Виктор Мари Гюго
Ninety-Three
II
DEATH SPEAKS
The mother had watched this dark object as it passed by, but she neither understood nor tried to understand it, absorbed as she was in the vision that pictured her children lost in the darkness.
She too left the village soon after the procession which had just passed, and followed the same road at some distance behind the second squad of gendarmes. Suddenly the word "guillotine" came back to her, and she repeated it to herself; now, this untaught peasant woman, Michelle Fléchard, had no idea of its meaning, but her instinct warned her; she shuddered involuntarily, and it seemed dreadful to her to be walking behind it, – so she turned to the left, quitting the highway, and entered a wood, which was the Forest of Fougères.
After roaming about for some time she spied a belfry and the roofs of houses, – evidently a village on the edge of the forest; and she went towards it, for she was hungry.
It was one of those hamlets where the Republicans had established a military outpost.
She went as far as the square in front of the mayoralty-house.
Here, too, there was agitation and anxiety. A crowd had gathered in front of the flight of steps leading to the hall, and here, standing on one of these steps was a man accompanied by soldiers, who held in his hand a large unfolded placard. A drummer stood on his right, and on his left a bill-sticker, with his brush and paste-pot. Upon the balcony, over the door, stood the mayor, wearing a tricolored scarf over his peasant's dress.
The man with the placard was a public crier.
He wore a shoulder-belt from which hung a small wallet, in token that he was going from village to village proclaiming certain news throughout the district.
Just as Michelle Fléchard arrived, he had unfolded the placard and was beginning to read in a loud voice, —
"THE FRENCH REPUBLIC ONE AND INDIVISIBLE."
The drum beat. There was a stir in the crowd. A few took off their caps, others jammed their hats more firmly on their heads; in those times one could almost recognize a man's political views, throughout that district, by the fashion of his head-gear; hats were worn by Royalists, caps by Republicans. The confused murmur of voices ceased, and all listened as the crier proceeded to read: —
"By virtue of the orders given to as, and of the authority vested in us by the Committee of Public Safety, – "
Again the drum beat, and again the crier continued: —
" – and in execution of the decree of the National Convention, that outlaws all rebels taken with arms in their hands, and declares that capital punishment shall be inflicted on any man who harbors them or aids and abets in their escape, – "
One peasant whispered to his neighbor, —
"What does capital punishment mean?"
"I don't know," the neighbor replied.
The crier waved the placard: —
" – in accordance with Article 17 of the law of the 30th of April, that gives to the delegates and sub-delegates full authority over the rebels, – "
Here he made a pause, then resumed: —
" – the individuals designated under the following names and surnames are declared outlawed: – "
The audience listened with a close attention.
The voice of the crier sounded like thunder: —
" – Lantenac, brigand, – "
"That's Monseigneur," muttered a peasant.
And the whisper ran through the crowd, "It's Monseigneur."
And the crier pursued, —
" – Lantenac, ci-devant Marquis, brigand; the Imânus, brigand; – "
Two peasants looked askance at each other.
"That's Gouge-le-Bruant."
"Yes; that's Brise-Bleu."
The crier went on reading the list: —
"Grand-Francoeur, brigand; – "
A murmur-ran through the crowd.
"He's a priest."
"Yes, – the Abbé Turmeau."
"I know; he is a curé somewhere near the forest of La Chapelle."
"And a brigand," added a man in a cap.
The crier went on: —
" – Boisnouveau, brigand; the two brothers Pique-en-bois, brigands; Houzard, brigand; – "
"That's Monsieur de Quélen," said a peasant.
" – Panier, brigand; – "
"That's Monsieur Sepher."
" – Place-Nette, brigand; – "
"That's Monsieur Jamois."
Paying no heed to these remarks, the crier continued: —
" – Guinoiseau, brigand; Chatenay, called Robi, brigand; – "
One peasant whispered, "Guinoiseau is the same person we call Le Blond; Chatenay comes from Saint-Ouen."
" – Hoisnard, brigand; – " continued the crier.
"He is from Ruillé," some one in the crowd was heard to say.
"Yes, that's Branche-d'Or."
"His brother was killed at the attack of Pontorson."
"Yes, Hoisnard-Malonnière."
"A fine-looking fellow of nineteen."
"Attention!" called out the crier; "here is the end of the list: —
" – Belle-Vigne, brigand; La Musette, brigand; Sabre-tout, brigand; Brin-d'Amour, brigand; – "
Here a lad jogged the elbow of a young girl; she smiled.
The crier continued, —
" – Chante-en-hiver, brigand; Le Chat, brigand – "
"That's Moulard," said a peasant.
" – Tabouze, brigand. – "
"That's Gauffre," said another.
"There are two of the Gauffres," added some woman.
"Good fellows, both of them," muttered a lad.
The crier waved the placard, the drum beat to command silence, and then he resumed the reading:
" – And the above-named, wheresoever they may be taken, as soon as their identity is proved, will be put to death upon the spot; – "
There was a movement in the crowd.
The crier pursued, —
" – and any man who protects them, or aids them to escape, will be brought before a court-martial and forthwith put to death. Signed – "
The silence grew intense.
" – Signed: Delegate of the Committee of Public Safety,
"CIMOURDAIN."
"A priest," said a peasant.
"The former curé of Parigné," remarked another.
"Turmeau and Cimourdain," added a townsman, – "a White priest and a Blue one."
"And both of them black," remarked another townsman.
The mayor, who stood on the balcony, lifted his hat as he cried, —
"Long live the Republic!"
A roll of the drum made it known that the crier had not yet finished. He waved his hand.
"Listen," he said, "to the last four lines of the Government proclamation. They are signed by the chief of the exploring column of the Côtes-du-Nord, Commander Gauvain."
"Listen," cried voices in the crowd.
The crier read, —
"Under penalty of death, – "
All were silent.
" – it is forbidden, in pursuance with the above, to lend aid or succor to the nineteen rebels herein named, who are at present shut up and besieged in the Tourgue."
"What's that?" cried a voice.
It was a woman's voice, – the voice of the mother.
III
MUTTERINGS AMONG THE PEASANTS
Michelle Fléchard had mingled with the crowd. She had not listened, but some things one may hear without listening. She had heard the word "Tourgue," and raised her head.
"What's that? Did he say La Tourgue?"
People looked at her. The ragged woman seemed like one dazed.
Voices were heard to murmur, "She looks like a brigand."
A peasant woman, carrying a basket of buckwheat cakes, went up to her and whispered, —
"Keep still."
Michelle Fléchard stared stupidly; again she had lost all power of comprehension. That name, "La Tourgue" passed like a flash of lightning, and night closed once more. Had she no right to ask for information? What made the people look at her so strangely?
Meanwhile the drum had beaten for the last time, the bill-poster pasted up the notice, the mayor went back into the house, the crier started for some other village, and the crowd dispensed.
One group was still standing in front of the notice. Michelle Fléchard drew near.
They were commenting on the names of the outlaws.
Both peasants and townsmen were there; that is to say, both Whites and Blues.
"After all, they have not caught everybody," said a peasant. "Nineteen is just nineteen, and no more. They have not got Riou, nor Benjamin Moulins, nor Goupil from the parish of Andouillé."
"Nor Lorieul, of Monjean," remarked another.
And thus they went on: —
"Nor Brice-Denys."
"Nor François Dudouet."
"Yes, they have the one from Laval."
"Nor Huet, from Launey-Villiers."
"Nor Grégis."
"Nor Pilon."
"Nor Filleul."
"Nor Ménicent."
"Nor Guéharrée."
"Nor the three brothers Logerais."
"Nor Monsieur Lechandellier de Pierreville."
"Idiots!" exclaimed a stern-looking, white-haired man. "They have them all, if they have Lantenac."
"They have not got him yet," muttered one of the young fellows.
"Lantenac once captured, the soul is gone. The death of Lantenac means death to the Vendée," said the old man.
"Who is this Lantenac?" asked a townsman.
"He is a ci-devant," replied another.
And another added, —
"He is one of those who shoot women."
Michelle Fléchard heard this, and said, —
"That's true."
When people turned to look at her she added, —
"Because he shot me."
It was an odd thing to say; as if a living woman were to call herself dead. People looked at her suspiciously.
And truly she was a startling object, trembling at every sound, wild-looking, shivering, with an animal-like fear; so terrified was she that she frightened other people. There is a certain weakness in the despair of a woman that is dreadful to witness. It is like looking upon a being against whom destiny has done its worst. But peasants are not analytical; they see nothing below the surface. One of them muttered, "She might be a spy."
"Keep still and go away," whispered the kind-hearted woman who had spoken to her before.
"I am doing no harm," replied Michelle Fléchard; "I am only looking for my children."
The kind woman winked at those who were starring at Michelle Fléchard, and touching her forehead with her finger, said, —
"She is a simpleton."
Then drawing her aside, she gave her a buckwheat cake.
Without even stopping to thank her, Michelle Fléchard began to devour the cake like one ravenous for food.
"You see, she eats just like an animal: she must be a simpleton;" and one by one the crowd gradually dispersed.
After she had eaten, Michelle Fléchard said to the peasant woman, —
"Well, I have finished my cake; now, where is the Tourgue?"
"There she is at it again!" cried the peasant woman.
"I must go the Tourgue. Show me the road to La Tourgue."
"Never!" cried the peasant woman. "You would like to be killed, I suppose; but whether you would or not, I don't know the way myself. You must surely be insane. Listen to me, my poor woman. You look tired; will you come to my house and rest?"
"I never test," replied the mother.
"And her feet are all torn," muttered the peasant woman.
"Didn't you hear me telling you that my children were stolen from me, one little girl and two little boys? I came from the carnichot in the forest. You can ask Tellmarch le Caimand about me, and also the man I met in the field down yonder. The Caimand cared me. It seems I had something broken. All those things really happened. Besides, there is Sergeant Radoub; you may ask him; he will tell you, for it was he who met us in the forest. Three, – I tell you there were three children, and the oldest one's name was René-Jean: I can prove it to you; and Gros-Alain and Georgette were the two others. My husband is dead; they killed him. He was a farmer at Siscoignard. You look like a kind woman. Show me the way. I am not mad, I am a mother. I have lost my children, and am looking for them. I do not know exactly where I came from. I slept last night on the straw in a barn. I am going to the Tourgue. I am not a thief. You can't help seeing that I am telling you the truth. You ought to help me to find my children. I don't belong to this neighborhood. I have been shot, but I do not know where it happened."
The peasant woman shook her head, saying, —
"Listen, traveller; in times of revolution you must not say things that cannot be understood, for you might be arrested."
"But the Tourgue," cried the mother; "madam, for the love of the Infant Jesus and of the Blessed Virgin in Paradise I pray you, I beg of you, I beseech you, madam, tell me how I can find the road to the Tourgue!"
Then the peasant woman grew angry.
"I don't know! And if I did, I would not tell you! It is a bad place. People don't go there."
"But I am going there," said the mother.
And once more she started on her way.
The woman, as she watched her depart, muttered to herself: —
"She must have something to eat, whatever she does;" and running after Michelle Fléchard, she put a dark-looking cake in her hand, saying, —
"There is something for your supper."
Michelle Fléchard took the buckwheat-cake, but she neither turned nor made reply as she pursued her way.
She went forth from the village, and just as she reached the last houses she met three little ragged and barefooted children trotting along. She went up to them and said, —
"Here are two boys and a girl;" and when she saw them looking at her bread, she gave it to them.
The children took the bread, but they were evidently frightened.
She entered the forest.
IV
A MISTAKE
Meanwhile, on this very day, before dawn, amid the dim shadows of the forest, the following scene took place on the bit of road that leads from Javené to Lécousse.
All the roads of the Bocage are shut in between high banks, and those enclosing the one that runs from Javené to Parigné by way of Lécousse are even higher than usual; indeed the road, winding as it does, might well be called a ravine. It leads from Vitré, and has had the honor of jolting Madame de Sévigné's carriage. Shut in as it is by hedges on the right and on the left, no better spot for an ambush could well be found.
That morning, one hour before Michelle Fléchard, starting from a different part of the forest, had reached the first village, where she beheld the funereal apparition of the wagon escorted by the gendarmes, a crowd of unseen men, concealed by the branches, crouched in the thickets through which the road from Javené runs after it crosses the bridge over the Couesnon. They were, peasants dressed in coats of skin, such as were worn by the kings of Brittany in the sixteenth century and by the peasants in the eighteenth. Some were armed with muskets, others with axes. Those who had axes had just built in a glade a kind of funeral pile of dry fagots and logs, which was only waiting to be set on fire. Those who had muskets were posted on both sides of the road, in the attitude of expectancy. Could one have seen through the leaves, he might have discovered on every side fingers resting on triggers and guns aimed through the openings made by the interlacing of the branches. These men were lying in wait. All the muskets converged towards the road, which had begun to whiten in the rising dawn.
Amid this twilight low voices were carrying on a dialogue: —
"Are you sure of this?"
"Well, that's what they say."
"She is about to go by?"
"They say she is in this neighborhood."
"She must not leave it."
"She must be burned."
"We three villages have come out for that very purpose."
"And how about the escort?"
"It is to be killed."
"But will she come by this road?"
"So they say."
"Then she is coming from Vitré."
"And why shouldn't she?"
"Because they said she was coming from Fougères."
"Whether she comes from Fougères or from Vitré, she certainly comes from the devil."
"That is true."
"And she must go back to him."
"I agree to that."
"Then she is going to Parigné?"
"So it seems."
"She will not get there."
"No."
"No, no, no!"
"Attention!"
It was the part of prudence to be silent now, since it was growing quite light.
Suddenly these men lurking in ambush held their breath, as they heard the sound of wheels and horses' feet. Peering through the branches, they caught an indistinct glimpse of a long wagon, a mounted escort, and something on the top of the wagon, all of which was coming towards them along the hollow road.
"There she is," cried the one who appeared to be the leader.
"Yes, and the escort too," said one of the men who lay in wait.
"How many are there?"
"Twelve."
"It was said that there were to be twenty."
"Twelve or twenty, let us kill them all."
"Wait till they are within our reach."
A little later and the wagon with its escort appeared at a turn of the road.
"Long live the King!" cried the peasant leader; and as he spoke, a hundred muskets were fired at the same instant. When the smoke scattered, the escort was scattered likewise. Seven horsemen had fallen, and the other five had made their escape. The peasants rushed to the wagon. "Hallo! this is not the guillotine," cried the leader; "it's a ladder."
In fact, there was nothing whatever in the wagon but a long ladder.
The two wounded horses had fallen, and the driver had been killed by accident.
"There is something suspicious about a ladder with an escort, all the same," said the leader. "It was going in the direction of Parigné. No doubt it was intended for scaling the Tourgue."
"Let us burn the ladder," cried the peasants.
As to the funereal wagon for which they were watching, it had taken another road, and was already two miles farther away, in the village where Michelle Fléchard had seen it pass at sunrise.
V
VOX IN DESERTO
After leaving the three children to whom she had given her bread, Michelle Fléchard started at random through the woods.
Since no one would show her the way, she must find it without help. From time to time she paused, and sat down to rest; then up and away again. She was overcome by that intense weariness which one feels first in the muscles, then in the bones, – like the fatigue of a slave. And a slave indeed she was, – the slave of her lost children. They must be found; each passing moment might be fatal to them. A duty like this debars one from the right to breathe freely; yet she was very weary. When one has reached this stage of fatigue it becomes a question whether another step can be taken. Could she do it? She had been walking since morning without finding either a village or a house. When she first started she had followed the right path, but soon wandered into the wrong one, and at last quite lost her way among the thick branches, where one tree looked just like another. Was she drawing near her goal? Were her sufferings almost over? She was following the way of the Cross, and felt all the languor and exhaustion of the final station. Was she doomed to fall dead on the road? At one time it seemed to her impossible to take another step: the sun was low, the forest dark, the paths no longer visible in the grass, and God only knew what was to become of her. She began to call, but there was no reply.
Looking around, she perceived an opening among the branches, and no sooner had she started in that direction than she found herself out of the wood.
Before her lay a valley no wider than a trench, across whose stony bottom flowed a slender stream of clear water. Then she realized that she was excessively thirsty, and approaching it knelt to drink; and while thus kneeling she thought she would say her prayers.
When she rose she tried to get her bearings, and crossed the brook.
As far as the eye could reach on the farther side of the little valley stretched a limitless plain overgrown with a stubbly underbrush, which rose from the brook like an inclined plane, occupying the entire horizon. If the forest were a solitude, this plateau might be called a desert. In the forest there was a chance that one might encounter a human being behind any bush; but across the plateau not an object could be descried within reach of human vision. A few birds were flying across the heather, as if making an effort to escape.
Then, in the presence of this utter desolation, feeling her knees give way beneath her, the poor bewildered mother cried out amid the solitude, like one suddenly gone mad, —
"Is there no one here?"
She paused for an answer, and the answer came.
A deep and muffled voice burst forth from the distant horizon, caught and repeated by echo upon echo. It was like a thunderbolt; but it might have been the firing of a cannon, or a voice answering the mother's question, and replying, "Yes."
Then silence reigned once more.
The mother rose with renewed energy. She felt reassured by a sense of companionship. Having quenched her thirst and said her prayers, her strength returned, and she began to climb the plateau in the direction from whence the voice of distant thunder had reached her ears. Suddenly she caught sight of a lofty tower looming up against the far-away horizon. It stood alone amid this wild landscape, and a ray of the setting sun cast a crimson glow across it. It was more than a league away. Beyond it stretched the forest of Fougères, its vast expanse of verdure half hidden by the mist.
Could it have been this tower that made the noise? – for it seemed to her to stand on the very spot whence came the thundering sound that had rung in her ears like a call.
Michelle Fléchard had now reached the summit of the plateau, and the plain alone lay before her.
