La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

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"And what village are we nearest to, my friend?" said Chapeau, inquiring
of the man who had given the above unwelcome information.

"Why the chapel of Genet," said he, "is but a short quarter of a league
from you, and the Cure's house is close by, but the village and the
chateau are a long way beyond that, and not on the straight road
either."

"Ask him the Cure's name, Chapeau," said Marie: "we will go there and
tell him, who we are.'

"If he lives in his own house quietly now, Mademoiselle," answered
Chapeau, "it would be dangerous to do so; he must be one of the
constitutional priests." He asked the man, however, what was the name
of the Cure.

"Why the regular old Cure went away long since, and another was here a
while in his place--"

"Well, and he has gone away now, I suppose?" said Chapeau.

"Why, yes; he went away too a while since, when Cathelineau turned the
soldiers out of St. Florent."

"God bless him," said Chapeau, meaning Cathelineau, and not the priest.
"And is there no one in the house now, my friend? for you see these two
ladies are unable to travel further. If there be a friend living there,
I am sure he will procure them some accommodation."

"And where did the ladies come from?" asked the man.

"You need not be afraid," replied Chapeau, "they, and all belonging to
them, are friends to the good cause;" and then, after considering within
himself for a while, he added, "I will tell you who they are, they are
the wife and sister of M. de Lescure."

Had he told the man that they were angels from heaven, and had the man
believed him, he could neither have been more surprised, or expressed
a stronger feeling of adoration.

The poor man implored a multitude of blessings on the two ladies, whose
names were so dear to every peasant of La Vendee, and then told them
that after the new priest had ran away, the old Cure had come back to
his own house again, but that Father Bernard was a very old man, hardly
strong enough even to perform mass, though, as there was no one else to
it, he did go through it every Sabbath morning; that for these two days
past there had been another priest staying with Father Bernard; he did
not, however, know what his name was, but he knew that he had been with
the army, and that no priest through all La Vendee had been more active
than he had been to encourage the royalists. The man then offered to
show them to the Cure's house, and they all turned thither together.

The little chapel was on one side of the road, and the humble house of
the parish priest was immediately opposite to it, ensconced among a few
trees, at a little distance from the road. The door of the chapel was
open, and the murmuring sound of low voices within told the party that
vespers were being sung. Madame de Lescure did not like calling at the
priest's house without being announced, and she therefore desired
Chapeau to go down and explain who she was, and the circumstances under
which she begged for the Cure's hospitality, and proposed that she and
Marie should get off their horses, and remain in the chapel till Chapeau
returned.

They entered the little chapel, and found in it about a dozen peasants
on their knees, while a priest was chaunting the vespers from a small
side altar, built in a niche in the wall. It was now late, and the
light, which even abroad was growing dimmer every moment, was still less
strong within the building. They could not, therefore, see the face of
the priest as he knelt at the side of the altar, but the voice seemed
familiar to both of them.

Madame de Lescure, perhaps as much from fatigue as from devotion, sank
down at once upon her knees against a little stone seat which projected
from the wall near the door, but Marie remained standing, straining her
eyes to try to catch the features of the Cure. After a moment or two she
also knelt down, and said in a whisper to her sister, "It is the Cure
of St. Laud--it is our own Father Jerome."

They had hardly been a minute or two in their position near the door,
when the service for the evening was over, and the priest, rising from
the altar, gave his blessing to the little congregation. Some of them
rose from their knees and left the chapel, but a portion of them still
remained kneeling, with their heads in their hands, trying to make up,
by the length and perseverance of their devotion, for any deficiency
there might be in its fervour. The two ladies also rose, and though they
doubted for a moment what to do, they both advanced to the rude steps
of the little altar, at which Father Jerome was again kneeling. He had
not seen them as yet, nor had he noticed the entrance of any one, but
the ordinary congregation of the chapel; and so absorbed was he, either
in his thoughts or his devotions, that he did not even observe them till
they were standing close to his elbow.

"Father Jerome," said Madame de Lescure in a low voice, laying her hand
on the threadbare sleeve of the old grey coat, which he still wore. "If
you could guess the comfort I have in finding you here!"

The priest sprang from his knees at hearing her voice, and gazed at her
as though she had been a ghost.

"Is it possible," said he, "Madame de Lescure and Mademoiselle here in
the chapel of Genet!" and then turning to the gaping peasants, he said,
"go home, my children, go home! I have business to speak of to these
ladies."

"Oh, Father Jerome," said Madame de Lescure, as soon as they were alone,
"for heaven's sake tell me something of M. de Lescure. You have heard
of what happened at Cholet?"

"Yes, Madame, I was there," said the priest.

"You were there! then you can tell me of my husband. For God's sake,
speak, Father Jerome! Tell me the worst at once. I can bear it, for it
can't be worse than I expect. Is he--is he alive?"

Father Jerome had been in the midst of the hottest part of the battle
at Cholet, sometimes encouraging the troops by his words, and at others
leading them on by his example, charging at their head, with his huge
crucifix lifted high in the air. He had been close to de Lescure when
he fell, and had seen him in his litter after he was carried from the
field of battle. He could, therefore, have said at once that he had seen
him alive after the battle was over, but he had no wish to deceive
Madame de Lescure; and at the moment of which we are speaking, he most
undoubtedly believed that the wound had been fatal, and that her husband
was no more.

A musket-ball had entered just below the eye, and making its way
downwards, had lodged itself in the back of his neck. A surgeon had
examined the wound before Father Jerome left the army; and though he had
not positively said that it would prove mortal, he had spoken so
unfavourably of the case, as to make all those who heard him believe
that it would be so.

Had Father Jerome expected to see the two nearest and dearest relations
of the man whom he thought to be now no more, he would have prepared
himself for the difficult task which he would have had to undertake, and
no one would have been better able to go through it with feeling,
delicacy, and firmness; but such was not the case. The sudden apparition
of the wife and sister of his friend seemed to him to be supernatural;
and though he at once made up his mind to give no false hope, he could
not so quickly decide in what way he should impart the sad news which
he had to tell.

Madame de Lescure was trembling so violently as she asked the question,
on the answer to which her fate depended, that the priest observed it,
and he turned to the altar at the end of the chapel, to fetch a rude
chair which stood there for the use of the officiating clergyman, and
which was the only moveable seat in the chapel; and whilst doing so, he
was enabled to collect his thoughts, so as to answer not quite so much
at random as he otherwise must have done.

"Sit down, Madame de Lescure," said he, "sit down, Mademoiselle," and
he made the latter sit down on the altar step. "You are fatigued, and
you have agitated yourself too intensely."

"Why don't you speak, Father Jerome? Why don't you tell me at once--is
he alive?" And then she added, almost screaming in her agitation, "For
God's sake, Sir, don't keep a wretched, miserable woman in suspense!"

The priest gazed for a moment at the unfortunate lady. She had, at his
bidding sunk upon the chair, but she could hardly be said to be seated,
as, with her knees bent under her, and her hands clasped, she gazed up
into his face. She felt that her husband was dead but still, till the
fatal word was spoken, there was hope enough within her heart to feed
the agony of doubt which was tormenting her. Marie had hitherto said
nothing; she had made her own grief subservient to that of her brother's
wife, and, though hardly less anxious, she was less agitated than the
other.

"I cannot tell you anything with certainty, Madame," said the priest at
last. "I cannot--"

"Then you do not know that he is dead! Then there is, at any rate, some
room for hope!" said she, not allowing him to finish what he was about
to say; and she sank back in the chair, and relieved her overwrought
mind with a flood of tears.

The priest was firmly convinced that de Lescure was at this moment
numbered among the dead, and his conscience forbad him to relieve
himself of his dreadful task, by allowing her to entertain a false hope;
he had still, therefore, to say the words which he found it so difficult
to utter.

He sat down beside Marie on the low step of the altar, immediately
opposite to Madame de Lescure; he still had on him the vestments of his
holy office, though they were much worn, shabby, and soiled, and the
cap, which formed a part of the priest's dress when officiating, was on
his head; his shoes were so worn and tattered, that they were nearly
falling from his feet, and the stockings, which displayed the shape of
his huge legs, were so patched and darned with worsteds of different
colours, as to have made them more fitting for a mountebank than a.
priest. At the present moment, there was no one likely to notice his
costume; but had there been an observer there, it would have told him
a tale, easy to be read, of the sufferings which had been endured by
this brave and faithful servant of the King.

"When God, Madame de Lescure," said he, speaking in a kind, peculiarly
solemn tone of voice, "when God called upon you to be the wife of him
who has been to you so affectionate a husband, He vouchsafed to you
higher blessings, but at the same time imposed on you sterner duties
than those which women in general are called upon to bear. You have
enjoyed the blessings, and if I know your character, you will not shrink
from the duties."

"I will shrink from nothing, Father Jerome," said she. "God's will be
done! I will endeavour to bear the burden which His Providence lays on
me; but I have all a woman's weakness, and all a woman's fears."

"He who has given strength and courage to so many of His people in these
afflicted days, will also give it to you; He will enable you to bear the
weight of His hand, which in chastising, blesses us, which in punishing
us here, will render us fit for unutterable joys hereafter." He paused
a moment; but as neither of the women could now speak through their
tears, he went on: "I was close to your husband when he fell, and as his
eyes closed on the battlefield, they rested on the blessed emblem of his
redemption."

"He is dead then!" said she, jumping from her chair, and struggling with
the sobs which nearly choked her. "Oh Sir, if you have the mercy which
a man should feel for a wretched woman, tell me at least the truth," and
as she spoke, she threw herself on her knees before him.

Father Jerome certainly lacked no mercy, and usually speaking, he lacked
no firmness; but now he nearly felt himself overcome. "You must compose
yourself before I can speak calmly to you, my daughter--before you can
even understand what I shall say to you. I will not even speak to you
till you are again seated, and then I will tell you everything.
There--remember now, I will tell you everything as it happened, and, as
far as I know, all that did happen. You must summon up your courage, my
children, and show yourself worthy to have been the wife and sister of
that great man whom you loved so well."

"He is dead!" said Marie, speaking for the first time, and almost in a
whisper. "I know now that it is so," and she threw herself into her
sister's lap, and embraced her knees.

The priest did not contradict her, but commenced a narrative, which he
intended to convey to his listeners exactly the same impressions which
were on his own mind. In this, however, he failed. He told them that de
Lescure had been carried senseless from the field, and had been taken
by Henri in a litter on the road towards St. Florent; that he himself
had been present when the surgeon expressed an almost fatal opinion
respecting the wound, but that the wounded man was still alive when he
last saw him, and that, since then, he had heard no certain news
respecting him. Even this statement, which the priest was unable to make
without many interruptions, acted rather as a relief than otherwise to
Madame de Lescure. She might, at any rate, see her husband again; and
it was still possible that both the surgeon and Father Jerome might be
wrong. As soon as he had told his tale, she, forgetting her fatigue, and
the difficulties which surrounded her, wanted immediately to resume her
journey, and Father Jerome was equally anxious to learn how she and
Marie had come so far, and how they intended to proceed.

Chapeau had in the mean time called on the old priest, and though he had
found it almost impossible to make him understand what he wanted, or who
the ladies were of whom he spoke, he had learnt that Father Jerome was
in the chapel, and was as much gratified as he was surprised to hear it.
He had then hurried back, and though he had not put himself forward
during the scene which has been just described, he had heard what had
passed.

He now explained to Father Jerome the way in which they had left
Chatillon, and journeyed on horseback from St. Laurent, and declared,
at the same time with much truth, that it was quite impossible for them
to proceed farther on their way that night.

"The poor brutes are dead beat," said he. "All the spurs in Poitou
wouldn't get them on a league. The night will be pitch dark, too, and,
above all, Madame and Mademoiselle would be killed. They have already
been on horseback all day--and so they were yesterday: it is quite clear
they must rest here tonight."

Chapeau's arguments against their farther progress were conclusive, and
as there was no better shelter to which to take them, Father Jerome led
them into the little glebe. "There is but one bed left in the place,"
said he, as he entered the gate, "but you will be very welcome to that;
you will find it poor enough; Father Bernard has shared it with me for
the last two nights. We poor Cures have not many luxuries to offer to
our friends now."

Madame de Lescure tried to utter some kind of protest that she would not
turn the poor old man out of his only bed, but she succeeded badly in
the attempt, for her heart was sad within her, and she hardly knew what
she was saying. They all followed Father Jerome out of the chapel, of
which he locked the door, and putting the key into his pocket, strode
into the humble dwelling opposite.

They found Father Bernard seated over a low wood fire, in a small
sitting-room, in which the smell arising from the burning of damp sticks
was very prevalent. There was one small rickety table in the middle of
the room, and one other chair besides that occupied by the host, and
with these articles alone the room was furnished. That there was no
carpet in a clergyman's house in Poitou was not remarkable; indeed it
would have been very remarkable if there had been one; but the total
want of any of the usual comforts of civilized life struck even Madame
de Lescure, unsuited as she was at the present moment to take notice of
such things.

The old man did not rise, but stared at them somewhat wildly: he was
nearly doting from age; and fear, poverty, and sorrow, added to his many
years, had now weighed him down almost to idiotcy. Father Jerome did the
honours of the house; he made Madame de Lescure sit down on the chair,
and then bustling into the kitchen, brought out a three legged stool,
which he wiped with the sleeve of his coat, and offered to Marie. Then
he took Chapeau to the door, and whispered to him some secret
communication with reference to supper; in fact, he had to confess that
there was nothing in the house but bread, and but little of that. That
neither he or Father Bernard had a sou piece between them, and that
unless Chapeau had money, and could go as far as the village and
purchase eggs, they would all have to go supperless to bed. Chapeau
luckily was provided, and started at once to forage for the party, and
Father Jerome returned into the room relieved from a heavy weight.

"My dear old friend here," said he, laying his hand on the old man's
arm, "has not much to offer you; but I am sure you are welcome to what
-he has. There is not a heart in all La Vendee beats truer to his
sovereign than his. Old age, misfortune, and persecution, have lain a
heavy hand on him lately, but his heart still warms to the cause. Does
it not my old friend?" And Father Jerome looked kindly into his face,
striving to encourage him into some little share of interest in what was
going on.

"I don't think I'll ever be warm again," said the old man, drawing his
chair still nearer to the dull smoky fire, and shivering as he did so.
"Everything is cold now. I don't understand why these ladies are come
here, or what they're to do; but they're very welcome, Jerome, very
welcome. A strange man came in just now, and said they must have my
bed."

"Oh no, Sir," said Madame de Lescure, inexpressibly shocked at the
dreadful misery of the poor old man; "indeed, indeed, we will not. It
is only for one night, and we shall do very well. Indeed, we would not
turn you out of your bed."

"You are welcome, Madame, welcome to it all--welcome as the flowers in
May. I know who you are, though I forget your name; it is a name dear
to all La Vendee. Your husband is a great and good man; indeed, you
shall have my bed, though you'll find it very cold. Your husband--but,
oh dear! I beg your pardon, Madame, I forgot."

I need not say that the evening which they spent at Genet, was
melancholy enough, and the privations which they suffered were dreadful.
During the early part of the night both Madame de Lescure and Marie lay
down for a few hours, but nothing, which could be said, would induce
them to keep the old priest longer from his bed. About midnight they got
up and spent the remainder of the night seated on the two chairs near
the fire, while Father Jerome squatted on the stool, and with his elbows
on his knees, and his face upon his hands, sat out the long night,
meditating upon the fortunes of La Vendee.

They started early on the next morning, and the priest of St. Laud's
went with them, leaving Father Bernard in perfect solitude, for he had
neither friend or relative to reside beneath his roof.

"Some of them will come down from time to time," said Father Jerome,
"and do what little can be done for him, poor old man! His sufferings,
it is to be hoped, will not last many days."

"And will he perform mass next Sunday?" said Marie.

"Indeed he will, if able to walk across the road into the chapel, and
will forget no word of the service, and make no blunder in the ceremony.
To you he seems to be an idiot, but he is not so, though long suffering
has made his mind to wander strangely, when he sees strange faces. There
are many who have been called to a more active sphere of duty for their
King and country than that poor Cure, but none who have suffered more
acutely for the cause, and have born their sufferings with greater
patience."

CHAPTER V

THE VENDEANS AT ST. FLORENT.

The reader, it is hoped, will remember St. Florent; it was here that the
first scene of this tale opened; it was here that Cathelineau first
opposed the exactions of the democratic government and that the
Vendeans, not then rejoicing in that now illustrious name, felt the
first flush of victory. It was here that 'Marie Jeanne' was taken from
the troops of the Republic by the valour of the townsmen, and, adorned
with garlands by their sisters and daughters, was dragged in triumph
through the streets, with such bright presentiments of future success
and glory.

The men of St. Florent had ever since that day borne a prominent part
in the contest; they felt that the people of Poitou had risen in a mass
to promote the cause, which they had been the first to take up; and they
had considered themselves bound in honour to support the character for
loyalty which they had assumed: the consequence was that many of the
bravest of its sons had fallen, and that very few of its daughters had
not to lament a lover, a husband, or a father.

St. Florent was now a melancholy careworn place. The people no longer
met together in enthusiastic groups to animate each other's courage, and
to anticipate the glorious day when their sovereign should come among
them in person, to thank them for having been the first in Poitou to
unfurl the white flag. It is true that they did not go back from their
high resolves, or shrink from the bloody effects of their brave
enterprise, but their talk now was of suffering and death; they
whispered together in twos and threes, at their own door-sills, instead
of shouting in the market-place. Cathelineau was dead, and Foret was
dead, and they were the gallantest of their townsmen. They had now also
heard that everything had been staked on a great battle, and that that
battle had been lost at Cholet--that Bonchamps and d'Elbee had fallen,
and that de Lescure had been wounded and was like to die. They knew that
the whole army was retreating to St. Florent, and that the Republican
troops would soon follow them, headed by Lechelle, whose name already
drove the colour from the cheeks of every woman in La Vendee. They knew
that a crowd of starving wretches would fall, like a swarm of locusts,
on their already nearly empty granaries; and that all the horrors
attendant on a civil war were crowding round their hearths.

It was late in the evening that the news of the battle reached the town,
and early on the next morning the landlord of the auberge was standing
at his door waiting the arrival of Henri Larochejaquelin and de Lescure.
The town was all up and in a tumult; from time to time small parties of
men flocked in from Cholet, some armed, and some of whom had lost their
arms; some slightly wounded, and some fainting with fatigue, as they
begged admission into the houses of the town's-people. The aubergiste
was resolute in refusing admittance to all; for tidings had reached him
of guests who would more than fill his house, on whom he looked as
entitled to more than all he could give them. It was at his hall door
that the first blow had been struck, it was in rescuing his servant that
the first blood had been shed; and though the war had utterly ruined
him, he still felt that it would ill become him to begrudge anything
that remained to him to those who had suffered so much in the cause.

Peter Berrier, his ostler, stood behind him, teterrima belli causa! This
man had at different times been with the army, but had managed to bring
himself safe out of the dangers of the wars back to the little inn, and
now considered himself an hero. He looked on himself in the light in
which classic readers look on Helen, and felt sure that the whole
struggle had been commenced, and was continued on his account. He was
amazed to find how little deference was paid to him, not only by the
Vendeans in general, but even by his own town's-people.

"I shall never be made to understand this business of Cholet," said he
to his master, "never. There must have been sad want there of a good
head; aye, and of a good heart too, I fear. Well, well, to turn and run!
Vendean soldiers to turn and run before those beggarly blues!"

"You'd have been the first, Peter, to show a clean pair of heels
yourself, if you'd been there," said the landlord.

"Me show a clean pair of heels! I didn't run away at Saumur, nor yet at
Fontenay, nor yet at many another pitched battle I saw. I didn't run
away here at St. Florent, I believe, when a few of us took the barracks
against a full regiment of soldiers."

"You couldn't well run then, for you were tied by the leg in the stable
there."

"No, I was not; it was only for a minute or two I was in the stable.
Would Cathelineau or Foret have turned their backs, think ye? When I was
alongside of those two men, I used to feel that the three of us were a
match for the world in arms; and they had the same feeling too exactly.
Well, two of the three are gone, but I would sooner have followed them
than have turned my back upon a blue."

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