La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

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He had heard from others of de Lescure's gallant conduct. It had
oftentimes been spoken of in the army, and Henri had never remarked that
an equal tribute of praise was not given to the two, for their deeds on
that occasion. He now answered quite at cross purposes, but merely with
the object of flattering the vanity of his friend:

"He will never forget it, Adolphe. No Vendean will ever forget the
bridge of Saumur. We will all remember that glorious day, when we have
forgotten many things that have happened since."

Poor Denot winced dreadfully under the blow, which Henri so innocently
inflicted; but ho merely said "No--I will not go with you--you needn't
ask me, for my mind is made up. Do you know, Henri, I and de Lescure
never loved each other? never--never--never, even when we were seemingly
such good friends, we never loved each other. He loved you so well,
that, for your sake, he bore with a man he despised. Yes: he always
despised me, since the time you and I came home from school together.
I do not blame him, for he tried hard to conceal what he felt; and he
thought that I did not know it; but from the first day that we passed
together I found him out, and I was never happy in his company."

All this was perfectly unintelligible to Henri, and was attributed by
him to the frenzy of madness; but, in fact, there was truth in it.
Denot's irregular spirit had been cowed by de Lescure's cold reasoning
propriety, and he now felt it impossible to submit himself to the pardon
of a man who, he thought, would forgive and abhor him. It was to no
purpose Henri threatened, implored, and almost strove to drag him from
the room. Denot was obstinate in his resolve, and Henri was at last
obliged to leave him, with the agreement that they should both meet on
horseback an hour before daybreak, at the gate of the town, which led
towards Angers.

When Henri returned downstairs he found Chapeau still seated on the
lower step, and Plume standing by, discoursing as to the tactics and
probable success of the war.

"You found I was right, M. Henri?" said Chapeau, as he followed his
master out into the street.

"Yes, Chapeau, you were quite right."

"And is he very bad, M. Henri?" said he, touching his forehead with his
finger. "I suppose he cannot be all right there."

"He has suffered dreadfully since we saw him, and his sufferings have
certainly told upon him; but there is every reason to hope, that, with
kind treatment, he will soon be himself again; but, remember, till after
today we will say nothing to any of them about his being here."

It was now three o'clock, and Henri had to be on horseback before six;
he had but little time, therefore, either for rest or conversation.
Henri and Chapeau hurried home, after having given orders at the
guard-house that all the men on whom they could depend should be under
arms before day-break; and, having done so, they laid down and slept for
the one short hour which was left to them of the night.

CHAPTER X

LAVAL

When Henri arose from his sleep, the whole house was up and stirring,
and men and women were moving about through the dark rooms with candles
in their hands. They all knew that this would be an eventful day for
their cause; that much must depend on the success of that day's battle.
If they were beaten now, their only hope would be to run farther from
their homes, towards the coast, from which they expected English aid;
but if fortune would once more visit their arms, they might hope to hold
their position in Laval, and in other towns in the neighbouring and
friendly province of Brittany. The gallant and cordial assistance which
the Vendeans had received from the strangers among whom they were now
thrown, had greatly tended to give them new hopes; and the yesterday's
victory, which had been gained by the men called La Petite Vendee, over
the advanced troops of the republicans, had made the Poitevins
peculiarly anxious to exhibit their own prowess to their gallant
friends.

Henri, Arthur, and one or two other Vendean officers, sat down to a
hurried breakfast, while Marie and Agatha moved about the room, behind
their chairs, attending to their wants. Chapeau had now too many of a
soldier's duties to give his time to those of a serving-man, and the
sisters and wives of the Vendean officers had long since learnt to wait
on the heroes whom they loved and admired. De Lescure was already seated
on his sofa, by the window, and his wife was, as usual, close to his
side. He had wonderfully improved since he reached Laval; and though it
was the firm conviction, both of himself and of his surgeon, that his
wound must ultimately prove mortal, he was again alive to all that was
done, and heart and soul intent on the interests of the war.

"Oh! what would I give to be but one hour today on horseback!" said he.
"To lie pinioned here, and hear the sounds of brave men fighting! To
know that the enemy are in the very street beneath me, and yet to be
unable to strike a blow! Oh! it is fearfully tormenting."

Henri said something intended to comfort him.

"It is well for you to talk," continued de Lescure. "How would you have
borne it yourself? You would have fretted and fumed, and dashed yourself
like a bird against its cage, till either your senses or your breath had
left you. Henri," he then added, in a calmer tone, "I feel that you will
be successful today."

"That's a most glorious omen," said Henri, jumping up; "I look on
success as certain when predicted by Charles, for he is the least
sanguine among us all."

"But, Henri," said he, "take my advice, and don't attack them till they
are close to the town. You may be sure they will be ready enough to give
you an opportunity. After having driven us across the Loire like wild
geese, Lechelle will not doubt his power to drive us also from the
streets of Laval."

It was agreed among them that de Lescure's advice should be taken, and
that none of the Vendeans should advance above a league on the road
towards Antrames. It was already known that General Lechelle, and his
whole army, were in the neighbourhood of that town; and it was not
likely that, as he had pursued the Vendeans so far, he would remain
there long without giving them the opportunity they now desired, of
again trying their strength with them.

As Henri prepared to leave the room, the little Chevalier rose to
accompany him: "No," said Henri, stopping him. "Do you remain with
Chapeau today. Wherever you are, I know you will do well, but today we
must not ride together." As the boy looked woefully disappointed, he
added, "I will explain to you why, this evening, if we both live through
the day to meet again."

He then kissed his sister, and Madame de Lescure and his cousin. They
all of them knew that he was going into the midst of the hottest danger,
where the visits of death would be thick and frequent; and they felt how
probable it was that, before many hours were over, he might be brought
back to them dead or dying. He either made some sign to her, or else
from a feeling that she was dearer than the others to him, Marie
followed him from the room. He said but a few words to her, as he held
her in his close embrace, and she answered him with but one; but with
that one she promised him, that if he returned safe and victorious from
this day's contest, she would no longer object to join her hand and fate
to his.

Henri immediately went to the gate, where he had promised to meet
Adolphe, and there he found him on horseback, surrounded by his Breton
followers, on foot. He had still the same wild, gaunt look about him,
which had so startled his friend when he first saw him; but there was
more of hope and spirit in his countenance, and he spoke, if he did not
look, like a soldier.

We will now leave the warriors of La Vendee to obtain what success they
can against the experienced troops of the republican army--the men so
well known in many a bloody battle as the soldiers of Mayence, and will
return and stay a while with the women and wounded man, who were left
to all the horrors of a long day's suspense.

For a considerable time they said nothing to each other as to the
probable events of the day, for they knew well that they could hear no
news for some few hours to come. By degrees the cold grey dawn of an
October morning broke into the room, and the candles were put out. Any
ordinary employment at such a time was utterly out of the question, so
they clustered together at the window and waited for such news as chance
might bring them from time to time. Annot Stein, who was now living with
them in the house, came in and joined them, and after a while the old
Marquis was brought into the room, and took his station at the opposite
window to that occupied by de Lescure.

The noises in the street were incessant. Soldiers on horseback and on
foot; cannons and waggons passed on without a moment's pause: the men
shouted as they went by, eager for revenge against the enemy who had
driven them from their homes; and women mixed themselves in the crowd,
shrieking and screaming as they parted from their husbands or their
lovers.

The morning air was cold and chill, but still de Lescure insisted on
having the windows open, that he might cheer with his voice the men as
they passed below him, and that he might call to those by name whom he
might chance to know. His wife was astonished to find how many he
remembered, and to perceive that every soldier, as he passed, recognized
the wan face of his General, and expressed his sincere delight at again
seeing his features.

"Well done, Forestier! well done, my gallant friend!" he exclaimed, as
a tall, handsome man rode by, who, from his garb and arms, was evidently
an officer. He had, however, like many of the officers, belonged to a
lowly rank, and still looked up with reverence to those of his fellow-
soldiers, whose blood was more noble than his own. "You are never
missing when strong arms are wanted."

The man took off his cap, and bowed low to the saddle bow. Had he been
born to the manner, he could not have done it with more grace. "God
bless you, General," he said, "God grant that we may soon see you here
among us again;" and a thousand loud clamorous voices echoed the wish.
A tear rose to de Lescure's eye, which none but his wife could mark: he
knew that his friend's kind wishes were vain; that he had now,
personally, no hope except in death; and he could not entirely repress
a vain regret that he might live to witness the success of his party,
of which, since his sojourn in Laval, he had taught himself to be
sanguine.

It was but a moment before the tear was gone, and his eyes were again
on fire with enthusiasm. "Ah, de Bauge--good de Bauge!" he exclaimed,
as a friend of his early youth passed by, using at the moment every
effort to repress the wild clamouring hurry of his followers. "God
prosper thee, dear friend! Oh, that we now had but a score or two such
soldiers as thou art!"

"We have many hundreds here as good," said de Bauge, pausing a moment
from his work to salute the friends whom he recognized at the window.

"Thousands perhaps as brave, thousands as eager, if they did but know
how to use their courage," answered de Lescure.

After this there was a lull for a few moments, and then a troop of
cuirassiers trotted down the street, jingling their bridles, swords, and
spurs as they moved. This small body of cavalry had been, for some time,
the pride and strongest hope of the Vendeans. They had been gradually
armed, horsed, and trained during the war, by the greatest exertions of
the wealthiest among their officers, and they had certainly proved to
be worth all the trouble they had cost. They were now, alas! reduced to
half the number, which had ridden out of Chatillon before the battle of
Cholet; but the remnant were still full of spirit, and anxious to avenge
their fallen brethren. Their bright trappings and complete
accoutrements, afforded a strange contrast to the medley appearance of
the footmen, who retreated back to the houses, to make way for the
horses; and told more plainly than any words could do, the difference
between an army of trained soldiers, and a band of brave, but tumultuous
peasants.

It was now nine o'clock; and shortly after the horsemen had all passed
through the street, the little Chevalier came in with the news, that
they were immediately about to attack the blues; the republican army
being already within a mile of the town; and that Henri was at that
moment leaving the guard-house, and preparing to lead the attack; and
when he had told so much aloud to them all, he stooped down to whisper
to de Lescure, that Adolphe Denot was riding everywhere through the town
at Henri's right hand, and that he was the redoubtable Mad Captain, the
leader of La Petite Vendee.

De Lescure had not time to question the Chevalier, or to express his
surprise, before Henri was seen coming down the street on horseback,
almost at full gallop, and at his right hand rode a man, whom they did
not all immediately recognize. Agatha, however, knew at the first glance
who the stranger was, and with an instinctive feeling that the sight of
her would be painful to him, she retreated behind her father's couch,
so that he could not well see her from the street. When Chapeau had
first whispered into his master's ear the name of Adolphe Denot as the
leader of the Bretons, Agatha had truly guessed the purport of his
whisper; and it cannot, therefore, be said that she was startled to see
Adolphe once more by her brother's side; but still she could not but
shudder as she remembered the circumstances under which she had last
seen him, and the inhuman crime of which he had been guilty.

Henri rode a little in advance, and as he passed, he merely turned his
laughing face towards his friends, and kissed his hand to the window.
Denot, till he was nearly close to the house, had not thought of the
neighbourhood he was in; nor had he the least idea that any but the
usual inhabitants of the town were looking down on him, till his
wandering eyes fell full upon the faces of Marie and Madame de Lescure,
who were standing close to the open window. Immediately the blood rushed
to his face, and suffused it almost with a purple red: he checked his
horse suddenly, and, for a moment, looked full up at the window, where
he met the cold gaze of de Lescure fixed full upon him. The pause was
but for a moment; he could not bear the ordeal of that look, but fixing
his eyes to the ground, he struck his spurs into his horse, and hurried
out of the sight of those on whom he did not dare to turn his face.

"Agatha, my love, in the name of the Blessed Virgin, who was that?" said
the Marquis, rubbing his eyes, before which an Unearthly apparition
seemed to have appeared. "Who was that that rode by with Henri? only
that I know it is impossible, I should have said that it was Adolphe
Denot."

"It is Adolphe, Sir," said Arthur Mondyon; "it is he that is the Mad
Captain, who has been knocking the blues about in such a wonderful
manner. I suppose he got tired of Santerre, or Santerre of him. I
thought they wouldn't agree long together."

"Arthur!" said Agatha, "you should speak kindly of him now; don't you
see that Henri has forgiven him; if he can forgive him, surely you ought
to do so."

"And is it really true that Henri and Adolphe Denot are again friends?"
said the Marquis, speaking rather to himself than to any one else.
"Well, I should have thought that would have been impossible. If Henri
can forgive him, we all ought to do so too; but--but--but I do not think
that I could feel at ease if he were in the room with me."

"I do not think he will come to us, father," said Agatha. "Did you not
observe his face as he passed? the very sight of us seemed to cut him
to the heart."

Adolphe had been quite right, when he said that they were not at all
like Henri. There was not one of the whole party who did not strive,
heartily and truly, to forgive the treason and iniquity of which he had
been guilty; but there was not one there who did not, at the same time,
feel a secret wish that he or she might never again be under the same
roof with the man who had been a traitor, both to his friends and to his
King.

Arthur Mondyon soon left them, and hurried out to bear his part in the
contest which was just commencing. He was a little jealous to think that
his accustomed place near Henri should have been taken from him by one
who had proved himself so faithless as Denot, but still he was not
inclined to pass such a day as this in-doors, with sick men and
trembling women. He promised, however, to come to them himself from time
to time, or if that were impossible, to send them news of what was going
on; and as it was probable that the thickest of the fight would be
either in the town, or immediately on the skirts of it, there was no
reason why he should not keep his promise.

For a couple of hours they remained in dreadful suspense, hearing
nothing and fearing everything. It seemed to them as though whole days
must have passed in those two hours. De Lescure became dreadfully
impatient, and even irritable; declaring at one moment that he was quite
equal to mount his horse, and that he would go out and see what they
were about; and then again almost fainting, with the exhaustion
occasioned by his intense excitement. Then he would lament the
inexperience of Henri, expressing his dread that his indiscretion this
day would ruin all their hopes: and, again, when he saw how painful
these surmises were to Agatha and Marie, he would begin to praise his
courage and indomitable good spirits, and declare that their strongest
safeguard lay in the affection to his person, which was shared by every
peasant of La Vendee.

Their suspense was at length broken; not by any visit or message from
their own party, but by a most unexpected and unwelcome sight. On a
sudden, they again heard the tumultuous noise of troops coming down the
street; but, on this occasion, they were entering, instead of leaving
the town; and as the rushing body of men turned a corner in the street,
it was seen that they all wore the well-known blue uniform of the
republican regiments. Yes, there in truth were the blues, now
immediately under the house they were occupying: file after file of
sturdy, grizzled veteran soldiers, hurried through the streets in quick,
but regular time. Men quite unlike their own dear peasant soldiers; men
with muskets in their hands, shakos on their heads, and cartouche boxes
slung behind their backs. The three ladies, before whose sight this
horrid reality of a danger, so long apprehended, suddenly appeared, had
never been so near a scene of absolute battle. Agatha, it is true, had
had to endure through one long and dreadful night the presence of
Santerre and his men in the chateau of Durbelliere; but then she had no
active part to play; she had only to sit in quiet, and wait for her
doom: now they all felt that something should be done, some means should
be tried to escape from the danger which was so close to them.

The women immediately withdrew from the window, and wheeled away the
couch on which the Marquis was lying, but nothing would induce de
Lescure to allow himself to be stirred; in fixed silence, with his head
resting low on the window sill, he gazed on the crowded soldiers, as
they poured thick and numerous into the town.

"Oh, where is Henri now?" said Madame de Lescure. "What shall we
do--where are we to go? Speak, Charles, for heaven's sake, speak!"

Marie had opened the door, and now stood with it in her hands, wishing
to run, and yet not choosing to leave her companions in misfortune;
while Agatha vainly endeavoured with her unassisted strength to remove
her father from the room.

"Henri is just where he ought to be," said de Lescure.
"There--there--now they come--now they come. By heavens, there's Denot
leading--and see, there's de Bauge and Arthur--dear boy, gallant boy.
Well done, Henri Larochejaquelin: had you been grey it could not have
been better done; he has got the blues as it were into a wine-press;
poor devils, not one can escape alive."

De Lescure, when he first saw the republicans coming down the street,
had for a moment thought that the town was in their hands; but a
minute's reflection served to show him, that were such really the case,
they would have driven before them hundreds of the retreating Vendeans.
The peasants had never yet so utterly forgotten their courage, as to
throw down their weapons at the first sight of their enemy, and fly
without making an effort for victory, and de Lescure was sure that such
could not now have been the case. It immediately occurred to him, that
the passage of the gate must have been purposely left free to the
devoted blues, and that Henri and his men would fail upon them in the
town, where their discipline and superior arms, would be but of
comparatively little use to them.

He was right; for while the women were yet trembling, panic-struck at
the first sight of their enemies, Henri and his party had entered the
long street from the market-place, and with a fierce yell of defiance,
the Vendean cavalry rushed upon the astonished blues, meeting them
almost beneath the very window from which de Lescure was looking.

The three women crouched round the aged Marquis in the farthest corner
of the room, comforted to find that he whom they so trusted still
expected victory; but nearly fainting with fear, and deafened with the
sounds of the conflict. To de Lescure the sight was pleasure itself; as
he could not be in the fight, the next thing was to see the combatants
and cheer his friends. The foremost of the republican soldiers soon gave
way beneath the weight of the attack; though they fought sturdily, and
did their best to keep their ground. They could not, however, retreat
far; their own men still advancing behind blocked up the way; and after
a while, that which De Lescure had predicted took place: another party
of Vendeans had attacked them in the rear, and occupied the only gate
through which they could leave the city.

And now the slaughter in the street was dreadful, and the blues hemmed
in on every side fought desperately for their lives, like beasts at bay.
Every now and again the Vendeans retreated a step or two, driven back
by the fury of their foes, and then again regained their ground,
advancing over the bodies of the slain. No one in the strange medley on
which he was looking, was more conspicuous to de Lescure's eyes than
Adolphe Denot; he had lost his cap in the confusion of the fight, and
his thin, wan face, disfigured by the wound which the Chevalier had
given him, was plainly to be seen; and de Lescure was shocked by the
change which he saw there: the only weapon he bore was a huge sabre,
which he swung round his head with a strength which could not have been
expected from his attenuated frame; he was often the most forward,
always among the first of the assailants; and frequently became
surrounded by the blues, who were prevented by the closeness of the
crowd from using their arms. He had caught de Lescure's eye, and from
time to time turned his face up toward the window, as though anxious to
discover whether he who had before witnessed his cowardice was now
looking upon his prowess.

"By heavens! he fights well," said de Lescure to his wife, who was
gradually creeping somewhat nearer to her husband, but still unable to
face the horrors of that open window. "He is greatly changed--look--look
at him now; well done, Adolphe--well done: there, there; he's down! Poor
fellow, I fear he has struck his last blow: gallant Henri, brave
Henri--there, they are up again together; but Denot's face is covered
with blood. He still has his sword, however--well done, Denot: bravely
done Denot: no man of those living or dead, ever struck a better blow
than that."

These last words were distinctly heard by him to whom they were
addressed, and as he again turned up his face, a ray of triumph
illumined his sunken eyes; he did not, however, or he could not speak,
for the heat of the battle was carried back again towards the gate, and
the tumultuous sea of fighting men was hurried away from the spot where
they had been contending.

While this scene was going on in the street, another set of combatants
were engaged near the gate; and here two men of very different natures,
but of similar station in life, found themselves together during a
temporary pause, after a protracted struggle. These were Michael Stein,
and Auguste Emile Septimus Plume. In spite of all that he had himself
said against the trade, Michael had, in his old age, turned soldier, and
had been fighting sturdily with a huge woodman's axe, a weapon which he
had chanced to meet with, and the use of which came readily to his hand:
he was now sitting on the step of the gate-house, wiping with the sleeve
of his coat the perspiration which the unaccustomed work had brought to
his forehead, and listening to the praises of M. Plume, who was standing
over him, leaning on his sword.

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