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La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

A >> Anthony Trollope >> La Vendee




Madame de Lescure had, while her husband was speaking, sunk upon her
knees beside his bed, and was now bathing his hand with her tears.

"I cannot blame you for your tears," he said, "for human nature must
have her way; but my Victorine will remember that she must not give way
to her sorrow, as other women may do. Rise, dearest, and let me see your
face. I feel that I have strength now to tell you all that I have to
say. I may probably never have that strength again."

She rose at his bidding, and sat upon the bed where he could look full
upon her face; and then he began to pour out to her all the wishes of
his heart, all the thoughts which had run through his brain since
consciousness returned to him after his wound. After a little while she
conquered her emotion, and listened to him, and answered him with
attention. He first spoke of their daughter, who was now in safety, with
relatives who had fled to England, and then of herself, and the probable
result of the Vendean war. He told her that he would not say a word to
discourage Henri: that had his life been spared, he should have
considered it his own most paramount and sacred duty to further the war
with every energy which he possessed; but that he did not expect that
it would ever terminate favourably to their hopes. "The King will reign
again," he said, "in France; I do not doubt it for a moment; but years
upon years of bloodshed will have to be borne; the blood of France will
be drained from every province, aye, from every parish, before the guilt
which she has committed can be atoned for--before she can have expiated
the murder of her King." He desired her to continue with Henri till an
opportunity should occur for her to cross over into England, but to let
no such opportunity pass. He said that if Henri could maintain his
ground for a while in Brittany--if the people would support him, and if
English succour should arrive--it was still probable that they might be
able to come to such terms with the republicans as would enable them to
live after their own fashion, in their own country; to keep their own
priests among them, and to maintain their exemption from service in the
republican armies. "But should this not be so," he said, "should all the
valour of the Vendeans not be able to secure even thus much, then
remember that God will temper the wind to the shorn lamb. With a people
as with an individual, he will not make the burden too heavy for the
back which has to bear it."

He spoke also of Marie, and declared his wish that she should not delay
her marriage with Henri. He even said, that should his life be so far
prolonged, as to enable him to be carried over into Brittany, and should
the army there find a moment's rest, he would wish to see their hands
joined together at his bed-side.

"My poor dear Marie!" said Madame de Lescure, almost unconsciously. She
was thinking of her sister's future fate; that she also might have soon
to bewail a husband, torn from her by these savage wars. De Lescure
understood what was passing through her mind, and said:

"I know, love, that there are reasons why they had better remain as they
now are. Why they should not indissolubly bind themselves to each other
at such a time as this; but we must choose the least of evils. You will
both now be a burden--no, I will not say a burden, but a charge--upon
Henri; and he has a right to expect that a girl, who will depend for
everything on him, shall not shrink from the danger of marrying him. She
has been happy to accept his love, and when she may be a comfort to him,
she should not hesitate to give him her hand. Besides, dearest, think
what a comfort it will be to me to know that they are married before I
die."

There was one other subject on which he had made up his mind to speak,
but on which even he, calm and collected as he was, found it difficult
to express himself; he had, however, determined that it was his duty to
do so, and though the words almost refused to come at his bidding, still
he went through his task.

"You will be desolate for a time, Victorine, when I shall have left
you," said he.

She answered him only by a look, but that look was so full of misery--of
misery, blended with inexpressible love--that no one seeing her, could
have doubted that she would indeed be desolate when he was gone.

"We have loved each other too well to part easily," he continued, "and,
for a time, the world will all be a weary blank to you. May God, who
knows how to pour a balm into every wound, which in his mercy He
inflicts, grant that that time may not be long! Listen to me patiently,
love. It is a strong sense of duty which makes me pain you; my memory
will always be dear to you; but do not let a vain, a foolish, a wicked
regret counteract the purpose for which God has placed you here. You are
very young, dearest, you have, probably, yet many years to live; and it
would multiply my grief at leaving you tenfold, if I thought that your
hopes of happiness in this world were to be buried in the grave with me.
No, love, bear with me," he said, for she tried to stop him. "The pain
which I give you now, may prevent much grief to you hereafter. Remember,
Victorine, that should these evil days pass by--should you ever again
be restored to peace and tranquil life, my earnest, my last, my solemn
prayer to you is, that my memory may not prevent your future marriage."

She was still kneeling by his side, and with her face upturned and her
hands clasped together, she now implored him to stop. She uttered no
dissent, she made no protestations; but she beseeched him, by their long
and tender love, by all the common ties which bound them together, to
cease to speak on a subject which was so agonising.

"I have done, love," he said; "and I know that you will not think
lightly of a prayer which I have made to you in so serious a manner."

De Lescure had expressed the same wish to his wife on former occasions,
which, however, had, of course, been less solemn; and then his wife had
answered him with a full, but not grieving heart. "Had our lot," he once
said, "been cast in an Indian village, the prejudices of the country
would have required you to submit to a horrid, torturing death upon my
tomb. The prejudices of Christian lands, which attribute blame to the
wife who does not yield herself a living sacrifice to a life of
desolation from a false regard to her husband's memory, are, if not so
horrid, every whit as unreasonable; such a sentiment is an attempt to
counteract God's beneficence, who cures the wounds which he inflicts."

Henri's first care, after having seen Marie and Madame de Lescure, was
to provide for their transit, and that of his wounded friend, to the
other side of the water; for he felt that if the blues came upon St.
Florent before that was done, nothing could prevent the three from being
made prisoners. No tidings had yet been received of the advance of the
republicans from Cholet towards St. Florent, and the precautions which
Henri had taken were such as to ensure him some few hours' notice of
their approach. He knew, however, that those hours would be hours of
boundless confusion; that the whole crowd of unfortunate wretches who
might then still be on the southern side of the river, would crowd into
the small boats, hurrying themselves and each other to destruction; that
discipline would be at an end, and that all his authority would probably
be insufficient to secure a passage for his party. About three o'clock
he sent word to Arthur to have the strongest of the boats kept in
readiness a little lower down the river than the usual point of
embarkation; so that they might, if possible, escape being carried
through the throng. He then procured a waggon into which de Lescure was
lifted on his bed; his wife sat behind him, supporting his head on her
lap, and Henri and his sister walked beside the vehicle down to the
water's edge.

The little Chevalier was there with the boat, and he had with him two
men, neither of whom were young, and who had been at work the whole day
ferrying over the Vendeans to the island. Arthur's figure was hardly
that of an aide-de-camp. His head was bare and his face begrimed with
mud. He was stripped to his shirt sleeves, and they were tucked up
nearly to his shoulders. He still had round his waist the red scarf, of
which he was so proud; but it was so soiled and dragged, as hardly to
be recognized as the badge of the honourable corps to which he belonged,
for he had, constantly since the morning, been up to his breast in the
water, dragging women and children out of the river, heaving the boats
ashore, or helping to push them off through the mud and rushes.

It was settled on the bank that Arthur should go over with them into
Brittany, as Henri felt that he could not conscientiously leave the St.
Florent side of the river, while so many thousands were looking to him
for directions; and, consequently, as soon as de Lescure and the two
ladies had, with much labour and delay, been placed in the boat, he
swung himself out of the water into the bow, and the frail bark with its
precious load was pushed off into the stream.

The point from which it started was somewhat lower down the stream than
that from which the boats had been hitherto put off, and, consequently,
as they got into the middle of the river, they found themselves carried
down towards the lower part of the island, on which they had intended
to land. Had the men who were rowing worked vigorously, this would not
have occurred to any great extent; but they pulled slowly and feebly,
and every foot which the boat made across, it descended as much down the
river. Arthur had been desired to land de Lescure on the island, and
another boat had been sent round to be ready to take him at once from
thence to the other shore; but when he found that they were
unintentionally so near the lower end of the island, it occurred to him
that it would save them all much pain and trouble, if he were to run
round it, and land them at once on the opposite shore; they would in
this way have to make a considerably longer journey, but then de Lescure
would be spared the pain of so many different movements.

Madame de Lescure immediately jumped at the proposal. "For heaven's
sake, Arthur, do so, if it be possible," said she; "it will be the
greatest relief. I do not think we should ever get across to the other
boat, if we once leave this."

Arthur was behind the two men at the oars, who had listened to what had
been said, without making any observation, or attempting to alter the
destination of the boat; rudder there was none, and the steering,
therefore, depended entirely on the rowers.

"Do you hear?" said Arthur, stretching forward and laying his hand on
the shoulder of the man who was in front. "Never mind the island at all;
go a little more down the stream, and then we can cross over at once
without landing at all. Do you hear me, friend?" added he, speaking
rather hastily, for the boatman took no apparent notice of his
instructions.

"We hear you, Monsieur," said the man, "but it is impossible; we could
not do it."

"Ah, nonsense!" answered the Chevalier: "not do it--I say you must do
it. I wonder you should hesitate for a moment, when you know how M. de
Lescure is suffering, and how much those ladies have to go through. Turn
the boat down the stream at once, I tell you."

"It is quite impossible," said the old man doggedly, and still holding
on to his course; "we should only upset the boat and drown you all. We
could never push her through the current on the other side, could we
Jean?"

"Quite impossible," said the other. "We should only be carried down
into the rushes, or else be upset in the stream."

"Nonsense!" said Arthur. "What's to upset you? At any rate you shall
try." And he laid his hand on the oar of the man who was nearest to him,
but this, instead of having the effect which he desired, turned the nose
of the boat the other way.

"For God's sake, my dear friends, do this favour for us if you can!"
said Madame de Lescure. "It may save the life of my husband, and indeed
we will reward you richly for your labour. Stop, Arthur, don't use
violence; I am sure they will do this kindness for us, if they are
able."

"If they won't do it for kindness, they shall do it because they cannot
help it," said Arthur, when he saw that the men still showed no
disposition to go down the stream; and as he spoke he pulled his pistol
out of his belt, and prepared to cock it. The pistol, in truth, was
perfectly harmless, for it had been over and over again immersed in the
water, and the powder was saturated with wet; but this did not occur to
the boatmen, nor, very possibly, to Arthur either; and when he, stepping
across the thwart, on which the hinder man was sitting, held the pistol
close to the ear of the other, threatening that if he did not at once
do as he was bid, he would blow out his brains and take his place on the
seat, the poor old man dropped his oar from his hand into the water, and
falling on his knees on the bottom of the boat, implored for mercy.

"Spare me, Monsieur! oh, spare me!" said he. "Ladies, pray speak for me:
I am not used to this work--indeed I am not--and I and my comrade are
nearly dead with fatigue."

Arthur put the pistol back into his belt when the poor man begged for
mercy, and pulling the fallen oar out of the water, declared that he
would himself row round the island, and that the two old men might take
the other oar in turns. They agreed to this, and then he who had been
so frightened, and who was plainly the master of the two, told his tale
to them, as he filled Arthur's place in the bow of the boat.

"When they had heard," he said, "what his former occupation had been,
they would not wonder that the hard work at which they found him was
almost too much for him. He was," he said, "a priest, and had been
employed above twenty years as Cure in a small parish on the river side,
between St. Florent and Chaudron. The other man, who was working with
him, had been his sexton. He had, like other Cures, been turned out of
his little house by the Republic, but had returned to his parish when
he heard that the success of the Vendean arms seemed to promise
tranquillity to the old inhabitants of the country. He had, however,
soon been again disturbed. The rumour of Lechelle's army had driven him
from his home, and he had fled with many others to St. Florent. He had
been advised that those who were taken in a priest's garb, would be more
subject even than others to the wrath of the republicans, and he had
therefore disguised himself; and as from having lived so long near the
river he had become somewhat used to the management of boats, he had,
for charity's sake, leant his hand to the poor Vendeans, willing," as
he said, "to use what little skill and strength he had for those who
lost their all in fighting for him, his country, and his religion. But
now," he added, "he found himself almost knocked up; and although, when
he had been chosen to take over Monsieur and the two ladies, he had not
had the heart to decline, still he had found that his strength would
fail him. He knew that he and his companion could not, unaided, reach
the opposite shore; but if the young gentleman would assist, they would
still do their best, and perhaps they might cross over in safety."

This piteous tale soon turned their anger into admiration and
friendship. They thanked the kind old man for all that he had done for
them, and Arthur once, and over again, turned round to beg his pardon
for the violence he had offered him.

"Indeed, then, I picked you out for this job," said he, "because you
always worked so hard, and seemed so skilful and anxious, and because
I observed that your boat always made the passage quicker than the
others. You must not be angry when I tell you that I thought you had
been a boatman all your life."

He said he was not angry at all, but flattered; indeed he had spent much
of his leisure time in rowing, and was heartily glad that his little
skill was now useful to his friends. He soon offered to take his place
again at the oar, and when neither his old servant or Arthur would allow
him to do so, he declared that he was quite himself again, and that
those few minutes' rest had wonderfully recruited him. The ladies both
thanked him kindly, but begged him to remain a while where he was, and
Marie, from time to time, asked him questions about the past, and tried
to hold out hopes to him for the future. The tears came into his eyes,
and rolled down his cheeks, and after a while he took the sexton's oar,
literally to relieve himself from having to speak.

"It is not he work alone that has upset me," said he after a while, "but
the poor people seem so callous. We have worked hard these two days, as
the young gentleman knows, and all for charity, and yet till this moment
we have not had a kind word. They urge us on to the work, and when we
land them at the shore, they do not even thank us as they go away; then
we turn back with a heavy heart for another load."

They reached the shore of Brittany in safety, and when de Lescure was
placed in the carriage which had been provided for him, he desired that
the poor priest might be begged to accompany them on their journey. He
declined, however, saying that he had found a sphere in which he could
be useful, and that he would stick to the work till it was all done, or
till his strength failed him. De Lescure pressed his hand, and begged
his blessing, and told him that if there were many such as him in the
country, La Vendee might still carry her head high, in spite of all that
the Republic could do against her. This praise made the old man's heart
light once again, and he returned to his bat, and passed. back to St.
Florent with his comrade and Arthur, ready to recommence his labours.
In the meantime de Lescure and his wife and sister were warmly welcomed
on the Breton side of the river, and before night he, for the first time
since the battle of Cholet, found himself in comparative security and
peace.

When Arthur got back he found that another plan had been started for
carrying over the Vendeans, which, if it did not drown them altogether,
would be certainly much more expeditious than that of the boats. It had
originated with Chapeau, under whose guidance the operations were about
to commence.

He had come down to the water-side with his master, and on seeing the
way in which the men were working, had calculated that it would yet take
above a week to carry over all who remained, and as it was probable that
they would be attacked before twenty-four hours were over, he had
observed that they might as well give themselves up for lost if they
could devise no other scheme of passing over.

"We will do the best we can," said Henri. "If we can get over the women,
and children, and wounded, the rest of us can fight our way to the
bridge of Ancenis."

"Why not make a raft?" said Chapeau.

"Make one if you can," said Henri, "but it will only go down the stream.
Besides, you have neither timber nor iron ready to do it."

Chapeau, however, determined to try, and he employed the men from
Durbelliere, who knew him, and would work for him, to get together every
piece of timber they could collect. They brought down to the bank of the
river the green trunks of small trees, the bodies of old waggons, the
small beams which they were able to pull down out of the deserted
cottages near the river-side, pieces of bedsteads, and broken fragments
of barn doors. All these Chapeau, with endless care, joined together by
numberless bits of ropes, and at last succeeded in getting afloat a raft
on which some forty or fifty men might stand, but which seemed to be
anything but a safe or commodious means of transit. In the first place,
though it supported the men on it, it did not bear them high and dry
above the water, which came over the ankles of most of them. Then there
was no possible means of steering the unwieldy bark; and there could be
no doubt that if the Argonauts did succeed in getting their vessels out
into the river, it would immediately descend the stream, and that it,
and those upon it, would either be upset altogether, or taken to
whichever bank and whatever part of it, the river in its caprice might
please.

In this dilemma a brilliant idea occurred to Chapeau. He still had
plenty of rope in his possession, and having fastened one end of a long
coil with weights and blocks on the riverside, he passed over with the
other end into the island, and fastened it there. The rope, therefore,
traversed the river, and by holding on to this, and passing it slowly
through their hands, while they strained against the raft with their
feet, the enterprising crew who had first embarked reached the island
in safety. Ten of the number had to return with the raft, but still from
thirty to forty had been taken over, and that without any great delay.

After this first success the boats were sent round to work between the
island and the other shore, and the raft was kept passing to and fro
over the river the whole night. Nobody got over with dry feet, but still
no one was drowned, and upon the whole Chapeau was considered to be
entitled to the thanks of the whole army for the success of his
invention. He had certainly accelerated their passage fivefold.



CHAPTER VII

CATHELINEAU'S MOTHER

The old motto, attributing disrespect to every prophet in his own
country, had not been proved true with reference to Cathelineau in St.
Florent. His deeds, during the short period of his triumph, had been
celebrated there with general admiration, and since his death, his
memory had been almost adored. The people of the town had had no public
means of showing their appreciation of his valour; they had not as yet
had time to erect monuments to his honour, or to establish other
chronicles of his virtues, than those which were written in the hearts
of his townsmen. He had left an aged mother behind him, who had long
been dependent on his exertions for support, and they had endeavoured
to express their feeling of his services, by offering to place her
beyond the reach of poverty; but, unaccountably enough, she was the only
person in St. Florent, who was dissatisfied with her son's career, and
angry with the town which had induced him to adopt it.

She still lived in a small cottage near the extremity of St. Florent,
which had been the residence of Cathelineau as long as he supported
himself by his humble calling. It was now wrecked and shattered, and
showed those certain signs of ruin which quickly fall on the dwellings
of the aged poor, who have no young relatives round them. Here she would
sit and spin, seldom now interrupted by any; though at first her
neighbours used to flock thither to celebrate the praises of her son.
She had loved her son, as warmly as other mothers love their children;
but she had loved him as a hard-working labourer, earning for herself
and for him their daily pittance; not as a mighty General, courted and
complimented by the rich and great of the land. She had begged him not
to go out into the town on the morning when he had been so instrumental
in saving his townsmen from the ignominy of being pressed into the
service of the Republic; and when he returned in the evening, crowned
with laurels, she had not congratulated him. She had uttered nothing but
evil bodings to him on the day when he first went to Durbelliere; and
when he returned from Saumur, chief General of all the forces of then
victorious La Vendee, she had refused to participate in the glories
which awaited him in his native town. On his departure to Nantes she had
prophesied to him his death, and when the tidings of his fall were first
brought to her, she merely said that she had expected it. The whole town
mourned openly for Cathelineau, except his mother. She wept for him in
silence and alone; but she wept for the honest, sturdy, hard--working
labourer whom she had reared beneath her roof, and who had been beguiled
away by vain people, to vain pursuits, which had ended in his death;
while others bewailed the fall of a great captain, who had conferred
honour on their town, and who, had he been spared, might have heaped
glory on his country. Since that time, she had not ceased to rail on
those who had seduced her son into celebrity and danger; and, after a
while, had been left to rail alone.

When nearly all the inhabitants of the town flocked down to the
river-side, anxious to escape from the wrath of the republicans, she
resolutely refused to move, declaring that if it were God's will that
she should perish under the ashes of her little cottage, she would do
so, and that nothing should induce her, in her extreme old age, to leave
the spot on which she had been born, and had always lived. During the
whole confusion, attending the passage of the river, she sat there
undisturbed; and though she saw all her poor neighbours leave their
humble dwellings, and all their little property, to look for safety in
Brittany, she did not move.

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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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