter; and through the wooden gate, which had been erected there, the valiant Marseillaise rushed out as quick as their legs could carry them; the officers of the Vendeans offered quarter to all who would throw down their arms, and many of them did so, but most of them attempted to gain the town; they knew that if once they could cross the bridge at Fouchard they would be within the protection afforded by the castle guns–but not one of them reached the bridge.
M. d’Elbée had found that he could not himself take the position which had been pointed out to him, as, had he done so, his men would have been cut to pieces by the cannons from the castle, but he effectually prevented any one else from doing so; not thirty men from the whole encampment got into the town of Saumur, and those who did so, made their way through the river Thoué.
The success of the Vendeans, as far as it went, was most complete; they recovered their baggage and their cannons–above all, their favourite ‘Marie Jeanne;’ they took more prisoners than they knew how to keep; they armed themselves again, and again acquired unmeasured confidence in their own invincibility; they wanted immediately to be led out to attack the walls of Saumur, but Cathelineau and de Lescure knew that this would be running into useless danger. They had now once more plenty of ammunition; they had artillery, and were in a position to bombard the town; they would at any rate make a breech in the walls before they attempted to enter the streets; it was therefore decided that they would that evening remain where they were, and commence the attack on the citadel itself with daylight on the following morning.
“It grieved me to think,” said Jacques Chapeau, as he pulled the huge baskets down from the carts, from which the republicans had not yet had time to move them, “it grieved my very heart to think, M. Henri, that this good wine from the cellars of Durbellière should have gone down republican throats; the thoughts of it lay heavy on my heart last night, so that I could not sleep. Thank heaven, I am spared that disgrace.”
It was with the utmost difficulty that Cathelineau and de Lescure were able to get sentries to remain at the necessary positions during the night; the peasants had gained the battle, and were determined to enjoy themselves that evening; they would be ready they said to fight again, when the sun rose the next morning. The officers themselves had to act as sentinels; and after having been the first during the day to rush into every danger, and after having led the attack and the pursuit, and having then arranged the operations for the morrow, they had to remain on the watch during the night, lest the camp should be sacrificed by an attack from the republican forces, stationed at Bournan, or in the town–such is the lot of those who take upon themselves the management of men, without any power to ensure obedience to their orders.
VOLUME II
CHAPTER I
SAUMUR
In the next three days the Vendeans bombarded the town, and during that time fired against it everything they could cram into their cannons, in the shape of warlike missiles; and they did not do so in vain, for the walls, in portions, began to give way and to crumble into the moat, which ran round the town, and communicated with the river Loire on each side of it. The town is built on the Loire, and between the Loire and the Thoué. After passing over the latter river at the bridge of Fouchard, the road in a few yards came to the draw-bridge over the moat; and from the close vicinity of the two rivers, no difficulty was found in keeping the moat supplied with water in the driest weather. About a mile below the town, the Thoue runs into the Loire.
Cathelineau found the men very impatient during the bombardment; they did not now dream of going home till the work was over, and Saumur taken; but they were very anxious to make a dash at the walls of the town; they could not understand why they should not clamber into the citadel, as they had done, over the green sods into the camp at Varin. On the fourth morning they were destined to have their wish. A temporary bridge over the Thoué had been made near Varin, over which a great portion of the cannon had been taken to a point near the Loire, from which the royalists had been able to do great damage to the walls; they had succeeded in making a complete breach of some yards, through which an easy entrance might be made, were it not for the moat; much of the rubbish from the walls had fallen into it, so as considerably to lessen the breadth; but there was still about twenty feet of water to be passed, and it was impossible, under the immediate guns of the castle, to contrive anything in the shape of a bridge.
Notwithstanding the difficulties of the place, it was decided that Larochejaquelin should take two hundred of his men and endeavour to make his way through the water, and while he was doing this, de Lescure was to force his passage over the bridge at Fouchard, and if possible, carry the gate of the town; in doing this he would pass under the heights of Bournan, and to this point M. d’Elbée was to accompany him with the great bulk of the army, so as to secure his flank from any attack from the republican force, which still retained their position there, and which had hitherto kept up an intercourse with the town across the bridge of Fouchard.
At five o’clock the greater portion of the army left the camp with d’Elbée and de Lescure. When they came within two furlongs of the bridge, the army separated, the chief body remaining with M. d’Elbée and the remainder going on with M. de Lescure towards the town.. The road turns a little before it reaches the bridge over the Thoué, and up to this point, the Vendeans, in their progress, were tolerably protected from the guns of the town; but immediately they turned upon the bridge, they became exposed to a tremendous fire. The men at once perceived this and hesitated to cross the river; two of the foremost of their men fell as they put their feet upon the bridge.
De Lescure had marched from the camp at the head of his men. Father Jerome was on his right hand, and Stofflet and Adolphe Denot at his left. Henri had asked his friend to accompany him in the attack which he was to make near the river, but Adolphe had excused himself, alleging that he had a great dislike to the water, and that he would in preference accompany Charles de Lescure. Henri had not thought much about it, and certainly had imputed no blame to his friend, as there would be full as much scope for gallantry with his cousin as with himself. When de Lescure saw that his men hesitated, he said, “Come my men, forward with ‘Marie Jeanne,’ we will soon pick their locks for them,” and rushed on the bridge alone; seeing that no one followed him he returned, and said to Denot:
“We must shew them an example, Adolphe; we will run to the other side of the bridge and return; after that, they will follow us.”
De Lescure did not in the least doubt the courage of his friend, and again ran on to the bridge. Stofflet and Father Jerome immediately followed him, but Adolphe Denot did not stir. He was armed with a heavy sabre, and when de Lescure spoke to him, he raised his arm as though attempting to follow him, but the effort was too much for him, his whole body shook, his face turned crimson, and he remained standing where he was. As soon as de Lescure found that Adolphe did not follow him, he immediately came back, and taking him by the arm, shook him slightly, and whispered in his ear:
“Adolphe, what ails you? remember yourself, this is not the time to be asleep,” but still Denot did not follow him; he again raised his arm, he put out his foot to spring forward, but he found he could not do it; he slunk back, and leant against the wall at the corner of the bridge, as though he were fainting.
De Lescure could not wait a moment longer. He would have risked anything but his own reputation to save that of his friend; but his brave companions were still on the bridge, and there he returned for the third time; his cap was shot away, his boot was cut, his clothes were pierced in different places, but still he was not himself wounded.
“See, my friends,” said he aloud to the men behind him, “the blues do not know how to fire,” and he pointed to his shoulder, from which, as he spoke, a ball had cut the epaulette.
He then crossed completely over the bridge, together with Stofflet and the priest; the people with one tremendous rush followed him, and Adolphe Denot was carried along with the crowd.
As soon as they found themselves immediately beneath the walls of the town, they were not exposed to so murderous a fire as they had been on the bridge itself, but still the work was hot enough. ‘Marie Jeanne’ had been carried across with them, and was soon brought into play; they had still enough ammunition left to enable their favourite to show her puissance in battering against the chief gates of Saumur. The men made various attempts to get into the town, but they were not successful, though the gates were shattered to pieces, and the passage was almost free; the republican troops within were too strong, and their firing too hot. At last the blues made a sortie from the town, and drove the Vendeans back towards the bridge; M. de Lescure still kept his place in the front, and was endeavouring to encourage his men to recover their position, when a ball struck his arm and broke it, and he fell with his knee upon the ground. As soon as the peasants saw him fall, and found that he was wounded, they wanted to take him in their arms, and carry him at once back across the bridge, but he would not allow them.
“What ails you, friends?” said he; “did you never never see a man stumble before? Come, the passage is free; now at length we will quench our thirst in Saumur,” and taking his sword in his left hand, he again attempted to make good his ground.
M. d’Elbée had seen the Vendeans retreating back towards the bridge, and knowing that victory with them must be now or never (for it would have been impossible to have induced the peasants to remain longer from their homes, had they been repulsed), he determined to quit his post and to second de Lescure at the bridge. The firing from the town had ceased, for the republicans and royalists were so mixed together, that the men on the walls would have been as likely to kill their friends as their enemies; and as the first company, fatigued, discouraged and overpowered, were beginning to give way, d’Elbée, with about two thousand men, pushed across the bridge, and the whole mass of the contending forces, blues and Vendeans together, were hurried back through the gateway into the town; and de Lescure, as he entered it, found that it was already in the hands of his own party–the white flag was at that moment rising above the tricolour on the ramparts.
Adolphe Denot was one of the first of the Vendeans who entered the town through the gate. This shewed no great merit in him, for, as has been said, the men who had made the first attack, and the republicans who opposed it, were carried into the town by the impulse of the men behind them; but still he had endeavoured to do what he could to efface the ineffable disgrace which he felt must now attach to him in the opinion of M. de Lescure. As they were making their way up the principal street, still striking down the republicans wherever they continued to make resistance, but more often giving quarter, and promising protection, de Lescure with a pistol held by the barrel in his left hand, and with his right arm hastily tied up in the red handkerchief taken from a peasant’s neck, said to the man who was next to him, but whom he did not at the moment perceive to be Denot:
“Look at Larochejaquelin, the gallant fellow; look at the red scarf on the castle wall. I could swear to him among a thousand.”
“Yes,” said Adolphe, unwilling not to reply when spoken to, and yet ashamed to speak to de Lescure, “yes, that is Henri. I wish I were with him.”
“Oh, that is you, is it?” said de Lescure, just turning to look at him, and then hurrying away. But before he had moved on five paces, he returned, and putting his pistol into his girdle, gave Adolphe his left hand, and whispered to him:
“No one shall ever hear of it, Adolphe,” said he, “and I will forget it. Think of your Saviour in such moments, Adolphe, and your heart will not fail you again.”
The tears came into Denot’s eyes as de Lescure left him. He felt that he must be despised; he felt grateful for the promise which had been given him, and yet he felt a kind of hatred for the man to whom he had afforded an opportunity of forgiving him. He felt that he never could like de Lescure again, never be happy in his company; he knew that de Lescure would religiously keep his word, that he would never mention to human being that horrid passage at the bridge; but he knew also that it could never be forgotten. Adolphe Denot was not absolutely a coward; he had not bragged that he would do anything which he knew it was contrary to his nature to do, when he told Agatha that he would be the first to place the white flag on the citadel of Saumur: he felt then all the aspirations of a brave man; he felt a desire even to hurry into the thick of the battle; but he had not the assured, sustained courage to support him in the moment of extreme danger. As de Lescure said, his heart failed him.
We must now return to Henri Larochejaquelin. He had taken with him two hundred of the best men from the parishes of St. Aubin, St. Laud and Echanbroignes; four or five officers accompanied him, among whom was a young lad, just fourteen years of age; his name was Arthur Mondyon, and he was a cadet from a noble family in Poitou; in the army he had at first been always called Le Petit Chevalier. His family had all emigrated, and he had been left at school in Paris; but on the breaking out of the wars he had run away from school, had forged himself a false passport into La Vendée, and declared his determination of fighting for his King. De Lescure had tried much to persuade him to stay at Clisson, but in vain; he had afterwards been attached to a garrison that was kept in the town of Chatillon, as he would then be in comparative safety; but the little Chevalier had a will of his own; he would not remain within walls while fighting was going on, and he had insisted on accompanying Larochejaquelin to Saumur. He was now installed as Henri’s aide-de-camp.
Jacques Chapeau also accompanied the party who were to make their way into the town through the water. The men were all armed with muskets and bayonets, but their muskets were not loaded, nor did they carry any powder with them; it would have been useless in the attack they were about to make, and was much wanted elsewhere.
Henri was at his post about the time at which de Lescure was preparing to cross the bridge at Fouchard. It was an awful looking place at which ha had to make his entrance there was certainly a considerable breach in the wall, and the fragments of it had fallen into the fosse, so as to lessen its width; but, nevertheless, there was full twenty feet of running water to cross, which had more the appearance of a branch of the river Loire, than of a moat round a town.
Henri saw that his men looked a little alarmed at what they had to go through; he had a light straw hat on his head, and taking it off, he threw it into the water, a little above the point he had to pass, and as the running water carried it down he said:
“Whoever gives me that on the other side will be my friend for life.” And as he spoke he himself leapt into the water, and swam across.
Jacques made a plunge for the hat: had it been in the middle of the Loire he would have gone after it under similar circumstances, though he couldn’t swim a stroke; he did not go near the hat however, but went head over heels into the water; the impetus carried him through, and he was the second to scramble upon the broken mortar on the other side. The Chevalier was more active; he leapt in and seized the hat as it was going down the stream, and swimming like a young duck, brought it back to its owner.
“Ah! Chevalier,” said Henri, reproaching him playfully, and helping him up out of the water, “you have robbed some poor fellow of a chance; you, you know, cannot be more my friend, than you already are.”
The men quickly followed: they all got a ducking; some few lost their arms, one or two were slightly wounded by their comrades, but none of them were drowned. Henri soon made his way over the ruins into the town, and carried everything before him. The greater part of the garrison of the town were endeavouring to repulse the attack made by de Lescure; others had retired into the castle, in which the republican General thought that he might still hold out against the Vendeans. Many were already escaping out of the town by the bridge over the Loire, and throwing down their arms, were hurrying along the road to Tours.
It was in this manner, and almost without opposition, that Larochejaquelin found himself, together with his brave followers, in the middle of Saumur; their own success astonished them; hardly a shot was fired at them in their passage; they went through the town without losing a man; the republican soldiers whom they did see threw down their arms and fled; the very sight of the Vendeans in the centre of the town overwhelmed them with panic. The appearance of Henri’s troop was very singular; every man wore round his neck and round his waist a red cotton