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La Vendee by Anthony Trollope

A >> Anthony Trollope >> La Vendee




After mass was finished, the priest gave them an extempore discourse on
the necessity of their absolutely submitting themselves to their
teachers, spiritual masters, and pastors; and before he had finished,
he turned their attention to the especial necessity of their obeying the
leaders, now among them, in carrying on the war against the Republic,
and as he concluded, he said:

"I rejoice at all times, my children, that you are an obedient and a
docile people, content to accept the word of God from those whom he has
sent to teach it to you--that you are not a stiff-necked generation,
prone to follow your own vain conceits, or foolish enough to conceive
that your little earthly knowledge can be superior to the wisdom which
comes from above, as others are. I have always rejoiced at this, my
children, for in it I have seen hope for you, when I could see none for
others; but now also I rejoice greatly to see that you unite the courage
of men to the docility of babes. Hitherto your lot has been that of
peace, and if you have not enjoyed riches, you have at any rate been
contented: another destiny is before you now--peace and content have
left the country, and have been followed by robbery, confusion, and war.
My children, you must, for a while, give over your accustomed peaceful
duties; your hands--your hearts--all your energy, and all your courage,
are required by God for his own purposes--yes, required by that Creator
who gave you strength and energy--who gave you the power and the will
to do great deeds for His holy name.

"His enemies are in the land: impious wretches--who do not hesitate to
wage war against His throne--are endeavouring to destroy all that is
good, and all that is holy in France. Do you not know, my children, that
they have murdered your King?--and that they have imprisoned your Queen,
and her son, who is now your King? Would you be content to remain quiet
in your homes, while your King is lying in a prison, in hourly danger
of death? They have excluded you from your churches, they have caused
God's holy houses to be closed; they have sent among you teachers who
can only lead you astray--whose teaching can only bring you to the gates
of hell. The enemies of the Lord are around you; and you are now
required to take arms in your hands, to go out against them, and if
needs be to give your blood--nay your life for your country, your King,
and your Church.

"I greatly rejoice, my children, that you are an obedient people; I know
that you will now do your utmost, and I know that you will succeed. The
Lord will not desert His people when they combat for His glory, when
they faithfully turn to Him for victory. You have been taught how He
chose the Israelites as an especial people--how He loved and favoured
them: as long as they were faithful and obedient He never deserted them.
They conquered hosts ten times their numbers--they were victorious
against armed warriors, and mighty giants. The Lord blinded their
enemies so that they saw not; He blunted their weapons; He paralyzed
their courage; chariots and horses did not avail them; nor strong walls,
nor mighty men of battle. The Lord loved the Israelites, and as long as
they were faithful and obedient, they prevailed against all their
enemies.

"You, my children, are now God's people; if you are truly faithful, you
shall assuredly prevail; if you go out to battle firmly, absolutely,
entirely trusting in the strength of His right hand--that right hand,
that Almighty arm shall be on your side. And who then shall stand
against you?--though tens, and hundreds of thousands swarm around you,
they shall yield before you--they shall fall before you as the giant
Goliath fell before the shepherd David.

"Be not afraid, therefore, my children: we will go together; we will
remember that every man who falls on our side in this holy war, falls
as he is doing Christ's service, and that his death is to be envied, for
it is a passport into Heaven. We will remember this in the hour of
battle, when our enemies are before us, when death is staring us in the
face, and remembering it, we shall not be afraid. If we die fighting
truly in this cause, our immortal souls will be wafted off to paradise--
to everlasting joy: if we live, it will be to receive, here in our own
dear fields, the thanks of a grateful King, to feel that we have done
our duty as Christians and as men, and to hear our children bless the
days, when the courage of La Vendee restored the honour of France."

Father Jerome's exhortation had a strong effect upon the people; he knew
and calculated their strength and their weakness--they were brave and
credulous, and when he finished speaking, there was hardly one there who
in the least doubted that the event of the war would be entirely
successful: they felt that they were a chosen people, set apart for a
good work--that glory and victory awaited them in the contest, and
especially that they were about to fight under the immediate protection
of the Almighty.

As soon as the service was over, they all left the little sylvan chapel
by different paths, and in different directions; some went back to the
church, some went off across the fields, some took a short cut to the
road, but they all returned home without delay. Every man was to set out
early on the morrow for the rendezvous, and the women were preparing to
shed their tears and say their last farewell to their lovers, brothers,
and husbands, before they started on so great an enterprise. They had
all been gay enough during the morning--they became a little melancholy
on their return home, but before the evening was far advanced, nothing
was to be heard but sobs and vows, kisses and blessings.

Jacques Chapeau returned to Echanbroignes with the party of villagers
who had gone from thence to hear Father Jerome, but he did not attach
himself expressly to Annot, indeed he said not a word to her on the way,
but addressed the benefit of his conversation to his male friends
generally; to tell the truth, he was something offended at the warm
admiration which his sweetheart had expressed for Cathelineau. He wasn't
exactly jealous of the postillion, for Annot had never seen him, and
couldn't, therefore, really love him; but he felt that she ought not to
have talked about another man's eyes and whiskers, even though that
other man was a saint and a general. It was heartless, too, of Annot to
say such things at such a time, just as he was going to leave her, on
the eve of battle, and when he had left his own master, and all the
glorious confusion and good living in--at Durbelliere, merely that he
might spend his last quiet day in her company.

It was base of her to say that she had dreamed twice of Cathelineau; and
she was punished for it, for she had to walk home almost unnoticed. At
first she was very angry, and kicked up the dust with her Sunday shoes
in fine style; but before long her heart softened, and she watched
anxiously for some word or look from Jacques on which she might base an
attempt at a reconciliation. Jacques knew what she was about, and would
not even look at her: he went on talking with Jean and Peter and the
others, about the wars, and republicans and royalists, as though poor
Annot Stein had not been there at all. From the chapel of St. Laud to
the village of Echanbroignes, he did not speak a word to her, and when
the four entered the old smith's house, poor Annot was bursting with
anger, and melting with love; she could not settle with herself whether
he hated Chapeau or loved him most; she felt that she would have liked
to poison him, only she knew that she could not live without him.

She hurried into her little sleeping place, and had a long debate with
herself whether she should instantly go to bed and pray that Jacques
might be killed at Saumur, or whether she should array herself in all
her charms, and literally dazzle her lover into fondness and obedience
by her beauty and graces--after many tears the latter alternative was
decided on.

It was a lovely summer evening, and at about eight o'clock hardly a
person in the whole village was to be found within doors; the elderly
were sitting smoking at their doors, husbands were saying a thousand
last words to their weeping wives, young men were sharpening their
swords, and preparing their little kit for the morrow's march, and the
girls were helping them; but everything was done in the open air. Jean
and Peter Stein were secretly preparing for a stolen march to Saumur;
for their father was still inexorable, and they were determined not to
be left behind when all the world was fighting for glory. Old Michael
was smoking at his ease, and Jacques was standing talking to him,
wondering in his heart whether Annot could be really angry with him,
when that young lady reappeared in the kitchen.

"Where have you been, Annot?" said Michael Stein, "you didn't get your
supper, yet child."

"I was sick with the heat, father; walking home from St. Laud's."

"I would not have you sick tonight, Annot, and our friends leaving us
before sun-rise tomorrow. Here is M. Chapeau complaining you are a bad
hostess."

"M. Chapeau has enough to think of tonight, without my teasing him,"
said Annot; "great soldiers like him have not time to talk to silly
girls. I will walk across the green to Dame Rouel's, father; I shall be
back before sunset."

And Annot went out across the green, at the corner of which stood the
smith's forge. Jacques Chapeau was not slow to follow her, and Dame
Rouel did not see much of either of them that evening.

"Annot," said Jacques, calling to his sweetheart, who perseveringly
looked straight before her, determined not to know that she was
followed. "Annot, stop awhile. You are not in such a hurry, are you, to
see Dame Rouel?"

"Ah, M. Chapeau, is that you?--in a hurry to see Dame Rouel. No--I'm in
no particular hurry."

"Will you take a turn down to the mill, then, Annot? Heaven knows when
you and I may walk to the old mill again; it may be long enough before
I see Echanbroignes again."

Annot made no answer, but she turned into the little path which led
through the fields to the mill.

"I suppose it may," said she, determined, if possible, that the amende
should be made by Jacques and not by herself.

"I see you are indifferent about that," said Jacques, with a soft and
sentimental look, which nearly melted Annot; "well, when you hear of my
death, you will sometimes think of me, will you not?"

"Oh, I will, M. Chapeau! Of course I'll think of you, and of all my
friends."

Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off the heads
of the blue-bells with his little cane. "I am not different to you then
from any one else, eh, Annot?" said he.

"How different, M. Chapeau?"

"You will think as much of young Boullin, the baker?"

"I don't like young Boullin, the baker, and I don't thank you for
mentioning his name one bit."

"Well! people say you are very partial to young Boullin."

"People lie--they always do; everybody tries to tease and plague me now.
You and Jean, and father, and that old fool, Rouel, are all alike," and
Annot gave symptoms of hysterical tears.

Jacques was again silent for awhile, but he had commenced walking very
near to his companion, and she did not appear to resent it. After a
while he said: "You are not glad that I'm going, Annot?"

"You would not have me sorry that you are going to fight with all the
other brave men, would you?"

"Is that all I am to get from you, after all? is that all the regard you
have for me? very well, Annot--it is well at any rate we should
understand each other. They were right, I find, when they told me that
you were such a coquette, you would have a dozen lovers at the same
time."

"And they were right, I find, when they told me you were too fond of
yourself ever to love any girl truly."

"Oh, Annot! and is it come to this? I'm sorry I ever came to
Echanbroignes. I'm sorry I ever saw you."

"And if you are, M. Chapeau, I'm sure I'm sorry enough I ever saw you;"
and Annot again increased the distance between her and her lover.

They walked on from hence in silence till they came to the little mill,
and each stood gazing on the stream, which ran gurgling down beneath the
ash and willow-trees, which dipped their boughs in its waters.

"How kind you were, the last time we were here together," said Jacques;
"how kind and generous you were then; you are very different now."

"And you are very different, too, M. Chapeau; much more different than
I am; it's all your own fault; you choose to give yourself airs, and I
won't put up with it, and I believe we may as well part."

"Give myself airs! No; but it's you give yourself airs, and say things
which cut me to the heart--things which I can't bear; and, therefore,
perhaps, we may as well part :" and Jacques assumed a most melancholy
aspect, as he added, "So, good bye, Annot; there's my hand. I wouldn't,
at any rate, part anything but friends after all."

"Good bye," said poor Annot, putting out her hand to her lover, and
sobbing violently. "Good bye; I'm sure I never thought it would come to
this. I'm sure I gave up everybody and everything for your sake."

"Well; and didn't I give up everybody, too. Haven't I come all the way
over here week after week, when people wondered what made me leave
Durbelliere so much; and wasn't it all for love of you? Oh, Annot!
Annot!" and even the manly dignity of M. Chapeau succumbed to tears.

"It's no good talking," said she, greatly softened; "for you can't have
loved me, and treated me as you did this day, letting me walk all alone
from St. Laud, without so much as a word or a look; and that before all
the people: and I that went merely to walk back with you. Oh! I could
have died on the roadside to find myself treated in such a way."

"And what must I have felt to hear you talking as you did before them
all? Do you think I felt nothing?"

"Talking, Jacques; what talk?"

"Why; saying that you loved Cathelineau better than any one. That he was
the only man you admired; that you dreamed of him always, and I don't
know how much more about his eyes and whiskers."

"Why now, Jacques; you don't mean to be jealous?"

"Jealous; no I'm not jealous."

"Jealous of a man you know I never saw," said Annot, smiling through her
tears.

"Jealous. No, I tell you I'm not jealous; but still, one doesn't like
to hear one's mistress talking of another man's eyes, and whiskers, and
those sort of things; no man would like it, Annot; though I care about
it as little myself as any man."

"But don't you know Cathelineau is a saint, Jacques?"

"Oh! but you said saints might marry, and have a lot of children, and
so they may."

"But I never saw Cathelineau, Jacques," and she put her hand upon his
arm.

And you are not in love with him, Annot?"

"How can I be in love with a man I never put eyes on?"

"And you won't say again, that you'd like to have him for a lover?"

"That was only my little joke, Jacques. Surely, a girl may joke
sometimes."

"And you do love me, don't you?" and Jacques now got very close to his
mistress.

"Ah! but why did you let me walk home all the way by myself? You know
I love you dearly; but you must beg my pardon for that, before I'll ever
tell you so again."

And Jacques did beg her pardon in a manner of his own twenty times,
sitting by the gurgling mill-stream, and to tell the truth Annot seemed
well pleased with the way in which he did it; and then when the fountain
of her love was opened, and the sluice gate of her displeasure removed,
she told him how she would pray for him till he came back safe from the
wars; how she would never speak a word to mortal man in the way of
courting, till he came back to make her his wife; how she would grieve,
should he be wounded; how she would die, should he be killed in battle:
and then she gave him a little charm, which she had worked for him, and
put it round his neck, and told him she had taken it with her to St.
Laud, to give it him there beneath the cross, only he had gone away from
her, so that she couldn't do so: and then Jacques begged pardon again
and again in his own queer way; and then, having sat there by the
mill-stream till the last red streak of sunlight was gone, they returned
home to the village, and Annot told her father that Dame Rouel had been
so very pressing, she had made them stay there to eat bread and cheese.
And so Annot, at last, went to bed without her supper, and dreamed not
of Cathelineau, but of her own lover, Jacques Chapeau.



CHAPTER VIII

AGATHA LAROCHEJAQUELIN.

As Chapeau had said, great preparations were made at Durbelliere for the
coming campaign. The old Marquis had joined with his son in furnishing
everything which their limited means would admit of, for the wants of
the royalists. Durbelliere had become quite a depot; the large granaries
at the top of the house were no longer empty; they were stored with
sacks of meal, with pikes and muskets, and with shoes for the soldiers.
Agatha's own room looked like an apartment in a hospital; it was filled
with lint, salves, and ointments, to give ease to those whom the wars
should send home wounded; all the contents of the cellars were
sacrificed; wine, beer, and brandy, were alike given up to aid the
spirits of the combatants; the cattle were drawn in from the farms, and
kept round the house in out-houses and barns, ready to be slaughtered,
as occasion might require, an abattoir was formed in the stable yard,
and a butcher kept in regular employment; a huge oven was built in an
outhouse attached to the stables, and here bakers, from neighbouring
parishes, were continually kept at work: they neither expected, or
received wages; they, and all the others employed got their meals in the
large kitchen of the chateau, and were content to give their work to the
cause without fee or reward. Provisions, cattle, and implements, were
also sent from M. de Lescure's house to Durbelliere, as it was
considered to be more central, and as it was supposed that there were
still some republicans in the neighbourhood of Bressuire, whereas, it
was well known that there were none in the rural districts; the more
respectable of the farmers also, and other country gentlemen sent
something; and oxen, sheep, and loads of meal; jars of oil, and casks
of wine were coming in during the whole week before the siege of Saumur,
and the same horses took them out again in the shape of bread, meat, and
rations, to the different points where they would be required.

As soon as M. de Lescure had left home, on his recruiting service in the
south of La Vendee, the ladies of his house went over to Durbelliere,
to remain there till Henri Larochejaquelin should start for Saumur, and
give their aid to Agatha in all her work. Adolphe Denot was also there:
he, too, had been diligently employed in collecting the different sinews
of wars; and as far as his own means went had certainly not begrudged
them. There was still an unhappy air of dissatisfaction about him, which
was not to be observed with any one else: his position did not content
his vanity; the people did not talk of him as they did of Cathelineau,
and Henri Larochejaquelin; he heard nothing of La Vendee relying on his
efforts; the nanes of various men were mentioned as trustworthy leaders,
but his own was never among them. De Lescure, Charette, d'Elbee,
Stofflet, were all talked of; and what had they done more than he had;
or what, indeed, so much: the two latter were men of low origin, who had
merely shown courage in the time of need: indeed, what more had
Cathelineau done; whereas, he had never failed in courage, and had
given, moreover, his money, and his property; yet he felt that he was
looked on as a nobody. Jacques Chapeau was almost of more importance.

And then, again, his love for Agatha tormented him. He had thought to
pique her by a show of indifference himself, but he found that this plan
did not answer: it was evident, even to him, that Agatha was not vexed
by his silence, his altered demeanour, and sudden departure. He had
miscalculated her character, and now found that he must use other means
to rouse the affection in her heart, without which he felt, at present,
that he could not live happily. He thought that she could not have seen
with indifference the efforts he was making in the cause which she loved
so well; and he determined to throw himself at her feet before he
started for Saumur, and implore her to give him a place in her
affections, while her heart was softened by the emotions, which the
departure of so many of her friends, on the eve of battle, would
occasion.

Agatha had had but little conversation with him since his last arrival
at Durbelliere, but still she felt that he was about to propose to her.
She shunned him as much as she could; she scrupulously avoided the
opportunity which he anxiously sought; she never allowed herself to be
alone with him; but she was nevertheless sure the evil hour would come;
she saw it in his eye as they sat together at their meals--she heard it
in the tones of his voice every time he spoke. She knew from his manner
that he was preparing himself for the interview, and she also knew that
he would not submit tamely to the only answer she could bring herself
to give him.

"Marie," said she to her cousin, on the Saturday evening, "I am in the
greatest distress, pray help me, dearest. I am sure you know what ails
me."

"In distress, Agatha, and wanting help from me!--you that are wont to
help all the world yourself! But I know, from your face, you are only
half in earnest."

"Indeed, and indeed, I never was much more so. I never was more truly
in want of council. Can you not guess what my sorrow is?"

"Not unless it is, that you have a lover too much?--or perhaps you find
the baker's yeast runs short?"

"Ah, Marie, will you always joke when I am serious!"

"Well then, Agatha, now I am serious--is it that you have a lover too
much?"

"Can any trouble be more grievous?"

"Oh, dear, yes! ten times worse. My case is ten times worse: and alas,
alas! there is no cure for that."

"Your case, Marie?"

"Yes, my case, Agatha--a lover too few!"

"Ah, Marie, do not joke with me tonight. I want your common sense, and
not your wit, just now. Be a good, dear girl, and tell me what I shall
say to him. I know he will not go to Saumur before--before he has
proposed to me."

"Then, in the name of common sense, dear Agatha, tell him the truth,
whatever it may be."

"You know I do not--cannot love him."

"Nay, I know nothing. You have not said yet who 'him' is--but I own I
can give a guess. I suppose poor Adolphe Denot is the man you cannot
love? Poor Adolphe! he must be told so, that is all."

"But how shall I tell him, Marie? He is so unlike other men. Henri is
his friend, and yet he has never spoken to him about me, nor to my
father. If he would ask my hand from Henri, as another would, Henri
would talk to him, and explain to him that it could not be-that my heart
is too much occupied with other cares, to care for loving or being
loved."

"That means, Agatha, till the right lover comes."

"No, Marie; but till these wars are over. Not that I could ever love
Adolphe Denot; but now, at present, methinks love should be banished
from the country, and not allowed to return till the King is on his
throne again."

"Well, Agatha, I don't know. That would be somewhat hard upon us poor
girls, whose lovers are more to our taste, than M. Denot is to yours.
I know not that our knights will fight the worse for a few stray smiles,
though the times be so frightful."

"Do you smile on yours then, Marie; and I will smile to see you happy.
But tell me, dearest, what shall I say to Adolphe? You would not have
me give him hope, when I feel I can never love him?"

"God forbid!--why should you? But has he never spoken to Henri on the
subject, or to the Marquis?"

"Never a word. I'm sure he never spoke of it to my father, and Henri
told me that he had never said a word to him."

"Then you have spoken to your brother on the subject? And what did he
say?"

"He said just what a dear, good brother should have said. He said he was
sorry for his friend, but that on no account whatever would he sacrifice
his sister's happiness."

"M. Larochejaquelin always does just what he ought to do. He is as good
and kind to you as Charles is to me."

"Henri and I are so nearly of an age; we were always companions
together. I do not think any lover will be agreeable to me as long as
he is with me."

"But if he should take a love of his own, Agatha? It wont do, you know,
for sisters to monopolize their brothers; or what shall we spinters do?"

"He shall bring his love here, and she shall be my own sister. If he
makes the choice I think he will, I shall not have to open a new place
in my heart for her, shall I, Marie?"

"Nay, I know not. Now it is you that wander from the subject."

"And it is cruel in you to bring me back to it. If he proposes to me
tomorrow, Marie, what shall I say to him?"

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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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