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La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

A >> Anthony Trollope >> La Vendee




By degrees the daylight faded away, and for the last time, they watched
the sun sink down among the cherry trees of Durbelliere, and the
Marquis, seated by the window, gazed into the West till not a streak of
light was any longer visible; then he felt that the sun of this world
had set for him for good and all. Even though he might live out a few
more weary years, even though the cause to which he was attached should
be victorious, yet he knew that Durbelliere would be destroyed, and it
never could be anything to him how the sun set or rose in any other
place. His warm heart yearned towards his house; the very chair on which
he sat, the stool on which rested his crippled legs, were objects of an
affection which he had before felt, but never till now acknowledged.
Every object on which his eye rested gave him a new pang; every article
within his reach was a dear friend, whom he had long loved, and was now
to leave for ever.

Still he did not utter one word of complaint; he did not once murmur at
his fate; he never reminded his son that he had, by his impetuosity,
hurried on his old father to destruction. He never repined at the
sacrifice he had made--I will not say for his King, for King at present
he had none; the throne had been laid low, and the precious blood of him
who should have filled it had been shed. No; his sacrifices had been to
an abstract feeling of loyalty, which made fealty to the Crown, whether
worn or in abeyance, only second in his bosom to obedience to his God.

The day faded away, and they still sat together in the room in which
they had dined, each wrapped in his own thoughts, till the darkness of
night was upon them, and still no one felt inclined to rise and ask for
candles.

After a long pause, Arthur made a bold attempt to break through the
heaviness of the evening. "We are not so badly off, at any rate," said
he, "as we were on that night when Santerre and his men were here; are
we, Agatha?"

"We are not badly off at all," said Henri. "We have now what we never
had before--a fine army collected together in one spot, a promise of
succour from faithful England, and a strong probability of ultimate
success. After all, what are we giving up but an old barrack? Let the
rascal blues burn it; cannot we build a better Durbelliere when the King
shall have his own again?"

"Ah, Henri!" said the Marquis. It was the only reproach he uttered,
though the words of his son, intended as they were to excite hope, and
to give comfort, had been to him most distasteful.

Henri was in a moment at his father's feet. "Pardon me, father!" said
he; "you know that I did not mean to give you pain. We all love the old
house--none of us so well as you perhaps; but we all love it; yet what
can we do? Were we to remain here, we should only be smothered beneath
its ashes."

"God's will be done, my son. He knows that I do not begrudge my house
in his service, and in that of my royal master. It is not likely that
I should do so, when I have not begrudged the blood of my children."

They were all to start on the following morning by break of day, and,
therefore, the necessity of early rising gave them an excuse desired by
all, for retiring early for the night. They could not talk together, for
every word that was spoken begot fresh sources of sorrow; they could not
employ themselves, for their minds were unhinged and unfitted for
employment; so they agreed that they would go to bed, and before nine
o'clock, the family separated for the night.

They did not, however, all go to rest. Henri, as he handed a light to
his cousin, told her that he wanted to speak two words to her in his
sister's room, and as she did not dissent, he followed the two girls
thither. Two words! It took nearly the whole long night to say those two
words.

Henri Larochejaquelin had thought long and deeply on the position in
which he and his betrothed were now placed, before he made the request
to which he asked her to listen that night, and it was from no selfish
passion that he made it. In the presence of his sister, he asked her to
marry him as soon as they reached Chatillon, so that when next the army
separated, he might deem himself her natural protector. He had already
asked and obtained de Lescure's permission. The brother gave it, not
absolutely unwillingly, but with strong advice to Henri to take no new
cares upon himself during the present crisis, and declaring that he
would use no influence with his sister, either one way or the other.

Marie, with a woman's instinct, anticipated the nature of Henri's two
words, and in a moment resolved on the answer she would give him: if her
lover was generous, so would she be; she would never consent to link
herself to him at a moment when the union could only be to him a source
of additional cares and new sorrow.

Henri soon made his request: he did not do it, as he would have done in
happier times; kneeling at her feet, and looking into her eyes for that
love, which he might well know he should find there: he had not come to
talk of the pleasures and endearments of affection, and to ask for her
hand as the accomplishment of all his wishes; but he spoke of their
marriage as a providential measure, called for by the calamitous
necessities of the moment, and in every argument which he used, he
appealed to Agatha to support him.

"No, Henri," said Marie, after she had already answered him with a
faint, but what she intended to be a firm denial. "No, it must not,
cannot, ought not be so. I am, I know, somewhat de trop in this tragedy
we are playing. There are you and Charles, two good knights and true,
and each of you has a lady whom it is his duty to protect. I am a poor
forlorn young damsel, and though both of you are so gallant as to offer
me a hand to help me over the perilous path we are treading, I know that
I am grievously in the way."

"You are joking now, love," said Henri, "and I am not only speaking, but
thinking, in most true and sober earnest."

"No, Henri, I am not joking; am I, Agatha? One need not be joking
because one does not use harsh, grim words. What I say is true. I must
be an additional burden either to you or Charles. You are already the
heaviest laden, for you have your father to care for. Besides, I have
a claim upon Charles; I have for eighteen years been to him an obedient
sister."

"And have you no claim on me, Marie?"

"A slight one, as a cousin; but only in default of Charles. Don't look
so unhappy," and she held out her little hand to him as she spoke. "The
day may come when I shall have a still stronger claim upon you; when I
have been to you for eighteen years an obedient wife."

"These are times when stern truths must be spoken," said Henri. "The
lives of us all must now be in constant jeopardy--that is, of us who
must go out to battle."

"Ay, and of us women too. Don't be afraid of our lacking courage. Do not
be afraid that the truth will frighten us. Agatha, and Victorine, and
I, have schooled ourselves to think of death without flinching."

"To think without flinching of the death of others, is the difficulty,"
said Agatha. "I fear we have none of us as yet brought ourselves to
that."

"But we must think of the death of others," said Henri. "Should de
Lescure fall--"

"May God Almighty in His mercy protect and guard him!" said the sister.

"But should he fall--and in battle there is none, I will not say so
rash, but so forward as him--should he fall, will it not be a comfort
to him to know that his sister has a husband to protect her; that his
widow has a brother to whom she can turn. Should I fall, will it not be
better for Agatha that you should be more closely knit together even
than you are?"

"That can never be, can it, Agatha? We can never be more entirely
sisters than we are."

"You talk like a child, Marie. You perhaps may never have a warmer love
for each other than you now have, but that is not the question. You must
see how great would be the advantage to us all of our union being at
once completed You should not now allow a phantasy of misplaced
generosity to stand in the way of an arrangement which is so
desirable."

"Nay, Henri, now you are neither fair nor courteous. You are presuming
a little on the affection which I have owned in arguing that I am
prevented only by what you call generosity from so immediate a marriage;
that is as much as to say, that if I consulted my own wishes only, I
should marry you at once."

"It is you that are now unfair," said Agatha. "You know that he did not
mean to draw such a conclusion. You almost tempt me to say that he might
do so, without being far wrong. You are flirting now, Marie."

"Heaven help me then; but if so, I have committed that sin most
unconsciously, and, I believe, for the first time in my life. I have had
but one lover, and I accepted him, the very moment that he spoke to me.
I can, at any rate, have but little flirtation to answer for."

"Alas! dearest love," said Henri, "we are both driven to think and talk
of these things in a different tone from that which is usual in the
world. If I was merely seeking to transplant you in days of peace from
your own comfortable home, to be the pride and ornament of mine, I would
not curtail by one iota the privilege of your sex. I wouldn't presume
to think that you could wish yourself to give up your girlish liberty.
If you allowed me any hope, I would ascribe it all to the kindness of
your disposition; your word should be my law, and though I might pray
for mercy, I would submissively take my fate from your lips. I would
write odes to you, if I were able, and would swear in every town in
Poitou that you were the prettiest girl, and sweetest angel in all
France, Italy, or Spain."

"Thanks, Henri, thanks; but now you have too much to do to trouble
yourself with such tedious gallantries. Is not that to be the end of
your fine speech?"

"Trouble myself, Marie!"

"Yes, trouble yourself, Henri, and it would trouble me too. It is not
that I regret such nonsense. I accept your manly love as it has been
offered, and tell you that you have my whole heart. It is from no
girlish squeamishness, from no wish to exercise my short-lived power,
that I refuse to do what you now ask me. I would marry you tomorrow,
were you to ask me, did I not think that I should be wrong to do so. Am
I now not frank and honest?"

Henri put his arms round her waist, and clasped her to his bosom before
he answered her:

"You are, you are, my own, own love. You were always true, and honest,
and reasonable--so reasonable that--"

"Ah! now you are going to encroach."

"I am going to ask you once again to think of what I have said. It is
not to your love, but to your reason, that I now appeal."

"Well, Henri, we will leave love aside, and both of us appeal to reason.
Here she sits, always calm, passionless, and wise," and Marie put her
hand upon Agatha's arm. "We will appeal to Reason personified, and if
Reason says that, were she situated as I am, she would do as you now
wish me to do, I will be guided by Reason, and comply." Henri now turned
round to his sister, but Marie stopped him from speaking, and continued:
"I have pledged myself, and do you do likewise. If Reason gives her
judgment against you, you will yield without a word."

"Well, I will do so," said Henri. "I'm sure, however, she will not;
Agatha must see the importance of our being joined as closely together
as is possible."

"You are attempting to influence Dame Reason, but it will be useless.
And now, Reason, you are to remember, as of course you do, for Reason
forgets nothing, that you are to think neither of brothers or of
sisters. You are entirely to drop your feelings as Agatha, and to be
pure Reason undefiled by mortal taint. You are to say, whether, were
you, Reason, placed as I am now, you would marry this unreasonable young
man as soon as he gets to Chatillon, which means tomorrow, or the day
after, or the day after that at the very latest. Now, Reason, speak, and
speak wisely."

"You have given me a thankless task between you. I cannot decide without
giving pain to one of you."

"Reason always has a thankless task," said Marie. "Reason is her own
reward--and a very unpleasant reward she usually has."

"Do you think," said Henri, "it will give so much pain to Marie to be
told that she is to marry the man whom she owns she loves?"

"Ah, Henri," said Agatha, "you are prejudiced. I do not mean as to
Marie's love, but as to my award. I might, perhaps, not pain her so much
by advising her to marry you at once, as I fear I shall pain you by
telling her, that in her place, I should not do so."

They both sat in breathless silence to hear their fate from Agatha's
lips. Though Marie had appealed to her with a degree of playfulness,
which gave to her an air of indifference on the subject, she was
anything but indifferent; and yet it would have been difficult to
analyse her wishes; she was quite decided that it was becoming in her
to refuse Henri's prayer, nay, that it would be selfish in her to grant
it; and yet, though she appealed to Reason so confidently to confirm her
refusal, there was a wish, almost a hope, near her heart, that Agatha
might take her brother's part. They were, neither of them, perhaps,
gratified by the decision.

"Reason has said it," said Marie, after a short pause, "and Reason shall
be rewarded with a kiss;" and she put her arms round her cousin's neck
and kissed her.

"But why, Agatha, tell me why?" said Henri. He, at any rate, was not
ashamed to show that he was disappointed.

"Do not be so inconsiderate as to ask Reason for reasons," said Marie.

"I will tell you why, Henri. I would never consent to make myself a
burden to a man at a moment when I could not make myself a comfort to
him; besides, the time of marriage should be a time of joy, and this is
no time for joy. Again, there is a stronger and sadder reason still. Did
you ever see a young widow, who had not reached her twentieth year? if
so, did you ever see a sadder sight? Would you unnecessarily doom our
dear Marie to that fate! I know you so well, my dear brother, that I do
not fear to speak to you of the too probable lot of a brave soldier!"

"That is enough!" said Henri, "I am convinced."

"Do not say that, Agatha, do not say that," said Marie, springing up and
throwing herself into her lover's arms. "Indeed, indeed, it was not of
that I thought. Though we should never marry, yet were you to fall, your
memory should be the same to me as that of a husband. I could never
forget your love--your disinterested love--there is no treasure on this
side the grave which I so value. It is the pride of my solitary hours,
and the happiness of the few happy thoughts I have. The world would be
nothing to me without you. When you are away, I pray to God to bring you
back to me. When you are with us I am dreading the moment that you will
go. Oh, Agatha, Agatha! why did you say those last fearful words!"

"You asked me for the truth, Marie, and it was right that I should tell
it you; it was on my tongue to say the same to Henri, before you
appealed to me at all."

"You were right, dearest Agatha," said Henri; "and now, God bless you,
Marie. I value such love as yours highly as it is worth. I trust the day
may come when I can again ask you for your hand."

"I will never refuse it again. You shall have it now, tomorrow, next
day, any day that you will ask it. Oh, Agatha! my brain is so turned by
what you have said, that I could almost go on my knees to beg him to
accept it."

"Come, Henri, leave us," said Agatha, "and prevent such a scandal as
that would be; there are but a few hours for us to be in bed."

Henri kissed his sister, and when he gave his hand to Marie, she did not
turn her lips away from him; and as he threw himself on his bed, he
hardly knew whether, if he could have his own way, he would marry her
at once or not.



CHAPTER IV

THE CHAPEL OF GENET

About ten days after the departure of the Larochejaquelins from
Durbelliere, three persons were making the best of their way, on
horseback, through one of the deepest and dirtiest of the byeways, which
in those days, served the inhabitants of Poitou for roads, and along
which the farmers of the country contrived with infinite pains and
delay, to drag the produce of their fields to the market towns. The
lane, through which they were endeavouring to hurry the jaded animals
on which they were mounted, did not lead from one town to another, and
was not therefore paved; it was merely a narrow track between continual
rows of high trees, and appeared to wind hither and thither almost in
circles, and the mud at every step covered the fetlocks of the three
horses. The party consisted of two ladies and a man, who, though he rode
rather in advance of, than behind his companions, and spoke to them from
time to time, was their servant: a boy travelled on foot to show them
the different turns which their road made necessary to them; and though,
when chosen for the duty, he had received numerous injunctions as to the
speed with which he should travel, the urchin on foot had hitherto found
no difficulty in keeping up with the equestrians. The two ladies were
Madame de Lescure and her sister-in-law, and the servant was our trusty
friend Chapeau. And we must go back a little to recount as quickly as
we can, the misfortunes which brought them into their present situation.

No rest was allowed to the Vendean chiefs after reaching Chatillon from
Durbelliere. The rapid advance of the republican troops made them think
it expedient to try the chance of battle with them at once. They had
consequently led out their patriot bands as far as Cholet, and had
there, after a murderous conflict, been grievously worsted. No men could
have fought better than did the Vendean peasants, for now they had
joined some degree of discipline and method to their accustomed valour;
but the number of their enemies was too great for them, and they
consisted of the best soldiers of whom France could boast. The Vendeans,
moreover, could not choose their own battle-field. They could not fight
as they had been accustomed to do, from behind hedges, and with every
advantage of locality on their side. They had thrown themselves on the
veteran troops, who had signalized themselves at Valmy and Mayence, with
a courage that amounted to desperation, but which, as it had not
purchased victory, exposed them to fearful carnage. D'Elbe, who acted
as Commander-in-Chief, fell early in the day. Bonchamps, whose military
skill was superior to that of any of the Vendeans; was mortally wounded,
and before the battle was lost, de Lescure--the brave de Lescure, whom
they all so loved, so nearly worshipped--was struck down and carried
from the field.

There was an immense degree of superstition mixed up with the religious
fervour of the singular people who were now fighting for their liberty;
and many of them sincerely believed that de Lescure was invulnerable,
and that they were secure from any fatal reverse as long as he was with
them. This faith was now destroyed; and when the rumour spread along
their lines that he had been killed, they threw down their arms, and
refused to return to the charge. It was in vain that Henri
Larochejaquelin and the young Chevalier tried to encourage them; that
they assured them that de Lescure was still living, and exposed their
own persons in the thickest of the enemy's fire. It was soon too evident
that the battle was lost, and that all that valour and skill could do,
was to change the flight into a retreat.

Many personal reasons would have made Henri prefer returning towards
Chatillon, but it had been decided that, in the event of such a disaster
as that which had now befallen them, the cause in which they were
engaged would be best furthered by a general retreat of all the troops
across the Loire into Brittany; and consequently Henri, collecting
together what he could of his shattered army, made the best of his way
to St. Florent. The men did not now hurry to their homes, as they did
after every battle, when the war first began; but their constancy to
their arms arose neither from increased courage nor better discipline.
They knew that their homes were now, or would soon be, but heaps of
ruins, and that their only hope of safety consisted in their remaining
with the army. This feeling, which prevented the dispersion of the men,
had another effect, which added greatly to the difficulty of the
officers. The wives, children, and sisters of the Vendean peasants, also
flocked to the army in such numbers, that by the time the disordered
multitude reached St. Florent, Henri found himself surrounded by 80,000
human, creatures, flying from the wrath of the blues, though not above
a quarter of that number were men capable of bearing arms.

De Lescure, in a litter, accompanied them to St. Florent, and Chapeau
was sent back to Chatillon to bid the ladies and the old Marquis join
the army at that place. Chapeau was sent direct from the field of battle
before it was known whether or no M. de Lescure's wound was mortal, and
at a moment when Henri could give him nothing but a general direction
as to the route which the army was about to take. Chapeau reached
Chatillon without accident; but having reached it, he found that his
difficulties were only about to commence. What was he to tell Madame de
Lescure of her husband? How was he to convey the three ladies and the
Marquis from Chatillon to St. Florent, through a country, the greater
portion of which would then be in the hands of the blues?

Make the best he could of it, the news was fearfully bad. He told Madame
de Lescure that her husband was certainly wounded, but that as certainly
he was not killed; and that he had every reason, though he could not say
what reason, to believe that the wound was not likely to be fatal. The
doubt conveyed in these tidings was, if possible, more fearful than any
certainty; added to this was the great probability that Chatillon would,
in a day or two, be in the hands of the republicans. They decided, or
rather Chapeau decided for them, that they should start immediately for
St. Florent; and that, instead of attempting to go by the direct road,
they should make their way thither by bye-lanes, and through small
villages, in which they possibly might escape the ferocity of their
enemies.

A huge waggon was procured, and in it a bed was laid, on which the
unfortunate old man could sit, and with the two horses which they had
brought with them from Durbelliere, they started on their journey. They
rested the first night at St. Laurent, the place where Agatha had
established an hospital, and where Cathelineau had died. The Sisters of
Mercy who had tended it were still there, but the wards were now
deserted. Not that the wars afforded no occupants for them, but the
approach of the republicans had frightened away even the maimed and
sick. On the following morning Madame de Lescure declared that she could
no longer endure the slow progress of the waggon, and consequently,
Chapeau having with difficulty succeeded in procuring three horses, she
started, accompanied by him and her sister-in-law, to make her way as
best she could to her husband, while the Marquis and his daughter, with
a guide, followed in the cumbrous waggon.

On the second day the equestrians crossed the Sevre, at Mortaigne, and
reached Torfou in safety. On the third day they passed Montfaucon, and
were struggling to get on to a village called Chaudron, not far from St.
Florent, when we overtook them at the beginning of the chapter.

They had already, however, began to doubt that they could possibly
succeed in doing so. The shades of evening were coming on them. The poor
brutes which carried them were barely able to lift their legs, and,
Madame de Lescure was so overpowered with fatigue and anxiety, that she
could hardly sustain herself in the pillion on which she sat.

The peasants whom they met from time to time asked them hundreds of
questions about the war. Many of the men of the district were already
gone, and their wives and children were anxious to follow them, but the
poor creatures did not know which way to turn. They did not know where
the army was, or in what quarter they would be most secure. They had an
undefined fear that the blues were coming upon them with fire and
slaughter, and that they would be no longer safe, even in their own
humble cottages.

One person told them that Chaudron was distant only two leagues, and
hearing this they plucked up their courage, and made an effort to rouse
that of their steeds. Another, however, soon assured them that it was
at the very least a long five leagues to Chaudron, and again their
spirits sank in despair. A third had never heard the name of the place,
and at last a fourth informed them, that whatever the distance might be,
they were increasing it every moment, and that their horses' heads were
turned exactly in the wrong direction. Then at length their young guide
confessed that he must have lost his way, and excused himself by
declaring that the turnings were so like one another that it was
impossible for any one in that country really to remember his way at a
distance of more than two leagues from his own home.

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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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