Various - "Scientific American Supplement No. 275"

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La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

A >> Anthony Trollope >> La Vendee




Master and mistress, servants and guests, worked hard, and at about two
o'clock, the hour at which Westerman and his troop were starting for
their quick ride, they had completed their task.

"You have killed yourself, dearest love," said Henri, pressing his arm
round Marie's waist.

"Oh, no!" said she, smiling, but still so weary that she could hardly
have stood unless he had held her; "I have not fought and conquered ten
thousand republicans; but I don't know how you must feel."

Henri, however, insisted that she should go to bed and she, delighted
to show her first act of obedience to his will, did as he desired her.
She was soon undressed; she offered her prayers to heaven for her
brother and sister-in-law, but with a stronger fervour for the dear
companion and protector to whom she had sworn to devote her life, and
then she laid her head upon her pillow, intending to think over her
happiness; a few moments, however, were sufficient to change her half
fearful thoughts of love and danger into blessed dreams of love and
happiness. Poor girl! she did not long enjoy her happy rest.

De Lescure and Henri determined to remain up till the departure of the
waggon. Madame de Lescure went up to. her room, and the two gentlemen
went down towards the farmyard. The waggon stood at the kitchen-door
already packed, and the two servants were bringing the oxen down the
road to yoke them to it.

"Go out at the front gate, Francois, and by the church at Terves; it is
the better road. You will remain a couple of hours in Bressuire. We
shall overtake you before you reach Beaulieu."

The servant acknowledged his master's commands, and fastened the last
rope which bound the oxen to their burden. He spoke to his beasts, and
accompanied his word with a goad from a pointed stick he held in his
hand, when his farther progress was stopped by Henri's calling from a
little distance down the road.

"Stop, Francois, stop!" said he. "Charles, come here; some one is coming
hither at the top of his speed. Don't you hear the noise of hoofs upon
the road?"

De Lescure ran to him, and kneeling down, put his ear to the ground.
"It's a donkey or a mule," said he; "it is not a horse's foot."

"Come down the avenue," said Henri, "and let us see who it is. Whether
mule or horse, the beast is going at his full speed."

"Better stay where we are," said de Lescure. "If he be coming to us, his
news will reach the house quicker than by our going to meet him."

The rider grew nearer and nearer, and in a few moments turned up the
road leading to the back of the house. The steps of the tired brute
became slower as he trotted up the avenue, although the sound of a
cudgel on his ribs were plainly audible. Henri and de Lescure were
standing under the garden wall, and as the animal drew near them, they
saw it was a jaded donkey, ridden by a peasant girl.

"Fly, for the sake of God!" said the girl, even before she dismounted
from the donkey; "fly for the sake of the blessed Virgin. Take the
ladies from the chateau, or they will be burnt--be burnt--be burnt!"

As she screamed the last words she slipped from the donkey, and almost
fainted with the exertion she had undergone. She was the daughter of one
of M. de Lescure's servants, and had been sent from Clisson into service
at the chateau, from whence Westerman started on his expedition. When
the republicans made their appearance there, she had fled with the other
servants, but she had hung about the house, and about an hour and a half
before Westerman left the place she learnt, through some of the
soldiers, his intention of attacking Clisson that night.

"Who is coming to burn us, Marian?" said de Lescure, endeavouring by his
own assumed coolness to enable her to collect her thoughts and power of
speech.

"The blues--the blues!" screamed the girl. "They had all but overtaken
me when I got to the short cut through the wood. There they are, there
they are," and the noise of the advancing troop was distinctly audible
through the stillness of the night.

The poor girl was quite exhausted, and fell to the ground fainting. De
Lescure and Henri had both stood still for a moment, after having been
made to comprehend that an immediate attack was about to be made on the
chateau, but it was only for a moment.

"We must carry them through the wood, Charles," said Henri, whispering.
"It is our only chance."

"True--true," said de Lescure. "Turn the oxen, Francois, turn them back
through the yard into the farm-road, and then keep to the left into the
wood. We will meet you at the seven limes."

"Take Victorine out through the garden," said Henri to his cousin, who
was now hurrying into the house, "and through the iron gate. I saw the
other day that the key was in it, and we can turn it. I tried it myself.
I will bring Marie after you."

Henri stayed a moment to assist in turning the cumbrous waggon, and ran
back to open the farm gates.

"Close the gates after you, Francois," said he, "and put the tressels
close against them. If you lose a minute in doing it, you will gain five
in delaying these devils. If you hear them following you in the
wood-road, draw the waggon across the track and leave it."

He was only delayed two minutes by going back to the yard gates, but
those two minutes were nearly fatal to him and Marie. Marian also
delayed him again as he returned to the house.

"Where am I to go, M. Henri," said she; "what am I to do? they will be
sure to kill me, for they saw me at Amaillou, and will know that I gave
the warning."

"Hide yourself, my girl," said Henri: "hide yourself, but not in the
house, for that will soon be a mass of ruins. Hide yourself in the
woods; there cannot be many of these devils here, and they will not
remain long."

He hurried into the house as he ceased speaking, and at the moment he
did so Westerman and his thirty men turned the corner of the avenue. He
rushed from the back door through the passages of the chateau into the
hall, where he seized hold of a large cloak belonging to de Lescure,
which he threw over his shoulder as he ran up stairs. On the stairs he
met his cousin, with Madame de Lescure and the nurse and child.

"Haste, Henri, for God's sake, haste," said she; "I heard the tramp of
their horses through my open window."

De Lescure had opened the summer door leading into the garden as he came
up stairs, to have it ready for his exit, and he, and those under his
care, escaped through it into the garden.

"Shut the garden door," roared Henri to him from the top of the
staircase. "Shut the door, whatever you do." De Lescure could not
understand his object, but he trusted his cousin, and closed the door
as he passed through it. Henri had perceived that it would be impossible
for him to regain the hall, and had resolved to jump from the window of
the staircase into the garden, with his precious burden in his arms. He
foresaw that if the door were left open, pursuit through it would be
both inevitable and fatal.

Marie's room was close to the top of the stairs, and her lover did not
use much ceremony in opening the door. In going to and from his wife's
chamber, de Lescure had not passed it, and therefore the innocent girl
slept soundly till Henri's sudden entrance roused her from her dreams.

"Who's that--who's that," said she, raising her head upon her pillow.
The window curtains of the room were hardly closed, and she recognised
immediately Henri's tall figure, and singular costume. "Oh! Henri, what
has happened? what brings you here?"

"Rise, dearest, we must fly," said he: "we have not a moment--we fear
the blues are coming." He dreaded that she would have lost all power of
motion, had he told her that they were already beneath the windows.

"Haven't I time to dress?" said she; "I won't be a moment--not one
minute."

"No, darling," answered he, raising her from the bed, as though she were
an infant, and folding her in her brother's cloak. "We haven't one
instant to throw away. Remember who has you in his arms: remember that
it is I, your own Henri, who am pressing you to my heart." He took her
up from the bed in his left arm, and with his right hand arraigned the
cloak around her person, and carrying her out into the passage, hurried
to the window which he had left open.

This window looked from the opposite end of the house to that at which
Westerman found the open door. It was on the first landing of the
staircase, and was therefore distant from the ground but little more
than half the height of the ground floor, but a hard gravel path ran
immediately under it; and though the leap was one which few young men
might much hesitate to take with empty arms, it was perilous with such
a burden as Henri had to carry. He however did not think twice about it,
and would have considered himself and his charge nearly safe could he
have reached the window unmolested, but that he was not allowed to do.

As he began to descend the stairs the loud noise of the troopers' boots,
and the quick voice of Westerman giving his commands in the hall, told
him at once that the house was already occupied by the blues. Even then,
at that awful moment, he rejoiced at his precaution in having desired
de Lescure to close the garden door. He took a large horse pistol from
his belt, and holding it by the barrel, jumped down three stairs at a
time, and already had his foot on the sill of the open window, when
serjeant Craucher, who had been the first of the blues to enter the
house, rushing up the stairs, succeeded in getting hold of the cloak
which covered Marie. He pulled it from off her neck and shoulders, and
her beautiful dark clustering curls fell down over Henri's shoulder. Her
pale face, and white neck and bosom were exposed: her eyes were fast
closed, as though she expected instant death, but both her arms were
tightly fastened round her lover.

Craucher stumbled in his hurry in rushing up the stairs, but he still
held fast to the collar of the cloak.

"I must stop your further journey, my pretty dear," said he: "the night
air is not good for you--by heavens it's the red--"

He never finished his speech, or attempted to make another. On entering
the back door he had struck his brazen head-piece against the lintel;
the shock had broken the clasp, and his head was consequently bare. As
he pulled at the cloak, Henri raised his right arm powerfully, and drove
the butt-end of the pistol which he held, right through his skull, and
scattered his brains upon the staircase. The grasp of the dying man was
so firm that he could not extricate the cloak from his fingers. He saw
that his only chance of escape was to relinquish it; he did so, and as
he leapt from the window to the ground, poor Marie had nothing round her
but her slight night dress.

Henri stumbled as he came to the hard gravel, but still he allowed no
portion of Marie's body to touch the ground. He recovered himself in a
moment, and made for the iron gate leading from the garden to the wood,
through which de Lescure and his wife had escaped.

As Henri leapt from the window Westerman's eye had caught sight of the
red scarf, and he knew that it was Larochejaquelin who was escaping. He
rushed himself to the window, though, had he known it, he might have
gone into the garden through the door, which was close at his hand. He
leapt on the path, and was immediately on Henri's track. It was about
three hundred yards from the house to the iron gate, and when Westerman
was again on his feet, Henri had covered two thirds of the distance.

Run now, Henri, run your best, for the load you carry is heavy, and the
German is strong and light of foot; his pistols, too, are loaded, and
he well knows how to use them; but yours are empty, and you will not
find another bare skull opposed to your heavy right hand; run, dear
friend, and loving cousin; run faster with that precious trembling
burden of yours, or all you have yet done, will have been done in vain.

But what avails his running: he did run fast and well, laden as he was,
and fatigued with no ordinary day's work: he gained the gate, while as
yet his pursuer was above a hundred yards behind him; but of what avail
would that be, if he were obliged to leave the passage free for his
enemy: it was impossible that he should continue to hold his ground,
while he carried the fainting girl in his arms. It was then that that
wonderful presence of mind, in the midst of the most urgent danger, of
which Henri Larochejaquelin showed so many instances during war, stood
him in stead, and saved two lives, when salvation seemed impossible.

In wandering about the place some days before, he had passed through
this gate, and observing that the key stood in the lock, he had idly
turned it backwards and forwards, locking and relocking the gate without
an object; he had then observed that though the key worked easily, there
was something wrong about the wards which prevented him from drawing it
out after the lock was turned. The gate was made of iron bars, which
were far enough asunder to allow of his hand and arm being passed
through, so that when outside the gate he could then turn the key which
was on the inside.

All these particulars he remembered in that moment of agony, and
resolved what he would do to overcome the difficulties which they threw
in his way. Having passed through the gate, he dropped his now senseless
companion beneath the shelter of the wall, and passing his hands through
the bars, turned the key and locked it. He then took out a short
hunting-knife which he wore, and passing that also through the bars of
the gate, he inserted it in the handle of the key, and then wrenching
it round with all his force, broke the key in the wards: all the smiths
in Poitou could not have locked the gate closer, or made it more
impossible to open it.

Though the feat is tedious to explain, it did not take half a minute in
performance; but still it allowed Westerman to come within pistol shot
of him before he could get beneath the shelter of the wall. The German,
however, in his anxiety to get through the gate, omitted to fire, though
he had the pistol in his hand; he seized hold of the iron bars and shook
them impotently: strong as he was, the gate was much too firm to be
moved by his strength; the wall was twelve feet high, and utterly beyond
his power to scale without a ladder.

He felt that he was foiled, and returned to the chateau to wreak his
vengeance upon the inhabitants who might be left there, and on the
furniture and walls of the house itself.

Henri pursued his way unopposed, and at the appointed spot, a little
greensward surrounded by seven lime trees, he found his cousin and the
rest of the party waiting for him, as well as Francois with the waggon.

"Is she safe--is she alive?" asked Madame de Lescure, almost frantic
with grief and fear.

"She is alive, and I believe unhurt," said Henri; "but I fear she is
senseless. She is quite undressed, too, as I was obliged to leave the
cloak in which I had covered her, in the dying grasp of a trooper whom
I killed." He gently laid her down, with her head in the lap of her kind
sister, and then turned his back upon the party, that he might not gaze
on the fair bosom, which was all exposed, and the naked limbs, which her
dishevelled night dress did not suffice to cover.

Madame de Lescure and her nurse hastened to strip themselves of a
portion of their clothes; it had been lucky that neither of them were
undressed at the time of the attack, and though they were ill-prepared
for a long journey, having neither caps nor strong shoes, nor shawls of
any kind, yet they contrived between them to dress poor Marie decently.
The nurse gave her shoes and stockings, declaring that going barefoot
would not trouble her the least, and before many minutes had been
wasted, they were again ready to proceed.

De Lescure and Henri had not lost these precious moments: the waggon was
again put into motion: the three men carefully armed themselves: they
loaded their pistols, for among the goods they were taking away, was the
little remnant of gunpowder which was left among them: they decided that
on hearing the first sound of pursuit, they would leave the waggon, and
betake themselves to the thickest part of the woods; but both de Lescure
and Henri were of opinion that they would not be followed.

"There cannot be many of them," said Henri, "and what there are, are all
mounted. They are the German hussars; I know them by their brazen
helmets. They won't attempt to follow us through the woods."

"They would have been after us before now had they intended doing so,"
said de Lescure. "The way was clear for them through the farm-yard,
Francois, was it not?"

"No, Monseigneur," said Francois. "It was anything but clear. I turned
the big bull out of his stall into the yard as I came out, and closed
the gate behind me: he would gore a dozen of them before they could make
their way through."

Whether the pursuit was arrested by the bull, or prevented by any other
cause, the fugitives were not interrupted. They walked wearily and
painfully, but yet patiently, and without a complaint above a league,
before the women ventured to get upon the waggon. They then got out upon
the road to Bressuire, at no great distance from that town, and on
reaching Bressuire they got refreshment and proper clothes, and hired
a voiture for the remainder of their journey.

Marie had hardly spoken from the moment when Henri dragged her from her
bed, to that in which he helped her in the waggon; but after she had
been sitting for a while, she indulged in a flood of tears, which she
had restrained as long as she felt that her life depended on her
exertions, and then calling Henri to her side, she thanked him, as she
so well knew how to do, for all he had done for her.

"You have saved my life, dearest, now," said she, "and ten times more
than my life; but I will not say that I love you better than I did
before. Had I not known that it was your arms which were around me, I
must have died when that horrid countenance glared over me on the
stairs. Have I dreamt since, or was I really looking upon that face,
when the agony of death came across it?" And as she asked the question,
she closed her eyes, and her whole body trembled violently.

"I will tell you all that happened another time, love," said he; "we
will not talk of these things now. A day or two at Durbelliere will
restore you to your spirits, and then we will rejoice over our escape."

They got into a voiture at Bressuire, and from thence continued their
journey in something more like comfort, while Francois with the waggon
followed them; but the two ladies were not destined to reach Durbelliere
that night. When they were about half-way between Bressuire and the
chateau, they were met by a man on horseback, who was already on his way
to Clisson. It was Jean Stein, who was hurrying as fast as his beast
could carry him from Durbelliere to M. Larochejaquelin; but instead of
explaining now what was the purport of his errand, we will return to
Clisson, and see how Westerman finished there the task he had
undertaken.

When he found himself foiled at the gate, he returned as quickly as
possible to the house. His men had already ransacked every room, and in
their anxiety to find the more distinguished inhabitants of the chateau,
allowed the domestics to escape; but few of them had been in bed, and
even they were overlooked in the anxiety of the troopers to find M. de
Lescure. They did not dream that any warning could have been given to
the chateau, nor could they conceive it possible that at three o'clock
in the morning the royalists should have been up, and ready for instant
flight. It was not till nearly five that they satisfied themselves that
neither de Lescure nor his wife, nor any of his family were in the
house; and then, at the command of their General, they commenced the
work of destruction.

The troopers got hay and straw from the farm-yard (not without some
opposition from the loose bull,) and piled them in every room in the
chateau; they then took the furniture, beds, curtains, wearing apparel,
and every article of value they could find, and placed them in heaps,
in such a way as to render them an immediate prey to the flames. They
did the same to the barns and granaries, in which there were large
stores of corn, and also to the stables, in which stood the horses and
cattle; the bull, which Francois had loosened, was the only animal about
the place that did not perish. Having systematically prepared the
chateau and out-houses for a huge bonfire, they put a light to the straw
in various places, and re-mounting their horses, stood around it till
they saw that no efforts which the peasants might use could extinguish
the flames. Westerman then gave the word of command for their return;
they started at a sharp trot, and he did not allow them to slacken their
pace till he had again passed the ruins of the little village of
Amaillou.

While the troopers were thus preparing to set the chateau in a blaze,
the General himself was not idle; he seated himself in the salon, and
having had pen, ink, and paper brought to him, he wrote the following
despatch to the President of the Convention, in which, it will be
observed, he studiously omitted all mention of the defeat which he had
incurred between Amaillou and Clisson, and the retreat which his army
had been forced to make. The date is given in the denomination which
will be intelligible to the reader, as the Fructidors and the Messidors,
Brumaires and Nivoses, which had then been adopted by the republicans,
now convey no very defined idea to people, who have not yet scrupled to
call the months by their old aristocratic names, or to count the year
from their Saviour's birth.

"Chateau of Clisson,

July 1798.

Citizen President,

I have the honour to acquaint you that I have already succeeded in
carrying the arms of the Convention as far as the residence of the most
powerful of the rebel leaders. As I am writing, my men are preparing to
set fire to this den of aristocratic infamy, and within an hour the
stronghold of the redoubted de Lescure will be level with the ground.

This wretched country is so crowded with ravines and rocks, and the
roads are so narrow, so deep, and so bad, that I have been forced to
make my way hither with a small detachment of thirty men only, but I
have found that sufficient to drive the tiger from his lair. He, and the
other rebel leader, Larochejaquelin, have fled into the woods, without
either money, arms, or even clothing; and I doubt not soon to be able
to inform the Convention that, at any rate, they can never again put
themselves at the head of a rebellious army.

Citizen President, deign to receive from my hands the only trophies
which I have deemed myself justified in rescuing from the flames which
are about to consume this accursed chateau. I enclose the will and a
miniature portrait of the aristocrat, de Lescure.

I pray you to receive, and to make acceptable to the Convention, the
most distinguished,

&c. &c. &c.

WESTERMAN."



CHAPTER IX

SANTERRE

Santerre and Adolphe Denot left the main army at Thouars, and made their
way to Argenton with about four thousand men. From thence, Durbelliere
was distant about four leagues; and Santerre lost no time in making his
preparations for destroying that chateau, as Westerman was at the same
moment doing at Clisson. Generally speaking, the people of the towns,
even in La Vendee sided with the republicans; but the people of Argenton
were supposed to be royalists, and Santerre therefore gave positive
orders that every house in it should be destroyed. He did not, however,
himself want to see the horrid work done, but hurried on to Durbelliere,
that he might, if possible, surprise the Vendean chiefs, whom he
believed to be staying there. About one hundred and fifty men followed
him, and the remainder of the army was to march on to Bressuire, as soon
as Argenton was in ashes.

Santerre, since he had left the company of the other Generals at
Thouars, had become more familiar and confidential with Denot, and rode
side by side with him from Argenton, talking freely about the manners
of the country, and the hopes of the royalists, till he succeeded in
getting the traitor into good humour, and obtaining from him something
like a correct idea of the state of the country.

"And this is the parish of St. Aubin?" said Santerre, as they drew near
to Durbelliere.

"Yes," said Denot, "this is the parish of St. Aubin; and the estate of
the Larochejaquelins."

"And they are popular with the people?" said Santerre. "They must have
been well loved, or they would not have been so truly followed."

Denot blushed at the heavy accusation against himself which these words
conveyed; but he made no answer.

"And this old man, my friend?" said Santerre, "this ancient cripple that
you tell me of? he is too old, too infirm, I suppose, to care much about
this revolt?"

"Not at all," said Denot; "no one in the country is more anxious for
success than the old Marquis."

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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