CHAPTER IX.
LA PETITE VENDEE.
For four or five days they all remained quiet in Laval, with nothing todisturb their tranquillity, but rumours of what was going on on bothsides of the river. The men, with the exception of the old Marquis andde Lescure, were hard at work from morning until night; but they hadhardly time or patience to describe accurately what was going on, tothose who were left within; and the time passed very heavily with them.Two sofas had been carried to the windows of the sitting-room which theyoccupied. These windows looked out into the main thoroughfare of thetown, and here the Marquis and the wounded man were placed, so that theymight see all that was passing in the street. Various reports reachedthem from time to time, a few of which were confirmed, many proved tobe false, and some still remained doubtful; but two facts werepositively ascertained. Firstly, that the main army of the republicanshad passed the river at Angers, and were advancing towards Laval; andsecondly, that there was a considerable number of Breton peasants,already under arms, in the country, who were harassing the blueswhenever they could meet them in small parties, and very frequentlymenacing the garrisons which they found in the small towns.
This last circumstance created a great deal of surprise, not so muchfrom the fact of the Bretons having taken up arms against theConvention, as from a certain degree of mystery which were attached tothe men who were roving about the country. It appeared that they wereall under the control of one leader, whose name was not known in Laval,but who was supposed to have taken an active part in many of the battlesfought on the other side of the river. His tactics, however, were verydifferent from those which had been practised in La Vendee. He nevertook any prisoners, or showed any quarter; but slaughteredindiscriminately every republican soldier that fell into his hands. Heencouraged his men to pillage the towns, where the inhabitants werepresumed to be favourable to the Convention; and this licence which heallowed was the means of drawing many after him, who might not have beenvery willing to fight merely for the honour of defending the throne.After the custom of their country, which was different from that whichprevailed in Poitou and Anjou, these peasant-soldiers wore their longflaxen hair hanging down over their shoulders, and were clothed in roughdresses, made of the untanned skins of goats or sheep, with the hair onthe outside. The singularity of their appearance at first added a terrorto their arms, which was enhanced by the want of experience andcowardice of the republican troops through the country. This wild,roving band of lawless men had assumed to themselves the name of LaPetite Vendee, and certainly they did much towards assisting theVendeans; for they not only cleared the way for them, in many of thetowns of Brittany, but they prepared the people to expect them, andcreated a very general opinion that there would be more danger in sidingwith the blues than with the royal party.
If the men of La Petite Vendee, had rendered themselves terrible, theirCaptain had made--not his name, for that was unknown--but his charactermuch more so. He was represented to be a young man, but of a fierce andhideous aspect; the under part of his face was covered with his blackbeard, and he always wore on his head a huge heavy cap, which coveredhis brows, shaded his eyes from sight, and concealed his face nearly aseffectually as a vizor. He was always on horseback, and alone; for hehad neither confidant nor friend. The peasant-soldiers believed him tobe invulnerable, for they represented him to be utterly careless as towhere he went, or what danger he encountered. The only name they knewhim by, was that of the Mad Captain; and, probably, had he been lessugly, less mysterious, and less mad, the people would not have obeyedhim so implicitly, or followed him so faithfully.
Such were the tales that were repeated from time to time to Madame deLescure and her party by the little Chevalier and Chapeau; and accordingto their accounts, the Mad Captain was an ally who would give them mostvaluable help in their difficulties. The whole story angered de Lescure,whose temper was acerbated by his own inactivity and suffering, andwhose common sense could not endure the seeming folly of puttingconfidence in so mysterious a warrior.
"You don't really believe the stories you hear of this man, I hope," hesaid to his wife and sister, one morning; "he is some inhuman ruffian,who is disgracing, by his cruelty, the cause which he has joined, forthe sake of plunder and rapine."
"At any rate," said Marie, "he seems to have scared the blues in thiscountry; and if so, he must be a good friend to us."
"If we cannot do well without such friends, we shall never do well withthem. Believe me, whoever he may be, this man is no soldier."
De Lescure was, perhaps, right in the character which he attributed tothe Captain of La Petite Vendee; but the band of men which thatmysterious leader now commanded, held its ground in Brittany long afterthe Vendean armies were put down in Poitou and Anjou. They then becameknown by another name, and the Chouan bands for years carried on afearful war against the government in that part of the province whichis called the Morbihan.
About eight o'clock in the evening, Henri and Arthur Mondyon returnedto the house, after a long day's work, and were the first to bring newtidings both of the blues and their new ally, the Mad Captain. A portionof the republican army had advanced as far as Antrames, within a leagueor two of Laval; and they had hardly taken up their quarters in thetown, before they were attacked, routed, and driven out of it by the menof La Petite Vendee. Many hundreds of the republicans had beenslaughtered, and those who had escaped, carried to the main army anexaggerated account of the numbers, daring, and cruelty of the Bretonrebels.
"Whoever he is," said Henri, in answer to a question from his sister,"he is a gallant fellow, and I shall be glad to give him my hand. Therecan be no doubt of it now, Charles, for the blues at Antrames certainlynumbered more than double the men he had with him; and I am told hedrove them helter-skelter out of the town, like a flock of sheep."
"And do you mean to let him have the rest of the war all to himself?"said de Lescure, who was rather annoyed than otherwise at the successof a man whom he had stigmatized as a ruffian.
"I am afraid we shan't find it quite so easy to get the war taken offour hands," said Henri, laughing; "but I believe it's the part of a goodGeneral to make the most of any unexpected assistance which may come inhis way."
"But, Henri," said Marie, "you must have some idea who this wonderfulwild man is. Don't they say he was one of the Vendean chiefs?"
"He says so himself," said Arthur. "He told some of the people here thathe was at Fontenay and Saumur; and he talked of knowing Cathelineau andBonchamps. I was speaking to a man who heard him say so."
"And did the man say what he was like?" said Marie.
"I don't think he saw him at all," answered Arthur. "It seems that hewon't let any one see his face, if he can help it; but they all say heis quite a young man."
Chapeau now knocked at the door, and brought farther tidings. The MadCaptain and all his troop had returned from Antrames to Laval, and hadjust now entered the town.
"Our men are shaking the Bretons by the hand," said Chapeau, "andwondering at their long hair and rough skins. Three or four days ago,I feared the Vendeans would never have faced the blues again; but nowthey are as ready to meet them as ever they were."
"And the Captain, is he actually in Laval at present, Chapeau?"
"Indeed he is, M. Henri. I saw him riding down the street, by the Hotelde Ville, myself, not ten minutes since."
"Did you see his face, Chapeau?" asked Marie.
"Did he look like any one you knew?" asked Madame de Lescure.
"Did he ride well?" asked the little Chevalier.
"Did he look like a soldier?" asked M. de Lescure.
"Who do you think he is, Chapeau?" asked Henri Larochejaquelin.
Chapeau looked from one to another, as these questions were asked him;and then selecting those of M. de Lescure and his sister, as the twoeasiest to answer, he said:
"I did not see his face, Mademoiselle. They say that he certainly is agood soldier, M. Charles, but he certainly does not look like any oneof our
Vendean officers."
"Who can it be?" said Henri. "Can it be Marigny, Charles?"
"Impossible," said de Lescure; "Marigny is a fine, robust fellow, witha handsome open face. They say this man is just the reverse."
"It isn't d'Elbee come to life again, is it?" said Arthur Mondyon. "He'sugly enough, and not very big."
"Nonsense, Arthur, he's an old man; and of all men the most unlikely tocountenance such doings as those of these La Petite Vendee. I think,however, I know the man. It must be Charette. He is courageous, but yetcruel; and he has exactly that dash of mad romance in him which seemsto belong to this new hero."
"Charette is in the island of Noirmoutier," said de Lescure, "and by allaccounts, means to stay there. Had he been really willing to give us hisassistance, we never need have crossed the Loire."
"Oh! it certainly was not Charette," said Chapeau. "I saw M. Charetteon horseback once, and he carries himself as though he had swallowed apoker; and this gentleman twists himself about like--like--"
"Like a mountebank, I suppose," said de Lescure.
"He rides well, all the same, M. Charles," rejoined Chapeau.
"And who do you think he is, Chapeau?" said Henri.
Chapeau shrugged his shoulders, as no one but a Frenchman can shrugthem, intending to signify the impossibility of giving an opinion;immediately afterwards he walked close up to his master, and whisperedsomething in his ear. Henri looked astonished, almost confounded, bywhat his servant said to him, and then replied, almost in a whisper:"Impossible, Chapeau, quite impossible."
Immediately afterwards, Chapeau left the room, and Henri followed him;and calling him into a chamber in the lower part of the house, began tointerrogate him as to what he had whispered upstairs.
"I did not like to speak out before them all, M. Henri," said Jacques,"for I did not know how the ladies might take it; but as sure as we'restanding here, the man I saw on horseback just now was M. AdolpheDenot."
"Impossible, Chapeau, quite impossible. How on earth could he have gotthe means to raise a troop of men in Brittany? Besides, he never wouldhave returned to the side he deserted."
"It does not signify, M. Henri, whether it be likely or unlikely: thatman was Adolphe Denot; I'd wager my life on it, without the leasthesitation. Why, M. Henri, don't I know him as well as I know yourself?"
"But you didn't see his face?"
"I saw him rise in his saddle, and throw his arms up as he did so, andthat was quite enough for me; the Mad Captain of La Petite Vendee is noother than M. Adolphe Denot."
Henri Larochejaquelin was hardly convinced, and yet he knew that Chapeauwould not express himself so confidently unless he had good grounds fordoing so. He was aware, also, that it was almost impossible for any onewho had intimately known Denot to mistake his seat on horseback; and,therefore, though not quite convinced, he was much inclined to suspectthat, in spite of improbabilities, his unfortunate friend was themysterious leader of the Breton army. He determined that he would, atany rate, seek out the man, whoever he might be; and that if he foundthat Adolphe Denot was really in Laval, he would welcome him back, withall a brother's love, to the cause from which, for so Henri had alwaysprotested, nothing but insanity had separated him.
"At any rate, Chapeau, we must go and find the truth of all this.Moreover, whoever this man be, it is necessary that I should know him:so come along."
They both sallied out into the street, which was quite dark, but whichwas still crowded with strangers of every description. The wine-shopswere all open, and densely filled with men who were rejoicing over thevictory which had been gained that morning; and the Breton soldiers wereboasting of what they had done, while the Vendeans talked equally loudlyof what they would do when their Generals would once more lead them outagainst the blues.
From these little shops, and from the house-windows, an uncertainflicker of light was thrown into the street, by the aid of which Henriand Chapeau made their way to the market-place, in which there was aguard-house and small barrack, at present the position of the Vendeanmilitary head-quarters. In this spot a kind of martial discipline wasmaintained. Sentinels were regularly posted and exchanged; and some fewjunior officers remained on duty, ready for any exigence for which theymight be required. Here they learnt that the Bretons, after returningfrom Antrames, had dispersed themselves through the town, among thehouses of the citizens, who were willing to welcome their victoriousneighbours, but that nothing had been seen of their Captain since hedisbanded his men on the little square. They learnt, however, that hehad been observed to give his horse in charge to a man who acted as hisLieutenant, and who was known to be a journeyman baker, usually employedin Laval.
After many inquiries, Henri learnt the name and residence of the masterbaker for whom this man worked, and thither he sent Chapeau, while hehimself remained in the guard-house, talking to two of the Bretonsoldiers, who had been induced to come in to him.
"We none of us know his name, Monsieur," said one of them, "and it isbecause he has no name, we call him the Mad Captain; and it is trueenough, he has many mad ways with him."
"For all his madness though, he is a desperate fine soldier; and hecares no more for a troop of blues than I would for a flock of geese,"said the other.
"I think its love must make him go on as he does," continued the first.
"There's something more besides that," said the second, "for he's alwaysfearful that people should take him for a coward. He's always asking uswhether we ever saw him turn his back to the enemy; and bidding us besure, whenever he falls in battle, to tell the Vendeans how well hefought. That's what makes us all so sure that he came from the otherside of the water."
"Then, when he's in the middle of the hottest of the fight," said thefirst, "he halloos out 'Now for Saumur--here's for Saumur--now for thebridge of Saumur!' To be sure he talks a deal about Saumur, and I thinkmyself he must have been wounded there badly, somewhere near the brain."
Though Henri did not quite understand why Denot should especially alludeto Saumur in his mad moments, yet he understood enough of what the mentold him about their Captain, to be sure that Adolphe was the man; andthough he could not but be shocked to hear him spoken of as a madman,yet he rejoiced in his heart to find that he had done something toredeem his character as a loyal soldier. He learnt that Denot had beenabove two months in Brittany; that he had first appeared in theneighbourhood of Laval with about two hundred men, who had followed himthither out of that province, and that he had there been joined by asmany more belonging to Maine, and that since that time he had beenbackwards and forwards from one town to another, chiefly in theMorbihan; and that he had succeeded in almost every case in driving therepublican garrison from the towns which he attacked.
After Henri had remained a couple of hours in the guard-house, and whenit was near midnight, Chapeau returned. He had found out the lodgingsof the journeyman baker, had gone thither, and had learnt, after manyinquiries, which were very nearly proving ineffectual, that the MadCaptain, whoever he was, occupied a little bed-room at the top of thesame house, and that he was, at the very moment at which these inquirieswere being made, fast asleep in his bed, having given his Lieutenant,the journeyman baker, strict orders to call him at three o'clock in themorning.
Henri and Chapeau again started on their search; and making their way,for the second time, through the dark, crowded streets, reached a smallmiserable looking house, in a narrow lane, at one of the lower windowsof which Chapeau knocked with his knuckles.
'I told M. Plume that I should call again tonight,' said he, "and he'llknow its me."
"And is M. Plume the baker?" asked Henri.
"He was a baker till two months since," answered Chapeau, "but now he'sa soldier and an officer; and I can assure you, M. Henri, he doesn'tthink a little of himself. He's fully able to take the command-in-chiefof the Breton army, when any accident of war shall have cut off hispresent Captain; at least, so he told me."
"You must have had a deal of conversation with hi
m in a very short time,Chapeau."
"Oh, he talks very quick, M. Henri; but he wouldn't let himself down tospeak a word to me till I told him I was aide-de-camp-in-chief to thegeneralissimo of the Vendean army; and then he took off the greasylittle cap he wears, told me that his name was Auguste Emile SeptimusPlume, and said he was most desirous to drink a cup of wine with me inthe next estaminet. Then I ran off to you, telling him I would returnagain as soon as I had seen that all was right at the guard-house."
"Knock again, Chapeau," said Henri, "for I think your military friendmust have turned in for the night."
Chapeau did knock, and as he did so, he put his mouth close to the door,and called out "M. Plume--Captain Plume--Captain Auguste Plume, amessage--an important message from the Commander-in-Chief of the Vendeanarmy. You'll get nothing from him, M. Henri, unless you talk aboutGenerals, aide-de-camps, and despatches; advanced guards, flankmovements, and light battalions."
M. Plume, or Captain Plume, as he preferred being called, now opened thedoor, and poking his head out, welcomed Chapeau, and assured him thatif he would step round to the wine shop he would be with him in amoment.
"But, my dear friend Captain Plume, stop a moment," said Chapeau, fixinghis foot in the open doorway, so as to prevent it being closed, "hereis a gentleman--one of our officers--in fact, my friend," and hewhispered very confidentially as he gave the important information,"here is the Commander-in-Chief, and he must see your General tonight;to arrange--to arrange the tactics of the united army for tomorrow."
Auguste Emile Septimus Plume, in spite of his own high standing, in whathe was pleased to call the army of Brittany, felt himself ratherconfused at hearing that a General-in-Chief was standing at the door ofhis humble dwelling; and, as he again took off his cap, and putting hishand to his heart made a very low bow, he hesitated much as to whatanswer he should make; for he reflected within himself that the presentquarters of his General, were hardly fitting for such an interview.
"The General upstairs," said he, "is snatching a short repose after thelabours of the day. Would not tomorrow morning--early tomorrowmorning--"
"No," said Henri, advancing, and thrusting himself in at the open door,"tomorrow morning will be too late; and I am sure your General is toogood a soldier to care for having his rest broken; tell me which is hisroom, and I'll step up to him. You needn't mind introducing me." And ashe spoke he managed to pass by the baker, and ran up a few steps of thecreaking, tottering stairs.
The poor baker was very much annoyed at this proceeding; for, in thefirst place, he had strict orders from his Commander to let no one upinto his room; and, in the next place, his own wife and three childrenwere in the opposite garret to that occupied by the Captain, and he wasvery unwilling that their poverty should be exposed. He could not,however, turn a Commander-in-Chief out of the house, nor could hepositively refuse to give him the information required; so he hallooedout, "The top chamber to the right, General; the top chamber to theright. It's a poor place," he added, speaking to Chapeau; "but the truthis, he don't choose to have more comforts about him than what areenjoyed by the poorest soldier in his army."
"We won't think any the worse of him for that," said Chapeau. "We'rebadly enough off ourselves, sometimes--besides, your Captain is a veryold friend of M. Henri."
"An old friend of whose?" said Plume.
"Of M. Henri Larochejaquelin--that gentleman who has now gone upstairs:they have known each other all their lives."
Auguste Plume became the picture of astonishment. "Known each other alltheir lives!" said he; "and what's his name, then?"
"Why, I told you: M. Henri Larochejaquelin."
"No, but the other," and he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder upthe stairs. "My Captain, you know; if he's the friend of your Captain,I suppose you know what his name is?"
"And do you mean to say, you don't know yourself, your own Captain'sname."
Plume felt the impropriety, in a military point of view, of the fact.He felt that, as second in command, he ought to have been madeacquainted with his General's name, and that it would have beendifficult to find, in the history of all past wars, a parallel to hisown ignorance. He also reflected, that if Chapeau knew that the twoGenerals had been friends all their lives, he must probably know boththeir names, and that therefore the information so very necessary mightnow be obtained.
"Well then, M. Chapeau," (he had learnt Chapeau's name), "I cannot saythat I do exactly know how he was generally called before he joined usin Brittany. You know so many people have different names for differentplaces. What used you to call him now when you knew him?"
"But you have some name for him, haven't you?" said the other, notanswering the question.
"We call him General, or Captain, mostly," said Plume. "Those are thesort of names which come readiest to a soldier's mouth. In the same way,they don't call me Plume, or M. Plume, or Captain Plume, but just simplyLieutenant; and, do you know, I like it better."
The Lieutenant was a tall, lanky, bony man, from whose body the heat ofthe oven, at which he had always worked, seemed to have drawn everyounce of flesh. He was about forty, or forty-five, years of age. He wasnearly bald, but a few light, long, straggling locks of hair stood outon each side of his head. He still wore most of the dress in which hehad been accustomed to work, for proper military accoutrements had notyet come within his reach. He had, however, over his shoulder an oldbawdrick, from which usually hung a huge sabre, with which he gallantlyperformed the duties of his present profession. It cannot be said theLieutenant had none of the qualities of a soldier, for he was courageousenough; but, beyond that, his aptitude for military duties was notpre-eminent. He always marched, or rather shuffled along, with a stoopin his back, which made his shoulders as high as his head. He had notthe slightest idea of moving in time; but this was of littleconsequence, for none of his men could have moved with him if he had.When on active duty, he rushed about with the point of his drawn swordon a level with his breast, as though he were searching for "blues" inevery corner, with a fixed determination of instantly immolating anythat he might find. He had large saucer eyes, with which he glared abouthim, and which gave him a peculiar look of insane enthusiasm, veryfitted for the Lieutenant, first in command, under a mad Captain. Suchwas Auguste Plume, and such like were the men who so long held their ownground, not only against the military weakness of the Directory, buteven against the military strength of Napoleon.
We will leave Chapeau and his new friend still standing in the passage,for Plume could not invite him in, as none of the rooms were his ownexcept the little garret upstairs; and we will follow Henri as he wentin search of the Mad Captain, merely premising that all Plume's effortsto find out the name of his superior officer were unavailing. Withoutany farther invitation, Henri hurried up the stairs, snatching as hewent a glimmering rush-light out of the ci-devant baker's hands; andwhen he got to the top he knocked boldly at the right-hand door. No oneanswered him, however, and he repeated his knocks over and over again,and even kicked and hallooed at the door, but still without effect. Hethen tried to open it, but it was fastened on the inside: and then hekicked and hallooed again. He distinctly heard the hard breathing withinof some one, as though in a heavy sleep; and be the sleeper who hemight, he was determined not to leave the stairs without waking him;and, therefore, diligently sat to work to kick again.
"Is that you, Auguste?" said a hoarse, sickly woman's voice, proceedingfrom the door of the opposite chamber. "Why don't you bring me thecandle?"
"No, Madame," said Henri, "the gentleman is now downstairs. He lent meyour candle for a minute or two, while I call upon my friend here. Ihope you'll excuse the noise I make, but I find it very difficult towake him."
"And why should you want to wake him?" said the woman. "It's threenights now since he stretched himself on a bed, and he'll be up againlong before daylight. Give me the candle, and go away, and tell thatunfortunate poor man below to come to his bed."
There was a tone of utter mise
ry in the poor woman's voice, whichtouched Henri to the heart. She had uttered no complaint of her ownsufferings; but the few words she had spoken made him feel all thewretchedness and the desolation of homes, which he and his friends hadbrought upon the people by the war; and he almost began to doubt whethereven the cause of the King should have been supported at so terrible acost. He could not, however, now go back, nor was he willing to abandonhis present object, so he again shook and kicked the door.
"That'll never rouse him, though you should go on all night," said alittle urchin about twelve years old, the eldest hope of M. and MadamePlume, who rushed out on the landing in his ragged shirt. "If Monsieurwill give me a sou, I'll wake him." Henri engaged him at the price, andthe boy, putting his mouth down to the key-hole, said, or ratherwhispered loudly, "Captain--Captain--Captain--the blues--the blues."
This shibboleth had the desired effect, for the man within was instantlyheard to start from his bed, and to step out upon the floor.
"Yes, yes; I'm ready, I'm up," said he, in the confused voice of a mansuddenly awoke from a sound sleep. "Where's Plume? send Plume to me atonce."
Henri immediately recognized the voice of Adolphe Denot, and all doubtwas at an end. Denot came to the door, and undid the wooden bolt within,to admit, as he thought, the poor zealous creature who had attachedhimself to him in his new career; and when the door opened, the friendof his youth--the man whom he had so deeply injured--stood before him.Henri, in his anxiety to find out the truth of Chapeau's surmise, hadenergetically and, as it turned out, successfully pursued the object ofhis search; but he had not for a moment turned over in his mind, whathe would say to Denot if he found him; how he would contrive to tell himthat he forgave him all his faults; how he would explain to him that hewas willing again to receive him into his arms as a friend and abrother. The moment was now come, when he must find words to say allthis; and as the awkward bolt was being drawn, Henri felt that he washardly equal to the difficulties of his position.
If Henri found it difficult to speak, with Denot the difficulty was muchgreater. The injuries which he had inflicted on his friend, the insultswhich he had heaped on his sister, rushed to his mind. He thought of hisown deep treachery, his black ingratitude; and his disorderedimagination could only conceive that Henri had chosen the present momentto secure a bloody vengeance. He forgot that he had already beenforgiven for what he had done: that his life had been in the hands ofthose he had injured, and had then been spared by them, when theirresentment was fresh and hot, and when he had done nothing to redeem histreason. He had, he thought, reconciled himself to the cause of LaVendee; but still he felt that he could not dare to look onLarochejaquelin as other than an enemy.
Denot started back as he recognized his visitor, and Henri's firstobject was to close and re-bolt the door, so that their interview mightnot be interrupted. "Adolphe," he said, in a voice intended to expressall the tenderness which he felt, "I am delighted to have found you."
Denot had rushed to a miserable deal table which stood near his bed, andseized his sword, which stood upon it; and now stood armed and ready forassault, opposite to the man who loved him so dearly. His figure andappearance had always been singular, but now it was more so than ever.He had been sleeping in his clothes, and he had that peculiar look ofdiscomfort which always accompanies such rest. His black, elfish,uncombed locks, had not been cut since he left Durbelliere, and hisbeard for many days had not been shorn. He was wretchedly thin andgaunt; indeed, his hollow, yellow cheeks, and cadaverous jaws, almosttold a tale of utter starvation. Across his face he had an uglycicatrice, not the relic of any honourable wound, but given him by theChevalier's stick, when he struck him in the parlour at Durbelliere.Nothing could be more wretched than his appearance; but the mostlamentable thing of all, was the wild wandering of his eyes, which tooplainly told that the mind was not master of itself.
Henri was awe-stricken, and cut to the heart. What was he to say to thepoor wretch, who stood there upon his guard, glaring at him with thosewild eyes from behind his sword! Besides, how was he to defend himselfif he were attacked?
"Adolphe," he said, "why do you raise your sword against your friend?Don't you see that I have come as your friend: don't you see that I haveno sword?"
The other hesitated for a moment, with the weapon still raised as thoughfor defence; and then flinging it behind him on the floor, exclaimed:"There, there--you may kill me, if you will," and having said so, hethrew himself on the bed, and sobbed aloud, and wailed like an infant.
Henri knelt down on the floor, by the side of the low wooden stretcher,and putting his arm over Adolphe's shoulder, thought for a while whathe could say to comfort the crushed spirit of the poor wretch, whoseinsanity had not the usual effect of protecting him from misery. Itoccurred to him that his late achievements, as leader of the Bretonpeasants, in which, at any rate, he had been successful, would be thesubject at present most agreeable to him, and he determined, therefore,to question him as to what he had done.
"Come, Adolphe," he said, "get up; we have much to say to each other,my friend. I have heard much of what you have done here, in Laval andin Brittany. You have been of great service to us; but we must acttogether for the future. Of course you know that there are 80,000Vendeans on this side of the river: men, women, and children together."
For some minutes Denot still lay with his face buried in the bed,without answering, and Henri knelt beside him in silence, trying tocomfort him rather by the pressure of his hand, Than by the sound of hisvoice; but then he raised himself up, and sitting erect, with his faceturned away from his friend, he said:
"It's no use for you to try to speak of what I have done in Brittany,when we both know that your heart is full of what I did in Poitou."
"By the God of heaven, from whom I hope for mercy," said Henri,solemnly, "I have freely, entirely forgiven you all cause of anger Iever had against you."
Denot still sat with his face averted, and he withdrew his hand fromHenri's grasp, as he muttered between his teeth: "I have not asked forforgiveness; I do not want forgiveness;" and then starting up on hisfeet, he exclaimed almost with a shriek: "How dare you to talk to me,Sir, of forgiveness? Forgiveness! I suppose you think I have nothing toforgive! I suppose you think I have no injuries which rankle in mybreast! A broken heart is nothing! Shattered ambition is nothing! Atortured, lingering, wretched life is nothing! I suppose you will offerme your pity next; but know, Sir, that I despise both your forgivenessand your pity."
"I will offer you nothing but my friendship, Adolphe," said Henri. "Youwill not refuse my friendship, will you? We were brothers always, youknow; at least in affection."
"Brothers always! No, we were never brothers: we never, never can bebrothers," screamed the poor madman through his closed teeth. "Oh! ifwe could have been brothers; if--if we could be brothers!" and the longcherished idea, which, in his frenzy, he even yet had hardly quiteabandoned, flashed across his brain, and softened his temper.
"We can at any rate be friends," said Henri, approaching him, and againtaking his hand. "Come, Adolphe, sit down by me, and let us talk quietlyof these things."
"There are some things," said he, in a more composed manner, "of whicha man can't very well talk quietly. A man can't very well talk quietlyof hell-fire, when he's in the middle of it. Now, I'm in the veryhottest of hell-fire at this moment. How do you think I can bear to lookat you, without sinking into cinders at your feet?"
Henri was again silent for a time, for he did not know what to say tocomfort the afflicted man; but, after a while, Denot himself continuedspeaking.
"I know that I have been a traitor--a base, ignoble, wretched traitor.I know it; you know it; she knows it;" and as he confessed hiswretchedness, he put his bony hand to his forehead, and pushing back hislong matted hair, showed more clearly than he had yet done the ineffablemarks of bitter sadness, which a few months had graven on his face. "AllLa Vendee knows it," continued he; "but no one knows the grief, thesorrow, the wretched sorrow, which
drove me to madness, and made mebecome the thing I am. I know it though, and feel it here," and he puthis hand on his heart, and looked into his companion's face with amelancholy gaze, which would have softened the anger of a sterner manthan Henri Larochejaquelin.
"My poor, poor Adolphe," said Henri, moving himself close to Denot'sside, and putting his arm round his neck and embracing him. "We all knowhow you have suffered. We know--we always knew, it wasn't your properself that turned against the cause you loved so well; but, Adolphe, wewon't talk of these things now."
"You just now said we must talk of them, and you were quite right. Afterwhat has passed, you and I cannot meet without having much to say," andagain the madman jumped to his feet; and as he paced up and down theroom, his fiercer humour again came upon him. "Henri," he exclaimed; andas he spoke he stood still, close to the other, "Henri, why don't youavenge your sister's honour? Why don't you punish the dishonour whichI brought on your father's hoary head? Henri, I say, why don't you seizeby the throat the wretched traitor who brought desolation anddestruction into your family?" and he stretched out his long gaunt neck,as though he expected that Larochejaquelin would rise from his bed, andtake him at his word.
Henri felt that it was useless to endeavour to reason with him, or toanswer the raving of his madness, but he still hoped, that by a mixtureof firmness and gentleness, he might yet take him away from his presentmiserable dwelling, and by degrees bring him back to a happier state ofmind. The difficulties in his way, however, were very great; for he knewhow serious would be the danger and folly of leading him again intoAgatha's presence.
"Nonsense, Adolphe," said he. "Why do you talk to your friend ofvengeance? Come, take up your sword, and come away. This is a cold, dampplace; and besides, we both want refreshment before our next day's work.Before six hours are gone, the republican army will be near Laval, andyou and I must be prepared to meet them," and he picked up Denot'ssword, and handed him his cap, and took his arm within his own, asthough to lead him at once out of the room.
"And where are you going to?" said Denot, hesitating, but not refusingto go.
"Why, first, we'll go to the guard-house, and I'll show you a few of ourpicked men, who are there on duty; real dare-devils, who care no morefor a blue than they do for a black-beetle; and then we'll go to theAngers gate. It's there that Lechelle will show himself; and then--andthen--why, then we'll go home, and get some breakfast, for it will benearly time for us to go to horse."
"Go home!" said Denot; "where's home?"
"Do you know the big stone house, with the square windows, near themarket-house?"
"Yes, I know it: but tell me, Henri: who are there? I mean of your ownpeople, you know--the Durbelliere people?"
"Why, we're all there, Adolphe--Marie, and Victorine, and Charles, andAgatha, and my father and all. Poor Charles! You've heard of his state,Adolphe?"
"Yes, yes, I heard. I wish it had been me--I wish, with all my heart,it had been me," and then he paused a while; and again laying down hissword and cap, he said "Henri, you're an angel; I'm sure you are anangel; but all are not like you. I will not go with you now; but ifyou'll let me, I'll fight close by your side this day."
"You shall, Adolphe, you shall; up or down we'll not leave each otherfor a moment; but you must come with me, indeed you must. We should besure to miss each other if we parted."
"I'll meet you at the gate, Henri, but I will not go with you. All menare not like you. Do you think that I could show myself to your father,and to de Lescure? Don't I know how their eyes would look on me? Don'tI feel it now?" and again it seemed as though he were about to relapseinto his frenzy; and then he continued speaking very gently, almost ina whisper: "Does de Lescure ever talk about the bridge of Saumur?"
Now Henri, to this day, had never heard a word of the want of couragewhich Denot had shown in the passage of the bridge of Saumur. No one butde Lescure had noticed it; and though he certainly had never forgottenit, he had been too generous to speak of it to any one. Henri merelyknew that his two friends, Charles and Adolphe, had been together at thebridge.
He had heard from others of de Lescure's gallant conduct. It hadoftentimes been spoken of in the army, and Henri had never remarked thatan equal tribute of praise was not given to the two, for their deeds onthat occasion. He now answered quite at cross purposes, but merely withthe object of flattering the vanity of his friend:
"He will never forget it, Adolphe. No Vendean will ever forget thebridge of Saumur. We will all remember that glorious day, when we haveforgotten many things that have happened since."
Poor Denot winced dreadfully under the blow, which Henri so innocentlyinflicted; but he merely said "No--I will not go with you--you needn'task me, for my mind is made up. Do you know, Henri, I and de Lescurenever loved each other? never--never--never, even when we were seeminglysuch good friends, we never loved each other. He loved you so well,that, for your sake, he bore with a man he despised. Yes: he alwaysdespised me, since the time you and I came home from school together.I do not blame him, for he tried hard to conceal what he felt; and hethought that I did not know it; but from the first day that we passedtogether I found him out, and I was never happy in his company."
All this was perfectly unintelligible to Henri, and was attributed byhim to the frenzy of madness; but, in fact, there was truth in it.Denot's irregular spirit had been cowed by de Lescure's cold reasoningpropriety, and he now felt it impossible to submit himself to the pardonof a man who, he thought, would forgive and abhor him. It was to nopurpose Henri threatened, implored, and almost strove to drag him fromthe room. Denot was obstinate in his resolve, and Henri was at lastobliged to leave him, with the agreement that they should both meet onhorseback an hour before daybreak, at the gate of the town, which ledtowards Angers.
When Henri returned downstairs he found Chapeau still seated on thelower step, and Plume standing by, discoursing as to the tactics andprobable success of the war.
"You found I was right, M. Henri?" said Chapeau, as he followed hismaster out into the street.
"Yes, Chapeau, you were quite right."
"And is he very bad, M. Henri?" said he, touching his forehead with hisfinger. "I suppose he cannot be all right there."
"He has suffered dreadfully since we saw him, and his sufferings havecertainly told upon him; but there is every reason to hope, that, withkind treatment, he will soon be himself again; but, remember, till aftertoday we will say nothing to any of them about his being here."
It was now three o'clock, and Henri had to be on horseback before six;he had but little time, therefore, either for rest or conversation.Henri and Chapeau hurried home, after having given orders at theguard-house that all the men on whom they could depend should be underarms before day-break; and, having done so, they laid down and slept forthe one short hour which was left to them of the night.