Александр Дюма
The Last Vendée
The marquis went to the window to follow the rider with his eyes, and did not leave it until he was lost to sight. Then he turned to speak to Petit-Pierre; but Petit-Pierre had disappeared, and when the marquis asked his daughters where he was they answered that the young man had gone to his room, remarking that he had letters to write.
"Queer little fellow!" muttered the marquis to himself.
XXIX.
THE VENDÉANS OF 1832
The same day, about five in the afternoon the Comte de Bonneville returned. He had seen five of the principal leaders and they agreed to be at Souday that night between eight and nine o'clock.
The marquis, always hospitable, ordered his cook to tax the poultry-yard and the larder to the utmost, and to get ready the most plentiful supper she could possibly manage.
The five leaders who agreed to assemble that evening were Louis Renaud, Pascal, C[oe]ur-de-Lion, Gaspard, and Achille. Those of our readers who are somewhat familiar with the events of 1832 will easily recognize the personages who concealed their identity under these noms de guerre for the purpose of throwing the authorities off the scent in case of intercepted despatches.
By eight o'clock Jean Oullier, to the marquis's deep regret, had not returned. Consequently, the care of the entrance gates was intrusted to Mary, who was not to open them unless in reply to a knock given in a peculiar manner.
The salon, with shutters closed and curtains drawn, was the place selected for the conference. By seven o'clock four persons were ready and waiting in this room, – namely, the Marquis de Souday, the Comte de Bonneville, Petit-Pierre, and Bertha. Mary, as we have said, was stationed at the gates, in a sort of little lodge, which had an iron-barred window toward the road, through which it was possible to see whoever rapped, and so admit none until assured of the visitor's identity.
Of all those in the salon the most impatient was Petit-Pierre, whose dominant characteristic did not seem to be calmness. Though the clock said barely half-past seven, and the meeting was fixed for eight, he went restlessly to the door again and again to hear if any sounds along the road announced the expected gentlemen. At last, precisely at eight o'clock, a knock was heard at the gate, or rather three knocks separated in a certain manner, which indicated the arrival of a leader.
"Ah!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, going eagerly to the door.
But the Comte de Bonneville stopped him with a respectful smile and gesture.
"You are right," said the young man, and he went back and seated himself in the darkest corner of the salon. Almost at the same moment one of the expected leaders appeared in the doorway.
"M. Louis Renaud," said the Comte de Bonneville, loud enough for Petit-Pierre to hear him, and to recognize the man under the disguise of the assumed name.
The Marquis de Souday went forward to meet the new-comer, with all the more eagerness because this young man was one of the few at the conference of the morning who had favored an immediate call to arms.
"Ah, my dear count," said the marquis, "come in. You are the first to arrive, and that's a good omen."
"If I am the first, my dear marquis," replied Louis Renaud, "I assure you it is not that others are less eager; but my home being nearer to the château I have not so far to come, you know."
So saying, the personage who called himself Louis Renaud, and who was dressed in the ordinary simple clothes of a Breton peasant, advanced into the room with such perfect juvenile grace and bowed to Bertha with an ease so essentially aristocratic, that it was quite evident he would have found it difficult to assume, even momentarily, the manners and language of the social caste whose clothes he borrowed.
These social duties duly paid to the marquis and Bertha, the new-comer turned his attention to the Comte de Bonneville; but the latter, knowing the impatience of Petit-Pierre, who, though he remained in his corner, was making his presence known by movements the count alone could interpret, at once proceeded to open the question.
"My dear count," he said to the so-called Louis Renaud, "you know the extent of my powers, you have read the letter of her Royal Highness Madame, and you know that, momentarily at least, I am her intermediary to you. What is your opinion on the situation?"
"My opinion, my dear count, I may not give precisely as I gave it this morning. Here, where I know I am among the ardent supporters of Madame, I shall risk telling the plain truth."
"Yes, the plain truth," said Bonneville; "that is what Madame desires to know. And whatever you tell me, my dear count, she will know exactly as if she heard it."
"Well, my opinion is that nothing ought to be done until the arrival of the maréchal."
"The maréchal!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre. "Is he not at Nantes?"
Louis Renaud, who had not before noticed the young man in his corner, turned his eyes to him on hearing this question. Then he bowed, and replied: -
"On reaching home this morning I heard for the first time that the maréchal had left Nantes as soon as he heard of the failure at Marseille, and no one knows either the road he has taken or the purpose that carried him away."
Petit-Pierre stamped his foot with impatience.
"But," he cried, "the maréchal is the soul of the enterprise. His absence will check the uprising and diminish the confidence of our men. Unless he commands, all the leaders will be of equal rank, and we shall see the same rivalries among them that were so fatal to the royalist party in the old wars of La Vendée."
Seeing that Petit-Pierre assumed the conversation, Bonneville stepped backward, giving place to the youth, who now advanced into the circle of light cast by the lamps and candles. Louis Renaud looked with amazement at a young man, apparently almost a child, who spoke with such assurance and decision.
"It is a delay, monsieur," he said; "that is all. You may be sure that as soon as the maréchal knows of the arrival of Madame in La Vendée, he will instantly return to his post."
"Did not M. de Bonneville tell you that Madame was on the way and would be speedily among her friends?"
"Yes, he did tell me so; and the news has given me the keenest satisfaction."
"Delay! delay!" murmured Petit-Pierre. "I have always heard it said that any uprising in your part of the country ought to take place during the first two weeks in May. After that the inhabitants are busy with their agriculture and are not so easily aroused. Here it is the 14th, and we are already late. As for the leaders, they are convoked, are they not?"
"Yes, monsieur," said Louis Renaud, with a certain sad gravity, "they are; and I ought to add that you can hardly count on any but the leaders." Then he added, with a sigh, "And not all of them either, as M. le Marquis de Souday discovered this morning."
"You surely do not mean to say that, monsieur!" cried Petit-Pierre. "Lukewarmness in La Vendée! and that too, when our friends in Marseille-and I can speak confidently, for I have just arrived from there-are so furious at their failure that they are longing to take revenge!"
A pale smile crossed the lips of the young leader.
"You are from the South, monsieur," he said, "though you have not the accent of it."
"You are right; I am," answered Petit-Pierre. "What of it?"
"You must not confound the South with the West, the Marseillais with the Vendéans. A proclamation may rouse the South, and a check rebuff it. Not so in La Vendée. When you have been here some time you will appreciate the truth of what I say. La Vendée is grave, cold, silent. All projects are discussed slowly, deliberately; the chances of success and defeat are each considered. Then, if La Vendée sees a prospect of success she holds out her hand, says yes, and dies, if need be, to fulfil her promise. But as she knows that yes and no are words of life and death to her, she is slow in uttering them."
"You forget enthusiasm, monsieur," said Petit-Pierre.
"Ah, enthusiasm!" he replied; "I heard that talked of in my boyhood. It is a divinity of a past age which has stepped from its pedestal since the days when so many pledges were made to our fathers only to be forgotten. Do you know what passed this morning at Saint-Philbert?"
"In part, yes; the marquis told me."
"But after the marquis left?"
"No; I know nothing."
"Well, out of the twelve leaders present who were appointed to command the twelve divisions, seven protested in the name of their men, and they have by this time sent those men back to their homes, all the while declaring, every one of them, that personally and under all circumstances, they would shed their blood for Madame; only they would not, they added, take before God the terrible responsibility of dragging their peasantry into an enterprise which promised to be nothing more, so it seemed to them, than a bloody skirmish."
"Then it comes to this," said Petit-Pierre. "Must we renounce all hope, all effort?"
The same sad smile crossed the lips of the young leader.
"All hope, yes, perhaps; all effort, no. Madame has written that she is urged forward by the committee in Paris; Madame assures us that she has ramifications in the army. Let us therefore make the attempt! Possibly a riot in Paris, combined with a defection in the army, may prove her judgment to have been better than ours. If we make no attempt on her behalf, Madame will always be convinced that had it been made it would have been successful; and no doubt ought to be left in Madame's mind."
"But if the attempt fails?" cried Petit-Pierre.
"Five or six hundred men will have been uselessly killed, that is all. It is well that from time to time a party, even if it fails, should give such examples, not only to its own country but to neighboring nations."
"You are not of those who have sent back their men, then?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"No, monsieur; but I am of those who have sworn to die for her Royal Highness. Besides," he added, "perhaps the affair has already begun, and there may be no choice but to follow the movement."
"How so?" asked Petit-Pierre, Bonneville, and the marquis, in one breath.
"Shots were fired to-day at the fair at Montaigu-"
"And firing is going on now at the fords of the Boulogne," said an unknown voice from the doorway, on the threshold of which a new personage now appeared.
XXX.
THE WARNING
The person we now introduce, or rather the person who now introduced himself into the salon of the Marquis de Souday, was the commissary-general of the future Vendéan army, who had changed his name, well-known at the bar of Nantes, for that of Pascal.
He had gone several times into foreign lands to confer with Madame, and knew her personally. It was scarcely two months since he had last seen her, on which occasion after delivering to her Royal Highness the news from France, he had received her last instructions in return. It was he who had come into La Vendée to tell the adherents to hold themselves in readiness.
"Aha!" exclaimed the Marquis de Souday, with a motion of the lips which meant that he did not hold lawyers in cherished admiration, "M. le Commissaire-général Pascal."
"Who brings news, apparently," said Petit-Pierre, with the evident intention of drawing upon himself the attention of the new-comer. The latter, when he heard the voice, turned immediately to the young man, who made him an almost imperceptible sign with lips and eyes, which, however, sufficed to let him know what was expected of him.
"News? Yes," he said.
"Good or bad?" asked Louis Renaud.
"Mixed. But we'll begin with the good."
"Go on."
"Her Royal Highness has crossed the South successfully, and is now safe and sound in La Vendée."
"Are you sure of that?" asked the Marquis de Souday and Louis Renaud in one breath.
"As sure as that I see you all five here in good health," replied Pascal. "Now let us go to the other news."
"Have you heard anything from Montaigu?" asked Louis Renaud.
"They fought there yesterday," said Pascal; "that is, a few shots were fired by the National Guard and some peasants were killed and wounded."
"What occasioned it?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"A dispute at the fair, which became a riot."
"Who commands at Montaigu?" again asked Petit-Pierre.
"A mere captain usually," replied Pascal; "but yesterday, in consequence of the fair, the sub-prefect and the general commanding the military sub-division were both there."
"Do you know the general's name?"
"Dermoncourt."
"And pray, who is General Dermoncourt?"
"Under what head do you desire to know of him, monsieur, – man, opinions, or character?"
"All three heads."
"As a man, he is from sixty to sixty-two years old, and he belongs to that iron race which fought the wars of the Revolution and the Empire. He will be night and day in the saddle, and not leave us an instant's rest."
"Very good," said Louis Renaud, laughing. "Then we'll try to tire him out; and as we are, none of us, half his age we shall be very unlucky or very stupid if we fail."
"His opinions?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"At heart I believe him to be a republican."
"In spite of twelve years' service under the Empire! He must have been dyed in the wool."
"There are many like him. You remember what Henri IV. said of the Leaguers, – 'The barrel smells of the herring.'"
"His character?"
"Oh, as for that, loyalty itself! He is neither an Amadis nor a Galahad. He's a Ferragus, and if ever Madame had the misfortune to fall into his hands-"
"What are you talking about, Monsieur Pascal?" exclaimed Petit-Pierre.
"I am a lawyer, monsieur," replied the civil commissary, "and in that capacity I foresee all the chances of a case. I repeat, therefore, that if Madame were unfortunately to fall into the hands of General Dermoncourt she would have full opportunity to recognize his courtesy."
"Then," said Petit-Pierre, "that is the sort of enemy Madame would choose for herself, – brave, vigorous, and loyal. Monsieur, we are fortunate- But you spoke of shots at the fords of the river?"
"I presume that those I heard on my way came from there."
"Perhaps," said the marquis, "Bertha had better go and reconnoitre. She will soon let us know what is happening."
Bertha rose.
"What!" exclaimed Petit-Pierre, "do you send mademoiselle?"
"Why not?" asked the marquis.
"I think it is a man's duty, not a woman's."
"My young friend," said the old gentleman, "in such matters I rely first upon myself, next upon Jean Oullier, and after Jean Oullier on Bertha and on Mary. I desire the honor of staying here with you; my fellow, Jean Oullier, is off amusing himself. Consequently, Bertha must go."
Bertha went toward the door; but on the threshold she met her sister and exchanged a few words with her in a low voice.
"Here is Mary," she said, turning back.
"Ah!" exclaimed the marquis; "did you hear the firing, my girl?"
"Yes, father," said Mary; "they are fighting."
"Where?"
"At the springs of Baugé."
"You are sure?"
"Yes; the shots came from the marsh."
"You see," said the marquis; "the news is precise. Who keeps the gate in your absence?"
"Rose Tinguy."
"Listen!" said Petit-Pierre.
Loud raps were heard upon the gate.
"The devil!" cried the marquis; "that's not one of us."
They all listened attentively.
"Open! open!" cried a voice. "There's not an instant to lose!"
"It is his voice!" exclaimed Mary, eagerly.
"His voice? – whose voice?" said the marquis.
"Yes, I recognize it," said Bertha, – "the voice of young Baron Michel."
"What does that cabbage-grower want here?" said the marquis, making a step toward the door as if to prevent his entrance.
"Let him come, let him come, marquis!" cried Bonneville. "I'll answer for him; there's nothing to fear."
He had hardly said the words before the sound of a rapid step was heard, and the young baron rushed into the salon, pale, breathless, covered with mud, dripping with perspiration, and with scarcely breath enough to say: -
"Not a moment to lose! Fly! Escape! They are coming!"
He dropped on one knee, resting one hand on the ground, for his breath failed him, his strength was exhausted. He had done, as he promised Jean Oullier, nearly a mile and a half in six minutes.
There was a moment of trouble and confusion in the salon.
"To arms!" cried the marquis. Springing to his own gun, he pointed to a rack at the corner of the room, where three or four carbines and fowling-pieces were hanging.
The Comte de Bonneville and Pascal, with one and the same movement, threw themselves before Petit-Pierre as if to defend him.
Mary sprang to the young baron to raise him and give him what help he needed, while Bertha ran to a window looking toward the forest and opened it.
Shots were then heard, evidently coming nearer, though still at some distance.
"They are on the Viette des Biques," said Bertha.
"Nonsense!" said the marquis; "impossible they should attempt such a dangerous path!"
"They are there, father," said Bertha.
"Yes, yes," gasped Michel. "I saw them there; they have torches. A woman is guiding them, marching at their head; the general is second."
"Oh, that cursèd Jean Oullier! Why isn't he here?" said the marquis.
"He is fighting, Monsieur le marquis," said Michel. "He sent me; he couldn't come himself."
"He!" exclaimed the marquis.
"But I was coming, mademoiselle; I was coming myself. I knew yesterday the château was to be attacked, but I was a prisoner; I got down from a second-story window."
"Good God!" cried Mary, turning pale.
"Bravo!" exclaimed Bertha.
"Gentlemen," said Petit-Pierre, tranquilly, "I think we must decide on a course. Shall we fight? If we do, we must arm ourselves at once, bar the gates, and take our posts. Shall we escape? If so, there is even less time to lose."
"Let us fight!" said the marquis.
"No, escape!" cried Bonneville. "When Petit-Pierre is safe we will fight."
"What is that you say, count?" exclaimed Petit-Pierre.
"I say that nothing is ready; we are not prepared to fight. Are we, gentlemen?"
"Oh, yes, we can always fight," said the youthful, light-hearted voice of a new-comer, addressing himself partly to those in the salon, and partly to two other young men who were following him, and whom, no doubt, he had met at the gate.
"Ah, Gaspard! Gaspard!" cried Bonneville.
Springing to meet the new arrival, he whispered something in his ear.
"Gentlemen," said Gaspard, turning to the others, "the Comte de Bonneville is perfectly right; we must retreat." Then addressing the marquis, he added, "Haven't you some secret door or issue to the castle, marquis? We have no time to lose; the last shots we heard at the gate-Achille, C[oe]ur-de-Lion, and I-were not half a mile distant."
"Gentlemen," said the Marquis de Souday, "you are in my house, and it is for me to assume the responsibility. Silence! listen to me and obey me to-night; I will obey you to-morrow."
All were silent.
"Mary," said the marquis, "close the gates, but do not barricade them; leave them so that they can be opened at the first rap. Bertha, to the underground passage instantly, and don't lose a moment. My daughters and I will receive the general and do the honors of the château to him. To-morrow, wherever you are, we will join you; only, let us know where that will be."
Mary sprang from the room to execute her father's order, while Bertha, signing to Petit-Pierre to follow her, went out by the opposite door, crossed the inner courtyard, entered the chapel, took two wax tapers from the altar, lighted them, gave one to Bonneville, one to Pascal, and then, pushing a spring which made the front of the altar turn of itself, she pointed to a stairway, leading to the vaults in which the lords of Souday were formerly buried.
"You can't lose your way," she said; "you will find a door at the farther end, and the key is in it. That door leads into the open country. These gentlemen all know how to find their way there."
Petit-Pierre took Bertha's hand and pressed it warmly. Then he sprang down the steps to the vault behind Bonneville and Pascal, who lighted the way.
Louis Renaud, Achille, C[oe]ur-de-Lion, and Gaspard followed Petit-Pierre.
Bertha closed the aperture behind them. She noticed that Michel was not among the fugitives.
