Henri, Arthur, and one or two other Vendean officers, sat down to a hurried breakfast, while Marie and Agatha moved about the room, behind their chairs, attending to their wants. Chapeau had now too many of a soldier's duties to give his time to those of a serving-man, and the sisters and wives of the Vendean officers had long since learnt to wait on the heroes whom they loved and admired. De Lescure was already seated on his sofa, by the window, and his wife was, as usual, close to his side. He had wonderfully improved since he reached Laval; and though it was the firm conviction, both of himself and of his surgeon, that his wound must ultimately prove mortal, he was again alive to all that was done, and heart and soul intent on the interests of the war.

"Oh! what would I give to be but one hour today on horseback!" said he. "To lie pinioned here, and hear the sounds of brave men fighting! To know that the enemy are in the very street beneath me, and yet to be unable to strike a blow! Oh! it is fearfully tormenting."

Henri said something intended to comfort him.

"It is well for you to talk," continued de Lescure. "How would you have borne it yourself? You would have fretted and fumed, and dashed yourself like a bird against its cage, till either your senses or your breath had left you. Henri," he then added, in a calmer tone, "I feel that you will be successful today."

"That's a most glorious omen," said Henri, jumping up; "I look on success as certain when predicted by Charles, for he is the least sanguine among us all."

"But, Henri," said he, "take my advice, and don't attack them till they are close to the town. You may be sure they will be ready enough to give you an opportunity. After having driven us across the Loire like wild geese, Lechelle will not doubt his power to drive us also from the streets of Laval."

It was agreed among them that de Lescure's advice should be taken, and that none of the Vendeans should advance above a league on the road towards Antrames. It was already known that General Lechelle, and his whole army, were in the neighbourhood of that town; and it was not likely that, as he had pursued the Vendeans so far, he would remain there long without giving them the opportunity they now desired, of again trying their strength with them.

As Henri prepared to leave the room, the little Chevalier rose to accompany him: "No," said Henri, stopping him. "Do you remain with Chapeau today. Wherever you are, I know you will do well, but today we must not ride together." As the boy looked woefully disappointed, he added, "I will explain to you why, this evening, if we both live through the day to meet again."

He then kissed his sister, and Madame de Lescure and his cousin. They all of them knew that he was going into the midst of the hottest danger, where the visits of death would be thick and frequent; and they felt how probable it was that, before many hours were over, he might be brought back to them dead or dying. He either made some sign to her, or else from a feeling that she was dearer than the others to him, Marie followed him from the room. He said but a few words to her, as he held her in his close embrace, and she answered him with but one; but with that one she promised him, that if he returned safe and victorious from this day's contest, she would no longer object to join her hand and fate to his.

Henri immediately went to the gate, where he had promised to meet Adolphe, and there he found him on horseback, surrounded by his Breton followers, on foot. He had still the same wild, gaunt look about him, which had so startled his friend when he first saw him; but there was more of hope and spirit in his countenance, and he spoke, if he did not look, like a soldier.

We will now leave the warriors of La Vendee to obtain what success they can against the experienced troops of the republican army—the men so well known in many a bloody battle as the soldiers of Mayence, and will return and stay a while with the women and wounded man, who were left to all the horrors of a long day's suspense.

For a considerable time they said nothing to each other as to the probable events of the day, for they knew well that they could hear no news for some few hours to come. By degrees the cold grey dawn of an October morning broke into the room, and the candles were put out. Any ordinary employment at such a time was utterly out of the question, so they clustered together at the window and waited for such news as chance might bring them from time to time. Annot Stein, who was now living with them in the house, came in and joined them, and after a while the old Marquis was brought into the room, and took his station at the opposite window to that occupied by de Lescure.

The noises in the street were incessant. Soldiers on horseback and on foot; cannons and waggons passed on without a moment's pause: the men shouted as they went by, eager for revenge against the enemy who had driven them from their homes; and women mixed themselves in the crowd, shrieking and screaming as they parted from their husbands or their lovers.

The morning air was cold and chill, but still de Lescure insisted on having the windows open, that he might cheer with his voice the men as they passed below him, and that he might call to those by name whom he might chance to know. His wife was astonished to find how many he remembered, and to perceive that every soldier, as he passed, recognized the wan face of his General, and expressed his sincere delight at again seeing his features.

"Well done, Forestier! well done, my gallant friend!" he exclaimed, as a tall, handsome man rode by, who, from his garb and arms, was evidently an officer. He had, however, like many of the officers, belonged to a lowly rank, and still looked up with reverence to those of his fellow- soldiers, whose blood was more noble than his own. "You are never missing when strong arms are wanted."

The man took off his cap, and bowed low to the saddle bow. Had he been born to the manner, he could not have done it with more grace. "God bless you, General," he said, "God grant that we may soon see you here among us again;" and a thousand loud clamorous voices echoed the wish. A tear rose to de Lescure's eye, which none but his wife could mark: he knew that his friend's kind wishes were vain; that he had now, personally, no hope except in death; and he could not entirely repress a vain regret that he might live to witness the success of his party, of which, since his sojourn in Laval, he had taught himself to be sanguine.

It was but a moment before the tear was gone, and his eyes were again on fire with enthusiasm. "Ah, de Bauge—good de Bauge!" he exclaimed, as a friend of his early youth passed by, using at the moment every effort to repress the wild clamouring hurry of his followers. "God prosper thee, dear friend! Oh, that we now had but a score or two such soldiers as thou art!"

"We have many hundreds here as good," said de Bauge, pausing a moment from his work to salute the friends whom he recognized at the window.

"Thousands perhaps as brave, thousands as eager, if they did but know how to use their courage," answered de Lescure.

After this there was a lull for a few moments, and then a troop of cuirassiers trotted down the street, jingling their bridles, swords, and spurs as they moved. This small body of cavalry had been, for some time, the pride and strongest hope of the Vendeans. They had been gradually armed, horsed, and trained during the war, by the greatest exertions of the wealthiest among their officers, and they had certainly proved to be worth all the trouble they had cost. They were now, alas! reduced to half the number, which had ridden out of Chatillon before the battle of Cholet; but the remnant were still full of spirit, and anxious to avenge their fallen brethren. Their bright trappings and complete accoutrements, afforded a strange contrast to the medley appearance of the footmen, who retreated back to the houses, to make way for the horses; and told more plainly than any words could do, the difference between an army of trained soldiers, and a band of brave, but tumultuous peasants.

It was now nine o'clock; and shortly after the horsemen had all passed through the street, the little Chevalier came in with the news, that they were immediately about to attack the blues; the republican army being already within a mile of the town; and that Henri was at that moment leaving the guard-house, and preparing to lead the attack; and when he had told so much aloud to them all, he stooped down to whisper to de Lescure, that Adolphe Denot was riding everywhere through the town at Henri's right hand, and that he was the redoubtable Mad Captain, the leader of La Petite Vendee.

De Lescure had not time to question the Chevalier, or to express his surprise, before Henri was seen coming down the street on horseback, almost at full gallop, and at his right hand rode a man, whom they did not all immediately recognize. Agatha, however, knew at the first glance who the stranger was, and with an instinctive feeling that the sight of her would be painful to him, she retreated behind her father's couch, so that he could not well see her from the street. When Chapeau had first whispered into his master's ear the name of Adolphe Denot as the leader of the Bretons, Agatha had truly guessed the purport of his whisper; and it cannot, therefore, be said that she was startled to see Adolphe once more by her brother's side; but still she could not but shudder as she remembered the circumstances under which she had last seen him, and the inhuman crime of which he had been guilty.

Henri rode a little in advance, and as he passed, he merely turned his laughing face towards his friends, and kissed his hand to the window. Denot, till he was nearly close to the house, had not thought of the neighbourhood he was in; nor had he the least idea that any but the usual inhabitants of the town were looking down on him, till his wandering eyes fell full upon the faces of Marie and Madame de Lescure, who were standing close to the open window. Immediately the blood rushed to his face, and suffused it almost with a purple red: he checked his horse suddenly, and, for a moment, looked full up at the window, where he met the cold gaze of de Lescure fixed full upon him. The pause was but for a moment; he could not bear the ordeal of that look, but fixing his eyes to the ground, he struck his spurs into his horse, and hurried out of the sight of those on whom he did not dare to turn his face.

"Agatha, my love, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, who was that?" said the Marquis, rubbing his eyes, before which an Unearthly apparition seemed to have appeared. "Who was that that rode by with Henri? only that I know it is impossible, I should have said that it was Adolphe Denot."

"It is Adolphe, Sir," said Arthur Mondyon; "it is he that is the Mad Captain, who has been knocking the blues about in such a wonderful manner. I suppose he got tired of Santerre, or Santerre of him. I thought they wouldn't agree long together."

"Arthur!" said Agatha, "you should speak kindly of him now; don't you see that Henri has forgiven him; if he can forgive him, surely you ought to do so."

"And is it really true that Henri and Adolphe Denot are again friends?" said the Marquis, speaking rather to himself than to any one else. "Well, I should have thought that would have been impossible. If Henri can forgive him, we all ought to do so too; but—but—but I do not think that I could feel at ease if he were in the room with me."

"I do not think he will come to us, father," said Agatha. "Did you not observe his face as he passed? the very sight of us seemed to cut him to the heart."

Adolphe had been quite right, when he said that they were not at all like Henri. There was not one of the whole party who did not strive, heartily and truly, to forgive the treason and iniquity of which he had been guilty; but there was not one there who did not, at the same time, feel a secret wish that he or she might never again be under the same roof with the man who had been a traitor, both to his friends and to his King.

Arthur Mondyon soon left them, and hurried out to bear his part in the contest which was just commencing. He was a little jealous to think that his accustomed place near Henri should have been taken from him by one who had proved himself so faithless as Denot, but still he was not inclined to pass such a day as this in-doors, with sick men and trembling women. He promised, however, to come to them himself from time to time, or if that were impossible, to send them news of what was going on; and as it was probable that the thickest of the fight would be either in the town, or immediately on the skirts of it, there was no reason why he should not keep his promise.

For a couple of hours they remained in dreadful suspense, hearing nothing and fearing everything. It seemed to them as though whole days must have passed in those two hours. De Lescure became dreadfully impatient, and even irritable; declaring at one moment that he was quite equal to mount his horse, and that he would go out and see what they were about; and then again almost fainting, with the exhaustion occasioned by his intense excitement. Then he would lament the inexperience of Henri, expressing his dread that his indiscretion this day would ruin all their hopes: and, again, when he saw how painful these surmises were to Agatha and Marie, he would begin to praise his courage and indomitable good spirits, and declare that their strongest safeguard lay in the affection to his person, which was shared by every peasant of La Vendee.

Their suspense was at length broken; not by any visit or message from their own party, but by a most unexpected and unwelcome sight. On a sudden, they again heard the tumultuous noise of troops coming down the street; but, on this occasion, they were entering, instead of leaving the town; and as the rushing body of men turned a corner in the street, it was seen that they all wore the well-known blue uniform of the republican regiments. Yes, there in truth were the blues, now immediately under the house they were occupying: file after file of sturdy, grizzled veteran soldiers, hurried through the streets in quick, but regular time. Men quite unlike their own dear peasant soldiers; men with muskets in their hands, shakos on their heads, and cartouche boxes slung behind their backs. The three ladies, before whose sight this horrid reality of a danger, so long apprehended, suddenly appeared, had never been so near a scene of absolute battle. Agatha, it is true, had had to endure through one long and dreadful night the presence of Santerre and his men in the chateau of Durbelliere; but then she had no active part to play; she had only to sit in quiet, and wait for her doom: now they all felt that something should be done, some means should be tried to escape from the danger which was so close to them.

The women immediately withdrew from the window, and wheeled away the couch on which the Marquis was lying, but nothing would induce de Lescure to allow himself to be stirred; in fixed silence, with his head resting low on the window sill, he gazed on the crowded soldiers, as they poured thick and numerous into the town.

"Oh, where is Henri now?" said Madame de Lescure. "What shall we do—where are we to go? Speak, Charles, for heaven's sake, speak!"

Marie had opened the door, and now stood with it in her hands, wishing to run, and yet not choosing to leave her companions in misfortune; while Agatha vainly endeavoured with her unassisted strength to remove her father from the room.

"Henri is just where he ought to be," said de Lescure. "There—there—now they come—now they come. By heavens, there's Denot leading—and see, there's de Bauge and Arthur—dear boy, gallant boy. Well done, Henri Larochejaquelin: had you been grey it could not have been better done; he has got the blues as it were into a wine-press; poor devils, not one can escape alive."

De Lescure, when he first saw the republicans coming down the street, had for a moment thought that the town was in their hands; but a minute's reflection served to show him, that were such really the case, they would have driven before them hundreds of the retreating Vendeans. The peasants had never yet so utterly forgotten their courage, as to throw down their weapons at the first sight of their enemy, and fly without making an effort for victory, and de Lescure was sure that such could not now have been the case. It immediately occurred to him, that the passage of the gate must have been purposely left free to the devoted blues, and that Henri and his men would fail upon them in the town, where their discipline and superior arms, would be but of comparatively little use to them.

He was right; for while the women were yet trembling, panic-struck at the first sight of their enemies, Henri and his party had entered the long street from the market-place, and with a fierce yell of defiance, the Vendean cavalry rushed upon the astonished blues, meeting them almost beneath the very window from which de Lescure was looking.

The three women crouched round the aged Marquis in the farthest corner of the room, comforted to find that he whom they so trusted still expected victory; but nearly fainting with fear, and deafened with the sounds of the conflict. To de Lescure the sight was pleasure itself; as he could not be in the fight, the next thing was to see the combatants and cheer his friends. The foremost of the republican soldiers soon gave way beneath the weight of the attack; though they fought sturdily, and did their best to keep their ground. They could not, however, retreat far; their own men still advancing behind blocked up the way; and after a while, that which De Lescure had predicted took place: another party of Vendeans had attacked them in the rear, and occupied the only gate through which they could leave the city.

And now the slaughter in the street was dreadful, and the blues hemmed in on every side fought desperately for their lives, like beasts at bay. Every now and again the Vendeans retreated a step or two, driven back by the fury of their foes, and then again regained their ground, advancing over the bodies of the slain. No one in the strange medley on which he was looking, was more conspicuous to de Lescure's eyes than Adolphe Denot; he had lost his cap in the confusion of the fight, and his thin, wan face, disfigured by the wound which the Chevalier had given him, was plainly to be seen; and de Lescure was shocked by the change which he saw there: the only weapon he bore was a huge sabre, which he swung round his head with a strength which could not have been expected from his attenuated frame; he was often the most forward, always among the first of the assailants; and frequently became surrounded by the blues, who were prevented by the closeness of the crowd from using their arms. He had caught de Lescure's eye, and from time to time turned his face up toward the window, as though anxious to discover whether he who had before witnessed his cowardice was now looking upon his prowess.

"By heavens! he fights well," said de Lescure to his wife, who was gradually creeping somewhat nearer to her husband, but still unable to face the horrors of that open window. "He is greatly changed—look—look at him now; well done, Adolphe—well done: there, there; he's down! Poor fellow, I fear he has struck his last blow: gallant Henri, brave Henri—there, they are up again together; but Denot's face is covered with blood. He still has his sword, however—well done, Denot: bravely done Denot: no man of those living or dead, ever struck a better blow than that."

These last words were distinctly heard by him to whom they were addressed, and as he again turned up his face, a ray of triumph illumined his sunken eyes; he did not, however, or he could not speak, for the heat of the battle was carried back again towards the gate, and the tumultuous sea of fighting men was hurried away from the spot where they had been contending.

While this scene was going on in the street, another set of combatants were engaged near the gate; and here two men of very different natures, but of similar station in life, found themselves together during a temporary pause, after a protracted struggle. These were Michael Stein, and Auguste Emile Septimus Plume. In spite of all that he had himself said against the trade, Michael had, in his old age, turned soldier, and had been fighting sturdily with a huge woodman's axe, a weapon which he had chanced to meet with, and the use of which came readily to his hand: he was now sitting on the step of the gate-house, wiping with the sleeve of his coat the perspiration which the unaccustomed work had brought to his forehead, and listening to the praises of M. Plume, who was standing over him, leaning on his sword.

"That axe of yours," said Auguste, "is a singular weapon, and perhaps not entirely fitted for military purposes; but I must own you have used it well—it fell with decided effect this morning on many a poor fellow's head and shoulders. You have probably, my friend, fought many a battle with these fellows of Mayence?"

"Not a battle I ever fought before, Monsieur," said Michael; "nor do I ever wish to fight another; it's horrid weary work, this of knocking men's brains out, not to talk of the chance a man runs of losing his own."

"But ain't you one of the Vendeans, my gallant comrade?" asked Auguste.

"If you mean, did I come over from Poitou with them, I certainly did; but I only came because I could not help it, and because I could not live to see a little girl I have fall into the hands of the butchers; it was not for any love of fighting that I came."

"But yet you take to it kindly, my friend. I am considered to know something of the sword exercise, and I thought you wielded that axe, as though your arm had been used to a sabre this many a year."

"I am a blacksmith," said Michael, shortly; "and I have been fifty years ringing hammers on an anvil: that makes a man's arm lusty."

"Indeed," said the other, "a blacksmith—well, you may be a blacksmith, and yet a good soldier. Now you wouldn't believe it, but I'm a baker—you wouldn't take me to be a baker by my trade, would you now?"

Michael Stein looked at him, and told him he couldn't well give an opinion, as he knew nothing about bakers.

"I knew you wouldn't," said the other; "no one on earth would take me to be a tradesman—that's what they all say; I have that kind of manner about me, that I look like a soldier—I did when I hadn't been at it above a week. Every one used to say, Plume, you were born to be an officer; Plume, you will live to be a General: and if I don't get killed in the wars, I think I shall. Now it's only three months since I joined, and I am already second in command in the whole army."

Michael Stein stared at him, as he repeated his words, "Second in command in the whole army!"

"Indeed I am, my friend, the second in command. You wouldn't believe it, now, but I was sticking loaves of bread into an oven three or four months ago."

"The second in command!" said Michael, still regarding his companion with a look in which incredulous surprise and involuntary reverence were blended. "I suppose you're a great way above Jacques Chapeau, then?"

"Oh, my friend Chapeau—and do you know my friend Chapeau? No, I'm not above him; he's not in our army; he's second in command himself in the Vendean army. You know I belong to La Petite Vendee."

At this moment, the very man of whom they were speaking, the redoubtable Chapeau, came up with a large party of straggling Vendeans, out of breath with running; they were in full pursuit of the blues, who were now said to be flying towards Antrames and Chateau-Gonthier.

"Come, my friends," said Chapeau, "no idling now; come to Antrames, and we'll get plenty of arms, if we get nothing else. What, is it you, Captain Plume. I'm told you did as well as the best today; and what—my dear old friend Michael: a soldier at last, eh, Michael Stein! Come, man, don't be ashamed to give us your hand; you've joined us in very good time, for the Vendeans never gained such a victory as they have today. Come on, old friend, we'll get another sight of these running devils at Antrarnes."

"They may run for me, M. Chapeau, and run far enough, before I try to stop them; do you know I'm nearly ashamed of what I've been doing as it is."

"Ashamed!—ashamed of what?" said Chapeau.

"Why look there," said Michael; and as he spoke, he pointed with his foot to the body of a republican soldier, who lay calmly at his ease, in the sleep of death, not three yards from the spot where the old man was now standing.

"Not an hour since, that poor fellow ran this way, and as he passed, he had no thought of hurting me; he was thinking too much of himself, for half-a-dozen hungry devils were after him. Well, I don't know what possessed me, but the smell of blood had made me wild, and I lifted up my axe and struck him to the ground. I wish, with all my heart, the poor man were safe at Antrames."

It was in vain that Chapeau tried to persuade the smith that he had only done his duty in killing a republican, who would certainly have lived to have done an injury to the cause, had he been suffered to escape. Michael Stein would not, or could not, understand the arguments he used; and decidedly declared that if he found it possible to avoid fighting for the future he would do so.

"Do you know, M. Chapeau," he said at last, "when I first took this axe in my hand, this morning, I had hardly made up my mind on which side I should use it. It was only when I thought of the boys and of Annot, that I determined to go with the Vendeans. It wasn't possible for a man not to fight on one side or the other—that's the only reason I had for fighting at all."

Chapeau became rather ashamed of his friend's irregular doctrines, and hurried on; explaining to Plume, who accompanied him, that Michael Stein was a queer eccentric old man, but a thorough good royalist at heart. "Why he has two sons among the red scarfs," he added, to settle the point.

"Has he, indeed?" said Plume, who had never heard who the red scarfs were.



CHAPTER XI

DEATH OF ADOLPHE DENOT

Nothing could be more complete than the success of the Vendeans, not only in the town of Laval, but also outside the gate; nor could any error be more fatal than that committed by the republican General, Lechelle. Previous to this day he had never been worsted since he had been sent from Paris with orders to exterminate the Vendeans; he had driven them from Chatillon, their own chosen position in the centre of their own territory across the Loire; and he had rashly conceived that he had only to show himself before Laval again, to scare them from their resting-place, and scatter them farther from their own homes. He had marched his army up to Laval early on the morning of the fight; and his best men, the redoubtable Mayencais, indignant at the treatment which a few of their brethren had received from Denot's followers on the previous day, marched boldly into the town, conceiving that they had only to show themselves to take possession of it. The result has been told. One half of these veteran troops fell in the streets of Laval—many of the remainder were taken alive; a few only escaped to consummate their disgrace by flying towards Antrames at their quickest speed, spreading panic among the republican troops who had not yet come up close to the town.

The news of defeat soon communicated itself; and the whole army, before long, was flying to Antrames. The unfortunate Lechelle himself had been one of the first to leave the town, and had made no attempt to stop his men until he had entered Antrames. Nor did he long remain there: as the straggling fugitives came up, they told how close and fast upon their track the victorious brigands were coming; and that the conduct of the peasants now was not what it had been when the war commenced, when they were fighting in their own country, and near their own homes. Then they had spared the conquered, then they had shed no blood, except in the heat of battle; now they spared none; they had learnt a bloody lesson from their enemies, and massacred, without pity, the wretches who fell into their hands. Antrames was not a place of any strength; it could not be defended against the Vendeans; and Lechelle had hardly drawn his breath in the town, before he again left it, on the road to Chateau-Gonthier.

Henri and Denot were among the first of the pursuers; indeed, of so desultory a nature was the battle, that the contest was still continued near the gate of the town, while they were far on their road towards Antrames. They passed almost in a gallop through that place, and did not stop until they found themselves, towards evening, close to the bridge, leading into Chateau-Gonthier. Here they perceived that Lechelle had made some little attempt to defend his position. He had drawn out two cannons to the head of the bridge; had stayed the course of a few fugitives, with whom he attempted to defend the entrance into the town; and had again taken upon himself the duties of a General.

The pursuers now amounted to about three hundred horsemen, the very men who had made the first attack on the blues in the streets of Laval, and Henri knew that so soon after their complete and signal success nothing could daunt them, and that, in all probability, no effort of the beaten republicans could turn them back.

"Come," said he, speaking to those who were nearest to him, "only a few yards farther, and we shall be far enough. It shall never be said that the vanquished slept in the town while their conquerors lay in the fields"; and again he put spurs to his horse, and with a yell of triumph, his men followed him over the bridge.

It would be difficult to say who was first, for Henri, Adolphe, and nearly a dozen others, galloped across the bridge together, and the whole troop followed them pell-mell into the town. The two cannons were soon taken; the irresolute blues, who, with only half a heart, had attempted to defend themselves, were driven from their positions, and Henri at once found himself master of the place.

A few of his gallant followers had fallen on the bridge. It could not be expected but what. this should be the case, for they made their attack in the face of two field-pieces and a discharge of musketry, from a body of men quite as numerous as their own; but Henri had not perceived till he reached the square in the middle of the town, that Adolphe Denot was no longer by his side.

"Did you see M. Denot?" said he to a soldier, who was now standing on the ground at his horse's head.

"You mean the gentleman who was riding with you all the day, General—he who had lost his cap?"

"Yes, yes, did you see him? he passed over the bridge with me."

"General," said the man, "he never passed the bridge. He fell on the very centre of it. I saw him fall, and his horse galloped into the town without a rider."

Arthur Mondyon soon brought him confirmation of the news. He had been struck by a musket ball on the breast, while they were crossing the bridge, and the whole troop of horsemen, who were behind, had passed over his body. He had, however, been taken up, and brought into the town; whether or no his life was extinct, Arthur could not say, but he had been told that the wound would certainly prove mortal.

Henri's first duty, even before attending to his friend, was to endeavour to save the lives of such of the blues as were yet in the town, and, if possible, to get the person of Lechelle. It was well known that he had entered the place with the fugitives, and it was believed that he had not since escaped from it. Some few of the republican soldiers had made their way out of the town, on the road towards Segre, but there was every reason to believe that the General had not been among them. The inhabitants of Chateau-Gonthier were very favourable to the Vendean cause; Henri received every information which the people could give him, and at last succeeded in tracing Lechelle into a large half-ruined house, in the lower portion of which, a wine shop, for the accommodation of the poorer classes, was kept open. Here they learnt, from the neighbours, that he had been seen to enter the house, and an old woman, who alone kept her position behind the counter, confessed with some hesitation, that a man, answering the description of him they sought, bad entered the shop about an hour since; that he had hastily swallowed a large quantity of brandy, and then, instead of leaving the shop, had rushed through the inner door and gone upstairs.

"He wasn't here a minute in all," said she; "and he said nothing about paying for what he took—and, when I saw him going in there, I thought it best to let him have his own way."

"And he is there still," said Chapeau, who had now again joined his master.

"Unless he went out through the window, he is; there is no other way out than what you see there."

"Go up, Chapeau," said Henri, "and take two or three with you; if he be there, he must come down; but remember that he is an officer, and in misfortune."

"I will remember," said Chapeau, "that he sent us word to Chatillon, that he would not leave alive in La Vendee a father or mother to lament their children, or a child to lament its parents: those were bitter words; maybe he will be sorry to have them brought to his memory just at present."

"Remember what I tell you, Chapeau," said his master; "whatever he may have said, it is not now your duty to sit in judgment on him."

"For God's sake, gentlemen, don't do him a harm here," said the old woman; "for mercy's sake, Monsieur," and she turned to Henri, "don't let them take his life; to tell you the truth, when he begged for some hole to hide in, I bid him to go upstairs; I could do no less. I should have done the same if it had been one of you."

Henri said what he could to tranquillize her, assuring her that the man should, at any rate, not be killed before her eyes; and this seemed to be sufficient to reassure her. Chapeau and four others had gone upstairs; and those below were not kept waiting long, before the heavy tread of the men descending was heard on the stairs, as though they were carrying down a weight among them. Such was the case: Henri stepped forward and opened the door; and as he did so, the men staggered into the room with their burden, and then gently dropped upon the floor the dead body of the republican General. The unfortunate man had shot himself.

Henri turned out of the shop without saying a word; and as the others prepared to follow him, one of the men knelt down beside the body, and wrenched from the hand, which still held it fast, the fatal pistol which had so lately done its work. "At any rate," said he," there is no use in leaving this behind us; I doubt not but I can make a better use of it than General Lechelle has done."

The Chevalier had said but the truth, in declaring that Adolphe Denot's wound was mortal; the musket ball had passed right through his lungs, passing out between his shoulders; and his limbs had been dreadfully torn and bruised by the feet of the horses which had passed over him. Still, however, he had been carried alive into the town, had been laid in a settle-bed in the little inn, and had his wounds dressed with such surgical skill as the town afforded. He had spoken once since he fell, and had then begged, in an almost inarticulate whisper, that Henri Larochejaquelin would come to him, and this message had been delivered, and was attended to.

There were not many to watch and attend his bed-side, for many others beside him in the town were in the same position; and though it was known to a few that the Mad Captain of La Petite Vendee had been seen during the whole day riding by the side of their own General, Denot had not yet been recognized by many of the Vendeans, and most of those around him were indifferent to his fate. When Henri reached the room in which he lay, no one was with him, but the poor baker of Laval, who had entered the town with Chapeau, and having heard that his Captain was mortally wounded, had lost not a moment in tendering him his services. The poor man was sitting on a low stool, close by Denot's head, and in his lap he held a wooden bowl of water, with which, from time to time, he moistened the mouth of the wounded man, dipping his hand into the water, and letting the drops fall from his fingers on to his lips.

"Hush! hush!" he said, as Henri entered the room; "for mercy's sake, don't shake him; the black blood gushes out of his mouth with every move he gets."

The two men did not recognize each other, for they had only met for a moment, and that by the faint light of a rush candle. Plume, therefore, had no idea of giving up his place or his duty to a man whom he conceived was a stranger; and Henri was at a loss to conceive who could be the singular looking creature that seemed to take so tender an interest in his friend.

Henri advanced up to the bed on tiptoe, and gazed into Denot's face; he had been shocked before, but he now thought that never in his life had he seen so sad a sight: the colour of his skin was no longer pale, but livid; his thin, dry lips were partially open, and his teeth, close set together, were distinctly visible; his eyes were at the moment closed, as though he were in a stupor, and his long black matted hair hung back over the folded cloak on which his head rested: his sallow, bony hands lay by his side, firmly clenched, as though he had been struggling, and his neck and breast, which had been opened for the inspection of the surgeon, was merely covered with a ragged bloody towel.

"Is he asleep?" asked Henri, in a whisper, such as seems to come naturally to every one, when speaking by the bed-side of those who are in great danger, but which is generally much more painfully audible to a sick man than the natural voice.

Denot opened his eyes, and showed, by the slight motion of his head, that he had heard his friend's voice, but he was at the moment unable to speak.

Plume made a signal to Henri to be quiet, and he therefore sat himself down at the other side of the bed, to watch till Adolphe should gain strength to speak to him, or till the breath should have passed from his body. Plume, in the meantime, continued his occupation, causing a few drops of water to fall from time to time between those thin shrivelled lips; and in this way a long half-hour passed over them.

At last Henri heard his name scarcely pronounced by the dying man, and the dull eyes opened, though it was evident that the film of death had nearly hidden all objects from their view; still it was evident that he knew who it was that sat by his bed-side, and he faintly returned the pressure of the hand which grasped his own. Henri stooped down his ear to catch the words which might fall from his lips; but for a while he made no farther attempt to speak—an inexpressible look of confused trouble passed across his face and forehead, as he attempted to collect his disordered thoughts, and again he closed his eyes, as though the struggle was useless; at last he again muttered something, and Henri caught the words 'de Lescure,' and 'bridge of Saumur.'

"Yes, yes, he shall," said Henri, trying to comfort him, but still not understanding what it was that weighed so heavily on his breast; he felt, however, that a promise of compliance would give him comfort. "He shall, indeed; I will tell him, and I know he will."

Again the eyes were closed, and the struggle to speak was discontinued. Plume gave over his task, for it was evident that no care of his could any longer be of avail, and he walked away from the bed, that he might not overhear the words which his Captain strove to speak to his friend; but Henri remained, still holding Denot's hand: then a thought struck him, which had not earlier occurred to him, and beckoning to Plume to come to him, he dismissed him, in a whisper, to endeavour to find a priest, without the loss of another moment, and bring him to the aid of the dying man.

Though Denot's sight and speech were almost gone, the sense of hearing was still left to him, and he understood what Henri said. He again moved his head in token of dissent; again pulled his friend towards him by the hand, and again muttered out a word, the last that he ever attempted to utter; that one word Henri heard as plainly as though it had been spoken with the full breath of a strong man—it was his sister's name.

Adolphe Denot survived this last effort of his troubled spirit, but a few moments; the sepulchral rattle in his throat soon told the sad tale of his dissolution; and Plume hurrying up to the bed-head, assisted Henri in composing the limbs of the dead man.

For three months Denot and Plume had consorted together; they had been a strange fantastic pair of comrades, but yet not altogether ill-matched: nothing could be more dissimilar than they had been in age, in birth, and previous habits, but they had met together with the same wishes, the same ambition, the same want of common sense, and above all the same overweening vanity; they had flattered each other from the moment of their first meeting to the present day, and thus these two poor zealous maniacs, for in point of sanity the Lieutenant was but little better than his Captain, had learnt to love each other.

And now Plume, having carefully completed what the exigencies of the moment required, gave way to his sincere grief, and bewailed his friend with no silent sorrow. Henri, who had totally forgotten the little that he had heard of the martial baker, was at a loss to conceive who could be the man, a stranger to himself who found cause for so much sorrow in the death of Adolphe Denot. As for himself, he had tenderly loved Denot as a brother; he had truly forgiven him his gross treachery; and he had determined to watch over him, and if possible protect him from farther sorrow: but after the interview he had had with him, he could not conceal from himself that Adolphe was still insane; and he felt that death had come to him in an honourable way, atoning for past faults, and relieving him from future sufferings. He could not grieve that his friend had fallen in battle, bravely doing his duty in the cause to which he was bound by so many ties.

"He was the bravest man, and the best soldier, and the most honourable gentleman in the whole army," said Plume, sobbing; "and now there's no one left but myself," and then recovering himself he made to the manes of the departed warrior a loyal promise, which he fully determined to keep. "Thou art gone, my brave commander, my gallant commander," he said, standing suddenly upright, and stretching his long arms over the corpse, "thou art gone, and I doubt not I shall follow thee: but till that moment shall come, till a death, as honourable as thine own, shall release me from my promise, I swear that I will not disgrace the high station which thy departure obliges me to fill. It was thou who first tutored my unaccustomed arm to wield the sword; it was thou who badest me hear unmoved the thunder of an enemy's artillery; it was thou who taughtest me all I know of military tactics, and the art of war. Rest in peace, dear friend, dearest of instructors, I will not disgrace thy precepts." And so finishing, he stooped down, kissed the face of the dead body which he apostrophized, made a cross on the bosom, and muttered a fervent prayer for the welfare of the departed soul.

If Henri was surprised before, he was now perfectly astounded; nothing could be less poetical, less imposing, or have less of military grandeur about it than the figure of poor Auguste Plume. What could he mean by saying that he was now called on to fill a high station? Who could it be that confessed to owe so deep a debt of gratitude to the dead man?

"Had you known M. Denot long?" asked Henri, when he conceived that Plume was sufficiently composed to. hear and answer a question.

"What's that you say his name was?" said Plume, eagerly, pricking up his ears. "I beg your pardon, Sir, I didn't exactly catch the word."

"And didn't you know the name of the friend, whom you seem to have valued so highly?"

"Indeed, to tell you the truth, Sir, I did not. We two used to have a good deal of talk together: for hours and hours we've sat and talked over this war, and he has told me much of what he used to do in Poitou, when he served with the Vendeans; but I could never get him to tell me his name. It was a question he didn't like to be asked; and yet I am sure he never did anything to disgrace it."

"His name was Adolphe Denot," said Henri.

"Adolphe Denot—Adolphe Denot! well, I am very glad I know at last. One doesn't like not to know the name of the dearest friend one ever had; especially after he's dead. But wasn't he Count Denot, or Baron Denot, or something of that sort?"

"No, he had no title; but yet he was of noble blood."

"I suppose then we must call him General Denot—simple General; it sounds as well as Count or Marquis in these days. Was he a General when you knew him in La Vendee?"

"I have known him all my life," replied Henri.

"Indeed!" said Plume: and then gazing at his companion, from head to foot, he continued, "An't you the gentleman that came with Chapeau to see him last night? An't you the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendeans?"

Henri gave him to understand that he was.

"Then this meeting is very lucky," said Plume, "most exceedingly fortunate! I am now the Commander-in-Chief of La Petite Vendee. We must unite our forces. I am not ambitious—at least not too ambitious; you shall be the chief, I will be next to you. Chapeau, I am sure, will be contented to be third. here, over the body of our friend, let us concert our measures for utterly exterminating the republicans. We have now been victorious, proudly, grandly victorious; my voice shall be for a march to Paris. Come, General, give me your hand. Hand in hand, like true comrades, let us march to Paris, and thunder at the doors of the Convention."

As he spoke, Auguste Emile Septimus held out his hand to the young Commander; and Henri could not refuse the proffered grasp. He now remembered Chapeau's description of the martial baker; and as he underwent the merciless squeeze which Plume inflicted on him, the young Marquis meditated, with something like vexation, on the ridiculous figure and language of him who now claimed his friendship and confidence. He had before been on terms of perfect equality with men equally low in station with poor Plume. Cathelineau had been a postillion; Stofflet, a game-keeper; but he had admired the enthusiastic genius of Cathelineau, he had respected the practical iron energy of Stofflet—he could neither admire nor respect Auguste Plume—and yet he could not reject him.

He endeavoured, in as few words as he could, to make his companion understand, that highly as he appreciated his disinterested offer, he could not, at the present moment, accede to it. That many officers, high in the confidence of the whole army, must be consulted before any important step was taken; that, as for himself his duty required him to hurry back to Laval as quick as he could. That, as regarded him, Plume, he advised him to return to his own men, and endeavour to organize them into a regular corps, in doing which he promised him that practical assistance should not be wanting; and that, as regarded the body of their mutual friend, he, Henri, would give orders for its immediate burial; and having said so much as quickly as he could speak, Henri Larochejaquelin hurried from the room, leaving the unfortunate Plume to renew his lamentations over his friend. He had cause to lament; the only man likely to flatter his vanity was gone. He would never again be told that he was born for great achievements—never again promised that bravery, fidelity to his commander, and gallant demeanour among his comrades, would surely lead him to exalted duties. Such were the precepts with which the insanity of Denot had inflamed the mad ambition of his poor follower. He now felt—not his own unfitness, for that he could not suspect—but the difficulty, the impossibility to get his talents and services acknowledged; and he again sat down to weep, partly for his friend, and partly for himself.

Henri passed the remainder of the night in Chateau-Gonthier, and early on the next morning he returned towards Laval. The road was covered with swarms of Vendeans, now returning from the pursuit in which they had nearly exterminated the unfortunate army which had followed them across the Loire. They had crossed that river panic-stricken and hopeless; now they were shouting with triumph, and exulting with joy, confident of success. None of those who returned were without some token of success; some carried back with them the muskets of the republican infantry; others, the sabres of the cavalry; and others, more joyful in their success than any, were mounted on their horses. They all loudly greeted Henri as he passed, and declared that nothing should ever conquer them, now that they had the General over them, whom they themselves had chosen.

Henri, though he well knew the difficulties which were before him, could not but be triumphant as he listened to the cheers of his followers; he had certainly been pre-eminently successful in the first attempts which had been made under his own sole command; and it is not surprising that this, joined to the confidence of youth, should have made him feel himself equal almost to any enterprise. Then another subject of joy filled his heart; Marie had promised that if the Vendeans were now successful, if they could look forward to spending one quiet week in Laval, she would no longer refuse to join her hand to his and become bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh—that promise she would now realize; and therefore as he rode back through the gate of Laval, Henri felt happier than he had done for many a long, weary, tedious day.



CHAPTER XII

VENDEAN MARRIAGES

The young General's good news had preceded him, and when he entered the room where his friends were assembled, they were one and all ready to embrace and congratulate their successful soldier; he received the blessing of his father, the praises of de Lescure, the thanks and admiration of Madame de Lescure, and what he valued more than all, Marie's acknowledgments of the promise she gave him, when last he left her side.

During his absence, three unexpected visitors had reached Laval; the first was Father Jerome, who had followed the army, and now brought them news from the side of Nantes, that Charette was still at the head of a large body of royalists, and was ready to join himself with the main army, somewhere to the north of the Loire, if any plan could be struck out for their future proceedings, to which both he and Henri could agree; and the others were perfect strangers. Two gentlemen had called at the guard-house, and asked for M. de Larochejaquelin: on hearing that he was not in Laval, they had desired to see M. de Lescure, and had, when alone with him, declared that they came from England, with offers of assistance, both in men and money; one of these gentlemen had with him a stick, and after having carefully looked round the room to see that no one but de Lescure could observe him, he had broken the stick in two, and taken from the hollow space within it, a letter addressed to the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendean army.

These two gentlemen were both Vendeans, but early in the contest they had passed over into England; they had now returned, habited like peasants, and in this disguise had come over on their dangerous mission, passing first into Jersey and thence to the coast of Normandy; they had walked the whole distance, through the province of Brittany, passing themselves off, in one place as good republicans, and in another as true loyalists; they had, however, through all their dangers, managed to keep the important stick, the promises contained in which could not have arrived at a moment when they would have been more welcome.

Granville was the point at which it was decided that the English troops should land, and de Lescure was strongly of opinion that the Vendean army, relieved of its intolerable load of women and children, should proceed thither to meet their allies; and this plan, though with some dissentient voices, was agreed to. They could not, however, start quite immediately; nor was it necessary for them to do so; and the few days of secure rest which so many of them anxiously desired, was given to the army.

At length Henri found leisure to tell them all the sad, but still pleasing story of Denot's conduct and fate—of the gallantry by which he had redeemed so many sins, and of the death by which he had set a seal to the forgiveness of them all. Each of them had already learnt that Adolphe was the mysterious leader, the Mad Captain of La Petite Vendee, and they listened with deep attention to the story which they now heard of the way in which he had been living, and of the manner of his death.

"Poor fellow," said Henri, "I understand it all, except about the bridge of Saumur; from the time when I found him in his wretched chamber, to the moment of his death, he was talking of that, and connecting your name, Charles, with everything he said; I do not at all know what was in his thoughts, but something connected with the bridge of Saumur was either a great trouble to him, or a great triumph."

And then de Lescure told him what had happened; how the poor fellow's heart had failed him, at the moment when courage was so necessary; how he had feared to advance at the decisive moment, and had shrunk back, appalled, conquered, and disgraced. Henri now understood why de Lescure had not allowed Denot to be chosen at Saumur, as one of the twelve leaders of the army; why he had subsequently so generally distrusted him; and expressed so little surprise of the conduct of which he had been guilty at Durbelliere.

"His history," said de Lescure, "gives us a singular insight into the intricacies of a man's character; Adolphe was not naturally a coward, for madness aggravates the foibles of our nature, and no one can have shown himself more capable of gallantry than he did yesterday; but he wanted that sustained courage which is only given by principle, and trust in God. May He forgive his sins, mercifully remembering his infirmities!"

Some time after this, preparations were made for the marriage of Henri and Marie—such preparations as the time and place allowed. There was now neither inclination nor opportunity for a fete, such as would have graced the nuptials of Marie de Lescure at a happier time; she now neither desired, nor could have endured it. Father Jerome had promised to perform the ceremony; Agatha would be her bridesmaid; and her brother and her father-in-law, both on their sick couches, would be her wedding-guests. Still she was happy and cheerful; she loved Henri Larochejaquelin with her whole heart, the more probably on account of the dangers through which they had already passed together, and she had firmly resolved to endure, without complaining, those which were still before them.

Two days before the ceremony was to take place, Chapeau came up to his master, as they were together leaving the quarters of some of the troops, and with a very serious face, begged permission to speak to him. Now, as it usually happened that Chapeau passed a considerable portion of the day talking to his master in a most unconstrained way, on every conceivable subject, Henri felt sure that something very much out of the common way was going to be said; however, he at once gave the desired permission.

"And Monsieur is positively going to be married on Wednesday morning?" commenced Chapeau.

"Why you know as well as myself that I am," said Henri.

"Oh, of course, yes—of course I know it, as Monsieur has been condescending enough to tell me; and will Madame, that is Mademoiselle as she is at present, go with Monsieur to Granville."

"What the deuce are you about, Chapeau, with all this rhodomontade? didn't I tell you that she would go with me."

"And the other ladies, Mademoiselle Agatha and Madame de Lescure, they will remain in Laval?"

"Yes, they will remain in Laval with my father and M. de Lescure: but you know all that already, as well as I do."

"But Madame de Larochejaquelin, that is, when she is Madame, she will want some young woman to attend her. Madame, of course, cannot go to Granville without some decent female to be near her; of course it will be quite impossible, will it not, Monsieur?"

"Now, Chapeau, tell me at once what you are coming to, and don't pretend to be so considerate and modest. You know that it is arranged that your own fiancee, Annot Stein, should accompany my wife."

"Yes—but, M. Henri, Annot Stein has some scruples; or rather—"

"Scruples! Oh, by all means, let her stay behind then. I'll have no one with me who has any scruples; tell her to stay with her father. I'll speak to Mademoiselle de Lescure."

"But Monsieur is in such a hurry," said Chapeau, who had not the slightest intention to have the matter arranged in this way. "I was wrong to say that Annot has scruples; indeed she hasn't got any—not one at all—it is I that have them."

"You! Now, Chapeau, may I ask the particular favour of you, to let me know at once, what you mean to ask of me?"

"Why, you see, M. Henri, Annot is a poor lone girl, quite unprotected as any one may say, though, of course, she will not be unprotected, when she will have the protection of Monsieur and Madame; but still she is a poor lone girl, and as such, she won't have the—the—the what d'ye call it, you know, which she would have as a married woman—the confidence and station, you know: she wouldn't be half so useful to Madame; and, therefore, perhaps, Monsieur will think that she and I had better be married at the same time as Madame."

Chapeau had it all his own way; his arguments were unanswerable; and as no good reason could be given, why a wife would not be as serviceable to the man as it was to the master, it was agreed that they both should be married on the same day, at the same hour, in the same room, and by the same priest. The honour of this was almost too much for poor Annot, and quite upset her father, Michael Stein, who did not at all like the idea of not having his own way, after his own fashion, at hi own only daughter's wedding. However, he was ultimately reconciled to the melancholy grandeur of the ceremony, by arrangements which were made for some substantial evening comfort below stairs; and although no banquet was prepared for the wedding of the master and the mistress, the valet and the lady's maid were as well provided, as though they had been united in peaceful times, and in a quiet church.

And now the sun had risen brightly on the morning which was to add another care to those which already burthened the shoulders of Henri Larochejaquelin. They all sat down together and eat their quiet breakfast in the parlour, to which a fortnight's habitation had now accustomed them. Henri wore no bridal dress. He had on the uniform of a Vendean officer, and round his waist was fastened a white scarf with a black knot, the distinguishing mark which he now bore of his rank in the army as Commander-in-Chief. Marie de Lescure was dressed in white, but her dress was as simple and unadorned as it could be well made; no bride, young, beautiful, and noble was ever prepared for the altar with less costly care, with less attention to the generally acknowledged proprieties of hymeneal decoration. Agatha and Madame de Lescure had in no respect altered their usual attire. It may easily be understood that leaving their homes in the manner they had done, they had not brought with them a full wardrobe; and since their arrival in Laval, they had had more pressing cares than that of supplying it.

De Lescure was daily getting weaker; but still the weaker he got the less he suffered, and the more capable he became of assuming his accustomed benevolent demeanour and anxious care for others. Both he and his wife knew that he was approaching the term of his mortal sufferings; but others, and among them Henri was the most sanguine, still hoped that he would recover; and there certainly was nothing in his cheery manner On the morning of the wedding, to make any one think that such hopes were misplaced. The old Marquis was more sad and melancholy than he had used to be among his beloved birds and cherry trees at Durbelliere; and, on this occasion, he was probably the saddest of the party, for he was the one who would have rejoiced the most that the wedding of his son should be an occasion of joy to relatives, servants, tenants, and the numerous neighbours among whom he had always lived with so much mutual affection.

The most singular figure of the whole party was Father Jerome, the Cure of St. Laud's. He still wore the same long grey coat in which he was first introduced to the reader at Durbelliere; which had since that time figured at Saumur and many another scene of blood and violence, and which we last saw when he was found by Madame de Lescure in the chapel at Genet. It had now been so patched and darned, that its oldest friends could not have recognized it. But Father Jerome still maintained that it was good enough for the ordinary run of his present daily duties, though he jocosely apologized to Marie for appearing, on such an occasion, in so mean a garment.

As soon as the breakfast was over, the table on which it had been eaten, was converted into a rude altar, and the ceremony was commenced. Jacques Chapeau and Annot, whose turn was immediately to follow, stood close up to the table, opposite to their master and mistress; but Michael Stein and his two sons, who of course were to be present at Annot's marriage, and who had prepared to seat themselves on the stairs till their presence should be required, had also been invited to attend; and they now sat but very ill at their ease, on three chairs, in the very farthest corner of the room. Michael Stein, though chance had thrown him among the loyal Vendeans, had in his heart but little of that love and veneration for his immediate superiors, which was the strong and attractive point in the character of the people of Poitou. Though he had lived all his life in the now famous village of Echanbroignes, he had in his disposition, much of the stubborn self-dependence of the early republicans; and he did not relish his position, sitting in the back- ground as a humble hanger-on in the family of a nobleman and an aristocrat. He was, however, unable to help himself; his sons were Vendeans; his daughter was just going to marry the confidential follower of the Vendean Commander-in-Chief; and he himself had been seen fighting for La Vendee: there he sat, therefore, quiet, though hardly happy, between his two stalwart sons, with his thin hair brushed over his forehead, and his huge swarthy hands crossed on his knees before him.

The marriage ceremonies were soon performed: and then Henri and Chapeau, each in their turn, led their brides from the altar; and all went on as quietly in the one room which they occupied, as though nothing beyond their daily occupations had occurred.

"God bless you, my children!" said the old Marquis, "this is but a sad wedding; but it is useless to regret the happy times which are gone, it seems for ever."

"Not for ever, father," said Marie, kissing the old man's face, "Henri and I still look forward to having our wedding fete; perhaps in Paris—perhaps in dear La Vendee, when we shall once more be able to call our old homes our own; then we will make you, and Agatha, and Victorine, make up fivefold for all that has been omitted now. Will we not, Henri?"

Below stairs, Chapeau and Annot, wisely thinking that no time was like the present, endeavoured to be as gay as they would have been had they enjoyed their marriage-feast in the smith's own cottage; one or two of Chapeau's friends were asked on the occasion, and among them, Plume condescended to regale himself though the cheer was spread in the kitchen instead of in the parlour. Michael, now relieved from the presence of aristocracy, eat and drank himself into good humour; and even received, with grim complacency, the jokes of his Sons, who insisted on drinking to his health as a new recruit to the famous regiment which was drawn from the parish of Echanbroignes.

"Well, my girl, may heaven take care of you!" said he, kissing his daughter, "and of you too, Jacques," and he extended the caress to his son-in-law. "I won't say but what I wish you were a decent shoe-maker, or—"

"Oh, laws, father," said Annot, "I'm sure I should never have had him, if he had been."

"The more fool you, Annot; but I wish it all the same; and that Annot had had a couple of cows to mind, and half-a-dozen pigs to look after; but it's too late to think of that now; they'll soon have neither a cow nor a pig in La Vendee; and they'll want neither smiths nor shoemakers; however, my boy, God bless you! God bless you! ladies and gentlemen, God bless you all!" and then the smith completed the work he had commenced, and got as tipsy as he could have done, had his daughter been married in Poitou.



CHAPTER XIII

CONCLUSION

We have told our tale of La Vendee; we have married our hero and our heroine; and, as is usual in such cases, we must now bid them adieu. We cannot congratulate ourselves on leaving them in a state of happy prosperity, as we would have wished to have done; but we leave them with high hopes and glorious aspirations. We cannot follow the Vendeans farther in their gallant struggle, but we part from them, while they still confidently expect that success which they certainly deserved, and are determined to deserve that glory, which has since been so fully accorded to them.

In the foregoing pages much fiction has been blended with history, but still the outline of historical facts has been too closely followed to allow us now to indulge the humanity of our readers by ascribing to the friends we are quitting success which they did not achieve, or a state of happiness which they never were allowed to enjoy. It would be easy to speak of the curly haired darlings, two of course, who blessed the union of Henri Larochejaquelin and Marie de Lescure; and the joy with which they restored their aged father to the rural delights of his chateau at Durbelliere. We might tell of the recovery of that modern Paladine, Charles de Lescure, and of the glorious rebuilding of the house of Clisson, of the ecclesiastical honours of Father Jerome, and of the happy marriage, or with more probability, the happier celibacy of the divine Agatha. But we cannot do so with propriety: facts, stern, untoward, cruel facts, stare us in the face, and would make even the novelist blush, were he, in total disregard of well-thumbed history, to attempt so very false a fiction.

Still it is necessary that something should be said of the subsequent adventures of those with whom we have for a while been so intimate, some short word spoken of the manner in which they adhered to the cause which was so dear to them. We cannot leave them in their temporary sojourn at Laval, as though a residence there was the goal of their wishes, the end of their struggle, the natural and appropriate term of their story; but as, unfortunately, their future career was not a happy one, we will beg the reader to advance with us at once over many years; and then, as he looks back upon La Vendee, through the softening vista of time, the melancholy termination of its glorious history will be lees painful.

On the 7th July, 1815, the united English and Prussian armies marched into Paris, after the battle of Waterloo, and took military possession of the city. It was a remarkable but grievous day for Paris; the citizens generally stayed within their houses, and left the streets to the armed multitude, whom they could not regard as friends, and with whom they were no longer able to contend as enemies. In spite of the enthusiasm with which Napoleon was greeted in Paris on his return from Elba, there were very many royalists resident in the city; men, who longed to welcome back to France the family of the Bourbons, and to live again beneath the shelter and shade of an ancient throne. But even these could not greet with a welcome foreigners, who by force had taken possession. of their capital. It was a sad and gloomy day in Paris, for no man knew what would be the fate, either of himself or of his country: shops were closed, and trade was silenced; the clanking of arms and the jingling of spurs was heard instead of the busy hum of busy men.

On the evening of this day, a stout, fresh-coloured, good-looking woman, of about forty years of age, was sitting in a perruquier's shop, at the corner of the Rue St. Honore and the Rue St. Denis, waiting for the return of her husband, who had been called upon to exercise his skill on the person of some of the warriors with whom Paris was now crowded. The shutters of the little shop were up, as were those of all the houses in the street, and the place was therefore dark and triste; and the stout, good-looking woman within was melancholy and somewhat querulous. A daughter, of about twenty years of age, the exact likeness of her mother, only twenty years less stout, and twenty years more pretty, sat with her in the shop, and patiently listened to her complaints.

"Well, Annot," she said, "I wonder at your father. He had a little spirit once, but it has all left him now. Had he been said by me, he wouldn't have raised a bit of steel over an English chin for the best day's hire that ever a man was paid—unless, indeed, it was to cut the fellow's throat!"

"If he didn't, mother, another would; and what's the good of throwing away their money?"

"No matter—it's a coward's work to go and shave one's country's enemies. Do you think he'd have shaved any of the blues' officers in La Vendee twenty years ago, for all the money they could have offered him? He'd have done it with a sword, if he had done it at all. Well, I suppose it's all right! I suppose he's only fit to use a razor now."

"But you always say those were horrid days in La Vendee; that you had nothing to eat, and no bed to sleep in, nor shoes to your feet; and that you and father couldn't get married for ever so long, because of the wars?"

"So they were horrid days. I don't think any one will live to see the like again. But still, one don't like to see a man, who once had a little spirit, become jacky to every one who has a dirty chin to be scraped. Oh, Annot, if you'd seen the men there were in La Vendee, in those days; if you'd seen the great Cathelineau, you would have seen a man."

After having read this conversation, no one will be surprised to hear that on the board over the shop window, the following words, in yellow letters, were decently conspicuous:

JACQUES CHAPEAU,

PERRUQUIER.

Madame Chapeau was now disturbed in her unreasonable grumbling by a knock at the closed door, and on her opening it, an officer in undress uniform, about fifty years of age, politely greeted her, and asked her if that was not the house of M. Jacques Chapeau. From his language, the visitor might at first have been taken for a Frenchman; his dress, however, plainly told that he belonged to the English army.

"Yes, Monsieur, this is the humble shop of Chapeau, perruquier," said our old friend, the elder Annot, who, in spite of her feelings of hostility to the English, was somewhat mollified by the politeness and handsome figure of her visitor: she then informed him that Chapeau was not at home; that she expected him in immediately; and that his assistant, who was, in some respects, almost as talented as his master, was below, and would wait upon Monsieur immediately; and she rang a little bell, which was quickly responded to by some one ascending from a lower region.

The visitor informed Madame Chapeau that he had not called at present as a customer, but that he had taken the liberty to intrude himself upon her for the purpose of learning some facts of which, he was informed, her husband could speak with more accuracy than any other person in Paris.

"It is respecting the battles of La Vendee," said he, "that I wish to speak to him. I believe that he saw more of them than any person now alive."

Madame Chapeau was considering within herself whether there would be any imprudence in confessing to the English officer the important part her husband had played in La Vendee, when the officer's question was answered by another person, whose head and shoulders now dimly appeared upon the scene.

These were the head and shoulders of Chapeau's assistant, who had been summoned from his own region by the sound of his mistress's bell; the stairs from this subterraneous recess did not open on to any passage, but ascended at once abruptly into the shop, so that the assistant, when called on, found himself able to answer, and to make even a personal appearance, as far as his head was concerned, without troubling himself to mount the three or four last stairs. From this spot he was in the habit of holding long conversations with his master and mistress; and now perceiving that neither the head nor chin of the strange gentleman were to be submitted to his skill, he arrested his steps, and astonished the visitor by a voice which seemed to come out of the earth.

Indeed he did, Monsieur, more than any one now alive—more even than myself, and that is saying a great deal. Jacques Chapeau was an officer high in command through the whole Vendean war; and I, even I, humble as I am now, I also was thought not unworthy to lead brave men into battle. I, Monsieur, am Auguste Plume; and though now merely a perruquier's poor assistant, I was once the officer second in command in the army of La Petite Vendee.

The gentleman turned round and gazed at the singular apparition, which the obscurity of the shop only just permitted him to distinguish. Auguste Flume was now above sixty years old, and completely bald; his face was thin, lanternjawed, and cadaverous; and his eyes, which were weak with age, were red and bleared; still he had not that ghastly, sick appearance, which want both of food and rest had given him in the glorious days to which he alluded: after the struggle in La Vendee, he had lived for some time a wretched life, more like that of a beast than a man; hiding in woods, living on roots, and hunting with the appetite of a tiger after the blood of stray republicans; his wife and children had perished in Carrier's noyades in the Loire; he himself had existed through two years of continued suffering, with a tenacity of life which almost reached to a miracle. He had joined the Chouans, and had taken an active part in the fiercest of their fierce acts of vengeance. But he had lived through it all; and now, in his old age, he had plenty and comfort; yet he looked back with a fond regret to the days of his imagined glory and power; he spoke with continual rapture of his own brave achievements, and regretted that he had not been allowed to continue a life, the miseries of which it would be impossible to exaggerate.

"Bah, Auguste," said his mistress; "the gentleman does not care to hear of your La Petite Vendee; it is of M. Henri—that is, of the young Marquis de Larochejaquelin, and of Madame and of Mademoiselle Agatha, and of M. de Lescure, and of Charette, and the Prince de Talmont, that Monsieur will want to hear!"

The stranger was in the act of explaining that the hostess was right in her surmise, when the master of the house himself returned. In spite of what he had suffered, years had sat lightly on Chapeau, as they had done on his wife. He was now a fat, good-humoured, middle-aged, comfortable man, who made the most, in his trade, of the eclat which attended him, as having been the faithful servant of the most popular among the Vendean leaders. He never wearied his customers with long tales of his own gallantry; he even had the unusual tact to be able to sink himself, in speaking, as he was often invited to do, of the civil war: he was known to have been brave, faithful, and loyal, and he was accordingly very popular among the royalists of Paris, who generally preferred his scissors and razors to those of any other artist in the city.

The officer, who was now seated in the shop, his wife and daughter, and his assistant, began at once to explain to him the service which he was required to perform; and Chapeau, bowing low to the compliments which the stranger paid to him, declared with his accustomed mixture of politeness and frank good nature, that he would be happy to tell anything that he knew.

The gentleman explained, that in his early years he had known de Lescure intimately; that he had met Larochejaquelin in Paris, and that he had made one of a party of Englishmen, who had done their best to send arms, money, and men from his own country into La Vendee. Chapeau was too well bred to allude to the disappointment which they had all so keenly felt, from the want of that very aid; he merely bowed again, and said that he would tell Monsieur all he knew.

And so he did. From the time when Henri Larochejaquelin left Laval for Granville, nothing prospered with the Vendeans; the army, as it was agreed, had left that place for Granville, and their first misfortune had been the death of de Lescure.

"He died in Laval?" asked the officer.

"No," said Chapeau. "When the moment for starting came, he insisted on being carried with the army; he followed us in a carriage, but the jolting of the road was too much for him—the journey killed him. He died at Fougeres, on the third day after we left Laval."

"And Madame?" asked the stranger.

"It is impossible for me now," said Chapeau, "to tell you all the dangers through which she passed, all the disguises which she had to use, and the strange adventures which for a long time threatened almost daily to throw her in the hands of those who would have been delighted to murder her; but of course you know that she escaped at last."

"I am told that she still lives in Poitou, and I think I heard that, some years after M. de Lescure's death, she married M. Louis Larochejaquelin."

"She did so—the younger brother of my own dear lord. He was a boy in England during our hot work in La Vendee."

"Yes; and he served in an English regiment."

"So I had heard, Monsieur; but you know, don't you, that he also has now fallen."

"Indeed no!—for years and years I have heard nothing of the family."

"It was only two months since: he fell last May at the head of the Vendeans, leading them against the troops which the Emperor sent down there. The Vendeans could not endure the thoughts of the Emperor's return from Elba. M. Louis was the first to lift his sword, and Madame is, a second time, a widow. Poor lady, none have suffered as she has done!" He then paused a while in his narrative, but as the stranger did not speak, he continued: "but of M. Henri, of course, Monsieur, you heard the fate of our dear General?"

"I only know that he perished, as did so many hundred others, who were also so true and brave."

"I will tell you then," said Chapeau, "for I was by him when he died; he fell, when he was shot, close at my feet: he never spoke one word, or gave one groan, but his eyes, as they closed for the last time, looked up into the face of one—one who, at any rate, loved him very well," and Chapeau took a handkerchief from a little pocket in his wife's apron, and applied it to his eyes.

"Yes," he continued," when the bullet struck him, I was as near to him as I am to her," and he put his hand to his wife's head. "It might have been me as well as him, only for the chance. I'll tell you how the manner of it was. You know bow we all strove to cross back into La Vendee, first at Angers and afterwards at Ancenis; and how M. Henri got divided from the army at Ancenis. Well, after that, the Vendean army was no more; the army was gone, it had melted away; the most of those who were still alive were left in Brittany, and they joined the Chouans. Here is my friend, Auguste, he was one of them."

"Indeed I was, Monsieur, for a year and eight months."

"Never mind now, Auguste, you can tell the gentleman by and bye; but, as I was saying, M. Henri was left all but alone on the southern bank of the river—there were, perhaps, twenty with him altogether—not more; and there were as many hundreds hunting those twenty from day to day."

"And you were one of them, Chapeau?"

"I was, Monsieur. My wife here remained with her father in Laval; he was a crafty man, and he made the blues believe he was a republican; but, bless you, he was as true a royalist all the time as I was. Well, there we were, hunted, like wolves, from one forest to another, till about the middle of winter, we fixed ourselves for a while in the wood of Vesins, about three leagues to the east of Cholet, a little to the south of the great road from Saumur. From this place M. Henri harassed them most effectually; about fifty of the old Vendeans had joined him, and with these he stopped their provisions, interrupted their posts, and on one occasion, succeeded in getting the despatches from Paris to the republican General. We. were at this work for about six weeks; and he, as he always did, exposed himself to every possible danger. One morning we came upon two republican grenadiers; there were M. Henri, two others and myself there, and we wanted immediately to fire upon them; but M. Henri would not have it so; he said that he would save them, and rushed forward to bid them lay down their arms; as he did so, the foremost of them fired, and M. Henri fell dead without a groan."

"And the two men—did they escape?"

"No, neither of them," said Chapeau; and for a moment, a gleam of savage satisfaction flashed across his face; "the man who fired the shot had not one minute spared him for his triumph; I had followed close upon my master, and I avenged him."

"And where was his young wife all this time?"

"She was with Madame de Lescure, in Brittany; and so was Mademoiselle Agatha; they were living disguised almost as peasants, at an old chateau called Dreneuf; after that they all escaped to Spain; they are both still alive, and now in Poitou; and I am told, that though they have not chosen absolutely to seclude themselves, they both pass the same holy life, as though they were within the walls of a convent."

It was long before Chapeau discontinued his narrative, but it is unnecessary for us to follow farther in the sad details which he had to give of the loss of the brave Vendean leaders. The Prince de Talinont, Charette, Stofflet, Marigny, all of them fell: "And yet," said Chapeau, with a boast, which evidently gave him intense satisfaction, "La Vendee was never conquered. Neither the fear of the Convention, nor the arms of the Directory, nor the strength of the Consul, nor the flattery of the Emperor could conquer La Vendee, or put down the passionate longing for the return of the royal family, which has always burnt in the bosom of the people. Revolt has never been put down in La Vendee, since Cathelineau commenced the war in St. Florent. The people would serve neither the republic nor the empire; the noblesse would not visit the court; their sons have refused commissions in the army, and their daughters have disdained to accept the hands of any, who had forgotten their allegiance to the throne. Through more than twenty years of suffering and bloodshed, La Vendee has been true to its colour, and now it will receive its reward."

Chapeau himself, however, more fortunate, though not less faithful, than his compatriots, had not been obliged to wait twenty years for his reward; he owned, with something like a feeling of disgrace, that he had been carrying on his business in Paris, for the last fifteen years, with considerable success and comfort to himself; and he frankly confessed, that he had by practice inured himself to the disagreeable task of shaving, cutting and curling beards and heads, which were devoted to the empire; "but then, Monsieur," said he apologizing for his conduct, "there was a great difference you know between them and republicans."

Five-and-thirty years have now passed, since Chapeau was talking, and the Vendeans triumphed in the restoration of Louis XVIII to the throne of his ancestors. That throne has been again overturned; and, another dynasty having intervened, France is again a Republic.

How long will it be before some second La Vendee shall successfully, but bloodlessly, struggle for another re-establishment of the monarchy? Surely before the expiration of half a century since the return of Louis, France will congratulate herself on another restoration.

THE END