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La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

A >> Anthony Trollope >> La Vendee




"I trust, father, the war will not be prolonged so distantly as you seem
to think; the forces of Austria, England and Prussia already surround
the frontiers of France; and we have every reason to hope that friendly
troops from Britain will soon land on our own coast. I trust the autumn
will find La Vendee crowned with glory, but once more at peace."

"God send it, my son!" said the Marquis.

"I do not doubt the glory--but I do doubt the peace."

"We cannot go back now, father," said Henri.

"Nor would I have you do so; we have a duty to do, and though it be
painful we must do it. 'God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb,' and
give us strength to bear our sufferings; but my heart shudders, when I
am told that the Republic has let loose those wolves of Paris to shed
the blood of our poor people."

The prospect of a prolonged civil war, of continued strife, and
increased bloodshed, somewhat damped the joy with which the victory at
Saumur was discussed in the aristocratic portion of the chateau; but no
such gloomy notions were allowed to interfere with the triumph which
reigned in the kitchen. Here victory was clothed in robes all couleur
de rose, and it appeared that La Vendee, so happy in many other
respects, was chiefly blessed in being surrounded by republicans whom
she could conquer, and in having enemies who gave her the means of
acquiring glory.

"And our own young master was the first royalist who put his foot in
Saumur?" asked Momont, who had already received the information he
required four or five times, and on each occasion had drunk Henri's
health in about half-a-pint of wine.

"Indeed he was," said Chapeau, "the very first. You don't think he'd
have let any one go before him."

"Here's his health then, and God bless him!" said Momont. "It was I
first showed him how to fire a pistol; and very keen he was at taking
to gunpowder."

"Indeed, and indeed he was," said the housekeeper. "When he was no more
than twelve years old, not nigh as big as the little Chevalier, he let
off the big blunderbuss in my bed-room, and I on my knees at prayers the
while. God bless his sweet face, I always knew he'd make a great
soldier."

"And don't you remember," said the laundress, "how he blew up
Mademoiselle Agatha, making her sit on a milk-pan turned over, with a
whole heap of gunpowder stuffed underneath, and she only six or seven
years old?"

"Did he though," said the page, "blow up Mademoiselle Agatha?"

"Indeed he did, and blew every scrap of hair off her head and eyebrows.
It's no wonder he's such a great general."

"And the Chevalier was second, wasn't he?" said the cook.

"Dear little darling fellow!" said the confidential maid; "and to think
of him going to the wars with guns and swords and pistols! If anything
had happened to him I should have cried my eyes out."

"And was the Chevalier the first to follow M. Henri into the town?"
asked the page, who was a year older than Arthur Mondyon, and
consequently felt himself somewhat disgraced at not having been at
Saumur.

"Why," said Jacques, with a look which was intended to shew how
unwilling he was to speak of himself, "I can't exactly say the Chevalier
was the first to follow M. Henri, but if he wasn't the second, he was
certainly the third who entered Saumur."

"Who then was the second?" said one or two at the same time.

"Why, I shouldn't have said anything about it, only you ask me so very
particularly," said Jacques, "but I believe I was second myself; but
Jean Stein can tell you everything; you weren't backward yourself Jean,
there were not more than three or four of them before you and Peter."

"I don't know about that," said Jean, "but we all did the best we could,
I believe."

"And was Chapeau really second?" said Momont, who was becoming jealous
of the distinction likely to be paid to his junior fellow-servant. "You
don't mean to say he went in before all the other gentlemen?"

"Gentlemen, indeed!" said Chapeau. "What an idea you have of taking a
town by storm, if you think men are to stand back to make room for
gentlemen, as though a party were going into dinner."

"But tell us now, Jean Stein," continued Momont, "was Chapeau really
second?"

"Well then," said Jean, "he was certainly second into the water, but he
was so long under it, I doubt whether he was second out--he certainly
did get a regular good ducking did Chapeau. Why, you came out feet
uppermost, Chapeau."

"Feet uppermost!" shouted Momont, "and is that your idea of storming a
town, to go into it feet uppermost?"

"But do you really mean to say that you were absolutely wet through when
you took Saumur?" said the laundress.

"Indeed we were," answered Chapeau, "wringing wet, every man of us."

"Lawks! how uncomfortable," said the cook. "And M. Henri, was he wet
too?"

"Wet, to be sure he was wet as water could make him."

"And the little Chevalier, did he get himself wet?" said the
confidential maid, "poor little fellow! it was like to give him his
death of cold."

"But, Chapeau, tell me truly now: did you kill any of those bloody
republicans with your own hand?" asked the housekeeper.

"Kill them," said Chapeau, "to be sure, I killed them when we were
fighting."

"And how many, Chapeau; how many did you positively kill dead, you
know?" said the confidential maid.

"What nonsense you do talk!" answered he, with a great air of military
knowledge, "as if a man in battle knows when he kills and when he
doesn't. You're not able to look about you in that sort of way in the
middle of the smoke and noise and confusion."

"You don't mean to tell me you ever kill a man without knowing it!" said
the housekeeper.

"You don't understand what a battle is at all," answered Chapeau,
determined to communicate a little of his experience on the matter. "One
hasn't time to look about one to see anything. Now supposing you had
been with us at the taking of Saumur."

"Oh, the Lord forbid!" said the housekeeper. "I'd sooner be in my grave
any day, than go to one of those horrid bloody battles."

"Or you, Momont; supposing you'd been there?"

"Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I look," replied the
butler.

"I'm sure you'd have done well, Momont. I'm sure you'd have done very
well," endeavouring to conciliate him into listening; "but supposing you
had been there, or at the camp of Varin--we'll say Varin, for after
all, we had more fighting there than at Saumur. Supposing you were one
of the attacking party; you find yourself close wedged in between your
two comrades right opposite the trenches; you have a loaded musket in
your hand, with a bayonet fixed to it, and you have five or six rounds
of cartridges in your belt; you know that you are to do your best, or
rather your worst with what you've got. Well, your commander gives the
word of attack. We'll suppose it's the good Cathelineau. 'Friends,' he
will say; 'dear friends; now is the time to prove ourselves men; now is
the moment to prove that we love our King; we will soon shew the
republicans that a few sods of turf are no obstacles in the way of
Vendean royalists,' and then the gallant fellow rushes into the
trenches; two thousand brave men follow him, shouting 'Vive le Roi!' and
you, Momont, are one of the first. All of a sudden, as you are just in
motion, prepared for your first spring, a sharp cutting gush of air
passes close to your face, and nearly blinds you; you feel that you can
hardly breathe, but you hear a groan, and a stumble; your next neighbour
and three men behind him have been sent into eternity by a cannon-ball
from the enemy. Do you think then that the man who fired the cannon
knows, or cares who he has killed? Well, on you go; had you not been in
a crowd, the enemy's fire, maybe, might have frightened you; but good
company makes men brave: on you go, and throw yourself into the trench.
You find a more active man than yourself just above you; he is already
nearly at the top of the bank, his feet are stuck in the sods above your
head; he is about to spring upon the rampart, when the bayonet of a
republican passes through his breast, and he falls at your feet, or
perhaps upon your head. You feel your heart shudder, and your blood runs
cold, but it is no time for pausing now; you could not return if you
would, neither can you remain where you are: up you go, grasping your
musket in one hand and digging the other into the loose sods. Your eyes
and mouth are crammed with dust, your face is bespattered with your
comrade's blood, your ears are full of strange noises; your very nature
changes within you; the smell of gunpowder and of carnage makes you feel
like a beast of prey. You do not think any longer of the friends who
have fallen beside you; you only long to grapple with the enemy who are
before you."

"Oh, mercy me! how very shocking!" said the housekeeper. "Pray don't
go on Chapeau; pray don't, or I shall have such horrid dreams."

"Oh! but you must go on, Chapeau," said the confidential maid, "I could
never bear that you should leave off; it is very horrid, surely; but as
Mademoiselle says, we must learn to look at blood and wounds now, and
hear of them, too."

"Do pray tell us the rest," said the page, who sat listening intently
with his mouth wide open. "I do so like it; pray tell us what Momont did
after he became a beast of prey?"

Chapeau was supremely happy; he felt that his military experience and
his descriptive talents were duly appreciated, and he continued:

"Well, you are now in the camp, on the enemy's ground, and you have to
fight every inch, till you drive them out of it; six or seven of your
comrades are close to you, and you all press on, still grasping your
muskets and pushing your bayonets before you: the enemy make a rush to
drive you back again; on they come against you, by twenties and by
thirties; those who are behind, push forward those who are in front, and
suddenly you find a heavy dragging weight upon your hands, and again you
hear the moans of a dying man close to you--almost in your arms. A
republican soldier has fallen on your bayonet. The struggles of the
wounded man nearly overpower you; you twist and turn and wrench, and
drag your musket to and fro, but it is no use; the weapon is jammed
between his ribs; you have not space nor time to extricate it; you are
obliged to leave it, and on you go unarmed, stumbling over the body of
your fallen enemy. Whether the man dies or lives, whether his wound be
mortal or no, you will never hear. And so you advance, till gradually
you begin to feel, rather than to see, that the blues are retreating
from you. You hear unarmed men asking for quarter, begging for their
lives, and the sound of entreaty again softens your heart; you think of
sparing life, instead of taking it; you embrace your friends as you meet
them here and there; you laugh and sing as you feel that you have done
your best and have conquered; and when you once more become sufficiently
calm to be aware what you are yourself doing, you find that you have a
sword in your hand, or a huge pistol; you know not from whom you took
them, or where you got them, or in what manner you have used them. How
can a man say then, whom he has killed in battle, or whether he has
killed any man? I do not recollect that I ever fired a shot at Varin
myself, and yet my musket was discharged and the pan was up. I will not
say that I ever killed a man; but I will say that I never struck a man
who asked for mercy, or fired a shot even on a republican, who had
thrown down his arms."

Henri's voice was now heard in the hall, loudly calling for Jacques, and
away he ran to join his master, as he finished his history.

"It makes my blood run cold," said the housekeeper, "to think of such
horrid things."

"Chapeau describes it very well, though," said the confidential maid;
"I'm sure he has seen it all himself. I'm sure he's a brave fellow."

"It's not always those who talk the most that are the bravest," said
Momont.

Henri and his sister sat talking that night for a long time, after the
other inhabitants of the chateau were in bed, and though they had so
many subjects of interest to discuss, their conversation was chiefly
respecting Adolphe Denot.

"I cannot guess what has become of him," said Henri; "I made every
possible inquiry, short of that which might seem to compromise his
character. I do not think he can have returned to the Bocage, or we
should have heard of him."

"He must have gone to Fleury," said Agatha. "I am sure you will not find
that he is at his own house."

"Impossible, my love; we must have heard of him on the way; had he gone
round by Montrenil, he must still have passed over the bridge of
Fouchard, and we should have heard of him there."

"He must have ridden over in the night; you see he so evidently wanted
to conceal from you where he was going."

"My own impression is, that he is gone to Paris," said Henri; "but let
him have gone where he may, of one thing I am sure; he was not in his
right senses when he left the council-room, nor yet when he was speaking
to me in the street; poor Adolphe! I pity him with all my heart. I can
feel how miserable he must be."

"Why should he be miserable, Henri? The truth is, you mistake his
character. I do not wish to make you think ill of your friend; but
Adolphe is one of those men whom adversity will improve. You and our
father have rather spoilt him between you; he is too proud, too apt to
think that everything should bend to his wishes: he has yet to learn
that in this world he must endure to have his dearest wishes thwarted;
and till adversity has taught him that, his feelings will not be manly,
nor his conduct sensible."

"Poor fellow!" said Henri, "if adversity will teach him, he is likely
to get his lesson now. Did he part quietly with you, Agatha, on the day
before we started to Saumur?"

"Anything but quietly," said she. "I would not tell you all he said, for
on the eve of a battle in which you were to fight side by side, I did
not wish to make you angry with your friend and companion: but had a
raging madman, just escaped from his keepers, come to offer me his hand,
his conduct could not have been worse than Adolphe Denot's."

"Was he violent with you, Agatha?"

"He did not offer to strike me, nor yet to touch me, if you mean that:
but he threatened me; and that in such awful sounding, and yet
ridiculous language, that you would hardly know whether to laugh or to
be angry if I could repeat it."

"What did he say, Agatha?"

"Say! it would be impossible for me to tell you; he swung his arms like
a country actor in a village barn, and declared that if he were not
killed at Saumur, he would carry me away in spite of all that my friends
could do to hinder him."

"Poor fellow! poor Adolphe!" said Henri.

"You are not sorry I refused him? You would, indeed, have had to say,
poor Agatha! had I done otherwise."

"I am not sorry that you refused him, but I am sorry you could not love
him."

"Why you say yourself he is mad: would you wish me to love a madman?"

"It is love that has made him mad. Adolphe is not like other men; his
passions are stronger; his feelings more acute; his regrets more
poignant."

"He should control his passions as other men must do," said Agatha: "all
men who do not, are madmen." She remained silent for a few moments, and
then added, "you are right in saying that love has made him mad; but it
is the meanest of all love that has done so--it is self-love."

"I think you are too hard upon him, Agatha; but it is over now, and
cannot be helped."

"What did he say to you, Henri, when he left you in Saurnur?"

"His name had been mentioned you know in the council as one of the
leaders: Bonchamps, I believe, proposed it; but Charles objected, and
named Charette in his place, and Cathelineau and the rest agreed to it.
This angered Adolphe, and no wonder, for he is ambitious, and impatient
of neglect. I wish they would have let him been named instead of me, but
they would not, and when the list was finished, he was not on it. He got
up and said something; I hardly know what, but he complained of Stofflet
being one of the Generals; and then Charles rebuked him, and Adolphe in
a passion left the room."

"And you followed him?" asked Agatha.

"Yes, I followed him; but he was like a raging madman. I don't know how
it was; but instead of complaining about the Generals, he began
complaining about you. I don't know exactly whether I ought to tell you
what he said--indeed I had not intended to have done so."

"Nay, Henri; now you have raised my woman's curiosity, and you
positively must tell me."

"I hardly know how to tell you," said Henri, "for I really forget how
he said it. I don't know on earth how he introduced your name at all;
but he ended in accusing you of having a more favoured lover."

Agatha blushed slightly as she answered:

"He has no right whatever to ask the question; nor if I have a favoured
lover, should it be any ground of complaint to him. But to you, Henri,
if you wish a promise from me on the subject, I will readily and
willingly promise, that I will receive no man's love, and, far as I can
master my own heart, I will myself entertain no passion without your
sanction: and you, dear brother, you shall make me a return for my
confidence; you shall ask me to marry no man whom I cannot love."

"Don't for a moment think, dearest, that what he said, made me uneasy
as regarded you: but whom do you think he selected for you--of whom do
you think he is jealous?"

"I cannot attempt to guess a madman's thoughts, Henri."

"I will tell you then," said he; "but you will be shocked as well as
surprized. He is jealous of Cathelineau!"

"Cathelineau?" said Agatha, blushing now much more deeply than she had
done before.

"Yes, Cathelineau, the postillion."

"No, not Cathelineau the postillion; but Cathelineau the Saint of Anjou,
and the hero of St. Florent, and of Saumur. He at any rate has linked
my name with that of a man worthy of a woman's love."

"Worthy, Agatha, had his birth and early years been different from what
they were."

"Worthy as he is of any woman's love," said Agatha. "Great deeds and
noble conduct make birth of no avail, to give either honour or
disgrace."

"But, Agatha, surely you would not wed Cathelineau, were he to ask you?"

"Why should you ask that question, Henri?" said she: "are the words
which Adolphe Denot has uttered in his wild insanity of such weight, as
to make you regard as possible such an event? Have I not told you I
would wed no one without your sanction? Do you not know that Cathelineau
has never spoken to me but the coldest words of most distant respect?
Do you not know that his heart and soul are intent on other things than
woman's love? I, too, feel that this is not the time for love. While I
live in continual dread that those I most value may fall in battle;
while I fear that every messenger who comes to me in your absence, may
have some fatal news to tell, I do not wish to take upon me a fresh
burden of affection. Am I not best as I am, Henri, at present?" And she
put her arm affectionately through his. "When the wars are over, and the
King is on his throne, you shall bring me home a lover; some brave
friend of your's who has proved himself a gallant knight."

"I would have him be a gallant knight, certainly," said Henri, "but he
should also be a worthy gentleman."

"And is not Cathelineau a worthy gentleman?" forgetting in her
enthusiasm that she was taking the cause of one who was being spoken of
as her lover. "Oh, indeed he is; if valour, honesty, and honour, if
trust in God, and forgetfulness of self, if humanity and generosity
constitute a gentleman, then is Cathelineau the prince of gentlemen: but
do not, pray do not mistake me, Henri: a lover of scenery admires the
tops of distant mountains, and gazes on their snowy peaks with a
pleasure almost amounting to awe; but no one seeks to build his house
on the summit: so do I admire the virtues, the devotion, the courage of
Cathelineau; but my admiration is mixed with no love which would make
me wish to join my lot with his. I only say, that despite his birth and
former low condition, he is worthy of any woman's love."

Henri did not quite like his sister's enthusiasm, though he hardly knew
why it displeased him. He had thought of Cathelineau only as a soldier
and a General, and had found nothing in him that he did not approve of;
but he felt that be could not welcome him as his darling sister's
husband; "if Adolphe should have prophesied rightly," said he, to
himself as he went from his sister's room to his own chamber, "but no!
whatever her feelings may be, she is too good to do anything that would
displease me."



CHAPTER IV

MICHAEL STEIN

On the Sunday morning, after Henri's return to Durbelliere, Jacques
Chapeau, with Jean and Peter Stein, left the chateau very early, and
started for Echanbroignes. Word had been sent to the old smith by some
of the neighbours, who had been at Saumur, that his two sons were safe
and sound, and that they had behaved well at the siege, and a message
at the same time reached Annot, informing her that Jacques meant to
spend his next Sunday at the village; the party was therefore expected,
and great preparations were made for a fete at Echanbroignes. The heroes
of that place considered that they had somewhat celebrated themselves;
in the first place, on final inquiry, it appeared, that not one person
from the village, who was at all able to go to Saumur, had neglected to
do so. In the next place, many of the villagers were among the number
of the red scarfs, and they claimed to themselves the privilege of being
considered peculiarly valiant and particularly loyal; and lastly, though
many of them had gone to Saumur, without arms, every man on his return
had a musket with him, which the old men and women regarded as absolute
trophies, taken by each man individually from some awful rebel whom he
had slain in single combat. There were to be great rejoicings,
therefore, at Echanbroignes, which were postponed for the arrival of
Chapeau and the two Stems.

The old smith was very angry at his sons' behaviour. As Chapeau had
said, he was a very black man, and when he was angered, it wasn't easy
to smooth him; the operation, however, was attempted by some of his
neighbours, and though they were not altogether successful, they
succeeded in making the old man a little proud of his family.

"Yes, Paul Rouel;" he said to the village innkeeper, who was an ancient
crony of his, "it's very well to talk of King and Church; but if King
and Church are to teach sons to fly against their fathers, we may, I
think, have a little too much of them; didn't I again and again tell the
boys not to go?"

"But, Michael Stein, how could you expect them to stay here, with a
score of old men like us, and a number of women and girls, when every
young fellow in the parish had gone to the wars? besides, they say, they
did gallantly at the wars, and gained great honour and glory."

"Gained a great fiddle-stick," said the smith.

"But, Michael Stein," said another old friend, named Gobelin, "you
wouldn't have your children disgraced, would you? think how sheepish
they would have looked, hiding themselves in the smithy here, when all
the other young men were parading round the green with the guns and
swords they have taken from the rebels, and the women and girls all
admiring them. Why, neighbour, not a girl in the parish would have
spoken to them."

"Girls spoken to them, indeed! I tell you, Gobelin, in the times now
coming, any girl will be ready enough to speak to a young man that has
a house over his head, and a five-franc piece in his pocket. No,
neighbour Gobelin; I gave my boys a good trade, and desired them to
stick to it; they have chosen instead to go for soldiers, and for
soldiers they may go. They don't come into my smithy again, that's all."

"You don't mean you won't speak to the lads, and after their fighting
so bravely and all!" said Paul Rouel, in a voice of horror.

"I didn't say I wouldn't speak to them, Rouel," said the father, "I am
as fond of my sons as another man; and as they were resolved to disobey
my commands, and to go fighting, why I'll not say but I'm glad they
didn't disgrace themselves. I'd have been sorry to hear that they'd run
away, or been the last to face the enemy; but they had no right to go,
when there was work for them to do at home; they are welcome now to come
and take the best I can give them, till their new trade calls them away
again, and then they'll be welcome to go soldiering again; not a hammer
shall they raise on my anvil, not a blast shall they blow in my smithy,
not an ounce of iron shall they turn in my furnace."

"You'll think better of these things after a day or two, neighbour,"
said Gobelin.

"When I think once about a thing, Gobelin, I'm not much given to think
again. But I tell you, I wish the boys no harm; let them be soldiers
now, and I pray God they may be good soldiers; only, if I save a little
money by hard work, I won't have them spend it among their comrades in
strong drink; it'll be all the better for Annot, when I die, that's
all."

Poetry Workshop creature features

For many years my local corner shop displayed a large sign in its window telling local residents to "use us or lose us!" It always looked a rather toothless threat to me. After all, if I didn't use them, what difference would it make to me if they weren't there? And surely a corner shop, one that had been there for years, would have enough customers to survive without recourse to such apocalyptic warning? But it didn't and was soon converted into flats.

This community shop was destroyed not so much by the pressures of the supermarkets or people's commuting patterns, but simply by customer apathy. It's something to think about as crime writers and readers across the world mourn the imminent passing of Maxim Jakubowski's celebrated Charing Cross Road bookshop in London, Murder One.

Apathy is a strange word to connect to a bookstore that thrives on passion. It's noticeable when you walk through the door, when you speak to the friendly, knowledgeable staff, when you look at the shelves and see the vast range of titles on offer. This isn't your regular kind of bookstore: the first time I visited spent a whole lunch break looking up and down, from floor to ceiling from table to table; it was an hour that changed my perception of both crime writing and of bookselling.

Murder One was – and for a few weeks will remain – a shop that took crime seriously. Not in the sense that it intellectualised it, or made unsubstantiated claims for its importance, but in the way that it treated crime writing with the respect it was due. With a genre that has so many off-shoots, branches and sub-genres, it took a shop of Murder One's calibre to show just how diverse, interesting and mentally stimulating crime could be – far more than the guilty pleasure I had, until then, considered it.

Thanks to judicious recommendations, enticing table displays and hours of foraging among the stacks, I discovered writers that I would never have picked up, let alone read. You could always get the latest blockbuster, but delve a little deeper and you'd find books that were not stocked anywhere else, novels that, like the perfect crime, were hidden from public view. The Martin Beck novels by Sjöwall & Wahlöö – probably my favourite sequence of novels in any genre – were introduced to me via Murder One, as were Kem Nunn, Sue Grafton, and Henning Mankell. It's also the staff of Murder One who piqued my interest in the inimitable Fred Vargas, and I can't thank them enough for the introduction.

Inclusive and without snobbery, Murder One amply demonstrated that the best bookshops are places not just of commerce, but of community; places that make feel you belong. It's the kind of store that bibliophiles dream about: well-stocked, well-staffed and shabby enough to lose days browsing within. It's just unfortunate that such shops don't have enough paying customers to keep them afloat, or that these customers visit all too infrequently – something of which I'm certainly guilty.

These kinds of shops are facing a long, bloody battle – and one which, without significant reinforcements, they are likely to lose. As we hear of the travesty of another brilliant independent going down, we'll mourn the loss, wring our hands and damn Amazon and the supermarkets and Waterstone's. Yet perhaps the most important detail we'll probably keep under wraps: the last time we actually spent any money there.

Murder One closing its doors for the final time is undoubtedly a .38 shell for independent bookshops, but whether it's body blow or a warning shot all depends upon us, the consumers. No one, no matter how iconic or established, can exist on fond memories alone: just ask Woolworths. Use these shops now, because it doesn't take a master sleuth to deduce what will happen if we don't.

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In focus: Liz Jobey continues her series on photography books with Richard Benson's personal tour through the evolution of the printed image

The green room: Carol Ann Duffy, poet
Imogen Russell-Williams: Vampires in the Twilight books not only lack bite, it pains me to say they even wear beige and sparkle in sunlight, so let's find out who the real suckers are