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La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

A >> Anthony Trollope >> La Vendee




In one moment the whole crowd were on their knees in the market-place,
while the two priests stood among them with their arms raised, uttering
thanksgiving to the Lord for his mercy, and praying for the eternal
welfare of those who had fallen in the affray. The soldiers of the
republic found themselves standing alone as prisoners in the midst of
the kneeling crowd; they looked awkward and confused enough, but they
could not help themselves; they could not have escaped, even if they had
been unanimous in attempting to do so; for they were unarmed, and the
people knelt so closely round them, that they could hardly move. It was
out of the question that they should also kneel, and join in the
thanksgiving for having been so utterly beaten; so there they stood,
their wounds stiffening and their blood running, till the priests had
finished, and the people had risen.

And then another ceremony was performed; the priests were besought to
come and bless the cannon, the first great trophy of the Royalist
insurrection; and they did so. The cannon was a lucky cannon, a kind
cannon, and a good cannon--a bon enfant, and worthy to be blessed; it
had refused to pour forth its murderous fire against the inhabitants of
a town that was so friendly to the King. It was decidedly a royalist
cannon; it had very plainly declared the side it meant to take; nothing
but miraculous interference on its own part could have prevented its
having been discharged on he people, when it stood ready pointed on the
town, with the torch absolutely glimmering at the touch-hole. It had
been brought to St. Florent by republican soldiers, dragged by
republican horses, and loaded with republican gunpowder; but it should
never be used except in the service of the King, and against the enemies
of the throne.

And so the priests blessed the cannon, and the people baptized it, and
called it Marie-Jeanne, and the women brought out their little children,
and sat them straddle-legged across it, whole rows of them at the same
time, till the cannon looked like a huge bunch of grapes on which the
fruit clustered thickly. By this time it was dark, and the people
lighted huge bonfires through the town, and the children remained up,
and as many as could cling on it still sat upon the cannon, and ropes
were got and fastened to it, and all the girls of St. Florent dragged
Marie-Jeanne round the town, and at last she was dragged into the yard
of the auberge, in front of which the fight had commenced, and there she
was left for the night, under a strong guard.

While these rejoicings were going on out of doors, Cathelineau and
Forte, the two priests, and a few others--the wise men of the town--were
collected together within the auberge, and were consulting as to their
future proceedings.

"We have done much," said Cathelineau, "and I rejoice at it. Too much,
a great deal, for us now to remain idle. We cannot go back. We are now
the enemies of the Republic, and we must attack our enemies elsewhere,
or they will attack and overwhelm us in our little town."

They then determined that Cathelineau, on the next morning, should
address the people from the window of the market-place, and that
afterwards he and Forte should go through the neighbouring country and
implore the assistance of the people, of the gentry, the priests, the
farmers, and the peasants, in opposing the hated levy of the Republican
forces; but first they would go to the gentry, and the names of many
were mentioned whom it was thought would be sure to join them. The first
was that of Henri de Larochejaquelin, and the next that of his friend
M. de Lescure. Who loved the people so well as they, and whom did the
people love so truly? Yes, they would call on young Larochejaquelin and
his friend to be their leaders.

Early on the morrow, the postillion addressed the people from the
market-place. He did not seek to himself the honour of doing so, nor,
when he was asked to come forward as the leader of the people, did he
refuse to do so. He was not covetous of the honour, but he would not
refuse the danger. During the whole of the combat every one had looked
to him as to the leader. He had not constituted himself the people's
general, he had not for a moment thought of assuming the position; but
he as little thought of refusing the danger or the responsibility, when
the duties of a general seemed, by the will of all, to fall to his lot.

"Friends," said he, addressing them from the market-house, "we have
saved ourselves for a while from the grasp of the Republic. But for the
battle of yesterday, every one here would have a brother, a son, or a
cousin, now enrolled as a conscript in the army of the Convention. Many
of yourselves would have been conscripts, and would have this morning
waked to the loss of your liberty. We did much yesterday when we bound
the hands of the soldiers; but we have much more to do than we have yet
done. Already in Nantes and in Angers are they talking of what we
yesterday performed. We shall doubtless have many friends in Nantes and
Angers, but the Republic also has many friends in those towns, and the
soldiers of the Republic are strong there. It will not be long before
they hurry to St. Florent to avenge the disgrace of their comrades; and
bitter will be their revenge if they take you unprepared. You have
declared war against the Republic, and you must be prepared to fight it
out to the end."

"We will, we will," shouted the people. "Down with the Republic--down
with the Convention. Long live the King--our own King once again."

"Very well, my friends," continued Cathelineau, "so be it. We will fight
it out then. We will combat with the Republic, sooner than be carried
away from our wives, our children, and our sweethearts. We will fight
for our own cures and our own churches; but our battle will be no
holiday-work, it will be a different affair from that of yesterday. We
must learn to carry arms, and to stand under them. You showed yesterday
that you had courage--you must now show that you can join patience and
perseverance to your courage."

"We will, Cathelineau, we will," shouted they "Tell us what we must do,
Cathelineau, and we will do it.

"We must see," continued he, "who will be our friends and our allies.
St. Florent cannot fight single-handed against the Republic. There are
others in Anjou, and Poitou also, besides ourselves, who do not wish to
leave their homes and their fields. There are noblemen and gentlemen,
our friends and masters, who will lead you better than I can."

"No, no, Cathelineau is our general; we will follow no one but
Cathelineau."

"You will, my friends, you will; but we need not quarrel about that.
Forte and I, with Peter Berrier, will visit those who we think will join
us; but you must at once prepare yourselves. You must arm yourselves.
We will distribute the muskets of the soldiers as far as they will go.
You must prepare yourselves. If we do not at once attack the Republicans
elsewhere, they will soon overwhelm us in St. Florent. We will go to
Cholet--the men of Cholet will surely second us--they are as fond of
their sons and their brethren as we are. Cholet will join us, and
Beaupreau, and Coron, and Torfou. We will go and ask them whether they
prefer the Republic to their homes--whether the leaders of the
Convention are dearer to them than their own lords--whether their new
priests love them, as the old ones did? And I know what will be their
answer."

He ceased speaking, and his audience crowded around him to shake hands
with him, and to bless him; and before the sun was in the middle of the
sky he had left St. Florent on his mission, in company with Forte and
Peter Berrier.



CHAPTER III

DURBELLIERE.

The chateau of Durbelliere, the family seat of the Larochejacquelins,
was situated in the very centre of the Bocage, between the small towns
of Chatillon and Vihiers--in the province of Poitou, and about twelve
leagues from St. Florent.

It was a large mansion, surrounded by extensive gardens, and a
considerable domain. There were few residences of more importance as
betokening greater wealth in the province of Poitou; but it was neither
magnificent nor picturesque. The landlords of the country were not men
of extensive property or expensive habits--they built no costly castles,
and gave no sumptuous banquets; but they lived at home, on their
incomes, and had always something to spare for the poorer of their
neighbours. Farming was their business--the chase their
amusement--loyalty their strongest passion, and the prosperity of their
tenantry their chief ambition.

The chateau of Durbelliere was a large square building, three stories
high, with seven front windows to each of the upper stories, and three
on each side of the large door on the ground floor. Eight stone steps
of great width led up to the front door; but between the top step and
the door there was a square flagged area of considerable space; and on
the right hand, and on the left, two large whitewashed lions reclined
on brick and mortar pedestals. An enormous range of kitchens, offices
and cellars, ran under the whole house; the windows opened into a low
area, or rather trench, which ran along the front and back of the house,
and to which there were no rails or palings of any kind. The servants'
door was at the side of the house, and the servants and people coming
to them, to save themselves the trouble of walking round to this door,
were in the habit of jumping into the area and entering the kitchen by
the window. Doubtless some lady of the house, when the mansion was first
built, had protested strongly against this unsightly practice; but habit
had now accustomed the family to this mode of ingress and egress, and
the servants of Durbelliere consequently never used any other.

The back of the chateau was just the same as the front, the same
windows, the same broad steps, the same pedestals and the same
whitewashed lions, only the steps, instead of leading on to a large
gravelled square, led into a trim garden. There were no windows,
whatsoever, on one side of the house, and on the other only those
necessary to light the huge staircase of the mansion.

The rooms were square, very large, and extremely lofty; the salon alone
was carpetted, and none of them were papered, the drawing-room, the
dining-room and the grand salon were ornamented with painted panels,
which displayed light-coloured shepherds and shepherdesses in almost
every possible attitude. In these rooms, also, there were highly
ornamented stoves, which stood out about four feet from the wall, topped
with marble slabs, on which were sculptured all the gods and demi-gods
of the heathen mythology--that in the drawing-room exhibited Vulcan
catching Mars and Venus in his marble net; and the unhappy position of
the god of war was certainly calculated to read a useful lesson to any
Parisian rover, who might attempt to disturb the domestic felicity of
any family in the Bocage.

The house was not above a hundred yards from the high road, from which
there were two entrances about two hundred yards apart. There were large
wooden, gates at each, which were usually left open, but each of which
was guarded by two white-washed lions--not quite so much at ease as
those on the pedestals, for they were fixed a-top of pillars hardly
broad enough to support them. But this doubtless only increased their
watchfulness.

But the glory of the chateau was the large garden behind the house. It
was completely enclosed by a very high wall, and, like the house, was
nearly square in its proportions. It contained miles of walks, and each
walk so like the others, that a stranger might wander there for a week
without knowing that he had retraversed the same ground, were it not
that he could not fail to recognize the quaint groups of figures which
met him at every turn. A few of these were of stone, rudely sculptured,
but by far the greater number were of painted wood, and, like the
shepherds and shepherdesses in the drawing-room, displayed every action
of rural life. You would suddenly come upon a rosy-coloured gentleman,
with a gun to his shoulder, in the act of shooting game--then a girl
with a basket of huge cabbages--an old man in a fit of the cholic; the
same rosy gentleman violently kissing a violet-coloured young lady; and,
at the next turn, you would find the violet-coloured young lady fast
asleep upon a bank. You would meet a fat cure a dozen times in
half-an-hour, and always well employed. He would be saying his
prayers--drinking beer--blessing a young maiden, and cudgelling a mule
that wouldn't stir a step for him, till the large yellow drops of sweat
were falling from his face. It was inconceivable how so many painted
figures, in such a variety of attitudes, could have been designed and
executed; but there they were, the great glory of the old gardener, and
the endless amusement of the peasants of the neighbourhood, who were
allowed to walk there on the summer Sunday evenings.

The gardens of Durbelliere were also wonderful in another respect. It
was supposed to be impossible to consume, or even to gather, all the
cherries which they produced in the early summer. The trees between the
walks were all cherry-trees--old standard trees of a variety of sorts;
but they all bore fruit of some description or another, some sweet and
some bitter; some large, some small, and some perfectly diminutive; some
black, some red, and some white. Every species of known cherry was in
that garden in abundance; but even the gardener himself did not know the
extent of the produce. Birds of all kinds flocked there in enormous
numbers, and banqueted gloriously during the summer. No one disturbed
them except the painted sportsman; and the song of the linnet and the
thrush was heard all day, and that of the nightingale during the night.

The old Marquis de Larochejaquelin had been crossed in love early in
life, and he had not recovered from his sorrow till he was above fifty,
when he married, and outlived his young wife, who left him different
children. Henri and Agatha were the only two now living with him. As has
already been said, the old man was very infirm, and had lost the use of
his limbs.

When the weather was cold or wet, he sat with his daughter, Agatha, near
his bright wood fire, and watched her needle, or listened to her songs;
but, if the sun appeared at all, he was dragged out in his garden chair
among the birds and the painted figures, and was happy in spite of his
infirmities.

He was most affectionate to his children, and indulgent to a fault. He
was kind to every one, and, unless the birds were disturbed, the
cherry-trees injured, or the figures upset, he was never angry even with
a servant. Everybody loved and venerated the old Marquis, and even in
his foibles, he was thoroughly respected. He had a vast collection of
stuffed birds of every description, and the peasants round him were so
anxious to gratify him by adding to his stock, that there began to be
a doubt whether room in the chateau could be found for the presents
which were continually brought. The upper story of the house had never
been required by the family, and the rooms had not even been roofed or
plastered. One great partition wall ran across the space, and the only
ceiling was the bare high-pointed roof of the house. This place was
called the granary, and was used for a drying ground. And here the
superfluous birds were brought, much to the old man's grief, for he knew
that he should never see them again; but he could not refuse them when
they were given to him, and the room which he inhabited would
conveniently hold no more.

The happiness of the last years of the old man's life was much disturbed
by the events of the French revolution. He had been very anxious when
he saw his young son join a club, which was sure to incur the ill-will
of the ruling power in Paris; and yet he could not dissuade him from
doing so; and, though he had rejoiced when his son returned to Poitou
still safe, the imprisonment of the King had woefully afflicted him, and
his death had nearly killed him. He had now expressed his opposition to
the levies of a conscription with a degree of energy which had
astonished his family. He knew the names and persons of every man and
woman living on his estate, indeed, of every child above the age of ten;
and, when he was told the names of those who were drawn as conscripts,
he desired that they might all be told in his name that he hoped they
would not obey.

Henri de Larochejacquelin has already been introduced to the reader. He
returned to Poitou as soon as the Republic was proclaimed, together with
de Lescure and Adolphe Denot. Adolphe had been staying a great portion
of the winter at Durbelliere, but he had since gone to his own place,
and was now at Clisson, the seat of M. de Lescure.

Marie de Lescure, the sister of Henri's friend, was staying at
Durbelliere with Agatha Larochejaquelin; and her visit, which had been
prolonged from before Christmas, had certainly not been made less
agreeable by the fact of Henri's having been at home the whole time. She
and Agatha were both pretty, but they were very different. Marie had
dark hair, nearly black, very dark eyes, and a beautiful rich
complexion; her skin was dark, but never sallow; her colour was not
bright, but always clear and transparent; her hair curled naturally
round her head, and the heavy curls fell upon her neck and shoulders;
she was rather under the middle height, but the symmetry of her figure
was so perfect, that no one would have called her too short. She had
high animal spirits, and was always happy and good humoured; was very
fond of amusement of every kind, and able to extract amusement out of
everything. She was the great favourite of the old Marquis, not that he
loved her so well as his own daughter, but her habits and manners suited
him better than Agatha's; she could better sympathize with the old man's
wishes and fancies; she would smooth the plumage of his birds for him;
arrange and re-arrange his shells; feed his cats, his dogs, his tame
deer, and his white peacock--for the old Marquis had live pets as well
as dead favourites. Then she would sing merry little songs to him, and
laugh at him, and quiz his painted figures, and help to wheel his chair,
or pretend to do so.

She did all these things more readily than Agatha did, for her spirits
were lighter. Not that Agatha was unhappy, or inattentive to her father;
but she was quieter than Marie and of a more contemplative mood. She
also had dark hair, but it was a dark brown, and she wore it braided
close to her forehead. Her complexion was clear and bright, her forehead
was white, and the colour in her cheeks, when she had colour there, was
that of the clearest carnation. She was considerably taller than Marie,
but her figure was exquisitely perfect, and her gait was that of a
queen. She was the Rose of Poitou, the beauty and queen of the whole
district. She was all but worshipped by the peasantry around her; if
they admired her beauty much, they much more strongly appreciated her
virtues, her charity, her considerate kindness, her want of selfishness,
her devotion to her friends and neighbours, and lastly, her strong
feeling of loyalty, her love for the king while he lived, and her
passionate regret for him since he had perished on the scaffold. In this
she inherited all the feelings of her father, and it was greatly her
attachment to the throne and to the name of the King, which led to so
high a pitch the enthusiasm of the peasantry in behalf of the royalists.

Many wishes, surmises and anticipations had arisen as to who was to
carry off this rich prize; who should be the happy husband of Agatha
Larochejaquelin; but her friends had hitherto been anxious in vain; she
still went "in maiden meditation fancy free." Not that she was without
professed admirers; but they had none of them yet touched her heart.
Many thought that she would be the bride of her brother's friend,
Adolphe Denot; for he was more at the chateau than any one else, was
very handsome, and had a good property. Adolphe was moreover seen to be
very attentive to Mademoiselle Agatha; and thrown so much with her as
he was, how could he fail of being in love with her.

This belief much disturbed the comfort of Agatha's humble friends, for
Adolphe Denot was not popular among them: there was a haughtiness in his
manner to the poor, to which their own lords and masters had never
accustomed them. He was supercilious and proud in his bearing towards
them, and had none of the cheering, frank look and tone of their own
dear young M. Henri. They need not, however, have been alarmed, for
Agatha Larochejaquelin was not at all disposed to take Adolphe Denot as
her lord; she was passionately attached to her brother, and for his sake
she had been kind, attentive, nay, almost affectionate to his friend;
she and Adolphe had been much together since they were children. He had
been absent from Durbelliere for about a year, during which time, he had
ceased to be a boy, and on his return to the chateau had taken on
himself the airs, if not the manners of a man. Agatha's manner to him
was not altered, it was still friendly and affectionate, and Adolphe,
with his usual vanity, misinterpreted it; he flattered himself that the
beautiful girl loved him, and he soon persuaded himself that he was
devotedly attached to her.

He had not yet positively declared his love, but Agatha felt from his
manner that she had to expect a declaration, and she consequently
altered her own; she became less familiar with him, she avoided all
opportunities of being alone with him; she still called him by his
Christian name, for she had always done so; she was still kind and
attentive to him, for he was a guest in her father's house; but Adolphe
felt that she was altered, and he became angry and moody; he thought
that she was coquetting and that he was slighted; and without much
notice to any one, he left the house.

Agatha was glad that he was gone; she wished to spare him the
humiliation of a refusal; she understood his character well, and felt
that the wound inflicted on his self-love, by being rejected, would be
more painful to him than his actual disappointment; she knew that
Adolphe would not die for love, but she also knew that he would not
quietly bear the fancied slight of unreturned affection. If, by her
conduct, she could induce him to change his own, to drop the lover, and
be to her again simply her brother's friend, all might yet be well; but
if he persevered and declared his love, she felt that there would be a
quarrel, not only between him and her, but between him and Henri.

To tell the truth, Henri had rather fostered his friend's passion for
Agatha. He had wished to see them married; and, though he had not
exactly told his friend as much, he had said so much that both Agatha
and Denot knew what his wishes were. This, of course, gave great
encouragement to the lover, but it greatly grieved poor Agatha; and now
that Adolphe was gone, she made up her mind to open her heart to her
brother.

A day or two before the revolt of St. Florent, they were sitting
together in the drawing-room; it was late in the evening, the old
Marquis had retired for the night, and Marie de Lescure was engaged
elsewhere, so that Agatha and her brother were left alone together. He
was reading, but she was sitting gazing at the fire. She could hardly
summon up courage to say, even to her dear brother, what she wished to
say.

"Henri," she said at last, "does Adolphe return here from Fleury?"
(Fleury was the name of Denot's house).

"I hope he will," said Henri; "but what makes you ask? the place is dull
without him, isn't it?"

"Dull! you don't find Marie dull, do you, Henri?"

"Oh, Marie!" said he, laughing, "Marie amuses our father, and she charms
me; but. you might find the house dull, in spite of Marie--eh, Agatha?"

"Indeed no, Henri; the house was not dull even when you were in Paris,
and Marie was at Clisson, and papa and I were alone together here; it
was not my being dull made me ask whether Adolphe was to return."

"But you wouldn't be sorry that he should come back, Agatha? You don't
want to banish poor Adolphe from Durbelliere, I hope?"

"No," said Agatha, doubtfully, "no, I don't want to banish him--of
course, Henri, I can't want to banish your friend from the house; but--"

"But what?" said Henri, now perceiving that his sister had something on
her mind--something that she wished to say to him; "but what, dearest
Agatha?"

"I don't want to banish him from the house, Henri; but I wish he would
not return just at present; but you haven't answered my question--you
haven't told me whether you expect him."

"I think he will return; but he did not himself say exactly when. I am
sorry to hear what you say, Agatha--very sorry--I thought you and
Adolphe were great friends. I was even a little jealous," added he,
laughing, "at the close alliance between you, and I thought of getting
up a little separate party of my own with Marie."

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Stephen King fan publishes Shining's Jack Torrance's novel
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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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