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La Vendée

by Anthony Trollope · English · Gutenberg #5709 · 999,199 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: La Vendée

Author: Anthony Trollope


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #5709]
                Most recently updated: December 3, 2018

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA VENDÉE ***


E-text prepared by Andrew Turek



LA VENDÉE.

An Historical Romance.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE






CONTENTS.

   VOLUME I.

         I. THE POITEVINS.
        II. ST. FLORENT.
       III. DURBELLIÈRE.
        IV. CATHELINEAU.
         V. DE LESCURE.
        VI. RECRUITING.
       VII. SUNDAY IN THE BOCAGE.
      VIII. AGATHA LAROCHEJAQUELIN.
        IX. LE MOUCHOIR ROUGE.
         X. THE BISHOP OF AGRA.


   VOLUME II.

         I. SAUMUR.
        II. COUNCIL OF WAR.
       III. RETURN TO DURBELLIÈRE.
        IV. MICHAEL STEIN.
         V. THE HOSPITAL OF ST. LAURENT.
        VI. COMMISSIONERS OF THE REPUBLIC.
       VII. BATTLE OF AMAILLOU.
      VIII. CLISSON.
        IX. SANTERRE.
         X. THE RESCUE.
        XI. ANNOT STEIN.
       XII. SENTENCE OF DEATH.


   VOLUME III.

         I. ROBESPIERRE'S CHARACTER.
        II. ROBESPIERRE'S LOVE.
       III. THE LAST DAY AT DURBELLIÈRE.
        IV. THE CHAPEL OF GENET.
         V. THE VENDEANS AT ST. FLORENT.
        VI. THE PASSAGE OF THE LOIRE.
       VII. CATHELINEAU'S MOTHER.
      VIII. "WHAT GOOD HAS THE WAR DONE?"
        IX. LA PETITE VENDÉE.
         X. LAVAL.
        XI. DEATH OF ADOLPHE DENOT.
       XII. VENDEAN MARRIAGES.
      XIII. CONCLUSION.





VOLUME I.


CHAPTER I.

THE POITEVINS.

The history of France in 1792 has been too fully written, and too
generally read to leave the novelist any excuse for describing the state
of Paris at the close of the summer of that year. It is known to every
one that the palace of Louis XVI was sacked on the 10th of August. That
he himself with his family took refuge in the National Assembly, and
that he was taken thence to the prison of the Temple.

The doings on the fatal 10th of August, and the few following days had,
however, various effects in Paris, all of which we do not clearly trace
in history. We well know how the Mountain became powerful from that day;
that from that day Marat ceased to shun the light, and Danton to curb
the licence of his tongue that then, patriotism in France began to
totter, and that, from that time, Paris ceased to be a fitting abode for
aught that was virtuous, innocent, or high-minded; but the steady march
of history cannot stop to let us see the various lights in which the
inhabitants of Paris regarded the loss of a King, and the commencement
of the first French Republic.

The Assembly, though it had not contemplated the dethronement of the
King, acquiesced in it; and acted as it would have done, had the
establishment of a republic been decreed by a majority of its members.
The municipality had determined that the King should fall, and, of
course, rejoiced in the success of its work; and history plainly marking
the acquiescence of the Assembly, and the activity of the city powers,
naturally passes over the various feelings excited in different circles
in Paris, by the overthrow of the monarchy.

Up to that period there was still in Paris much that was high, noble,
and delightful. The haute noblesse had generally left the country; but
the haute noblesse did not comprise the better educated, or most social
families in Paris. Never had there been more talent, more wit, or more
beauty in Paris than at the commencement of 1792; never had literary
acquirement been more fully appreciated in society, more absolutely
necessary in those who were ambitious of social popularity.

There were many of this class in Paris who had hitherto watched the
progress of the Revolution with a full reliance in the panacea it was
to afford for human woes; many who had sympathized with the early
demands of the Tiers État; who had rapturously applauded the Tennis
Court oath; who had taken an enthusiastic part in the fête of the Champ
de Mars; men who had taught themselves to believe that sin, and avarice,
and selfishness were about to be banished from the world by the lights
of philosophy; but whom the rancour of the Jacobins, and the furious
licence of the city authorities had now robbed of their golden hopes.
The dethronement of the King, totally severed many such from the
revolutionary party. They found that their high aspirations had been in
vain; that their trust in reason had been misplaced, and that the
experiment to which they had committed themselves had failed; disgusted,
broken-spirited, and betrayed they left the city in crowds, and with few
exceptions, the intellectual circles were broken up.

A few of the immediate friends of the King, a few ladies and gentlemen,
warmly devoted to the family of Louis XVI, remained in Paris. At the
time when the King was first subjected to actual personal restraint, a
few young noblemen and gentlemen had formed themselves into a private
club, and held their sittings in the Rue Vivienne. Their object was to
assist the King in the difficulties with which he was surrounded, and
their immediate aim was to withdraw him from the metropolis; Louis' own
oft-repeated indecision alone prevented them from being successful.
These royalists were chiefly from the province of Poitou, and as their
meetings gradually became known and talked of in Paris, they were called
the Poitevins.

They had among them one or two members of the Assembly, but the club
chiefly consisted of young noblemen attached to the Court, or of
officers in the body-guard of the King; their object, at first, had been
to maintain, undiminished, the power of the throne; but they had long
since forgotten their solicitude for the King's power, in their anxiety
for his safety and personal freedom.

The storming of the Tuilleries, and the imprisonment of Louis,
completely destroyed their body as a club; but the energy of each
separate member was raised to the highest pitch. The Poitevins no longer
met in the Rue Vivienne, but they separated with a determination on the
part of each individual royalist to use every effort to replace the
King.

There were three young men in this club, who were destined to play a
conspicuous part in the great effort about to be made, in a portion of
France, for the restitution of the monarchy; their fathers had lived
within a few miles of each other, and though of different ages, and very
different dispositions, they had come to Paris together since the
commencement of the revolution.

M. de Lescure was a married man, about twenty-seven years of age, of
grave and studious habits, but nevertheless of an active temperament.
He was humane, charitable, and benevolent: his strongest passion was the
love of his fellow-creatures; his pure heart had glowed, at an early
age, with unutterable longings for the benefits promised to the human
race by the school of philosophy from which the revolution originated.
Liberty and fraternity had been with him principles, to have realized
which he would willingly have sacrificed his all; but at the
commencement of the revolution he had seen with horror the successive
encroachments of the lower classes, and from conscience had attached
himself to the Crown. Hitherto he had been without opportunity of
showing the courage for which he was afterwards so conspicuous; he did
not even himself know that he was a brave man; before, however, his
career was ended, he had displayed the chivalry of a Bayard, and
performed the feats of a Duguescin. A perfect man, we are told, would
be a monster; and a certain dry obstinacy of manner, rather than of
purpose, preserved de Lescure from the monstrosity of perfection.
Circumstances decreed that the latter years of his life should be spent
among scenes of bloodshed; that he should be concerned in all the
horrors of civil war; that instruments of death should be familiar to
his hands, and the groans of the dying continually in his ears. But
though the horrors of war were awfully familiar to him, the harshness
of war never became so; he spilt no blood that he could spare, he took
no life that he could save. The cruelty of his enemies was unable to
stifle the humanity of his heart; even a soldier and a servant of the
republic became his friend as soon as he was vanquished.

Two young friends had followed M. de Lescure to Paris--Henri de
Larochejaquelin and Adolphe Denot. The former was the son of the Marquis
de Larochejaquelin, and the heir of an extensive property in Poitou; M.
de Lescure and he were cousins, and the strictest friendship had long
existed between the families. Young Larochejaquelin was of a temperament
very different from that of his friend: he was eager, impetuous,
warm-tempered, and fond of society; but he had formed his principles on
those of M. de Lescure. The love of his fellow-creatures was not with
him the leading passion of his heart, as it was with the other; but
humanity had early been instilled into him as the virtue most necessary
to cultivate, and he consequently fully appreciated and endeavoured to
imitate the philanthropy of his friend.

At the time alluded to, Henri de Larochejaquelin was not quite twenty
years of age. He was a lieutenant in the body-guard immediately attached
to the King's person, and called the "Garde du Roi." At any other
period, he would hardly yet have finished his education, but the
revolution gave a precocious manhood to the rising generation. Henri's
father, moreover, was very old; he had not married till late in life;
and the young Marquis, when he was only seventeen, had to take on
himself the guardianship of his sister Agatha, and the management of the
paternal property. The old man was unable to leave his chair, and though
he still retained his senses, was well pleased to give up to the son of
his old age the rights and privileges which in the course of nature
would descend to him.

Without being absolutely handsome, young Larochejaquelin was of a very
prepossessing appearance. He was tall and robust, well made, and active.
Though he had not attained that breadth of shoulder, and expansion of
chest, which a few years would probably have given him, he had the
perfect use of his limbs, and was full of health and youthful energy;
his eyes were bright, and of a clear blue colour; his hair was light,
and his upper lip could already boast that ornament which the then age,
and his own position made allowable. He was a favourite with all who
knew him--more so even than his friend de Lescure; and it is saying much
in his favour to declare that a year's residence amongst all that was
beautiful and charming in Paris, had hitherto done but little to spoil
him.

Adolphe Denot was an orphan, but also possessed of a fair property in
the province of Poitou. He had, when very young, been left to the
guardianship of the Marquis de La Rochejaquelin, and had at intervals,
during his holidays, and after he had left school, spent much of his
time at Durbellière, the family residence of the La Rochejaquelins.
Henri had of course contracted a close friendship with him; but this
arose more from the position in which they were placed together, than
a similarity of disposition. They were, indeed, very unlike; Adolphe was
somewhat older than the other, but he had neither his manliness of
manner nor strength of character; he was more ambitious to be popular,
without the same capacity of making himself so: he had as much romantic
love of poetical generosity, without the same forgetfulness of self to
enable him to emulate in practice the characters, which he admired in
description; he had much veneration for poetic virtue, though but little
strength to accomplish practical excellence. He had, on leaving school,
proclaimed himself to be an ardent admirer of Rousseau; he had been a
warm partizan of the revolution, and had displayed a most devoted
enthusiasm to his country at the fête of the Champ de Mars. Latterly,
however, the circles which he mostly frequented in Paris had voted
strong revolutionary ardour to be mauvais ton; a kind of modulated
royalism, or rather Louis Seizeism, had become fashionable; and Adolphe
Denot was not the man to remain wilfully out of the fashion. On the 10th
of August, he was a staunch supporter of the monarchy.

Adolphe Denot was a much handsomer man than his friend; his features
were better formed, and more regular; he had beautifully white teeth,
an almost feminine mouth, a straight Grecian nose, and delicately small
hands and feet; but he was vain of his person, and ostentatious; fond
of dress and of jewellery. He was, moreover, suspicious of neglect, and
vindictive when neglected; querulous of others, and intolerant of
reproof himself; exigeant among men, and more than politely flattering
among women. He was not, however, without talent, and a kind of poetic
fecundity of language, which occasionally made him brilliant in society;
it was, however, generally speaking, those who knew him least who liked
him best.

Larochejaquelin, however, was always true to him; he knew that he was
an orphan, without brother, sister, or relatives, and with the devotion
of a real friend, he overlooked all his faults, and greatly magnified
his talents. For Henri's sake, M. de Lescure tolerated him, and the
three were therefore much together; they came from the same country;
they belonged to the same club; they had the same political sympathies;
and were looked upon as dear and stedfast friends.

On the 10th of August, the King left the Tuilleries, and took refuge in
the National Assembly; during the greater part of the night he remained
there with his family. Early on the following morning, he was removed,
under a guard, to the Feuillants; and on the 12th it was decided that
he should be confined in the prison of the Temple.

It was on the morning of the 12th, that the last meeting of the little
club of the Poitevins took place.

They met with throbbing hearts and blank faces; they all felt that evil
days had come that the Revolution which had been so petted and caressed
by the best and fairest in France, had become a beast of prey, and that
war, anarchy, and misrule were at hand.

They sat waiting on the morning of the 12th, till they should learn the
decision of the Assembly with regard to the King. De Lescure was there
calm and grave, but with much melancholy in his countenance.

Larochejaquelin was there. Hot and eager, whispering plans for rescuing
the King, to which the less resolute hardly dared to listen. Charette,
the Prince de Talmont, d'Autachamps, Fleuriot, and others, all of whom
now detested the Revolution, though they could not but feel the danger
of proclaiming themselves royalists.

"Denot will be here directly," said La Rochejaquelin; "he is at the
Assembly--they are not apt to be very tedious in their decisions."

"Danton has openly declared," said Fleuriot, "that the armed sections
shall remain in revolt, unless the Assembly decree the abolition of the
monarchy."

"Lafayette," said the Prince, "is the only man now who could save the
country--if Lafayette will move, he might still save the throne."

"He could do nothing," said d'Autachamps, "but add himself to the
ruins--the regiments, to a man, would side with the populace."

"I don't know," said Larochejaquelin, "I don't think so. See how our
Swiss fought--could any men be more true to their officers or their
colours? and do you think there are not thousands in the French army as
true, as brave as they? If Lafayette would raise his hand, I for one
would join him."

"Wait, Henri, wait," said de Lescure, "wait till you know whether
Lafayette and the army will really be wanting to save the King. If
Roland be still firm, and Vergniaud true to his principles, they may
still quell the fury of the Jacobins--the moderate party has still a
large majority in the Assembly."

"Roland and Vergniaud are both true," said Fleuriot, "but you will find,
de Lescure, that they can do nothing but yield or go--they must vanish
out of the Assembly and become nothing--or else they must go with the
people."

"The people! How I hate that phrase, in the sense in which it is now
used," said Larochejaquelin. "A mob of blood-thirsty ruffians wishes to
overturn the throne--but what evidence have we that the people wish it."

"The people, Henri, have been taught to wish it," said de Lescure.

"No, Charles, the people of France have not been taught to wish it--with
all the teaching they have had, they do not wish it--have they shewn any
favour to the new priests whom the Revolution has sent to them; do they
love much the Commissioners, who from time to time, come among them with
the orders of the Assembly. Do the people in the Bocage wish it?--do
they wish it in the Marais, Charette?--do they wish it in Anjou and
Brittany? Danton, Robespierre, and Tallien wish it--the mob of Paris
wishes it--but the people of France does not wish to depose their King."

"But unfortunately," said d'Autachamps, "it is Danton, Robespierre, and
the mob of Paris who have now the supreme power, and for a time will
have their way--they who are wise will lie by till the storm has blown
over."

"And are we to remain quiet while we are robbed of every thing which we
esteem as holy?" said Larochejaquelin; "are we all to acquiesce in the
brutality of such men as Danton, for fear the mob of Paris should be too
strong for us?"

"I for one, will not!" said Charette.

"Nor I," said Larochejaquelin--"not while I have a sword to draw, and an
arm to use it. You are silent, Charles--is a Republic so much to your
mind, that you have not a word, or even a wish for your King?"

"You are too talkative, Henri," replied the other; "will it not be well
to think a little first before we proclaim definitively what we mean to
do? We do not even know as yet in what position Louis XVI. may find
himself tomorrow--he may be more firmly seated on his throne than he has
been at any time since the Three Estates first met at Versailles."

As he ceased speaking, the door opened, and Adolphe Denot entered, hot
with walking fast, and with his whole dress disordered by pushing
through the dense masses of the crowd.

"Speak, Adolphe," said Henri, "have they decreed--has it come to the
vote?"

"Are they still sitting?" said Fleuriot; "Danton, I am sure would not
have yielded so soon as this:--if the chamber be closed, he must have
been victorious."

"The King," said Denot, pausing for breath, "the King is to be taken to
the Temple!"

There was a momentary silence among them all--their worst fears had been
realized--the brute force of Paris had been triumphant. The firmness of
Roland, the eloquence of Vergniaud, the patriotism of Guadet had been
of no avail. The King of France--the heir of so long a line of
royalty--the King, who had discarded the vices of his predecessors, and
proved himself the friend of the people, was to be incarcerated in the
worst prison in Paris by the vote of that very Assembly which he had
himself called into existence.

"He is to be confined in the Temple," continued Denot, "with the Queen
and the two children. The populace are mad; they would kill him, if they
could lay their hands on him."

"Where are your hopes now, Charles?" said Larochejaquelin. "Is it yet
time for us to proclaim what we are--is it yet time for us to move? or
are we to set still, until Danton enrolls us in his list of suspected
persons?"

No one immediately answered the appeal of the hot young loyalist, and
after a moment or two de Lescure spoke.

"Adolphe, did you hear the words of the decree?"

"Again and again," said Denot. "I was at the door of the Assembly, and
the decree was known to the crowd the moment the votes had been taken."

"But did you hear the exact words?"

"That Louis and his family should be imprisoned in the Temple," answered
Denot.

"Did they say the King, or did they call him by his name?" asked de
Lescure again. "Did they decree that the King should be imprisoned, or
Louis Capet?"

As he spoke, the door again opened, and another member, who had been
among the crowd, entered the room.

"Gentlemen," said he, "allow me the honour to congratulate you. Yon do
not know your own happiness. You are no longer the burdened slaves of
an effete monarchy; you are now the vigorous children of a young
Republic."

"Vive le Roi, quand même," said Larochejaquelin, standing up in the
middle of the room. "I am glad they have so plainly declared themselves;
we are driven now to do the same. Prince, now is the time to stand by
our King. Charette, your hand; our dreams must now be accomplished. You
will doubt no longer, Charles. Prudence herself would now feel that we
have no longer aught to wait for."

"No--we must delay no longer," said Adolphe Denot. "A King is to be
saved; every hour of delay is an hour of treason, while the King is in
the hands of his enemies."

"A fine sentiment, Denot," said d'Autachamps; "but how will you avoid
the treason?--how do you purpose to rescue his Majesty?"

"With my sword," said Adolphe, turning round shortly. "Do you doubt my
will?"

"We only doubt your power, Adolphe," said de Lescure. "We only fear you
may not be able to raise the standard of revolt against the armed
sections of all Paris, backed by a decree of the Assembly."

"I can at any rate die in the attempt," replied Denot. "I cannot draw
the breath of life from the atmosphere of a Republic! I will not live
by the permission of Messieurs Danton and Robespierre."

"Whatever we do," said Fleuriot, "the club must be given up. We are
known to be friendly to the King, and we are too weak to stand our
ground; indeed, we should only incur useless danger by meeting here."

"And waste the time which we may well employ in the provinces," said
Charette.

"You are right, Charette," said Rochejaquelin, whom the wildness of his
friend Denot had a little sobered. "You are quite right--Paris is no
longer a place for us. I will go back to the Bocage; there, at least,
I may own among my neighbours that I am not a republican; there,
perhaps, I may make some effort for my King--here I can make none. You
will not stay in Paris, Charles, to hear unwashed revolutionists clatter
of Louis Capet?"

"No, Henri, I also will return home. Charette is right. We should but
waste our time in Paris, and be in danger. We shall probably be in
safety in Poitou."

"Perhaps not in safety," said Henri. "We may, I trust, soon be in
action."

"How in action?" said Fleuriot. "What do you intend to do?"

"To follow any one who will lead me to assist in restoring the King to
his throne," replied Henri. "Let us, at any rate, retire to our
provinces; and be assured that the National Assembly will soon hear of
us."

The club was broken up; the young friends met no more in the Rue
Vivienne. Within a week from the 10th of August, the denizens of the
municipality had searched the rooms for any relics which might be
discovered there indicatory of a feeling inimical to the Republic; their
residences also were searched, and there were orders at the barriers
that they should not pass out; but the future Vendean leaders had too
quickly appreciated the signs of the time; they had gone before the
revolutionary tribunal had had time to form itself. They were gone, and
their names for a season were forgotten in Paris; but Henri
Rochejaquelin was right--before long, the National Assembly did hear of
them; before twelve months had passed, they were more feared by the
Republic, than the allied forces of England, Austria, and Prussia.



CHAPTER II.

ST. FLORENT.

Nothing occurred in the provinces, subsequently called La Vendée, during
the autumn or winter of 1792 of sufficient notice to claim a place in
history, but during that time the feelings which afterwards occasioned
the revolt in that country, were every day becoming more ardent. The
people obstinately refused to attend the churches to which the
constitutional clergy had been appointed; indeed, these pastors had
found it all but impossible to live in the parishes assigned to them;
no one would take them as tenants; no servants would live with them; the
bakers and grocers would not deal with them; the tailors would not make
their clothes for them, nor the shoemakers shoes. During the week they
were debarred from all worldly commerce, and on Sundays they performed
their religious ceremonies between empty walls.

The banished priests, on the other hand, who were strictly forbidden to
perform any of the sacerdotal duties, continued among the trees and
rocks to collect their own congregations undiminished in number, and
much more than ordinarily zealous, in their religious duties; and with
the licence which such sylvan chapels were found to foster,
denunciations against the Republic, and prayers for the speedy
restoration of the monarchy, were mingled with the sacred observances.

The execution of Louis, in January, 1793, greatly increased the
attachment which was now felt in this locality to his family. In Nantes
and Angers, in Saumur, Thouars, and other towns in which the presence
of Republican forces commanded the adhesion of the inhabitants this
event was commemorated by illuminations, but this very show of joy at
so cruel a murder, more than the murder itself, acerbated the feelings
both of the gentry and the peasants. They were given to understand that
those who wished well to their country were now expected to show some
sign of gratitude for what the blessed revolution had done for
them--that those who desired to stand well with the Republic should
rejoice openly at their deliverance from thraldom. In fact, those who
lived in large towns, and who would not illuminate, were to be marked
men--marked as secret friends to the monarchy--as inveterate foes to the
Republic--and they were told that they were to be treated accordingly.
Men then began to congregate in numbers round the churches, and in the
village squares, and to ask each other whether they had better not act
as enemies, if they were to be considered as enemies; to complain of
their increasing poverty and diminished comfort; and to long for the
coming time, when the King should enjoy his own again.

The feeling with the country gentry was very generally the same as with
the peasantry, though hitherto they had openly expressed no opposition
to the ruling Government. They had, however, been always elected to
those situations which the leaders of the revolution had wished the
people to fill exclusively with persons from their own ranks. They were
chosen as mayors in the small towns, and were always requested to act
as officers in the corps of the National Guards, which were formed in
this, as in every other district of France. On this account the peculiar
ill-will of the Republican Government was directed against them. In
France, at that time, political inactivity was an impossibility. Revolt
against the Republic, or active participation in its measures, was the
only choice left to those who did not choose to fly their country, and
many of the seigneurs of Anjou and Poitou would not adopt the latter
alternative.

In March, the Commissaries of the Republic entered these provinces to
collect from that district, its portion towards the levy of three
hundred thousand men which had been ordered by the Convention. This was
an intolerable grievance--it was not to be borne, that so many of their
youths should be forcibly dragged away to fight the battles of the
Republic--battles in which they would rather that the Republic should
be worsted. Besides, every one would lose a relative, a friend, or a
lover; the decree affected every individual in the district. The
peasants declared that they would not obey the orders of the
Convention--that they would not fight the battles of the Republic.

This was the commencement of the revolt. The troops of the Republic
were, of course, put in motion to assist the officers who were entrusted
with the carrying out of the conscription. There were garrisons in
Nantes, in Anjou, and in Saumur; and detachments from these places were
sent into the smaller towns and villages, into every mayoralty, to
enforce the collection of the levy, and to take off with them the
victims of the conscription. Among other places, an attempt was made to
carry out the new law at St. Florent, and at this place was made the
first successful resistance, by an armed force, to the troops of the
Convention.

St. Florent is a small town on the south bank of the Loire, in the
province of Anjou, and at the northern extremity of that district, now
so well known by the name of La Vendée. It boasted of a weekly market,
a few granaries for the storing of corn, and four yearly fairs for the
sale of cattle. Its population and trade, at the commencement of the
war, was hardly sufficient to entitle it to the name of a town; but it
had early acquired some celebrity as a place in which the Republic was
known to be very unpopular, and in which the attachment of the people
to the throne was peculiarly warm.

Here the work of the conscription was commenced in silence. The lists
were filled, and the names were drawn. No opposition was shown to the
employés in this portion of their unpopular work. Indeed, it appears
that no organized system of opposition had been planned; but the first
attempt that was made to collect the unfortunate recruits upon whom the
lots had fallen, was the signal for a general revolt. The first name on
the list was that of Peter Berrier; and had Peter Berrier intended to
prove himself a good citizen and a willing soldier, he should, without
further call, have attended that day at the temporary barracks which had
been established in St. Florent. But he had not done so, and there was
nothing wonderful or unusual in this; for on all occasions of the kind
many of the conscripts had to be sought out, and brought forth from the
bosoms of their families, to which they retired, with a bashful
diffidence as to their own peculiar fitness for martial glory. But in
this instance not one of the chosen warriors obeyed the summons of the
Convention, by attending at the barracks of St. Florent. Not one of the
three hundred thousand men was there; and it was soon apparent to the
colonel in command of the detachment, that he had before him the
unpleasant duty of collecting one by one, from their different
hiding-places, the whole contingent which the town of St. Florent was
bound to supply.

Peter Berrier was the first on the list, and as it was well known that
he was an ostler at a little auberge in the middle of the square, a
corporal and a couple of soldiers was despatched to the house of
entertainment to capture him; and the trio soon found that they would
not have far to search, for Peter was standing at the gate of the inn
yard, and with him three or four of his acquaintance--men equally
well-known in St. Florent.

There was a sturdy farmer there of the better sort--a man who not only
held a farm near the town, but had a small shop within it, for the sale
of seeds and tools for planting--his name was Foret--and it was said
that no man in St. Florent was more anxious for the restoration of the
King. There was the keeper of the auberge himself, who seemed but little
inclined to find fault with his servant, for the contumacious manner in
which he treated the commands of the Convention; and there was the
well-known postillion of St. Florent, the crack of whose whip was so
welcome from Angers to Nantes, the sound of whose cheery voice was so
warmly greeted at every hostelrie between those towns. The name of
Cathelineau was not then so well known as it was some six months
afterwards, but even then Cathelineau, the postillion, was the most
popular man in St. Florent. He was the merriest among the mirthful, the
friend of every child, the playmate of every lass in the town; but he
was the comforter of those poorer than himself, and the solace of the
aged and afflicted. He was the friend of the banished priest, and the
trusted messenger of the royalist seigneur; all classes adored him, save
those who sided with the Republic, and by them he had long been looked
on as an open and declared enemy. St. Florent was justly proud of its
postillion; and now that evil days were come upon the little town, that
their priests were banished, and these young men called for to swell the
armies of the hated Convention, many flocked to Cathelineau to ask from
whence he expected deliverance from all their troubles.

It was well known that Peter Berrier was the first whom the Colonel's
myrmidons would be sent to seize, and many eyes were resting on the
group collected at the gateway of the auberge, as the corporal and the
two soldiers, without their muskets, but with pistols at their belts,
marched across from the little barracks to the spot where they were
standing. At any rate, Cathelineau had not advised a retreat, for there
stood Peter Berrier--prominent in the front of the group--a little pale
to be sure, and perhaps rather uneasy in his attitude; but still
evidently prepared to bear the brunt of that day's proceeding. He was
not going to run away, or he would long since have started. He was not
going to obey the orders of the Convention, or he would not have stood
there so openly and firmly, waiting the approach of the corporal and the
two soldiers. It was very evident that there was to be a row in St.
Florent that day, and that the postillion approved of it.

As the military party drew near to the gate of the inn yard, the
corporal opened a small roll of paper, which he held in his hand, and
standing still about six paces distant from the spot where Peter was
maintaining his ground, read or pretended to read, the following words
from the piece of paper which he held in his hands:

"In the name of the French Republic, and by command of the Convention,
you, Peter Berrier, having been duly, legally, and specially drawn,
chosen, and selected by lot, to serve in the armies of the Republic for
one year, from the date of your first bearing arms, or for so long as
your services may be necessary to the security of the Republic, are
hereby required and desired to join the detachment of the Republican
army at present serving in St. Florent, without let, delay, or
hindrance, and thereby show yourself a friend to your country, and a
good citizen of the Republic."

The corporal pronounced this form of invitation in that tone of voice,
which proved that it was very familiar to him, and that he was much in
the habit of requesting good citizens to join the armies of the Republic
for such time as their services might be necessary; and, having finished
it, he rolled up the piece of paper, stuck it into his belt, as he might
soon require the use of his hands, and, walking quite close up to the
group, said--

"Come, Peter Berrier, you are not such a fool, I hope, as to intend
giving us any trouble. Come along."

Peter looked first into the farmer's face; then to his master's; and,
lastly, to the postillion's; and, seeing that they were all evidently
firm in their resolve, he plucked up spirit, and replied.--"Why, Mr
Corporal, I have no inclination just at present to go to fight for the
Republic. You see I have no quarrel yet with my master here, M. Debedin,
and he cannot well spare me. I am afraid, Mr Corporal, I must decline."

"That's nonsense, you know," growled the corporal; "you must come, you
know; and as well first as last. I don't want to be uncivil to a
comrade, and I'd be sorry to have to lay a hand on you."

"Then you'd better keep your hands off," said Cathelineau, "we quiet
people in St. Florent don't bear handling well."

The corporal looked up at the postillion, but he soon saw that he wasn't
joking.

"Take my word for it, my friend," continued Cathelineau, "Peter Berrier
does not wish to be a soldier, and, if you force him to become one, it
is not on the side of the Republic that he will be found fighting."

"We'll take chances for that," replied the corporal, not exactly
understanding what the other meant; "at any rate, back without him we
won't go; and if you're determined for a riot, Messieurs, why I'm sorry;
but I can't help it," and, appealing to Peter as a last hope, he said,
"Come, Berrier, will you come with us quietly, or must we three drag you
across the square to the barracks."

"At any rate, Mr Corporal," said Peter, "I will not go with you quietly;
as to the being dragged, I can say nothing about that yet."

The corporal looked round towards the barracks, as he felt that it was
possible that he might want more assistance, and he saw that a body of
men under arms was standing immediately in front of the building, and
that a couple of the officers were with them. The corporal saw at a
glance that they were ready for immediate action, if their services
should be requisite. In fact, the colonel of the detachment well knew
the feeling in the place with reference to the levies of the
conscription. He was sure, from the fact of not a single man having
attended at the barracks, as directed, that there existed some general
determination to resist the demands of the Convention, and he had
consequently closely watched the proceedings of the corporal.

"Take your answer, Mr Corporal," said Cathelineau: "had Peter Berrier
intended to have joined you he would not have troubled you to come
across the square to fetch him. In one word, he will not go with you;
if as you say, you intend to drag him across the market-place, you will
find that you have enough to do. Peter Berrier has many friends in St.
Florent."

The corporal again looked round, and he saw that the men under arms now
stretched from the front of the barracks, nearly into the square; but
he also saw that the inhabitants of the town were standing clustering
at all the doors, and that men were crowding towards the square from the
different inlets. Four or five of the more respectable inhabitants had
also joined the group in the gateway, from the hands of one of whom the
postillion quietly took a stout ash stick. The corporal, however, was
not a coward, and he saw that, if he intended to return with Peter
Berrier, he should not delay his work with any further parley, so he
took his pistol from his belt and cocked it, and, stepping quite close
to Berrier, said,

"Come men--forward, and bring him off; one man to each shoulder," and
he himself seized hold of the breast of Peter's coat with his left hand
and pulled him forward a step or two.

Peter was a little afraid of the pistol, but still he resisted manfully:
from the corporal's position, Cathelineau was unable to reach with his
stick the arm which had laid hold of Berrier, but it descended heavily
on the first soldier, who came to the corporal's assistance. The blow
fell directly across the man's wrist, and his arm dropt powerless to his
side. The corporal immediately released his hold of Peter's coat, and
turning on Cathelineau raised his pistol and fired; the shot missed the
postillion, but it struck M. Debedin, the keeper of the auberge, and
wounded him severely in the jaw. He was taken at once into the house,
and the report was instantaneously spread through the town, that M.
Debedin had been shot dead by the soldiery.

The ash stick of the postillion was again raised, and this time the
corporal's head was the sufferer; the man's shako protected his skull,
which, if uncovered, would have probably been fractured; but he was
half-stunned, at any rate stupified by the blow, and was pulled about
and pushed from one to another by the crowd who had now collected in the
archway, without making any further attempt to carry off his prisoner.

The other soldier, when he saw his two comrades struck, fired his pistol
also, and wounded some other person in the crowd. He then attempted to
make his escape back towards the barracks, but he was tripped up
violently as he attempted to run, and fell on his face on the pavement.
The unfortunate trio were finally made prisoners of; they were disarmed,
their hands bound together, and then left under a strong guard in the
cow-house attached to the auberge.

This skirmish, in which Berrier was so successfully rescued, occurred
with greater rapidity than it has been recounted; for, as soon as the
colonel heard the first shot fired, he ordered his men to advance in a
trot across the square. It took some little time for him to give his
orders to the lieutenants, and for the lieutenants to put the men into
motion; but within five minutes from the time that the first shot was
fired, about forty men had been commanded to halt in front of the hotel;
they all had their muskets in their hands and their bayonets fixed, and
as soon as they halted a portion of them were wheeled round, so that the
whole body formed a square. By this time, however, the corporal and the
two soldiers were out of sight, and so was also Peter Berrier, for
Cathelineau considered that now as the man had withstood the first
shock, and had resolutely and manfully refused to comply with the order
of the Convention, it was better that he should be out of the way, and
that the brunt of the battle should be borne by his friends. Peter was
consequently placed in the cow-house with the captives, and had the
gratification of acting as guard over the three first prisoners taken
in the Vendean war.

Cathelineau and Foret, however, stood out prominently before the men who
were collected before the auberge, and had already taken on themselves
the dangerous honour of leading the revolt.

"Men of St. Florent," said the colonel addressing the crowd, "I am most
reluctant to order the soldiers to fire upon the inhabitants of the
town; but unless you at once restore the three men who were sent over
here on duty, and give up the man, Peter Berrier, who has been drawn as
a conscript, I will do so at once."

"Peter Berrier is a free man," said Foret, "and declines going with you;
and as for your three soldiers, they have fired at and killed or wounded
two inhabitants of the town--they at any rate shall be brought before
the mayor, before they are given up."

"Sergeant," said the colonel, "take out six men and make prisoner that
man; if a rescue be attempted, the soldiers shall at once fire on the
people, and on your own heads be your own blood."

The sergeant and the six men instantly stepped out, but Foret was
surrounded by a dense crowd of friends, and the soldiers found it
utterly impossible to lay hold of him.

"Your pistols, sergeant; use your pistols," roared the colonel, as he
himself drew one of his own from his holsters, and at the same time gave
orders to the men in the ranks to present their pieces.

The sergeant followed by his six men, made a desperate dash into the
crowd with the object of getting hold of Foret; but in spite of the
butt-end of their pistols, with which the soldiers laid about them, they
found themselves overpowered, and were barely able to make good their
retreat to the main body of the detachment; at the same time, a volley
of stones, brickbats and rough missiles of all kinds, descended on the
soldiers from every side, for they were now nearly surrounded; a stone
struck the Colonel's horse and made him rear: immediately afterwards,
another stone struck himself on the side of the face, and nearly
dismounted him.

"Fire," roared the Colonel, and the whole detachment fired at the same
moment; the soldiers fronting the auberge could not fire into the mob
directly before them, or they would have run the risk of killing their
own comrades, who were still struggling there with the townspeople; and
in this way, Cathelineau and Foret were saved, but the carnage all
around them was horrid; the soldiers had fired point blank into the
dense crowd, and not a bullet had fallen idle to the ground. A terrible
scream followed the discharge of musketry; the dying and the wounded
literally covered the space round the soldiers, but they were quickly
dragged into the back ground, and their places filled by men who were
evidently determined that they would not easily be conquered.

Another volley of stones was soon showered on the soldiers, and this was
kept up with wonderful activity--the women and children supplied the men
with the materials--the stones in the streets were at once picked
up--old walls were pulled down--every article that would answer for a
missile was brought into use; an iron pot, which had been flung with
immense violence by the handle, struck the second officer in command in
the face, and dashed his brains out. Immediately that either part of the
square battalion was in any confusion, the people dashed in, and
attempted to force the muskets from the hands of the soldiers; in some
cases they were successful, and before the body had commenced a retreat,
Foret and Cathelineau were both armed with a musket and bayonet.

The colonel now saw that he could not maintain his position where he
was; he had not brought out with him the whole force of the garrison,
though in all he had not above seventy or eighty men; but he had behind
the barrack a gun of very large calibre, properly mounted, with all the
necessary equipments and ready for service. Such a piece of artillery
accompanied every detachment, and was kept in preparation for immediate
use at every military station; it had already been ascertained that this
afforded the readiest means of putting down revolt. He resolved,
therefore, on retreating while he had the power for doing so, and gave
the necessary orders to the men.

With great difficulty, but slowly and steadily, his men executed them:
amidst showers of stones, and the now determined attack of the people
the soldiers returned to the barracks, leaving one of their officers,
and one other man dead in the crowd; many of them were severely wounded;
few, if any, had escaped some bruise or cut. The people now conceived
that they were going to take refuge in the barrack, and determined to
drive them utterly out of the town; but, as soon as the soldiers had
filed into the barrack yard, another murderous fire was discharged by
those who had been left at the station. Then Cathelineau, who was still
in front of the crowd, and who was now armed with the bayonet, which he
had taken from the point of the musket, remembered the cannon, and he
became for a moment pale as he thought of the dreadful slaughter which
would take place, if the colonel were able to effect his purpose of
playing it upon the town.

"The cannon!" whispered he to Foret, who was still at his side; "they
will fall like leaves in autumn, if we don't prevent it."

"Have they it ready?" said Foret.

"Always," said the other, "they have nothing to do but wheel it into the
street; and they are at it, you hear the noise of the wheels this
moment. We must bear one discharge from it, and the next, if there be
a second, shall fall upon the soldiers."

Others, beside Cathelineau, recognised the sound of the moving
wheels--and, "the cannon, the cannon, they will fire the cannon on us,"
was heard from side to side among the crowd; but none attempted to run,
not one of the whole mass attempted to fly, and when the barrack gates
flew open, and the deadly mouth of the huge instrument was close upon
them, they rushed upon it, determined at any rate, to preserve their
houses, their wives, and their children from the awful destruction of
a prolonged firing.

"They must have one shot at us," said a man in a trembling whisper to
his neighbour. "God send it were over!" replied the other, as the gates
of the barrack-yard were thrown back.

The greater number of the soldiers and the two officers who had returned
with them, made good their retreat into the barracks, under the fire of
their comrades, who had been left there. Some three or four had been
pulled and hustled into the crowd, and their arms were quickly taken
from them and they were sent back to the auberge as prisoners. The
colonel, as soon as he found himself in his own quarters, gave immediate
orders that the gun should be wheeled round to the barrack-yard gate,
which had hitherto been kept closed, and that the moment the gates could
be got open it should be fired on the crowd. These gates faced directly
into the square, and the destruction caused by one shot would have been
tremendous. The colonel, moreover, calculated that in the confusion he
would have been able to reload. The gun, in its original position, was
pointed on the town, but it was immediately seen, that without moving
it, it could not be brought to bear upon the crowd congregated round the
barracks.

The first attack of the crowd had been at the barrack door, through
which the soldiers had retreated; but this was soon changed to the yard
gates. The people, however, were unable to knock them down before the
wheels of the cannon were heard, as they had been considerably checked
by the fire of the reserved party. Both soldiers and towns-people were
now anxious to face each other, and the gates soon fell inwards towards
the military. Had the men at the gun had their wits about them they
would have fired through the gates; but they did not, they waited till
they fell inwards across the cannon's mouth, and in his confusion the
artillery-sergeant even then hesitated before he put the light to the
touch-hole.

He had never time to do more than hesitate. Cathelineau had been close
up to the wooden gates, against which he was so closely pressed that he
was hardly able to change his bayonet from his right to his left-hand,
and to cock the pistol which he had taken from the corporal, who had
commenced the day's work. However, he contrived to do so, and when the
wood-work fell, he sprang forward, and though he stumbled over the
fragments of the timber, he fired as he did so, and the artillery
sergeant fell dead beside the cannon; the unextinguished light was
immediately seized by his comrade, but he had not time to use it; it was
knocked from his hand before it was well raised from the ground, and the
harmless piece of cannon was soon entirely surrounded by crowds of the
townspeople. They were not content with spiking it in such a way as to
make it utterly impossible that it should be discharged; but they
succeeded in turning it entirely round, so that the back of the carriage
faced towards the town.

The soldiers still continued the fight within the barrack-yard, and from
the barrack windows; but they were so completely mixed with the
townspeople, that the officers were afraid to order the men to fire from
the windows, least they should kill their own comrades. At last the
colonel himself was taken prisoner; he was literally dragged out of one
of the windows by the people, and soon afterwards the remainder of the
troops gave up. One of the three officers and six men were killed; the
rest were nearly all more or less wounded, and were all, without
exception, made prisoners of war.

Cathelineau and Foret had been in front of the battle all through; but
neither of them were wounded. It was to Foret that the colonel had given
up his sword, after he had been dragged headforemost through a window,
had had his head cut open with a brick-bat, and his sheath and
sword-belt literally torn from his side. He had certainly not
capitulated before he was obliged to do, and the people did not like him
the worse for it.

And now the unarmed soldiery, maimed and lame, with broken heads and
bloody faces, were led down in triumph into the square; and after them
was brought the great trophy of the day, the cannon, with its awful
mouth still turned away from the town. Cathelineau and Foret led the
procession, the former still carrying his bayonet, for he had given up
both the musket and pistols to some one else, and Foret armed with the
Colonel's sword: they were fully recognized as the victorious leaders
of the day.

At the bottom of the square they met a whole concourse of women, the
wives and sisters of the champions--among whom the sister and sweetheart
of Peter Berrier were conspicuous; they had come out to thank the
townspeople for what they had done for them. With the women were two of
the old curés of that and a neighbouring parish--pastors whom the decree
of the Convention had banished from their own churches, but whom all the
powers of the Convention had been unable to silence. To them this day's
battle was a most acceptable sign of better days coming; they foresaw
a succession of future victories on behalf of the people, which would
surely end in the restoration of the Bourbons to the throne, and of the
clergy to their churches. The curés shook hands warmly with those in the
front ranks of the people, gave their blessing to Cathelineau and Foret,
and then invited the people, with one accord, to give thanks to God for
the great success which He had given them.

In one moment the whole crowd were on their knees in the market-place,
while the two priests stood among them with their arms raised, uttering
thanksgiving to the Lord for his mercy, and praying for the eternal
welfare of those who had fallen in the affray. The soldiers of the
republic found themselves standing alone as prisoners in the midst of
the kneeling crowd; they looked awkward and confused enough, but they
could not help themselves; they could not have escaped, even if they had
been unanimous in attempting to do so; for they were unarmed, and the
people knelt so closely round them, that they could hardly move. It was
out of the question that they should also kneel, and join in the
thanksgiving for having been so utterly beaten; so there they stood,
their wounds stiffening and their blood running, till the priests had
finished, and the people had risen.

And then another ceremony was performed; the priests were besought to
come and bless the cannon, the first great trophy of the Royalist
insurrection; and they did so. The cannon was a lucky cannon, a kind
cannon, and a good cannon--a bon enfant, and worthy to be blessed; it
had refused to pour forth its murderous fire against the inhabitants of
a town that was so friendly to the King. It was decidedly a royalist
cannon; it had very plainly declared the side it meant to take; nothing
but miraculous interference on its own part could have prevented its
having been discharged on he people, when it stood ready pointed on the
town, with the torch absolutely glimmering at the touch-hole. It had
been brought to St. Florent by republican soldiers, dragged by
republican horses, and loaded with republican gunpowder; but it should
never be used except in the service of the King, and against the enemies
of the throne.

And so the priests blessed the cannon, and the people baptized it, and
called it Marie-Jeanne, and the women brought out their little children,
and sat them straddle-legged across it, whole rows of them at the same
time, till the cannon looked like a huge bunch of grapes on which the
fruit clustered thickly. By this time it was dark, and the people
lighted huge bonfires through the town, and the children remained up,
and as many as could cling on it still sat upon the cannon, and ropes
were got and fastened to it, and all the girls of St. Florent dragged
Marie-Jeanne round the town, and at last she was dragged into the yard
of the auberge, in front of which the fight had commenced, and there she
was left for the night, under a strong guard.

While these rejoicings were going on out of doors, Cathelineau and
Forte, the two priests, and a few others--the wise men of the town--were
collected together within the auberge, and were consulting as to their
future proceedings.

"We have done much," said Cathelineau, "and I rejoice at it. Too much,
a great deal, for us now to remain idle. We cannot go back. We are now
the enemies of the Republic, and we must attack our enemies elsewhere,
or they will attack and overwhelm us in our little town."

They then determined that Cathelineau, on the next morning, should
address the people from the window of the market-place, and that
afterwards he and Forte should go through the neighbouring country and
implore the assistance of the people, of the gentry, the priests, the
farmers, and the peasants, in opposing the hated levy of the Republican
forces; but first they would go to the gentry, and the names of many
were mentioned whom it was thought would be sure to join them. The first
was that of Henri de Larochejaquelin, and the next that of his friend
M. de Lescure. Who loved the people so well as they, and whom did the
people love so truly? Yes, they would call on young Larochejaquelin and
his friend to be their leaders.

Early on the morrow, the postillion addressed the people from the
market-place. He did not seek to himself the honour of doing so, nor,
when he was asked to come forward as the leader of the people, did he
refuse to do so. He was not covetous of the honour, but he would not
refuse the danger. During the whole of the combat every one had looked
to him as to the leader. He had not constituted himself the people's
general, he had not for a moment thought of assuming the position; but
he as little thought of refusing the danger or the responsibility, when
the duties of a general seemed, by the will of all, to fall to his lot.

"Friends," said he, addressing them from the market-house, "we have
saved ourselves for a while from the grasp of the Republic. But for the
battle of yesterday, every one here would have a brother, a son, or a
cousin, now enrolled as a conscript in the army of the Convention. Many
of yourselves would have been conscripts, and would have this morning
waked to the loss of your liberty. We did much yesterday when we bound
the hands of the soldiers; but we have much more to do than we have yet
done. Already in Nantes and in Angers are they talking of what we
yesterday performed. We shall doubtless have many friends in Nantes and
Angers, but the Republic also has many friends in those towns, and the
soldiers of the Republic are strong there. It will not be long before
they hurry to St. Florent to avenge the disgrace of their comrades; and
bitter will be their revenge if they take you unprepared. You have
declared war against the Republic, and you must be prepared to fight it
out to the end."

"We will, we will," shouted the people. "Down with the Republic--down
with the Convention. Long live the King--our own King once again."

"Very well, my friends," continued Cathelineau, "so be it. We will fight
it out then. We will combat with the Republic, sooner than be carried
away from our wives, our children, and our sweethearts. We will fight
for our own curés and our own churches; but our battle will be no
holiday-work, it will be a different affair from that of yesterday. We
must learn to carry arms, and to stand under them. You showed yesterday
that you had courage--you must now show that you can join patience and
perseverance to your courage."

"We will, Cathelineau, we will," shouted they "Tell us what we must do,
Cathelineau, and we will do it.

"We must see," continued he, "who will be our friends and our allies.
St. Florent cannot fight single-handed against the Republic. There are
others in Anjou, and Poitou also, besides ourselves, who do not wish to
leave their homes and their fields. There are noblemen and gentlemen,
our friends and masters, who will lead you better than I can."

"No, no, Cathelineau is our general; we will follow no one but
Cathelineau."

"You will, my friends, you will; but we need not quarrel about that.
Forte and I, with Peter Berrier, will visit those who we think will join
us; but you must at once prepare yourselves. You must arm yourselves.
We will distribute the muskets of the soldiers as far as they will go.
You must prepare yourselves. If we do not at once attack the Republicans
elsewhere, they will soon overwhelm us in St. Florent. We will go to
Cholet--the men of Cholet will surely second us--they are as fond of
their sons and their brethren as we are. Cholet will join us, and
Beaupréau, and Coron, and Torfou. We will go and ask them whether they
prefer the Republic to their homes--whether the leaders of the
Convention are dearer to them than their own lords--whether their new
priests love them, as the old ones did? And I know what will be their
answer."

He ceased speaking, and his audience crowded around him to shake hands
with him, and to bless him; and before the sun was in the middle of the
sky he had left St. Florent on his mission, in company with Forte and
Peter Berrier.



CHAPTER III.

DURBELLIÈRE.

The château of Durbellière, the family seat of the Larochejacquelins,
was situated in the very centre of the Bocage, between the small towns
of Chatillon and Vihiers--in the province of Poitou, and about twelve
leagues from St. Florent.

It was a large mansion, surrounded by extensive gardens, and a
considerable domain. There were few residences of more importance
as betokening greater wealth in the province of Poitou; but it was
neither magnificent nor picturesque. The landlords of the country
were not men of extensive property or expensive habits--they built
no costly castles, and gave no sumptuous banquets; but they lived at
home, on their incomes, and had always something to spare for the
poorer of their neighbours. Farming was their business--the chase
their amusement--loyalty their strongest passion, and the prosperity
of their tenantry their chief ambition.

The château of Durbellière was a large square building, three stories
high, with seven front windows to each of the upper stories, and three
on each side of the large door on the ground floor. Eight stone steps
of great width led up to the front door; but between the top step and
the door there was a square flagged area of considerable space; and on
the right hand, and on the left, two large whitewashed lions reclined
on brick and mortar pedestals. An enormous range of kitchens, offices
and cellars, ran under the whole house; the windows opened into a low
area, or rather trench, which ran along the front and back of the house,
and to which there were no rails or palings of any kind. The servants'
door was at the side of the house, and the servants and people coming
to them, to save themselves the trouble of walking round to this door,
were in the habit of jumping into the area and entering the kitchen by
the window. Doubtless some lady of the house, when the mansion was first
built, had protested strongly against this unsightly practice; but habit
had now accustomed the family to this mode of ingress and egress, and
the servants of Durbèlliere consequently never used any other.

The back of the château was just the same as the front, the same
windows, the same broad steps, the same pedestals and the same
whitewashed lions, only the steps, instead of leading on to a large
gravelled square, led into a trim garden. There were no windows,
whatsoever, on one side of the house, and on the other only those
necessary to light the huge staircase of the mansion.

The rooms were square, very large, and extremely lofty; the salon alone
was carpetted, and none of them were papered, the drawing-room, the
dining-room and the grand salon were ornamented with painted panels,
which displayed light-coloured shepherds and shepherdesses in almost
every possible attitude. In these rooms, also, there were highly
ornamented stoves, which stood out about four feet from the wall, topped
with marble slabs, on which were sculptured all the gods and demi-gods
of the heathen mythology--that in the drawing-room exhibited Vulcan
catching Mars and Venus in his marble net; and the unhappy position of
the god of war was certainly calculated to read a useful lesson to any
Parisian rover, who might attempt to disturb the domestic felicity of
any family in the Bocage.

The house was not above a hundred yards from the high road, from which
there were two entrances about two hundred yards apart. There were large
wooden, gates at each, which were usually left open, but each of which
was guarded by two white-washed lions--not quite so much at ease as
those on the pedestals, for they were fixed a-top of pillars hardly
broad enough to support them. But this doubtless only increased their
watchfulness.

But the glory of the château was the large garden behind the house. It
was completely enclosed by a very high wall, and, like the house, was
nearly square in its proportions. It contained miles of walks, and each
walk so like the others, that a stranger might wander there for a week
without knowing that he had retraversed the same ground, were it not
that he could not fail to recognize the quaint groups of figures which
met him at every turn. A few of these were of stone, rudely sculptured,
but by far the greater number were of painted wood, and, like the
shepherds and shepherdesses in the drawing-room, displayed every action
of rural life. You would suddenly come upon a rosy-coloured gentleman,
with a gun to his shoulder, in the act of shooting game--then a girl
with a basket of huge cabbages--an old man in a fit of the cholic; the
same rosy gentleman violently kissing a violet-coloured young lady; and,
at the next turn, you would find the violet-coloured young lady fast
asleep upon a bank. You would meet a fat curé a dozen times in
half-an-hour, and always well employed. He would be saying his
prayers--drinking beer--blessing a young maiden, and cudgelling a mule
that wouldn't stir a step for him, till the large yellow drops of sweat
were falling from his face. It was inconceivable how so many painted
figures, in such a variety of attitudes, could have been designed and
executed; but there they were, the great glory of the old gardener, and
the endless amusement of the peasants of the neighbourhood, who were
allowed to walk there on the summer Sunday evenings.

The gardens of Durbellière were also wonderful in another respect. It
was supposed to be impossible to consume, or even to gather, all the
cherries which they produced in the early summer. The trees between the
walks were all cherry-trees--old standard trees of a variety of sorts;
but they all bore fruit of some description or another, some sweet and
some bitter; some large, some small, and some perfectly diminutive; some
black, some red, and some white. Every species of known cherry was in
that garden in abundance; but even the gardener himself did not know the
extent of the produce. Birds of all kinds flocked there in enormous
numbers, and banqueted gloriously during the summer. No one disturbed
them except the painted sportsman; and the song of the linnet and the
thrush was heard all day, and that of the nightingale during the night.

The old Marquis de Larochejaquelin had been crossed in love early in
life, and he had not recovered from his sorrow till he was above fifty,
when he married, and outlived his young wife, who left him different
children. Henri and Agatha were the only two now living with him. As has
already been said, the old man was very infirm, and had lost the use of
his limbs.

When the weather was cold or wet, he sat with his daughter, Agatha, near
his bright wood fire, and watched her needle, or listened to her songs;
but, if the sun appeared at all, he was dragged out in his garden chair
among the birds and the painted figures, and was happy in spite of his
infirmities.

He was most affectionate to his children, and indulgent to a fault. He
was kind to every one, and, unless the birds were disturbed, the
cherry-trees injured, or the figures upset, he was never angry even with
a servant. Everybody loved and venerated the old Marquis, and even in
his foibles, he was thoroughly respected. He had a vast collection of
stuffed birds of every description, and the peasants round him were so
anxious to gratify him by adding to his stock, that there began to be
a doubt whether room in the château could be found for the presents
which were continually brought. The upper story of the house had never
been required by the family, and the rooms had not even been roofed or
plastered. One great partition wall ran across the space, and the only
ceiling was the bare high-pointed roof of the house. This place was
called the granary, and was used for a drying ground. And here the
superfluous birds were brought, much to the old man's grief, for he knew
that he should never see them again; but he could not refuse them when
they were given to him, and the room which he inhabited would
conveniently hold no more.

The happiness of the last years of the old man's life was much disturbed
by the events of the French revolution. He had been very anxious when
he saw his young son join a club, which was sure to incur the ill-will
of the ruling power in Paris; and yet he could not dissuade him from
doing so; and, though he had rejoiced when his son returned to Poitou
still safe, the imprisonment of the King had woefully afflicted him, and
his death had nearly killed him. He had now expressed his opposition to
the levies of a conscription with a degree of energy which had
astonished his family. He knew the names and persons of every man and
woman living on his estate, indeed, of every child above the age of ten;
and, when he was told the names of those who were drawn as conscripts,
he desired that they might all be told in his name that he hoped they
would not obey.

Henri de Larochejacquelin has already been introduced to the reader. He
returned to Poitou as soon as the Republic was proclaimed, together with
de Lescure and Adolphe Denot. Adolphe had been staying a great portion
of the winter at Durbellière, but he had since gone to his own place,
and was now at Clisson, the seat of M. de Lescure.

Marie de Lescure, the sister of Henri's friend, was staying at
Durbellière with Agatha Larochejaquelin; and her visit, which had been
prolonged from before Christmas, had certainly not been made less
agreeable by the fact of Henri's having been at home the whole time. She
and Agatha were both pretty, but they were very different. Marie had
dark hair, nearly black, very dark eyes, and a beautiful rich
complexion; her skin was dark, but never sallow; her colour was not
bright, but always clear and transparent; her hair curled naturally
round her head, and the heavy curls fell upon her neck and shoulders;
she was rather under the middle height, but the symmetry of her figure
was so perfect, that no one would have called her too short. She had
high animal spirits, and was always happy and good humoured; was very
fond of amusement of every kind, and able to extract amusement out of
everything. She was the great favourite of the old Marquis, not that he
loved her so well as his own daughter, but her habits and manners suited
him better than Agatha's; she could better sympathize with the old man's
wishes and fancies; she would smooth the plumage of his birds for him;
arrange and re-arrange his shells; feed his cats, his dogs, his tame
deer, and his white peacock--for the old Marquis had live pets as well
as dead favourites. Then she would sing merry little songs to him, and
laugh at him, and quiz his painted figures, and help to wheel his chair,
or pretend to do so.

She did all these things more readily than Agatha did, for her spirits
were lighter. Not that Agatha was unhappy, or inattentive to her father;
but she was quieter than Marie and of a more contemplative mood. She
also had dark hair, but it was a dark brown, and she wore it braided
close to her forehead. Her complexion was clear and bright, her forehead
was white, and the colour in her cheeks, when she had colour there, was
that of the clearest carnation. She was considerably taller than Marie,
but her figure was exquisitely perfect, and her gait was that of a
queen. She was the Rose of Poitou, the beauty and queen of the whole
district. She was all but worshipped by the peasantry around her; if
they admired her beauty much, they much more strongly appreciated her
virtues, her charity, her considerate kindness, her want of selfishness,
her devotion to her friends and neighbours, and lastly, her strong
feeling of loyalty, her love for the king while he lived, and her
passionate regret for him since he had perished on the scaffold. In this
she inherited all the feelings of her father, and it was greatly her
attachment to the throne and to the name of the King, which led to so
high a pitch the enthusiasm of the peasantry in behalf of the royalists.

Many wishes, surmises and anticipations had arisen as to who was to
carry off this rich prize; who should be the happy husband of Agatha
Larochejaquelin; but her friends had hitherto been anxious in vain; she
still went "in maiden meditation fancy free." Not that she was without
professed admirers; but they had none of them yet touched her heart.
Many thought that she would be the bride of her brother's friend,
Adolphe Denot; for he was more at the château than any one else, was
very handsome, and had a good property. Adolphe was moreover seen to be
very attentive to Mademoiselle Agatha; and thrown so much with her as
he was, how could he fail of being in love with her.

This belief much disturbed the comfort of Agatha's humble friends, for
Adolphe Denot was not popular among them: there was a haughtiness in his
manner to the poor, to which their own lords and masters had never
accustomed them. He was supercilious and proud in his bearing towards
them, and had none of the cheering, frank look and tone of their own
dear young M. Henri. They need not, however, have been alarmed, for
Agatha Larochejaquelin was not at all disposed to take Adolphe Denot as
her lord; she was passionately attached to her brother, and for his sake
she had been kind, attentive, nay, almost affectionate to his friend;
she and Adolphe had been much together since they were children. He had
been absent from Durbellière for about a year, during which time, he had
ceased to be a boy, and on his return to the château had taken on
himself the airs, if not the manners of a man. Agatha's manner to him
was not altered, it was still friendly and affectionate, and Adolphe,
with his usual vanity, misinterpreted it; he flattered himself that the
beautiful girl loved him, and he soon persuaded himself that he was
devotedly attached to her.

He had not yet positively declared his love, but Agatha felt from his
manner that she had to expect a declaration, and she consequently
altered her own; she became less familiar with him, she avoided all
opportunities of being alone with him; she still called him by his
Christian name, for she had always done so; she was still kind and
attentive to him, for he was a guest in her father's house; but Adolphe
felt that she was altered, and he became angry and moody; he thought
that she was coquetting and that he was slighted; and without much
notice to any one, he left the house.

Agatha was glad that he was gone; she wished to spare him the
humiliation of a refusal; she understood his character well, and felt
that the wound inflicted on his self-love, by being rejected, would be
more painful to him than his actual disappointment; she knew that
Adolphe would not die for love, but she also knew that he would not
quietly bear the fancied slight of unreturned affection. If, by her
conduct, she could induce him to change his own, to drop the lover, and
be to her again simply her brother's friend, all might yet be well; but
if he persevered and declared his love, she felt that there would be a
quarrel, not only between him and her, but between him and Henri.

To tell the truth, Henri had rather fostered his friend's passion for
Agatha. He had wished to see them married; and, though he had not
exactly told his friend as much, he had said so much that both Agatha
and Denot knew what his wishes were. This, of course, gave great
encouragement to the lover, but it greatly grieved poor Agatha; and now
that Adolphe was gone, she made up her mind to open her heart to her
brother.

A day or two before the revolt of St. Florent, they were sitting
together in the drawing-room; it was late in the evening, the old
Marquis had retired for the night, and Marie de Lescure was engaged
elsewhere, so that Agatha and her brother were left alone together. He
was reading, but she was sitting gazing at the fire. She could hardly
summon up courage to say, even to her dear brother, what she wished to
say.

"Henri," she said at last, "does Adolphe return here from Fleury?"
(Fleury was the name of Denot's house).

"I hope he will," said Henri; "but what makes you ask? the place is dull
without him, isn't it?"

"Dull! you don't find Marie dull, do you, Henri?"

"Oh, Marie!" said he, laughing, "Marie amuses our father, and she charms
me; but you might find the house dull, in spite of Marie--eh, Agatha?"

"Indeed no, Henri; the house was not dull even when you were in Paris,
and Marie was at Clisson, and papa and I were alone together here; it
was not my being dull made me ask whether Adolphe was to return."

"But you wouldn't be sorry that he should come back, Agatha? You don't
want to banish poor Adolphe from Durbellière, I hope?"

"No," said Agatha, doubtfully, "no, I don't want to banish him--of
course, Henri, I can't want to banish your friend from the house; but--"

"But what?" said Henri, now perceiving that his sister had something on
her mind--something that she wished to say to him; "but what, dearest
Agatha?"

"I don't want to banish him from the house, Henri; but I wish he would
not return just at present; but you haven't answered my question--you
haven't told me whether you expect him."

"I think he will return; but he did not himself say exactly when. I am
sorry to hear what you say, Agatha--very sorry--I thought you and
Adolphe were great friends. I was even a little jealous," added he,
laughing, "at the close alliance between you, and I thought of getting
up a little separate party of my own with Marie."

"Don't separate yourself from me, Henri!" said she; "don't let us be
separated in anything, even in thought; not but that I should be
delighted to see a dearer friendship between you and Marie, even than
that between Marie and myself; but don't plan any separate alliance for
me. I hope you have not been doing so--tell me, Henri, that you have
not." And then she added, blushing deeply up to her pale forehead, "You
have not proposed to Adolphe that I should be his wife?"

"No, Agatha, I have not proposed it to him; I should not have dreamt of
doing so, without knowing that it would not be disagreeable to you."

"There's my own dear brother! My own Henri!" said she, going over to
him, caressing him, and kissing his forehead.

"I will never make an offer of your hand to any one Agatha; you shall
choose for yourself; I will never cause you sorrow in that way: but I
will own, dearest, that I have wished you should marry Adolphe, and I
have also fancied that you loved him."

"No, Henri, no, I do not love him--I can never love him--that is, as my
husband. I do love him as your friend. I will continue to love him as
such, as long as he remains your friend."

"I fancied also," continued he; "nay, I did more than fancy--I am sure
he loves you--is it not so?"

"He has never told me so," said she, again blushing; "it is that he may
not tell me so, that I now say that I hope he is not returning. Oh,
Henri, my own dearest brother, do not let him come to Durbellière;
prevent him in some way; go to him for a while; make some plan with him;
and give me warning when he is coming, and I will be at Clisson with
Marie."

"Will it not be better for both of you, Agatha, that you should
understand each other? I know he loves you, though he has not told me
so. You must tell him, kindly, that you cannot return his affection: you
cannot always run away from him."

"He will forget me soon. He will, at any rate, forget his love, when he
finds that I avoid his company; but, Henri, if he formally asks my hand,
and is refused, that he will neither forget nor forgive."

"He must take his chance, dearest, like other men."

"But he isn't like other men, Henri. You know he is--he is rather
impatient of refusal; he could not bear as well as some men any
mortification to his pride."

"I trust he has too much real pride to feel himself disgraced, because
he is not loved. I grieve for him, for I love him myself; and I know his
affections are strong; but I think it is better he should know the truth
at once, and it must be from your own lips. I cannot tell him you will
not accept him before he himself makes the offer."

Agatha did not reply; she could not explain even to her brother all that
she felt. She could not point out to him how very weak--how selfish his
friend was. She could not tell him that his bosom friend would suffer
ten times more from the wound to his pride in being rejected, than from
the effects of disappointed love; but she rightly judged her lover's
character. Adolphe Denot loved her as warmly as he was capable of loving
ought but himself; but were she to die, his grief would be very short
lived; he would not, however, endure to see that she preferred any one
to himself.

"I am sorry for this, Agatha--very sorry," continued her brother; "I had
fondly hoped to see you Adolphe's wife, but it is over now. I will never
press you against your will."

"My own Henri--how good you are to your Agatha. I knew you would not
torture me with a request that I should marry a man I did not love. I
grieve that I interfere with your plans; but I will live with you, and
be your old maid sister, and nurse and love your children, and they
shall love their old maid aunt."

"There are other men, Agatha, besides Adolphe. Perhaps your next request
will be a very different one; perhaps, then, you will be singing the
praises of some admirer, and asking me to give him a brother's place in
my heart."

"And when I ask it, you will do so; but Henri," and she put her hands
upon his shoulder, as she stood close to his chair, "don't let Adolphe
come here immediately."

"He must do so, dearest, now I think of it: we have other things to
think of besides ladies' hearts, and other matters to plan besides
wedding favours; the troops will be in Clisson on Monday next, to
collect the conscripts. I have promised to be with de Lescure, and
Adolphe is to meet me there; they are both then to come here. Not a man
shall be taken who does not choose to go; and there are not many who
wish to go from choice. There will be warm work in Poitou next week,
Agatha; few of us then can think of love or marriage. You and Marie will
be making sword-knots and embroidering flags; that will be your work.
A harder task will soon follow it--that of dressing wounds and
staunching blood. We shall have hot work, and more than plenty of it.
May God send us well through it."

"Amen; with all my heart I say, amen," said Agatha; "but will these poor
men resist the soldiers, Henri?"

"Indeed they will, Agatha."

"But can they? They have not arms, nor practice in the way of
fighting--they have no leaders."

"We will take arms from our enemies. We will be apt scholars in fighting
for our wives, and our sisters, and our houses. As for leaders, the man
who is most fit shall lead the others."

"And you, Henri--merciful Heaven! what are you about to do--will you
take up arms against the whole republic?"

"With God's blessing I will--against the whole republic."

"May the Lord, in his mercy, look on you and give you his assistance;
and as your cause is just and holy, He will do so. Whatever women can
do, we will do; you shall have our prayers for your success our tears
for your reverses, and our praises for your courage; and when you
require it, as some of you will too soon, our tenderest care in your
sufferings." At this moment Marie de Lescure entered the room. "Marie,"
continued Agatha, "you will help to succour those who are wounded in
fighting for their King?"

"Indeed, and indeed I will," said the bright-eyed girl, eagerly, "and
regret only that I cannot do more; that I cannot myself be in the
battle. But, M. Larochejaquelin, will the people rise? will there really
be fighting? will Charles be there?"

"Indeed he will, Marie; the first among the foremost. Agatha asked me
but now, who would be our leaders? Is there a man in the Bocage--aye,
in all Poitou, who will not follow Charles de Lescure?"

"May the blessed Saviour watch over him and protect him," said Marie,
shuddering.

"But tell me, Henri;" said Agatha, "where will it commence--where will
they first resist the troops?"

"I cannot say exactly," said he, "in many places at once I hope. In St.
Florent, they say, not a man will join; in Clisson and Torfou they begin
on Monday. Charles, and I, and Adolphe will be in Clisson. Father Jerome
has the whole lists; he says that in St. Laud's, in Echanbroignes, and
Clisson, they are ready, to a man, to oppose the troops: he will go with
me to Clisson on Sunday afternoon; on Monday, with God's will, we will
be in the thick of it."

"And will Father Jerome be there, among the soldiers?" said Marie.

"Why not," said Henri, "will the peasants fight worse when they see
their priest before them?"

"And if he should fall?"

"He will fail in the service of his God and his King; Father Jerome will
be here himself tomorrow."

"The Curé of St Laud's," said Agatha, "is not the man to sit idle, when
good work is to be done, but, oh! what awful times are these, when the
priests themselves have to go out to fight for their altars and their
crucifix."

"I will return home with you, M Larochejaquelin, when you go to
Clisson," said Marie.

"And leave Agatha alone?" said Henri

"Don't mind me, Henri," said Agatha, "I shall be well here. Marie cannot
leave Madame de Lescure alone, when her husband is, away and in such
danger."

"You will soon have company here enough," said Henri. "De Lescure, and
I, and Adolphe, and Heaven knows whom besides. Charette will be in arms,
and d'Autachamps, the Prince de Talmont, and M. Bonchamps. At present
their business is at a distance from us; but we shall probably be all
brought together sooner or later, and they will all be welcome at
Durbellière."

"They shall be welcome if they are friends of yours, and friends of the
King; but come, Marie, it is late, let us go to bed; next week, perhaps,
we shall be wanting rest, and unable to take it."

They met the next morning at breakfast, and the old Marquis was there
also, and the priest, to whom they had alluded in their conversation on
the preceding evening--Father Jerome, the Curé of St. Laud's--such at
least had he been, and so was he still called, though his parish had
been taken away from him, and his place filled by a constitutional
pastor; that is, by a priest who had taken the oath to the Constitution,
required by the National Assembly Father Jerome was banished from his
church, and deprived of the small emoluments of his office; but he was
not silenced, for he still continued to perform the ceremonies of his
religion, sometimes in some gentleman's drawing-room, sometimes in a
farmer's house, or a peasant's cottage, but oftener out in the open air,
under the shadow of a spreading beech, on a rude altar hastily built for
him with rocks and stones.

The church of St Laud's was perfectly deserted--not a single person
would attend there to hear mass said by the strange priest--the peasants
would as soon have been present at some infernal rite, avowedly
celebrated in honour of the devil--and yet the Curé newly sent there was
not a bad man But he was a constitutional priest, and that was enough
to recommend him to the ill-will of the peasantry In peaceable and happy
times, prior to the revolution, the Curé of St Laud's had been a
remarkable person, he was a man of more activity, both of mind and body,
than his brethren, he was more intimate with the gentry than the
generality of clergymen in the neighbourhood, and at the same time more
actively engaged in promoting the welfare of the poor. The country cures
generally were men who knew little of the world and its ways--who were
uneducated, save as regards their own profession--who had few ideas
beyond their own duties and station, This was not so with Father Jerome;
he had travelled and heard the ways of men in other countries; he had
not read much but he had seen a good deal, and he was a man of quick
apprehension--and above all a man of much energy. He had expressed great
hostility to the revolution since its commencement; at a time when so
few were hostile to it, he had foreseen that it would destroy the
religion and the religious feeling of the country, and he had constantly
besought his flock to remain true to their old customs. He was certainly
a devout man in his own way, though he was somewhat unscrupulous in his
devotions; the people were as superstitious as they were faithful, and
he never hesitated in using their superstition to forward his own views.
His whole anxiety was for their welfare; but he cherished their very
faults, their ignorance and their follies, to enable himself to serve
them in his own manner. He was unwilling that they should receive other
education than that which they now had--he was jealous of any one's
interfering with them but their landlord and himself. He would not own
that any change: could better their condition, or that anything more was
desirable for them than that they should live contented and obedient,
and die faithful in hope.

Durbellière had not been in his parish, but he had always been
peculiarly intimate with the family of the Larochejaquelins, and had
warmly welcomed the return of Henri to the Bocage, at a time when so
many of the nobility were leaving the country. They were now about to
join hand and heart in saving the people from the horrors of the
conscription, and though the Curé's nominal mission was to be purely
spiritual, he was quite prepared to give temporal aid to his allies,
should it at any time appear expedient to himself to do so.

Father Jerome was a tall, well-made, brawny man; his face was not
exactly handsome, but it was bold and intellectual; his eye was bright
and clear, and his forehead high and open--he was a man of immense
muscular power and capable of great physical exertion--he was above
forty-five years of age but still apparently in the prime of his
strength. He wore a long rusty black, or rather grey curé's frock, which
fell from his shoulders down to his heels, and was fastened round his
body with a black belt--this garment was much the worse for wear, for
Father Jerome had now been deprived of his income for some twelve
months; but he was no whit ashamed of his threadbare coat, he rather
gloried in it, and could not be induced by the liberal offers of his
more wealthy friends to lay it aside.

Father Jerome greeted them all as he entered the breakfast-room. He was
received with great kindness by the old Marquis, who pressed his hand
and made him sit beside himself; he blessed the two young girls
fervently, and nodded affectionately to Henri, whom he had seen on the
preceding day. It was evident that the Curé of St. Laud's was quite at
home at Durbellière.

"We have awful times coming on us now, Father Jerome," said Agatha.

"Not so, Mademoiselle," said the priest, "we have good times coming, we
will have a King and our Church again, we poor cure will have our homes
and our altars again; our own parishes and our old flocks."

"Come what, come may," said Henri, "we cannot be worse than the
Convention would make us."

"But we firmly trust that by God's will and with God's aid, we will soon
be rid of all our troubles," said the priest. "M le Marquis, we have
your best wishes, I know; and your full approval. I hope we shall soon
be able to lay our trophies at your feet."

"The approval of an old man like me is but of little avail; but you
shall have my prayers. I would, however, that God had spared me from
these days; it is grievous for me to see my son going out to fight
against his own countrymen, at his own door-sill; it would be more
grievous still, where he now to hesitate in doing so."

"No true son of Poitou hesitates now," said the enthusiastic priest.
"I yesterday saw every conscript in the parish of St. Laud's, and not
a single man hesitated--not one dreams of joining the republicans; and,
moreover, there is not an able-bodied man who will not come forward to
assist the conscripts in withstanding the soldiers; the women, too,
Mademoiselle, are equally eager. Barère will find it difficult, I think,
to raise a troop from Poitou."

"Will the conscripts from hence be required to join at Chatillon or at
Cholet?" said the old man.

"Those from St. Laud's, at Chatillon," said Henri; "but the men will not
leave their homes, they will know how to receive the soldiers if they
come amongst them."

So saying, he got up and went out, and the priest followed him; they had
much to do, and many things to arrange; to distribute arms and
gunpowder, and make the most of their little means. It was not their
present intention to lead the men from their homes, but they wished to
prepare them to receive the republican troops, when they came into the
country to enforce the collection of the republican levy.



CHAPTER IV.

CATHELINEAU.

The revolt of St. Florent took place on the day after that on which the
priest had breakfasted at Durbellière, and the rumours of it went
quickly through the country. As Cathelineau had said, the news was soon
known in Nantes and Angers, and the commander of the republican troops
determined most thoroughly to avenge the insolence and rebellion of the
vain people of St. Florent. He was not, however, able to accomplish his
threat on the instant, for he also was collecting conscripts in the
neighbourhood of Nantes, and the peasantry had heard of the doings of
St. Florent as well as the soldiers, and the men of Brittany seemed
inclined to follow the example of the men of Anjou.

He had, therefore, for a time enough to occupy his own troops, without
destroying the rebels of St. Florent--and it was well for St. Florent
that it was so. Had he at once marched five hundred men, with four
pieces of cannon against the town, he might have reduced the place to
ashes, and taken a bloody revenge for their victory The men of St
Florent would have had no means of opposing such a force, and the
peasantry generally were not armed, the tactics of the royalists were
not settled, and the revolt through the province was not general. The
destruction of St Florent was postponed for a month, and at the
expiration of that time, the troops of the republic had too much to do,
to return to the little town where the war had commenced.

The rumour of what had been done at St. Florent, was also soon known in
Coron, in Torfou, and in Clisson. The battle was fought on Thursday, and
early on Saturday morning, M. de Lescure had heard some indistinct
rumour of the occurrence; indistinct at least it seemed to him, for he
could not believe that the success of the townspeople was so complete,
as it was represented to him to be; he heard at the same time that the
revolt had been headed by Cathelineau and Foret, and that as soon as the
battle was over, they had started for Durbellière to engage the
assistance of Henri Larochejaquelin. De Lescure, therefore, determined
to go at once to Durbellière; and Adolphe Denot, who was with him,
accompanied him.

They found Henri in the midst of his preparations, weighing out
gunpowder with the assistance of the priest and the two girls. There was
a large quarry on the Marquis' estate, and a considerable supply of
gunpowder for blasting had been lately brought to Durbellière from
Nantes, as it could not be purchased in the neighbouring towns. As the
priest remarked, blasting powder was not the best, but it was good
enough to treat republicans with--at any rate they could get no better,
and it was lucky that they chanced to have that.

Charles de Lescure shuddered as he saw the dangerous employment on
which his sister was engaged; but Henri's sister was doing the same
thing, and he knew that dangerous times for all of them were coming.
Adolphe was disgusted that Agatha's white hands should be employed in
so vile a service, but he thought little of the danger to which she was
exposed.

"You are well employed, ladies," said de Lescure, "but not an hour too
soon. I am rejoiced to see you so well supplied, Henri; this is indeed
a Godsend. Father Jerome, is this strictly canonical; gunpowder I fear
is altogether a temporal affair."

"But rebellion and hell-fire are synonymous," said the priest, "and
loyalty is the road to Paradise. I am strictly within my calling, M. de
Lescure. Mademoiselle, these packets are too large. You are giving too
good measure. Remember how many are the claimants for our bounty."

"You have, of course, all heard what occurred at St. Florent the day
before yesterday," said de Lescure.

"Not a word," said Henri. "What happened there? we hear nothing here
till a week after it is known in the towns."

They all left off what they were doing, and listened anxiously for M.
de Lescure's tidings. "Good news, I trust," said the Curé, whose face
showed a fearful degree of anxiety. "Good news, I trust in God; the men
of St. Florent, I am sure, have not disgraced themselves."

"Indeed, they have not, Father Jerome. If the half of what I hear be
true, they have already played a grand part. What I hear is this--not
a conscript was to be seen at the barracks when they were summoned.
Three or four soldiers were sent to commence the collection in the town,
and they were at once taken prisoners by a party headed by Cathelineau,
the postillion. The Colonel then turned out, and fired on the crowd; but
he could not stand his ground before the people, who drove him back to
the barracks; half his men were killed in retreating. The people then
attacked the barracks, and regularly carried them by storm; took the
cannon which was with the detachment, and made prisoners of every
soldier that was not killed in the fray. If the half of it be true, St.
Florent has made a fine beginning for us."

"Glorious fellows!" said Adolphe. "What would I not give to have been
with them?"

"You will have plenty of opportunity, M. Denot," said the priest, who
held Adolphe in great aversion.

"But, Charles, the carnage of the people must have been dreadful," said
Henri; "they had nothing but their hands and nails to fight with,
against the muskets and bayonets of the soldiers--against artillery
even."

"The Lord supplied them with weapons, my son," said the priest,
solemnly. "Cannot He, who has given them courage and good hearts to
stand against the enemies of their country, also give them weapons to
fight his battles?"

"They say, too, that by some miracle the cannon could not be got to fire
on the town. They say it was loaded and ready, but that the powder
would not ignite when the torch was put to it," said de Lescure.

"They say," added Denot, "that the Colonel himself repeatedly tried to
fire it, but could not; and that when he found that Providence,
interfered for the people, he laid down his sword, and gave himself up."

"The man who came to me from the town," continued de Lescure, "had a
thousand wonderful stories. He says, that twenty times in the day
Cathelineau stood, unharmed before the bayonets of the soldiers; that
twenty times he was shot at, but it was impossible to wound him. They
say that God has interfered for the protection of St. Florent."

"Most probable," said the priest, "most probable; for who, my children,
shall attempt to judge the ways of God? Why should He not put out his
right hand to assist his own?"

"And were there not many of the townspeople killed?" asked Agatha.

"We did not hear," replied de Lescure; "but the news of their triumph
would travel faster than the account of their misfortunes; there could
not but have been much bloodshed."

"After all," said Henri, "we do not know how much of this is true. We
must not believe it all; it is too glorious to be true."

"Do not say so, M. Larochejaquelin," said the priest, "do not say so;
we will do greater things than that with the assistance of God and the
blessed Virgin; but we will not envy the men of St. Florent the honour
they have won."

"You believe it all, then, Father Jerome," said Marie. "You believe that
the republicans have been beaten."

"Every word, Mademoiselle, every word religiously. I should be a heathen
else, or worse than that, a republican."

The group who were discussing the probability of the victory said to
have been gained at St. Florent, were standing at the window of one of
the front rooms of the château, which looked immediately on one of the
whitewashed recumbent lions, and from it they could see the wooden
gates, the lodge, and the paved road which ran from Chatillon to Vihiers
in front of the château. As the priest finished speaking, three men rode
through the gates, into the avenue, directly up to the house-door: one
was tolerably well mounted on a large horse, the second was on a shaggy
pony, and the third, who was rather behind the others, was seated on a
mule of most unprepossessing appearance, whose sides he did not for a
moment cease to lacerate with his heels, to enable himself to keep up
with his companions.

"That is Foret, from St. Florent himself!" shouted the priest, rushing
out towards the door, as soon as he saw the first horseman turn in at
the gate; "a good man, and true as any living, and one who hates a
skulking republican as he does the devil."

"And that is the postillion himself, on the pony!" shouted Henri,
running after him. "I could swear to him, by his hat, among a thousand."

"Who is the man on the mule, Adolphe?" said de Lescure, remaining at the
window. "By the bye," he added, turning to the two girls who remained
with him, and who were trembling in every joint, at they knew not what,
"I forgot, in my hurry, or rather I hadn't time as yet to tell Henri
that I had heard that these men were coming here."

"Are those the very men who gained the victory at St. Florent?" asked
Marie.

"So we heard," replied de Lescure, "and now, and not till now, I believe
it; their coming here is strong confirmation; the Curé is right, it
seems."

"And is that man the good postillion of whom the people talk?"

"He is--at least he is no longer a postillion. He will cease to be a
postillion now; from henceforth he will be only a soldier."

The Curé and Larochejaquelin had rushed down the steps, and seized the
hands of Foret and Cathelineau, as they got off their horses. It was
soon evident to them that the noise of their deeds had gone before them.
Foret at once returned the greeting of Father Jerome, for they had long
known each other, and the difference between their stations was not so
very great; but Cathelineau hardly knew how to accept, or how to refuse,
the unwonted mark of friendship shewn him by a wealthy seigneur; it had
not been his lot to shake hands with gentlemen, and he had no wish to
step beyond his proper sphere, because he had been put prominently
forward in the affair of St. Florent; but he had no help for it; before
he knew where he was, Larochejaquelin had got him by the hand, and was
dragging him into the salon of Durbellière. It appeared to the
postillion that the room was full; there were ladies there too--young,
beautiful, and modest--such as he was in the habit of seeing through the
windows of the carriages which he drove; the old Marquis was there too
now; the butler had just wheeled in his chair, and Cathelineau perceived
that he was expected to join the group at once. A vista was opened for
him up to the old man's chair; his eyes swam, and he hardly recollected
the faces of the different people round him. He wished that he had
waited at the gate, and sent in for M. Henri; he could have talked to
him alone. Why had he ridden up so boldly to the château gate? He had
never trembled, for a moment, during the hot work at St. Florent, but
now he felt that circumstances could almost make him a coward.

On a sudden he remembered that his hat was still on his head, and he
snatched his hand out of Henri's to remove it, and then, when it was
off, he wanted to go back to the hall to put it down.

Henri saw his confusion, and, taking it from him, put it on a chair, and
then they all shook hands with him. He first found his hand in that of
the Marquis, and heard the old man bless him, and then the Priest
blessed him, and then he felt the soft, sweet hands of those bright
angels within his own horny palm; he heard them speaking to him, though
he knew not what they said; and then he could restrain himself no
longer, for tears forced themselves into his eyes, and, in the midst of
them all, he cried like a child.

There was infection in his tears, for Agatha and Marie, when they saw
them, cried too, and the eyes of some of the men also were not dry; they
all knew what the feelings of the man were, and they fully sympathised
with him. It was strange how little they said about St. Florent at
first; the moment the men had been seen, they were most anxious for the
tidings of what had been done; but now they all seemed satisfied as to
the truth of what they had heard--there was no longer any doubt. The
heroes of St. Florent were there, and, though neither of them had yet
spoken a word about the battle which had been fought, the presence of
the victors was sufficient evidence of the victory.

The Curé, however, and M. de Lescure soon took Foret apart, and learnt
from him the details of what had been done, while the father and son,
and the two girls, endeavoured to put the postillion at his ease in his
new position.

Cathelineau was a very good-looking man, about thirty-five years of age;
his hair was very dark, and curled in short, thick clusters; his
whiskers were large and bushy, and met beneath his face; his upper lip
was short, his mouth was beautifully formed, and there was a deep dimple
on his chin; but the charm of his face was in the soft benignant
expression of his eyes; he looked as though he loved his
fellow-creatures--he looked as though he could not hear, unmoved, a tale
of woe or oppression--of injuries inflicted on the weak, or of unfair
advantages assumed by the strong. It was this which had made him so much
beloved; and it was not only the expression of his countenance, but of
his heart also.

"And were you not wounded, Cathelineau?" asked the old gentleman.

"No, M. le Marquis, thank God! I was not."

"Nor Foret?"

"No, M. le Marquis."

"But were there many wounded?" said Agatha.

"Ah! Mademoiselle, there were--many, very many!"

"I knew there must have been," said Marie, shuddering.

"We cannot have war without the horrors of war," said Henri. "It is
better, is it not, Cathelineau, that some of us should fall, than that
all of us should be slaves?"

"A thousand times, M. Larochejaquelin ten thousand times!" said he, with
a return of that determined vigour with which he had addressed his
fellow-townsmen the day before.

"Yes, you are right, ten thousand times better! and, Marie, you would
not be your brother's sister if you did not think so," said Henri; "but
you do think so, and so does Agatha, though she cries so fast."

"I am not crying, Henri," said Agatha, removing her handkerchief from
her eyes, which belied her assertion; "but one cannot but think of all
the misery which is coming on us: were there--were there any women
wounded in the battle?"

"There were, Mademoiselle; but those who were so, never complained; and
those who were killed will never have need to complain again."

"Were there women killed?"

"There were two, Mademoiselle; one a young girl; the other has left
children to avenge her death."

"That is the worst of all," said Henri, shuddering. "Cathelineau, we
must keep the women in the houses; our men will not fight if they see
their wives and sweethearts bleeding beside them; such a sight would
make me throw my sword away myself."

"It would make you throw away the scabbard, M. Larochejaquelin; but I
fear we shall see enough of such sights," and then he blushed deeply,
as he reflected that what he had said would frighten the fair girls
sitting near him; "but I beg pardon, ladies--I--"

"Don't mind us, Cathelineau," said Agatha; "you will not frighten us;
our brothers will fight by your side; and you will find that we are
worthy of our brothers. Marie and I will take our chance without
repining."

"And what is to come next, Cathelineau?" said Henri; "we have thrown
down the gauntlet now, and we must be ready for all the consequences.
You see, we were preparing for the same work," and he pointed to the
open packets of gunpowder which were lying scattered on the table. "What
are we to do now? we shall soon have swarms of republican soldiers upon
us, and it will be well to be prepared. We look to you for counsel now,
you know."

"Not so, M. Larochejaquelin; it was to seek council that I and Foret
came hither; it was to throw ourselves at the feet of my Lord the
Marquis, and at yours, and at those of M. de Lescure; and to implore you
to join us, to fight with us, and to save us; to lead us against the
republicans, and to help us to save our homes."

"They will, Cathelineau; they will, my excellent friend," said the old
man. "Henri shall fight with you--he would not be my son else; and
Charles de Lescure there will fight with you for his King as long as the
breath is in his body. The Curé there--Father Jerome--will pray for you,
and bless your arms; and I believe you'll find he'll fight for you too;
the whole country are your friends."

"Yes," said Henri. "The whole province, down to the sea, will be with
us. Charette is in the Marais ready to take up arms, the moment the
collection of the conscripts is commenced, or before, if it be
necessary. M. Bonchamps, who is now at Angers, will join us at once, and
give us what we so much want--military skill. The Prince de Talmont is
with us, M. Fleuriot, and M. d'Autachamps, every gentleman of standing
in the country will help the good cause; my friend here, Adolphe Denot,
will fight for us to the last drop of his blood."

Cathelineau bowed graciously, as he was in this way introduced by
Larochejaquelin to his friend. Denot also bowed, but he did it anything
but graciously: two things were disagreeable to him, he felt himself at
the present moment to be in the back-ground, and the hero of the day,
the fêted person, was no better than a postillion. When the rest of the
party had all given their hands to Cathelineau he had remained behind,
he did not like to put himself on an equality with such a person; he
fancied even then his dignity was hurt by having to remain in his
company.

"And what step shall we first take, M. Larochejaquelin?" said
Cathelineau.

"What do you propose yourself?" said Henri.

"I think we should not wait for them to punish us for our first success.
I think we should follow up our little victory, and attack the
republicans, at Beauprieu, perhaps, or at Cholet; we should so teach our
men to fight, teach them to garrison and protect their own towns, and
then, perhaps, before very long, we might fly at higher game; we might
endeavour to drive these wolves from their own strong places; from
Angers perhaps, or Nantes, or better still, from Saumur."

"Why Saumur, especially," said Henri; "surely Nantes would be a better
mark than Saumur; besides Saumur is a perfect fortress, walled on all
sides, almost impregnable; whereas Nantes is not fortified at all.
Saumur is reckoned the strongest town in the south of France; it is the
only fortified town in Anjou, Poitou, Tourraine or Southern Britanny."

"That is just the reason, my friend," said Cathelineau, now reassured
by his own enthusiasm, and by his intense anxiety on the subject, "that
is the very reason why Saumur should be our aim. The republicans now
fear nothing from us, and will take no more than ordinary precautions;
if we should now attack other places, and commence our proceedings with
some success, they would make Saumur utterly impregnable; and what could
we do with such a place as that opposed to us on the borders of our
country, and on the very road to Paris. But think what it would be in
our favour; it commands the Loire, it commands the road from Paris,
besides, it contains what we so much want, arms, ammunition, and
artillery; it is from Saumur that the republican troops are supplied
with gunpowder; believe me, Saumur should be our mark. I know it is
difficult, there will be danger and difficulties enough, I know; but it
is not impossible, and I believe it may be done," and then he looked
round, and saw where he was, and that every one in the room was
listening to him, and he added, "but I am too bold to say so much before
my Lord the Marquis, and M. Larochejaquelin, and M. de Lescure, and the
other gentlemen, whose opinions are so much better than my own."

"He is right, Henri," said de Lescure; "take my word, he is right. We
will do it, my friend," and he put his hand on the postillion's
shoulder. "We will be masters of Saumur, and you shall lead us there;
we will help you to plant the King's standard on the citadel of the
town."

Cathelineau was still sitting, and he looked up into de Lescure's face
with thankful admiration. "Ah! M. de Lescure, with such guides as you,
with such a heart, such courage as yours, no walls shall hinder us, no
enemies prevent us."

"You shall have many such friends, Cathelineau," said he; "many as
eager, and very many more useful."

"None more useful," said the postillion; "none could be more useful."

"No; none more useful," said the Marquis; "may you have many friends as
good, and then you will succeed."

"Saumur let it be, then," said Henri. "I have no doubt you are right;
and indeed I do not claim to be great in council; I only hope I may not
be found backward in action."

"That you never, never will," said Agatha. "That he never will,
Mademoiselle: a Larochejaquelin was never backward in the hour of need,"
said Cathelineau.

"They know how to flatter in St. Florent, my friend," said she smiling.

"If that be flattery, all the country flatters. I only speak as I hear
others speaking; they say that beauty and courage were always to be
found at Durbellière."

"Nay, Agatha; but is he not Bayard complete?" said Marie laughing. "I
am sure we should be obliged; it is an age since we received a
compliment here in the Bocage."

"The ladies are laughing at me," said Cathelineau, rising, "and it is
time that I and my friend should cease to trouble you."

"But where would you go, Cathelineau?" said Henri.

"Back to St. Florent; we have gained our object; we can tell our
townsmen that the gentlemen of Poitou will fight on their side."

"We will tell them so together, tomorrow by sunset," said Henri; "it is
now late, you and Foret stay here tonight; not a word either of you, for
your life. I command this garrison; do not you, Cathelineau, be the
first to shew an example of disobedience. Father Jerome, lay hands on
Foret, lest he fly. Why, my friend, have we so much time to spare, that
we can afford to lose it in foolish ceremony? Have we not a thousand
plans to mature--a thousand things to settle, which we must settle, and
none but we, and which we must discuss together? Are there not here
four, six of us, brothers in arms together? I count you one, Father
Jerome; and are we not here with the benefit of our father's advice?
When shall we all meet again, or when could we meet that our meeting
would be more desirable? Well, go if you will, Cathelineau," added he,
seeing that the postillion hesitated; "but every one here will tell you
that you are wrong to do so."

"Stay, my friend," said the Marquis, who understood well the different
feelings which perplexed the mind of the postillion; "stay, my friend,
and take your supper with us; you have undertaken a great work, and have
shewn yourself fit for it, do not let little things embarrass you.
Agatha, darling, see that beds be got ready for our friends. Father
Jerome also will remain here tonight, and Charles, and Adolphe; we may
not have many merry suppers more, we will at any rate enjoy tonight."

"And Cathelineau," said Henri, "you will not, I trust, be less welcome
in St. Florent tomorrow because I accompany you."

It was then decided that they should all remain there that night, that
de Lescure and Adolphe should return with Marie to Clisson on the
following morning, and that Henri and the priest should accompany Foret
and the postillion to St. Florent, there to make the best arrangement
within their power for the immediate protection of the place.

They were not very merry that evening, but they were by no means
unhappy; as Henri had said they had much to talk of, and they spent an
anxious evening, but each satisfied the other. Cathelineau felt himself
to be in a new world, sitting down at table to eat with such companions
as those around him. The sweet, kind face of Agatha disturbed him most.
It almost unmanned him; he thought that it would be happiness enough for
a life to be allowed to remain unseen where he might gaze on her. He
felt that such beauty, such ineffable loveliness as hers could almost
make him forget his country and his countrymen; and then he shuddered
and turned his eyes away from her. But there she sat close to him: and
she would speak to him, and ask him questions; she asked after his
friends in St. Florent, after the women who were wounded, and she gave
him money for the children who were made orphans; and then her hand
touched his again, and he thought that he was asleep and dreaming.

Much of importance to their future plans was arranged that night, and
such a council of war was probably never before assembled. The old man
joined in their contemplated designs with as much energy as the youngest
among them; the words rash and imprudent never once crossed his lips;
nothing seemed rash to him that was to be undertaken for the restoration
of the King. The priest took a very prominent part in it, and his word
was certainly not for peace; he was the most urgent of the party for
decided measures. De Lescure, Larochejaquelin, and Denot, argued,
debated, and considered, as though war had always been their profession;
but they all submitted, or were willing to submit, to Cathelineau; he
had already commenced the war, and had been successful; he had already
shewn the ready wit to contrive, and the bold hand to execute; his
fitness to lead was acknowledged, and though two days since he was only
a postillion, he was tacitly acknowledged by this little band of
royalists, to be their leader.

And there too among these confederates sat Agatha and Marie, if not
talking themselves, yet listening with almost breathless attention to
the plans of the party; sharing their anxiety, promising their women's
aid, enchanting them with their smiles, or encouraging them with their
tears. Cathelineau had heard how knights of old, famed in song, had
spent their lives among scenes of battle and danger, and all for the
smiles of the lady of their love; and now he thought he understood it.
He could do the same to be greeted with the smiles of Agatha
Larochejaquelin, and he would not dream of any richer reward. She was
as an angel to him, who had left her own bright place in heaven to
illuminate the holy cause in which he had now engaged himself; under
such protection he could not be other than successful.

When Foret and Cathelineau dismounted, and were taken into the house by
Henri and the Curé, they left their steeds in the care of Peter Berrier;
but Peter has not been left ever since leading them up and down in sight
of the white-washed lions. The revolt of St. Florent had been heard of
in the servants' hall as well as in the salon upstairs, and it was soon
known that the heroes of the revolt were in the house, and that their
horses were before the door. A couple of men and two or three boys soon
hurried round, and Peter was relieved from his charge, and courteously
led into the servants' hall by Momont, the grey-headed old butler and
favourite servant of the Marquis, and Jacques Chapeau, the valet, groom,
and confidential factotum of Larochejaquelin. Peter was soon encouraged
to tell his tale, and to explain the mission which had brought him and
his two companions to Durbellière, and under ordinary circumstances the
having to tell so good a tale would have been a great joy to him; but
at the present moment Peter was not quite satisfied with his own
position; why was the postillion in the salon while he was in the
kitchen? Peter usually was a modest man enough, and respectful to his
superiors; the kitchen table in a nobleman's house would generally be
an elysium to him; he had no idea that he was good enough to consort
with Marquises and their daughters; but he did think himself equal to
Cathelineau, the postillion, and as Cathelineau was in the salon, why
should he be in the kitchen? He quite understood that Cathelineau was
thus welcomed, thus raised from his ordinary position in consequence of
what he had done at St. Florent, but why shouldn't he, Berrier, be
welcomed, and raised also? He couldn't see that Cathelineau had done
more than he had himself. He was the first man to resist; he had been
the first hero, and yet he was left for half an hour to lead about a
horse, an ass, and an old mule, as though he were still the ostler at
an auberge, and then he was merely taken into the servants' hall, and
asked to eat cold meat, while Cathelineau was brought into a grand room
upstairs to talk to lords and ladies; this made Peter fidgety and
uncomfortable; and when he heard, moreover, that Cathelineau was to sup
upstairs at the same table with the Marquis and the ladies, all his
pleasure in the revolt was destroyed, he had no taste for the wine
before him, and he wished in his heart that he had joined the troops,
and become a good republican. He could not bear the aristocratic foppery
of that Cathelineau.

"And were you a conscript yourself, Peter Berrier?" said Jacques
Chapeau.

"Of course I was," said Peter. "Why, haven't you heard what the revolt
of St. Florent was about?"

"Well; we have heard something about it," said Momont; "but we didn't
exactly hear your name mentioned."

"You couldn't have heard much of the truth then," said Berrier.

"We heard," said Chapeau, "how good Cathelineau began by taking three
soldiers prisoners."

"I had twice more to do with those three prisoners than ever he had,"
said Peter.

"Well; we never heard that," said Momont.

"But we heard," said Chapeau, "how Cathelineau led a few of the townsmen
against a whole regiment of soldiers, and scattered them through the
town like chaff."

"Scattered them like chaff!" said Peter.

"And we heard," said Momont, "how he stormed the barracks, slaughtered
all the soldiers, and dragged the Colonel with his own hand through the
barrack window."

"Through the barrack window!" repeated Peter, with an air intended to
throw discredit on the whole story.

"And we heard," said Gather's confidential maid, "how he laid his hand
upon the cannon and charmed it, so that it would not go off, though the
fiery torch was absolutely laid upon the gunpowder."

"That the cannon wouldn't go off though the torch was laid upon the
gunpowder!" said Peter.

"And we heard," said the cook, "how all the girls in the town came and
crowned him with bay leaves; and how the priest blessed him."

"And how the young made him their captain and their general," said the
housekeeper.

"And how they christened him the Saviour of St. Florent," said the
laundress.

"And gave him all the money in the town, and the biggest sword they
could find," said the page.

"You heard all this, did you?" said Peter Berrier.

"Indeed we did," said Jacques Chapeau, "and a great deal more from M. de
Lescure's own man, who went back to Clisson only an hour since, and who
had it all from one who came direct from St. Florent."

"And you heard not a word of Peter Berrier?"

"Not a word, not a word," said they all at once.

"Then, friends, let me tell you, you have not heard much of the truth,
although M. de Lescure's own man did see the man who came direct from
St. Florent; I think I may say, without boasting, and I believe Monsieur
the postillion upstairs will not be inclined to contradict me, that
without me, there would have been no revolt.

"No revolt without you? No revolt without Peter Berrier? No revolt
without M. Debedin's ostler?" said they one after another.

"No--no revolt without M. Debedin's ostler, Madame." The last question
had been asked by the cook. "M. Debedin's ostler is as good, I suppose,
as M. Gaspardieu's postillion."

"What, as good as Cathelineau?" asked Momont.

"As good as our good postillion!" shouted Chapeau.

"As good as the holy man who charmed the cannon!" said the confidential
maid in a tone of angry amazement.

"Would all the girls in St. Florent crown you with bay leaves!" jeered
the cook.

"Will they ever make you a great captain!" screamed the housekeeper.

"Or call you the Saviour of St. Florent!" added the laundress.

"Or trust you with all the money, I'd like to know!" suggested the page.

Peter Berrier felt that he was ill-used after all that he had gone
through for his King and his country; he sat apart for the rest of the
evening, and meditated whether he would go over to the republicans, and
bring an army down upon Durbellière, or whether he would more nobly
revenge himself by turning out a more enterprising royalist than even
the postillion himself.



CHAPTER V.

DE LESCURE.

De Lescure with his sister returned on the following morning to Clisson;
for so was his château called. Clisson is about two leagues south of the
town of Brassiere, in the province of Poitou, and is situated in the
southern part of the Bocage. M. de Lescure owned the château and a
considerable territory around it. He was a man of large property in that
country where the properties were all comparatively small, and was in
other respects also by far the most influential person in the
neighbourhood. He had married a lady with a large fortune, which gave
him more means of assisting the poor than most of the gentlemen resident
in the Bocage possessed. He took a deep interest in the welfare of those
around him; he shared their joys, and sympathized with their grief, and
he was consequently beloved, and almost adored.

He had now undertaken to join with his whole heart the insurgents
against the Republic, and he was fully determined to do so; he had made
up his mind that it was his duty to oppose measures which he thought
destructive to the happiness of his countrymen, and to make an effort
to re-establish the throne; but he did not bring to the work the
sanguine hope of success, the absolute pleasure in the task which
animated Larochejaquelin; nor yet the sacred enthusiastic chivalry of
Cathelineau, who was firmly convinced of the truth of his cause, and
believed that the justice of God would not allow the murderers of a
King, and the blasphemers of his name to prevail against the arms of
people who were both loyal and faithful.

De Lescure had studied and thought much; he was older than
Larochejaquelin, much better educated than Cathelineau. He was as ardent
in the cause as they were; why else had he undertaken it? but he
understood better than they did the fearful chances which were against
them: the odds against which they had to fight, the almost insuperable
difficulties in their way. He knew that the peasantry around them would
be brave and enthusiastic followers, but he also knew that it would be
long before they were disciplined soldiers. He was sure that they would
fight stoutly round their homes and their families; but he felt that it
would be almost impossible to lead any body of them to a distance from
their own fields. He foresaw also all the horrors into which they were
about to plunge; horrors, of which an honourable death on the field of
battle would be the least. The Republic had already shown the bitterness
of their malice towards those who opposed them, and de Lescure knew what
mercy it would shew to those of his party who fell into its power.

Besides, how could they hope for success against the arms of a whole
nation supported by a despotic government. His friends talked sanguinely
of aid from England, from Austria, and from Prussia; but he feared that
that aid would come too late, after their houses were burnt, and their
fields destroyed; after the best among them had fallen; after their
children had been murdered; when the country should be depopulated, and
nothing but the name of La Vendée left.

With all these fears around his heart, and yet with a firm determination
to give himself entirely to the cause in which he was embarked, de
Lescure rode home to tell his young wife, to whom he was but barely two
years married, that he must not only leave her, and give up the life so
congenial to both their tastes, which they had lately led; but that he
was going to place himself in constant danger, and leave her and all he
loved in danger also.

"You must be very good to Victoriana," he said to his sister; "you must
be very good to each other, Marie, for you will both have much to bear."

"We will, we will," said Marie; "but you, Charles, you will be with us;
at any rate not far from us."

"I may be near you, and yet not with you; or I may soon be placed beyond
all human troubles. I would have you prepare yourself; of all the curses
which can fall on a country, a civil war is the most cruel."

Madame de Lescure was the daughter of a nobleman of high rank; she had
been celebrated as a beauty, and known to possess a great fortune; she
had been feted and caressed in the world, but she had not been spoiled;
she was possessed of much quiet sense; and though she was a woman of
strong passions, she kept them under control. When her husband told her,
therefore, that the quiet morning of their life was over, that they had
now to wade through contest, bloodshed, and civil war, and that probably
all their earthly bliss would be brought to a violent end before the
country was again quiet, she neither screamed nor fainted; but she felt,
what he intended that she should feel that she must, now, more entirely
than ever, look for her happiness in some world beyond the present one.

"I know, Victorine," said he, when they were alone together in the
evening, when not even his own dear sister Marie was there to mar the
sacred sweetness of their conference, "I know that I am doing right, and
that gives me strength to leave you, and our darling child. I know that
I am about to do my duty; and you would not wish that I should remain
here in safety, when my King and my country require my services."

"No, Charles; I would never wish that you should be disgraced in your
own estimation. I could perfectly disregard what all others said of you,
as long as you were satisfied with your own conduct; but I would not for
any worldly happiness, that you should live a coward in your own
esteem."

"My own, own Victorine," said he, "how right you are! What true
happiness could we have ever had, if we attempted to enjoy it at the
expense of our countrymen! Every man owes his life to his country; in
happy, quiet times, that debt is best paid by the performance of homely
quiet duties; but our great Father has not intended that lot for us."

"His will be done. He may yet turn away from us this misery. We may yet
live, Charles, to look on these things as our dearest reminiscences."

"We may; but it is not the chance for which we should be best prepared.
We are not to expect that God will raise his arm especially to vindicate
our injuries; it would be all but blasphemous to ask Him to do so. We
are but a link in the chain of events which His wisdom has designed.
Should we wish that that chain should be broken for our purposes?"

"Surely not. I would not be so presumptuous as to name my own wishes in
my prayers to the Creator."

"No; leave it to His wisdom to arrange our weal or woe in this world;
satisfied with this, that He has promised us happiness in the world
which is to come."

"I must leave you on Monday, dearest," continued he, after a pause,
during which he sat with his wife's hand within his own.

"So soon, Charles!"

"Yes, dearest, on Monday. Henri, and Adolphe, and others, will be here
on Sunday; and our different duties will commence immediately."

"And will yours keep you altogether away from Clisson?"

"Very nearly so; at any rate, I could not name the day or the week, when
I might be with you. You and Marie will be all in all to each other now;
do not let her droop and grow sad, Victorine."

"Nay, Charles, it is she should comfort me; she loves no dear husband.
Marie dotes on you; but she can never feel for a brother, as I must feel
for you."

"She is younger than you, Victorine, and has not your strength of mind."

"She has fewer cares to trouble her; but we will help each other; it
will be much to me to have her with me in your absence. I know she is
giving up much in returning to Clisson, and she does it solely for my
sake."

"How! what is she giving up? Will she not be better in her own home than
elsewhere in such times as these."

"She might choose to change her home, Charles; I had a happy, happy
home, but I should not have been contented to remain there till now. I
found that something more than my own old home was necessary to my
happiness."

"You have made but a sad exchange, my love."

"Would I for all the world recall what I have done? Have I ever
repented? Shall I ever repent? No; not though your body were brought
breathless to your own hall door, would I exchange my right to mourn
over it, for the lot of the happiest bride just stepping from the altar
in all the pride of loveliness and rank?"

"My own true love. But tell me, what is this you mean about Marie.
Surely she is not betrothed without my knowledge."

"Betrothed! Oh, no! Nor won, nor wooed, as far as I believe; but we
women, Charles, see through each other's little secrets. I think she is
not indifferent to Henri Larochejaquelin; and how should she be! How few
she sees from whom to choose; and if all France were before her feet,
how could she make a better choice than him."

"Poor Marie, from my heart I pity her; in any other times than these,
how I would have gloried to have given Henri my sister; but now, these
are no times to marry, or to give in marriage. Henri has stern, hard
work to do, and he is bent on doing it; ay, and he will do it. No one
will carry the standard of his King further into the ranks of the
republicans than Henri Larochejaquelin."

"I know one, Charles, who will, at any rate, be beside him."

"But he is so full of glorious confidence--so certain of success. He
will go to battle with the assured hope of victory. I shall fight
expecting nothing but defeat."

"You are melancholy, tonight, my love: something ails you beyond your
dread of the coming struggle."

"Can I be other than melancholy? I have no hope."

"No hope, Charles. Oh! do not say you have no hope."

"None in this world, Victorine. The Indian widow, when she throws
herself on the burning pile, with a noble courage does what she has been
taught to look upon as a sacred duty, but she cannot but dread the fire
which is to consume her."

"You would not liken yourself to her?"

"Through the mercy of our blessed Saviour I am not so mistaken in my
creed; but I am hardly less calamitous in my fate: but it is not the
prospect of my own sufferings which disturb me; I at any rate may be
assured of an honourable, even an enviable death. It is my anxiety for
you--for our little one--and for dear Marie, which makes my spirit sad."

"God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb," said Madame de Lescure.
"Our trials will not be harder than we can bear."

"God bless you for those words, dearest: there is comfort in them--real,
true comfort. But remember them yourself Victorine; remember them when
you will most want them. When great sorrow comes home to your bosom, as
it will do; when affliction is heavy on you, when worldly comforts are
leaving you, when enemies are around you, when the voices of cruel men
are in your ears, and their cruel deeds before your eyes, then remember,
my love, that God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb."

"I will, my own Charles, I will," said she, now kneeling at his feet,
and burying her face in her hands upon his knees; "if I am called upon
to bear these miseries, I will remember it."

"And look up, Victorine; look up, dearest. I would have you prepared for
the worst. Listen to me now calmly, love, and then I need not harrow you
with these thoughts again. It may be God's pleasure that I should
outlive this war; but as, with His will, I am determined that I will
never lay down my sword till the soldiers of the Republic are driven
from the province, it is most improbable that I should do so. You must
teach yourself, Victorine, to look for my death, as an event certain to
occur, which any day may bring forth; and when the heavy news is brought
to you, bear it as a Christian woman should bear the afflictions of
this, world. I do not ask you not to weep for me, for that would be
putting too violent a constraint upon your nature, but do not weep over
much. Above all, Victorine, do not allow your sorrow to paralyse your
actions. You will have to act then, not only for yourself, but for your
child--for my daughter; and if you then give way to the violence of
sorrow, who shall think and care for her?"

She laid her beautiful head upon his bosom, and wept, and promised, and
prayed for him. And when he had finished what he felt he had to say,
what he wished to say once, and but once, before he left her, he became
more cheerful, and seemed to have more spirit for his work than he had
hitherto shewn.

"And so," he said, after a while, "poor Marie is in love."

"Nay; I did not say she was in love-not in the deep depth of absolute
love--but I think she is not indifferent to Henri: were she truly and
earnestly in love, she would have told me so."

"Not indifferent to him, and yet not in love. Faith, Victorine, I know
not the difference; but you women are such adepts in the science, that
you have your degrees of comparison in it."

"Marie, then, has not yet reached the first degree, for hers is not even
downright positive love; but I am sure she is fond of Henri's society;
and now, poor girl, she must give it up--and probably for ever."

"As you said a while since, Victorine, how should she not like his
society? I can fancy no man more fit to be the cynosure of a woman's eye
than Larochejaquelin. He has that beauty which women love to look on:
the bold bright eye, the open forehead, the frank, easy smile, and his
face is only a faithful index to his heart; he is as frank as brave, and
yet as tender-hearted as he looks to be; he is specially formed to love
and to be loved."

"Poor Marie! I grieve that you brought her from Durbellière."

"Not so, Victorine; this is the place for Marie now; indeed, dear girl,
she knew that well herself. The Marquis pressed her hard to stay, and
I said nothing; but Marie insisted on coming home. I thought Henri
looked somewhat more sombre than is his wont, as he was leading her down
the steps: but he cannot, must not, think of love now, Victorine. La
Vendée now wants all his energies."

"But you would not forbid him to love her, Charles?"

"I could forbid him nothing, for I love him as Joseph loved his younger
brother Benjamin."

"And he will be here now backwards and forwards, will he not?"

"Probably he will--that is as circumstances may arise--he is, at any
rate, as likely to be at Clisson as Durbellière."

"He will be more likely, Charles, take my word for it; you cannot
prevent their meeting; you cannot hinder them from loving each other."

"Were the King upon his throne, it would be my greatest joy to give my
sister to my friend, but now--it is the same for all of us--we must take
the chance of these horrid times; and could they be taught to quench the
warm feelings of their young hearts, it were well for both of them. The
cold, callous disposition would escape much misery, which will weigh
down to the grave the loving and the generous."

On the next morning, Madame de Lescure spoke to her sister-in-law on the
same subject. She could not bring herself to look on things around her
quite so darkly as her husband did. She could not think that there was
no longer any hope in their once happy country for the young and the
generous, the beautiful and the brave; of herself and her own lot, her
thoughts were sombre enough. De Lescure had imbued her with that
presentiment, which he himself felt so strongly, that he should perish
in the conflict in which he was about to engage; but all would not
surely be doomed to share her cup of sorrow. She loved Marie dearly, and
she loved Henri, not only from what her husband so often said of him,
but from what she knew of him herself; and she longed in her woman's
heart that they should be happy together.

It was still March, but it was on a bright warm spring morning, that
Madame de Lescure was walking with her sister-in-law in the gardens at
Clisson. Marie was talking of her brother--of the part he was to take
in the war--of the gallant Cathelineau, and of the events which were so
quickly coming on them; but Madame de Lescure by degrees weaned her from
the subject and brought her to that on which she wished to speak.

"M. Larochejaquelin will be much here as long as this fighting lasts and
M. Denot: we shall have plenty of brave knights coming to and fro to lay
their trophies at your feet."

"Poor M. Denot--his trophies if he gets any will be taken to
Durbellière; and I fear me, when he offers them, they will not be
welcomed. Agatha loves him not; she thinks he shares his adoration too
equally between her and his looking-glass."

"I do not wonder at it; no one can deny that M. Denot is attractive, but
he attracts without retaining; were I ever so much in want of lovers,
I could not endure M. Denot's attentions for more than one evening at
the utmost; but our other knight--our other preux chevalier, sans peur
et sans reproche--at whose feet will he lay his trophies, Marie? who is
to wreath a crown of bay leaves for his brow?"

"His countrywomen should all unite to do it, Victorine--for he is going
out to battle for them all--every village girl, whose lover is still
left to walk with her on the Sabbath evening--every young wife, who can
still lay her baby in her husband's arms--every mother, who still
rejoices in the smile of her stalwart son; they should all unite to
wreath a crown for the brow of Henri Larochejaquelin."

"And so they shall, Marie; but there will be others also, whose valour
will claim a token of admiration from the gratitude of their
countrywomen; we will all do this for Henri and our other brave
defenders; but if I know his character, the gratitude of many will not
make him happy without the favour of one, and she will be the lady of
his love; the remembrance of whose smiles will bear him scatheless
through the din of the battle."

"I should be vain, Victorine, if I pretended to misunderstand your
questions," said Marie; "but why you should mix my name with that of M.
Larochejaquelin, without vanity I do not know."

"It does not offend you, Marie?"

"Offend me, dearest Victorine! how should I be offended with anything
you could say?"

"But would it offend you to see Henri Larochejaquelin at your feet."

"Is there any girl in France who would have a right to be offended at
seeing him there, if he came with a tale of true love?"

"You may be sure at least that Henri will never sully his lips with
false vows," said Madame de Lescure.

"He has at any rate made no vows to me, Victorine, nor given me cause
to suppose he ever will."

"But should he do so, Marie?"

"Now you ask me questions which you know it only becomes me to answer
in one way."

"Why, Marie, I declare you and I have changed characters this morning.
You are all sobriety when I make a poor attempt at joking with you. Were
I, as usual, talking of my sober cares, you would be as giddy as a girl
of fifteen, and talk to me of twenty lovers that you have."

"It is very different talking of twenty lovers, and of one."

"Then you own there is one lover in the case--eh, Marie?"

"Now you are crafty, Victorine, and try to trap me into confessions. You
know I have no confession to make, or I should have made it long ago to
you."

"I know, Marie, that Larochejaquelin is sad when you are not by, and
that he has a word for no one else when you are present; but I know not
whether that means love. I know also that your bright eyes brighten when
they rest on him, and that your heart beats somewhat faster at the
mention of his name; but I know not whether that means love."

"Victorine," said Marie, turning round upon her companion her beautiful
face, on which two lustrous tears were shining, "Victorine, you are
treating your poor sister unfairly. I know not that my eyes are turned
oftener on him than on others; and when my heart would play the rebel
within me, I always try to check it."

"Nay, Marie, dear Marie, I did but joke! You do not think I would accuse
you of an unmaidenly partiality; if it grieves you we will not mention
Henri's name again, though I remember when you did not spare me so
easily; when Charles' name was always in my ear, when you swore that
every dress I wore was his choice, that every flower I plucked was for
his eye; and there had been no more then between Charles and me, than
there has now between you and Henri; and yet you see what has become of
it. You thought yourself wonderfully clever then, Marie; you were quite
a prophetess then. Why should not I now foresee a little. Why should not
I also be clever?"

"Well, Victorine, time will shew," said Marie, smiling through her
tears; "but do not teach me to love him too dearly, till I know whether
he will value my love. If he would prize it, I fear he might have it for
the asking for; but I will not throw it at his feet, that he should keep
it loosely for awhile, and then scorn it, and lay it by."



CHAPTER VI.

RECRUITING.

On the Monday following the meeting at Durbellière, Larochejaquelin,
Denot, the Curé of St. Laud, Foret and Cathelineau joined M. de Lescure
at Clisson, and on the day afterwards, the soldiers of the Republic,
when attempting to collect the conscripts at a small town near Clisson,
were resisted and treated as they had been at St. Florent. There was not
quite so much of a battle, for the officer in command knew what was
likely to occur, and not having received any reinforcement of troops,
thought it advisable to give in early in the day, and capitulate with
the honours of war. He was allowed to march his men out of the town,
each man having stipulated that he would not again serve in any
detachment sent into La Vendée for the collection of conscripts; but
they were not allowed to take their arms with them, muskets, bayonets,
and gunpowder being too valuable to the insurgents to be disregarded.
So the soldiers marched unarmed to Nantes, and from thence returned,
before two months were over, in spite of the promises they had given,
and requited the mercy of the Vendeans with the most horrid cruelties.

The people were equally triumphant in many other towns. In Beauprieu,
Coron, Châtillon, and other places, the collection of conscripts was
opposed successfully, and generally speaking, without much bloodshed.
In Coron, the military fired on the people, and killed three or four of
them, but were ultimately driven out, In Beauprieu, they gave up their
arms at once, and marched out of the place. In Châtillon, they attempted
to defend the barracks, but they found, when too late, that they had not
a single day's provisions; and as the townspeople also knew this, they
were at no pains to besiege the stronghold of the soldiers. They knew
that twenty-four hours would starve them out. As it was, the lieutenant
in command gave up, half an hour after his usual dinner time.

These things all occurred within a week of the revolt at St. Florent.
Beauprieu and Châtillon were carried on the Wednesday. Coron was
victorious on the Thursday; and on the Friday following, a strong
detachment of soldiers marched out of Cholet, of their own accord,
without attempting to collect their portion of the levy, and crossed the
river Loire, at the Pont de Cé, thus retreating from La Vendée.

These triumphs inspired the insurgents with high hopes of future
victories; they gave them the prestige of success, made them confident
in the hour of battle, and taught them by degrees to bear, undaunted,
the fire of their enemies. The officers of the Republic were most
injudicious in allowing their enemies to gather head as they did; had
they brought a really formidable force of men, in one body, into the
province of Anjou, immediately upon the revolt of St. Florent, they
might doubtless have driven the Vendeans, who were then unarmed and
undisciplined, back to their farms; but they affected to despise them,
they neglected to take vigorous measures, till the whole country was in
arms; and they then found that all the available force which they were
enabled to collect, was insufficient to quell the spirit, or daunt the
patriotism of the revolted provinces.

Towards the end of April, the first attempt was made by the Vendean
chiefs to collect a body of men under arms, and to put them into motion,
for the purpose of performing service at a distance from their own
homes; and though considerable difficulty was felt in inducing them to
follow the standards, their first attempts were successful. In the early
part of May, they altogether succeeded in driving the soldiers out of
Thouars. A few days later, they did the same at Fontenay, though here
they met with a violent opposition, and much blood was shed. At these
two latter places, the cannon which Cathelineau had taken in so gallant
a manner at St. Florent, was brought into action, and quite supported
its character as a staunch royalist. At Fontenay, with its aid, they
took three or four other pieces of cannon, but none which they prized
as they did Marie Jeanne. It was universally credited among the
peasantry, that at Cathelineau's touch, this remarkable piece of
artillery had positively refused to discharge itself against the
Vendeans; and their leaders certainly were at no pains to disabuse them
of a belief which contributed so strongly to their enthusiasm.

Some of the more astute among the people had certainly thought for a
while that the cannon was a humbug, that it was useless either to
royalist or to republican, in fact, that it would never go off at all.
But these sceptics were cured of their infidelity at Thouars, when they
saw the soldiers as well as the republicans of the town fall in heaps
beneath the thunders of Marie Jeanne.

During April and the three weeks of May, Larochejaquelin and de Lescure,
together with Cathelineau, Denot, and M. Bonchamps, were actively
engaged in collecting and exhorting the people, planning what they
should do, and preparing themselves to bear that burst of republican
fury which they knew would, sooner or later, fall upon them.

Much of this time was spent at Clisson, as that place was centrically
situated for their different manoeuvres; and there certainly appeared
reason to suppose that Madame de Lescure was not altogether wrong in her
surmises respecting Marie. Here also, at Clisson, Cathelinean frequently
joined the party, and though he shewed by his language and demeanour
that he had not forgotten that he was a postillion, he gradually
acquired a confidence and ease of manner among his new associates, and
displayed a mixture of intelligence and enthusiasm, which induced his
confederates generally to acknowledge his voice as the first in their
councils.

They were occasionally at Durbellière; but there Cathelineau was again
abashed and confused. He could not calmly endure the quiet loveliness
of Agatha's face, or the sweet music of her voice. He himself felt that
his brain was not cool when there; that his mind was gradually teaching
itself to dwell on subjects, which in his position would be awfully
dangerous to him. He never owned to himself that he was in love with the
fair angel, whom he considered as much above him as the skies are above
the earth; but he would walk for hours through those eternal paths in
the château garden, regardless of the figures, regardless of the various
turns and twists he took, dreaming of the bliss of being beloved by such
a woman as Agatha Larochejaquelin. He built for himself splendid castles
in the air, in which he revelled day after day; and in these dreams he
always endowed himself with that one gift which no talents, no courage,
no success could give him--high birth and noble blood, for he strongly
felt that without these, no one might look up to the goddess of his
idolatry; it was his delight to imagine to himself with what ecstasy he
would receive from her lips the only adequate reward of his patriotism;
he would quicken his pace with joy as he dreamt that he heard her sweet
voice bidding him to persevere, and then he would return to her after
hard fighting, long doubtful but victorious battles, and lay at her feet
honours worthy of her acceptance.

It can hardly be said that he himself was the hero of his own reveries;
he was assured beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the proud happiness
which he pictured to his imagination was as much beyond his own reach,
as though his thoughts were turned on some celestial being. No, it was
a creation of his brain, in which he dwelt awhile, till his own strong
good sense reminded him that he had other work before him than the
indulgence in such dreams, and he determined that he would be at
Durbellière as little as was possible.

It was singular though, that he contrived, while his imagination was
thus rambling, to mingle in his thoughts the actual and the ideal. The
revolt of La Vendée, the struggle of his brother royalists for the
restoration of their King; the annihilation of republicanism, and
re-establishment of the old clergy, were still the subjects of his
meditations; and the bold plans which his mind then suggested to him,
were those which were afterwards put into effect.

He still insisted on attacking the strongly fortified citadel of Saumur,
and after their success at Fontenay, the chiefs agreed at once to make
arrangements for that great undertaking. The tenth of June was settled
on as the day on which the attack should be commenced, and their utmost
efforts in the mean time were to be employed in raising recruits, arming
and drilling them, and collecting ammunition and stores of war
sufficient for so serious an operation.

For this purpose Cathelineau returned for a while to St. Florent. M.
Charette was requested to bring up all the men he could collect from the
Marais, a part of La Vendée which lies close upon the sea. M. Bonchamps
was invited to join them from Angers. De Lescure returned to Fontenay,
to ask the assistance of those who had been so successful there against
the republicans; while Henri Larochejaquelin, was left at home in the
Bocage, to secure the services of every available man from every
village.

He had two comrades with him in his recruiting party; and though they
were of very different characters, they were almost equally serviceable.
One was his friend and priest, the Curé of St. Laud, and the other was
his servant, Jacques Chapeau. The Curé had no scrupulous compunction in
using his sacerdotal authority as a priest, when the temporal influence
of Larochejaquelin, as landlord, was insufficient to induce a countryman
to leave his wife and home to seek honour under the walls of Saumur. The
peasants were all willing to oppose the republican troops, should they
come into their own neighbourhood to collect conscripts; they were ready
to attack any town where republican soldiers were quartered, providing
they were not required to go above a day's march from their own homes;
but many objected to enrol themselves for any length of time, to bind
themselves as it were to a soldier's trade, and to march under arms to
perform service at a distance from their farms, which to them seemed
considerable. With such men as these, and with their wives and sisters,
Henri argued, and used his blandest eloquence, and was usually
successful; but when he failed, the Curé was not slow in having recourse
to the irresistable thunders of the church.

No one could have been fitter for the duties of a recruiting-sergeant
than Jacques Chapeau; and to his great natural talents in that line, he
added a patriotic zeal, which he copied from his master. No one could
be more zealous in the service of the King, and for the glory of La
Vendée, than was Jacques Chapeau. Jacques had been in Paris with his
master, and finding that all his fellow-servants in the metropolis were
admirers of the revolution, he had himself acquired a strong
revolutionary tendency. His party in Paris had been the extreme
Ultra-Democrats: he had been five or six times at the Jacobins, three
or four times at the Cordeliers; he had learnt to look on a lamp-rope
as the proper destination of an aristocrat, and considered himself equal
to anybody, bu his master, and his master's friends. On Henri's return
to La Vendée, he had imbued himself with a high tone of loyalty, without
any difficulty or constraint on his feelings; indeed, he was probably
unaware that he had changed his party: he had an appetite for strong
politics, was devotedly attached to his master, and had no prudential
misgivings whatsoever. He had already been present at one or two affairs
in which his party had been victorious, and war seemed to him twice more
exciting, twice more delightful than the French Opera, or even the
Jacobin Clubs.

Jacques Chapeau was about five years older than his master, and was as
active and well made a little Frenchman, as ever danced all night at a
ball outside the barriers of Paris. He was a light-hearted and
kind-hearted creature, although he always considered it necessary to
have mortal enemies--horrid, blasphemous, blood-thirsty fellows, men
devoid of feeling, without faith, hope, or charity, who would willingly
slaughter women and children for the mere pleasure of doing so. Such,
in Chapeau's imagination, were all his enemies--such had been the
aristocrats during the time of his revolutionary fervour--such now were
the republicans. Chapeau loved his own side truly and faithfully,
without any admixture of self in his calculations, but I certainly
cannot say for him that he was a good Christian, for all the clergymen
in Anjou could not have taught him to love his enemies.

On a beautiful summer's morning, on the 2nd of June, this remarkable
recruiting party rode from Durbellière to the little village of
Echanbroignes; the distance was about four leagues, and their road lay,
the whole way, through the sweet green leafy lanes of the Bocage. The
aspect of this province is very singular, and in summer most refreshing.
The country is divided into small farms, which are almost entirely
occupied with pasture; the farms are again divided into small fields,
and each field is surrounded by a belt of trees, growing out of high,
green, flowering hedges. The face of the country is like a thickly
wooded demesne, divided and subdivided into an infinity of little
paddocks. The narrow lanes of the country, which are barely broad enough
for the wheels of a carriage, and are seldom visited by such a vehicle,
lie between thick, high hedges, which completely overshadow them; the
wayfarer, therefore, never has before him that long, straight, tedious,
unsightly line of road, which adds so greatly to the fatigue of
travelling in an open country, and is so painful to the eye.

Through such a lane as this our party rode quickly and cheerily;
quickly, for they had much work before them for that day; and cheerily,
for they knew that the people among whom they were going would join them
with enthusiasm. They were all well mounted, for they rode the best
horses from the stables of Durbellière: the old Marquis would have
blushed to have given less than the best to the service of his King.

Chapeau was peculiarly elated at the prospect of his day's work; but his
joy was not wholly professional; for Jacques now accounted himself a
soldier by profession. He had another reason for the more than ordinary
gaiety with which he trotted on towards Echanbroignes. There was there
a certain smith, named Michael Stein, who had two stalwart sons, whom
Jacques burnt to enrol in his loyal band of warriors; this smith had
also one daughter, Annot Stein, who, in the eyes of Jacques Chapeau,
combined every female charm; she was young and rosy; she had soft hair
and bright eyes; she could dance all night, and was known to possess in
her on right some mysterious little fortune, left to her by nobody knew
what grandfather or grandmother, and amounting, so said report, to the
comfortable sum of five hundred francs. When Chapeau had risen to some
high military position, a field-marshal's baton, or the gold-laced cap
of a serjeant-major, with whom could he share his honours better than
with his dear little friend, Annot Stein? Jacques wanted her advice upon
this subject, and he therefore rejoiced greatly that the path of duty
was leading him this morning to Echanbroignes.

"We may be sure, Father Jerome," said Henri, "of those men from St.
Michael?"

"Of every man. You will find there will not be a defaulter."

"God send it; one traitor makes many, as sheep follow each other through
a hedge row."

"Do not fear them, my son. Father Francois has the list of them; he will
have every man collected by daylight on the 7th, and he will come on
with them himself as far as the cross-roads; they will there meet my own
children from St. Laud."

"There were to be one hundred and seventy-five from St. Michael."

"Yes; and one hundred and forty from St. Laud; and thirty will have
joined us from Petit Ange de Poitou before we reach the turn from St.
Michael."

"And have you positively determined you will start with them from St.
Laud's yourself, Father Jerome."

"With God's will, my son, I most assuredly shall do so; and from that
to the walls of Saumur, they shall see before them my tattered Curé's
frock, and the blessed symbol of their hope. I will carry the cross
before them from the porch of the little church which shall once more
be my own, till I plant it on the citadel of Saumur beside the standard
of the King."

"Oh! if we had a few more Father Jeromes!" said Henri.

"There might perhaps be more soldiers in La Vendée than at present; but
perhaps also there would be fewer Christians," said the priest. "May God
forgive me if, in my zeal for my King, I am too remiss in His service."

They rode on a little way in silence, for Father Jerome felt a slight
qualm of conscience at his warlike proceedings, and Henri did not like
to interrupt his meditations; but the Curé soon recovered himself.

"I shall have a goodly assemblage of followers," said he, "before I
reach Coron. Those from Echanbroignes will join us half-a-mile from the
town. There will be above two hundred from Echanbroignes."

"Will there? So many as that, think you?"

"They will muster certainly not short of two hundred. Near seven hundred
men will follow me into Coron on the evening of the 7th."

"They will find provisions there in plenty--meat, bread, and wine. They
are not used to lie soft; they will not grumble at having clean straw
to sleep on."

"They shall grumble at nothing, my friend; if your care can supply them
with food, well; if not, we will find bread enough among the townsfolk.
There is not a housewife in Coron, who would refuse me the contents of
her larder."

"The bullocks are ready for the butcher's axe in the stalls at
Durbellière, please your reverence," said Chapeau, who rode near enough
to his master to take a part in the conversation as occasion offered.
"And the stone wine-jars are ready corked. Momont saw to the latter part
himself. May the saints direct that the drinking have not the same
effect upon our friends that the corking had on Momont, or there will
be many sick head-aches in Coron on the next morning."

"There will be too many of us for that, Jacques. Five hundred throats
will dispose of much good wine, so as to do but little injury."

"That would be true, your reverence, were not some throats so much wider
than others. You will always see that one porker half empties the trough
before others have moistened their snouts in the mess."

"We will see to that, Jacques. We will appoint some temperate fellow
butler, or rather some strong-fisted fellow, whose thick head much wine
will not hurt; though he may swill himself he will not let others do
so."

"If it were not displeasing to yourself and to M. Henri, I would
undertake all that myself. Each man of the five hundred should have his
own share of meat and drink at Coron, and the same again at Doué."

"Will not Jacques be with you?" said the priest, turning round to Henri.
"What should bring him to Coron among my men?"

"He says he has friends here in Echanbroignes, and he has begged that
he may be here with them on the evening of the 6th, so as to accompany
them into Coron on the 7th. We shall all meet at Doué on the 8th."

"I was thinking, your reverence, if any here were loiterers, as there
may be some, I fear; or if there should be any ill inclined to leave
their homes, my example might encourage them. I have a liking for the
village, and I should feel disgraced were a single able-bodied man to
be found near it after the morning of the 7th."

"I trust they will not need any one to remind them of their promise,
when they have once pledged themselves to the service of their King,"
said the priest. "However, you will be, doubtless, useful to me at
Coron. But, Henri, what will you do without him?"

"Adolphe and I will be together, and will do well. We shall have an
absolute barrack at Durbellière. We shall have above one hundred men in
the house. Agatha and the women are at work night and day."

"You have the worst part of the whole affair--the ammunition."

"It is all packed and ready for the carts; a few days since the cellars
were half-full of the lead and iron, which we have been casting; they
are now, I trust, half-way to Saumur, under Foret's care."

"How many men has he with him?" asked the priest.

"He has all the men from Clisson, from St. Paul's and St. Briulph's--
except a few of Charles' own tenants, who went on forward to join him at
Doué, and who have our supply of flags with them, made in the château at
Clisson. Madame de Lescure and poor Marie have worked their fingers to
the bone."

"God bless them! God will bless them, for they are working in the spirit
which he loves."

"Agatha and Annette, between them, have packed nearly every ounce of
gunpowder," said Henri, who could not help boasting of his sister.
"Night and day they have been handling it without regarding for a moment
the destruction which the slightest accident might bring upon them."

"It is that spirit, my son, which will enable us to beat twice our own
strength in numbers, and ten times our own strength in arms and
discipline How many men has Foret with him?"

"Above six hundred. I do not know his exact numbers," said Henri.

"And you, yourself?"

"I shall muster a thousand strong, that is for a certainty; I believe
I shall be nearer twelve thousand."

"Let me see--that will be, say two thousand five hundred from the
Bocage."

"Oh! more than that your reverence," said Chapeau, "you are not counting
M. de Lescure's men, who have gone on with the flags--or the men from
Beauprieu who will follow M. d'Elbée, or the men from St. Florent, who
will come down with Cathelineau."

"I don't count Beauprieu, or Cholet or St. Florent; there will be two
thousand five hundred from our own country, out of three thousand three
hundred male adults, that is three men, Henry, out of every four--they
cannot at any rate say that the spirit of the people is not with us."

As the priest spoke, they rode into the street of the little village of
Echanbroignes, and having stopped at the door of the Mayor's house,
Henri and the Curé dismounted, and giving their horses up to Jacques,
warmly greeted that worthy civic authority, who came out to meet them.

The appointment of a mayor in every village in France, had been enjoined
at an early time in the revolution, and after the death of the King,
these functionaries were, generally speaking, strong republicans; but
the Vendeans in opposition to the spirit of the revolution, had
persisted in electing the Seigneurs, wherever they could get a Seigneur
to act as mayor; and, where this was not the case, some person in the
immediate employment of the landlord was chosen. This was the case at
Echanbroignes, where the agent or intendant of the proprietor was mayor.
He expected the visit which was now paid to him, and having twenty times
expressed his delight at the honour which was done him, he got his hat
and accompanied his visitors to the door of the church, where with his
own hands he commenced a violent assault on the bell-rope, which hung
down in the middle of the porch.

He was ringing the tocsin, which was to call together the people of the
village. They also very generally knew who was coming among them on that
day, and the purpose for which they were corning; and at the first sound
of the bell, all such as intended to shew themselves, came crowding on
to the little space before the church; it was but few who remained at
home, and they were mostly those to whom home at the present moment was
peculiarly sweet; one or two swains newly married, or just about to be
married; one or two fathers, who could hardly bring themselves in these
dangerous times to leave their little prattling children, and one or two
who were averse to lose the profits of their trade.

In spite of the speedy appearance of his townspeople, the Mayor
persisted in his operations on the bell-rope until the perspiration ran
down his face. He was sounding the tocsin, and he felt the importance
of what he was doing. Every one knew that a tocsin bell to be duly rung,
should be rung long and loud--not with a little merry jingle, such as
befitted the announcement of a wedding, but in a manner to strike
astonishment, if not alarm, into its hearers; and on this occasion great
justice was done to the tocsin.

"That will do, M. Mayor; that will do, I think!" said the Curé, "it
looks to me as though our friends were all here."

The Mayor gave an awful pull, the bell leapt wildly up, gave one loud
concluding flourish, and then was quiet.

"Now, M. Mayor," said the Curé, "you have by heart the few words I gave
you, have you not?"

"Indeed, Father Jerome, I have," said the Mayor, "and am not likely to
forget them. Let me see--let me see. Now, my friends, will you be quiet
a moment while I speak to you. Ambrose Corvelin, will you hold your
noisy tongue awhile--perhaps M. de Larochejaquelin, I had better get up
on the wall, they will hear me better?"

"Do, M. Mayor, do," said Henri; and the Mayor was lifted on to the low
wall which ran round the churchyard, and roared out the following words,
at the top of his voice:

"In the holy name of God, and by command of the King, this parish of
Echanbroignes is invited to send as many men as possible to Saumur, to
be there, or at any other such place in the neighbourhood as may be
appointed, at three o'clock on the afternoon of the 9th of June. And may
God defend the right. Amen!" And having said this, the Mayor jumped off
the wall, and the crowd commenced shouting and cheering.

"Wait one moment, and hear me say a few words, my friends," said Henri,
springing to the place which the Mayor had just left. "Most of you, I
believe, know who I am."

"We do, M Henri," said they. "We do, M. Larochejaquelin. We all know who
you are. We know that you are our friend."

"I am very glad you think so," continued he; "for you will know, that
if I am your friend, I shall not deceive you. I have come here to ask
you to share with me the honour and the danger of restoring his father's
kingdom and his father's throne to the son of your murdered King. I have
come here to ask you also to assist me and others, who are your friends,
in protecting yourselves, your pastors, your houses, your wives and
daughters, from the tyranny and cruelty of the republicans."

"We will!" shouted the crowd. "We will go at once. We will be at Saumur
on Wednesday. We will follow M. Larochejaquelin wherever he would lead
us."

"You all know Cathelineau," continued Henri; "you all know the good
postillion of St. Florent?"

"We do, God bless him! we do. We all know the Saint of Anjou."

"Come and meet him, my friends, under the walls of Saumur; or rather,
I should say, come and meet him within the walls of Saumur. Come and
greet the noble fellows of St. Florent, who have set us so loyal an
example. Come and meet the brave men of Fontenay, who trampled on the
dirty tricolour, and drove out General Coustard from his covert, like
a hunted fox. He is now at Saumur; we will turn him out from thence."

"We will! we will! We will hang up Coustard by the heels."

"We will strip him rather of his spurs and his epaulettes, of his sword
and blue coat, and send him back to the Convention, that they may see
what will become of the heroes, whom they send to seek for glory in La
Vendée. Thanks, my friends; thanks for your kindness. I will lead you
to no dangers which I will not share with you. You shall suffer no
hardship of which I will not partake. I will look for no glory in which
you shall not be my partners."

During the time that the Mayor had been giving his invitation to the
people, and Henri had been speaking to them, Father Jerome had been
busily employed with Jacques Chapeau over six or seven little lists
which he held in his hand. These were lists of the names of able-bodied
men, which had been drawn out by the Curé of the parish, and Jacques had
already marked those of one or two whom he had found to be absent, and
among them the names of Michael Stems' two stalwart sons. Father Jerome
again handed the lists to Jacques, and as Henri descended from the wall,
amid the greeting of the populace, he ascended it, and gave them a
little clerical admonition.

"My children," said he, "it delights my heart to find that so few of you
are absent from us this morning--from the whole parish there are but
five, I believe, who have not readily come forward to proclaim their
zeal for their God, their King, and their Church: those five, I doubt
not, will be here when we proceed to check the names. Let it not be said
that there was one recreant in Echanbroignes--one man afraid to answer
when called for by his country. Is there danger in the bloody battle we
have before us?--let us all share it, and it will be lighter. Is it a
grievous thing for you to leave your wives and your children?--let no
man presume to think that he will be happier than his neighbours, for
that man shall assuredly be the most miserable. It is possible that some
of you may leave your bodies beneath the walls of Saumur, be it so; will
you complain because the Creator may require from some of you the life
which he has given? Is it not enough for you to know, that he who falls
fighting with this blessed symbol before his eyes, shall that night rest
among the angels of Heaven?" and the Curé held up on high, above the
people, a huge cross, which he had had brought to him out of the church.
"God has blessed you, my children, in giving you the sacred privilege
of fighting in His cause. You would indeed be weak--senseless as the
brutes--unfeeling as the rocks--aye, impious as the republicans, had you
not replied to the summons as you have done; but you have shown that you
know your duty. I see, my children, that you are true Vendeans. I bless
you now, and on tomorrow week, I will be among you before the walls of
Saumur."

Having finished speaking, the priest also jumped off the wall, and again
the people shouted and cheered. And now they went to work with the
lists: Henri, the Mayor, and the Curé each took a pencil, and called the
names of the different men, as they were written down. There was of
course much delay in getting the men as they were called; but Chapeau
had sworn in three or four assistants, and he and they dived in among
the crowd, hurried this way and that, and shouted, screamed, and
screeched with great effect. The lists were made out with some regard
to the localities; the men from the lower end of the village were to go
to Henri's side; those from the northern part to Father Jerome's table;
and the inhabitants of the intermediate village were checked off by the
Mayor. Chapeau and his friends were most diligent in marshalling them;
to be sure, Jacques knew the names of but few of them; but he made them
tell him whether they were villagers, northerns, or lower-end men; and
though the men in many instances couldn't answer this themselves, the
divisions were effected, the names of all were called over, those who
were there were checked off and informed what was expected of them, and
where and by whom arms would be supplied to them: and those who were not
there became the unhappy victims of a black list.

Father Jerome, when he said that there were only five absent, was
something but not much out in his reckoning: his object, however, had
been to make the people think that he knew exactly who was there, and
who was not there; and in this he was successful. During the calling of
the lists, one or two stragglers dropped in who hoped to escape
detection: respecting a few others, some good ground of excuse was
alleged; but on this head the Curé was most severe: he would accept no
plea but that of absolute downright sickness, and of this he required
to have most ample testimony--even Henri sometimes pleaded for the
people, but unsuccessfully. The Republic by their proscription would
have decimated the men; the Curé of St. Laud insisted on taking them
all.

The houses of those who had not presented themselves were to be visited,
and the two first on the list were Jean and Peter Stein.

"Jean and Peter Stein," said Henri. "Why, Jacques, are they not friends
of yours? are they not sons of Michael Stein, the smith?"

"Quiet, M. Henri; pray be quiet for a moment, and I will explain."

"Are they not strong, active lads," said the Curé, turning somewhat
angrily on Chapeau, as though he were responsible for the principles of
his friends.

"They are, they are, your reverence, fine strong active lads as you ever
laid your eyes on."

"And they are afraid to carry a musket for their king?"

"Not a bit, Father Jerome, not a bit afraid; nor yet unwilling, M.
Henri. I will explain it all; only let us be a little by ourselves."

"There is a mystery, Father Jerome," said Henri, "and Chapeau must have
his own way in explaining it."

"Exactly, M. Henri; I will explain all." By this time he had got the
priest and his master somewhat out of the crowd. "You see, M. Henri,
there are not two young men in the Bocage more determined to fight for
the good cause this moment, than Jean and Peter Stein."

"Why, Jacques, I do not see it yet, certainly."

"Oh! Sir, it's a fact; they are dying to have a musket in their hands.
I pledge for them my word of honour," and Jacques laid his hand upon his
heart. "You will find they are with me, your reverence, when I meet you
at the cross-roads, within half a mile of Coron, on Monday morning. But,
M. Henri, they have a father."

"Have a father!" said the Curé, "of course they have."

"You don't mean to tell me that Michael Stein, the smith, is a
republican?"

"A republican!" said Jaques. "Oh! no, the heavens preserve us, he's
nothing so bad as that, or his own son wouldn't remain under his roof
another night, or his daughter either. No; Annot wouldn't remain with
him another hour, were he twenty times her father, if he turned
republican."

"Why does he prevent his sons joining the muster, then?" said Henri.

"He is very fond of money, M. Henri. Old Michael Stein is very fond of
money; and every one in the country who owns a franc at all, is buying
an old sword or a gun, or turning a reaping-hook into a sabre, or
getting a long pike made with an axe at the end of it; so Michael
Stein's smithy is turned into a perfect armoury, and he and his two sons
are at work at the anvil morning, noon, and night: they made Annot blow
the bellows this morning, till she looks for all the world like a
tinker's wife."

"That alters the case," said Father Jerome; "they are doing good
service, if they are making arms for our men; they are better employed
than though they joined us themselves."

"Don't say so, Father Jerome," said Jacques, "pray don't say so, Jean
and Peter would die were they not to be of the party at Saumur; but
Michael is so passionate and so headstrong, and he swears they shall not
go. Now go they will, and therefore I supplicate that my word may be
taken, and that I may be saved the dishonour of hearing the names of my
friends read out aloud with those of men who will disgrace their parish
and their country."

The request of Jacques was granted, and the names of Jean and Peter
Stein were erased from the top of the black list.

It was eight in the evening before the recruiting party had finished
their work, and it was not yet noon when they rode into the little
village. Henri and the Curé got their supper and slept at the Mayor's
house, and even there they were not allowed to be quiet; some of those
who were to be at Saumur, were continually calling for new instructions;
one wanted to know what arms he was to carry, another what provisions
he was to bring, a third was anxious to be a corporal, and a fourth and
fifth begged that they might not be separated, as one was going to marry
the sister of the other. None of these were turned away unanswered; the
door of the Mayor's house was not closed for a moment, and Henri, to be
enabled to eat his supper at all, was obliged to give his last military
orders with a crust of bread in his hand, and his mouth full of meat.

As might be supposed, Jacques spent the evening with Annot Stein, at
least it was his intention to have done so; but he had been so leading
a person in the day's transactions that he also was besieged by the
villagers, and was hardly able to whisper a word into his sweetheart's
ear. There he sat, however, very busy and supremely happy in the smith's
kitchen, with a pipe in his mouth and a bottle of wine before him. The
old smith sat opposite to him, while the two young men stood among a lot
of others round the little table, and Annot bustled in and out of the
room, now going close enough up to her lover to enable him to pinch her
elbow unseen by her father, and then leaning against the dresser, and
listening to his military eloquence.

"And so, my friend," said Chapeau, "Jean and Peter are not to go to
Saumur?"

"Not a foot, Chapeau," said the old man, "not a foot, Chapeau; let ye
fight, we will make swords for you: is not that fair, neighbour?"

"I have nothing to say against it, M. Stein, not a word; only such
fellows as they, they would surely get promoted."

"Oh, ay; you will all be sergeants, no doubt. I have nothing to say
against that; only none of mine shall go waging wars in distant lands."

"Distant lands, say you! is not Saumur in Anjou? and is not Anjou within
three miles of you, here where you are sitting?"

"May be so, M. Chapeau; but still, with your leave, I say Saumur is
distant. Can you get there in one day from here?"

"Why no, not in one day."

"Nor in two?"

"Why, no again; though they might do it in two. They'll start from here
Monday morning with light, and they'll reach Saumur on Wednesday in time
to look about them, and learn what they have to do the next morning."

"That's three day's going, and three coming, and heaven only knows how
many days there; and you don't call that distant! Who's to feed them all
I'd like to know?"

"Feed them!" said Chapeau. "I wish you could see all the bullocks and
the wine at Durbellière; they'll have rations like fighting-cocks. I
only pray that too much good living make them not lazy."

"Were I a man," said Annot, as she put on the table a fresh bottle of
wine, which she had just brought in from the little inn, "were I a man,
as I would I were, I would go, whether or no."

"Would you, minx," said the father; "it's well for you that your
petticoats keep you at home."

"Don't be too sure of her, Michael Stein," said Paul Rouel, the keeper
of the inn; "she'll marry a soldier yet before the wars are over."

"Let her do as her mother did before her, and marry an honest tradesman;
that is, if she can find one to take her."

"Find one!" said Annot, "if I can't get a husband without finding one,
indeed, I'm sure I'll not fash myself with seeking: let him find me that
wants me."

"And it won't be the first that finds you either, that'll be allowed to
take to you, will it Annot?" said the innkeeper.

"That's as may be, Master Rouel," said Annot. "Those who ask no
questions are seldom told many lies."

"I know Annot Stein loves a soldier in her heart," said another old man,
who was sitting inside the large open chimney. "The girls think there
is no trade like soldiering. I went for a soldier when I was young, and
it was all to oblige Lolotte Gobelin; and what think ye, when I was
gone, she got married to Jean Geldert, down at Petit Ange. There's
nothing for the girls like soldiering."

"You give us great encouragement truly," said Jacques. "I hope our
sweethearts will not all do as Lolotte did. You would not serve your
lover so, when he was fighting for his King and country--would you,
Annot?"

"I might, then, if I didn't like him," said she.

"She's no better than her neighbours, M. Chapeau," said one of her
brothers. "There was young Boullin, the baker, at St. Paul's. Till we
heard of these wars, Annot was as fond of him as could be. It was none
but he then; but now, she will not as much as turn her head if she sees
his white jacket."

"Hold thine unmannerly, loutish, stupid tongue, wilt thou, thou dolt,"
said Annot, deeply offended. "Boullin indeed! I danced with him last
harvest-home; I know not why, unless for sheer good-nature; and now,
forsooth, I am to have Boullin for ever thrust in my teeth. Bah! I hate
a baker. I would as lieve take a butcher at once."

Jacques Chapean also was offended.

"I wonder, Jean Stein," said he, "that you know not better than to liken
your sister to such as young Boullin--a very good young man in his way,
I have no doubt. You should remember there is a difference in these
things."

"I don't know," said Jean, "why a smith's daughter should not marry a
baker's son; but I did not mean to vex Annot, and will say no more about
him; only good bread is a very good thing to have in one's house."

"And a butcher is a good trade too," said the old man inside the
chimney. "Jean Geldert, he that Lolotte Gobelin ran off with, he was a
butcher."



CHAPTER VII.

SUNDAY IN THE BOCAGE.

The remainder of that week was spent by Henri and the Curé as actively
and as successfully as the day in which they visited Echanbroignes. The
numbers they enrolled exceeded their hopes, and they found among the
people many more arms than they expected, though mostly of a very rude
kind. The party separated on the Saturday night, with the understanding
that they were to meet together at Done on the Tuesday evening, to
proceed from thence to the attack of Saumur. Henri Larochejaquelin
returned to Durbellière. The Curé of St. Laud went to his own parish,
to perform mass among his own people on the following morning, and
Jacques Chapeau, according to agreement, took up his quarters at the
smith's house in Echanbroignes.

On the following morning, he and Annot, and most of the young men and
women of the village walked over to St. Laud's to receive mass from
Father Jerome, and to hear the discourse which he had promised to give
respecting the duties of the people in the coming times.

The people, as in olden days, were crowded round the church about
half-past ten o'clock; but the doors of the church were closed. The
revolt in La Vendée had already gone far enough to prevent the
possibility of the constitutional priests officiating in the churches
to which they had been appointed by the National Assembly; but it had
not yet gone far enough to enable the old nonjuring Cures to resume
generally their own places in their own churches: the people, however,
now crowded round the church of St. Laud's, till they should learn where
on that day Father Jerome would perform mass.

The church of St. Laud's did not stand in any village, nor was it
surrounded even by a cluster of cottages. It stood by itself on the side
of a narrow little road, and was so completely surrounded by beech and
flowering ash trees, that a stranger would not know that he was in the
neighbourhood of a place of worship till it was immediately in front of
him. Opposite to the door of the church and on the other side of the
road, was a cross erected on a little mound; and at its foot a Capuchin
monk in his arse brown frock, with his hood thrown back, and his eyes
turned to heaven, was always kneeling: the effigy at least of one was
doing so, for it was a painted wooden monk that was so perpetually at
his prayers.

The church itself was small, but it boasted of a pretty grey tower; and
on each side of the door of the church were two works of art, much
celebrated in the neighbourhood. On the left side, beneath the window,
a large niche was grated in with thick, rusty iron bars. It occupied the
whole extent from the portico to the corner of the church, and from the
ground to the window; and, within the bars, six monster demons--spirits
of the unrepentent dead, the forms of wretches who had died without
owning the name of their Saviour, were withering in the torments of
hell-fire; awful indeed was the appearance of these figures; they were
larger than human, and twisted into every variety of contortion which
it was conceived possible that agony could assume. Their eyes were made
to protrude from their faces, their fiery tongues were hanging from
their scorched lips; the hairs of each demon stood on end and looked
like agonized snakes; they were of various hideous colours; one was a
dingy blue; another a horrid dirty yellow, as though perpetual jaundice
were his punishment; another was a foul unhealthy green; a fourth was
of a brick-dust colour; a fifth was fiery red, and he was leaping high
as though to escape the flame; but in vain, for a huge blue flake of
fire had caught him by the leg, and bound him fast; his fiery red hands
were closed upon the bars, his tortured face was pressed against them,
and his screeching mouth was stretched wide open so as to display two
awful rows of red-hot teeth; the sixth a jet black devil, cowered in a
corner and grinned, as though even there he had some pleasure in the
misery of his companions.

The space occupied on the other side was much larger, for it was carried
up so far as to darken a great portion of the window. That on the left
represented the misery of hell--torment without hope. That on the right
contained two tableaus: the lower one was purgatory, here four recumbent
figures lay in the four corners, uncomfortably enough; for the bed of
each figure was six sharp spikes, each of which perforated the occupier
of it. But yet these dead men were not horrible to look at as those six
other wretches; their eyes were turned on a round aperture above, the
edge of which was all gilt and shining, for the glory of heaven shone
into it. This aperture entered into paradise. Through the aperture the
imaginative artist had made a spirit to be passing--his head and
shoulders were in paradise; these were also gilt and glorious, and on
his shoulders two little seraphims were fixing wings; his nether parts
below the aperture, were still brown and dingy, as were the four
recumbent spirits who rested on their gridirons till the time should
come that they also should be passed through.

Above the aperture was to be seen paradise in all its blazon of glory,
numberless little golden-headen cherubims encircled a throne, on which
was seated the beneficent majesty of Heaven. From the towers and roofs
projected numerous brazen-mouthed instruments, which welcomed into
everlasting joy the purified spirit which was ascending from purgatory.

Thus were paradise, purgatory and pandemonium represented at St. Laud's,
and abominable as such representations now appear to be, they had, to
a certain extent, a salutary effect with the people who were in the
habit of looking at them. That they were absolute accurate
representations of the places represented, they never for a moment
presumed to doubt; and if the joys of heaven, as displayed there, were
not of much avail in adding to the zeal of the faithful, the horrors of
hell were certainly most efficacious in frightening the people into
compliance with the rules laid down for them, and in preventing them
from neglecting their priests and religious duties.

The people were crowded round the church; some were kneeling with the
wooden monk at the foot of the cross, and some round the bars of
purgatory. Others were prostrated before the six condemned demons, and
some sat by the road-side, on the roots of the trees, telling their
beads. Many men were talking of the state of the times, and of the wars
to come; some were foretelling misery and desolation, and others were
speaking of the happy days about to return, when their King and their
priests should have their own, and La Vendée should be the most honoured
province in France.

They made a pretty scene, waiting there beneath the shade till their
priest should come to lead them to some rural chapel. The bright colours
worn by the women in their Sunday clothes, and the picturesque forms of
the men, in their huge broad-brimmed flapping hats, harmonized well with
the thick green foliage around them. They shewed no sign of impatience,
they were quite content to wait there, and pray, or gossip, or make love
to each other, till such time as Father Jerome should please to come;
they had no idea that their time was badly spent in waiting for so good
a man.

At any rate he came before they were tired, and with him came a man who
was a stranger to them all, except to Jacques Chapeau. This man was but
little, if anything, better dressed than themselves; he looked like one
of their own farmers of the better days; certainly from his dress and
manner he had no pretensions to be called a gentleman, and yet he walked
and talked with Father Jerome as though he were his equal.

"God bless you, my children, God bless you," said the Curé, in answer
to the various greetings he received from his flock. "Follow me, my
children, and we will worship God beneath the canopy of his holy
throne," and then turning to the stranger, he added: "the next time you
visit me at St. Laud's, M. d'Elbée, we shall, I doubt not, have our
church again. I could now desire the people to force the doors for me,
and no one would dare to hinder them; but I have been thrust from my
altar and pulpit by a self-constituted vain authority--but yet by
authority; and I will not resume them till I do so by the order of the
King or of his servants."

"I reverence the house of God," replied M. d'Elbée, "because his spirit
has sanctified it; but walls and pillars are not necessary to my
worship; a cross beneath a rock is as perfect a church to them who have
the will to worship, as though they had above them the towers of Notre
Dame, or the dome of St. Peter's."

"You are right, my son; it is the heart that God regards; and where that
is in earnest, his mercy will dispense with the outward symbols of our
religion; but still it is our especial duty to preserve to his use
everything which the piety of former ages has sanctified; to part
willingly with nothing which appertains in any way to His church. The
best we have is too little for His glory. It should be our greatest
honour to give to Him; it is through His great mercy that He receives
our unworthy offerings. Come, my children, follow me; our altar is
prepared above."

The priest led the way through a little shaded path at the back of the
church; behind a farmhouse and up a slight acclivity, on the side of
which the rocks in different places appeared through the green turf, and
the crowd followed him at a respectful distance.

"And who is that with Father Jerome--who is the stranger, M. Chapeau?"
said one and another of them, crowding round Jacques--for it soon got
abroad among them, that Jacques Chapeau had seen the stranger in some
of his former military movements in La Vendée. Chapeau was walking
beside his mistress, and was not at all sorry of the opportunity of
shewing off.

"Who is he, indeed?" said Jacques. "Can it be that none of you know M.
d'Elbée?"

"D'Elbée!--d'Elbée!--indeed; no, then, I never heard the name till this
moment," said one.

"Nor I," said another; "but he must be a good man, or Father Jerome
would not walk with him just before performing mass."

"You are right there, Jean," said Jacques, "M. d'Elbée is a good man;
he has as much religion as though he were a priest himself."

"And he must be a thorough royalist," said another, "or Father Jerome
wouldn't walk with him at all."

"You are right, too, my friend; M. d'Elbée is a great royalist. He is
the especial friend of our good Cathelineau."

"The friend of Cathelineau and of Father Jerome," said a fourth, "then
I am sure M. d'Elbée must be something out of the common way."

"You are right again, he is very much out of the common way, he is one
of our great generals," said Chapeau.

"One of our great generals, is he," said two or three at once. "I knew
he was going to Saumur," said Jean, "or Father Jerome wouldn't have
walked so peaceable with him, great as he may be."

"But if he is a great general," said Annot, "why has he no lace upon his
coat; why doesn't he wear a sword and look smart like M.
Larochejaquelin? At any rate he is a very shabby general."

"He has a terrible long nose too," said another girl. "And he has not
a morsel of starch in his shirt ruffles, I declare," said a third, who
officiated as laundress to the Mayor of Echanbroignes.

"I'm sure the republicans will never be afraid of such a general as he
is. You are joking with us now, Jacques. I am sure he is not a general;
he is more like a grocer from Nantes."

"And is not Cathelineau like a postilion?" said Jacques, "and I hope you
will allow he is a great soldier. You know nothing of these things yet,
Annot. M. Larochejaquelin is so smart because he is a young nobleman;
not because he is a general."

"And is not M. d'Elbée a nobleman?" said one of the girls.

"Not a bit of it," said Chapeau.

"Well, I think the generals should all be noblemen; I declare," said the
laundress, "M. Larochejaquelin did look so nice last Wednesday, when he
was getting off his horse."

"That is all; but Cathelineau," said Annot, "he is the finest fellow of
them all. I'd sooner have Cathelinean for my lover, than the Duc de
Chartres, and he's the king's cousin."

"You are 

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