La Vendee by Anthony Trollope
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Anthony Trollope >> La Vendee
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On the day after that on which de Lescure had passed over, she was
sitting alone in her cabin, and the unceasing whirl of her
spinning-wheel proved that the distractions of the time had not made her
idle. By this time all those who had lived immediately near her, were
gone. it is not to be supposed that absolutely every inhabitant of the
town left his home; there were some who had taken no prominent part in
the war, and who could not believe that the republicans would destroy
those whom they found quietly living in their own houses; but all the
poorer part of the population were gone, and not a living soul but
herself remained in the row of cabins, of which Cathelineau's mother
occupied one.
Her wheel was turning fast round, obedient to the quick motion of her
foot, and her two hands were employed in preparing the flax before it
was caught by the wheel; but her mind was far away from her ordinary
pursuit. She had been thinking how true were the prophetic warnings with
which she had implored her son to submit to the republicans, and how
surely she had foreseen the desolation which his resistance had brought
on all around her. And yet there was more of affection than bitterness
in her thoughts of her son. She acknowledged to herself his high
qualities; she knew well how good, how noble, how generous, had been his
disposition. She was, even in her own way, proud of his fame; but she
hated, with an unmixed hatred, those whom she thought had urged him on
to his ruin--those friends of noble blood, who would have spurned the
postillion from their doors had he presumed to enter them in former
days; but who had thrust him into the van of danger in the hour of need,
and had persuaded him, fond and foolish as he had been, to use his
courage, his energy, and his genius, in fighting for them a battle, in
which he should have had no personal interest.
As she sat there spinning, and thinking thus bitterly of the causes of
all her woe, a figure darkened the door of her cottage, and looking up
she saw a young lady dressed in black. She was tall, and of a noble
mien; her face was very beautiful, but pale and sad, as were the faces
of most in these sad times. Her dress was simple, and she was
unattended; but yet there was that about her, which assured the old
woman that she was not of simple blood, and which prepared her to look
upon her as an enemy.
It was Agatha Larochejaquelin. She and her father had, by slow stages,
reached St. Florent in safety; and, after having seen him at rest, and
spoken a word to her brother, her first care had been to inquire after
the mother of Cathelineau. She had been told of her solitary state, and
of her stubborn resolution to remain at St. Florent, and she determined
to offer her any aid in her power, as a duty due to the memory of him,
with whom she had been, for a short time, so strangely connected.
The old woman rose mechanically, and made a slight obeisance as she saw
Agatha's commanding figure, and then reseating herself, hastily
recommenced her work, as though she had forgotten herself, in having
been thus far courteous to her guest.
"I have come to express my esteem and respect to the mother of
Cathelineau," said Agatha, as soon as she found herself inside the
cottage. "I knew and valued your son, and I shall be glad to know his
mother. Was not the brave Cathelineau your son, my friend?" she added,
seeing that the old woman stared at her, as though she did not as yet
comprehend the object of her visit.
"My name is Francoise Cathelineau," said the sybil, "and Jacques
Cathelineau was my son."
"And proud you may be to have been his mother. He was a great and good
man: he was trusted and loved by all La Vendee. No one was so beloved
by the poor as he was; no one was so entirely trusted by the rich and
great."
"I wish that the rich and great had left him as they found him. It would
be well for him and me this morning, if he had not so entirely trusted
them."
"His death was a noble death. He died for the throne which he honoured,
and loved so loyally; and his name will be honoured in Poitou, aye, and
in all France, as long as the names of the great and the good are
remembered. It must be a bitter thing to lose an only son, but his
dearest friends should not regret him in such a cause."
"Dearest friends! What do you know of his dearest friends? How can you
tell what his dearest friends may feel about it?"
"I know what I feel myself. Perhaps I cannot judge of all a mother's
agony in losing her son; but I may truly say, that of those who knew
Cathelineau, none valued him more than I did."
"Valued him! Yes, you valued him as you would a war-horse, or a strong
tower, but you did not love him. He was not of your race, or breed. His
hands were hard with toil, his hair was rough, and his voice was harsh
with the night air. The breath of the labouring poor is noisome in the
nostrils of the rich. His garments smelt of industry, and his awkward
gait told tales of his humble trade. You did not love him: such as you
could not have loved a man like him. You have come here to bid me to
forget my son, and you think it easy for me to do so, because you and
his noble friends have forgotten him. You are welcome, Mademoiselle, but
you might have saved yourself the trouble."
"God forbid that I should ask you to forget him. I can never forget him
myself."
"Would that I could--would that I could! He left me that morning when
I bade him to stay, though I went down on my knees to ask it as a
favour. He was a stubborn self-willed man, and he went his own way. He
never passed another night under his mother's roof; he never again heard
his mother's blessing. I wish I could forget him. Indeed, indeed, I wish
I could!" and the old woman swayed herself backwards and forwards in her
chair, repeating the wish, as though she did not know that any one was
with her in the cottage.
Agatha hardly knew what to say to the strange woman before her, or how
to soften her bitterness of spirit. She had felt an unaccountable
attraction to Cathelineau's mother. She had imagined that she could
speak to her of her son with affection and warmth, though she could not
do so to any other living soul She had flattered herself that she should
have a melancholy pleasure in talking of his death, and in assuring his
aged mother that she had soothed her son's last hours, and given him,
in his dying moments, that care which can only be given by the hands of
a woman. She now felt herself repulsed, and learnt that the short career
of glory which had united her with Cathelineau, had severed him from his
mother. Nevertheless her heart yearned to the old woman; she still hoped
that, if she could touch the right cord, she might find her way to the
mother's heart.
"I thought, perhaps," she said, "you would be glad to hear some tidings
of his last moments; and as I was with him when he died, I have come to
tell you that his death was that of a Christian, who hoped everything
from the merits of his Saviour."
"May his soul rest in peace," said the mother, crossing herself, and
mechanically putting her hands to her beads. "May his soul rest in
peace. And you were with him when he died, Mademoiselle, were you?"
"I knelt at his bed-side as the breath passed from his body."
"It would have been better for him had one of his own degree been there:
not that I doubt you did the duty of a good neighbour, as well as it
might be done by one like you. Might I ask you your name, lady?"
"My name is Agatha Larochejaquelin."
"Larochejaquelin! I'm sorry for it. It was that name that first led
Jacques into trouble: it was young Larochejaquelin that first made my
son a soldier. I will not blame you, for you say you were kind to him
at a time when men most want kindness; but, I wish that neither I nor
he had ever heard your name."
"You are wrong there, my friend. It was Cathelineau made a soldier of
my brother, not my brother who made a soldier of him. Henri
Larochejaquelin was only a follower of Cathelineau."
"A Marquis obey a poor postillion! Yes, you stuffed him full with such
nonsense as that! You made him fancy himself a General! You cannot fool
me so easily. My son was not a companion for noble men and noble ladies.
A wise man will never consort with those who are above him in degree."
"We all looked on Cathelineau as equal to the best among us," answered
Agatha. "We all strove to see who should show him most honour."
The old woman sat silent for a while, turning her wheel with great
violence, and then she moved abruptly round, and facing Agatha, said:
"Will you answer me one question truly, Mademoiselle?"
Agatha said she would.
"Are you betrothed as yet to your lover?"
"No, indeed," answered she; "I am not betrothed."
"And now answer me another question. Suppose this son of mine, who, as
you say, was as great as the greatest among you, and as noble as the
noblest; suppose he had admired your beauty, and had offered to take you
home to his mother as the wife of his bosom, how would you then have
answered him? What would you then have thought of the postillion? Would
he then have been the equal of gay young counts, and high-blooded
marquises?"
Agatha at first made no reply, and a ruby blush suffused her whole face.
She was not at all unwilling that Cathelineau's mother should know the
feeling which she had entertained for her son, but the abruptness, and
the tone of the question, took her by surprise, and for a moment
scattered her thoughts.
"Now I have made you angry, Mademoiselle," said the other, chuckling at
the success of her scheme. "Now you are wrath that I should have dared
to suppose that the daughter of a Marquis could have looked, in the way
of love, on a poor labourer who had been born and bred in a hovel like
this."
"You mistake me, my friend; I am not angry--I am anything but angry."
"You would have scorned him as a loathsome reptile, which to touch would
be an abomination," continued the old woman, not noticing, in her
eagerness, Agatha's denial. "You would have run from him in disgust, and
the servants would have let loose the dogs at him, or have chained him
as a madman. Yes, your delicate frame shakes with horror at the idea,
that a filthy stable boy could have looked on your beauty, and have
dared to wish to possess it: and yet you presume to tell me that
Cathelineau was among you as an equal: he was with you as a Jew is among
Christians, as a slobbering drunkard among sober men, as one stricken
with fever among the healthy. My son should have been too proud to have
eaten bread at a table where his hand was thought unclean, or to have
accepted favours, where he dared not look for love."
"You are unjust to Cathelineau," replied Agatha. "You are in every way
unjust, both to your son and to me. He accepted no favour from us, but
he did--but he did look--" and she paused, as though she still lacked
courage to speak the words which were on her tongue, but after a moment
she went on and said, "he did look for love, and he did not look in
vain."
"He did love, do you say, and not in vain! He did love, and made his
love acceptable to one of those fine flaunting ladies who sit at ease
all day, twirling a few bits of silk with their small white hands. Do
you say such a one as that loved Cathelineau! Who was she? What is her
name? Where is she?"
"She is close to you now," said Agatha, sitting down on a low stool at
the old woman's feet. "I told you her name a while since. It is I who
loved your son: I, Agatha Larochejaquelin."
Francoise Cathelineau dropped from her hand the flax, which she had
hitherto employed herself in preparing for the wheel, and pushing from
her forehead her loose grey locks, and resting on her knees her two
elbows, she gazed long and intently into Agatha's face.
"It is just the face he would have loved," said she aloud, yet speaking
to herself. "Yes, it is the face of which he used to dream and
talk--pale and sad, but very fair: and though I used to bid him mind his
work, and bring down his heart to love some poor honest labouring girl,
I did not the less often think over his strange fancies. And Jacques
told you that he loved you, did he, Mademoiselle? I wonder at that--I
wonder at that; it would have been more like himself to have carried his
love a secret to the grave."
"He was dying when he told me that he regarded me above other women; and
I am prouder of the dying hero's love, than I could have been had a
Prince knelt at my feet."
"He was dying when he confessed his love! Yes, I understand it now:
death will open the lips and bring forth the truth, when the dearest
hopes of life, when the sharpest pang of the heart fail to do so. Had
he not been sure that life with him was gone, he never would have spoken
of his love. He was a weak, foolish man. Very weak in spite of all his
courage; very weak and very foolish--very weak and very foolish."
She was talking more to herself than to Agatha, as she thus spoke of her
son's character, and for a minute or two she continued in the same
strain, speaking of him in a way that showed that every little action,
every wish of his, had been to her a subject of thought and anxiety; and
that she took a strange pride in those very qualities for which she
blamed him.
"And did you come to me on purpose to tell me this, Mademoiselle?" she
said after a while.
"I came to talk to you about your son, and to offer you, for his sake,
the affection of a daughter."
"And when he told you that he loved you, what answer did you make him?
tell me: did you comfort him; did you say one word to make him happy?
I know, from your face, that you had not the heart to rebuke a dying
man."
"Rebuke him! How could I have rebuked him? though I had never owned it
to myself I now feel that I had loved him before he had ever spoken to
me of love."
"But what did you say to him? tell me what you said to him. He was my
own son, my only son. He was stubborn, and self-willed, but still he was
my son; and his words were sweeter to me than music, and his face was
brighter to me than the light of heaven. If you made him happy before
he died, I will kneel down and worship you," and joining her skinny
hands together, she laid them upon Agatha's knees. "Come, sweetest, tell
me what answer you made my poor boy when he told you that he loved you."
"It is a fearful thing, you know, to speak to a dying man," answered
Agatha. "You must not suppose that we were talking as though he were
still in the prime of health and strength--"
"But what did you say to him? you said something. You did not, at any
rate, bid him remember that he was a poor labouring man, and that you
were a lady of high rank."
"We neither of us thought of those things then. I do not know what it
was I said, but I strove to say the truth. I strove to make him
understand how much I valued, esteemed--and loved him."
"You told him that you loved him; you are sure you told him that. I wish
he had lived now. I wish he had lived and won more battles, and beat the
blues for good and all, and then he would have married you, and brought
you home as his wife to St. Florent, wouldn't he, love? There would have
been something in that. There would have been something really grand in
that. Such a beautiful bride! such a noble bride! so very, very
beautiful!" and the old woman continued gazing at the face of her whom
she was fancying to herself a daughter-in-law. "Real noble blood of the
very highest. Had he married you, he would have been a Marquis, wouldn't
he? I wish he had lived now, in spite of all I said. Why did he die when
there was such fortune before him I Why did he die when there was such
great fortune before him!"
"He was happy in his death," said Agatha. "I do not think he even wished
to live. As it is, he has been spared much sorrow which we must all
endure. Though I loved your son, I do not regret his death."
"But I do--but I do," said the old woman. "Had he only lived to call you
his wife, there would have been. honour in that--there would have been
real glory in that. People would then not have dared to say that after
all Cathelineau was only a postillion."
"Do not regard what people say. Had a Princess given him her hand, his
fame could not be brighter than it was. There was no thought of marriage
between us, since we first knew each other. There has been no time for
such thoughts; but his memory to me is that of a dear--dear friend."
From the time when Cathelineau first went to Durbelliere, after the
battle of St. Florent, his mother had expressed the greatest dislike at
his attempting to associate with those who were so much above himself
in rank; with those who would, as she said, use him and scorn him. She
had affected to feel, or perhaps really felt, a horror of the insolence
of the great, and had quarrelled with her son for throwing himself among
them. This feeling, however, arose, not from contempt, but from
admiration and envy. In her secret soul the high and mighty seemed so
infinitely superior to those in her own rank, that she had felt sure
that her son could not be admitted among them as an equal, and she was
too proud to wish that he should be admitted into their company as a
humble hanger-on. What Agatha had now confessed to her had surprised and
delighted her. There could be no doubt now; there was the daughter of
one of the noblest houses in Poitou sitting at her feet in her own
cabin, owning her love for the poor postillion. Agatha Larochejaquelin,
young, noble, beautiful, grandly beautiful as she was, had come to her
to confess that she had given her heart to her son. There was, however,
much pain mixed with her gratification. Cathelineau had gone, without
enjoying the high honours which might have been his. Had he lived,
Agatha Larochejaquelin would have been her daughter-in-law; but now the
splendid vision could never be more than a vision. She could solace
herself with thinking of the high position her son had won for himself,
but she could never enjoy the palpable reality of his honours.
She sat, repeating to herself the same words, "Sad and pale, but very
beautiful--sad and pale, but very beautiful; just as he used to dream.
Why did he die, when such fortune was before him! Why did he die, when
such noble fortune was before him!"
Agatha suffered her to go on for a while before she interrupted her, and
then she came to the real purport of her visit. She offered the old
woman her assistance and protection, and begged her to pass over with
the others into Brittany, assuring her that she should want for nothing
as long as Henri or her father had the means of subsistence, and that
she should live among them as an honoured guest, loved and revered as
the mother of Cathelineau.
On this point, however, she remained obstinate. Whether she still
fancied that she would be despised by her new friends, or whether, as
she said, she was indifferent to life, and felt herself too old to move
from the spot where she had passed so many years, she resolutely held
her purpose to await the coming of the republicans. "They will hardly
put forth their strength to crush such a worm as me," she said; "and
if they do, it will be for the better."
Agatha then offered her money, but this she refused, assuring her that
she did not want it.
"You shall give me one thing though, if you will, sweet lady, that I may
think of you often, and have something to remind me of you; nay, you
shall give me two things--one is a lock of your soft brown hair, the
other is a kiss."
Agatha undid the braid which held up her rich tresses, and severing from
her head a lock of the full length to which her hair grew, tied it in
a portion of the braid, and put it into the old woman's hand; then she
stooped down and kissed her skinny lips, and having blessed her, and bid
her cherish the memory of her son with a holy love, as she herself did
and always would, Agatha. Larochejaquelin left the cabin, and returned
to her father.
CHAPTER VIII
"WHAT GOOD HAS THE WAR DONE?"
The raft which Chapeau had made was by degrees enlarged and improved,
and the great mass of the Vendeans passed the river slowly, but safely.
As soon as the bulk of the people was over, Henri Larochejaquelin left
the southern shore, and crossed over to marshal the heterogeneous troops
on their route towards Laval, leaving Chapeau and Arthur Mondyon to
superintend and complete the transit of those who remained.
It was a beautiful October evening, and as the sun was setting, the two
were standing close to the edge of the water, congratulating themselves
that their dirty and disagreeable toil was well nigh over. From time to
time stragglers were still coming down to the river-side, begging for
a passage, and imploring that they might not be abandoned to the cruelty
of the blues, and as they came they were shipped off on the raft. There
were now, however, no more than would make one fair load, and Chapeau
and Arthur were determined that it was full time for them both to leave
the Anjou side of the river, and follow the main body of the army
towards Laval.
"We might remain here for ever, Chapeau, if we stayed for the very last
of all," said the Chevalier, as he jumped on the raft. "Come, man, get
on, we've our number now, and we couldn't take more, if they come.
There's some one hallooing up there, and we'll leave the little boat for
them. Come, I want to get over and have a run on dry land, for I'm as
cold as a stone. This living like a duck, half in the water and half
out, don't suit me at all. The next river we cross over, I'll make Henri
get another ferryman."
Chapeau still lingered on the shore, and putting his hand up to his ear,
listened to the voice of some one who was calling from a distance. It
was too dark for him to distinguish any one, but the voice of a woman
hallooing loudly, but with difficulty, as though she were out of breath
with running, was plainly audible.
"If you mean to wait here all night, I don't," said the Chevalier, "so
good night to you, and if you don't get on, I'll push off without you."
"Stop a moment, M. Arthur, there's a woman there."
"I've no doubt there is--there are fifty women there--fifty hundred
women, I dare say; but we can't wait while they all drop in one by one.
Don't be a fool, Jacques; is not there the small boat left for them?"
Chapeau still listened. "Stop a moment, M. Arthur, for heaven's sake
stop one moment," and then jumping on to the raft, he clung hold of the
rope, and moored it fast to the shore. "They're friends of my own, M.
Arthur; most particular friends, or I wouldn't ask to keep you. Don't
go now; after all we've gone through together, you won't leave my
friends behind, if I go on shore, will you, M. Arthur?"
"Oh, I'm a good comrade; if they're private friends, I'll wait all
night. Only I hope there ain't a great many of them."
"Only two; I think there are only two," and Chapeau once more jumped on
shore, and ran to meet his friends. He had not far to go, for the party
was now close to the water's edge. As he had supposed, it consisted only
of two, an old man and a girl: Michael Stein and his daughter Annot.
Annot had been running; and dragging her father by the hand, had
hallooed with all her breath, for she had heard from some of those who
still dared to trust themselves to the blues, that the last boat was on
the point of leaving the shore. The old man had disdained to halloo, and
had almost disdained to run; but he had suffered himself to be hurried
into a shambling kind of gait, and when he was met by Chapeau, he was
almost as much out of breath as his daughter.
"Oh, oh! for mercy's sake--for heaven's sake--kind Sir, dear Sir,"
sobbed Annot, as she saw a man approaching her; and then when he was
near enough to her to be distinguished through the evening gloom, she
exclaimed:
"Mercy on us, mercy on us, its Jacques Chapeau!" and sank to the ground,
as though she had no further power to take care of herself now that she
had found one who was bound to take care of her.
"You're just in time, Michael Stein; thank God, you're just in time!
Annot, come on, its only a dozen yards to the raft, and we'll be off at
once. Well, this is the luckiest chance: come on, before a whole crowd
are down upon us, and swamp us all."
"Oh me! oh me!" sobbed Annot, still sitting on the ground, as though she
had not the slightest intention of stirring another step that night: "to
be left and deserted in this way by one's friends--and one's
brothers--and--and--one's--" she didn't finish the list, for she felt
sure that she had said enough to cut Chapeau to the inmost heart, if he
still had a heart.
"Come, dearest girl, come; I'll explain it all by-and-bye. We have not
a moment to spare. Come, I'll lift you," and he stooped to raise her
from the ground.
"Thank you, M. Chapeau, thank you, Sir; but pray leave me. I shall be
better tomorrow morning; that is, if I'm not dead, or killed, or worse.
The blues are close behind us; ain't they, father?"
"Get up, Annot; get up, thou little fool, and don't trouble the man to
carry thee," said Michael. "If there be still a boat to take us, in
God's name let us cross the river; for the blues are truly in St.
Florent, and after flying from them so far, it would be sore ill luck to
be taken now."
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