La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

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In this resolution he remained fixed, and in this frame of mind he
received his truant sons on their return to Echanbroignes on the Sunday
morning. They entered the village together with Chapeau, about nine in
the morning, having been met about a mile from the town, by four or five
friends, who escorted them back. Annot was not there, for she was very
busy at home, preparing breakfast for her brothers and lover. She at any
rate was determined that the prodigal sons should be received with a
fatted calf.

Chapeau marched up through the village at the head of the little
procession to bear the brunt of the father's anger, as his station in
life, and standing in the army made him feel superior even to the fury
of old Michael Stein. As they approached the door of the smith's house,
they saw him sitting in the little porch with a pipe in his mouth, for
Michael was never found without one or two implements; he had always
either his hammer or his pipe in lull activity.

"Welcome back to Echanbroignes, M. Chapeau, welcome back," said the old
man. "I am heartily glad to see so brave a soldier in my poor cabin!"
and he gave his hand to Jacques.

"And here be two other brave soldiers, Michael Stein, who, I hope, are
also welcome to Echanbroignes; and this I will say, any father in Poitou
might be proud to own them for his Sons: for gallanter fellows there are
not in the whole army of La Vendee, and that is saying a long word."

There was a little crowd round the smith's house, and in spite of his
unmilitary predilections, he could not help feeling proud at the public
testimony that was paid to his sons' merits: he showed this by the tear
that stood in his eye, as he said:

"They are welcome too, M. Chapeau; they are very welcome too. I am glad
to see ye, safe and sound from the wars, lads. I am glad to see thee,
Jean: I am glad to see thee, Peter," and he gave a hand to each of the
two young men, who were delighted with their unexpected kind reception.
"And this I will say before the neighbours here, as ye would go to the
wars, and make soldiers of yourselves, I am well pleased to hear ye
behaved yourselves like gallant brave men should do. I'd sooner that
your friends should have had to tell me that ye were both stiff and
cold, than that ye should have returned yourselves with shamed faces to
own that ye had disgraced the trade ye have chosen to take up with."

"Bravo! Bravo!" said Chapeau, "I am glad in my heart, Michael Stein, to
hear you speak so kindly to the lads; and so will M. Henri be glad to
hear it, for they are two of his own especial troop--they are two of the
gallant red scarfs, who swam into Saumur with their muskets tucked under
their arms."

"But understand me, boys," continued the smith, still speaking so that
the neighbours standing round could hear him. "I am right glad to see
both of you, as I am to see M. Chapeau, or any other gallant friend who
is kind enough to visit me and Annot. But mind, it is as visitors I
receive you; in a few days, doubtless, you must go away to the wars
again; till then ye shall have the best I can give, both to eat and to
drink. Ye shall have your own way, and never be asked to do a turn of
work. Ye shall have gay holyday times, and holyday fare, and anything
the old man can do, and anything the old man can give to make you merry,
he will do, and he will give, because you have come back gallantly, and
have not brought dishonour to the roost where ye were hatched--but more
than this I will not agree to. Ye would not abide at home, as I desired,
and this therefore is no longer a home for you; ye would not be content
to be forgers of weapons, but ye must e'en use them too, and ye have had
your way. Now, lads, I must have my way; and for the rest of the time
I must have it alone. This is no longer your home, lads, and I m no
longer your master. Ye would be soldiers when I did not wish it; now let
ye be soldiers, and I'm the less sorry for it, as it seems like that
you'll prove good soldiers. And now, Peter and Jean, you're welcome both
of you. Jacques Chapeau you are most heartily welcome--come Annot, let
the lads have a swinging breakfast, for I know these soldiers fight not
well unless they be fed well," and so finishing his speech, he led the
way into the cottage.

The three men were too well pleased with their reception to grumble at
the smith's mode of expressing his feeling. Jean and Peter were
delighted to find that they were to be entertained with the best their
father could afford, instead of with black looks and hard words, and
that the only punishment to be immediately inflicted on them, was that
they were to do no work; the party, therefore, entered the cottage
tolerably well pleased with each other.

It is not to be supposed that Annot remained in the back-ground during
the whole of her father's oration. She had come out of the cottage, and
kissed her two brothers, and shaken hands with her lover; she then
returned in again, and Chapeau had followed her, and as the two were
left alone together, for a minute or two, I think it very probable that
she kissed him also; but I cannot speak positively on this point.

Then they all sat down to breakfast, and Paul Rouel and old Gobelin, who
had contrived to be of the party, were greatly surprised to hear and to
see how civil Michael was to his sons. He pressed them to eat of the
very best, as he did to Chapeau, and talked to them about the war,
listened to all their tales, and had altogether lost the domineering
authoritative tone of voice, with which he usually addressed his own
family; it was only in talking to Annot that he was the same
hot-tempered old man as ever. The two young men themselves were hardly
at their ease; but they eat their breakfast, and made the best they
could of it.

"Smothered fire burns longest, neighbour Gobelin," said Rouel, as he
left the house. "Take my word, Michael will never forgive those two boys
of his the longest day he has to live."

After breakfast, Michael Stein and his whole party went to mass, as did
all the soldier peasants, who had returned from Saumur; and the old Cure
of the parish, who had now recovered possession of his own church, with
much solemnity returned thanks to God for the great victory which the
Vendeans had gained, and sung a requiem for the souls of the royalists
who had fallen in the battle. When they left the church, the peasants
all formed themselves into a procession, the girls going first, and the
men following them; and in this manner they paraded round the green,
carrying a huge white flag, which had been embroidered in the village,
and which bore in its centre, in conspicuous letters of gold, those
three words, the loyal Shibboleth of La Vendee, "Vive le Roi!"

This flag they fixed on a pole erected in the centre of the green, and
then they set to work to amuse themselves with twenty different games.
The games, however, did not flourish--the men were too eager to talk of
what they had done, and the girls were too willing to listen--they
divided themselves into fifty little parties, in which fifty different
accounts were given of the taking of Saumur, and in each party three or
four different warriors were named as having been the most conspicuous
heroes of the siege. Each narrator had some especially esteemed leader
or chief, who in his eyes greatly exceeded the other leaders, and the
prodigious feats of valour performed by this favoured warrior was the
first and most wonderful subject of discourse. Then, but at a modest
distance, as regards the glory of the achievements related, each peasant
told what he had done himself; two or three probably made out their
little history together, and told of each other's valour: that homely
and somewhat vulgar Scotch proverb, "you scratch my back, and I'll
scratch yours," was certainly unknown to them, but nevertheless they
fully recognized the wise principle of mutual accommodation which that
proverb teaches.

"It's no use talking, but there isn't one of them able to hold a candle
to our M. Henri--is there, Louis? that is, for a downright thundering
attack."

This was said by Jean Stein to two or three of the village girls, by
whom he was looked on as a great hero, in consequence of his having gone
to the war in spite of his father's commands, as well as on account of
Chapeau's honourable testimony in his favour; and the man referred to,
was one Louis Bourdin, who, as well as Jean, had been of the party who
followed Henri through the moat.

"That there is not, Jean; that is, for positive standup fighting; not
one. And we ought to know, for we have seen most of 'em. There's
Cathelineau is a very good man at leading on the men."

"Oh, yes I" said Jean, "Cathelineau is a fine fellow too, and a very
holy man; but somehow I don't think he's quite so forward as M. Henri.
M. Henri is always the first."

"But doesn't he get dreadfully knocked about by the guns and bullets?"
asked one of the girls.

"He doesn't matter that a pinch of snuff," said Louis.

"No, not a pinch of snuff," said Jean. "Do you mind, Louis, how he leapt
off his horse, and dashed through the trenches, that first night at
Varin? wasn't it beautiful?"

"You may say that, Jean," answered Louis; "it was beautiful. And what
a night that was--you were along with him, Jean, and so was Chapeau. M.
Henri was up first, I can swear to that; but it would puzzle any one to
say who was second."

"Yourself Louis, was as quick as any one--I marked you well. Indeed
then, said I to myself, if all our men are as forward as Louis Bourdin,
the village will have a great name before the war is over."

"But tell me truly now, Louis Bourdin," said a little girl, who was
listening intently all the time, "when you went up into that place, were
there real soldiers in armour, with guns and cannon firing at you all
the time?"

"Truly then there were, Lolotte, hundreds of them," said Bourdin.

"Well, that is horrible!" said the girls all at once.

"And do you remember, Jean," continued Bourdin, "when M. Henri dashed
down again, how the traitor rebels hallooed out, 'Fire upon the red
scarf!' Well, I did think it was all up with him then. You were close
to him, Jean; nearer than I am to Lolotte now."

"And that's quite near enough," said Lolotte, giving him a push.

"Why I'm sure I was doing nothing; I was only wanting to show you. Jean
Stein there, was, as I was saying, quite close to M. Henri; and as they
leapt out of the camp together, twenty voices roared out at once, 'Fire
upon the red scarf! fire upon the red scarf!' Oh! that was a fearful
evening; it was dark then, and the light of the smoking, glaring torches
made it five times more horrible. I thought we were as good as dead men
then. I'm sure I for one can't guess how we ever got out alive."

"And yet, M. Henri wasn't wounded," said Jean; "well it was wonderful.
After all, General d'Elbee must be right; Providence must give a shake
to a rebel's arm, just as he's firing, so as to send his bullet anywhere
but where it's meant to go."

"Yes," said Bourdin, "and it directs the shot of a royalist right into
a rebel's heart."

Well, if that be so," said Lolotte, "I'm sure I for one wouldn't like
to fight on the rebel's side. They must be wonderful brave men to hold
out at all, when Providence goes against them in that way."

"But they don't hold out, girl," said Jean, "they always run away; how
they did run, Bourdin, when M. Henri led us into the town, through the
broken wall; well, I believe they all thought at that time, the devil
himself was coming for them out of the moat."

"Only think, girls, three or four thousand men running away as fast as
their feet could carry them, from two hundred fellows, who hadn't a
charge of dry powder among them, and who were all themselves dripping
wet through; well that was fine."

Jacques Chapeau and Annot Stein had not joined any of these parties;
they had disappeared soon after mass, and were not heard of for three
or four hours afterwards; they took a long ramble by themselves, down
by the mill-stream, and far beyond the mill; sitting down, every now and
then among the willows, and then getting up and strolling on a bit
further; they did not, this day, waste their time in foolish quarrels
and fond reconciliations; but discoursed together, sundry serious
matters of important business, as becomes people to do, when they think
of arranging a partnership concern, from which each intends to get a
comfortable means of living for the remainder of his or her life; upon
the whole, they had but very few subjects of difference, and by their
return to the smith's house at supper-time, they had fully agreed that
no further time ought to be lost, in establishing a firm under the name
of Jacques and Annot Chapeau and Co. The Co. being left to come
afterwards or not, as God might please.

After supper was over, Annot had no difficulty in inducing her brothers
to leave the house, and thus the coast was left clear for Jacques to ask
the father's consent to his intended marriage. Neither he nor Annot
expected much difficulty in persuading Michael to accept of so promising
a son-in-law; but they were both determined that if they could not marry
with his consent, they would do so without it. So Chapeau lighted his
pipe, and sat himself down opposite the smith, and Annot retired to her
own little sleeping chamber, where she might conveniently hear what her
father and lover said to each other, respecting her intended nuptials.

"Well, Michael Stein, my old friend," said Jacques; "these are glorious
times, are they not? The rebels beaten hollow, till they haven't a face
to shew for themselves, and the King coming to La Vendee, to enjoy his
own again; it will be a fine thing to see the King riding into the
village of Echanbroignes to thank the gallant peasants, with his own
mouth, for what they have done for him!"

"Yes, M. Chapeau! those will be fine times when they come; pray God you,
and other young fellows like you, may live to see them; an old fellow
like me has little chance of such happiness."

"And why not, my friend? what is to make those days so far off? I tell
you, Michael Stein, the rebels were dead beaten at Saumur; they are
scattered like chaff; their very best soldiers are altogether hors de
combat; the war is as good as over. We may have to make a little trip
or two, just to receive the English, who are coming to help us; we may
have to go and meet them on the coast; or perhaps to Parthenay, to ask
M. Santerre what he wants in that part of the world; but that is all,
literally all; I tell you the rebels are clean beaten."

"I only wonder then, M. Chapeau, why you want the English to come and
help you, if, as you say, you have conquered all the republicans
yourselves?"

"Just to pay their respects to the King, and, perhaps, to lend us a hand
in driving those Jacobins out of Paris--that's all. Till that's done the
King is to live at Saumur."

"To live at Saumur, is he?"

"That's what those say who know most about it, and you know I'm in the
way to know what's really going forward. He's to hold his court at
Saumur, and Henri Larochejaquelin is to be commandant of the town, and
have the command of all the forces there. I tell you, Michael Stein, we,
that wear the red scarfs, will not be the worse off then."

"I hope not; in truth, M. Chapeau, I hope not; though they do say that
they be not wise who put their trust in princes."

"Princes!" said Jacques, "I am not talking of princes, I am talking of
the King himself, God bless him!"

"Well, perhaps, that does make a difference; and I say, God bless him
too, with all my heart."

"I suppose you've heard, Michael Stein, that our young General, M.
Henri, is going to be married?"

"Is he then?" said Michael. "No, truly, I did not hear a word of such
a matter; to some grand lady of the court, I suppose?"

"No, but to his own beautiful young cousin, Mademoiselle de Lescure, the
sister of our other General, you know."

"Well, may they be happy, both of them; I mind their fathers well; the
old Marquis is still alive, but greatly ailing they tell me. I have much
to be thankful for, and I do thank the Lord!" and as he spoke, Michael
Stein crossed himself. "Now, I'm as old in a manner as the Marquis
himself and yet you see I can still make the big hammer clink on the
anvil."

"Indeed you can, Michael, and better too than many a young fellow. But,
as we were saying, here is M. Henri going to be married, and his lady
will surely be wanting some nice, tidy, handy, good-looking, smart young
woman to be about her, more as a sort of a companion, you know, than a
servant; in the same way, you mind, as I am now to M. Henri: now,
wouldn't that be a nice berth for your daughter, Annot Stein?"

As Chapeau described the nice, tidy, smart, pretty young woman, that the
future Madame de Larochejaquelin would be sure to require, Annot
smoothed down her little apron with both her hands, gave a complaisant
glance at her own neat little feet, and her bright holiday shoes, and
then listened eagerly for her father's answer.

"I am sure, M. Chapeau, that Annot Stein is very thankful for your good
wishes," said he, "and so is her father, very thankful; but she has not
court-breeding enough for that sort of work; she has never learnt to
speak smooth, and say pretty little flattering sayings, such as ladies
like to hear. Nor when Madame would be out of sorts and ruffled, as
great. ladies will be sometimes, would she know how to say the right
word just at the right time; and then Annot has too much of her father's
rough blood, and if Madame scolded at all, it's ten chances to one, but
she would scold again, and that, you know, wouldn't do. No, M. Chapeau,
Annot had better remain as she is, and keep her father's house, till she
marries some honest tradesman, like myself, when these deadly wars be
over."

"Well, but my dear friend," said Chapeau, "I had another little
proposition I wanted to make, which would fit in so well with what I
suggested; and I can assure you Madame Henri, that is Mademoiselle de
Lescure as she is now, you know, is the softest, sweetest-tempered
creature living--she wouldn't quarrel with any one, much less with such
a little angel as your daughter."

"I'm sure," said Michael, making a low bow to his guest, and pressing
the handle of his pipe to his breast. "I'm sure my daughter will be
very thankful for the great interest you take respecting her."

"But as I was saying, you know, about this other little proposition of
mine?"

"Well, M. Chapeau, I'm listening with all my ears, and very thankful for
your kind friendship."

"You see," said Jacques, "M. Henri is going to change his condition;
we've both been young fellows together; we've had our amusements and our
pleasures like other young men, and, maybe, been as fortunate as most.
Well, my friend, M. Henri is going to settle down, and marry the girl
of his heart, whom he loves better than all the world; and what can I
do better than follow his example? The truth is, I mean to settle down
too, Michael Stein."

"Well," said Michael, scratching his head, and listening for the
remainder of Chapeau's little proposition.

"And I want to marry the girl of my heart, whom I love better than all
the world, and her name is Annot Stein, and there's an end of it; and
now you know all about it."

Annot's heart beat quickly as she heard him make the last important
declaration; and beautifully she thought he made it. When Chapeau called
her a little angel, she swore to herself that he was the dearest fellow
that ever lived and when he finished by protesting that she was the girl
of his heart, and that he loved her better than all the world, she
longed to run out and throw her arms about his neck.

Michael Stein took a long pull at his pipe, and blew out a huge cloud
of tobacco before he made any answer, and then he said:

"M. Chapeau, I am sensible how great an honour you propose to do me and
my poor daughter; but I am not a proud man, no one can say that Michael
Stein was ever proud or ambitious; my only wish is to see my little girl
married to a decent hard-working fellow, like her father."

"Well, ain't I a hard-working fellow?"

"Let me look at your hands, M. Chapeau; the inside of your hands. No,
you are not a hard-working fellow; your hand is as soft as a lady's."

"What signifies my hand? I shan't make a worse husband, shall I, because
my hand is not as horny as your own."

"No, but a hard-fisted fellow is the only man that will suit my
daughter."

"But, Michael Stein, she herself thinks--"

"Who ever heard of asking a girl what she thinks herself? Of course
she'd sooner be a fine lady, and spend her time walking about a big
chateau than be milking cows and minding goats."

"But won't she be earning her living and her wages honestly?"

"Wages! I don't like those sort of wages, M. Chapeau. I don't mean to
say auything uncivil, and I hope you won't take it amiss, but there are
two trades I don't fancy for my children: the one is that of a soldier,
the other that of a great man's servant."

"Gracious me, Michael Stein! why I'm both," said Chapeau, rather
offended.

"I beg your pardon again and again, and I really mean no offence: clown
as I am, I hope I know better than to say anything to hurt my own guest
in my own house."

Chapeau assured him he was not offended, and begged to know why the old
man objected to see his children become soldiers or servants.

"They've no liberty," said Michael, "though they usually take a deal too
much licence. They never are allowed to call their time their own,
though they often misuse the time that ought to belong to other people."

For a long time Chapeau combatted such arguments as these, but without
avail; the smith declared that now, as his two sons had become soldiers,
it would break his heart if his daughter also were to marry one. He
assured Jacques, with tears running down his rough cheeks, that he could
not bring himself to give his daughter his blessing, if she left his
house without his leave to marry a soldier. He declared that he also
loved her better than all the world, and that he could not bear to part
with her; and his tears and kindly words had such an effect upon Annot,
that she could not restrain herself: she burst into tears herself and
running out of her little room, threw herself into her father's arms.

"Get up, thou simpleton; get up, thou little fool," said he. "Why,
Annot, what ails thee?"

"Oh, father! dear father!" said she.

"Get up then, Annot, and I'll speak to thee. I never saw thee in this
way before."

"Oh, father!" she said, sobbing violently, "do you love your poor
daughter so very, very much?"

"Love you, Annot! why yes, I do love you. If you'll be a good girl, that
is, I will love you."

"I will be a good girl, dear father; indeed I'll be a good girl; at any
rate I'll try. But then--" and she stood up, and commenced wiping her
eyes with her little apron.

"Well, what then, Annot?" said the smith.

"But then--I wouldn't anger you, father, for all the world; indeed I
wouldn't, for you always are so good to me, and I know I don't deserve
it," and poor Annot continued sobbing and rubbing her eyes with her
apron.

"Nonsense, girl, nonsense!" said Michael; "I don't find any fault with
you. Don't think of getting yourself married till these wars be over,
that's all," and he kissed her forehead, and patted her cheek as though
all the difficulty were over.

"But, father--?" continued Annot, with her apron still to her face.

"Well, child, what is it? By the blessed mass, M. Chapeau, I don't know
what the girl's crying for."

"Do you love your own little Annot so very, very much?" said she, and
she put her soft arm round his rough neck, and placed her cheek quite
close to his.

"There, Annot; why what nonsense, girl! Don't you know I love you?
didn't you hear me say so this minute? Leave off, will you, you little
slut! why, what will M. Chapeau think of us? Well, I declare she's
crying still!"

"But if you really, really love me, father--"

"Bother the girl! she knows I love her better than anything else; God
forgive me."

"If you really love me," repeated Annot, nestling her head in her
father's bosom, "you must, you must, you must--do something that I'll
ask you, father."

"And what is it, child? I doubt much it's nonsense."

"You must love Jacques Chapeau too, father," and having uttered these
important words, Annot clung fast to her father's arms, as if she feared
he was going to throw her off, and sobbed and cried as though her heart
were breaking.

The battle between the contending factions, namely, the father on one
side, and the daughter with her lover on the other, was prolonged for
a considerable time, but the success was altogether with Annot. Chapeau
would have had no chance himself against the hard, dry, common sense of
the smith; but Annot made her appearance just at the right moment,
before the father had irrevocably pledged himself, and the old man was
obliged to succumb; he couldn't bring himself to refuse his daughter
when she was lying on his bosom and appealing to his love; so at last
he gave way entirely, and promised that he would love Jacques Chapeau
also; and then Chapeau, he also cried; and, I shudder as I write it, he
also kissed the tough, bronzed, old wiry smith, and promised that he
would be a good husband and son-in-law.

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