CHAPTER VII.
SUNDAY IN THE BOCAGE.
The remainder of that week was spent by Henri and the Cure as activelyand as successfully as the day in which they visited Echanbroignes. Thenumbers they enrolled exceeded their hopes, and they found among thepeople many more arms than they expected, though mostly of a very rudekind. The party separated on the Saturday night, with the understandingthat they were to meet together at Done on the Tuesday evening, toproceed from thence to the attack of Saumur. Henri Larochejaquelinreturned to Durbelliere. The Cure of St. Laud went to his own parish,to perform mass among his own people on the following morning, andJacques Chapeau, according to agreement, took up his quarters at thesmith's house in Echanbroignes.
On the following morning, he and Annot, and most of the young men andwomen of the village walked over to St. Laud's to receive mass fromFather Jerome, and to hear the discourse which he had promised to giverespecting the duties of the people in the coming times.
The people, as in olden days, were crowded round the church abouthalf-past ten o'clock; but the doors of the church were closed. Therevolt in La Vendee had already gone far enough to prevent thepossibility of the constitutional priests officiating in the churchesto which they had been appointed by the National Assembly; but it hadnot yet gone far enough to enable the old nonjuring Cures to resumegenerally their own places in their own churches: the people, however,now crowded round the church of St. Laud's, till they should learn whereon that day Father Jerome would perform mass.
The church of St. Laud's did not stand in any village, nor was itsurrounded even by a cluster of cottages. It stood by itself on the sideof a narrow little road, and was so completely surrounded by beech andflowering ash trees, that a stranger would not know that he was in theneighbourhood of a place of worship till it was immediately in front ofhim. Opposite to the door of the church and on the other side of theroad, was a cross erected on a little mound; and at its foot a Capuchinmonk in his arse brown frock, with his hood thrown back, and his eyesturned to heaven, was always kneeling: the effigy at least of one wasdoing so, for it was a painted wooden monk that was so perpetually athis prayers.
The church itself was small, but it boasted of a pretty grey tower; andon each side of the door of the church were two works of art, muchcelebrated in the neighbourhood. On the left side, beneath the window,a large niche was grated in with thick, rusty iron bars. It occupied thewhole extent from the portico to the corner of the church, and from theground to the window; and, within the bars, six monster demons--spiritsof the unrepentent dead, the forms of wretches who had died withoutowning the name of their Saviour, were withering in the torments ofhell-fire; awful indeed was the appearance of these figures; they werelarger than human, and twisted into every variety of contortion whichit was conceived possible that agony could assume. Their eyes were madeto protrude from their faces, their fiery tongues were hanging fromtheir scorched lips; the hairs of each demon stood on end and lookedlike agonized snakes; they were of various hideous colours; one was adingy blue; another a horrid dirty yellow, as though perpetual jaundicewere his punishment; another was a foul unhealthy green; a fourth wasof a brick-dust colour; a fifth was fiery red, and he was leaping highas though to escape the flame; but in vain, for a huge blue flake offire had caught him by the leg, and bound him fast; his fiery red handswere closed upon the bars, his tortured face was pressed against them,and his screeching mouth was stretched wide open so as to display twoawful rows of red-hot teeth; the sixth a jet black devil, cowered in acorner and grinned, as though even there he had some pleasure in themisery of his companions.
The space occupied on the other side was much larger, for it was carriedup so far as to darken a great portion of the window. That on the leftrepresented the misery of hell--torment without hope. That on the rightcontained two tableaus: the lower one was purgatory, here four recumbentfigures lay in the four corners, uncomfortably enough; for the bed ofeach figure was six sharp spikes, each of which perforated the occupierof it. But yet these dead men were not horrible to look at as those sixother wretches; their eyes were turned on a round aperture above, theedge of which was all gilt and shining, for the glory of heaven shoneinto it. This aperture entered into paradise. Through the aperture theimaginative artist had made a spirit to be passing--his head andshoulders were in paradise; these were also gilt and glorious, and onhis shoulders two little seraphims were fixing wings; his nether partsbelow the aperture, were still brown and dingy, as were the fourrecumbent spirits who rested on their gridirons till the time shouldcome 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 whichwas seated the beneficent majesty of Heaven. From the towers and roofsprojected numerous brazen-mouthed instruments, which welcomed intoeverlasting 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, toa certain extent, a salutary effect with the people who were in thehabit of looking at them. That they were absolute accuraterepresentations of the places represented, they never for a momentpresumed to doubt; and if the joys of heaven, as displayed there, werenot of much avail in adding to the zeal of the faithful, the horrors ofhell were certainly most efficacious in frightening the people intocompliance with the rules laid down for them, and in preventing themfrom neglecting their priests and religious duties.
The people were crowded round the church; some were kneeling with thewooden monk at the foot of the cross, and some round the bars ofpurgatory. Others were prostrated before the six condemned demons, andsome sat by the road-side, on the roots of the trees, telling theirbeads. Many men were talking of the state of the times, and of the warsto come; some were foretelling misery and desolation, and others werespeaking of the happy days about to return, when their King and theirpriests should have their own, and La Vendee should be the most honouredprovince in France.
They made a pretty scene, waiting there beneath the shade till theirpriest should come to lead them to some rural chapel. The bright coloursworn by the women in their Sunday clothes, and the picturesque forms ofthe men, in their huge broad-brimmed flapping hats, harmonized well withthe thick green foliage around them. They shewed no sign of impatience,they were quite content to wait there, and pray, or gossip, or make loveto 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 gooda man.
At any rate he came before they were tired, and with him came a man whowas a stranger to them all, except to Jacques Chapeau. This man was butlittle, if anything, better dressed than themselves; he looked like oneof their own farmers of the better days; certainly from his dress andmanner he had no pretensions to be called a gentleman, and yet he walkedand talked with Father Jerome as though he were his equal.
"God bless you, my children, God bless you," said the Cure, in answerto the various greetings he received from his flock. "Follow me, mychildren, and we will worship God beneath the canopy of his holythrone," and then turning to the stranger, he added: "the next time youvisit me at St. Laud's, M. d'Elbee, we shall, I doubt not, have ourchurch 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 myaltar and pulpit by a self-constituted vain authority--but yet byauthority; and I will not resume them till I do so by the order of theKing or of his servants."
"I reverence the house of God," replied M. d'Elbee, "because his spirithas sanctified it; but walls and pillars are not necessary to myworship; a cross beneath a rock is as perfect a church to them who havethe will to worship, as though they had above them the towers of NotreDame, or the dome of St. Peter's."
"You are right, my son; it is the heart that God regards; and where thatis in earnest, his mercy will dispense with the outward symbols of ourreligion; but still it is
our especial duty to preserve to his useeverything which the piety of former ages has sanctified; to partwillingly with nothing which appertains in any way to His church. Thebest we have is too little for His glory. It should be our greatesthonour to give to Him; it is through His great mercy that He receivesour unworthy offerings. Come, my children, follow me; our altar isprepared above."
The priest led the way through a little shaded path at the back of thechurch; behind a farmhouse and up a slight acclivity, on the side ofwhich the rocks in different places appeared through the green turf, andthe 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 gotabroad among them, that Jacques Chapeau had seen the stranger in someof his former military movements in La Vendee. Chapeau was walkingbeside his mistress, and was not at all sorry of the opportunity ofshewing 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 thismoment," said one.
"Nor I," said another; "but he must be a good man, or Father Jeromewould 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 Jeromewouldn't walk with him at all."
"You are right, too, my friend; M. d'Elbee is a great royalist. He isthe especial friend of our good Cathelineau."
"The friend of Cathelineau and of Father Jerome," said a fourth, "thenI 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 oneof our great generals," said Chapeau.
"One of our great generals, is he," said two or three at once. "I knewhe was going to Saumur," said Jean, "or Father Jerome wouldn't havewalked so peaceable with him, great as he may be."
"But if he is a great general," said Annot, "why has he no lace upon hiscoat; 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 nota morsel of starch in his shirt ruffles, I declare," said a third, whoofficiated as laundress to the Mayor of Echanbroignes.
"I'm sure the republicans will never be afraid of such a general as heis. 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 youwill 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 thelaundress, "M. Larochejaquelin did look so nice last Wednesday, when hewas getting off his horse."
"That is all; but Cathelineau," said Annot, "he is the finest fellow ofthem all. I'd sooner have Cathelinean for my lover, than the Duc deChartres, and he's the king's cousin."
"You are a foolish girl, Annot," said Chapeau. "You might as well wantthe picture of St. John out of the church window down yonder, and takethat for your lover, as Cathelineau. Don't you know he's the Saint ofAnjou?"
"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 noharm in being in love with a saint, and I am very much in love withCathelineau."
"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 tosee him; and I'm sure I'll never bear the sight of another manafterwards; the dear, good, sweet Cathelineau, with his curly hair, andfine 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 stupidfoolish chits of girls, and continued his description of M. d'Elbee tothe men.
"Indeed he is a very great general. I don't know very well where he camefrom, but I believe somewhere down in the Marais, from his being sucha friend of M. Charette; but he has been fighting against therepublicans this long time, even before Cathelineau began, I believe,though I don't exactly know where. I know he was made a prisoner inParis, and nearly killed there by some of those bloody-minded rebels;then he escaped, and he was at the siege of Machecoult, and gothonourably wounded, and was left for dead: and then he was atThouars--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. Bonchampsbrought 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 settlinghow Fontenay was to be attacked, for though its a little place, and notwalled and fortified like Saumur, we had a deal of trouble with it; butbefore a word was spoken, M. d'Elbee stood up and said, 'Brethren,' saidhe, 'let us ask the assistance of our Saviour:' so down they went ontheir knees, and he said an awful long prayer, for all the world likea priest. And then again before we fired a shot, he bade all thesoldiers kneel down, and down we went, the republicans firing at us allthe time. The soldiers call him Old Providence, for they say he talksa deal about Providence when he is fighting."
"You may be sure that's what makes Father Jerome so fond of him," saidJean. "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, givingorders, and directing some of the men there who knew him well.Presently, he said to a young gentleman who was near him: 'Lend me thatsword a moment, will you?' and he took it out of his hands, and made arush 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 thatevery man is to rush just where he pleases; you'll soon be taught thedifference. M. d'Elbee was a general, and might go where he liked; butI was a corporal under M. Henri, with ten men under me. We had to remainwhere we were, and cut off the republicans, if they showed their nosesat a point in the street which we covered; it's only the generals thatgo 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 thechurch."
They had now come to a rude altar, constructed on a piece of rock, infront of which was a small space of green turf: the whole spot wasclosely surrounded by beech and ash-trees; so closely, indeed, that thesun hardly made its way into it, and the rocks around it rising upthrough the grass afforded ample accommodation for the people. In amoment, they were on their knees on the grass; some almost immediatelybefore the altar; others kneeling against the rocks; others again withtheir heads and hands resting against the trunk of a huge beech-tree.
Hither had been brought the necessary appurtenances for the performanceof mass. A small, but beautifully white cloth was spread upon a flatportion of the rock; bread was there, and a small quantum of wine; alittle patina and a humble chalice. M. d'Elbee took his place among thecrowd before the altar, and Father Jerome, having dressed himself in hisrobes, performed, with a fine, full, sonorous voice, the morning serviceof his church. When so occupied, he had no longer the look of thebanished priest: his sacred vestments had not shared the decay which hadfallen on his ordinary clothes. No bishop rising from his throne tobless the congregation assembled in his cathedral, could assume moredignity, or inspire more solemnity
than the Cure of St. Laud, as heperformed mass at his sylvan altar in La Vendee.
After mass was finished, the priest gave them an extempore discourse onthe necessity of their absolutely submitting themselves to theirteachers, spiritual masters, and pastors; and before he had finished,he turned their attention to the especial necessity of their obeying theleaders, 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 adocile people, content to accept the word of God from those whom he hassent to teach it to you--that you are not a stiff-necked generation,prone to follow your own vain conceits, or foolish enough to conceivethat your little earthly knowledge can be superior to the wisdom whichcomes from above, as others are. I have always rejoiced at this, mychildren, for in it I have seen hope for you, when I could see none forothers; but now also I rejoice greatly to see that you unite the courageof men to the docility of babes. Hitherto your lot has been that ofpeace, and if you have not enjoyed riches, you have at any rate beencontented: another destiny is before you now--peace and content haveleft the country, and have been followed by robbery, confusion, and war.My children, you must, for a while, give over your accustomed peacefulduties; your hands--your hearts--all your energy, and all your courage,are required by God for his own purposes--yes, required by that Creatorwho gave you strength and energy--who gave you the power and the willto do great deeds for His holy name.
"His enemies are in the land: impious wretches--who do not hesitate towage war against His throne--are endeavouring to destroy all that isgood, and all that is holy in France. Do you not know, my children, thatthey 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 quietin your homes, while your King is lying in a prison, in hourly dangerof death? They have excluded you from your churches, they have causedGod's holy houses to be closed; they have sent among you teachers whocan only lead you astray--whose teaching can only bring you to the gatesof hell. The enemies of the Lord are around you; and you are nowrequired to take arms in your hands, to go out against them, and ifneeds 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 knowthat you will now do your utmost, and I know that you will succeed. TheLord will not desert His people when they combat for His glory, whenthey faithfully turn to Him for victory. You have been taught how Hechose the Israelites as an especial people--how He loved and favouredthem: as long as they were faithful and obedient He never deserted them.They conquered hosts ten times their numbers--they were victoriousagainst armed warriors, and mighty giants. The Lord blinded theirenemies so that they saw not; He blunted their weapons; He paralyzedtheir courage; chariots and horses did not avail them; nor strong walls,nor mighty men of battle. The Lord loved the Israelites, and as long asthey were faithful and obedient, they prevailed against all theirenemies.
"You, my children, are now God's people; if you are truly faithful, youshall 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 standagainst you?--though tens, and hundreds of thousands swarm around you,they shall yield before you--they shall fall before you as the giantGoliath fell before the shepherd David.
"Be not afraid, therefore, my children: we will go together; we willremember that every man who falls on our side in this holy war, fallsas he is doing Christ's service, and that his death is to be envied, forit is a passport into Heaven. We will remember this in the hour ofbattle, when our enemies are before us, when death is staring us in theface, and remembering it, we shall not be afraid. If we die fightingtruly 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 owndear fields, the thanks of a grateful King, to feel that we have doneour duty as Christians and as men, and to hear our children bless thedays, when the courage of La Vendee restored the honour of France."
Father Jerome's exhortation had a strong effect upon the people; he knewand calculated their strength and their weakness--they were brave andcredulous, and when he finished speaking, there was hardly one there whoin the least doubted that the event of the war would be entirelysuccessful: they felt that they were a chosen people, set apart for agood work--that glory and victory awaited them in the contest, andespecially that they were about to fight under the immediate protectionof the Almighty.
As soon as the service was over, they all left the little sylvan chapelby different paths, and in different directions; some went back to thechurch, some went off across the fields, some took a short cut to theroad, but they all returned home without delay. Every man was to set outearly on the morrow for the rendezvous, and the women were preparing toshed their tears and say their last farewell to their lovers, brothers,and husbands, before they started on so great an enterprise. They hadall been gay enough during the morning--they became a little melancholyon their return home, but before the evening was far advanced, nothingwas to be heard but sobs and vows, kisses and blessings.
Jacques Chapeau returned to Echanbroignes with the party of villagerswho had gone from thence to hear Father Jerome, but he did not attachhimself expressly to Annot, indeed he said not a word to her on the way,but addressed the benefit of his conversation to his male friendsgenerally; to tell the truth, he was something offended at the warmadmiration which his sweetheart had expressed for Cathelineau. He wasn'texactly jealous of the postillion, for Annot had never seen him, andcouldn't, therefore, really love him; but he felt that she ought not tohave talked about another man's eyes and whiskers, even though thatother man was a saint and a general. It was heartless, too, of Annot tosay such things at such a time, just as he was going to leave her, onthe eve of battle, and when he had left his own master, and all theglorious confusion and good living in--at Durbelliere, merely that hemight spend his last quiet day in her company.
It was base of her to say that she had dreamed twice of Cathelineau; andshe was punished for it, for she had to walk home almost unnoticed. Atfirst she was very angry, and kicked up the dust with her Sunday shoesin fine style; but before long her heart softened, and she watchedanxiously for some word or look from Jacques on which she might base anattempt at a reconciliation. Jacques knew what she was about, and wouldnot even look at her: he went on talking with Jean and Peter and theothers, about the wars, and republicans and royalists, as though poorAnnot Stein had not been there at all. From the chapel of St. Laud tothe village of Echanbroignes, he did not speak a word to her, and whenthe four entered the old smith's house, poor Annot was bursting withanger, and melting with love; she could not settle with herself whetherhe hated Chapeau or loved him most; she felt that she would have likedto poison him, only she knew that she could not live without him.
She hurried into her little sleeping place, and had a long debate withherself whether she should instantly go to bed and pray that Jacquesmight be killed at Saumur, or whether she should array herself in allher charms, and literally dazzle her lover into fondness and obedienceby her beauty and graces--after many tears the latter alternative wasdecided on.
It was a lovely summer evening, and at about eight o'clock hardly aperson in the whole village was to be found within doors; the elderlywere sitting smoking at their doors, husbands were saying a thousandlast words to their weeping wives, young men were sharpening theirswords, and preparing their little kit for the morrow's march, and thegirls were helping them; but everything was done in the open air. Jeanand Peter Stein were secretly preparing for a stolen march to Saumur;for their father was still inexorable, and they were determined not tobe left behind when all the world was fighting for glory. Old Michaelwas 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 yoursupper, 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 usbefore sun-rise tomorrow. Here is M. Chapeau complaining you are a badhostess."
"M. Chapeau has enough to think of tonight, without my teasing him,"said Annot; "great soldiers like him have not time to talk to sillygirls. I will walk across the green to Dame Rouel's, father; I shall beback before sunset."
And Annot went out across the green, at the corner of which stood thesmith's forge. Jacques Chapeau was not slow to follow her, and DameRouel did not see much of either of them that evening.
"Annot," said Jacques, calling to his sweetheart, who perseveringlylooked straight before her, determined not to know that she wasfollowed. "Annot, stop awhile. You are not in such a hurry, are you, tosee Dame Rouel?"
"Ah, M. Chapeau, is that you?--in a hurry to see Dame Rouel. No--I'm inno particular hurry."
"Will you take a turn down to the mill, then, Annot? Heaven knows whenyou and I may walk to the old mill again; it may be long enough beforeI see Echanbroignes again."
Annot made no answer, but she turned into the little path which ledthrough the fields to the mill.
"I suppose it may," said she, determined, if possible, that the amendeshould be made by Jacques and not by herself.
"I see you are indifferent about that," said Jacques, with a soft andsentimental look, which nearly melted Annot; "well, when you hear of mydeath, you will sometimes think of me, will you not?"
"Oh, I will, M. Chapeau! Of course I'll think of you, and of all myfriends."
Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off the headsof the blue-bells with his little cane. "I am not different to you thenfrom 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 formentioning 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," andAnnot gave symptoms of hysterical tears.
Jacques was again silent for awhile, but he had commenced walking verynear to his companion, and she did not appear to resent it. After awhile 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 theother brave men, would you?"
"Is that all I am to get from you, after all? is that all the regard youhave for me? very well, Annot--it is well at any rate we shouldunderstand each other. They were right, I find, when they told me thatyou were such a coquette, you would have a dozen lovers at the sametime."
"And they were right, I find, when they told me you were too fond ofyourself ever to love any girl truly."
"Oh, Annot! and is it come to this? I'm sorry I ever came toEchanbroignes. 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 theash 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 thanI am; it's all your own fault; you choose to give yourself airs, and Iwon'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 thingswhich cut me to the heart--things which I can't bear; and, therefore,perhaps, we may as well part;" and Jacques assumed a most melancholyaspect, 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, andsobbing violently. "Good bye; I'm sure I never thought it would come tothis. 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 wayover here week after week, when people wondered what made me leaveDurbelliere 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 haveloved me, and treated me as you did this day, letting me walk all alonefrom St. Laud, without so much as a word or a look; and that before allthe people: and I that went merely to walk back with you. Oh! I couldhave 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 themall? Do you think I felt nothing?"
"Talking, Jacques; what talk?"
"Why; saying that you loved Cathelineau better than any one. That he wasthe only man you admired; that you dreamed of him always, and I don'tknow 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 hertears.
"Jealous. No, I tell you I'm not jealous; but still, one doesn't liketo hear one's mistress talking of another man's eyes, and whiskers, andthose sort of things; no man would like it, Annot; though I care aboutit 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, andso they may."
"But I never saw Cathelineau, Jacques," and she put her hand upon hisarm.
"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 jokesometimes."
"And you do love me, don't you?" and Jacques now got very close to hismistress.
"Ah! but why did you let me walk home all the way by myself? You knowI love you dearly; but you must beg my pardon for that, before I'll evertell 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 seemedwell pleased with the way in which he did it; and then when the fountainof 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 thewars; how she would never speak a word to mortal man in the way ofcourting, 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, andput 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 fromher, so that she couldn't do so: and then Jacques begged pardon againand again in his own queer way; and then, having sat there by themill-stream till the last red streak of sunlight was gone, they returnedhome to the village, and Annot told her father that Dame Rouel had beenso 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 notof Cathelineau, but of her own lover, Jacques Chapeau.