Александр Дюма
The Last Vendée
The elder helped Petit-Pierre to mount, and together, one in the saddle, the other on foot, they took their way silently across the fields and along an almost invisible path which led, as we have said, in a straight line to the château de la Logerie. They had hardly gone a hundred steps into the grounds when Rameau-d'or stopped short and laid his hand on the bridle of the horse.
"What is it now?" asked Petit-Pierre.
"I hear steps," said the young man. "Draw in behind those bushes; I will stand against this tree. They'll probably pass without seeing us."
The man[oe]uvre was made with the rapidity of a military evolution, and none too soon; for the new-comer was seen to emerge from the darkness as the pair reached their posts. Rameau-d'or, whose eyes were by this time accustomed to the dim light, saw at once that he was a young man about twenty years of age, running, rather than walking, in the same direction as themselves. He had his hat in his hand, which made him the more easily recognized, and his hair, blown back by the wind, left his face entirely exposed.
An exclamation of surprise burst from Rameau-d'or, as the young man came close to him; then he hesitated a minute, still in doubt, and allowed the other to pass him by three or four steps, before he cried out: -
"Michel!"
The new-comer, who did not expect to hear his name called in that lonely place, jumped to one side, and said in a voice that quivered with emotion: -
"Who called me?"
"I," said Rameau-d'or, taking off his hat and a wig he had been wearing, and advancing to his friend with no other disguise than his Breton clothes.
"Henri de Bonneville!" exclaimed Baron Michel, in amazement.
"Myself. But don't say my name so loud. We are in a land where every bush and ditch and tree shares with the walls the privilege of having ears."
"True!" said Michel, alarmed; "and besides-"
"Besides what?" asked M. de Bonneville.
"You must have come for the uprising they talk of?"
"Precisely. And now, in two words, on which side are you?"
"I?"
"Yes, you."
"My good friend," said the young baron, "I have no fixed opinions; though I will admit in a whisper-"
"Whisper as much as you like; admit what? Make haste."
"Well, I will admit that I incline toward Henri V."
"My dear Michel," cried the count, gayly, "if you incline toward Henri V. that is enough for me."
"Stop; I don't say that I am positively decided."
"So much the better. I shall finish your conversion; and, in order that I may do so at once, I shall ask you to take me in for the night at your château, and also a friend who accompanies me."
"Where is your friend?" asked Michel.
"Here he is," said Petit-Pierre, riding forward, and bowing to the young baron, with an ease and grace that contrasted curiously with the dress he wore. Michel looked at the little peasant for a moment, and then approaching Bonneville, he said: -
"Henri, what is your friend's name?"
"Michel, you are lacking in all the traditions of hospitality. You forget the 'Odyssey,' my dear fellow, and I am distressed at you. Why do you want to know my friend's name? Isn't it enough if I tell you he is a man of good birth?"
"Are you sure he is a man at all?"
The count and Petit-Pierre burst out laughing.
"So you insist on knowing the names of those you receive in your house?"
"Not for my sake, my dear Henri, – not for mine, I swear to you; but in the château de la Logerie-"
"Well? – in the château de la Logerie?"
"I am not master."
"Oh! then the Baronne Michel is mistress. I had already told my little friend Petit-Pierre that she might be. But it is only for one night. You could take us to your own room, and I can forage in the cellar and larder. I know the way. My young friend could get a night's rest on your bed, and early in the morning I'll find a better place and relieve you of our presence."
"Impossible, Henri. Do not think that it is for myself, I fear; but it will compromise your safety to let you even enter the château."
"How so?"
"My mother is still awake; I am sure of it. She is watching for me; she would see us enter. Your disguise we might find some reason for; but that of your companion, which has not escaped me, how could we explain it to her?"
"He is right," said Petit-Pierre.
"But what else can we do?"
"And," continued Michel, "it is not only my mother that I fear, but-"
"What else?"
"Wait!" said the baron, looking uneasily about him; "let us get away from these bushes."
"The devil!"
"I mean Courtin."
"Courtin? Who is he?"
"Don't you remember Courtin the farmer?"
"Oh! yes, to be sure, – a good sort of fellow, who was always on your side, even against your mother."
"Yes. Well, Courtin is now mayor of the village and a violent Philippist. If he found you wandering about, at night in disguise he would arrest you without a warrant."
"This is serious," said Henri de Bonneville, gravely. "What does Petit-Pierre think of it?"
"I think nothing, my dear Rameau-d'or; I leave you to think for me."
"The result is that you close your doors to us?" said Bonneville.
"That won't signify to you," said Baron Michel, whose eyes suddenly lighted up with a personal hope, – "it won't signify, for I will get you admitted to another house, where you will be in far greater safety than at La Logerie."
"Not signify! but it does signify. What says my companion?"
"I say that provided some door opens, I don't care where it is. I am ready to drop with fatigue, I am so tired."
"Then follow me," said the baron.
"Is it far?"
"An hour's walk, – about three miles."
"Has Petit-Pierre the strength for it?" asked Henri.
"Petit-Pierre will find strength for it," said the little peasant, laughing.
"Then let us follow Baron Michel," said Bonneville. "Forward, baron!"
And the little group, which had been at a standstill for the last ten minutes, moved away. But they had hardly gone a few hundred steps before Bonneville laid a hand on Michel's shoulder.
"Where are you taking us?" he said.
"Don't be uneasy."
"I will follow you, provided you can promise me a good bed and a good supper for Petit-Pierre, who, as you see, is rather delicate."
"He shall have all and more than I could give him at La Logerie, – the best food in the larder, the best wine in the cellar, the best bed in the castle."
On they went. At the end of some little time Michel said suddenly: -
"I'll go forward now, so that you may not have to wait."
"One moment," said Henri. "Where are we going?"
"To the château de Souday."
"The château de Souday!"
"Yes; you know it very well, with its pointed towers roofed with slate, on the left of the road opposite to the forest of Machecoul."
"The wolves' castle?"
"Yes, the wolves' castle, if you choose to call it so."
"Is that where we are to stay?"
"Yes."
"Have you sufficiently reflected, Michel?"
"Yes, yes; I will answer for everything."
The baron waited to say no more, but set off instantly for the castle, with that velocity of which he had given such unmistakable proof on the night when he went to fetch the doctor to the dying Tinguy.
"Well," asked Petit-Pierre, "what shall we do?"
"There is no choice now but to follow him."
"To the wolves' castle?"
"Yes, to the wolves' castle."
"So be it; but to enliven the way," said the little peasant, "will you be good enough to tell me, my dear Rameau-d'or, who the wolves are?"
"I will tell you what I have heard of them."
"I can't expect more."
Resting his hand on the pommel of the saddle, the Comte de Bonneville related to Petit-Pierre the sort of legend attaching, throughout the department of the Lower Loire, to the daughters of the Marquis de Souday. But presently, stopping short in his tale, he announced to his companion that they had reached their destination.
Petit-Pierre, convinced that he was about to see beings analogous to the witches in "Macbeth," was calling up all his courage to enter the dreaded castle, when, at a turn of the road, he saw before him an open gate, and before the gate two white figures, who seemed to be waiting there, lighted by a torch carried behind them by a man of rugged features and rustic clothes. Mary and Bertha-for it was they-informed by Baron Michel, had come to meet their uninvited guests. Petit-Pierre eyed them curiously. He saw two charming young girls, – one fair, with blue eyes and an almost angelic face; the other, with black hair and eyes, a proud and resolute bearing, a frank and loyal countenance. Both were smiling.
Rameau-d'or's young companion slid from his horse, and the two advanced together toward the ladies.
"My friend Baron Michel encouraged me to hope, mesdemoiselles, that your father, the Marquis de Souday, would grant us hospitality," said the Comte de Bonneville, bowing to the two girls.
"My father is absent, monsieur," replied Bertha. "He will regret having lost this occasion to exercise a virtue which in these days we cannot often practise."
"I do not know if Michel told you, mademoiselle, that this hospitality may possibly involve some danger. My young companion and I are almost proscribed persons. Persecution may be the cost of your granting us an asylum."
"You come here in the name of a cause which is ours, monsieur. Were you merely strangers, you would be hospitably received. Being, as you are, royalists and proscribed, you are heartily welcome, even if death and ruin enter this poor household with you. If my father were here he would say the same."
"Monsieur le Baron Michel has, no doubt, told you my name; it remains for me to tell you that of my young companion."
"We do not ask to know it, monsieur; your situation is more to us than your names, whatever they may be. You are royalists, proscribed for a cause to which, women as we are, we would gladly give every drop of our blood. Enter this house; it is neither rich nor sumptuous, but at least you will find it faithful and discreet."
With a gesture of great dignity, Bertha pointed to the gate, and signed to the two young men to enter it.
"May Saint-Julien be ever blessed!" said Petit-Pierre in Bonneville's ear. "Here is the château and the cottage between which you wanted me to choose, united in this night's lodging. They please me through and through, your wolves."
So saying, he entered the postern, with a graceful inclination of the head to the two young girls. The Comte de Bonneville followed. Mary and Bertha made an amicable gesture of farewell to Michel, and the latter held out her hand to him. But Jean Oullier closed the gate so roughly that the luckless young man had no time to grasp it.
He looked for a few moments at the towers of the castle, which stood out blackly against the dark background of the sky. He watched the lights appearing, one by one, in the windows; and then, at last, he turned and went away.
When he had fairly disappeared the bushes moved, and gave passage to an individual who had witnessed this scene, with a purpose very different from that of the actors in it. That individual was Courtin, who, after satisfying himself that no one was near, took the same path his young master had taken to return to La Logerie.
XV.
AN UNSEASONABLE HOUR
It was about two in the morning, perhaps, when the young Baron Michel again reached the end of the avenue, which leads to the château de la Logerie. The atmosphere was calm; the majestic silence of the night, which was broken only by the rustling of the leaves, led him into reverie. It is not necessary to say that the two sisters were the objects of his thought, and that the one whose image the baron followed with as much respect and love as Tobit followed the angel in the Bible, was Mary.
But when he saw before him, at the farther end of the dark arcade of trees beneath which he was walking, the windows of the château, which were sparkling in the moonlight, all his charming visions vanished, and his ideas took a far more practical direction. In place of the ravishing figures of girlhood so lately beside him, he saw the stern and threatening outline of his mother.
We know the terror with which she inspired him. He stopped short. If in all the neighborhood there were any shelter, even a tavern, in which he could spend the night, he would not have returned to the house till the next day, so great were his apprehensions. It was the first time he had ever been late in getting home, and he felt instinctively that his mother was on the watch for him. What should he answer to the dreadful inquiry, "Where have you been?"
Courtin could give him a night's lodging; but if he went to Courtin he should have to tell him all, and the young baron fully understood the danger there was in taking a man like Courtin into his confidence. He decided, therefore, to brave the maternal wrath, – very much as the criminal decides to brave the scaffold, simply because he cannot do otherwise, – and continued his way home.
Nevertheless, the nearer he got to the château the more his resolution faltered. When he reached the end of the avenue where he had to cross the lawn, and when he saw his mother's window, the only lighted window in the building, his heart failed him. No, his forebodings had not misled him; his mother was on the watch. His resolution vanished entirely, and fear, developing the resources of his imagination, put into his head the idea of a trick which, if it did not avert his mother's anger, would at any rate delay the explosion of it.
He turned to the right, glided along in the shadow of a buckthorn hedge, reached the wall of the kitchen garden, over which he climbed, and passed through the gate leading from the kitchen-garden to the park.
Up to this moment all was well; but now came the most difficult, or rather the most hazardous part of his enterprise. He had to find some window left unfastened by a careless servant, by which he could enter the house and slip back to his own apartment unperceived.
The château de la Logerie consists of a large, square building, flanked at the corners with four towers of the same shape. The kitchens and offices were underground, the reception-rooms on the ground-floor, those of the baroness on the next floor, those of her son above her. Michel examined the house on three sides, trying gently but persistently every door and window, keeping close to the walls, stepping with precaution, and even holding his breath. Neither doors nor windows yielded.
There was still the front of the house to be examined. This was much the most dangerous side, for the windows of the baroness commanded it, and there were no shrubs to cast a protecting shadow. Here he found a window open. True, it was that of his mother's bedroom; but Michel, now desperate, reflected that if he had to be scolded he would rather it were without than within the house, and he resolved on making the attempt.
He was cautiously advancing round the corner tower when he saw a shadow moving on the lawn. A shadow of course meant a body. Michel stopped and gave all his attention to the new arrival. He saw it was a man, and the man was following the path he himself would have taken had he gone, in the first instance, straight to the house. The young baron now made a few steps backward and crouched in the heavy shadow projected by the tower.
The man came nearer. He was not more than fifty yards from the house when Michel heard the harsh voice of his mother speaking from her window. He congratulated himself on not having crossed the lawn and taken the path the man was on.
"Is that you, Michel?" asked the baroness.
"No, madame, no," replied a voice, which the young baron recognized, with amazement not unmingled with fear, as that of Courtin, "you do me too much honor in taking me for Monsieur le baron."
"Good heavens!" cried the baroness, "what brings you here at this hour?"
"Ah! you may well suppose it is something important, Madame la baronne."
"Has any harm happened to my son?"
The tone of agony in which his mother said these words touched the young man so deeply that he was about to rush out and reassure her when Courtin's answer, which came immediately, paralyzed this good intention.
"Oh! no, no, madame; I have just seen the young gars, if I may so call Monsieur le baron, and he is quite well, – up to the present moment at least."
"Present moment!" said the baroness. "Is he in any danger?"
"Well, yes," said Courtin; "he may get into trouble if he persists in running after those female Satans, – and may hell clutch them! It is to prevent such a misfortune that I've taken the liberty to come to you at this time of night, feeling sure that as Monsieur Michel is so late in getting home you would surely be sitting up for him."
"You did right, Courtin. Where is he now, – do you know?"
Courtin looked about him.
"I am surprised he has not come in. I took the county road so as to leave him the wood-path clear, and that's a good half-mile shorter than the road."
"But tell me at once, where has he been; where is he coming from; what has he done; why is he roaming the country at two in the morning, without considering my anxiety or reflecting that he is injuring my health as well as his own?"
"Madame la baronne, I cannot answer those questions in the open air." Then, lowering his voice, he added, "What I have to tell madame is so important that she had better hear it in her own room. Besides, as the young master is not yet in, he may be here at any moment," said the farmer, looking uneasily about him, "and I wouldn't for all the world have him suspect that I keep a watch upon him, though it is for his own good, and to do you a service."
"Come in, then; you are right," said the baroness. "Come in, at once."
"Beg pardon, madame, but how, if you please?"
"True," said the baroness, "the door is locked."
"If madame will throw me the key-"
"It is inside the door."
"Oh, bother it!"
"I sent the servants to bed, not wishing them to know of my son's misconduct. Wait; I will ring for my maid."
"Oh, madame, no!" exclaimed Courtin, "it is better not to let any one into our secrets; it seems to me the matter is so important that madame might disregard appearances. I know madame was not born to open the door to a poor farmer like me; but once in a way it wouldn't signify. If everybody is asleep in the château, so much the better; we shall be safe from curiosity."
"Really, Courtin, you alarm me," said the baroness, who was in fact prevented from opening the door by a petty pride, which had not escaped the farmer's observation. "I will hesitate no longer."
The baroness withdrew from the window, and a moment later Michel heard the grinding of the key and the bolts of the front door. He listened at first in an agony of apprehension; then he became aware that the door, which opened with difficulty, had not been relocked or bolted, – no doubt because his mother and Courtin were so pre-occupied in mind. He waited a few seconds till he was sure they had reached the upper floor. Then, gliding along the wall, he mounted the portico, pushed open the door, which turned noiselessly on its hinges, and entered the vestibule.
His original intention had been, of course, to regain his room and await events, while pretending to be asleep. In that case the exact hour of his return home would not be known, and he might still have a chance to get out of the scrape by a fib. But matters were much changed since he formed that intention. Courtin had followed him; Courtin had seen him. Courtin must know that the Comte de Bonneville and his companion had taken refuge in the château de Souday. For a moment Michel forgot himself to think of his friend, whom the farmer, with his violent political opinions, might greatly injure.
Instead of going up to his own floor, he slipped, like a wolf, along his mother's corridor. Just as he reached her door he heard her say: -
"So you really think, Courtin, that my son has been enticed by one of those miserable women?"
"Yes, madame, I am sure of it; and they've got him so fast that I am afraid you'll have a deal of trouble to get him away from them."
"Girls without a penny!"
"As for that, they come of the oldest blood in the country, madame," said Courtin, wishing to sound his way; "and for nobles like you that's something, at any rate."
"Faugh!" exclaimed the baroness; "bastards!"
"But pretty; one is like an angel, the other like a demon."
"Michel may amuse himself with them, as so many others, they say, have done; that's possible; but you can't suppose that he ever dreamed of marrying one of them? Nonsense! he knows me too well to think that I would ever consent to such a marriage."
"Barring the respect I owe to him, Madame la baronne, my opinion is that Monsieur Michel has never reflected at all about it, and doesn't yet know what he feels for the wolves; but one thing I'm sure of, and that is he is getting himself into another kind of trouble, which may compromise him seriously."
"What do you mean, Courtin?"
"Well, confound it!" exclaimed the farmer, seeming to hesitate, "do you know, madame, that it would be very painful to me, who love and respect you, if my duty compelled me to arrest my young master?"
Michel trembled where he stood; and yet it was the baroness to whom the shock was most severe.
"Arrest Michel!" she exclaimed, drawing herself up; "I think you forget yourself, Courtin."
"No, madame, I do not."
"But-"
"I am your farmer, it is true," continued Courtin, making the baroness a sign with his hand to control herself. "I am bound to give you an exact account of the harvests, on which you have half the profits, and to pay you promptly on the day and hour what is due, – which I do to the best of my ability, in spite of the hard times: but before being your farmer I am a citizen, and I am, moreover, mayor, and in those capacities I have duties, Madame la baronne, which I must fulfil, whether my poor heart suffers or not."
"What nonsense are you talking to me, Maître Courtin? Pray, what has my son to do with your duties as a citizen and your station as mayor?"
"He has this to do with it, Madame la baronne: your son has intimate acquaintance with the enemies of the State."
"I know very well," said the baroness, "that Monsieur le Marquis de Souday holds exaggerated opinions; but any love-affairs that Michel may have with one of his daughters cannot, it seems to me, be turned into a political misdemeanor."
"That love-affair is carrying Monsieur Michel much farther than you think for, Madame la baronne, and I tell you so now. I dare say he has so far only poked the end of his nose into the troubled waters about him; but that's enough for a beginning."
"Come, enough of such metaphors! Explain what you mean, Courtin."
"Well, Madame la baronne, here's the truth. This evening, after being present at the death-bed of that old Chouan Tinguy, and running the risk of bringing a malignant fever home with him, and after accompanying one of the wolves to the château de Souday, Monsieur le baron served as guide to two peasants who were no more peasants than I'm a gentleman; and he took them to the château de Souday."
"Who told you so, Courtin?"
"My own two eyes, Madame la baronne; they are good, and I trust them."
"Did you get an idea who those peasants were?"
"The two false peasants?"
"Yes, of course."
"One, I'd take my oath of it, was the Comte de Bonneville, – a violent Chouan, he! No one can fool me about him; he has been long in the country, and I know him. As for the other-"
Courtin paused.
"Go on," said the baroness, impatiently.
"As for the other, if I'm not mistaken, that's a better discovery still-"
"But who is it? Come, Courtin, tell me at once."
"No, Madame la baronne. I shall tell the name-I shall probably be obliged to do so-to the authorities."
"The authorities! Do you mean to tell me you are going to denounce my son?" cried the baroness, amazed and stupefied at the tone her farmer, hitherto so humble, was assuming.
"Assuredly I do, Madame la baronne," said Courtin, composedly.
"Nonsense! you would not think of it."
"I do think it, Madame la baronne, and I should be now on the road to Montaigu or even to Nantes, if I had not wished to warn you, so that you may put Monsieur Michel out of harm's way."
"But, supposing that Michel is concerned in this affair," said the baroness, vehemently; "you will compromise me with all my neighbors, and-who knows? – you may draw down horrible reprisals on La Logerie."
"Then we must defend the château, that's all, Madame la baronne."
"Courtin!"
"I saw the great war, Madame la baronne. I was a little fellow then, but I remember it, and on my word of honor I don't want to see the like again. I don't want to see my twenty acres of land a battlefield for both parties, my harvests eaten by one or burned by the other; still less do I want to see the Whites lay hands on the National domain, which they will do if they get the chance. Out of my twenty acres, five belonged to émigrés. I bought 'em and paid for 'em; that's one quarter of all I own. Besides, here's another thing: the government relies upon me, and I wish to justify the confidence of the government."
"But, Courtin," said the baroness, almost ready to come down to entreaty, "matters can't be as serious as you imagine, I am sure."
"Beg pardon, Madame la baronne, they are very serious indeed. I am only a peasant, but that doesn't prevent me from knowing as much as others know, being blessed with a good ear and a gift for listening. The Retz district is all but at the boiling-point; another fagot and the pot will boil over."
"Courtin, you must be mistaken."
"No, Madame la baronne, I am not mistaken. I know what I know. God bless me! the nobles have met three times, – once at the Marquis de Souday's, once at the house of the man they call Louis Renaud, and once at the Comte de Saint-Amand's. All those meetings smelt of powder, Madame la baronne. À propos of powder, there's two hundred weight of it and sacks of cartridges in the Vicar of Montbert's house. Moreover, – and this is the most serious thing of all, – they are expecting Madame la Duchesse de Berry, and from something I have just seen, it is my opinion they won't have long to wait for her."
"Why so?"
"I think she is here already."
"Good God! where?"
"Well, at the château de Souday, where Monsieur Michel took her this evening."
"Michel! oh, the unfortunate boy! But you won't say a word about it, will you, Courtin? Besides, the government must have made its plans. If the duchess attempts to return to La Vendée, she will be arrested before she can get here."
"Nevertheless, she is here," persisted Courtin.
"All the more reason why you should hold your tongue."
"I like that! And what becomes of the profits and the glory of such a prize, not counting that before the capture is made by somebody else the whole country will be in blood and arms? No. Madame la baronne; no, I cannot hold my tongue."
"Then what is to be done? Good God! what can I do?"
"I'll tell you, Madame la baronne; listen to me-"
"Go on."
"Well, as I want to remain your zealous and faithful servant, all the while being a good citizen, – and because I hope that in gratitude for what I am doing for you, you will let me keep my farm on terms that I am able to pay, – I will agree to say nothing about Monsieur Michel. But you must try to keep him out of this wasps' nest in future. He is in it now, that's true; but there's still time to get him out."
"You need not trouble yourself about that, Courtin."
"But if I might say a word, Madame la baronne-"
"Well, what?"
"I don't quite dare to give advice to Madame la baronne; it is not my place, but-"
"Go on, Courtin; go on."
"Well, in order to get Monsieur Michel completely out of this hornets' nest, I think you'll have-by some means or other, prayers or threats-to make him leave la Logerie and go to Paris."
"Yes, you are right, Courtin."
"Only, I am afraid he won't consent."
"If I decide it, Courtin, he must consent."
"He will be twenty-one in eleven months; he is very nearly his own master."
"I tell you he shall go, Courtin. What are you listening for?"
Courtin had turned his head to the door, as if he heard something.
"I thought some one was in the corridor," he said.
"Look and see."
Courtin took a light and rushed into the passage.
"There was no one," he said, "though I certainly thought I heard a step."
"Where do you suppose he can be, the wretched boy, at this time of night?" said the baroness.
"Perhaps he has gone to my house," said Courtin. "He has confidence in me, and it wouldn't be the first time he has come to tell me of his little troubles."
"Possibly. You had better go home now; and remember your promise."
"And do you remember yours, Madame la baronne. If he comes in lock him up. Don't let him communicate with the wolves, for if he sees them-"
"What then?"
"I shouldn't be surprised to hear some day that he was firing behind the gorse."
"God forbid! Oh! he'll kill me with anxiety. What a luckless idea it was of my husband ever to come to this cursed place!"
"Luckless, indeed, madame, – especially for him."
The baroness bowed her head sadly under the recollections thus evoked. Courtin now left her, looking about him carefully to see that no one was stirring in the château de la Logerie.
