"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 Cure, "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 Cure 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 Durbelliere; 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 wont 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 Cure 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 Durbelliere. The Cure 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 Vendee 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 Vendee 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 Cure, 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'Elbee, 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'Elbee, "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 Vendee. 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'Elbee?"

"D'Elbee!—d'Elbee!—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'Elbee 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'Elbee 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'Elbee 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'Elbee 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 a foolish girl, Annot," said Chapeau. "You might as well want the picture of St. John out of the church window down yonder, and take that for your lover, as Cathelineau. Don't you know he's the Saint of Anjou?"

"He might marry a wife, and have a house full of children, for all that; that's the difference between being a saint and a priest; there's no harm in being in love with a saint, and I am very much in love with Cathelineau."

"Why, you little ninny, you never saw him," said Chapean.

"No matter," said Annot; "ninny, or no ninny, I'll go where I'm like to see him; and I'm sure I'll never bear the sight of another man afterwards; the dear, good, sweet Cathelineau, with his curly hair, and fine whiskers, and black bright eyes; he's better than all the noblemen: I declare I dreamed of him these last two nights."

Chapeau left the side of his mistress, muttering something about stupid foolish chits of girls, and continued his description of M. d'Elbee to the men.

"Indeed he is a very great general. I don't know very well where he came from, but I believe somewhere down in the Marais, from his being such a friend of M. Charette; but he has been fighting against the republicans this long time, even before Cathelineau began, I believe, though I don't exactly know where. I know he was made a prisoner in Paris, and nearly killed there by some of those bloody-minded rebels; then he escaped, and he was at the siege of Machecoult, and got honourably wounded, and was left for dead: and then he was at Thouars—no, not at Thouars; we heard he was coming, but he didn't come; but he was at Fontenay, and that's where I first saw him. M. Bonchamps brought him in and introduced him to M. de Lescure, and our M. Larochejaquelin, and I was astonished to see how much they made of him, for he was dressed just as he is now, and had no sword or anything. Well, as soon as he came in they all went to work talking, and settling how Fontenay was to be attacked, for though its a little place, and not walled and fortified like Saumur, we had a deal of trouble with it; but before a word was spoken, M. d'Elbee stood up and said, 'Brethren,' said he, 'let us ask the assistance of our Saviour:' so down they went on their knees, and he said an awful long prayer, for all the world like a priest. And then again before we fired a shot, he bade all the soldiers kneel down, and down we went, the republicans firing at us all the time. The soldiers call him Old Providence, for they say he talks a deal about Providence when he is fighting."

"You may be sure that's what makes Father Jerome so fond of him," said Jean. "I knew he was a good man."

"And he was a desperate fellow to fight afterwards," continued Chapeau. "But he walked into the thick of the fighting just as he is now."

"But he had a sword, or a gun, or a spear?" said Jean.

"Neither the one or the other; he was just as he is this minute, giving orders, and directing some of the men there who knew him well. Presently, he said to a young gentleman who was near him: 'Lend me that sword a moment, will you?' and he took it out of his hands, and made a rush through the gate of Fontenay, and I saw no more of him that day."

"Why did you not rush after him, then, M. Chapeau?"

"Rush after him! Why, you simpleton; do you think in wars like that every man is to rush just where he pleases; you'll soon be taught the difference. M. d'Elbee was a general, and might go where he liked; but I was a corporal under M. Henri, with ten men under me. We had to remain where we were, and cut off the republicans, if they showed their noses at a point in the street which we covered; it's only the generals that go rushing about in that way. But here we are at Father Jerome's altar. Well; I'm very hot. I'm sure its nearly half a league up here from the church."

They had now come to a rude altar, constructed on a piece of rock, in front of which was a small space of green turf: the whole spot was closely surrounded by beech and ash-trees; so closely, indeed, that the sun hardly made its way into it, and the rocks around it rising up through the grass afforded ample accommodation for the people. In a moment, they were on their knees on the grass; some almost immediately before the altar; others kneeling against the rocks; others again with their heads and hands resting against the trunk of a huge beech-tree.

Hither had been brought the necessary appurtenances for the performance of mass. A small, but beautifully white cloth was spread upon a flat portion of the rock; bread was there, and a small quantum of wine; a little patina and a humble chalice. M. d'Elbee took his place among the crowd before the altar, and Father Jerome, having dressed himself in his robes, performed, with a fine, full, sonorous voice, the morning service of his church. When so occupied, he had no longer the look of the banished priest: his sacred vestments had not shared the decay which had fallen on his ordinary clothes. No bishop rising from his throne to bless the congregation assembled in his cathedral, could assume more dignity, or inspire more solemnity than the Cure of St. Laud, as he performed mass at his sylvan altar in La Vendee.

After mass was finished, the priest gave them an extempore discourse on the necessity of their absolutely submitting themselves to their teachers, spiritual masters, and pastors; and before he had finished, he turned their attention to the especial necessity of their obeying the leaders, now among them, in carrying on the war against the Republic, and as he concluded, he said:

"I rejoice at all times, my children, that you are an obedient and a docile people, content to accept the word of God from those whom he has sent to teach it to you—that you are not a stiff-necked generation, prone to follow your own vain conceits, or foolish enough to conceive that your little earthly knowledge can be superior to the wisdom which comes from above, as others are. I have always rejoiced at this, my children, for in it I have seen hope for you, when I could see none for others; but now also I rejoice greatly to see that you unite the courage of men to the docility of babes. Hitherto your lot has been that of peace, and if you have not enjoyed riches, you have at any rate been contented: another destiny is before you now—peace and content have left the country, and have been followed by robbery, confusion, and war. My children, you must, for a while, give over your accustomed peaceful duties; your hands—your hearts—all your energy, and all your courage, are required by God for his own purposes—yes, required by that Creator who gave you strength and energy—who gave you the power and the will to do great deeds for His holy name.

"His enemies are in the land: impious wretches—who do not hesitate to wage war against His throne—are endeavouring to destroy all that is good, and all that is holy in France. Do you not know, my children, that they have murdered your King?—and that they have imprisoned your Queen, and her son, who is now your King? Would you be content to remain quiet in your homes, while your King is lying in a prison, in hourly danger of death? They have excluded you from your churches, they have caused God's holy houses to be closed; they have sent among you teachers who can only lead you astray—whose teaching can only bring you to the gates of hell. The enemies of the Lord are around you; and you are now required to take arms in your hands, to go out against them, and if needs be to give your blood—nay your life for your country, your King, and your Church.

"I greatly rejoice, my children, that you are an obedient people; I know that you will now do your utmost, and I know that you will succeed. The Lord will not desert His people when they combat for His glory, when they faithfully turn to Him for victory. You have been taught how He chose the Israelites as an especial people—how He loved and favoured them: as long as they were faithful and obedient He never deserted them. They conquered hosts ten times their numbers—they were victorious against armed warriors, and mighty giants. The Lord blinded their enemies so that they saw not; He blunted their weapons; He paralyzed their courage; chariots and horses did not avail them; nor strong walls, nor mighty men of battle. The Lord loved the Israelites, and as long as they were faithful and obedient, they prevailed against all their enemies.

"You, my children, are now God's people; if you are truly faithful, you shall assuredly prevail; if you go out to battle firmly, absolutely, entirely trusting in the strength of His right hand—that right hand, that Almighty arm shall be on your side. And who then shall stand against you?—though tens, and hundreds of thousands swarm around you, they shall yield before you—they shall fall before you as the giant Goliath fell before the shepherd David.

"Be not afraid, therefore, my children: we will go together; we will remember that every man who falls on our side in this holy war, falls as he is doing Christ's service, and that his death is to be envied, for it is a passport into Heaven. We will remember this in the hour of battle, when our enemies are before us, when death is staring us in the face, and remembering it, we shall not be afraid. If we die fighting truly in this cause, our immortal souls will be wafted off to paradise— to everlasting joy: if we live, it will be to receive, here in our own dear fields, the thanks of a grateful King, to feel that we have done our duty as Christians and as men, and to hear our children bless the days, when the courage of La Vendee restored the honour of France."

Father Jerome's exhortation had a strong effect upon the people; he knew and calculated their strength and their weakness—they were brave and credulous, and when he finished speaking, there was hardly one there who in the least doubted that the event of the war would be entirely successful: they felt that they were a chosen people, set apart for a good work—that glory and victory awaited them in the contest, and especially that they were about to fight under the immediate protection of the Almighty.

As soon as the service was over, they all left the little sylvan chapel by different paths, and in different directions; some went back to the church, some went off across the fields, some took a short cut to the road, but they all returned home without delay. Every man was to set out early on the morrow for the rendezvous, and the women were preparing to shed their tears and say their last farewell to their lovers, brothers, and husbands, before they started on so great an enterprise. They had all been gay enough during the morning—they became a little melancholy on their return home, but before the evening was far advanced, nothing was to be heard but sobs and vows, kisses and blessings.

Jacques Chapeau returned to Echanbroignes with the party of villagers who had gone from thence to hear Father Jerome, but he did not attach himself expressly to Annot, indeed he said not a word to her on the way, but addressed the benefit of his conversation to his male friends generally; to tell the truth, he was something offended at the warm admiration which his sweetheart had expressed for Cathelineau. He wasn't exactly jealous of the postillion, for Annot had never seen him, and couldn't, therefore, really love him; but he felt that she ought not to have talked about another man's eyes and whiskers, even though that other man was a saint and a general. It was heartless, too, of Annot to say such things at such a time, just as he was going to leave her, on the eve of battle, and when he had left his own master, and all the glorious confusion and good living in—at Durbelliere, merely that he might spend his last quiet day in her company.

It was base of her to say that she had dreamed twice of Cathelineau; and she was punished for it, for she had to walk home almost unnoticed. At first she was very angry, and kicked up the dust with her Sunday shoes in fine style; but before long her heart softened, and she watched anxiously for some word or look from Jacques on which she might base an attempt at a reconciliation. Jacques knew what she was about, and would not even look at her: he went on talking with Jean and Peter and the others, about the wars, and republicans and royalists, as though poor Annot Stein had not been there at all. From the chapel of St. Laud to the village of Echanbroignes, he did not speak a word to her, and when the four entered the old smith's house, poor Annot was bursting with anger, and melting with love; she could not settle with herself whether he hated Chapeau or loved him most; she felt that she would have liked to poison him, only she knew that she could not live without him.

She hurried into her little sleeping place, and had a long debate with herself whether she should instantly go to bed and pray that Jacques might be killed at Saumur, or whether she should array herself in all her charms, and literally dazzle her lover into fondness and obedience by her beauty and graces—after many tears the latter alternative was decided on.

It was a lovely summer evening, and at about eight o'clock hardly a person in the whole village was to be found within doors; the elderly were sitting smoking at their doors, husbands were saying a thousand last words to their weeping wives, young men were sharpening their swords, and preparing their little kit for the morrow's march, and the girls were helping them; but everything was done in the open air. Jean and Peter Stein were secretly preparing for a stolen march to Saumur; for their father was still inexorable, and they were determined not to be left behind when all the world was fighting for glory. Old Michael was smoking at his ease, and Jacques was standing talking to him, wondering in his heart whether Annot could be really angry with him, when that young lady reappeared in the kitchen.

"Where have you been, Annot?" said Michael Stein, "you didn't get your supper, yet child."

"I was sick with the heat, father; walking home from St. Laud's."

"I would not have you sick tonight, Annot, and our friends leaving us before sun-rise tomorrow. Here is M. Chapeau complaining you are a bad hostess."

"M. Chapeau has enough to think of tonight, without my teasing him," said Annot; "great soldiers like him have not time to talk to silly girls. I will walk across the green to Dame Rouel's, father; I shall be back before sunset."

And Annot went out across the green, at the corner of which stood the smith's forge. Jacques Chapeau was not slow to follow her, and Dame Rouel did not see much of either of them that evening.

"Annot," said Jacques, calling to his sweetheart, who perseveringly looked straight before her, determined not to know that she was followed. "Annot, stop awhile. You are not in such a hurry, are you, to see Dame Rouel?"

"Ah, M. Chapeau, is that you?—in a hurry to see Dame Rouel. No—I'm in no particular hurry."

"Will you take a turn down to the mill, then, Annot? Heaven knows when you and I may walk to the old mill again; it may be long enough before I see Echanbroignes again."

Annot made no answer, but she turned into the little path which led through the fields to the mill.

"I suppose it may," said she, determined, if possible, that the amende should be made by Jacques and not by herself.

"I see you are indifferent about that," said Jacques, with a soft and sentimental look, which nearly melted Annot; "well, when you hear of my death, you will sometimes think of me, will you not?"

"Oh, I will, M. Chapeau! Of course I'll think of you, and of all my friends."

Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off the heads of the blue-bells with his little cane. "I am not different to you then from any one else, eh, Annot?" said he.

"How different, M. Chapeau?"

"You will think as much of young Boullin, the baker?"

"I don't like young Boullin, the baker, and I don't thank you for mentioning his name one bit."

"Well! people say you are very partial to young Boullin."

"People lie—they always do; everybody tries to tease and plague me now. You and Jean, and father, and that old fool, Rouel, are all alike," and Annot gave symptoms of hysterical tears.

Jacques was again silent for awhile, but he had commenced walking very near to his companion, and she did not appear to resent it. After a while he said: "You are not glad that I'm going, Annot?"

"You would not have me sorry that you are going to fight with all the other brave men, would you?"

"Is that all I am to get from you, after all? is that all the regard you have for me? very well, Annot—it is well at any rate we should understand each other. They were right, I find, when they told me that you were such a coquette, you would have a dozen lovers at the same time."

"And they were right, I find, when they told me you were too fond of yourself ever to love any girl truly."

"Oh, Annot! and is it come to this? I'm sorry I ever came to Echanbroignes. I'm sorry I ever saw you."

"And if you are, M. Chapeau, I'm sure I'm sorry enough I ever saw you;" and Annot again increased the distance between her and her lover.

They walked on from hence in silence till they came to the little mill, and each stood gazing on the stream, which ran gurgling down beneath the ash and willow-trees, which dipped their boughs in its waters.

"How kind you were, the last time we were here together," said Jacques; "how kind and generous you were then; you are very different now."

"And you are very different, too, M. Chapeau; much more different than I am; it's all your own fault; you choose to give yourself airs, and I won't put up with it, and I believe we may as well part."

"Give myself airs! No; but it's you give yourself airs, and say things which cut me to the heart—things which I can't bear; and, therefore, perhaps, we may as well part :" and Jacques assumed a most melancholy aspect, as he added, "So, good bye, Annot; there's my hand. I wouldn't, at any rate, part anything but friends after all."

"Good bye," said poor Annot, putting out her hand to her lover, and sobbing violently. "Good bye; I'm sure I never thought it would come to this. I'm sure I gave up everybody and everything for your sake."

"Well; and didn't I give up everybody, too. Haven't I come all the way over here week after week, when people wondered what made me leave Durbelliere so much; and wasn't it all for love of you? Oh, Annot! Annot!" and even the manly dignity of M. Chapeau succumbed to tears.

"It's no good talking," said she, greatly softened; "for you can't have loved me, and treated me as you did this day, letting me walk all alone from St. Laud, without so much as a word or a look; and that before all the people: and I that went merely to walk back with you. Oh! I could have died on the roadside to find myself treated in such a way."

"And what must I have felt to hear you talking as you did before them all? Do you think I felt nothing?"

"Talking, Jacques; what talk?"

"Why; saying that you loved Cathelineau better than any one. That he was the only man you admired; that you dreamed of him always, and I don't know how much more about his eyes and whiskers."

"Why now, Jacques; you don't mean to be jealous?"

"Jealous; no I'm not jealous."

"Jealous of a man you know I never saw," said Annot, smiling through her tears.

"Jealous. No, I tell you I'm not jealous; but still, one doesn't like to hear one's mistress talking of another man's eyes, and whiskers, and those sort of things; no man would like it, Annot; though I care about it as little myself as any man."

"But don't you know Cathelineau is a saint, Jacques?"

"Oh! but you said saints might marry, and have a lot of children, and so they may."

"But I never saw Cathelineau, Jacques," and she put her hand upon his arm.

And you are not in love with him, Annot?"

"How can I be in love with a man I never put eyes on?"

"And you won't say again, that you'd like to have him for a lover?"

"That was only my little joke, Jacques. Surely, a girl may joke sometimes."

"And you do love me, don't you?" and Jacques now got very close to his mistress.

"Ah! but why did you let me walk home all the way by myself? You know I love you dearly; but you must beg my pardon for that, before I'll ever tell you so again."

And Jacques did beg her pardon in a manner of his own twenty times, sitting by the gurgling mill-stream, and to tell the truth Annot seemed well pleased with the way in which he did it; and then when the fountain of her love was opened, and the sluice gate of her displeasure removed, she told him how she would pray for him till he came back safe from the wars; how she would never speak a word to mortal man in the way of courting, till he came back to make her his wife; how she would grieve, should he be wounded; how she would die, should he be killed in battle: and then she gave him a little charm, which she had worked for him, and put it round his neck, and told him she had taken it with her to St. Laud, to give it him there beneath the cross, only he had gone away from her, so that she couldn't do so: and then Jacques begged pardon again and again in his own queer way; and then, having sat there by the mill-stream till the last red streak of sunlight was gone, they returned home to the village, and Annot told her father that Dame Rouel had been so very pressing, she had made them stay there to eat bread and cheese. And so Annot, at last, went to bed without her supper, and dreamed not of Cathelineau, but of her own lover, Jacques Chapeau.



CHAPTER VIII

AGATHA LAROCHEJAQUELIN.

As Chapeau had said, great preparations were made at Durbelliere for the coming campaign. The old Marquis had joined with his son in furnishing everything which their limited means would admit of, for the wants of the royalists. Durbelliere had become quite a depot; the large granaries at the top of the house were no longer empty; they were stored with sacks of meal, with pikes and muskets, and with shoes for the soldiers. Agatha's own room looked like an apartment in a hospital; it was filled with lint, salves, and ointments, to give ease to those whom the wars should send home wounded; all the contents of the cellars were sacrificed; wine, beer, and brandy, were alike given up to aid the spirits of the combatants; the cattle were drawn in from the farms, and kept round the house in out-houses and barns, ready to be slaughtered, as occasion might require, an abattoir was formed in the stable yard, and a butcher kept in regular employment; a huge oven was built in an outhouse attached to the stables, and here bakers, from neighbouring parishes, were continually kept at work: they neither expected, or received wages; they, and all the others employed got their meals in the large kitchen of the chateau, and were content to give their work to the cause without fee or reward. Provisions, cattle, and implements, were also sent from M. de Lescure's house to Durbelliere, as it was considered to be more central, and as it was supposed that there were still some republicans in the neighbourhood of Bressuire, whereas, it was well known that there were none in the rural districts; the more respectable of the farmers also, and other country gentlemen sent something; and oxen, sheep, and loads of meal; jars of oil, and casks of wine were coming in during the whole week before the siege of Saumur, and the same horses took them out again in the shape of bread, meat, and rations, to the different points where they would be required.

As soon as M. de Lescure had left home, on his recruiting service in the south of La Vendee, the ladies of his house went over to Durbelliere, to remain there till Henri Larochejaquelin should start for Saumur, and give their aid to Agatha in all her work. Adolphe Denot was also there: he, too, had been diligently employed in collecting the different sinews of wars; and as far as his own means went had certainly not begrudged them. There was still an unhappy air of dissatisfaction about him, which was not to be observed with any one else: his position did not content his vanity; the people did not talk of him as they did of Cathelineau, and Henri Larochejaquelin; he heard nothing of La Vendee relying on his efforts; the nanes of various men were mentioned as trustworthy leaders, but his own was never among them. De Lescure, Charette, d'Elbee, Stofflet, were all talked of; and what had they done more than he had; or what, indeed, so much: the two latter were men of low origin, who had merely shown courage in the time of need: indeed, what more had Cathelineau done; whereas, he had never failed in courage, and had given, moreover, his money, and his property; yet he felt that he was looked on as a nobody. Jacques Chapeau was almost of more importance.

And then, again, his love for Agatha tormented him. He had thought to pique her by a show of indifference himself, but he found that this plan did not answer: it was evident, even to him, that Agatha was not vexed by his silence, his altered demeanour, and sudden departure. He had miscalculated her character, and now found that he must use other means to rouse the affection in her heart, without which he felt, at present, that he could not live happily. He thought that she could not have seen with indifference the efforts he was making in the cause which she loved so well; and he determined to throw himself at her feet before he started for Saumur, and implore her to give him a place in her affections, while her heart was softened by the emotions, which the departure of so many of her friends, on the eve of battle, would occasion.

Agatha had had but little conversation with him since his last arrival at Durbelliere, but still she felt that he was about to propose to her. She shunned him as much as she could; she scrupulously avoided the opportunity which he anxiously sought; she never allowed herself to be alone with him; but she was nevertheless sure the evil hour would come; she saw it in his eye as they sat together at their meals—she heard it in the tones of his voice every time he spoke. She knew from his manner that he was preparing himself for the interview, and she also knew that he would not submit tamely to the only answer she could bring herself to give him.

"Marie," said she to her cousin, on the Saturday evening, "I am in the greatest distress, pray help me, dearest. I am sure you know what ails me."

"In distress, Agatha, and wanting help from me!—you that are wont to help all the world yourself! But I know, from your face, you are only half in earnest."

"Indeed, and indeed, I never was much more so. I never was more truly in want of council. Can you not guess what my sorrow is?"

"Not unless it is, that you have a lover too much?—or perhaps you find the baker's yeast runs short?"

"Ah, Marie, will you always joke when I am serious!"

"Well then, Agatha, now I am serious—is it that you have a lover too much?"

"Can any trouble be more grievous?"

"Oh, dear, yes! ten times worse. My case is ten times worse: and alas, alas! there is no cure for that."

"Your case, Marie?"

"Yes, my case, Agatha—a lover too few!"

"Ah, Marie, do not joke with me tonight. I want your common sense, and not your wit, just now. Be a good, dear girl, and tell me what I shall say to him. I know he will not go to Saumur before—before he has proposed to me."

"Then, in the name of common sense, dear Agatha, tell him the truth, whatever it may be."

"You know I do not—cannot love him."

"Nay, I know nothing. You have not said yet who 'him' is—but I own I can give a guess. I suppose poor Adolphe Denot is the man you cannot love? Poor Adolphe! he must be told so, that is all."

"But how shall I tell him, Marie? He is so unlike other men. Henri is his friend, and yet he has never spoken to him about me, nor to my father. If he would ask my hand from Henri, as another would, Henri would talk to him, and explain to him that it could not be-that my heart is too much occupied with other cares, to care for loving or being loved."

"That means, Agatha, till the right lover comes."

"No, Marie; but till these wars are over. Not that I could ever love Adolphe Denot; but now, at present, methinks love should be banished from the country, and not allowed to return till the King is on his throne again."

"Well, Agatha, I don't know. That would be somewhat hard upon us poor girls, whose lovers are more to our taste, than M. Denot is to yours. I know not that our knights will fight the worse for a few stray smiles, though the times be so frightful."

"Do you smile on yours then, Marie; and I will smile to see you happy. But tell me, dearest, what shall I say to Adolphe? You would not have me give him hope, when I feel I can never love him?"

"God forbid!—why should you? But has he never spoken to Henri on the subject, or to the Marquis?"

"Never a word. I'm sure he never spoke of it to my father, and Henri told me that he had never said a word to him."

"Then you have spoken to your brother on the subject? And what did he say?"

"He said just what a dear, good brother should have said. He said he was sorry for his friend, but that on no account whatever would he sacrifice his sister's happiness."

"M. Larochejaquelin always does just what he ought to do. He is as good and kind to you as Charles is to me."

"Henri and I are so nearly of an age; we were always companions together. I do not think any lover will be agreeable to me as long as he is with me."

"But if he should take a love of his own, Agatha? It wont do, you know, for sisters to monopolize their brothers; or what shall we spinters do?"

"He shall bring his love here, and she shall be my own sister. If he makes the choice I think he will, I shall not have to open a new place in my heart for her, shall I, Marie?"

"Nay, I know not. Now it is you that wander from the subject."

"And it is cruel in you to bring me back to it. If he proposes to me tomorrow, Marie, what shall I say to him?"

"Keep out of his way tomorrow. He goes on Monday morning."

"It is very well to say, 'Keep out of his way;' but if he formally demands an interview, I cannot refuse it."

"If he formally desires an interview, do you give him a formal reception: if he formally offers you his hand, do you formally decline the honour."

"I would it were you, Marie, that he loved."

"A thousand thanks to you, Mademoiselle Larochejaquelin. I appreciate your generosity, but really I have no vacancy for M. Denot, just at present."

"Ah! but you would reject him with so much more ease, than I can do it."

"Practice, my dear, is everything: this time you may feel a little awkward, but you will find you will dispose of your second lover without much difficulty, and you will give his conge to your third with as much ease, as though you were merely dismissing a disobedient kitchen-maid."

"I cannot bear to give pain; and Adolphe will be pained; his self-love will be wounded at the idea of being rejected."

"Then spare his self-love, and accept him."

"No; that I will not do."

"Then wound his self-love, and reject him."

"Would I could do the one without the other; would I could persuade him I was not worthy of him."

"Nay, do not attempt that; that will be direct encouragement."

"I will tell him that I am averse to marriage; in truth, that will be no falsehood. I do not think that my heart is capable of more love than it feels at present."

"That may be true now, Agatha; but suppose your heart should enlarge before the autumn, at the touch of some gallant wizard—take my advice, dear girl, make no rash promises."

"I will tell him that I cannot think of love till the King is on the throne once more."

"If you say so, he will promise valiantly to restore His Majesty, and then to return to you to look for his reward. Shall I tell you, Agatha, what I should say?"

"Do, dearest Marie: tell me in sober earnest; and if there be ought of sobriety mixed with your wit, I will take your advice."

"I would say to him thus: 'M. Denot,' or 'Adolphe,' just as your custom is to address him—but mind, mark you, make him speak out firmly and formally first, that your answer may be equally firm and formal. 'M. Denot, you have paid me the greatest honour which a gentleman can pay a lady, and I am most grateful for the good opinion which you have expressed. I should be ungrateful were I to leave you for one moment in doubt as to my real sentiments: I cannot love you as I ought to love my husband. I hope you will never doubt my true friendship for you; but more than sincere friendship I cannot give you.' There, Agatha, not a word more, nor a word less than that; sit quite straight on your chair, as though you were nailed to it; do not look to the right or to the left; do not frown or smile."

"There will not be the least danger of my smiling, Marie."

"But do not frown neither; fancy that you are the district judge, giving sentence on a knotty piece of law; show neither sentiment, pride, nor anger. Be quite cold, inflexible and determined; and, above all things, do not move from your seat; and I think you will find your lover will take his answer: but if he do not—repeat it all over again, with a little more emphasis, and rather slower than before. If it be necessary, you may repeat it a third time, or indeed till he goes away, but never vary the words. He must be a most determined man if he requires the third dose. I never heard of but one who wasn't satisfied with the second, and he was an Irishman."

"If I could only insist on his sitting still and silent to hear me make my formidable speech, your advice might be very good."

"That, my dear, is your own strong point: if he attempts to interrupt you, hear what he says, and then begin again. By the time you have got to your 'real sentiments,' I doubt not he will be in his tantrums: but do you not get into tantrums too, or else you are as good as lost; let nothing tempt you to put in an unpremeditated word; one word might be fatal; but, above all, do not move; nothing but an awful degree of calm on your part will frighten him into quiescence: if you once but move, you will find M. Denot at your feet, and your hand pressed to his lips. You might as well have surrendered at once, if anything like that occur."

"Well, Marie, let what will happen, at any rate I will not surrender, as you call it. As to sitting like the district judge, and pronouncing sentence on my lover as you advise—I fear I lack the nerve for it."

Agatha was quite right in her forebodings. Adolphe Denot had firmly made up his mind to learn his fate before he started for Saumur, and immediately on rising from breakfast, he whispered to Agatha that he wished to speak to her alone for a moment. In her despair she proposed that he should wait till after mass, and Adolphe consented; but during the whole morning she felt how weak she had been in postponing the evil hour; she had a thousand last things to do for her brother, a thousand last words to say to him; but she was fit neither to do nor to say anything; even her prayers were disturbed; in spite of herself her thoughts clung to the interview which she had to go through.

Since the constitutional priests had been sent into the country, and the old Cures silenced, a little temporary chapel had been fitted up in the chateau at Durbelliere, and here the former parish priest officiated every Sunday; the peasants of the parish of St. Aubin were allowed to come to this little chapel; at first a few only had attended, but the number had increased by degrees, and at the time when the revolt commenced, the greater portion of the pastor's old flock crowded into or round the chateau every Sunday; so that the Sabbath morning at Durbelliere was rather a noisy time. This was especially the case on the 6th of June, as the people had so much to talk about, and most of the men wished to see either the old or the young master, and most of the women wanted to speak to one of the ladies; by degrees, however, the chateau was cleared, and Agatha with a trembling heart retreated to her own little sitting-room upstairs to keep her appointment with Adolphe Denot.

She had not been long there, when Adolphe knocked at the door: he had been there scores of times before, and had never knocked; but, although he was going to propose to make Agatha his wife, he felt that he could no longer treat her, with his accustomed familiarity.

He entered the room and found Agatha seated; so far she had taken her friend's advice; she was very pale, but still she looked calm and dignified, and was certainly much less confused than her lover.

"Agatha," said he, having walked up to the fire-place, and leaning with his arm upon the mantle-piece, "Agatha, tomorrow I start for Saumur."

He was dressed very point-de-vice; the frills of his shirt were most accurately starched; his long black hair was most scrupulously brushed; his hands were most delicately white; his boots most brilliantly polished; he appeared more fit to adorn the salon of an ambassador, than to take a place as a warrior beneath the walls of a besieged town. Adolphe was always particular in his dress, but he now exceeded himself; and he appeared to be the more singular in this respect at Durbelliere just at present, as the whole of the party except himself women included, had forgotten or laid aside, as unimportant, the usual cares of the toilet.

"You, at any rate, go in good company, Adolphe," said Agatha, attempting to smile. "May you all be successful, and return as heroes—heroes, indeed, you are already; but may you gather fresh laurels at Saumur. I am sure you will. I, for one, am not in the least despondent."

"Yes, Agatha, I shall go to Saumur, determined at any rate not to lose there any little honour I may yet have won. If I cannot place the white flag of La Vendee on the citadel of Saumur, I will at any rate fall in attempting it."

"I am very sure, that if you fail, it will not be for lack of courage, or of resolution. You and Henri, and M. de Lescure and our good friend Cathelineau, have taught us to expect victory as the sure result of your attempts."

"Ah! Agatha, one word from your lips, such as I long to hear, would make me feel that I could chain victory to my sword, and rush into the midst of battle panoplied against every harm."

"Your duty to your King should be your best assurance of victory; your trust in your Saviour, your panoply against harm; if these did not avail you, as I know they do, the vain word of a woman would be of little service."

"You speak coldly, Agatha, and you look coldly on me. I trust your feelings are not cold also."

"I should have hoped that many years of very intimate acquaintance between us, of friendship commenced in childhood, and now cemented by common sympathies and common dangers, would have made you aware that my feelings are not cold towards you."

"Oh no! not cold in the ordinary sense. You wish me well, I doubt not, and your kind heart would grieve, if you heard that I had fallen beneath the swords of the republicans; but you would do the same for Cathelineau or M. de Bonchamps. If I cannot wake a warmer interest in your heart than that, I should prefer that you should forget me altogether."

Agatha began to fear that at this rate the interview would have no end. If Adolphe remained with his arm on the marble slab, and his head on one side, making sentimental speeches, till she should give him encouragement to fall at her feet, it certainly would not be ended by bed-time. She, therefore, summoned all her courage, and said,

"When you asked me to meet you here, your purpose was not to reproach me with coldness—was it Adolphe? Perhaps it will be better for both of us that this interview should terminate now. We shall part friends, dear friends; and I will rejoice at your triumphs, when you are victorious; and will lament at your reverses, should you be unlucky. I shall do the same for my own dear Henri, and I know that you two will not be separated. There is my hand," she added, thinking that he appeared to hesitate; "and now let us go down to our friends, who are expecting us."

"Are you so soon weary of hearing the few words I wish to say to you?" said Adolphe, who had taken her hand, and who seemed inclined to keep it.

"No, I am not weary. I will hear anything you wish to say." And Agatha having withdrawn her hand, sat down, and again found herself in a position to take advantage of Marie's good advice.

Adolphe remained silent for a minute or two, with his head supported on his hand, and gazing on the lady of his love with a look that was intended to fascinate her. Agatha sat perfectly still; she was evidently mindful of the lesson she had received: at last, Adolphe started up from his position, walked a step or two into the middle of the room, thrust his right hand into his bosom; and said abruptly, "Agatha, this is child's play; we are deceiving each other; we are deceiving ourselves; we would appear to be calm when there is no calm within us."

"Do not say we. I am not deceiving myself; I trust I am not deceiving you."

"And is your heart really so tranquil?" said he. "Does that fair bosom control no emotion? Is that lovely face, so exquisitely pale, a true index of the spirit within? Oh! Agatha! it cannot be; while my own heart is so torn with love; while I feel my own pulses beat so strongly; while my own brain burns so fiercely, I cannot believe that your bosom is a stranger to all emotion! Some passion akin to humanity must make you feel that you are not all divine! Speak, Agatha; if that lovely form has within it ought that partakes of the weakness of a woman, tell me, that at some future time you will accept the love I offer you; tell me, that I may live in hope. Oh, Agatha! bid me not despair," and M. Denot in bodily reality fell prostrate at her feet.

When Agatha had gone up to her room, she had prepared herself for a most disagreeable interview, but she had not expected anything so really dreadful as this. Adolphe had not contented himself with kneeling at her feet on one knee, and keeping his head erect in the method usual in such cases; but he had gone down upon both knees, had thrown his head upon her feet, and was now embracing her shoes and stockings in a very vehement manner; her legs were literally caught in a trap; she couldn't move them; and Adolphe was sobbing so loudly that it was difficult to make him hear anything.

"Adolphe, Adolphe, get up!" she almost screamed, "this is ridiculous in the extreme; if you will not get up, I must really call for some one. I cannot allow you to remain there!"

"Oh, Agatha, Agatha!" sobbed Adolphe.

"Nonsense, Adolphe," said Agatha. "Are you a man, to lie grovelling on the floor like that? Rise up, or you will lose my esteem for ever, if that be of any value to you."

"Give me one gleam of hope, and I will rise," said he, still remaining on his knees, but now looking up into her face; "tell me not to despair, and I will then accomplish any feat of manhood. Give me one look of comfort, and I will again be the warrior ready for the battle; it is you only who can give me back my courage; it is you only who can restore to me the privilege of standing erect before all mankind."

"I can tell you nothing, Adolphe, but this—that, if you continue on your knees, I shall despise you; if you will rise, I will give you at any rate a reasonable answer."

"Despise me, Agatha! no, you cannot despise me; the unutterable burning love of a true heart is not despicable; the character which I bear before mankind is not despicable. Man is not despicable when he kneels before the object which he worships; and, Agatha, with all my heart, I worship you!"

"Now you are profane as well as contemptible, and I shall leave you," and she walked towards the door.

"Stay then," said he, "stay, and I will rise," and, suiting the action to the. word, he got up. "Now speak to me in earnest, Agatha; and, since you will have it so, I also, if possible, will be calm. Speak to me; but, unless you would have the misery of a disturbed spirit on your conscience, bid me not despair!"

"Is that your calmness, Adolphe?"

"Can a man, rushing towards the brink of a precipice, be calm? Can a man be calm on the verge of the grave? I love you, Agatha, with a true and holy love; but still with a love fierce and untameable. You reviled me when I said I worshipped you, but I adore the ground you tread on, and the air you breathe. I would shed my last drop of blood to bring you ease; but I could not live and see you give that fair hand to another. My joy would be to remain ever as your slave; but then the heart that beats beneath your bosom must be my own. Agatha, I await your answer; one word from your lips can transport me to paradise!"

"If I am to understand that you are asking me for love—for a warmer love than that which always accompanies true friendship—I am obliged to say that I cannot give it you." Adolphe remained standing in the middle of the room, with his hand still fixed in his bosom, and with a look intended to represent both thunder and lightning. He had really thought that the little scene which he had gone through, very much to his own satisfaction, would have a strong effect on Agatha, and he was somewhat staggered by the cool and positive tone of her reply. "It grieves me that I should give you pain," she continued, "if my answer does pain you; but I should never forgive myself, were I not to speak the truth to you plainly, and at once."

"And do you mean that for your final, and only answer to me?"

"Certainly, my only answer; for I can give you no other. I know you will be too kind, too sensible, to make it necessary that I should repeat it."

"This is dreadful," said Denot, putting his hand to his brow, "this is very dreadful!" and he commenced pacing up and down the room.

"Come," said she, good naturedly, "let us go down—let us forget this little episode—you have so much of happiness, and of glory before you, that I should grieve to see you mar your career by a hopeless passion. Take the true advice of a devoted friend," and she put her hand kindly on his arm, "let us both forget this morning's scene—let us only remember our childhood's friendship; think, Adolphe, how much you have to do for your King and your country, and do hot damp your glorious exertion by fostering a silly passion. Am not I the same to you as a sister? Wait till these wars are over, and then I will gather flowers for you to present to some mistress who shall truly love you."

"No, Agatha, the flowers you gather for me shall never leave my own bosom. If it be the myrtle, I will wear it with joy to my dying day, next my heart: if it is to be a cyprus branch, it shall soon be laid with me in the tomb."

"You will think less sadly in a short time," said Agatha; "your spirits will recover their proper tone amid the excitement of battle. We had better part now, Adolphe;" and she essayed to leave the room, but he was now leaning against the door, and did not seem inclined to let her depart so easily.

"You will not, I hope, begrudge me a few moments," said he, speaking between his teeth.

"You may reject me with scorn, but you can hardly refuse me the courtesy which any gentleman would have a right to expect from your hands."

"You know that I will refuse you nothing which, either in courtesy or kindness, I can do for you," said she, again sitting down. He, however, seeing her once more seated, did not appear much inclined to conclude what he had to say to her, for he continued walking up and down the room, in a rather disturbed manner; "but you should remember," she added, "how soon Henri is going to leave me, and how much we have all to think and to talk of."

"I see my presence is unwelcome, and it shall not trouble you long. I would soon rid your eyes of my hated form, but I must first say a few words, though my throat be choked with speaking them. My passion for you is no idle boyish love; it has grown with my growth, and matured itself with my manhood. I cannot now say to myself that it shall cease to be. I cannot restore calmness to my heart or rest to my bosom. My love is a fire which cannot now be quenched; it must be nourished, or it will destroy the heart which is unable to restrain it. Think, Agatha, of all the misery you are inflicting; think also of the celestial joy one word of yours is capable of giving."

"I have said before that I grieve to pain you; but I cannot speak a falsehood. Were it to save us both from instant death, I could not say that I love you in the sense you mean."

"Oh, Agatha! I do not ask you to love me—that is not to love me now; if you will only say that your heart is not for ever closed against my prayers, I will leave you contented."

"I can say nothing which would give you any hope of that which can never happen."

"And that is all I am to expect from you in return for as true a love as man ever bore to woman?"

"I cannot make you the return you wish. I can give you no other answer."

"Well, Agatha, so be it. You shall find now that I can be calm, when my unalterable resolve requires it. You shall find that I am a man; at any rate, you shall not again have to tell me that I am despicable," and he curled his upper lip, and showed his teeth in a very ferocious manner. "You shall never repeat that word in regard to Adolphe Denot. Should kind fortune favour my now dearest wish, you will soon hear that my bones are whitening under the walls of Saumur. You will hear that your des-pi-ca-ble lover," and he hissed out the offending word, syllable by syllable, between his closed teeth, "has perished in his attempt to be the first to place the white flag of La Vendee above the tri-colour. If some friendly bullet will send me to my quiet home, Adolphe Denot shall trouble you no longer," and as he spoke the last few words, he softened his voice, and re-assumed his sentimental look; but he did not remain long in his quiet mood, for he again became furious, as he added: "But if fortune should deny me this boon, if I cannot find the death I go to seek, I swear by your own surpassing beauty, by your glorious unequalled form, that I will not live without you. Death shall be welcome to me," and he raised his hands to heaven, and then dashed them against his breast. "Oh! how dearly welcome! Yes, heroic death upon the battlefield shall calm this beating heart—shall quell these agonized pangs. Yes, Agatha, if fortune be but kind, death, cold death, shall soon relieve us both; shall leave you free to bestow upon a colder suitor the prize you have refused to my hot, impatient love; but if," (and here he glanced very wildly round him), "my prayers are not heard, if after Saumur's field, life be still left within my body's sanctuary, I will return to seize you as my own, though hosts in armour try to stop my way. I will not live without you. I will not endure to see another man aspire to the hand which has been refused to me. Adieu, Agatha, adieu! I trust we shall meet no more; in thinking of me, at any rate, your memory shall not call me despicable," and he rushed out of the door and down stairs, without waiting to hear whether Agatha intended making any answer to this poetical expression of his fixed resolution.

In the commencement of his final harangue, Agatha had determined to hear him quietly to the end; but she had not expected anything so very mad as the exhibition he made. However, she sat quietly through the whole of it, and was glad that she was spared the necessity of a reply.

Nothing more was seen of Adolphe Denot that night. Henri asked his sister whether she had seen him, and she told him that he had made a declaration of love to her, and had expressed himself ill-satisfied with the only answer she had been able to give him. She did not tell her brother how like a demoniac his friend had behaved. To Marie she was more explicit; to her she repeated as nearly as possible the whole scene as it had occurred; and although Agatha was almost weeping with sorrow, there was so much that was ludicrous in the affair, that Marie could not keep herself from laughing.

"He will trouble you no more," said she. "You will find that he will not return to Durbelliere to carry you off through the armed hosts. He will go to England or emigrate; and in a few years' time, when you meet him again, you will find him settled down, and as quiet as his neighbours. He is like new-made wine, my dear—he only wants age."

On the following morning, by break of day, the party left Durbelliere, and Adolphe Denot joined his friend on the gravelled ring before the house; and Agatha, who had been with her brother in his room, looking from the widow saw her unmanageable lover mount his horse in a quiet, decent way, like the rest of the party.



CHAPTER IX

LE MOUCHOIR ROUGE.

Nothing interfered to oppose the advance of the royalist troops towards Saumur. At Coron, as had been proposed, Larochejaquelin and Denot joined Father Jerome; and Cathelineau also, and M. d'Elbee joined them there. Every house in the town was open to them, and the provisions, which by the care of M. de Larochejaquelin had been sent there, were almost unneeded. If there was any remnant of republican feeling in Coron, at any rate it did not dare to shew itself. The road which the royalists intended to take ran from Cholet, through Coron, Vihiers, and Doue, to Saumur. The republicans, who were now in great force at Saumur, under Generals Coustard and Quetineau, had sent small parties of soldiers into the town of Vihiers and Doue, the inhabitants of which were mostly republican. Before the arrival of M. de Larochejaquelin, the blues, as the republican troops were called by the Vendeans, had been driven out of Vihiers by a party of royalists under the direction of Stofflet, who had raised himself to distinction soon after the commencement of the revolt. This man was a gamekeeper in the employment of an emigrant nobleman, and though he was a rough, harsh, uneducated, quarrelsome man, nevertheless, by his zeal and courage, he had acquired great influence among the people, and was now at the head of a numerous, and, for La Vendee, well-armed body of men.

Our friends accordingly found the road open for them as far as Doue. After their junction with Stofflet, their army amounted to about 7,500 men; and at Done they were to meet M. Bonchamps and M. de Lescure, who, it was supposed, would bring with them as many more. They marched out of Vihiers early on the Tuesday morning, having remained there only about a couple of hours, and before nightfall they saw the spire of Doue church. They then rested, intending to force their way into the town early on the following morning; but they had barely commenced their preparations for the evening, when a party of royalists came out to them from the town, inviting them in. M. de Lescure and M. Bonchamps were already there. The republican soldiers had been attacked and utterly routed; most of them were now prisoners in the town; those who had escaped had retreated to Saumur, and even they had left their arms behind them.

All this good fortune greatly inspirited the Vendeans. The men talked with the utmost certainty of what they would do when they were masters of Saumur. Cathelineau had brought with him the celebrated cannon of St. Florent, 'Marie Jeanne,' and she now stood in the market place of Done, covered with ribbons and flowers. Many of the men had never hitherto seen this wonderful piece of artillery, and they hastened to look at it. 'Marie Jeanne' that night was patted, kissed, and caressed by thousands. Cathelineau was equally the object of their admiration; every peasant who had not yet seen him, hurried to gaze on him; and after his arrival in Doue, he was two hours employed in a military operation, hitherto undertaken, I believe, by no other general: he was endeavouring to shake hands with every man in the army. Chapeau here was again of great use, for he stood at Cathelineau's elbow, and hurried the men away as soon as they touched his hand. But for this precaution, the work could never have been done; and as it was, some of the men were discontented, and declared their intention of returning home, for Cathelineau was called away before he had completed his task: he was obliged to go the Town Hall to attend a council that was held there of the different Vendean chiefs.

The arms which they had taken in Vihiers and Doue, were of the greatest use to them; in both places they had found a cannon; they had taken nine or ten from Fontenay, and others from Thouars. Most of the men among them now had muskets, and they were able to take to Saumur with them twenty-four pieces of heavy artillery. What could the infamous blues expect to do against a force so numerous, so well armed, and so well officered!

That evening a council of war was held by the different chiefs of the Vendeans in the Town Hall of Doue. Lescure, Larochejaquelin, Cathelineau, d'Elbee, and Stofflet were there. M. Bonchamps, who had been very severely wounded at Fontenay, but who had insisted on being carried along with his own men, was brought in on a litter. Father Jerome was there, and another priest who had come with M. Bonchamps. There were a couple of old royalist noblemen, not sufficiently active to take a part in the actual fighting, but sufficiently zealous in the cause to leave their homes for the purpose of giving the young commanders the benefit of their experience. Foret also, Cathelineau's friend, was present, and Adolphe Denot: indeed many others, from time to time, crowded into the room, for the door was not well kept, nor were the councils of the generals in any way a secret. Jacques Chapeau, as a matter of course, managed to make his way into the room, and took upon himself the duties of doorkeeper.

The Mayor's arm-chair stood at the head of the table, as the leaders dropped into the room one after another, but no one appeared willing to occupy it. Hitherto there had been no chief among the Vendeans; this was the first meeting which had been held with anything approaching to the solemnity of a general assembly, and it occurred to each of them that whoever should then seat himself in the Mayor's chair, would be assuming that he was the chief leader of the revolt.

"Come, M. de Lescure," said Stofflet, "we have much to do, and but little time; let us make the most of it: do you take the President's seat. Gentlemen, I am sure we could have no better President than M. de Lescure?"

They all agreed, with the exception of the chosen leader. "By no means," said he. "I was the last here who joined the cause, and I certainly will not place myself first among those who have led the way in the work we have taken up. No; here is the man who shall be our President." And as he spoke he caught hold of Cathelineau, who was immediately behind him, and absolutely forced him into the chair.

"Indeed, indeed, M. de Lescure—" said Cathelineau, endeavouring to extricate himself from the seat; but both his voice and his exertions were stopped, for three or four of them united to hold him where he was, and declared that he should be the President for the evening.

"Indeed, and indeed you will not stir," said Henri, who stood behind his chair, and placed his hands heavily on the postillion's shoulders.

"It was you that brought us here," said de Lescure, "and you must not now avoid the responsibility."

"Ah! M. de Lescure," said he, "there are so many more fitting than me."

"Not one in all La Vendee," said M. Bonchamps: "sit where you are, Cathelineau."

"You must do it, Cathelineau;" whispered his friend Foret; "the peasants would not endure to see any man put above you."

"Cathelineau will not shrink from the burden which the Lord has called upon him to bear," said Father Jerome.

"Providence," said d'Elbee, "has summoned the good Cathelineau to this high duty; he will not, I am sure, oppose its decrees."

And thus Cathelineau found himself seated in the Mayor's chair at the head of the table, whilst the highest noblemen and gentry of the country took their places around it, and from that moment Cathelineau became the General-in-Chief of the Vendeans.

Each leader then gave in the numbers of the men who had come with him, and it was found that the army consisted of above fifteen thousand men. Lists were then made out of the arms and accoutrements which they possessed, and the men in a rude way were drafted into regiments under the command of the leaders who had brought them. There was a small body of cavalry equipped in most various manners, and mounted on horses, which resembled anything rather than a regular squadron of troopers: these were under the immediate command of Henri Larochejaquelin.

"Gentlemen," said Cathelineau, "we have, you know, three different attacks to make, three positions to carry, before we can be masters of Saumur."

"Yes," said Bonchamps, "there in the camp at Varin on the right, and the redoubts of Bournan on the left; the fortifications of the town itself lie between them, and a little to the rear of both."

"Exactly, M. Bonchamps; the town itself, I take, is the easiest task of the three; but as we are situated it must be the last."

"I think you will find that Varin is their strongest point," said de Lescure.

"M. de Lescure is right," said Cathelineau. "We shall find them very strong in their camp. I had with me, yesterday, two men from Saumur; they knew nothing of General Quetineau's intentions, but they had seen detachments of men constantly going to and fro between Saumur and the camp; they calculate that we shall think that the weaker side."

"Bournan is right on our way," said Bonchamps; "but the ground lies so advantageously for them, that they will cut us to pieces if we attempt to push our way up the hill against the heavy artillery they will have there."

"M. Bonchamps is quite right there," said Cathelineau. "I think we should not attack Bournan, till we can do so from the side of the town. I think Bournan should not be our first object; but nevertheless, we must be prepared to meet at Varin the great body of the army; we must drive them from thence back into the town."

"Yes," said Henri, "and follow them in, as we are driving them. The sight of their comrades in disorder will itself conquer the men in the citadel; it is always so with the blues."

"We must remember, Henri," said de Lescure, "these are not conscripts, nor yet merely the Marsellaise, we have to deal with: the men who fought at Jemappes and at Valmy are here; the old cuirassiers of the French army."

"They are cowards, Charles," said Henri, "or they would not have deserted their King."

"They are good soldiers, nevertheless," said Bonchamps. "I have fought among them, and know it."

"They are the better worth our fighting then," said Henri.

"Providence can give us the victory over tried veterans as well as over untried conscripts; it were a sin to doubt it," said M. d'Elbee.

"That would be a good subject for a sermon to the soldiers, but a bad argument in a council chamber," said Bonchamps. "We shall find the cuirassiers tough fellows to deal with."

"We must take our enemies as we find them," said Cathelineau; "but if you will allow me, gentlemen, and as you have placed me here, I will tell you what I would propose?'

"Do, Cathelineau, do!" said Henri; "let us have one plan, and then make the best we can of it; we can at any rate do our duty like men."

"I think we should leave this early tomorrow morning, and move across the country as though we were going to Montreuil; we shall so come on the Montreuil road about a league from Saumur, and not very far, that is about half a league, from the camp at Varin."

"And then, Cathelineau, will you attack the camp tomorrow evening?" said de Lescure.

"I think not, M. de Lescure; but I would make a feint to do so, and I would thus keep the republicans on the alert all night; a small body of our men may, I think, in that way fatigue the masses of the republicans in the camp—we might harass them the whole night, which will be dark from eleven till near three; and then with the earliest sunrise our real attack should be made."

"Bravo, Cathelineau!" said Henri; "and then fall on them when they are in want of sleep."

"Yes," said de Lescure, "and they will have learnt to think that our attacks in that quarter are only feints."

"Such may be our good luck, M. de Lescure; at any rate, if you think of nothing better, we may try it."

It was thus decided, and arranged that Larochejquelin should, on the following evening, leave the main body of the army with all the mounted men belonging to it, and advance near enough to the camp at Varin to allow of his being seen and heard by the republicans, and that he should almost immediately retreat: that a body of infantry should then move on, and take up a position near to the camp, which should also return after a while, and that as soon as darkness had come on, a third advance should be made by a larger body of men, who should, if possible, approach within musket shot o the trenches, and endeavour to throw the republicans into disorder. At four o'clock in the morning, the real attack was to be made by the combined Vendean forces, of which Cathelineau was to lead the centre, de Lescure the left, consisting of the men brought by himself and Larochejaquelin from the centre of the Bocage; and d'Elbee the right, which was formed of men chiefly brought by M. Bonchamps from the province of Anjou. M. Bonchamps was himself too ill from the effects of his wounds to accompany the army beyond Doue.

Early on the following morning the whole army, with the exception of the men left with Foret, defiled out of Doue, and crossed over to the Montreuil road, dragging with them their cannons, baggage-waggons, and ammunition; their movements were not made with very great order, nor with much celerity; but, about six o'clock in the evening, on the 10th of June, Cathelineau took up his position about a league from Saumur. They got possession of one or two farm-houses, and were not long in making their arrangements for the night; the men were accustomed to sleep out in the open air since the war commenced, and were well content to remain in clusters round the cannons and the waggons.

At eight o'clock, Larochejaquelin had his little troop of cavalry ready mounted, and started with them for the camp of Varin. As he and his companions dashed along through the waggons and by the cannons the peasants who were preparing to lay down for the night, and who knew nothing of the plans of their Generals, rose up one after another wondering.

"There goes 'le Mouchoir Rouge,'" said one, alluding to Henri's costume; for when in action he always wore a red handkerchief round his waist, and another round his neck.

"Yes; that is 'le Mouchoir Rouge,'" said another, "he is off for Saumur; the horsemen are already starting for Saumur."

"Come, then; they shall not go alone," said another. "We will start for Saumur. We will not lie here while others are in the battle."

These were men from the neighbourhood of Durbelliere, who were now placed under the orders of M. de Lescure; but who conceived that, as their lord and master was gone before them, it must be their duty to follow. The word was passed from one to another, and the whole body of them was soon in motion. It must be remembered that they were, in no respect, similar to disciplined troops; they had received no military instruction, and did not therefore, know, that they were doing wrong in following their own master; they were in receipt of no pay; amenable to no authority, and consequently afraid of no penalties; their only idea was to do the best they could for the cause, to fight with courage and perseverance, and to trust to God for the result: it was not, therefore, wondering that, in the present instance, they so completely mistook their duty.

Cathelineau's men, who were intended to form the centre of the attack on the next morning, were placed just to the right of the road, but their baggage and cannons had not been moved from it; in fact, they were nearly mixed with M. de Lescure's men; whereas M. d'Elbee's portion of the army was removed a good deal further to the right, and was placed immediately on the banks of the river Thoue. The camp at Varin, which was to be attacked, was situated between the river and the road to Saumur. In Cathelineau's division there were some few who understood the plan which had been decided on, and some others who knew that they should not move without orders, and they did what they could to prevent their companions from joining the rush made by M. de Lescure's party; but their efforts were nearly in vain. Every man learnt in the confusion that the attack was to be made on Saumur that night, and no man wished to be left behind.

"Come friends, let us follow 'le Mouchoir Rouge;' he never meant, I am sure, to leave us here," said the spokesman of one party.

"The Saint of Angers is on before us," said the others; "he would let no man see the enemy before himself. The good Cathelineau is gone to Saumur, let us follow him!"

In this way they soon learnt to believe that both Cathelineau and Larochejaquelin were on before them, and they were not long in hurrying after them. Within twenty minutes, about six thousand men started off without a leader or any defined object, to besiege the walls of Saumur; they did not even know that a vast entrenched encampment of the enemy's troops lay directly in their way. The men had, most of them, muskets with three or four rounds of powder and ball each; many of them also had bayonets. They were better armed than they had hitherto ever been, and they consequently conceived themselves invincible. Cathelineau's men, however, would not stir without 'Marie Jeanne,' and that devoted, hard-worked cannon was seized by scores, and hurried off with them towards Saumur.

De Lescure and Cathelineau were together in a farm-house, within five hundred yards of the place where the baggage had been left, and within half a mile of the most distant of the men who had thus taken upon themselves to march, or rather to rush, away without orders; and some of those who still had their senses about them, soon let their Generals know what was going forward.

They were seated together, planning the attack for the next morning. Denot was with Larochejaquelin, and d'Elbee and Stofflet were together with the detachment on the banks of the river: they were, therefore, alone when Father Jerome rushed into the room.

"The men are off, M. de Lescure," said he: "do you not hear them? For Heaven's sake go down to them, Cathelineau; some one has told them that you and Larochejaquelin were gone to Saumur; and they are all preparing to follow you."

"Heaven and earth I" said de Lescure, "they will be destroyed."

"Unless you stop them they will," said Father Jerome, "they will all fall upon the camp just as the republicans are under arms, and prepared to receive them. Hurry, Cathelineau; you alone can stop them."

Cathelineau without uttering a word, seized his sword, and rushed out of the room without his cap; and followed by M. de Lescure, hurried through the farm-yard, leapt a little gate, and got upon the road a few yards from the place where the waggons had been left. The whole place was in the utmost confusion: the men were hurrying to and fro, hardly knowing what they were doing or going to do: the most ardent of them were already a quarter of a mile advanced on the road to Saumur; others were still following them; those who knew that they should have stayed quiet during the night, were in the utmost distress; they did not know whether to support their comrades, or to remain where they were.