La Vendée by Anthony TrollopeAn Historical Romance (page 4)

handkerchief; this costume had been adopted to preserve Larochejaquelin from the especial danger of being made the butt of republican marksmen. There was now no especial mouchoir rouge among them. They certainly had a frightful appearance, as they hurried through the streets with their bayonets fixed, dripping with mud and water, and conspicuous with their red necks and red waists; at least so thought the republicans, for they offered very little opposition to them.

Henri had just time to see that his friends had entered the town by the gate on the Doué road, but he did not wait to speak to them. The republican soldiers were escaping from the town in the opposite direction, and he could not resist the temptation of following them. He was at the head of his men, just passing over the Loire by a wooden bridge, called the bridge of the Green Cross, and having possessed himself of a sword in his passage through the town, was making good use of it, when a dragoon turned suddenly round, and fired a pistol almost in his face: near as the man was to him, in his hurry he missed him, and the bullet merely grazed Henri’s cheek, without even raising the skin. “Ah, bungler,” said Henri, raising his sword, “you are no good for either King or nation,” and he struck the unfortunate man dead at his feet.

Not only the soldiers, but the inhabitants of the town were escaping by hundreds over the bridge, and Henri saw that if he pursued them farther, he must, sooner or later, find himself surrounded and overpowered by numbers; he returned, therefore, and destroyed the bridge, so as to prevent the return of the soldiers who had fled in their first panic, and also to prevent any more of the inhabitants from leaving their homes.

“God has certainly fought on our side today,” said he to one of his Mends: “with barely two hundred men, all dripping like drowned rats, we have made our way, almost without opposition, through the town, and thousands of soldiers are even yet flying before us.”

“Ah! M. Henri,” said the little Chevalier, “it is a great honour to fight for one’s King; one fears nothing then: a single royalist should always drive before him ten republicans.”

Henri now returned and joined de Lescure, who was in possession of the town, though the citadel was still in the hands of General Quetineau, who held the command of the garrison. It was not till the cousins had embraced each other, that Henri saw that de Lescure was wounded.

“Yes,” said de Lescure, “I have at length acquired the privilege of shedding my blood in the cause; but it is only a broken arm; Victorine will have a little trouble with me when I return to Clisson.”

“And Adolphe, my brave Adolphe, you are wounded, too?” said Henri.

Denot muttered something, and turned away; he did not dare to look his friends in the face.

“He envies me my honour,” said de Lescure; “but it might have been his chance as well as mine, for he was not two feet from me when I was wounded.” This was true, for de Lescure had been struck after Denot had crossed the bridge with the other men.

A flag of truce was now sent out by General Quetineau to the royalists, with a proposal that he would give up the castle, and lay down his arms, on being allowed to march out with all his men, and take the road to Angers; but this proposition was not acceded to.

“No!” said de Lescure to the General’s messenger: “tell M. Quetineau that the Vendeans cannot accede to those terms–we cannot allow his soldiers to march to Angers, and to return within a week to inflict new cruelties on our poor peasants. M. Quetineau must surrender without any terms: the practices of our army must be his only guarantee, that his men will not be massacred in cold blood, as the unfortunate royalists are massacred when they fall into the hands of the republicans.”

The republicans were not in a condition to insist upon anything; as M. de Lescure had said, the practices of the Vendeans were a guarantee that no blood would be unnecessarily shed, and relying on this assurance alone, M. Quetineau surrendered the castle and gave up his sword. De Lescure took possession of it till he should be able to hand it over to his General, and the Vendeans found themselves complete masters of Saumur.

There was, however, still a very strong detachment of republican troops on the heights of Bournan, who were watched on one side by Foret and his detachment, and on the other by a portion of M. d’Elbée’s army. These men had done some execution, as they covered with their cannon a portion of the road over which the Vendeans had passed, but they had taken no active part whatever in the engagement. What made this the more singular, was that the garrison at Bournan was composed of the very best soldiers of the French republican army. They were under the command of General Coustard, who kept his position during the whole attack, inactive and unmolested; had he attacked M. d’Elbée’s army in the rear, when that officer advanced to support de Lescure’s division, the Vendeans would probably have been destroyed between the two republican armies. Whether the two Generals of the Convention misunderstood each other, or whether the soldiers at Bournan were unwilling to rout the royalists, it is impossible to say; but they remained at Bournan till the night, and then leaving their post during the darkness, made good their retreat to Angers.

As soon as the white flag was seen on the walls of Saumur, Cathelineau left the position which he had held, and entered the town. It was greatly in opposition to his own wishes that he had been induced to remain at a distance from the absolute attack, and now he felt almost ashamed of himself as the officers and men crowded round him to congratulate him on the victory which he had gained.

“No, M. de Lescure,” he said, as that officer tendered him General Quetineau’s sword, “no, I will never take it from him who has won it with so much constancy and valour. I must own I envy you your good fortune, but I will not rob you of the fruits of your exertions.”

“But Cathelineau,” said the other, “you are our General, the customs of war require–“

“The customs of war are all changed,” replied Cathelineau, “when such as you and M. de Larochejaquelin make yourselves second to a poor postillion; at any rate,” he added, pressing between his own, the left hand of M. de Lescure, which still held the sword, “if I am to be the commander, I must be obeyed. M. de Lescure will not set a bad example when I tell him to keep General Quetineau’s sword.”

“And you, General Quetineau,” said Cathelineau, “what are your wishes–your own personal wishes I mean? I have not forgotten that you alone of the republican leaders have shewn mercy to the poor royalists, when they were in your power; you at any rate shall not say that the Vendean brigands do not know how to requite kind services.” Cathelineau alluded to the name which the republicans had given to the royalists at the commencement of the war.

“It little matters to me,” said Quetineau, “what becomes of me; were you to give me unconditional liberty, I should go to Paris–and the Convention would accuse me of betraying my trust, and I should become another victim of the guillotine.”

“Of the guillotine!” said Henri; “why, what bloody monsters are those you serve they send you soldiers who know nothing but how to run; do they expect that with such troops as these you should be victorious, when opposed to men who are individually striving for everything that is dear to them?”

“The Convention,” said Quetineau, “would ensure success by punishing defeat. You will find in the end that they are politic; there will, however, be many victims, and I am fated to be one of them.”

“Stay with us, General Quetineau,” said de Lescure, “join our forces, and here you will find that honesty and courage are respected. You cannot, you do not approve of the tyranny of the Convention. We know each other of old, and I know that in joining the army, you never intended to serve under a Republic. You cannot say that in your heart you are a repubhican.”

“Did I wish to shew myself a royalist, it would not now become me to proclaim myself one,” answered Quetineau. “I entered the army of the King, but I have chosen to remain a soldier of the Republic. Whatever may be my feelings, adversity shall not make me false to the colours I have carried; besides, gentlemen, if I escaped the anger of the Convention myself, I have a wife in Paris, whose life would be made to satisfy it; under such circumstances, I presume you would not counsel me to become a royalist.”

This was an argument which it was impossible to answer. General Quetineau accepted the present of his liberty, and soon as he was free, he returned to Paris; he was immediately sent to the revolutionary tribunal and tried for his life; and as he himself had predicted, was guillotined by the Convention for the cowardice of the troops, whom he had been called upon to take under his command. In the old days of Greece, when the Kings sinned, the people suffered for it: this law was reversed under the first French Republic; when the soldiers ran away, the Generals were beheaded.

The joy of the Vendeans, when they found themselves masters of Saumur, knew no bounds, but they were grotesque rather than unruly in their demonstrations; they plundered nothing from the poor people, or even from the shopkeepers; the money that was found in the republican chest was divided among them, but as this consisted almost entirely of assignats, it was of but little value. The shopkeepers were surprised at the liberality of their enemies and conquerors, who were willing to dispose of these assignats for anything they would fetch–a little wine, or a few ounces of tobacco; whereas, their own friends, the republicans, had insisted that they should be taken at their nominal value as money, for all goods exposed for sale.

An enormous poplar had been planted by the towns-people in the centre of the marketplace, which they called the tree of liberty. This was now a doomed tree. On the evening of the day in which they took the town, the royalist peasants went in procession, and with many cheers hewed it to the ground; it was then treated with every possible contumely–it was chopped, and hacked, and barked; it was kicked, and cuffed, and spat upon; the branches were cut off, and on the bare top was placed a large tattered cap of liberty; the Vendean marksmen then turned out, and fired at the cap till it was cut to pieces; after that, all the papers and books, which had belonged to the municipality, every document which could be found in the Town-hall, were brought into the square, and piled around the roots of the tree; and then the whole was set on fire–and tree, papers, and cap of liberty, were consumed together.

On the next morning, considerable difficulty was experienced in disposing of the prisoners there were about two thousand in the town, and the Vendeans knew that they had no means of keeping them, nor did they wish to be at the great expense of feeding them; it was contrary to their inclination, their practice, and their consciences, to kill them in cold blood: and they knew from experience, that if they gave them their liberty, the same men would return within a fortnight, newly-armed, to carry on the war against their liberators, in spite of any oaths they might take to the contrary.

“I’ll tell you what we will do, M. Henri,” said Chapeau, speaking to his master, “we will put a mark upon them, so that if we catch them again, we may know them; and then I do think it would be all right to hang them; or perhaps for the second time we might cut off their ears, and hang them the third time.”

“But how would you mark them, Jacques; men are not like cattle that you can brand them.”

“I will tell you what,” said the little Chevalier, “shave them all like pigs; they cannot all buy wigs, and we shall know them by their bald sconces.”

“That is the very thing, M. Arthur,” said Chapeau delighted, “we will shave their heads as clear as the palm of my hand. I am an excellent barber myself; and I will even get a dozen or two assistants; hair shall be cheap in Saumur tomorrow; though I fear soap and razors will be scarce.”

Chapeau was so delighted with the proposal that he at once hurried away to carry it into execution; and Arthur, though he felt that his dignity as an officer would be somewhat compromised, could not resist the boyish temptation to follow him and see the fun.

He and Chapeau were not long in raising an efficient corps of barbers and assistant barbers; and few of the shopkeepers, when called upon, thought it advisable to refuse the loan of a razor and a shaving dish. They established themselves in the large room of the Town-hall, and had the prisoners brought in by a score at a time; vehemently did the men plead for their hair, and loud did they swear that if allowed to escape free, they would never again carry arms against the Vendeans; but neither their oaths or their prayers were of any avail, nor yet the bribes which were offered by those who had ought to give; the order to sit down was given imperatively, and if not immediately obeyed, the command was somewhat roughly enforced.

They were shaved by twenty at a time, and while one lot was being operated on, another twenty, who were next destined to fill the chairs, were kept standing against the wall. The long hair was first cut off with scissors, and then the head and whiskers were closely shaved. The first candidates for the soap-dish were very unruly under the operation, but they only got their ears snipped and their skin chipped, and had to return to their prisons with their polls all bloody as well as bald. Those who looked on, took a lesson from the folly of their comrades, and most of them remained quiet. The manoeuvres of the men however were very different during the process; some took it with good humour, and endeavoured to laugh as their locks were falling; some sat still as death; others looked fierce and warlike; some were even moved to tears; some fought, and kicked and scratched, and at last had to be corded to their seats. One unfortunate went down upon his knees, and implored Chapeau by the memory of his mistress, if ever he had been in love, by his regard for his wife, if he chanced to be married, not to shave his head. He was engaged to be married, he said, to a young girl at Angers, who had many lovers; she had preferred him for the beauty of his hair: if he returned back bald, he knew that he would be rejected. Chapeau for a time was moved, but the patriot and the royalist triumphed over the man, and Jacques, turning away his face on which a tear was gleaming, with a wave of his hand motioned the young man to the chair.

Insult was added to injury, for the Chevalier stood at the door with a brush, and a large jar of red paint, and as each man went out of the room, Arthur made a huge cross upon his bare pate. The poor wretches in their attempt to rub it off, merely converted the cross into a red patch, and as they were made to walk across the market-place with their bald red heads, they gave rise to shouts of laughter, not only from the royalists, but from the inhabitants of the town.

For three days the shaving went on, and as the men became experienced from practice, it was conducted with wonderful rapidity. At last, the prisoners were all deprived of their hair, and set at liberty–a temporary bridge was thrown across the Loire, near the Green Cross, and the men were allowed to march over. As soon as they found themselves on the other side of the Loire, they were free.

“Come, my bald pates, come my knights of the ruddy scalp,” said Jacques, standing at the corner of the bridge as they passed over, “away with you to the Convention; and if your friends like your appearance, send them to Saumur, and they shall be shaved close, and the barber shall ask for no fee; but remember, if you return again yourselves, your ears will be the next sacrifice you will be called on to make for your country.”

CHAPTER II

COUNCIL OF WAR

The taking of the fortified town of Saumur, and the total dispersion of the large army which had been collected there by the Republic, was an enterprise of much greater magnitude than anything which had previously been undertaken by the Vendeans: it gave them great advantages, it supplied them plentifully with arms, ammunition and clothes for their soldiers, and greatly inspirited the peasants; but it made the Convention feel that it had no contemptible enemy to deal with in La Vendée, and that the best soldiers of France would be required to crush the loyalty which inspired the peasants of Anjou and Poitou.

The Vendean leaders felt that their responsibilities were greatly increased, and that very much depended on the decision to which they might now come as regarded their further operations. A general council of war was accordingly held in Saumur, at which the matter was debated among them. Twelve of the Vendeans were admitted to this consultation, and all others were strictly excluded; they were Cathelineau, Bonchamps, who though badly wounded, had caused himself to be brought thither from Doué, de Lescure, who had remained in action for eight hours after his arm was broken, and had consequently suffered much from it, Larochejaquein, d’Elbée, Stofflet, Adolphe Denot, Father Jerome, Foret, M. Donnessan, Lescure’s father-in-law, Marigny, and the Prince de Talmont.

The first question was the selection of a chief officer. Cathelineau had been named before the battle of Saumur; but, as he himself alleged, his command was to last only during that siege; he had been, he said, selected for a special purpose, which purpose, by the grace of God, was accomplished, and he was now ready to resign his commission into the hands of those who had given it to him.

“I am not so foolish,” said he, “as to suppose that I am qualified to take the command in the war which we have now to carry on. No; one privilege I beg to exercise on retiring from my command. I will name a successor; let any one who pleases name another; we will then put it to the vote, and let him who has most votes be our General.”

“So be it,” said Henri. “Nothing can be better.”

“I name M. de Lescure,” said Cathelineau. “Some of us are beloved by the people, but are not educated; others are highly educated, but are not yet known to the peasants. We are all, I am sure, brave men: but M. de Lescure is beloved by all; his knowledge fits him for his high position, and his cool, constant, determined courage, no man who has seen him in the hour of battle will doubt. I name M. de Lescure.”

De Lescure was about to rise, when Henri put his hand upon his friends arm, and said:

“Let me speak, Charles. We all know that what Cathelineau has said of my cousin is no more than the truth. Be still, Charles: when I have spoken you can then say what you please, but I am sure you will agree with me. Nevertheless, I will not give my vote that he be our chief General. Cathelineau has desired that any one differing from him should name another, and that the question should then be put to the vote. I differ from him, and, therefore, I name another. I name the good Cathelineau, the Saint of Anjou.”

“Now let us vote,” said the Prince de Talmont. “Come, Bonchamps, do you begin.”

“I never heard of deposing a Commander-in-Chief in consequence of a complete victory,” said Bonchamps. “The Convention murders their Generals when they are defeated, but even the Convention rewards them for victory. I vote for Cathelineau.”

“And you, Foret,” said the Prince.

“I say Cathelineau,” said Foret: “the peasants generally would be disappointed to see any put above him.”

“I certainly vote for Cathelineau,” said Father Jerome, who came next.

“We should be offending our Creator,” said M. d’Elbée, “were we to reject the great and good Commander, whom His gracious providence has sent us. I vote for Cathelineau.”

“And you, M. Denot,” said the Prince. Adolphe Denot especially disliked Cathelineau: he was jealous of his reputation and popularity: he could not bear to feel himself in any way under the control of a man so much his inferior in rank; he fancied, moreover, that Cathelineau regarded Agatha Larochejaquelin; he had been quick enough to perceive that the ineffable grace and beauty of his mistress had filled the heart of the poor postillion with admiration, and he feared that his own rejection had been caused by some mutual feeling in Agatha’s breast, which future events might warm into love. Adolphe, therefore, hated Cathelineau, and would have delighted, had he dared to do so, to express his disapprobation of the choice; but, after pausing for a few moments, he found that he did not dare; so he merely said:

“Oh, Cathelineau, of course. When you are all resolved, what’s the use of voting about it?”

“To show that we all are resolved,” said de Lescure; “to make Cathelineau understand that it is positively his duty to take the position we wish him to fill.”

And so, one after another, they all recorded their votes that Cathelineau should be the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean army; and they all declared that they would, without reserve, obey any military orders, which he might give them.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, again seating himself at the head of the table, “I should pay but a bad compliment to your understanding, were I any further to insist on my own unworthiness. I will not, at any rate, be wanting in zeal for the good cause, and I will trust to Him who directs us all, for assistance in the difficult duties which you have imposed on me.”

They then debated on the all-important question of what should be their next movement, and on this subject there was much difference of opinion. Bonchamps was again asked to speak first, and he advised that they should at once proceed to Paris.

“We can do nothing,” said he, “while the present Convention sits in Paris; it has but one head, but it has ten thousand bloody hands. There can be no peace, no rest in France, while Danton, Robespierre and Barrère are omnipotent. Let us at once start for Paris: Brittany will join us, and parts of Normandy; the Southerns will follow us; the men of Bordeaux and of the Gironde: have not their own orators, the leaders of the Revolution, been murdered in their seats, because they were not willing that all France should become one Golgotha? Lyons, even, and Marseilles, are now sick of the monsters who have crawled forth from the haunts of the Jacobins to depopulate the country, and annihilate humanity. There is now but a small faction, even in Paris, to whom the restoration of order would not be acceptable. .The intensity of their cruelty is the only strength of the governing faction; the extent of their abominations alone makes them terrible. Hundreds will fly from one Indian snake, so potent is its venom, so sure to inflict death: but let one brave man set his heel upon its head, and the noxious animal is destroyed for ever: so it is with the party who now rules the Convention. Now that we have with us the all-powerful prestige of victory, let us march at once to Paris; hundreds will join us on the way, and what force can at the moment be collected to stop us? Let us proceed at once to Paris, and proclaim at the door of the Convention, in the gardens of the Tuilleries, in the Place Louis Quinze, where our sainted monarch so nobly shed his blood, that France again submits herself to her King.”

“Would that we could!” said de Lescure; “would that the spirit of revolution was yet sufficiently quenched in France to allow us to follow your advice; but there is much, very much to be done before a royalist army can march from La Vendée to Paris; unthought of sufferings to be endured, the blood of thousands to be sacrificed, before France will own that she has been wrong in the experiment she has made. We must fight our battles by inches, and be satisfied, if, when dying, we can think that we have left to our children a probability of final victory. Normandy and the Gironde may be unwilling to submit to the Jacobin leaders, but they are as yet as warmly attached to the Republic as Paris itself. And, Bonchamps, you little know the dispositions and character of the men, who at our bidding have left their homes and come to Saumur, if you think that at our bidding they will march to Paris; they are even now burning to return home, to recount to their wives and children what they have done.

“Not half the number that came to Saumur would leave the town with us on the road to Paris; and before we could reach Tours, the army would have melted away from us like snow from a mountain top, when the sun begins to shine. It is here, in our own locality, that we should endeavour to extend our influence. In Southern Brittany the people, I believe, are with us, but the towns are full of the troops of the Republic. Let us drive them out of Angers, Ancenis, and Nantes, as we have driven them from Saumur. Let us force them from the banks of the Loire, and become masters of the coast of Southern Brittany. Then we may expect men and money from England. Then we may fairly hope for such foreign aid as may enable us to face the Republic; but at present, if we march to Paris, we march to certain destruction.”

“M. de Lescure is right,” said Stofflet, “our men would not go far from their homes; we must remember that they are not paid, nor have we the means of paying them; if we had English gold, we might perhaps make our way to Paris.”

“Our men are not so mercenary, Stofflet,” said Bonchamps, “I do not think they have shewn any great desire for plunder.”

“No,” said Stofflet, “but they must live; if they are to have neither pay nor plunder, how are they to get to Paris?”

“I agree with you, Bonchamps,” said Henri, “come what, come may, I would make a dash at Paris; we shall be cut to pieces here, while we are waiting for English aid; some of the men would follow us–most of them I believe; where we meet with friends, they will give us provisions; where we find enemies, we will take them, and pay the owners in republican assignats; they would get no other payment in the market-towns. I am sorry to disagree with you, Charles, but my voice is for Paris.”

“And mine also, certainly,” said Adolphe, “let our career be short, at any rate let it be glorious; let us march to Paris and strike terror into the tyrants of the Convention.”

“It is difficult to strike terror into tyrants,” said de Lescure quickly, “when the number of their supporters is ten times greater than that of their opponents.”

“Well, Cathelineau,” said Bonchamps, “what do you say? it is for you to settle the question between us; are we to go forward to Paris, or march back to Nantes?”

“I would wish to hear what others say; for myself, I fear that M. de Lescure is right. I fear the peasants would not follow us so far from their own homes. What does the Prince de Talmont say?”

“I will have no voice in the matter,” said the Prince. “I have joined you but lately, and as yet am only fit to follow where others lead.”

“And you, M. d’Elbée?” said Cathelineau.

“I hardly know how to speak,” said d’Elbée, “where the subject is so important.”

“M. d’Elbée is not wont to be so modest,” said Stofflet; “does he not trust that Providence will inspire him with wisdom, when he opens his mouth to give his opinion?”

“Certainly, Stofflet; I trust in that all-seeing eye, at which you are so willing to scoff; but I do not expect that I am to be allowed to see further into futurity than another; however, if I am to express an opinion, I think we should endeavour to march on Paris; if we find that the men desert us, and that others do not join our standards, we must return.”

“And how are we to return,” said de Lescure, “and to whom? think you that we can collect another army in La Vendée, when one has deserted us on the road? will the peasants again trust in us, after they have once left us? Never If the army dissolves itself in despair, you will never be able to establish it again.”

“Who talks of despair, Charles?” said Henri, “you did not despair when you were thundering against the gates of Saumur with four republicans to one royalist opposed to you; why should you despair now; or why should the army despair; I believe they would go anywhere at the command of their priests, and with the hope of restoring the King to his throne.”

The question was then put to the vote. De Lescure and four others, voted for attacking Nantes. Bonchamps, and five others, declared for proceeding at once to Paris, with the view of arresting the present leaders of the Convention. Cathelineau was then called on to express his opinion, which would of course be decisive.

“I think M. de Lescure is right,” said he, “I think we are not in a position to advance to Paris. I have not the heart to ask the men to follow me into a strange country, so far from their own homes.”

The numbers were now equally divided, but as Cathelineau was the Commander-in-Chief, his voice turned the scale; and the expedition to Paris was postponed.

“So be it,” said Bonchamps; “let us prepare then for Nantes; it is not fortified like Saumur, but the troops there are very numerous.”

It was then decided that Cathelineau should name six lieutenants under him, to take command of the different districts from which the army was collected, and to which the men would be sure to return; and also appoint an officer in command of the artillery, and another in command of the cavalry. Cathelineau would have willingly dispensed with the task of selecting his officers–a work in which he could hardly fail to give offence to some, and in which he might probably give entire satisfaction to none; but it was to be done, and he felt that it was useless for him to shrink from it.

“M. Bonchamps,” said he, “will of course take the command of the men of Anjou, and M. de Lescure of those from the southern parts of the Bocage, and they will assist me, I hope, in selecting the others. It is very difficult to select, where so many are fit.”

“Rather say,” said Henri, laughing, “where so many are equally unfit. Why, Bonchamps and Marigny are the only soldiers by profession we have among us.”

“You’ll all be soldiers shortly,” said Father Jerome. “You are at any rate going the right way to learn the trade.”

“Marigny of course will take the artillery,” said Bonchamps. “We are very lucky in having so good an artillery officer among us.”

“There is no one, at any rate, to dispute your claim, Marigny,” said de Lescure.

“So he’s president over ‘Marie Jeanne’ and the gunpowder,” said Henri; “that’s settled, isn’t it Cathelineau?”

“Unless M. Marigny refuses,” said Cathelineau.

“I am not modest enough for that, General,” said Marigny. “Do you furnish me with guns, and I’ll fight them. Do you collect the gunpowder, and I’ll consume it.”

“And the Prince de Talmont will take the cavalry?” said Cathelineau.

“No, indeed,” said the Prince. “I will not interfere with Henri Larochejaquelin.”

“Henri Larochejaquelin is much obliged to you, Prince,” said Henri, “but he is not ambitious of making a fool of himself; nor does he wish to be made a fool of. Moreover, Henri Larochejaquelin does not wish to quarrel with an old friend like you, Prince; but he might be tempted to do so, if you take any liberties with his name.”

“But, Cathelineau,” said the Prince, “Henri has been at the head of the cavalry all through.”

“Don’t set a bad example, Prince,” said de Lescure. “Let every man coincide with Cathelineau’s directions without a word; so shall we be spared the ill effects of over modesty, and of too much assurance.”

“Besides,” said Cathelineau, “M. Larochejaquelin will be much wanted elsewhere. As a matter of course, he will be the leader of all the parishes round Chatillon; I doubt if the men would follow any one else.”

“Dear Cathelineau,” said Henri, “if you will take my advice, you will not make leaders of us youngsters at all. Adolphe and I will be well contented to be hussars for awhile. Let these grey-headed seniors be our leaders,” and he pointed to d’Elbée whose hair was grizzled.

Henri had seen that the spirit of jealousy was already rising in Adolphe Denot’s face. No allusion had been made to his services; his advice had never been asked in the council; there was no probability that he would be named as one of the leaders; he had hardly spoken a word since they had assembled in the council-room. Henri, though his own heart was a stranger to the jealousy and dread of neglect which tormented Adolphe, sympathised with, and felt for his friend; and he thought that if they were both together excluded from command at his request, the blow would be less keenly felt. They were the two youngest in the room, and their youth was a good reason why they should not be named; but Henri was the younger of the two, and he knew that if he were selected as one of the chiefs, Adolphe would be miserable at finding himself left out.

De Lescure, however, would not allow of this. He had promised that he would not disgrace Denot, by telling of the cowardice he had shewn at the Bridge of Fouchard, and he was determined to keep his word; but he would not allow his cousin, his pupil, his bosom friend, the man whom he loved with the affection of a brother and a father, to sink himself to the same level as a coward.

“How absurd is this!” said he, angrily. “I wonder, Henri, that you should be the first to create such foolish difficulties, when our very existence depends on perfect unanimity. In proportion as our means of enforcing obedience is slender, should our resolution be firm, implicitly to obey the directions of those who are selected as our leaders. We have made Cathelineau our General, and desired him to select his officers, and when he selects you as one, you object. If you object from a proper modesty, it argues that those who accept, shew an improper degree of assurance. You should think of these things, Henri.”

“I resign myself to my dignity, and am dumb,” said Henri laughing. “Go on, Cathelineau, and if the men you name, say but one word, one syllable against your choice–I’ll slay them.”

Cathelineau knew that all his difficulty still lay before him; those whom he had already chosen would as a matter of course be among the number; but who were to be the other three?

“M. Donnissan,” said be, in a whisper to de Lescure, who was sitting next to him. “I do not know what his wishes might be.”

“My father-in-law feels himself too old,” answered de Lescure; “d’Elbée would be a much fitter person; he is thought so much of at Beauprieu.”

“And the other two?” asked Cathelineau.

“Name one yourself, and ask Bonchamps to name the other.”

“M. d’Elbée,” said Cathelineau, aloud, “you will not, I am sure, refuse to take your portion of our labours.”

“You will find,” whispered Stofflet to his neighbour, “that as Providence has called upon him, he will be willing enough.”

“I will do my best,” said d’Elbée “as I am called upon; and may the Lord direct me, that I may fight His battle so as to do honour to His name.”

“I think I will name Stofflet,” said Cathelineau, consulting with Bonchamps and de Lescure; “he is a brave man, and though rude in his manner, he will make perhaps the best soldier among us; already the men obey him almost more implicitly than any one.”

“Do–do!” said Bonchamps; “you cannot do better.”

“I think you will be right to do so,” said de Lescure, “though I do not like the man; but the peasants know him, and he is one of themselves. Yesterday morning I had ample proof of his courage. As you say, he is a brave man and a good soldier.”

Stofflet was then informed that he had been named, and though he muttered some expressions as to his own want of the necessary qualifications, he was evidently well pleased that the choice had fallen on him.

And now the last of the lot was to be chosen. As the two last names had been mentioned, Denot’s brow had grown blacker and blacker. Henri Larochejaquelin, during the whole proceeding, had been walking about the room, sitting now in one place, and now in another. At the present moment, he was sitting next to Adolphe, who, when Stofflet’s name was mentioned, whispered to him, but almost audibly:

“Gracious heaven! Stofflet!–the whole affair is becoming discreditable. How can any gentleman serve under such a man as that?”

“You think too much of rank, Adolphe,” said Henri; “we should entirely forget all distinctions of person now; unless we do so we can never succeed.”

“But do you think we are more likely to set the King upon his throne, by making such a brute as that a General? I wonder whom our Commander-in-Chief will choose next–Foret, I suppose.”

After having again consulted for some time, Bonchamps said to Cathelineau: “I do not think you can do better than name Adolphe Denot.”

This was said in a low voice, but Adolphe’s ears were not slow to catch his own name, and he was once more happy. Though he was named last, he would be equal with the others.

“Not so,” said de Lescure, who had no idea that Denot had overheard the mention of his name, “Adolphe is not yet sufficiently known to the people; besides we have hitherto forgotten one, who though absent, we must not forget–one who was the first in the field against the Republic, who is already at the head of an army, and who has on various occasions shown himself capable to lead an army. We must not forget Charette.”

The last words were spoken out loud, and though they were eagerly responded to by every one else, they fell with a heavy sound on Adolphe Denot’s ear. To know that he was excluded after he had been named, to feel that he had been proposed merely to be rejected; it was more than he could bear; and as soon as Cathelineau had formally announced the name of M. Charette as one of their leaders, he started abruptly from his chair and said:

“Oh, of course, gentlemen, if you prefer Charette, so be it! He, doubtless will be better able to assist your endeavours than I should; but you might have spared me the mortification of putting my name on your list of officers, merely to scratch it off again.”

“What matters it, Adolphe,” said Larochejaquelin, blushing for his friend, “will you not share my command? Will not your word be as influential in the parishes of Chatillon as my own?”

“I sincerely beg your pardon, M. Denot,” said Cathelineau, “if I have hurt your feelings, but you are as much aware as we are that we should be very wrong to neglect the merits of M. Charette; his achievements claim from us this distinction, and his power and influence would probably be lost to La Vendée, if we did not now incorporate his army with ours.”

“I have nothing further to say,” said Denot. I must own I do not altogether admire the selection which has been made; but I have nothing further to say on the subject.”

“I am sorry, Adolphe, that you have said so much,” said de Lescure.

“You would have been apt to say more yourself if you had been passed over,” said Adolphe, forgetting in his passion how he had disgraced himself before de Lescure at the bridge of Fouchard.

“I fear you misunderstand the purpose, which has collected here in Saumur so many men in arms,” said he. “I fear that you think the peasants of our country have turned themselves into soldiers, that we might become generals, and play at being great men. Indeed, such is not the case; if personal ambition has brought you here, you had better leave us. We have come here to fight, and very probably to die for our King and our religion; and, being called upon to act as leaders, we must bear a heavier share of the burden, and undergo greater perils than others; but we seek no especial dignity, we look for no other pre-eminence, than that of suffering more than others. I fear these are not the feelings that influence you.”

“My feelings, Sir, are as pure as your own!” said Denot.

“If so,” said Father Jerome, “you had better teach us all to think so, by taking care that your conduct is also as pure as M. de Lescure’s.”

“Oh, Father Jerome, do not anger him,” said Henri. “Come with me, Adolphe, and we will quietly talk over this; they don’t exactly understand what you mean yet.”

“But they shall understand what I mean,” said Denot, whose anger was now beyond control, “and they shall know that I will not remain here to be rebuked by a priest, who has thrust himself into affairs with which he has no concern; or to make myself subservient to men who are not fit to be my equals. I will not deign to be a common soldier, when such a man as Stofflet is made an officer.”

And he got up from the chair in which he had again seated himself, and stalked out of the room.

“He has at any rate proved to us,” said Bonchamps, “that I was wrong to nominate him, and that you were right not to accept the nomination.”

“I grieve that he should be vexed with me,” said Stofflet; “but I did not seek to put myself above him.”

“Time and experience will make him wise,” said de Lescure: “let us pity his folly and forgive it.”

The council was then broken up, and the different officers went each to perform his own duties. When Denot left the room, Henri immediately followed him.

“Adolphe,” said he, as he overtook him in the market-place, “Adolphe, indeed you are wrong, no one meant to show you any indignity.”

“And have you also followed me to tell me I am wrong–of course I am wrong–I am wrong because I will not submit, as you and Charles do, to ignorant boors like Stofflet and Cathelineau, because–“

“Like Cathelineau! why, Adolphe, you are mad,” said Henri, “why you yourself voted that Cathelineau should be our General.”

“Voted! Why, Henri, what a child you are! Do you call that voting when all was arranged beforehand? You are blind, I tell you. You will vote next, I suppose, that your great General’s valour shall de rewarded with your sister’s hand!”

“My sister’s hand! what is it you are speaking of?”

“Yes, Agatha’s hand! think you that when you make a General of such as him, that his ambition will rest there? if you are content to be lieutenant to a postillion, I presume you will feel yourself honoured by a nearer connexion with him.”

“Denot, you are raving mad! Cathelineau looking for my sister’s hand?”

“Yes, Agatha’s hand, the postillion looking for your sister’s hand; and, Sir, you will find that I am not mad. Before long, Cathelineau will look for Agatha’s hand: her heart he has already,” and without waiting for any further answer, he hurried away.

“He must be raving mad,” said Henri, “unlucky in love, and thwarted in ambition, he is unable to bear his griefs like a man. What a phantasy has jealousy created in his brain But Agatha was right; a man who could speak of her, even in his madness, as he has now spoken, was not worthy of her. Cathelineau! were he ten times lower than a postillion by birth, he would still be twenty times made noble by achievements and by character, and yet I would not wish–but nonsense! he thinks no more of wedding Agatha than I of Diana.”

CHAPTER III

RETURN TO DURBELLIERE

When Adolphe Denot left his friend Henri in the street of Saumur, and ran off from him, Henri was so completely astonished by his parting words, so utterly dumb-founded by what he said respecting Agatha, that he made no attempt to follow him, but returned after awhile to the house, in which he, Charles and Adolphe were lodging, and as he walked slowly through the streets, he continued saying to himself, “Poor fellow, he is mad! he is certainly raving mad!”

From that time, no tidings whatsoever were heard of Denot. He had never returned to his lodging, nor been seen anywhere, except in the stable, in which his horse had been put to stand–he had himself saddled his horse, and taken him from the stall, and from that moment nothing further could be learnt of him in Saumur. De Lescure and Henri made the most minute inquiries–but in vain; had he destroyed himself, or hid himself in the town, his horse would certainly have been found; it was surmised that he had started for Paris on some mad speculation; and though his friends deeply grieved at his misconduct, his absence, when they had so much to do and to think of was in itself, felt as a relief.

After remaining about a week in Saumur, the army was disbanded–or rather disbanded itself, for every effort was made, to keep together as great a body of men as possible. An attempt was made to garrison the town; and for this purpose, the leaders undertook to pay about one thousand men, at a certain rate per day, for their services, while they remained under arms in Saumur, but the idea, after a very short time, was abandoned; the men would not stay away from their homes, and in spite of the comforts which were procured for them, and the pay which was promised, the garrison very quickly dissolved.

Cathelineau succeeded in taking back with him to St. Florent, nearly all the men who had accompanied him; his next object was the attack of Nantes, and as St. Florent is between Saumur and that town, his men were able to return to their homes, without going much out of their direct way. He marched through the town of Angers on his return, and took possession of the stores which he found there, the republican garrison having fled as soon as they heard of his approach; many of Bonchamps’ men accompanied him, and some of those who had come to Saumur with de Lescure and Henri Larochejaquelin, young men who had no wives or families, and who literally preferred the excitement of the campaign, to their ordinary home employments; all such men joined Cathelineau’s army, but by far the greater number of the peasants of the Bocage returned with de Lescure and Larochejaquelin.

Charette had been invited to assist Cathelineau in his attack on Nantes, and he had promised to do so; de Lescure found it absolutely necessary to go home, on account of his wound, and Larochejaquelin went with him. They had already heard that the Convention had determined to invade La Vendée on every side with an overwhelming force, and it was necessary to protect the Southern portion of the province; this duty was allotted to our two friends, and they therefore returned home from Saumur, without expecting to enjoy for any length of time the fruits of their recent victory.

A litter was formed for de Lescure, for at present he found it impossible to bear the motion of riding, and Henri, the little Chevalier, Father Jerome and Chapeau, accompanied him on horseback. Many of the peasants had started from Saumur, before their party, and the whole road from that town through Dou and Vihiers to Durbellière, was thronged with crowds of these successful warriors, returning to their families, anxious to tell to their wives and sweethearts the feats they had accomplished.

They were within a league of Durbellière, and had reached a point where a cross-road led from the one they were on to the village of Echanbroignes, and at this place many of the cortege, which was now pretty numerous, turned off towards their own homes.

“M. Henri,” said Chapeau, riding up to his master, from among two or three peasants, who had been walking for some time by hi horse’s side, and anxiously talking to him, “M. Henri?”

“Well, Jacques; what is it now?” said Henri.

“I have a favour to ask of Monsieur.”

“A favour, Chapeau; I suppose you want to go to Echanbroignes already, to tell Michael Stein’s pretty daughter, of all the gallant things you did at Saumur.”

“Not till I have waited on you and M. de Lescure to the château. Momont would be dying if he had not some one to give him a true account of what has been done, and I do not know that any one could give him a much better history of it, than myself–of course not meaning such as you and M. de Lescure, who saw more of the fighting than any one else; but then you know, M. Henri, you will have too much to do, and too much to say to the Marquis, and to Mademoiselle, to be talking to an old man like Momont.”

“Never fear, Chapeau. You shall have Momont’s ears all to yourself; but what is it you do want?”

“Why, nothing myself exactly, M. Henri; but there are two men from Echanbroignes here, who wish you to allow them to go on to Durbellière, and stay a day or two there: they are two of our men, M. Henri; two of the red scarfs.”

“Two of the red scarfs!” said Henri.

“Yes, M. Henri, two of the men who went through the water, and took the town; we call ourselves red scarfs, just to distinguish ourselves from the rest of the army: your honour is a red scarf that is the chief of the red scarfs; and we expect to be especially under your honour’s protection.”

“I am a red scarf, Henri;” said the little Chevalier. “There are just two hundred of us, and we mean to be the most dare-devil set in the whole army; won’t we make the cowardly blues afraid of the Durbellière red scarfs!”

“And who are the two men, Jacques?” said Henri.

“Jean and Peter Stein,” said Jacques: “you see, M. Henri, they ran away to the battle, just in direct opposition to old Michael’s positive orders. You and the Curé must remember how I pledged my honour that they should be at Saumur, and so they were: but Michael Stein is an awful black man to deal with when his back is up: he thinks no more of giving a clout with his hammer, than another man does of a rap with his five knuckles.”

“But his sons are brave fellows,” said the little Chevalier, “and dashed into the water among the very first. Michael Stein can’t but be proud that his two sons should be both red scarfs: if so, he must be a republican.”

“He is no republican, Chevalier,” said Chapeau, “that’s quite certain, nor yet any of the family; but he is a very black man, and when once angered, not easy to be smoothed down again; and if M. Henri will allow Jean and Peter to come on to Durbellière, I can, perhaps, manage to go back with them on Sunday, and Michael Stein will mind me more than he will them: I can knock into his thick head better than they can do, the high honour which has befallen the lads, in their chancing to have been among the red scarfs.”

“Well, Chapeau, let them come,” said Henri. “No man that followed me gallantly into Saumur, shall be refused admittance when he wishes to follow me into Durbellière.”

“We were cool enough, weren’t we, Henri, when we marched into the town?” said the Chevalier.

“We’ll have a more comfortable reception at the old château,” said Henri; “at any rate, we’ll have no more cold water. I must say, Arthur, I thought the water of that moat had a peculiarly nasty taste.”

They were not long in reaching the château, and Henri soon found himself in his sister’s arms. A confused account, first of the utter defeat of the Vendeans at Varin, and then of their complete victory at Saumur, had reached Durbellière; and though the former account had made them as miserable, as the latter had made them happy, neither one nor the other was entirely believed. De Lescure had sent an express to Clisson immediately after the taking of the town, and Madame de Lescure had sent from Clisson to Durbellière; but still it was delightful to have the good news corroborated by the conquerors themselves, and Agatha was supremely happy.

“My own dear, darling Henri,” she said, clinging round his neck, “my own brave, gallant brother, and were you not wounded at all–are you sure you are not wounded?”

“Not a touch, not a scratch, Agatha, as deep as you might give me with your bodkin.”

“Thank God! I thank Him with all my heart and soul: and I know you were the first everywhere. Charles wrote but a word or too to Victorine, but he said you were the very first to set your foot in Saumur.”

“A mere accident, Agatha; while Charles had all the fighting–the real hard, up hill, hand to ‘hand work–I and a few others walked into Saumur, or rather we swam in, and took possession of the town. The Chevalier here was beside me, and was over the breach as soon as I was.”

“My brave young Arthur!” said Agatha, in her enthusiasm, kissing the forehead of the blushing Chevalier, “you have won your spurs like a knight and a hero; you shall be my knight and my hero. And I will give you my glove to wear in your cap. But, tell me Arthur, why have you and Henri, those red handkerchiets tied round your waist? Chapeau has one too, and those other men, below there.”

“That’s our uniform,” said Arthur. “We are all red scarfs; all the men who clambered into Saumur through the water, are to wear red scarfs till the war is over; and they are to be seen in the front, at every battle, seige and skirmish. Mind, Agatha, when you see a red scarf, that he is one of Henri Larochejaquelin’s own body-guard; and when you see a bald pate, it belongs to a skulking republican.”

“Are the republicans all bald then?” said Agatha.

“We shaved all we caught at Saumur, at any rate. We did not leave a hair upon one of them,” said Arthur, rejoicing. “The red scarfs are fine barbers, when a republican wants shaving.”

“Is Charles badly wounded?” asked Agatha.

“His arm is broken, and he remained in action for eight hours after receiving the wound, so that it was difficult to set; but now it is doing well,” said Henri.

“I should have offered him my services before this: at any rate I will do so now; but Henri I have a thousand things to say to you; do not expect to go to bed tonight, till you have told me everything just as it happened,” and Agatha hurried away, to give her sweet woman’s aid to her wounded cousin, while Henri went into his father’s room.

“Welcome, my hero! welcome, my gallant boy!” said the old man, almost rising from his chair, cripple as he was, in his anxiety to seize the hand of his beloved son.

“I have come home, safe, father,” said Henri, “to lay my sword at your feet.”

“You must not leave it there long, Henri, I fear, you must not leave it there long; these traitors are going to devour us alive; to surround us with their troops and burn us out of house and home; they will annihilate the people they say, destroy the towns, and root out the very trees and hedges. We shall see, Henri–we shall see. So they made a bad fight of it at Saumur?”

“They had two men to one against us, besides the advantage of position, discipline and arms, and yet they marched the best part of their troops off in the night without striking a blow.”

“Thanks be to the Lord, we will have our King again; we will have our dear King once more, thanks be to the Almighty,” said the old man, eager with joy. “And they fled, did they, without striking a blow!”

“Some of them did, father; but some fought well enough; it was desperate sharp work when poor Charles was wounded.”

“God bless him! God bless him! I didn’t doubt it was sharp work; but even with valour, or without valour, what could sedition and perjury avail against truth and loyalty! they were two to one; they had stone walls and deep rivers to protect them; they had arms and powder, and steel cuirasses; they had disciplined troops and all the appanages of war, and yet they were scattered like chaff; driven from their high walls and deep moats, by a few half-armed peasants; and why? why have our batons been more deadly than their swords? because we have had truth and loyalty on our side. Why have our stuff jackets prevailed against their steel armour; because they covered honest hearts that were fighting honestly for their King. His Majesty shall enjoy his own again, my boy. Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi!”

“I trust he may, father; but, as you say, we shall have some hard work to do first. Cathelineau and Charette will be before Nantes in a week’s time. I should have been with them had we not heard that a strong body of republican troops is to be stationed at Parthenay. They say that Santerre is to command a party of Marseillaise, commissioned to exterminate the Vendeans.”

“What, Santerre, the brewer of the Faubourgs?”

“The same, Danton’s friend, he who used to be so loud at the Cordeliers; and Westerman is to assist him,” said Henri.

“Worse again, Henri, worse again; was it not he who headed the rebels on the tenth of August, when our sainted King was driven from his home?”

“Yes, the same Westerman is now to drive us from our homes; or rather to burn us, our homes, and all together–such at least is the task allotted to him.”

“God help our babes and our women!” said the old Marquis shuddering, “if they fall into the clutches of Santerre, and that other still blacker demon!”

“Do not fear, father; have we not shewn that we are men? Santerre will find that he has better soldiers to meet than any he brings with him.”

“Fear, Henri! no, for myself I fear nothing. What injury can they do to an old man like me? I do not even fear for my own children; if their lives are required in the King’s service, they know how to part with them in perfect confidence of eternal happiness hereafter; but, Henri, I do feel for our poor people; they are now full of joy and enthusiasm, for they are warm from victory, and the grief of the few, who are weeping for their relatives, is lost in the joy of the multitude. But this cannot always be so, we cannot expect continual victory, and even victory itself, when so often repeated, will bring death and desolation into every parish and into every family.”

“I trust, father, the war will not be prolonged so distantly as you seem to think; the forces of Austria, England and Prussia already surround the frontiers of France; and we have every reason to hope that friendly troops from Britain will soon land on our own coast. I trust the autumn will find La Vendée crowned with glory, but once more at peace.”

“God send it, my son!” said the Marquis.

“I do not doubt the glory–but I do doubt the peace.”

“We cannot go back now, father,” said Henri.

“Nor would I have you do so; we have a duty to do, and though it be painful we must do it. ‘God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb,’ and give us strength to bear our sufferings; but my heart shudders, when I am told that the Republic has let loose those wolves of Paris to shed the blood of our poor people.”

The prospect of a prolonged civil war, of continued strife, and increased bloodshed, somewhat damped the joy with which the victory at Saumur was discussed in the aristocratic portion of the château; but no such gloomy notions were allowed to interfere with the triumph which reigned in the kitchen. Here victory was clothed in robes all couleur de rose, and it appeared that La Vendée, so happy in many other respects, was chiefly blessed in being surrounded by republicans whom she could conquer, and in having enemies who gave her the means of acquiring glory.

“And our own young master was the first royalist who put his foot in Saumur?” asked Momont, who had already received the information he required four or five times, and on each occasion had drunk Henri’s health in about half-a-pint of wine.

“Indeed he was,” said Chapeau, “the very first. You don’t think he’d have let any one go before him.”

“Here’s his health then, and God bless him!” said Momont. “It was I first showed him how to fire a pistol; and very keen he was at taking to gunpowder.”

“Indeed, and indeed he was,” said the housekeeper. “When he was no more than twelve years old, not nigh as big as the little Chevalier, he let off the big blunderbuss in my bed-room, and I on my knees at prayers the while. God bless his sweet face, I always knew he’d make a great soldier.”

“And don’t you remember,” said the laundress, “how he blew up Mademoiselle Agatha, making her sit on a milk-pan turned over, with a whole heap of gunpowder stuffed underneath, and she only six or seven years old?”

“Did he though,” said the page, “blow up Mademoiselle Agatha?”

“Indeed he did, and blew every scrap of hair off her head and eyebrows. It’s no wonder he’s such a great general.”

“And the Chevalier was second, wasn’t he?” said the cook.

“Dear little darling fellow!” said the confidential maid; “and to think of him going to the wars with guns and swords and pistols! If anything had happened to him I should have cried my eyes out.”

“And was the Chevalier the first to follow M. Henri into the town?” asked the page, who was a year older than Arthur Mondyon, and consequently felt himself somewhat disgraced at not having been at Saumur.

“Why,” said Jacques, with a look which was intended to shew how unwilling he was to speak of himself, “I can’t exactly say the Chevalier was the first to follow M. Henri, but if he wasn’t the second, he was certainly the third who entered Saumur.”

“Who then was the second?” said one or two at the same time.

“Why, I shouldn’t have said anything about it, only you ask me so very particularly,” said Jacques, “but I believe I was second myself; but Jean Stein can tell you everything; you weren’t backward yourself Jean, there were not more than three or four of them before you and Peter.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Jean, “but we all did the best we could, I believe.”

“And was Chapeau really second?” said Momont, who was becoming jealous of the distinction likely to be paid to his junior fellow-servant. “You don’t mean to say he went in before all the other gentlemen?”

“Gentlemen, indeed!” said Chapeau. “What an idea you have of taking a town by storm, if you think men are to stand back to make room for gentlemen, as though a party were going into dinner.”

“But tell us now, Jean Stein,” continued Momont, “was Chapeau really second?”

“Well then,” said Jean, “he was certainly second into the water, but he was so long under it, I doubt whether he was second out–he certainly did get a regular good ducking did Chapeau. Why, you came out feet uppermost, Chapeau.”

“Feet uppermost!” shouted Momont, “and is that your idea of storming a town, to go into it feet uppermost?”

“But do you really mean to say that you were absolutely wet through when you took Saumur?” said the laundress.

“Indeed we were,” answered Chapeau, “wringing wet, every man of us.”

“Lawks! how uncomfortable,” said the cook. “And M. Henri, was he wet too?”

“Wet, to be sure he was wet as water could make him.”

“And the little Chevalier, did he get himself wet?” said the confidential maid, “poor little fellow! it was like to give him his death of cold.”

“But, Chapeau, tell me truly now: did you kill any of those bloody republicans with your own hand?” asked the housekeeper.

“Kill them,” said Chapeau, “to be sure, I killed them when we were fighting.”

“And how many, Chapeau; how many did you positively kill dead, you know?” said the confidential maid.

“What nonsense you do talk!” answered he, with a great air of military knowledge, “as if a man in battle knows when he kills and when he doesn’t. You’re not able to look about you in that sort of way in the middle of the smoke and noise and confusion.”

“You don’t mean to tell me you ever kill a man without knowing it!” said the housekeeper.

“You don’t understand what a battle is at all,” answered Chapeau, determined to communicate a little of his experience on the matter. “One hasn’t time to look about one to see anything. Now supposing you had been with us at the taking of Saumur.”

“Oh, the Lord forbid!” said the housekeeper. “I’d sooner be in my grave any day, than go to one of those horrid bloody battles.”

“Or you, Momont; supposing you’d been there?”

“Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I look,” replied the butler.

“I’m sure you’d have done well, Momont. I’m sure you’d have done very well,” endeavouring to conciliate him into listening; “but supposing you had been there, or at the camp of Varin–we’ll say Varin, for after all, we had more fighting there than at Saumur. Supposing you were one of the attacking party; you find yourself close wedged in between your two comrades right opposite the trenches; you have a loaded musket in your hand, with a bayonet fixed to it, and you have five or six rounds of cartridges in your belt; you know that you are to do your best, or rather your worst with what you’ve got. Well, your commander gives the word of attack. We’ll suppose it’s the good Cathelineau. ‘Friends,’ he will say; ‘dear friends; now is the time to prove ourselves men; now is the moment to prove that we love our King; we will soon shew the republicans that a few sods of turf are no obstacles in the way of Vendean royalists,’ and then the gallant fellow rushes into the trenches; two thousand brave men follow him, shouting ‘Vive le Roi!’ and you, Momont, are one of the first. All of a sudden, as you are just in motion, prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush of air passes close to your face, and nearly blinds you; you feel that you can hardly breathe, but you hear a groan, and a stumble; your next neighbour and three men behind him have been sent into eternity by a cannon-ball from the enemy. Do you think then that the man who fired the cannon knows, or cares who he has killed? Well, on you go; had you not been in a crowd, the enemy’s fire, maybe, might have frightened you; but good company makes men brave: on you go, and throw yourself into the trench. You find a more active man than yourself just above you; he is already nearly at the top of the bank, his feet are stuck in the sods above your head; he is about to spring upon the rampart, when the bayonet of a republican passes through his breast, and he falls at your feet, or perhaps upon your head. You feel your heart shudder, and your blood runs cold, but it is no time for pausing now; you could not return if you would, neither can you remain where you are: up you go, grasping your musket in one hand and digging the other into the loose sods. Your eyes and mouth are crammed with dust, your face is bespattered with your comrade’s blood, your ears are full of strange noises; your very nature changes within you; the smell of gunpowder and of carnage makes you feel like a beast of prey. You do not think any longer of the friends who have fallen beside you; you only long to grapple with the enemy who are before you.”

“Oh, mercy me! how very shocking!” said the housekeeper. “Pray don’t go on Chapeau; pray don’t, or I shall have such horrid dreams.”

“Oh! but you must go on, Chapeau,” said the confidential maid, “I could never bear that you should leave off; it is very horrid, surely; but as Mademoiselle says, we must learn to look at blood and wounds now, and hear of them, too.”

“Do pray tell us the rest,” said the page, who sat listening intently with his mouth wide open. “I do so like it; pray tell us what Momont did after he became a beast of prey?”

Chapeau was supremely happy; he felt that his military experience and his descriptive talents were duly appreciated, and he continued:

“Well, you are now in the camp, on the enemy’s ground, and you have to fight every inch, till you drive them out of it; six or seven of your comrades are close to you, and you all press on, still grasping your muskets and pushing your bayonets before you: the enemy make a rush to drive you back again; on they come against you, by twenties and by thirties; those who are behind, push forward those who are in front, and suddenly you find a heavy dragging weight upon your hands, and again you hear the moans of a dying man close to you–almost in your arms. A republican soldier has fallen on your bayonet. The struggles of the wounded man nearly overpower you; you twist and turn and wrench, and drag your musket to and fro, but it is no use; the weapon is jammed between his ribs; you have not space nor time to extricate it; you are obliged to leave it, and on you go unarmed, stumbling over the body of your fallen enemy. Whether the man dies or lives, whether his wound be mortal or no, you will never hear. And so you advance, till gradually you begin to feel, rather than to see, that the blues are retreating from you. You hear unarmed men asking for quarter, begging for their lives, and the sound of entreaty again softens your heart; you think of sparing life, instead of taking it; you embrace your friends as you meet them here and there; you laugh and sing as you feel that you have done your best and have conquered; and when you once more become sufficiently calm to be aware what you are yourself doing, you find that you have a sword in your hand, or a huge pistol; you know not from whom you took them, or where you got them, or in what manner you have used them. How can a man say then, whom he has killed in battle, or whether he has killed any man? I do not recollect that I ever fired a shot at Varin myself, and yet my musket was discharged and the pan was up. I will not say that I ever killed a man; but I will say that I never struck a man who asked for mercy, or fired a shot even on a republican, who had thrown down his arms.”

Henri’s voice was now heard in the hall, loudly calling for Jacques, and away he ran to join his master, as he finished his history.

“It makes my blood run cold,” said the housekeeper, “to think of such horrid things.”

“Chapeau describes it very well, though,” said the confidential maid; “I’m sure he has seen it all himself. I’m sure he’s a brave fellow.”

“It’s not always those who talk the most that are the bravest,” said Momont.

Henri and his sister sat talking that night for a long time, after the other inhabitants of the château were in bed, and though they had so many subjects of interest to discuss, their conversation was chiefly respecting Adolphe Denot.

“I cannot guess what has become of him,” said Henri; “I made every possible inquiry, short of that which might seem to compromise his character. I do not think he can have returned to the Bocage, or we should have heard of him.”

“He must have gone to Fleury,” said Agatha. “I am sure you will not find that he is at his own house.”

“Impossible, my love; we must have heard of him on the way; had he gone round by Montrenil, he must still have passed over the bridge of Fouchard, and we should have heard of him there.”

“He must have ridden over in the night; you see he so evidently wanted to conceal from you where he was going.”

“My own impression is, that he is gone to Paris,” said Henri; “but let him have gone where he may, of one thing I am sure; he was not in his right senses when he left the council-room, nor yet when he was speaking to me in the street; poor Adolphe! I pity him with all my heart. I can feel how miserable he must be.”

“Why should he be miserable, Henri? The truth is, you mistake his character. I do not wish to make you think ill of your friend; but Adolphe is one of those men whom adversity will improve. You and our father have rather spoilt him between you; he is too proud, too apt to think that everything should bend to his wishes: he has yet to learn that in this world he must endure to have his dearest wishes thwarted; and till adversity has taught him that, his feelings will not be manly, nor his conduct sensible.”

“Poor fellow!” said Henri, “if adversity will teach him, he is likely to get his lesson now. Did he part quietly with you, Agatha, on the day before we started to Saumur?”

“Anything but quietly,” said she. “I would not tell you all he said, for on the eve of a battle in which you were to fight side by side, I did not wish to make you angry with your friend and companion: but had a raging madman, just escaped from his keepers, come to offer me his hand, his conduct could not have been worse than Adolphe Denot’s.”

“Was he violent with you, Agatha?”

“He did not offer to strike me, nor yet to touch me, if you mean that: but he threatened me; and that in such awful sounding, and yet ridiculous language, that you would hardly know whether to laugh or to be angry if I could repeat it.”

“What did he say, Agatha?”

“Say! it would be impossible for me to tell you; he swung his arms like a country actor in a village barn, and declared that if he were not killed at Saumur, he would carry me away in spite of all that my friends could do to hinder him.”

“Poor fellow! poor Adolphe!” said Henri.

“You are not sorry I refused him? You would, indeed, have had to say, poor Agatha! had I done otherwise.”

“I am not sorry that you refused him, but I am sorry you could not love him.”

“Why you say yourself he is mad: would you wish me to love a madman?”

“It is love that has made him mad. Adolphe is not like other men; his passions are stronger; his feelings more acute; his regrets more poignant.”

“He should control his passions as other men must do,” said Agatha: “all men who do not, are madmen.” She remained silent for a few moments, and then added, “you are right in saying that love has made him mad; but it is the meanest of all love that has done so–it is self-love.”

“I think you are too hard upon him, Agatha; but it is over now, and cannot be helped.”

“What did he say to you, Henri, when he left you in Saurnur?”

“His name had been mentioned you know in the council as one of the leaders: Bonchamps, I believe, proposed it; but Charles objected, and named Charette in his place, and Cathelineau and the rest agreed to it. This angered Adolphe, and no wonder, for he is ambitious, and impatient of neglect. I wish they would have let him been named instead of me, but they would not, and when the list was finished, he was not on it. He got up and said something; I hardly know what, but he complained of Stofflet being one of the Generals; and then Charles rebuked him, and Adolphe in a passion left the room.”

“And you followed him?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, I followed him; but he was like a raging madman. I don’t know how it was; but instead of complaining about the Generals, he began complaining about you. I don’t know exactly whether I ought to tell you what he said–indeed I had not intended to have done so.”

“Nay, Henri; now you have raised my woman’s curiosity, and you positively must tell me.”

“I hardly know how to tell you,” said Henri, “for I really forget how he said it. I don’t know on earth how he introduced your name at all; but he ended in accusing you of having a more favoured lover.”

Agatha blushed slightly as she answered:

“He has no right whatever to ask the question; nor if I have a favoured lover, should it be any ground of complaint to him. But to you, Henri, if you wish a promise from me on the subject, I will readily and willingly promise, that I will receive no man’s love, and, far as I can master my own heart, I will myself entertain no passion without your sanction: and you, dear brother, you shall make me a return for my confidence; you shall ask me to marry no man whom I cannot love.”

“Don’t for a moment think, dearest, that what he said, made me uneasy as regarded you: but whom do you think he selected for you–of whom do you think he is jealous?”

“I cannot attempt to guess a madman’s thoughts, Henri.”

“I will tell you then,” said he; “but you will be shocked as well as surprized. He is jealous of Cathelineau!”

“Cathelineau?” said Agatha, blushing now much more deeply than she had done before.

“Yes, Cathelineau, the postillion.”

“No, not Cathelineau the postillion; but Cathelineau the Saint of Anjou, and the hero of St. Florent, and of Saumur. He at any rate has linked my name with that of a man worthy of a woman’s love.”

“Worthy, Agatha, had his birth and early years been different from what they were.”

“Worthy as he is of any woman’s love,” said Agatha. “Great deeds and noble conduct make birth of no avail, to give either honour or disgrace.”

“But, Agatha, surely you would not wed Cathelineau, were he to ask you?”

“Why should you ask that question, Henri?” said she: “are the words which Adolphe Denot has uttered in his wild insanity of such weight, as to make you regard as possible such an event? Have I not told you I would wed no one without your sanction? Do you not know that Cathelineau has never spoken to me but the coldest words of most distant respect? Do you not know that his heart and soul are intent on other things than woman’s love? I, too, feel that this is not the time for love. While I live in continual dread that those I most value may fall in battle; while I fear that every messenger who comes to me in your absence, may have some fatal news to tell, I do not wish to take upon me a fresh burden of affection. Am I not best as I am, Henri, at present?” And she put her arm affectionately through his. “When the wars are over, and the King is on his throne, you shall bring me home a lover; some brave friend of your’s who has proved himself a gallant knight.”

“I would have him be a gallant knight, certainly,” said Henri, “but he should also be a worthy gentleman.”

“And is not Cathelineau a worthy gentleman?” forgetting in her enthusiasm that she was taking the cause of one who was being spoken of as her lover. “Oh, indeed he is; if valour, honesty, and honour, if trust in God, and forgetfulness of self, if humanity and generosity constitute a gentleman, then is Cathelineau the prince of gentlemen: but do not, pray do not mistake me, Henri: a lover of scenery admires the tops of distant mountains, and gazes on their snowy peaks with a pleasure almost amounting to awe; but no one seeks to build his house on the summit: so do I admire the virtues, the devotion, the courage of Cathelineau; but my admiration is mixed with no love which would make me wish to join my lot with his. I only say, that despite his birth and former low condition, he is worthy of any woman’s love.”

Henri did not quite like his sister’s enthusiasm, though he hardly knew why it displeased him. He had thought of Cathelineau only as a soldier and a General, and had found nothing in him that he did not approve of; but he felt that be could not welcome him as his darling sister’s husband; “if Adolphe should have prophesied rightly,” said he, to himself as he went from his sister’s room to his own chamber, “but no! whatever her feelings may be, she is too good to do anything that would displease me.”

CHAPTER IV

MICHAEL STEIN

On the Sunday morning, after Henri’s return to Durbellière, Jacques Chapeau, with Jean and Peter Stein, left the château very early, and started for Echanbroignes. Word had been sent to the old smith by some of the neighbours, who had been at Saumur, that his two sons were safe and sound, and that they had behaved well at the siege, and a message at the same time reached Annot, informing her that Jacques meant to spend his next Sunday at the village; the party was therefore expected, and great preparations were made for a fête at Echanbroignes. The heroes of that place considered that they had somewhat celebrated themselves; in the first place, on final inquiry, it appeared, that not one person from the village, who was at all able to go to Saumur, had neglected to do so. In the next place, many of the villagers were among the number of the red scarfs, and they claimed to themselves the privilege of being considered peculiarly valiant and particularly loyal; and lastly, though many of them had gone to Saumur, without arms, every man on his return had a musket with him, which the old men and women regarded as absolute trophies, taken by each man individually from some awful rebel whom he had slain in single combat. There were to be great rejoicings, therefore, at Echanbroignes, which were postponed for the arrival of Chapeau and the two Stems.

The old smith was very angry at his sons’ behaviour. As Chapeau had said, he was a very black man, and when he was angered, it wasn’t easy to smooth him; the operation, however, was attempted by some of his neighbours, and though they were not altogether successful, they succeeded in making the old man a little proud of his family.

“Yes, Paul Rouel;” he said to the village innkeeper, who was an ancient crony of his, “it’s very well to talk of King and Church; but if King and Church are to teach sons to fly against their fathers, we may, I think, have a little too much of them; didn’t I again and again tell the boys not to go?”

“But, Michael Stein, how could you expect them to stay here, with a score of old men like us, and a number of women and girls, when every young fellow in the parish had gone to the wars? besides, they say, they did gallantly at the wars, and gained great honour and glory.”

“Gained a great fiddle-stick,” said the smith.

“But, Michael Stein,” said another old friend, named Gobelin, “you wouldn’t have your children disgraced, would you? think how sheepish they would have looked, hiding themselves in the smithy here, when all the other young men were parading round the green with the guns and swords they have taken from the rebels, and the women and girls all admiring them. Why, neighbour, not a girl in the parish would have spoken to them.”

“Girls spoken to them, indeed! I tell you, Gobelin, in the times now coming, any girl will be ready enough to speak to a young man that has a house over his head, and a five-franc piece in his pocket. No, neighbour Gobelin; I gave my boys a good trade, and desired them to stick to it; they have chosen instead to go for soldiers, and for soldiers they may go. They don’t come into my smithy again, that’s all.”

“You don’t mean you won’t speak to the lads, and after their fighting so bravely and all!” said Paul Rouel, in a voice of horror.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t speak to them, Rouel,” said the father, “I am as fond of my sons as another man; and as they were resolved to disobey my commands, and to go fighting, why I’ll not say but I’m glad they didn’t disgrace themselves. I’d have been sorry to hear that they’d run away, or been the last to face the enemy; but they had no right to go, when there was work for them to do at home; they are welcome now to come and take the best I can give them, till their new trade calls them away again, and then they’ll be welcome to go soldiering again; not a hammer shall they raise on my anvil, not a blast shall they blow in my smithy, not an ounce of iron shall they turn in my furnace.”

“You’ll think better of these things after a day or two, neighbour,” said Gobelin.

“When I think once about a thing, Gobelin, I’m not much given to think again. But I tell you, I wish the boys no harm; let them be soldiers now, and I pray God they may be good soldiers; only, if I save a little money by hard work, I won’t have them spend it among their comrades in strong drink; it’ll be all the better for Annot, when I die, that’s all.”

In this resolution he remained fixed, and in this frame of mind he received his truant sons on their return to Echanbroignes on the Sunday morning. They entered the village together with Chapeau, about nine in the morning, having been met about a mile from the town, by four or five friends, who escorted them back. Annot was not there, for she was very busy at home, preparing breakfast for her brothers and lover. She at any rate was determined that the prodigal sons should be received with a fatted calf.

Chapeau marched up through the village at the head of the little procession to bear the brunt of the father’s anger, as his station in life, and standing in the army made him feel superior even to the fury of old Michael Stein. As they approached the door of the smith’s house, they saw him sitting in the little porch with a pipe in his mouth, for Michael was never found without one or two implements; he had always either his hammer or his pipe in lull activity.

“Welcome back to Echanbroignes, M. Chapeau, welcome back,” said the old man. “I am heartily glad to see so brave a soldier in my poor cabin!” and he gave his hand to Jacques.

“And here be two other brave soldiers, Michael Stein, who, I hope, are also welcome to Echanbroignes; and this I will say, any father in Poitou might be proud to own them for his Sons: for gallanter fellows there are not in the whole army of La Vendée, and that is saying a long word.”

There was a little crowd round the smith’s house, and in spite of his unmilitary predilections, he could not help feeling proud at the public testimony that was paid to his sons’ merits: he showed this by the tear that stood in his eye, as he said:

“They are welcome too, M. Chapeau; they are very welcome too. I am glad to see ye, safe and sound from the wars, lads. I am glad to see thee, Jean: I am glad to see thee, Peter,” and he gave a hand to each of the two young men, who were delighted with their unexpected kind reception. “And this I will say before the neighbours here, as ye would go to the wars, and make soldiers of yourselves, I am well pleased to hear ye behaved yourselves like gallant brave men should do. I’d sooner that your friends should have had to tell me that ye were both stiff and cold, than that ye should have returned yourselves with shamed faces to own that ye had disgraced the trade ye have chosen to take up with.”

“Bravo! Bravo!” said Chapeau, “I am glad in my heart, Michael Stein, to hear you speak so kindly to the lads; and so will M. Henri be glad to hear it, for they are two of his own especial troop–they are two of the gallant red scarfs, who swam into Saumur with their muskets tucked under their arms.”

“But understand me, boys,” continued the smith, still speaking so that the neighbours standing round could hear him. “I am right glad to see both of you, as I am to see M. Chapeau, or any other gallant friend who is kind enough to visit me and Annot. But mind, it is as visitors I receive you; in a few days, doubtless, you must go away to the wars again; till then ye shall have the best I can give, both to eat and to drink. Ye shall have your own way, and never be asked to do a turn of work. Ye shall have gay holyday times, and holyday fare, and anything the old man can do, and anything the old man can give to make you merry, he will do, and he will give, because you have come back gallantly, and have not brought dishonour to the roost where ye were hatched–but more than this I will not agree to. Ye would not abide at home, as I desired, and this therefore is no longer a home for you; ye would not be content to be forgers of weapons, but ye must e’en use them too, and ye have had your way. Now, lads, I must have my way; and for the rest of the time I must have it alone. This is no longer your home, lads, and I m no longer your master. Ye would be soldiers when I did not wish it; now let ye be soldiers, and I’m the less sorry for it, as it seems like that you’ll prove good soldiers. And now, Peter and Jean, you’re welcome both of you. Jacques Chapeau you are most heartily welcome–come Annot, let the lads have a swinging breakfast, for I know these soldiers fight not well unless they be fed well,” and so finishing his speech, he led the way into the cottage.

The three men were too well pleased with their reception to grumble at the smith’s mode of expressing his feeling. Jean and Peter were delighted to find that they were to be entertained with the best their father could afford, instead of with black looks and hard words, and that the only punishment to be immediately inflicted on them, was that they were to do no work; the party, therefore, entered the cottage tolerably well pleased with each other.

It is not to be supposed that Annot remained in the back-ground during the whole of her father’s oration. She had come out of the cottage, and kissed her two brothers, and shaken hands with her lover; she then returned in again, and Chapeau had followed her, and as the two were left alone together, for a minute or two, I think it very probable that she kissed him also; but I cannot speak positively on this point.

Then they all sat down to breakfast, and Paul Rouel and old Gobelin, who had contrived to be of the party, were greatly surprised to hear and to see how civil Michael was to his sons. He pressed them to eat of the very best, as he did to Chapeau, and talked to them about the war, listened to all their tales, and had altogether lost the domineering authoritative tone of voice, with which he usually addressed his own family; it was only in talking to Annot that he was the same hot-tempered old man as ever. The two young men themselves were hardly at their ease; but they eat their breakfast, and made the best they could of it.

“Smothered fire burns longest, neighbour Gobelin,” said Rouel, as he left the house. “Take my word, Michael will never forgive those two boys of his the longest day he has to live.”

After breakfast, Michael Stein and his whole party went to mass, as did all the soldier peasants, who had returned from Saumur; and the old Curé of the parish, who had now recovered possession of his own church, with much solemnity returned thanks to God for the great victory which the Vendeans had gained, and sung a requiem for the souls of the royalists who had fallen in the battle. When they left the church, the peasants all formed themselves into a procession, the girls going first, and the men following them; and in this manner they paraded round the green, carrying a huge white flag, which had been embroidered in the village, and which bore in its centre, in conspicuous letters of gold, those three words, the loyal Shibboleth of La Vendée, “Vive le Roi!”

This flag they fixed on a pole erected in the centre of the green, and then they set to work to amuse themselves with twenty different games. The games, however, did not flourish–the men were too eager to talk of what they had done, and the girls were too willing to listen–they divided themselves into fifty little parties, in which fifty different accounts were given of the taking of Saumur, and in each party three or four different warriors were named as having been the most conspicuous heroes of the siege. Each narrator had some especially esteemed leader or chief, who in his eyes greatly exceeded the other leaders, and the prodigious feats of valour performed by this favoured warrior was the first and most wonderful subject of discourse. Then, but at a modest distance, as regards the glory of the achievements related, each peasant told what he had done himself; two or three probably made out their little history together, and told of each other’s valour: that homely and somewhat vulgar Scotch proverb, “you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” was certainly unknown to them, but nevertheless they fully recognized the wise principle of mutual accommodation which that proverb teaches.

“It’s no use talking, but there isn’t one of them able to hold a candle to our M. Henri–is there, Louis? that is, for a downright thundering attack.”

This was said by Jean Stein to two or three of the village girls, by whom he was looked on as a great hero, in consequence of his having gone to the war in spite of his father’s commands, as well as on account of Chapeau’s honourable testimony in his favour; and the man referred to, was one Louis Bourdin, who, as well as Jean, had been of the party who followed Henri through the moat.

“That there is not, Jean; that is, for positive standup fighting; not one. And we ought to know, for we have seen most of ’em. There’s Cathelineau is a very good man at leading on the men.”

“Oh, yes I” said Jean, “Cathelineau is a fine fellow too, and a very holy man; but somehow I don’t think he’s quite so forward as M. Henri. M. Henri is always the first.”

“But doesn’t he get dreadfully knocked about by the guns and bullets?” asked one of the girls.

“He doesn’t matter that a pinch of snuff,” said Louis.

“No, not a pinch of snuff,” said Jean. “Do you mind, Louis, how he leapt off his horse, and dashed through the trenches, that first night at Varin? wasn’t it beautiful?”

“You may say that, Jean,” answered Louis; “it was beautiful. And what a night that was–you were along with him, Jean, and so was Chapeau. M. Henri was up first, I can swear to that; but it would puzzle any one to say who was second.”

“Yourself Louis, was as quick as any one–I marked you well. Indeed then, said I to myself, if all our men are as forward as Louis Bourdin, the village will have a great name before the war is over.”

“But tell me truly now, Louis Bourdin,” said a little girl, who was listening intently all the time, “when you went up into that place, were there real soldiers in armour, with guns and cannon firing at you all the time?”

“Truly then there were, Lolotte, hundreds of them,” said Bourdin.

“Well, that is horrible!” said the girls all at once.

“And do you remember, Jean,” continued Bourdin, “when M. Henri dashed down again, how the traitor rebels hallooed out, ‘Fire upon the red scarf!’ Well, I did think it was all up with him then. You were close to him, Jean; nearer than I am to Lolotte now.”

“And that’s quite near enough,” said Lolotte, giving him a push.

“Why I’m sure I was doing nothing; I was only wanting to show you. Jean Stein there, was, as I was saying, quite close to M. Henri; and as they leapt out of the camp together, twenty voices roared out at once, ‘Fire upon the red scarf! fire upon the red scarf!’ Oh! that was a fearful evening; it was dark then, and the light of the smoking, glaring torches made it five times more horrible. I thought we were as good as dead men then. I’m sure I for one can’t guess how we ever got out alive.”

“And yet, M. Henri wasn’t wounded,” said Jean; “well it was wonderful. After all, General d’Elbée must be right; Providence must give a shake to a rebel’s arm, just as he’s firing, so as to send his bullet anywhere but where it’s meant to go.”

“Yes,” said Bourdin, “and it directs the shot of a royalist right into a rebel’s heart.”

Well, if that be so,” said Lolotte, “I’m sure I for one wouldn’t like to fight on the rebel’s side. They must be wonderful brave men to hold out at all, when Providence goes against them in that way.”

“But they don’t hold out, girl,” said Jean, “they always run away; how they did run, Bourdin, when M. Henri led us into the town, through the broken wall; well, I believe they all thought at that time, the devil himself was coming for them out of the moat.”

“Only think, girls, three or four thousand men running away as fast as their feet could carry them, from two hundred fellows, who hadn’t a charge of dry powder among them, and who were all themselves dripping wet through; well that was fine.”

Jacques Chapeau and Annot Stein had not joined any of these parties; they had disappeared soon after mass, and were not heard of for three or four hours afterwards; they took a long ramble by themselves, down by the mill-stream, and far beyond the mill; sitting down, every now and then among the willows, and then getting up and strolling on a bit further; they did not, this day, waste their time in foolish quarrels and fond reconciliations; but discoursed together, sundry serious matters of important business, as becomes people to do, when they think of arranging a partnership concern, from which each intends to get a comfortable means of living for the remainder of his or her life; upon the whole, they had but very few subjects of difference, and by their return to the smith’s house at supper-time, they had fully agreed that no further time ought to be lost, in establishing a firm under the name of Jacques and Annot Chapeau and Co. The Co. being left to come afterwards or not, as God might please.

After supper was over, Annot had no difficulty in inducing her brothers to leave the house, and thus the coast was left clear for Jacques to ask the father’s consent to his intended marriage. Neither he nor Annot expected much difficulty in persuading Michael to accept of so promising a son-in-law; but they were both determined that if they could not marry with his consent, they would do so without it. So Chapeau lighted his pipe, and sat himself down opposite the smith, and Annot retired to her own little sleeping chamber, where she might conveniently hear what her father and lover said to each other, respecting her intended nuptials.

“Well, Michael Stein, my old friend,” said Jacques; “these are glorious times, are they not? The rebels beaten hollow, till they haven’t a face to shew for themselves, and the King coming to La Vendée, to enjoy his own again; it will be a fine thing to see the King riding into the village of Echanbroignes to thank the gallant peasants, with his own mouth, for what they have done for him!”

“Yes, M. Chapeau! those will be fine times when they come; pray God you, and other young fellows like you, may live to see them; an old fellow like me has little chance of such happiness.”

“And why not, my friend? what is to make those days so far off? I tell you, Michael Stein, the rebels were dead beaten at Saumur; they are scattered like chaff; their very best soldiers are altogether hors de combat; the war is as good as over. We may have to make a little trip or two, just to receive the English, who are coming to help us; we may have to go and meet them on the coast; or perhaps to Parthenay, to ask M. Santerre what he wants in that part of the world; but that is all, literally all; I tell you the rebels are clean beaten.”

“I only wonder then, M. Chapeau, why you want the English to come and help you, if, as you say, you have conquered all the republicans yourselves?”

“Just to pay their respects to the King, and, perhaps, to lend us a hand in driving those Jacobins out of Paris–that’s all. Till that’s done the King is to live at Saumur.”

“To live at Saumur, is he?”

“That’s what those say who know most about it, and you know I’m in the way to know what’s really going forward. He’s to hold his court at Saumur, and Henri Larochejaquelin is to be commandant of the town, and have the command of all the forces there. I tell you, Michael Stein, we, that wear the red scarfs, will not be the worse off then.”

“I hope not; in truth, M. Chapeau, I hope not; though they do say that they be not wise who put their trust in princes.”

“Princes!” said Jacques, “I am not talking of princes, I am talking of the King himself, God bless him!”

“Well, perhaps, that does make a difference; and I say, God bless him too, with all my heart.”

“I suppose you’ve heard, Michael Stein, that our young General, M. Henri, is going to be married?”

“Is he then?” said Michael. “No, truly, I did not hear a word of such a matter; to some grand lady of the court, I suppose?”

“No, but to his own beautiful young cousin, Mademoiselle de Lescure, the sister of our other General, you know.”

“Well, may they be happy, both of them; I mind their fathers well; the old Marquis is still alive, but greatly ailing they tell me. I have much to be thankful for, and I do thank the Lord!” and as he spoke, Michael Stein crossed himself. “Now, I’m as old in a manner as the Marquis himself and yet you see I can still make the big hammer clink on the anvil.”

“Indeed you can, Michael, and better too than many a young fellow. But, as we were saying, here is M. Henri going to be married, and his lady will surely be wanting some nice, tidy, handy, good-looking, smart young woman to be about her, more as a sort of a companion, you know, than a servant; in the same way, you mind, as I am now to M. Henri: now, wouldn’t that be a nice berth for your daughter, Annot Stein?”

As Chapeau described the nice, tidy, smart, pretty young woman, that the future Madame de Larochejaquelin would be sure to require, Annot smoothed down her little apron with both her hands, gave a complaisant glance at her own neat little feet, and her bright holiday shoes, and then listened eagerly for her father’s answer.

“I am sure, M. Chapeau, that Annot Stein is very thankful for your good wishes,” said he, “and so is her father, very thankful; but she has not court-breeding enough for that sort of work; she has never learnt to speak smooth, and say pretty little flattering sayings, such as ladies like to hear. Nor when Madame would be out of sorts and ruffled, as great. ladies will be sometimes, would she know how to say the right word just at the right time; and then Annot has too much of her father’s rough blood, and if Madame scolded at all, it’s ten chances to one, but she would scold again, and that, you know, wouldn’t do. No, M. Chapeau, Annot had better remain as she is, and keep her father’s house, till she marries some honest tradesman, like myself, when these deadly wars be over.”

“Well, but my dear friend,” said Chapeau, “I had another little proposition I wanted to make, which would fit in so well with what I suggested; and I can assure you Madame Henri, that is Mademoiselle de Lescure as she is now, you know, is the softest, sweetest-tempered creature living–she wouldn’t quarrel with any one, much less with such a little angel as your daughter.”

“I’m sure,” said Michael, making a low bow to his guest, and pressing the handle of his pipe to his breast. “I’m sure my daughter will be very thankful for the great interest you take respecting her.”

“But as I was saying, you know, about this other little proposition of mine?”

“Well, M. Chapeau, I’m listening with all my ears, and very thankful for your kind friendship.”

“You see,” said Jacques, “M. Henri is going to change his condition; we’ve both been young fellows together; we’ve had our amusements and our pleasures like other young men, and, maybe, been as fortunate as most. Well, my friend, M. Henri is going to settle down, and marry the girl of his heart, whom he loves better than all the world; and what can I do better than follow his example? The truth is, I mean to settle down too, Michael Stein.”

“Well,” said Michael, scratching his head, and listening for the remainder of Chapeau’s little proposition.

“And I want to marry the girl of my heart, whom I love better than all the world, and her name is Annot Stein, and there’s an end of it; and now you know all about it.”

Annot’s heart beat quickly as she heard him make the last important declaration; and beautifully she thought he made it. When Chapeau called her a little angel, she swore to herself that he was the dearest fellow that ever lived and when he finished by protesting that she was the girl of his heart, and that he loved her better than all the world, she longed to run out and throw her arms about his neck.

Michael Stein took a long pull at his pipe, and blew out a huge cloud of tobacco before he made any answer, and then he said:

“M. Chapeau, I am sensible how great an honour you propose to do me and my poor daughter; but I am not a proud man, no one can say that Michael Stein was ever proud or ambitious; my only wish is to see my little girl married to a decent hard-working fellow, like her father.”