Александр Дюма
The Last Vendée
Mary's heart was wrung in her bosom.
"Jean, my friend," she said; "you go too far, Jean. Don't say such things, I entreat you."
"It shall not be," continued Jean Oullier, paying no heed to Mary's interruption, and walking up and down the room; "no, it shall not be. If all the rest are indifferent to the family honor I will watch over it, and rather than see it tarnished I, – well, I will-"
And Jean Oullier made a threatening gesture, the meaning of which was unmistakable.
"No, Jean; no, you would never do that," cried Mary, in a heart-rending voice. "I implore you with clasped hands."
And she almost fell forward on her knees. The Vendéan stepped back, horrified.
"You, – you, too, little Mary?" he cried; "you love-"
But she did not give him time to end his sentence.
"Think, Jean, only think of the grief you would cause to my dear Bertha."
Jean Oullier was looking at her in stupefaction, only half-relieved of the suspicion he had just conceived, when Bertha's voice was heard ordering Michel to wait for her in the garden and on no account to go away. Almost at the same moment she opened the door of her sister's room.
"Well!" she exclaimed; "is this how you get ready?" Then, looking closer at Mary and noticing the trouble in her face, she continued, "What is the matter? You have been crying! And you, Jean Oullier, – you look as cross as a bear. What's going on here?"
"I'll tell you what's going on, Mademoiselle Bertha," replied the Vendéan.
"No, no!" exclaimed Mary; "I entreat you not, Jean. Hold your tongue; oh, do be silent!"
"You scare me with such preambles," cried Bertha; "and Jean is looking at me with an inquisitorial air as if I had committed some great crime. Come, speak out, Jean; I am fully disposed to be kind and indulgent on this happy day, when all my most ardent dreams are realized, and I can share with men their noblest privilege of war!"
"Be frank, Demoiselle Bertha," said the Vendéan; "is that the true reason why you are so joyful?"
"Ha! now I see what the matter is," said Bertha, boldly facing the question. "Major-General Oullier wants to scold me for trenching on his functions." Turning to her sister, she added, "I'll bet, Mary, that it is all about my poor Michel."
"Exactly, mademoiselle," said Jean Oullier, not leaving Mary time to answer.
"Well, what have you to say about him, Jean? My father is delighted to get another adherent, and I can't see anything in that to make you frown."
"Your father may like it," replied the old keeper, "but it doesn't suit the rest of us; we have other ideas."
"May I be allowed to know them?"
"We think each side should stay in its own camp."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Go on; finish what you mean to say."
"I mean to say that Monsieur Michel's place is not with us."
"Why not? Monsieur Michel is royalist, isn't he? I think he has given proof enough during the last two days of his devotion to the cause."
"That may be; but all the same, Demoiselle Bertha, we peasants have a way of saying, 'Like father, like son,' and therefore we don't believe in Monsieur Michel's royalism."
"He will force you to believe in it."
"Possibly; meanwhile-"
The Vendéan frowned.
"Meanwhile, what?" said Bertha.
"Well, I tell you, it will be painful to old soldiers like me to march cheek by jowl with a man we don't respect."
"What possible blame can you put on him?" asked Bertha, beginning to show some bitterness.
"Much."
"Much means nothing unless you specify it."
"Well, his father, his birth-"
"His father! his birth!" interrupted Bertha; "always the same nonsense! Let me tell you, Jean Oullier," she cried, frowning darkly, "that it is precisely on account of his father and his birth that he interests me, that young man."
"Why so?"
"Because my heart revolts against the unjust reproaches which he is made to endure from all our party. I am tired of hearing him blamed for a birth he did not choose, for a father he never knew, for faults he never committed, and which, perhaps, his father never committed. All that makes me indignant, Jean Oullier; it disgusts me. And I think it a noble and generous action to encourage that young man and help him to repair the past, – if there is anything to repair, – and to show himself so brave and so devoted that calumny will not dare to meddle with him in future."
"I don't care," retorted Jean Oullier; "he will have a good deal to do before I, for one, respect the name he bears."
"You must respect it, Jean Oullier," said Bertha, in a stern voice, "when I bear it, as I hope to do."
"Oh, yes! so you say," cried Jean Oullier; "but I don't yet believe you mean it."
"Ask Mary," said Bertha, turning to her sister, who was listening, pale and palpitating, to the discussion, as though her life depended on it; "ask my sister, to whom I have opened my heart, and who knows my hopes and fears. Yes, Jean, all concealments, all constraints are hateful to me; and I am glad, especially with you, to have thrown off mine and to speak openly. Well, I tell you boldly, Jean Oullier, – as boldly as I say everything, – I love him!"
"No, no; don't say that, I implore you, Demoiselle Bertha. I am but a poor peasant, but in former days-it is true you were but a little thing-you gave me the right to call you my child; and I have loved you, and I do love you both as no father ever loved his own daughters: well, the old man who watched over you in childhood, who held you on his knee, and rocked you to sleep, night after night, that old man, whose only happiness you are in this low world, flings himself on his knees to say, Don't love that man, I implore you, Bertha!"
"Why not?" she said, impatiently.
"Because, – and I say this from the bottom of my heart, on my soul and conscience, – because a marriage between you and him is an evil thing, – a monstrous, impossible thing!"
"Your attachment to us makes you exaggerate everything, my poor Jean. Monsieur Michel loves me, I believe; I love him, I am sure, and if he bravely accomplishes the task of distinguishing his name, I shall be most happy in becoming his wife."
"Then," said Jean Oullier, in a tone of deep depression, "I must look in my old age for other masters and another home."
"Why?"
"Because Jean Oullier, poor and of no account as he may be, will never make his home with the son of a renegade and a traitor."
"Hush! Jean Oullier, hush!" cried Bertha. "Hush, I say, or I may break your heart."
"Jean! my good Jean!" murmured Mary.
"No, no," said the old keeper; "you ought to be told the noble actions which have glorified the name you are so eager to take in exchange for your own."
"Don't say another word, Jean Oullier," interrupted Bertha, in a tone that was almost threatening. "Come, I'll tell you now, I have often questioned my heart to know which I loved best, my father or you; but if you say another word, if you utter another insult against my Michel, you will be no more to me than-"
"Than a servant," interrupted Jean Oullier. "Yes; but a servant who is honest, and who all his life has done his duty without betraying it, – a servant who has the right to cry shame on the son of him who sold Charette, as Judas sold Christ, for a sum of money."
"What do I care for what happened thirty-six years ago, – eighteen years before I was born? I know the one who lives, and not the one who is dead, – the son, not the father. I love him; do you hear me, Jean? I love him as you yourself have taught me to love and hate. If his father did as you say, which I will not believe, but if he did, we will put such glory on the name of Michel-on the name of the traitor and renegade-that every one shall bow before it; and you shall help in doing so, – yes, you, Jean Oullier, – for I repeat, I love him, and nothing but death can quench the spring of tenderness that flows to him from my heart."
Mary moaned almost inaudibly; but slight as the sound was, Jean Oullier heard it. He turned to her. Then, as if crushed by the plaint of one and the violence of the other, he dropped on a chair and hid his face in his hands. The old Vendéan wept, but he wished to hide his tears. Bertha understood what was passing in that devoted heart; she went to him and knelt beside him.
"You can measure the strength of my feelings for that young man," she said, "by the fact that it has almost led me to forget my deep and true affection for you."
Jean Oullier shook his head sadly.
"I comprehend your antipathies, your feelings of repugnance," continued Bertha, "and I was prepared for their expression; but, patience, my old friend, patience and resignation! God alone can take out of my heart that which he has put there; and he will not do that, for it would kill me. Give us time to prove to you that your prejudices are unjust, and that he whom I have chosen is indeed worthy of me."
At this instant they heard the marquis calling for Jean Oullier in a voice that showed some new and serious event had happened. Jean Oullier rose and went to the door.
"Stop!" said Bertha; "are you going without answering me?"
"Monsieur le marquis calls me, mademoiselle," replied the Vendéan, in a chilling tone.
"Mademoiselle!" cried Bertha; "mademoiselle. Ah! you will not listen to my entreaties? Well, then, remember this: I forbid you-mark, I forbid you-to offer any insult of any kind to Monsieur Michel; I command that his life be sacred to you. If any evil happens to him through you I will avenge it, not on you but on myself; and you know, Jean Oullier, whether or not I do as I say."
Jean Oullier looked at the girl; then taking her by the arm, he said: -
"Maybe it would be better so than to let you marry that man."
The marquis now called louder than ever, and Jean Oullier rushed from the room, leaving Bertha bewildered by his resistance, and Mary bowed down beneath the terror which the violence of her sister's love inspired in her.
XLIII.
BARON MICHEL BECOMES BERTHA's AIDE-DE-CAMP
Jean Oullier went down, as we have said, in haste; perhaps he was more anxious to get away from the young girl than to obey the call of the marquis. He found the latter in the courtyard, and beside him stood a peasant, covered with mud and sweat.
The man had just brought news that Pascal Picaut's house was surrounded by soldiers; he had seen them go in, and that was all he knew. He had been stationed among the gorse on the road to Sablonnière, with orders from Jean Oullier to come to the château at once if the soldiers should go in the direction of the house where the fugitives had taken refuge. This mission he had fulfilled to the letter.
The marquis, to whom of course Jean Oullier had told how he left Petit-Pierre and the Comte de Bonneville in Pascal Picaut's house, was terribly alarmed.
"Jean Oullier! Jean Oullier!" he kept repeating, in the tone of Augustus calling, "Varus! Varus!" "Jean Oullier, why did you trust others instead of yourself? If any misfortune has happened my poor house will be dishonored before it is ruined!"
Jean Oullier did not answer; he held his head down gloomily, in silence. This silence and immovability exasperated the marquis.
"My horse! my horse, Jean Oullier!" he cried; "and if that lad, whom yesterday, not knowing who he was, I called my young friend, is made prisoner by the Blues, let us show by dying to deliver him that we were not unworthy of his confidence."
But Jean Oullier shook his head.
"What!" exclaimed the marquis; "don't you mean to fetch my horse?"
"Jean is right," said Bertha, who had come upon the scene and had heard her father's order and Jean Oullier's refusal; "we must not risk anything by precipitate action." Turning to the scout, she asked, "Did you see the soldiers leave Picaut's house with prisoners?"
"No; I saw them knock down the gars Malherbe, whom Jean Oullier stationed on the rise of the hill, and I watched them till they entered Picaut's orchard. Then I came here at once, as Jean Oullier ordered me to do."
"Are you sure, Jean Oullier," said Bertha, "that you can answer for the faithfulness of the woman in whose charge you left them?"
"Yesterday," he said, giving Bertha a reproachful look, "I should have said of Marianne Picaut that I could trust her as myself; but-"
"But?" questioned Bertha.
"But to-day," said the old man, with a sigh, "I doubt everything."
"Come, come!" cried the marquis; "all this is time lost. My horse! bring my horse! and in ten minutes I shall know the truth."
But Bertha stopped him.
"Ha!" he exclaimed; "is this the way I am obeyed in this house? What can I expect from others if in my own family no one obeys my orders?"
"Your orders are sacred, father," said Bertha, – "to your daughters, above all; but your ardor is carrying you away. Do not forget that those for whose safety we are so anxious are merely peasants in the eyes of others. If the Marquis de Souday goes himself in search of two missing peasants their importance will be known directly, and the news will reach our enemies."
"Mademoiselle Bertha is right," said Jean Oullier; "it is better for me to go."
"Not you, any more than my father," said Bertha.
"Why not?"
"Because you run too great a risk in going over there."
"I went there this morning; and if I ran that risk to find out whose ball killed my poor Pataud, I can certainly do the same to learn news of M. de Bonneville and Petit-Pierre."
"I tell you, Jean," persisted Bertha, "that after all that happened yesterday you must not show yourself where the soldiers are. We must find some one who is not compromised, and who can get to the heart of the matter without exciting suspicion."
"How unlucky that that animal of a Loriot would go back to Machecoul!" said the marquis. "I begged him to stay; I had a presentiment that I should want him."
"Well, haven't you Monsieur Michel?" said Jean Oullier, in a sarcastic tone; "you can send him to the Picaut's house, or anywhere else, without suspicion. If there were ten thousand men guarding it they'd let him in; and no one, I am sure, would imagine he came on any business of yours."
"Yes; he is just the person we want," said Bertha, accepting the support thus given to her secret purpose, and ignoring Jean Oullier's malicious intention in making it. "Isn't he, father?"
"On my soul, I think so!" cried the marquis. "Though he is rather effeminate in appearance, the young man may turn out very useful."
At the first rumor of alarm Michel had approached the marquis, as if awaiting orders. When he heard Bertha's proposition, and saw it accepted by her father, his face became radiant. Bertha herself was beaming.
"Are you ready to do all that is necessary for the safety of Petit-Pierre, Monsieur Michel?" she said.
"I am ready to do anything you wish, mademoiselle, in order to prove my gratitude to Monsieur le marquis for the friendly welcome I have received from him."
"Very good. Then take a horse-not mine; it would be recognized-and gallop over there. Go into the house unarmed, as though curiosity alone brought you, and if our friends are in danger light a fire of brush on the heath. During that time Jean Oullier will assemble his men; and then, in a body and well-armed, we can fly to the support of those so dear to us."
"Bravo!" cried the Marquis de Souday; "I have always said that Bertha was the strong-minded one of the family."
Bertha smiled with pride and looked at Michel.
"And you," she said to her sister, who had now come down and joined them quietly, just as Michel departed to get his horse, – "and you, don't you mean to dress and go with us?"
"No," replied Mary.
"Why not?"
"I mean to stay as I am."
"Oh! you can't mean it!"
"Yes, I do," said Mary, with a sad smile. "In an army there are always sisters of mercy to care for the fighting men and comfort them; I shall be the sister of mercy."
Bertha looked at Mary with amazement. She may have been about to question her as to this sudden change of mind; but at that instant Michel, already mounted on the horse provided for him, reappeared, and approaching Bertha stopped the words upon her lips. Addressing her as the one to whom he looked for orders, he said: -
"You told me what I was to do in case some misfortune has happened at the Picaut house, mademoiselle; but you have not told me what to do in case I find Petit-Pierre safe and well."
"In that case," said the marquis, "come back here, and set our minds at ease."
"No, no," said Bertha, who was determined to give the man she loved some important part to play; "such goings to and fro would excite suspicion in the various troops now stationed about the forest. You had better stay at the Picauts' or in the neighborhood till nightfall, and then go and wait for us at the July oak. You know where that is, don't you?"
"I should think so!" said Michel; "it is on the road to Souday."
Michel knew every oak and every tree on that road.
"Very good!" said Bertha; "we will be in the woods near by. Make the signal, – three cries of the screech-owl and one hoot, – and we will join you. Go on, dear Monsieur Michel."
Michel bowed to the marquis and to the two young ladies. Then, bending forward over the neck of his horse, he started at a gallop. He was, in truth, an excellent rider, and Bertha called attention to the fact that in turning short out of the porte cochère, he had very cleverly made his horse change step.
"It is amazing how easy it is to make a well-bred gentleman out of a rustic like that," said the marquis, re-entering the château. "It is true that women must have a finger in it. That young man is really passable."
"Oh, yes; well-bred gentlemen, indeed! They are easy enough to make; but men of heart and soul are another thing," muttered Jean Oullier.
"Jean Oullier," said Bertha, "you are forgetting my advice. Take care."
"You are mistaken, mademoiselle," replied Jean Oullier. "It is, on the contrary, because I have forgotten nothing that you see me so troubled. I thought my aversion to that young man might be remorse," he muttered; "but I begin to fear it is presentiment."
"Remorse! – you, Jean Oullier?"
"Ah! did you hear what I said?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't unsay it."
"What remorse have you about him?"
"None about him," said Jean Oullier, in a gloomy voice; "I meant his father."
"His father?" said Bertha, shivering in spite of herself.
"Yes," said Jean Oullier. "My name was changed in a day because of him; I was no longer Jean Oullier."
"What were you then?"
"Chastisement."
"On his father?"
Then, remembering all that was told in the region, of the death of Baron Michel the older, she exclaimed: -
"His father! found dead at a hunt! Ah, miserable man! what do you mean?"
"That the son may avenge his father by bringing mourning for mourning upon us."
"In what way?"
"Through you, and because you love him madly."
"What of that?"
"I can myself assure you of one thing."
"And that is?"
"That he does not love you."
Bertha shrugged her shoulders disdainfully; but the blow nevertheless reached her heart. A feeling that was almost hatred to the old Vendéan came over her.
"Employ yourself in collecting your men, Jean Oullier," she said.
"I obey you, mademoiselle," replied the Chouan.
He went toward the gate. Bertha returned to the house, without giving him another look. But before leaving the château, Jean Oullier called up the peasant who had brought the news.
"Before the soldiers got to Picaut's house did you see any one else go in there?"
"To Joseph's place, or Pascal's?"
"Pascal's."
"Yes, I saw one man go in."
"Who was he?"
"The mayor of La Logerie."
"You say he went into Pascal's part of the house?"
"I am sure of it."
"You saw him?"
"As plain as I see you."
"Which way did he go when he left it?"
"Toward Machecoul."
"The same way by which the soldiers came soon after, wasn't it?"
"Exactly; it wasn't half an hour after he left before they came."
"Good!" ejaculated Jean Oullier. Shaking his clenched fist in the direction of La Logerie, he muttered to himself, "Ah, Courtin! Courtin! you are tempting God. My dog killed yesterday, this treachery to-day, – you try my patience too far!"
XLIV.
MAÎTRE JACQUES AND HIS RABBITS
To the south, of Machecoul, forming a triangle round the village of Légé, stretch three forests. They are called respectively the forests of Touvois, Grandes-Landes, and La Roche-Servière.
The territorial importance of these forests is not great if considered separately; but standing each within three kilometres of the others, and connected by hedges and fields full of gorse and brambles, even more numerous there than elsewhere in La Vendée, they form a very considerable agglomeration of woodland. The result has been that in times of civil war they became a very hot-bed of revolt, where insurrection was fostered and concentrated before it spread through the adjacent regions.
The village of Légé, besides being the native place of the famous physician Jolly, was, almost continuously, Charette's headquarters during the great war. It was there, in the thick belt of woodland surrounding the village that he took refuge if defeated, reformed his decimated battalions, and prepared for other fights.
In 1832, although a new road from Nantes to the Sables-d'Olonne, which runs through Légé, had modified in a measure its strategic strength, the wooded neighborhood was still the most formidable centre of the insurrectionary movement then organized. The three forests hid, in their impenetrable undergrowth of holly and ferns which grew under the shadow of the great thickets, those bands of refractories (conscripts escaping service) whose ranks were daily increasing and forming the kernel of the insurrectionary divisions in the Retz region and on the plains.
The clearings made by government, even the felling of a considerable portion of the wood, had no perceptible result. It was rumored that the deserters had excavated underground dwellings, like those the first Chouans burrowed in the forests of Gralla, in the depths of which they had so often defied the closest search. In this particular case rumor was not mistaken.
Toward the close of the day when, as we have seen, Michel started on horseback from the château de Souday toward the Picaut cottage, any one who had stood concealed behind one of the huge centennial beeches that surround the glade of Folleron in the forest of Touvois, would have seen a curious sight.
At the hour when the sun, sinking toward the horizon, left a sort of twilight behind it, – an hour when the wood-paths were already in a shadow that seemed to rise from the earth, while the tree-tops were still burnished with the last rays of the dying sunlight, – this concealed spectator would have seen in the distance, and coming toward him, a personage whom, with a very slight stretch of fancy, he might have taken for some uncanny or impish being. This personage advanced slowly, looking cautiously about him, – a matter which seemed to be the more easy because, at first sight, he appeared to have two heads, with which to keep a double watch over his safety.
He was clothed in the sordid rags of an old jacket and the semblance of a pair of breeches, the original cloth of which had completely disappeared beneath the multifarious patches of many colors with which its decay had been remedied; and he appeared, as we have said, to belong to the class of bicephalous monsters who occupy a distinguished place among the choice exceptions which Nature delights to create in her fantastic moments.
The two heads were entirely distinct the one from the other, and though they apparently came from the same trunk there was no family resemblance between them. Beside a broad and brick-dust colored face, seamed with small-pox and covered with unkempt beard, appeared a second face, less repulsive, very astute, and rather malign in its ugliness, whereas the other countenance expressed only a sort of idiocy which might at times amount to ferocity.
These two distinct countenances did, in truth, belong to two men, whose acquaintance we have already made at Montaigu on the day of the fair; namely, to Aubin Courte-Joie, the tavern keeper, and-if the reader will pardon an almost too expressive name, but one we think we have no right to change-to Trigaud the Vermin, the beggar, whose herculean strength, it will be remembered, played a noted part in the riot at Montaigu by lifting the general's leg from the stirrup and throwing him out of his saddle.
By a judicious arrangement, which we have already mentioned, Aubin Courte-Joie had supplemented, or re-completed, his own personality by the help of this species of beast of burden whom he had, by good luck, encountered on his path through life. In exchange for the two legs he had left on the road to Ancenis, the truncated cripple had obtained a pair of steel limbs, which resisted all fatigue, feared no task, and served him as his own original legs never did and never could have done, – legs, in short, which did his will with passive obedience, and had reached, after a certain period of association, such adaptability that they instinctively guessed the very thoughts of Aubin Courte-Joie, if conveyed by a mere word, a single sign, or even a slight touch of a hand on the shoulder or a knee on the flank.
The strangest part of this affair was that the least satisfied partner in the firm was not Trigaud-Vermin; quite the contrary. His thick brain knew that Aubin Courte-Joie was directing his physical strength in the direction of his sympathies. The words "White" and "Blue," which dropped into his large ears, always pricked up and listening, proved to him that he supported, in his quality of locomotive to the tavern-keeper, a cause whose worship was the one glimmer of light which had survived the collapse of his brain. He made it his glory. His confidence in Aubin Courte-Joie was boundless; he was proud of being linked body and soul to a mind whose superiority he recognized, and he was now attached to the man who might indeed be called his master, with the self-abnegation that characterizes all attachments which instinct governs.
Trigaud carried Aubin sometimes on his back, sometimes on his shoulders, but always as affectionately as a mother carries her child. He took the utmost care of him; he showed him little attentions which seemed to disprove the poor devil's actual idiocy. He never thought of watching his own feet or guarding them from the cutting and wounding of stones and briers; but he carefully held aside, as he walked along, the bushes or branches which he thought might rub the body or scratch the face of his rider.
When they had advanced about a third of the way into the open, Aubin Courte-Joie touched Trigaud on the shoulder, and the giant stopped short. Then, without needing to speak, the inn-keeper pointed with his finger to a large stone lying at the foot of an enormous beech-tree, in the right-hand corner of the clearing.
The giant advanced to the beech, picked up the stone, and awaited orders.
"Now," said Aubin Courte-Joie, "strike three blows."
Trigaud did as he was told, timing the blows so that the second followed the first rapidly, and the third did not sound until after a certain interval.
At this signal, which was made on the trunk of the tree, a little square of turf and moss rose from the ground, and a head beneath it.
"Ho! it's you, is it, Maître Jacques? What's the watch-dog doing at the mouth of the burrow?" asked Aubin, visibly pleased at meeting with an intimate acquaintance.
"Hey! my gars Courte-Joie, this is the hour for business, don't you see; and I never like to let my rabbits out till I make sure myself the hunters are not about."
"And you are right, Maître Jacques; you are right," replied Courte-Joie; "to-day, especially, for there are lots of guns on the plain."
"Hey, how's that, tell me?"
"That's what I want to do."
"But first, won't you come in?"
"Oh, no; no, Jacques. It is hot enough where we are, – isn't it Trigaud?"
The giant uttered a grunt which might, at a pinch, pass for an affirmation.
"Goodness! why, he's speaking!" remarked Maître Jacques. "They used to say he was dumb. You are in luck's way, gars Trigaud, to be taken into Aubin's good graces; do you know that? Why, you are almost a man, not to speak of having your board and lodging sure; and that's more than all dogs can say, – even those at the castle of Souday."
The beggar opened his large mouth and began a chuckle of laughter, which he did not end, for a motion of Aubin's hand stopped in the cavities of his larynx that impulse to hilarity which his powerful lungs rendered dangerous.
"Hush! lower! lower, Trigaud!" he said, roughly. Then turning to Maître Jacques, "He thinks he is in the market-place of Montaigu, poor innocent!"
"Well, as you won't come in, I'll call out the gars. You're right, my Courte-Joie; it is devilish hot inside. Some of 'em say they are roasted; but you know how such fellows grumble."
"That's not like Trigaud," replied Aubin, pounding with his fist, by way of a caress, on the head of the elephant who served him as steed; "he never complains, – not he!"
Trigaud gave a nod of gratitude for the signs of friendship with which Courte-Joie honored him.
Maître Jacques, whom we have just presented to our readers, but with whom it remains for us to make them fully acquainted, was a man of fifty to fifty-five years of age, who had all the external appearance of a worthy farmer of the Retz region. Though his hair was long and floated on his shoulders, his beard, on the contrary, was cut close and shaved with the utmost care. He wore a perfectly clean jacket of gray cloth, cut in a shape that was almost modern compared with those that were still in use in La Vendée, and a waistcoat, also of cloth, in broad stripes, alternately white and fawn-colored. Breeches of coarse brown cloth and gaiters of blue twilled cotton were the only part of his costume which resembled that of his compatriots.
A pair of pistols, with shining handles, stuck into his jacket, were the only military signs he bore at this moment. But in spite of his placid, good-humored face, Maître Jacques was really the leader of the boldest band in the whole region, and the most determined Chouan to be found in a circuit of fifty miles, throughout which he enjoyed a very formidable reputation.
