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La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

A >> Anthony Trollope >> La Vendee




"I never liked that man," said the priest, whispering to Arthur and
Chapeau, for the latter, from his exertion and zeal was looked upon
rather as an officer in the royalist army, than as a servant. "I never
liked Adolphe Denot, but I could never say why. The tone of his voice
was disagreeable to me, and the expression of his features aroused in
me both dislike and distrust. It is not long since M. Henri rebuked me
for being hard on him, and judging him harshly; and I was angry with
myself for having done so. I knew, however, there was something wrong
within him. He has turned out to be as base a creature as ever trod the
earth."

"It will be a desperate blow to M. Henri," said Chapeau, "for he loved
him as though he were his brother."

"I will be his brother now," said Arthur; "he shall love me in his
place."

"Ah! M. Arthur," said Chapeau, "his heart is large enough to love us
both; but when he hears how nobly you behaved last night, how you stood
by Mademoiselle Agatha, and protected her, you will be his real brother
indeed."

The little Chevalier's heart rose high within him, as he attempted to
speak slightingly of his own services. "Oh!" said he, "I couldn't do
much, you know, for I had only a stick; but of course we red scarfs will
always stick to each other. Denot, you know, never was a red scarf Well,
thank heaven for that; but I tell you what, Father Jerome, that Santerre
is not such a bad fellow; and so I shall tell Henri; he is not a bad
fellow at all, and he scorns Denot as he deserves to be scorned."



CHAPTER XI

ANNOT STEIN.

It will be remembered that the party escaping from the Chateau of
Clisson met Jean Stein, when they had come within four or five leagues
of Durbelliere. He had been sent from Echanbroignes, by Chapeau, to tell
Henri what had happened, to assure him that every possible effort would
be made to rescue his father and sister from the republicans, and if
possible to save the chateau, and to beg him to return home as speedily
as he possibly could. Jean was spared the greatest portion of his
journey, and having told his tale, added that perhaps "Messieurs would
not think it prudent to take the ladies with them to Durbelliere just
at present."

"Oh heavens! what are we to do?" said Madame de Lescure; "we are running
from one hostile army into the middle of another. Poor Agatha! my poor
Agatha! what will become of her?"

"Had we not better send them to Chatillon?" said Henri, speaking to de
Lescure. "They will, at any rate, be safe there for a time."

"We won't be sent any where--indeed we won't--will we, Marie?" said
Madame de Lescure. "Pray, Charles, pray do not send us away. Let us go
where you go. It cannot be worse for us than it is for you."

"You cannot go to the chateau, dearest, when we have every reason to
suppose it is in the hands of the republicans, and more than probably
burnt to the ground by this time."

"Oh! don't send me back to Chatillon," said Marie; "it would be hours
and hours before we should hear what happens to you, and what has
happened to Agatha."

"If the ladies wouldn't think ill of going to Echanbroignes," said Jean
Stein, "they would be safe there, and near at hand to learn all as it
goes on at Durbelliere. I am sure father and Annot would do their best
to make the ladies comfortable, as long as they might be pleased to stay
there."

After considerable discussion this plan was adopted. The party travelled
on together, till the roads to Durbelliere and Echanbroignes separated;
and then, with many charges, the two ladies were entrusted to the care
of the smith's son.

"We will come to you, or send to you the moment we are able," said de
Lescure," whether our news be good or bad. I trust we shall find them
safe, and that we shall all be together tomorrow at Durbelliere."

Marie and Madame de Lescure reached the village safely late in the
evening, and found no one in the smith's house but Annot. Even Michael
Stein himself had been moved by hearing that the republicans were
absolutely in possession of the chateau, and, old as he was, he had made
his way over to Durbelliere, and had not yet returned. Annot, however,
received them with good news; she had heard different messages from the
chateau during the day, and was able to tell them not only that the
Marquis, Agatha, and the house were safe, but that the republican
soldiers were all prisoners, and that Santerre--that object of horror
to many Vendean royalists, had himself been captured by the strong hand
and bold heart of Jacques Chapeau.

Neither of the ladies knew Annot Stein, or had even heard of her; but
Annot, though at present she was rather doleful, was not long in making
herself known to them, and explaining to them her own particular
connexion with the chateau.

She made up her own bed for one of them, and her father's for the other.
They were not, she said, such as ladies like them were accustomed to
sleep on, but the sheets were clean, and perhaps for one night they
would excuse the want of better accommodation. Madame de Lescure and
Marie declared that they were only too happy in being able to rest
quietly, with the knowledge that their friends were in safety. Poor
ladies! they were destined before long to encounter worse hardships than
Annot Stein's little bed, and frugal supper.

"But, Madame," said Annot, as she sat demurely on the corner of her
chair, "this Santerre is not the sort of man at all we all took him to
be. Peter was over here, though he has gone back again now, and Peter
says he is quite a good fellow in his way."

"What, Santerre!" said Marie, shuddering. "Oh! he is a most horrid
monster! It was he that led out our dear sainted King to be murdered;
it was he that urged on the furious mob to spill so much blood. They say
that in all Paris there is not a greater wretch than this Santerre."

"I don't know, Mademoiselle," said Annot, "but he certainly wasn't so
bad last night, for he might have killed them all had he chosen: and
instead of that he didn't kill any one, or let any of his party kill
them either, only he frightened poor old Momont nearly to death."

"God may have softened his heart," said Madame de Lescure; "if he has
really spared our friends, we will not speak ill of him."

"If he has done so," said Marie, "he will have his reward; for I am sure
Charles and Henri will spare him now that he is in their power."

"That's just what the people say," said Annot; "they say that it's M.
Henri's turn to be generous now, and that they're sure he won't hurt a
hair of this Santerre. Only they're determined on one thing--and it was
all Chapeau and Father Jerome could do to stop them till M. Henri came
home--they are determined to hang that horrid wretch Denot, the
monster! I shouldn't wonder if he were swinging by this time."

"And is it really true," said Madame de Lescure, "that it was M. Denot
who led the republicans to Durbelliere?"

"Oh! that's a positive fact," said Annot, "there's no doubt on earth
about that; and behaved most brutally to Mademoiselle Agatha. He would
have killed her with his own hand, before her father, only M. Santerre
wouldn't let him. He had his dagger out and all, and M. Santerre took
it from him with his own hand, and wouldn't let him speak another word.
Oh! indeed, ladies, M. Santerre is not half so bad as he looks to be."

"People say that the father of evil himself is painted blacker than he
really is," said Marie.

"I don't know about that, Mademoiselle, and I didn't hear that this
Santerre was painted black at all; and if he were so, I think Peter
would have told me. But then, ladies, the little Chevalier Mondyon came
in in the middle. It was he that sent Chapeau over here to bring the red
scarfs to the rescue. He is a little darling, is the Chevalier. I
suppose you know him, Mademoiselle?"

"Indeed I do, Annot, and love him dearly; he is an old sweetheart of
mine."

"He's too young to have a sweetheart yet, Mademoiselle; but you'll see
some of the ladies will be quarrelling for him yet, when he's a year or
two older. Well, after sending Jacques over here, he went back as bold
as possible into the middle of the republicans, before Santerre and all.
M. Denot was at his worst then. He had hold of Mademoiselle Agatha, and
was dragging her away from the Marquis, in spite of Santerre and the
whole of them, when the Chevalier raises his stick, and strikes him
across the face. I warrant you he let go Mademoiselle's hand when he
felt the sharp stick come across his eyes."

"It must have been a horrid sight for Agatha," said Madame de Lescure.

"Oh! indeed it was, Madame. Only fancy that traitor Denot going on in
that way, right before her eyes all night, and no one to protect her but
the little Chevalier; for when it got late M. Santerre threw himself on
the floor, and slept and snored like a hog. They say it was all for
love, Mademoiselle. They say this Denot was greatly in love with
Mademoiselle Agatha, and that she wouldn't look at him. Is it true, she
was so very scornful to him?"

"She was never scornful to any one," said Marie; "but if he ever asked
her for her love, I have no doubt she told him that she could not give
it to him."

"That's just what they say; and that then he asked her more and more,
and went down on his knees to her, and prayed her just as much as to
look at him; and kissed her feet, and cried dreadfully; and that all she
did was to turn aside her face, and bid him rise and leave her."

"What would you nave had her say, Annot, if she felt that she could not
love him?"

"Oh! I'm not presuming to find fault with her, Mademoiselle; heaven
forbid! Of course, if she couldn't love him, she could do nothing but
refuse him. But, heigho! it's a very dreadful thing to think of that a
nice young man like him--for I'm told that this Denot was a very nice
young man--should be so bewildered by love as he has been."

"Love couldn't make a man a traitor," said Marie, "nor yet a coward."

"I don't know, Mademoiselle, love is a very fearful thing when it
doesn't go right. Perhaps love never made you feel so angry that you'd
like to eat your lover's heart?"

"Gracious goodness, no," said Marie; "why, Annot, where did you get such
a horrid idea as that?"

"Ah! Mademoiselle, your lover's one in a hundred! So handsome, so noble,
so good, so grand, so amiable, so everything that a young lady could
wish to dream about: one, too, that never has vagaries and jealousies,
and nasty little aggravating ways. Oh! Mademoiselle, I look upon you as
the happiest young lady in the world.

"What on earth, Annot, do you know about my lover, or how on earth can
you know that I have a lover at all? Why, child, I and my cousin Agatha
are both going to be nuns at St. Laurent."

"The blessed Virgin forbid it," said Annot. "Not but what Mademoiselle
Agatha would look beautiful as a nun. She has the pale face, and the
long straight nose, and the calm melancholy eyes, just as a nun ought
to have; but then she should join the Carmelite ladies at the rich
convent of our Blessed Lady at St. Maxent, where they all wear beautiful
white dresses and white hoods, and have borders to their veils, and look
so beautiful that there need hardly be any change in them when they go
to heaven; and not become one of those dusty-musty black sisters of
mercy at St. Laurent."

"That's your idea of a nun, is it?" said Madame de Lescure.

"I'm sure, Madame, I don't know why any girl should try to make herself
look ugly, if God has made her as beautiful as Mademoiselle Agatha."

"And you think then Mademoiselle de Lescure is not fit for a nun at
all?"

"Oh, Madame, we all know she is going to be married immediately to the
finest, handsomest, most noble young nobleman in all Poitou. Oh! I'd
give all the world to have such a lover as M. Henri just for ten
minutes, to see him once kneeling at my feet."

"For ten minutes," said Marie. "What good would that do you? that would
only make you unhappy when the ten minutes were gone and past."

"Besides, what would you say to him in that short time?" said Madame de
Lescure.

"Say to him! I don't know what I'd say to him. I don't think I'd say one
word, but I'd give him such a look, so full of affection and gratitude,
and admiration, and--and--and downright real true love; that, if he had
any heart in him at all, I don't think he'd be so base as to go away
from me when the ten minutes were over."

"That's what you call borrowing a lover for ten minutes, is it?" said
Marie; "and if, as you say, this young gentleman is my property, what
am I to do for a lover the while?"

"I was only wishing, Mademoiselle, and you know there's no harm in
wishing. Besides, the finest lady in the world couldn't rob you of your
lover, let alone a poor girl like me. He is so true, and so noble, and
so good."

"And have not you a lover of your own, Annot?"

"Oh, indeed I have, and a very good one. For all my talking in that way,
I was never badly off for lovers, and now I've chosen one for good and
all; and I love him dearly, Madame; dote on him, and so does he on me,
but for all that there was a time when I really would have eaten his
heart, if I could have got at it."

"But that was before you had accepted each other."

"Not at all, Mademoiselle; not long since. I loved then as dearly as I
do now, but he let me walk home by myself three long leagues without
speaking a word to me, and all because I said that a man in a picture
had fine whiskers."

"A man in a picture! why this lover of yours must be a very jealous man,
or else he must be very badly off for whiskers himself?"

"No he's not, Mademoiselle; he's as nice a pair as you'd wish to see;
that is, begging your pardon, as nice a pair as I'd wish to see; and
he's not a jealous man either about other things."

"And when do you mean to marry him, Annot?"

"Oh, Mademoiselle, we are only waiting for you."

"Waiting for me, child! What on earth do you mean? who told you I was
going to be married at all?"

It was no wonder that Marie should be astonished at finding her wedding
so confidently spoken of by a stranger in Echanbroignes, considering
that it was not yet twenty-four hours since Henri had declared his love
for her at Clisson.

"But you are going to be married to M. Henri, are you not,
Mademoiselle?"

"Who told you all this? how is it you come to know so much about this
young lady and M. Henri?" said Madame de Lescure.

"Why, Jacques Chapeau told me. My own husband, that is, as is to be."

"Oh! that explains the mystery," said Marie; "and so Chapeau is your
lover is he? Chapeau is the man who couldn't bear the mention of the
fine pair of whiskers you saw in the picture? and did he tell you that
his master was going to be married immediately?" and Marie blushed as
she asked the question.

"Indeed he did, Mademoiselle, and he said besides--"

"Well, what did he say besides?"

"Why, I hardly like to say now, Mademoiselle; it will look like asking
a favour when I thought you could not well refuse it; and perhaps
Jacques was wrong to say anything at all about it."

Marie, however, was not long in inducing Annot to reveal to her
Chapeau's little plan of taking his own wife over to Durbelliere to wait
upon his master's wife, and she, moreover, promised that, as far as she
herself was concerned, she would consent to the arrangement, if, which
she expressly inserted, she should ever marry M. Larochejaquelin.

"But an't you engaged to him, Mademoiselle?"

"Well, Annot," answered she, "as you have told me so much, I don't mind
telling you that I am. But it will be long, probably, before I am
married, if ever I am. Men have other things to think of now than
marriage, and, alas! women too. We must wait till the wars are over,
Annot."

"But I thought the wars were over now, Mademoiselle. Haven't they got
that Santerre prisoner up at Durbelliere?"

"There's much, very much, I fear to do yet, and to suffer, before the
wars will be really over," said Madame de Lescure. "Heaven help us, and
guide us, and protect us! Come, Marie, let us go to rest, for I trust
Charles will send for us early in the morning."

Annot gave such assistance to her two guests as they required, and was
within her power, and then seating herself in her father's large arm
chair in the kitchen, pondered over the misery of living in times when
men were so busy fighting with their enemies, that they had not even
leisure to get married.

"And what, after all, is the use of these wars?" said she to herself
"What do they get by taking so many towns, and getting so many guns, and
killing so many men? I don't know who's the better for it, but I know
very well who's the worse. Why can't they let the blues alone; and the
blues let them alone? I worked my poor fingers to the bone making a
white flag before they went to Saumur, and all they did was to leave it
in the streets of Nantes. There's not so much as a bottle of beer, and
hardly a bushel of flour left in Echanbroignes. There's the poor dear
lovely Cathelineau dead and gone. There's M. Henri engaged to the girl
of his heart, and he can't so much as stay a day from fighting to get
himself married; and there's Jacques just as bad. If Jacques cares a bit
for me, he must take himself off, and me with him, to some place where
there's not quite so much fighting, or else I'll be quit of him and go
without him. I've no idea of living in a place where girls are not, to
be married till the wars are over. Wars, wars, wars; I'm sick of the
wars with all my heart."



CHAPTER XII

SENTENCE OF DEATH.

After parting with their companion, de Lescure and Henri were not long
in reaching Durbelliere; and on the road thither they also learnt that
Santerre, and upwards of a hundred blue horsemen, were prisoners in the
chateau, or in the barns, out-houses, or stables belonging to it; and
that the whole place was crowded with peasants, guarding their captives.
As they entered the chateau gates, they met Chapeau, who was at the
bottom of the steps, waiting for them; and Henri immediately asked after
his father.

"Monseigneur is much fatigued," said Chapeau, "but apparently well; he
is, however, still in bed."

"And my sister?" said Henri.

"Mademoiselle has of course been much fatigued, but she is well; she is
with your father, M. Henri."

"And tell me, Chapeau, is it true, is it really true that M. Denot
brought the blues here, and that since he has been here he has treated
my sister in the manner they describe?"

"It is true as gospel, M. Henri. I knew that this would be the worst of
the whole affair to you. I knew you would sooner the chateau should have
been burnt than have heard this. We are only waiting for you and M. de
Lescure, to hang him as a traitor from the big chestnut out on the road-
side. You might have seen as you came in, that they have the ropes and
everything ready."

Henri shuddered as he followed his cousin into the house. The steps were
crowded with his own followers, who warmly welcomed him, and
congratulated him on the safety of his father, his sister, and his
property; but he said very little to them; he was thinking of the friend
whom he had loved so well, who had so vilely disgraced himself, and
whose life he now feared he should be unable to save.

"Where is he?" said he to Chapeau.

"Who--Monseigneur?"

"No--M. Denot."

"He is in the great salon, with Santerre, and Father Jerome, and the
Chevalier, and three or four of the lads from Echanbroignes."

"Charles," said he, as he reached the door of the salon, "do you go in.
You are better able to say what should be said, and to do what must be
done, than I am. I will go up to my father. But, Charles," and he spoke
into his ear, so that no one else should hear him, "save his life--for
my sake, save his life. He is mad, and does not know what he has been
doing." De Lescure pressed his cousin's hand, and as Henri ran up stairs
to his father, he entered the room, where the party abovementioned were
sitting.

The occupants of the room certainly formed a very remarkable group. The
first person whom de Lescure saw was Adolphe Denot; he was seated in a
large arm-chair, placed against the wall immediately opposite the door,
and between the stove and the folding-doors which opened into the other
room. His legs were stretched out to their full length before him his
hands were clasped together between his legs; his head was bent down,
so that his chin rested on his breast; he was scowling awfully, his
eyebrows nearly met above his eyes, and he continued constantly curling
and twisting his lips, sometimes shewing his teeth, and sometimes
completely covering his under with his upper lip. He had sat twelve
hours, since Agatha had left the room in the morning, without speaking
a word, or once changing his position. He had refused food when it had
been brought to him, with an indignant shake of the head; and when
Santerre had once half jocularly told him to keep up his spirits, and
prove himself a man, he had uttered a horrible sound, which he had meant
for a laugh of derision, such as is sometimes heard to proceed from
dark-haired, diabolical, provincial tragedians.

There were three men from Echanbroignes in the room, distinguished by
the notable red scarf, acting as guards, to prevent the escape of the
prisoners; but as the two objects of their care during the whole day had
made no attempt at escaping, the guards had by degrees laid aside the
eager watchfulness with which they had at first expressed their
readiness to pounce upon their captives, should they by any motion have
betrayed an intention to leave their seats, and were now resting on
three chairs in a row, each man having his musket between his legs, and
looking as though they were peculiarly tired of their long inactive
services. Santerre and Father Jerome were seated together on a sofa, and
the Chevalier occupied a chair on the other side of a table on which the
prisoner and the priest were leaning. When Santerre found that he and
his men were in the hands of the royalist peasants, he at first rather
lost both his temper and his presence of mind. He saw at once that
resistance was out of the question, and that there was very little
chance that he would be able to escape; he began to accuse himself of
rashness in having accepted from the Convention the very disagreeable
commission which had brought him into his present plight, and to wish
that he was once more among his legitimate adherents in the Quartier St.
Antoine. He soon, however, regained his equanimity. Those whom he had
in his rough manner treated well, returned the compliment; and he
perceived that, though he would probably be kept a prisoner, his life
would not be in danger, and that the royalists were not inclined to
treat him either with insult or severity.

He by degrees got into conversation with the Chevalier; and before the
day was over, even Father Jerome, much as he abhorred a republican, and
especially a leader of republicans, and an infidel, as he presumed
Santerre to be, forgot his disgust, and chatted freely with the captive
Commissioner. The three dined together in the afternoon, and when de
Lescure entered the room, wine and glasses were still on the table. A
crowd of the royalist peasants followed de Lescure to the door of the
salon, and would have entered it with him, had not Chapeau, with much
difficulty, restrained them. They were most anxious to hear sentence
pronounced on the traitor, who had betrayed their cause, and insulted
the sister of their favourite leader; and could not understand why the
punishment, which he had so richly merited, should be delayed. All that
Chapeau and Father Jerome had ventured to ask of them was to wait till
Henri himself should arrive; and now, that he had come, they conceived
that judgment should at once be passed, and sentence of death
immediately executed.

When de Lescure entered the room, they all, except Denot, rose from
their chairs; the three guards stood up, and shouldered their muskets,
the Chevalier ran up to him to shake hands with him, and Father Jerome
also came out into the middle of the room to meet him. He looked first
at Denot, who kept his eyes steadily fixed on the ground; and then at
Santerre, whom he had never, to his knowledge, seen before. Santerre,
however, knew him, for he immediately called him by his name.

"My soldiers have met with a reverse, General de Lescure," said he,
"which has thrown me and them into the power of your friends. I take the
earliest opportunity of thanking you for the kind treatment we have
received."

"If, at some future time, when our soldiers may be in your power, you
will remember it; the Marquis de Larochejaquelin will feel himself amply
repaid for such attention as he has been able to shew you," said de
Lescure.

"You know we were in General Santerre's power last night," said the
Chevalier; "and he could have shot us all had he pleased it; indeed we
all expected it, when the blues came upon us."

"They shall not find that we will be less merciful, Arthur," said de
Lescure. "General Santerre knows that the Vendean royalists have never
disgraced themselves by shedding the blood of the prisoners whom the
chance of war may have thrown into their hands. He knows that they can
be brave without being cruel. I grieve to say that the republicans have
hitherto not often allowed us to repay mercy with mercy. We shall now
be glad to take advantage of the opportunity of doing so."

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Stephen King fan publishes Shining's Jack Torrance's novel
Three Women was first heard as a radio drama and then published as a poem. Robert Shaw explains his desire to stage the piece as it was intended

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A Stephen King fan has published an 80-page version of the book which novelist Jack Torrance obsessively writes during King's The Shining, where his descent into madness is revealed when his wife discovers that his work consists of just one phrase, endlessly repeated.

Torrance, played by Jack Nicholson in terrifying form in Stanley Kubrick's 1980 film, is a frustrated writer who goes with his wife and son to spend the winter in the isolated Overlook Hotel in an attempt to get the novel he has always wanted to write started. But the hotel's grisly past and unquiet ghosts have their way with him, and his wife Wendy eventually finds that the manuscript he has been working on actually only contains the phrase "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy", typed over and over again.

Now New York artist Phil Buehler, who describes himself as "a big fan of Stanley Kubrick and Stephen King", has self-published a book credited to Torrance, repeating the phrase throughout but formatting each page differently, using the words to create different shapes from zigzags to spirals.

"The idea has probably been marinating for years, because I loved the movie and the Stephen King book," said Buehler. "I'd just finished my own obsessive art project [and] it was an idea I had over the Christmas holidays."

He said he decided to stick to type and formatting that could have been created on a typewriter, with the first ten pages duplicating shots of Torrance's work from the film. "I thought 'if he continues to get crazier, what would those pages look like?'" he said. "I hit writer's block about 60 pages in, and I had to get to 80 - that went on for about a week." His fiancée, who had neither read the book nor seen the film, became a little concerned about his actions. "I finally showed her the movie, and she realised I wasn't really losing it," said Buehler.

He's included a spoof review from the blog OverThinkingIt.com on the book's back jacket, which compares it to "the best of Beckett" in its "lack of forward momentum", and considers the struggles of the author, "heroically pitting himself against the Sisyphusean sentence". "It's that metatextual struggle of Man vs. Typewriter that gives this book its spellbinding power," the review says. "Some will dismiss it as simplistic; that's like dismissing a Pollack canvas as mere splatters of paint."

So far, Buehler says that around 1,000 people have viewed the book, for sale on Blurb.com for $8.95 in paperback, or $22.95 in hardback, and he's sold "a few" copies, with sales now starting to pick up steam. "A few people have asked me to sign it - they're looking it as a piece of art rather than a funny thing to give to a Kubrick fan," he said. "If you're not a Kubrick or King fan, you might not even get it."

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